An alternative form of transportation, and just one way you can tell you’re not in Kansas anymore.

If you were to ask various cruisers what their favorite aspect of their lifestyle is, you’re likely to get equally varying answers: "no boss," "living in the moment," "the sailing," and so on. I wouldn’t have to think twice before emphatically giving my answer: "the different cultures and the people we meet." I am endlessly fascinated by the way other people live, the customs that shape their lifestyle, and the politics that dictate their circumstances.

It wasn’t until I went cruising and experienced other cultures firsthand that I could understand in any meaningful way just how different life in the United States is from the rest of the world. I had always known in an abstract way that our lives here were relatively charmed, but the experiences we’ve had while cruising the Caribbean have added depth to what was mere acknowledgement of the facts before. New facets of compassion, shame, pride, admiration and altruism have filled-in my world view. Watching images on a two dimensional movie screen cannot begin to compare with the chats you strike up as you share a stoop with a little girl in Venezuela, or a bus seat with a woman on her way to the open air market on Carriacou, or with a boat boy selling you mangoes on the side of your boat in Saint Lucia. Such was the case when I was stowing provisions away on our boat after Curt and I had spent a long day stocking up in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic.

The sun had just slipped past the horizon when we tied the dinghy to our stern. The wind was kicking up and we could see the gray clouds forming around the anchorage. It was a wet ride and when we finally made it to the boat, there were bags and bags to unload from our tender, and then the arduous task of trying to stow them aboard. Actually, putting the stuff away isn't the hard part, it's figuring out where to put it first. I flipped on the VHF radio, let out a big sigh, and stood with my hands on my hips amidst the mountain of groceries to try to begin putting a plan together for some organized solution.

An approaching squall. You never know when Mother Nature is going to turn on you and when a quiet night will turn into wind whipped drama.

By the time the task was nearly done, I was beat. It was 9:00 p.m. But of course leave it to Mother Nature to then deliver her squalls. The rain began a deluge in the harbor, the winds whipped the boat about, and thunder cracked overhead. I was sitting at the navigation table watching the GPS to see if our anchor was holding when I heard a distress call on the radio. It wasn't until then that I realized I had left the VHF set to its default channel 16: Channel 68 is the hailing frequency the boats use in Luperon where we were anchored. Somewhere, a boat called It's Magic had heard a distress call off the coast of the Dominican Republic and was trying to raise help from the "Commandante" (somewhat akin to our Coast Guard). Once my ears were tuned in, I could hear the man hailing in distress as well. The unnamed boat sounded like a Dominican man and from what I gathered, he was calling from a handheld VHF. He was at sea in a Pirogue (small wooden fishing boat), trying to collect people from the water. He was speaking in English with a thick Spanish accent. He found a boat that was sinking. He guessed there were 150 Haitians aboard. They had no life jackets. He was trying to save as many people as he could, but his boat was small and he couldn't see since the light from the moon was being masked by the dark thunder clouds overhead. He was crying for help. There were too many people. It's Magic had heard them and was trying to relay the message to the Commandante on channel 16. I told him to try 68 to reach an official in Luperon.

It's Magic tried to no avail. The Commandante (we later learned) had turned his radio off. It's Magic had decided to try hailing anyone on land that could use a phone to call the American Coast Guard, the United States Navy - anyone who could help. A flurry of radio traffic ensued from the cruising boats in our harbor, but the time was passing like a nightmare when your feet won’t move and you’re being chased by Freddy Krueger. As cruisers helplessly deliberated on what to do next, people were drowning out at sea. Someone at a restaurant ashore went in search of the Commandante's house. The man, Bueno Hombre ("good man" as he was later being hailed), was still at sea trying to help the refugees. He was trying to describe for us where he was but he had no GPS. From what we could tell, the bay he described would have been upwind, up-current, and unreachable by sailboat in these conditions. The first thought from someone on the radio was to call the US Coast Guard in from Puerto Rico. But another contingent from the group said that they wouldn't deploy to help the Haitians. I thought, "Well who has to tell them they're Haitians then?"

With the trouble upwind, up current, and at an unknown position, the rest of the cruising fleet could only sit by and listen.

A cruiser hang-out in town was able to reach help on the phone. The Dominican "navy" sent help... by sending trucks ashore. Not much use as the people that needed the help were out at sea. It was suggested that they didn't really want to help the people at all, but that they only were interested in shuffling the survivors back to Haiti. The restaurant was able to reach the US Coast Guard and two planes were being sent from Puerto Rico: thirty five minutes by air to reach the general area. Bueno Hombre still could not offer a latitude and longitude, only that they were eighty miles from Haiti, and six miles from a place he described as Fantasy Island, near Punto Rosia.

From a mundane day of going about the slow business of maintaining our cruising lifestyle, we had been thrust into the middle of a disaster and a firsthand testament to the bureaucratic horror that affects living and breathing people everyday throughout the world. The Dominican Republicans hate the Haitians, and sit with their arms crossed before they will offer aid. They speak of them with disdain accusing them of being dangerous and filthy people. And as an American, I could not believe that someone - the United States - wouldn't offer help, knowing well that our nation feels at liberty to stick our nose in anyone else's business, no matter who's waters or who's soil is involved. It is difficult to describe how different things look on your TV screen from the comfort of your living room in contrast to a person standing there before your very eyes; someone you can touch, someone you can smell, someone you can talk with... someone who can reach out to you.

As the clock ticked on, we listened and followed radio traffic from various sources in the harbor: Bueno Hombre, It's Magic, Bahia Luperon Restaurant, Bahia Blanco Marina, cruiser after cruiser from their boats. One plane had to be sent back to Puerto Rico with engine problems, the other could be of more immediate assistance to someone nearer. A third plane was deployed to try to help the people. More Pirogues and fisherman were trying to help people from the local waters. The thunderstorm had begun to subside. The final news we'd heard was that miraculously, only one person was known to have drowned, seventeen were unaccounted for, and that sixty were safely ashore. The numbers didn't add up, but this was the only information we had heard. The incident didn't appear in the national papers. The next day we saw the Commandante race past us on a motoconcho (motorcycle) as I stood there anonymously in anger and astonishment. I couldn't think of what exactly I wanted to express even if I could sort through my emotions and translate them into Spanish.

Reading about the morass of world politics is one thing, sitting next to a child caught up in it is quite something else.

So here we were left with another view of the world from just beyond the decks of our traveling home. It appeared to me to be a kaleidoscope. What once had seemed so clear now had so many facets that it shook my view entirely. This was another peek into lives seemingly worlds away from life in the United States - but look at a map. They're practically our next door neighbors. What is the answer? How could I help and what could I do?

The next day a young Haitian boy sat next to us on a park bench to try to sell us treats. He was the most beautiful thing, with a bright beaming smile and glistening eyes that were too shy to look directly at us. He was so happy to talk with us--he was so happy to just be sitting there. He was there, close enough to touch… not just an image on the page of a newspaper. I didn't have the answer. For the moment, I could only talk warmly to him, admire the simple joy he had found, and revel in his twinkling eyes while we sat together.