MISSING THE BOAT

1. We never expected to find ourselves stranded 

in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean right after 9/11, 

but my aunt was on pilgrimage. Matters of the heart. 

Her late husband. Even a new pacemaker didn’t deter her.

I said surely we won’t go, her heart. The operation.

Surely we won’t go, the plane ticket will be canceled, 

but there we were, running the gauntlet through a security flank.

Soldiers with Uzis at the bombed airport, looking grim.

It all began as a lark, we said, sure we’d love to go with her

to the Azores, never dreaming the world would fall apart. 

Thinking we were safe on an island in the middle of nowhere, 

we said sure, but we didn’t know we were on a US military base, 

also a staging ground for Kuwait. Cargo plane after plane 

landing in succession like clockwork on the hour,

refueling for home—Langley AFB, where myriad pontoons 

waited for transport to the front lines, all this was before

we knew that we were gearing up for war with Iraq.

2. My cousin asked, what does sexto mean? 

I was writing in my journal and didn’t want to be bothered.

It means sixth. She asked again, what does sexto mean? 

I repeated myself. Then we heard the sound of the ferry horn 

as it left the dock. The penny dropped, sexto, the sixth day. 

Saturday. We ran to the dock as the last ferry of the season 

disappeared into the marine mist. A cascade of missed flights.

We were stranded on an alien shore, an island 

in the middle of nowhere, without a common language, 

and no way to get to the mainland, or back home.

3. Having missed the ferry, and our flight,

I ran to a taxi driver parked near the empty resort, 

all the tourists had left for the season, saying

ayudame, ayudame, a universal call for help.

I was thankful for the linguistic continuum 

that allowed us to somehow communicate— 

with enough arm waving to fuel a windmill, 

or to become Italian. He took us to the tiny airport 

where they said no more tickets, none. End of season.

He persevered, an opening to Lisbon, business class? 

She said impossible, no tickets for tourists. None.

He explained we were stranded, we had tickets, see?

She nodded, but slapped on a penalty, 40,000 eschudos.

This was on top of our plane tickets. More money 

than our entire flight from San Francisco to the Azores.

He argued, they have family here, she relented.

By this time, the taxi driver was an uncle.

We hugged him goodbye, boarded the plane, 

not knowing how we would get from Lisbon to home.

That ship had already sailed.

4/13 Write On! workshop with Terri Glass

Terceira, Azores, Right After 9/11

A week after the attack of 9/11, I was staying at a pension in the sleepy town of Praia da Vittoria, on Terceira Island, in the Azores—right in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. My cousin, my aunt and I had no idea that we would be bunking right across from Lajes Field, the largest US military base in the Atlantic rim region and the Atlantic Ocean¹s largest aviation refueling station.

From our bedroom window we could look right into the air base and watch the planes land. A steady stream of incoming military planes rumbled directly over our roof and a parade of planes taxiing into position for takeoff to the US. There were few commercial planes were lining up with all these big boys.

I found out that the enormous black C-5 cargo planes were coming from the Middle East and they were landing approximately every 45 minutes—night and day.

Unfortunately we were directly beneath their flight path. Huge and matte black, they made a Boeing 747 look like a svelte mosquito in the sky. They endlessly soared above our heads every 45 minutes—day and night. We could even see the heat waves rising from the engines and feel their deep ominous rumble deep within our chests.

At a hotel cafe overlooking the beach and airstrip, we became acquainted with a retired US Air Force officer, who was stationed in the Azores when he was in the military. Since then, he's spent so much in the Azores, he was considered to be a regular islander. 

I was interviewing him because I was collecting military folklore for an anthropology class I was taking at UC Berkeley. Over myriad glasses of port wine and galloni (lattes), he entertained us with all manner of military lingo. But we'd have to stop the interview each time a military plane rumbled overhead.

Because I needed supporting biographical data for my folklore interviews, I was able to ask him all sorts of personal questions that wouldn't normally crop up in conversations with relative strangers. One question led to another. 

Though guarded at first, the officer divulged information that not only answered our immediate questions about the significance of the planes, but that same information has become more interesting over time. He told us that each of those planes could carry an entire platoon--the soldiers and their tanks and trucks plus their guns and gear, right down to their food and tents.

He explained that ³this is the most action I¹ve seen around here in years, he said that these C-5 transports had been flying in before 9/11 happened, and that the empty planes landing here to refuel on their way back from Kuwait. 

Once refueled, he surmised that the huge cargo craft were probably headed for Langley AFB in Virginia. He said they could make it from Langley to Kuwait without refuelling but couldn't make the round trip without a stopover in the Azores, that's why the old WWII military base is still considered to be a strategic military base.

As he spoke, we began to realize that, if what he and our senses were telling us was true, then these planes had been part of an enormous military buildup just outside Iraq--and that this buildup had begun long before the attacks on 9/11.

I did the math: even by most conservative estimates: 10 days x 24 hours = 240 planes, that's 240 platoons. If what the islanders and the officer said was true, that they were coming in since before 9/11 attack—that's a whole lot of US soldiers in Kuwait. What for? 

I was in the Azores 2 full weeks before the planes began to taper off to one or two planes every few hours. I was asking myself why on earth Kuwait needed that kind of military support. I was thinking to myself, not since the Gulf War did Kuwait receive that kind of US military presence. I knew something was up because Kuwait was the staging ground for Iraq during the Gulf War.

2/24/07

Postcard from Saõ Jorge

 

Saõ Jorge, October 1

Dear Neil, they say the past is another country and this is another country altogether. We arrived Friday night. Sinead got seasick as it was a rough crossing of 2 and a 1/2 hours, we saw dolphins. Velas, the port town, looked pretty rough, and we had trouble finding a place that was cheap, so we wound up in a dark hovel. We were looking for a cheaper place to stay, but it was a port in any storm kind of situation. Canice forgot all the guidebooks. We should’ve asked the taxi drivers who are super guidebooks here. Then, on a whim, the owner of the ferry boat canceled the Sunday boat out as there were not enough passengers, so we had no way off the island until next week. Which meant we were going to miss our flight to the mainland and Lisbon. In desperation, I approached a taxi driver and explained the situation. He gave us a fantastic tour of the island Once he realized that Candace was married to someone who came from Saõ Jorge. We were able to get a flight off the island with the help of our taxi driver, with a whole lot of arguing with the airline clerk, for a little more than the boat fare. She thought she could sock it to us because we were tourists, he gave her the what for. We leave this afternoon so all is well, after all. It rains hard here every day. But it is like Molokai. The island is a long, steep ridge, mid Atlantic kind of like Point Reyes too. It’s raining so hard, we can’t even go exploring on our last morning here. It was only an exploratory trip after all—aplace to come back to later. 

The running of the bulls (Postcard)

Praia da Vitoria, 30 September 2001 

We landed on Terceira and stayed that is, slept two days in Praia de Vitória, and left before the running of the bulls. They painted up the whole town and boarded up every window as the bulls think nothing of jumping through them. We were sorry to miss the event, but we had to get to Saõ Jorge as the fairies are in frequent. Prior day Victoria is a US military base, the largest gas station in the Atlantic, so we were glad to leave. We met an ex-spy, who said that the cargo planes which we had counted like sheep were returning from Kuwait empty. Scary. We lost count at 50 planes. More to tell at Saõ Jorge. Terceira’s capitol, Angra is a world historic site, founded in 1435. It’s a lot like Hawaii here. Lots of rain and humid. 

Love, Maureen

Azores Journal: Terceira, São Jorge

9/27/2001 Rue de Jesús, Praia da Vitória, Terceira, Azores

The streets of commerce, where anything is possible, are always open for business—except in Praia da Vitória,Terceira, which is a US military base. The only thing open 24/7 is the US military base. We meet many interesting people over coffee, in the cafes, the only other establishment open during the day. Shops keep very selective hours, depending upon the whims and vagaries of the proprietor—something we will find out more about later.

Canice Santos photo

The huge black cargo planes en route  to Langley from Kuwait, are the newest model, said retired Air Force pilot and CIA agent, Jim Swain. They were called C Fives, or something like that. He said they come in empty and stop to refuel at the most strategic Air Force Base in the Atlantic, which is also the largest gas station in the Atlantic, he said. He was on a roll and told us many air force stories we could barely follow. He also said, Don't believe in half of what you hear.

Sinead Dinsmore photo

Jim's wife, Nancy Swain, from New Hampshire, who was once a Vanity Fair Cover GIrl, said the coffee was too strong. "You know why the espresso spoons are so small? Because they dissolve after the third cup. Bigger spoons are too expensive." I nearly snort my galoni (galão), a thick sludge of espresso and condensed milk. No fresh milk to be had on the islands. Or fish either. Dried bacalao, or bacalhau, takes some getting used to.

9/28 São Jorge Island. We blew into a rough port after an equally rough crossing from Terceira. Sinead is belowdecks feeding the fish vomit. Not a happy camper.

Around Sañ Jorge, stands of Japanese Cryptomeria, a kind of red cedar, reminds me of our redwoods. There is also a native juniper, Juniperus brevifolia. It's like being in Point Reyes, West Marin, so many familiar faces. Most of the ranchers are from the Azores. Many young men look like twins of John Santos with their distinctive eyebrows. The Irish-Portuguese look is in.

On a small plane headed for Terceira, late afternoon rain building, heavy rain this morning, and every day. Our hosts at the Hotel Australia were suddenly very friendly as we were leaving. It would've been better if it had happened sooner.

Sean and the little girl playing hide and seek, have no need for language in common. I tried to collect some folklore for my class with Alan Dundes, from José Sourez, but his English wasn't up to it. Um boca calada diz tudo, he said. Urbano da Silva was more adventurous. I got one bit of folklore from the taxi driver, Alberto Santo Amaro, who has an apartment to rent. Next time we come to visit, he says.

After ignoring us for almost the entire time we were here, everyone expects us to come back next year. That's the way things are done here. The Portuguese are so reserved at first, they seem hostile, but then we make such silly attempts to speak, they take pity on us and dust off their English or Spanish. I am speaking a weird form of  Portuguese-Spanglish which seems to work but it is harder to understand the Azoreans' replys. I suspect their dialect is different from that of the mainland.

9/30 So how we got to ride a twin prop plane back to Terceira instead of the ferryboat for $40 versus $25, was because the boat owner change the schedule two days early, leaving us stranded in Velas for a week. But our plane to Lisbon is on Monday so this is not an option.

Luckily we were able to get a flight out as this was off-season. Yesterday, we went to check on our return tickets, only to discover that the boat had already left an hour earlier that morning. Our Sunday crossing was canceled.

We spent much time trying to find another boat off the island with no luck I called the airport and they said the flight was full but there was space on Sunday for something like $400. We about fainted. I told the taxi driver our problems he said not to worry and he took us to the airport. And got us a ride out of Dodge. Aberto Santo Amaro, was our official living santo. He got us off island when no one else could.

Words from the Portuguese: mosquito!