To reach the town of Santa Barbara in the Dominican Republic province of Samana, we had to sail past several jutting points, each turn allowing us to slack the sheets a bit until we were actually sailing dead downwind. It felt like a sinful pleasure! The coastline was a breathtaking display of lush green, jagged cliffs, a vertical carpet of wall-to-wall palms touching the sky and sea.

One house appeared on shore, then another. Tiny clusters of local dwellings filled the spaces between a handful of castle-sized houses and two jaw-dropping hotels. Our binoculars were busy scanning the shore and looking ahead, trying to spot the reefs and make sense of the buoy system.

Frank, on Raffles Light, had told us that the Bay of Samana was one of only two mating grounds in the world for migrating humpback whales. Just like snowbirds, they play in the Caribbean for three months before making a northward journey. When I asked Frank if he thought we’d see some, he said, “Oh, you’ll see whales.” But not for us that day.

Within minutes of anchoring Woodwind inside the causeway of Santa Barbara Bay, an inflatable dinghy arrived filled with four people -- two uniformed men, a local fellow who spoke some English and Harvey, a cruising sailor who owned the dinghy and had been asked to bring them out. These officials were wasting no time. They climbed aboard and wanted to go immediately below to check it and our papers out. I stayed in the cockpit with Harvey, trying to make sense of the situation. Bruce told them our last port, Monte Cristi, and why we had been there. They’d heard about the rescue.

After the officials filled out the necessary forms but collected no money, Chichi, the translator, said, “It is customary to give a tip.” Bruce joked, “They want to give me a tip?” Bruce then explained that since we were two weeks out of Panama, we’d consumed all the fun stuff on the boat and had little to offer. Chichi said it was no problem … money would be just fine. Of course.

There were two hours of daylight left, so we headed ashore to find an Internet café and some food. We found an Internet/phone shop -- one of five in the town -- that had minuscule wooden booths offering privacy and a sauna while surfing the Web. Our e-mail told us the rescue had made more news. It filled us with relief that the world cared.

As promised, Chichi, the cruiser’s friend and jack-of-all-jobs, came to collect our empty fuel jugs and sail bag of laundry at nine the next morning. I rowed to the neighbors -- a sailing yacht called Blackberry Ramble -- to introduce myself and glean tips on the town. They didn’t know much more than we did, having arrived just hours before us, but we set up a rendezvous for dinner that night.

We met the neighbors -- Richard, Jean and their 13-year-old daughters Ella and Judy -- at Mi Restaurant Terraza Bar, a two-story palappa-roofed eatery decorated with local murals and blaring loud American 50s pop tunes from the bar. We ordered a variety of tasty meals, including conch, spaghetti, chicken and mystery meat. As with all cruisers, the conversation meandered through stories of great anchorages, bad weather, local color and future plans. After dinner they told us they had agreed not to bring up our rescue experience unless we did, afraid it was too painful to discuss. They wanted to hear it all, though, and by the end of the evening our friendship was cemented and we knew it would be hard to say “so long.”

The next two days filled themselves with assorted chores: cleaning, repairing, stitching. Around five each evening we rewarded our efforts by joining the crews of several other boats at “the shacks,” an area of mobile eateries and bars that specialized in chicken carbon, Presidente beers and raucous games of dominos. Since we had plans for Friday and wanted to leave Saturday morning, we put at the top of our to-do list for Thursday taking care of the one-month $15 port fee we were told we needed to pay, and a despacho for our next port. It wasn’t easy, but we got it done.

For our last full day in the DR and Bruce’s birthday, we rented a dirt bike and went to check out the scenery on the east coast, which had looked alluring from the sea. Outside of town, the traffic thinned and the road ran up and down through the hills like a black ribbon. It squeezed into tiny villages that seemed colored by a child with a box of crayons. The people of the Dominican Republic are, hands down, the friendliest people we’ve ever encountered. Just riding past elicited a smile, a wave and a friendly, “Hola!” On one bluff we stopped to watch the sightseeing whale boats getting their money’s worth from several whales, spouting and surfacing close by.

After several hours of clinging tight to Bruce on a seat meant for one, we came to signs pointing to “Playa Rincon.” The paved road turned to red hard soil, then segued to craggy rocks sticking out of sucking mud. The bike jumped around, but it was worth it. Playa Rincon just might be the most spectacular beach we’ve ever seen. Two miles long, with no hotels or houses. Just three rough beach shacks, sugary white sand, blue water and white crests breaking over reefs. The smell of roasted fish and lobster poured from a wood-fired grill.

Behind us, on the other side of the dirt road, was a crystal-clear lagoon of sweet water running down from the mountains into a mangrove-lined pool. We stripped down to swimwear and dove in, yelping from the cold.

Refreshed, the return trip to town passed quickly. Though we were both a bit sore from gripping the machine, we decided to squeeze the last hours from the day and headed off in a new direction. At the end of the line we stopped at a cluster of comida buildings for a drink and some food. With ear-splitting merengue blaring from next door, we sat eating yet another plate of chicken carbon and patacones -- squashed, cooked plantains.

We rode the final miles back to Santa Barbara and dropped off the bike. As we walked toward the “shacks” to meet the other cruisers, we felt a bit sad. This gigantic island had been one wonderful surprise after another. Leaving it and the people we’d met would be the only downside to our unplanned, unscheduled, unforgettable visit.

Jan