Morning came too quickly the day after the rescue, and another round of uncertain events lay before us. As he promised, Frank had his Raffles Light crew fetch us at 9 a.m. while he tried to arrange for our clearance. He said we might have to meet with the Red Cross to file an incident report and a local newspaper might want to speak with us. He had news that the two survivors, Julie and Djenson, were doing well. “They’re thriving,” were his words. Exactly what we wanted to hear!

On our first visit to Raffles Light, I had commented on a memorable black-and-white photo of John and Jackie Kennedy sailing in Massachusetts that was tucked in a corner of the galley. Frank had explained how he had acquired it a long time ago. On this visit, as Monica graciously delivered coffee to us in the salon on deck, I noticed Frank was busy writing on something. When he finished, he turned and handed us the framed photograph of the Kennedys. The look on his face told us it was a gift. “We can’t take this,” I said. “We know how special it is to you.”

“I want you to have it,” said Frank. “If it doesn’t hurt when you give a gift, it isn’t worth giving.” Tears streamed down my face. On the back, he’d written:

To Jan and Bruce,

“The higher generalities rarely receive any accurate verbal expression, rather they are hinted at through forms appropriate to the age in question.”

The risk the two of you took and the result you produced are beyond accolade.

All our Love
Frank and crew
Raffles Light
February 27, 2007

Over coffee, we reviewed the events from the day before and discussed a potential problem if the local authorities thought we illegally brought Haitians into their country. It would be important for them to understand we found Julie and Djenson 25 miles offshore in international waters. The radio squawked, telling Frank that Commandante Guerra and two other officials were on shore.

Raffles Light crew members Coyou and Tito took us to Woodwind, then fetched the officials and brought them to us. Once on board, the Commandante glanced at our papers then wrote down our names, boat name, last and next port in his Superman notebook. Through Coyou and Tito a few questions were asked and answered concerning the rescue, then all three officials began making cell phone calls … to whom, we weren’t sure. After 45 minutes of phoning and waiting, they seemed satisfied and left without giving us one piece of official paper or collecting a fee. They told us immigration would be coming from a nearby town and radio us soon.

Frank and crew were cooking up a 30-lb. dorado they’d caught and kindly invited us to join them. Cooked food and great company were perfect medicine for our emotional wounds. The dorado, camaraderie and laughter filled us inside and out. After the meal, Frank suggested he could deal with immigration for us if we wanted to go to the hospital with crew members Tito and Julian to visit Julie and Djenson. It was exactly what we wanted to do, so Coyou sped the four of us a half-mile across the shallow bay, under the tiny bridge, into the mangrove-lined estuary where the Club Nautico sits and where we could get a taxi to town.

In the West Indies, the day after every official holiday is always another unofficial day off. We jokingly call it “National Hangover Day.” Since the day before was National Independence Day in the Dominican Republic, we shouldn’t have been surprised to find the Club closed and no taxis around. The guard at the gate, the sole occupant of the place, suggested we take a scooter taxi -- Julian explained that everyone in the DR rides scooters and piles them sky-high with people and goods. I didn’t quite believe him until we ended up riding to town with two drivers, three people on each scooter!

The driver sometimes drove on the left, sometimes the right, and only slowed at blind corners to make sure no one hit us. Miraculously, we pulled up to the two-story block hospital without incident. As we headed in, Julian excused himself due to “hospital phobia,” so Tito led us through the crowded doorways and offices. We eventually entered a six-bed room, the walls painted a sad shade of yellow, and made our way to the corner where Djenson lay sleeping, his head resting on the green parka. He was hooked up to an IV, his many burn wounds covered with bandages.

Tito gently put his hand on Djenson’s shoulder and he slowly opened his eyes, greeting us with a smile, obviously pleased to see us again. Tito talked to Djenson in Creole, and translated his story for us. Words poured out of him, Tito’s face wincing at times. We asked when the explosion happened … 3 a.m. How long had they been out there? Twelve hours.

They and 46 other migrants had left Cap Hatien bound for the Turks and Caicos on a 20-ft. boat with six tanks of gas. They stopped to transfer fuel and when they turned on the ignition, the boat blew up. Djenson’s lyrical voice tumbled out words to Tito, urgent to tell the horrific ordeal he had witnessed and survived.

Sobered, we followed our guide up another flight of stairs to the women’s ward. Julie was propped on one elbow, eating small bites of food from a plastic container. She was dressed in a pink nightgown, wearing the same devastated expression from the day before. Tito asked her how she was doing. She placed her hand on her abdomen, indicating pain, then grew quiet and we left her to eat and rest.

We slipped back down to Djenson’s room to say goodbye. I held his hand and asked Tito to tell him, “We’re special friends now.” Djenson shook his head, saying, “No, family,” pointing to Bruce, “Papa,” and to me, “Mama.”