Sacrifice on the Macoris

Sacrifice on the Macoris

By Clevis O. Laverty

Crackling static vibrated the radio receiver and warned that a major storm was approaching. Hazardous for ships and deadly for aircraft, a Caribbean hurricane had been reported sweeping through Mona Passage. One hundred-and-twenty-mile-an-hour winds that could snap a mast or fold a pair of wings swirled and twisted in unleashed fury off the west coast of Puerto Rico.

Less than a hundred miles to the west, a small seaplane glided down through calm air and settled gently on the quiet waters of the Macoris River. The figure of her radio officer appeared out of a hatch in her bow. He expertly scooped up a line from a buoy and attached it to the bow before the airplane’s speed had slackened perceptibly. The propellers stopped abruptly as the engine’s were cut; the flying boat quickly lost headway and settled down listlessly among the buoys. Even as Slim, the radio officer, disappeared into the maw of the ship, the “bathing beauties” were pulling it toward the dock.

At dockside, eleven passengers went ashore; some had reached their destination, and the others, cameras poised, wanted a twenty-minute look at the flora and fauna of picturesque Dominican Republic. The crew of the two motored Sikorsky S-43 busied themselves with preparations for the last leg of the flight from Miami to San Juan. A gasoline hose swung into position to fill the wing tanks; mechanics unhooked nacelles and checked connections and made sure that all was secure; a squad of brooms went to work in the passenger compartment.

Arms waving, coattails flying, an excited airport manager scampered down the dock, clutching a sheet of paper and screeching, “Capitanito! Capitanito!”

“Simmer down, Pasquale, I’m right here. You got another revolution going?”

“No, no! Important message, Capitanito! You no fly to San Juan, Miami say! She is hurricane!” gasped the excited little Dominican between breaths.

“Okay, Pasquale, so we stay. . . relax,” the pilot admonished. He turned to his crew. “Guess you fellows heard the news. . . an extra night’s sleep and a hot meal. But it also means we will have to anchor the boat out in the middle of the river, so she won’t bash herself against the dock if the storm breaks. We’ll draw straws to see who sleeps on the plane.

Slim felt his skin crawl, and he had a sudden tendency to itch. He had spent one miserable night in the hotel at San Pedro de Macoris. Bed bugs and cockroaches in formations and columns wouldn’t let a man sleep in that place. And the food. . . he gagged at the recollection.

“Never mind the straws, Skipper, I’ll stay aboard,” he volunteered. “Besides, I can man the radio in case of trouble.”

“Thanks, Sparks, that’s real decent of you.”

“You’re a prince, Sparks; I’ll remember you in my will.”

“We’ll make it right with you, Sparks, when we get to San Juan.”

“Sure you will. . . see you in the morning.”