After uprooting ourselves we sailed to the southwest side of Trinidad. There was a beautiful deserted beach leading to a seemingly endless forest of tall native coconut palm trees. It was pristine, no trash, no people, no boat traffic. It was the perfect start for our latest adventure.
Phil found a sandpiper on deck and picked it up. It just sat there for awhile, then flew away back to the beach.
Then Murphy began to show his ugly face. Phil took the dinghy out and ran over a cat fish whose spiky spines pierced the dink underneath on the seam of the port side. At the time Phil had no idea that it had happened. However, it became clear first thing in the morning when we awoke to a partially deflated dink. At first we just pumped it up thinking that the cap was loose and motored to the beach. At the beach Phil heard a bubbling sound and saw something protruding from the bottom and pulled it out. Now it was hissing and deflating. I motored while Phil stomped on the foot pump as fast as he could to keep Rubber Ducky afloat. After patching the dingy, it takes 24 hours for the glue to fully cure . . . so the dink was out of commission for awhile.
As we departed the anchorage to cross over to Venezuela (only 25 miles), our faithful dinghy lie on the foredeck with its first real battle scar since leaving the US. We sailed carefully across the Bay of Paria avoiding the many oil rigs and platforms, as well as, the many fishing pirogues scattered throughout the southwestern portion of the bay.
When we arrived at the mouth of the Orinoco River we chose to enter the Rio Manamo. This river is less shallow at the mouth and easy to navigate in comparison to the Rio Macareo. It is also less traveled. As we approached the entrance, two large natural gas rigs flanked the flowing muddy brown river. The contrast between the vast mighty river with its wild, lush, forested banks and the huge man-made natural gas rigs each with a tall flaming stack that rose 20 feet into the air, brought a sense of realism to mind, a reality check. There are very few places on earth that have been untouched by man. 
Red Ibises sit in flocks along the rivers edge. 
Before heading up the Manamo we had to poke into the mouth of the Rio Pedernales to unofficially check in to Venezuela. The Guardia National is not a formal Customs and Immigration Office, however; they will stamp the forms we provide to prove that we were here to show the customs official when we head to our next destination. They also checked and noted our passports. That was the extent of it as they do not speak English. Welcome to Venezuela! (Why didn't I take Spanish?)
We checked in on a Saturday afternoon and planned to motor up the river early in the morning in anticipation of our first encounter trading with the Indians. Murphy had other plans for us. Saturday night the generator failed. Sunday morning I smelled diesel in the bilge. The fuel pump was leaking and one fourth of a tank of diesel had escaped into the deep depths of Adamo's hull. Trying to seal the leak didn't work. We keep a spare on board, but you never know if you will be able to remove the old pump easily or if time and salt water has seized it into place. To boot, the pump is located in the back of the engine underneath the exhaust, heat exchanger, and various hoses and pipes.
My concern was, how do we keep the batteries charged and the freezer frozen if both the generator and the engine are down? I tackled the generator first. When it was working again we all breathed a sigh of relief. Then it was on to the engine. Thank God for Phil. He is small enough to fit around the side of the engine lying against the hull in the bilge. I could reach from the other side after removing the floors. After an hour of working to get the pump off we succeeded just in time for a major squall. Things are never so bad that they can't get worse. The torrential rains began and hatches had to be closed. Let me remind you again of the heat down in these parts! Then the anchor began to drag in the strong winds that sprang up.
The engine was out of commission. The dinghy was on deck and deflated and couldn't be used to move the Adamo out of harms way. All the floors were up so getting around the boat was very challenging. But we were one up on Murphy; after he appeared in St. John we replaced our chain with 200 feet of galvanized chain. Sue was quick to act. I was still running around in my underwear due to the unbearable heat from having the boat closed up. She dropped all 200 feet of chain hoping that it would stop us from drifting down river. Finally the chain sunk down into the muddy bottom and the anchor held. The pressure was on to get the engine up and running ASAP. One of the fittings just would not line up properly. In desperation, I bent the metal fuel line and it slid into place. Success! We bled the lines and checked the oil and crossed our fingers. She cranked up and we were back in business.
As I write this entry, Phil is hopping around the boat like a Jedi knight, chasing down the flies with an electronic zapper. Sue is enjoying a well deserved glass of wine. I'm happy we have everything running again. Maybe tomorrow we will get our first glimpse of the Wareo Indians.
