Dredging Dutchmen July 25
The Albatros is tentatively scheduled to leave port tomorrow morning after an extended, and expensive, stay. It is a 5-million dollar vessel. The Dutch skipper is nowhere to be found on the eve of departure, but his Dutch first mate, Rick, enjoys a beer, shot of mescal and Dominican cigar on dry land for the last time, at least until the crew reaches Cartagena sometime next week for another job.
The latest series of hauls have earned the Albatros an astonishing 30 million USD from a consortium of area resorts (which seems a ridiculous sum, but the guy insists it’s accurate). The 80-meter ship is a dredger, and the cargo is sand. Apparently it is impossible to run an all-inclusive beach resort on the Riviera Maya without the inclusion of an actual beach, and some spots along the coast are getting chiseled to nothing by coastal erosion.
When I ask Rick where they are getting all the sand, he grows cagey, merely pointing vaguely to the east. “We have a government permit,“ he assures me. “They let us be. No problem.“
By this I infer that there is potentially a big problem, given that the Reef is a protected National Park, at least until all the right people receive their “permit“ fees. I’m betting that 30 million dollars can buy a hell of a lot of permits.
The seaman takes a long draw from his cigar between swigs of smoky mescal. “One more,“ he motions, then adding, “I have an early morning.“
Rick is not joking. His first job tomorrow is to put on a tank and goggles and probe the undersides of the Albatros for hidden welded torpedoes. The narcos already know where this ship is heading next—someone has been paid for the manifest, just like someone was paid for information at the resorts—and this is good news for a desperately ingenious lot. Old torpedoes are hollowed, then filled with drugs and welded solid to the hulls of unsuspecting ships leaving Mexico. Yes, with a guaranteed hangover, Rick will be inspecting for contraband missiles heading to Colombia. Que Pedo!
Rick is unaccustomed to the tropical heat. The barrel-chested foreign national of uncertain pirate ancestry is dripping with sweat. I want to suggest that he switch to water and electrolytes, but the seasoned voyager is not in the market for advice from the likes of me. Like every Netherlander I meet, he speaks plainly about everything he doesn’t like, starting with the slow service at Mexican joints like this one. He won’t tip the waiter, for instance, because the Dutch do not believe in gratuities, except perhaps for one scalding tip—that is, if employees are not being sufficiently compensated, then they should petition management for a proper pay raise. This would seem an excellent prescription for unemployment—in a country without a Euro-style safety net.
He yearns to return to Liverpool and Hamburg, where the air is cooler and bar service is more efficient, but here is where the money is, or at least it is where it’s supposed to be. The booze has loosened Rick’s tongue, and he confesses they have not yet been paid in full. “One more,“ he shouts absently.
This is where the captain is tonight, collecting on an outstanding debt, and this is why the Albatros has not budged from the industrial pier in a week. Leverage. The port shall remain closed to incoming traffic until these Dutchmen get their money. Another ship is due in port tomorrow.
In Holland, being a shameless Pendejo is considered a virtue, a critical gift of the Enlightenment that has not quite reached Mexico. The shared Dutch wisdom is to believe in nothing and challenge everything, including terra firma, for these people from the nether region realized long ago that the whole world is surely and inexorably sinking into the sea.
And this is where the dredger comes in.