Pushing forward thence, we reached Porto Rico, the nearest land in our
course from the Island of Brave Women, standing well in with the
southeast capes. Sailing thence along the whole extent of the south
coast, in waters as smooth as any mill pond, and past island scenery
worth the perils of ten voyages to see, we landed, on the 12th of
October, at Mayaguez in the west of the island, and there shook the
kinks out of our bones by pleasant walks in tropic shades.
Time, five days from Barbadoes; distance 570 miles.
This was to be our last run among the trees in the West Indies, and we
made the most of it. "Such a port for mariners I'll never see again!"
The port officials, kind and polite, extended all becoming courtesies to
the quaint "_barco piquina_."
The American Consul, Mr. Christie, Danish Consul, Mr. Falby, and the
good French Consul, vied in making our visit a pleasant one.
Photographers at Mayaguez desiring a picture of the canoe with the crew
on deck at a time when we felt inclined to rest in the shade on shore,
put a negro on board to take the place of captain. The photographs taken
then found their way to Paris and Madrid journals where, along with some
flattering accounts, they were published, upon which it was remarked
that the captain was a fine-looking fellow, but "awfully tanned!" The
moke was rigged all ataunto for the occasion, and made a picture
indicative of great physical strength, one not to be ashamed of, but he
would have looked more like me, I must say, if they had turned him back
to.
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