TO SEE THE WORLD

By John Guy

We sail to see the world but, instead, we see each other.

Chichi and I visited the Windwards, the Leewards, South America , the Bahamas , and the Western Caribbean , to see, to know, to learn about other peoples and cultures. Instead, wherever we went, our friends and acquaintances were North Americans and Europeans, other travelers, just like us. Our most joyous moments were social encounters with those having the same experiences as us. Our most lonely moments were in towns and harbors empty of others like us. During those moments, we craved the companionship of sailors. Our culture and habits prevented us from seeing and participating in the local scene, of seeking new friends, of understanding the challenges to the lives around us.

I ask: Is this wrong? Should we be more involved, more attuned to the societies we visit? Yes, I say, but without substance, for we, like all around us, do little to ingratiate ourselves with locals, to make personal friends, to converse with other citizens of the world. This is not new. Perhaps only Peace Corps Volunteers and missionaries find contentment among the peoples of other lands. 

Examples of our isolation are local sailors' nets that cater only to the personal business and mechanical and social needs of sailors; they neither present news about local accomplishments and tragedies nor promote local fiestas or national celebrations.

Sailors operate international nets, such as the South West Caribbean Net, or the Safety and Security Net, which present only information from and about sailors. We distribute news about lost dinghies, robberies on boats, and health issues, but only within the English- speaking sailing community. If a Venezuelan loses his property, we never know, because we do not accumulate and share this kind of news. In a few instances, we view ourselves as more than visitors. We become political activists, as though we were entitled to affect the policies of other nations. If a government proposes an increased entrance fee to Saint Marten to pay the cost of a new bridge, we use our nets to organize a protest as we would to our city council. If an authority wants to increase park fees, or mooring fees, even docking fees, we complain loudly, though we are not tax-paying, voting citizens. We are visitors, not owners, but we act like owners. How would we feel if a dozen foreign tourists arrived in our neighborhood, then told us how to run our affairs? 

We organize religious services, on beaches, with songs and sermons, when, just a few miles away, we could attend equally profound services conducted by local people in local buildings. Churches are among the best spots to meet new people, because churches have receptions, coffees or breakfasts for members, potential future members and guests. Churches have newsletters advertising programs for the week, and the services reflect the music, values, and style of dress of the country and community. But we take a pass. Instead, we pray apart. 

We exaggerate our importance to the nations we visit. In many islands, Chichi and I spent less than $50 for provisions and restaurants. In others we spent more, especially when we stayed many weeks or months, or when we contracted for major repairs. While specific merchants benefit from our visits, our overall economic contribution is far less than we think, perhaps less than a fraction of a percent in the national accounts. Were it otherwise, nations would advertise in our sailing magazines, improve arrival and departure procedures, and cater more enthusiastically to our needs, as most nations do for persons who arrive by plane or by cruise ship. In some locations, our arrival is viewed as a burden, because we spend little, pay no tax, and drop our garbage. 

Our attitude towards taxi drivers illustrates myopia and suspicion about doing business in other nations. Chichi and I have seen numerous wars of words between taxi drivers and sailing tourists. The slightest hint of over-charge elicits strong language instead of calm words, negotiation, and understanding. We expect to pay the same prices as locals, and usually do, but we forget that no product or service is uniformly priced. We forget that in North America everyone pays different prices for identical services. Every passenger in an airplane pays a different price per mile. In the U.S. , out-of-towners always pay more for the basics, if only because the discount stores are far away from hotels. Visitors pay unique hotel and airport taxes. Hotel guests pay different room rates, such as the rack rate, a discounted rate for membership in an automobile association, or a special rate available only on the Internet. Yet, when we enter a taxi in Isla Mujeres or Venezuela , a fare that seems out of line turns us into raving monsters.

On world holidays such as New Year's Eve, we rally together at a marina instead of going to a local party at a night club. In so doing, we miss opportunities to see and to learn local dances and to meet locals at their dressed-up, relaxed best. In fact, we constantly organize private events, such as barbecues and pot lucks. We do not look for similar opportunities organized by local churches and clubs, and we do not invite local people to join our parties.

Times of tragedy and challenge powerfully represent our separation and isolation. After the hurricane that struck Grenada in 2004, sailing publications published reports only about the tribulations of sailors, and one sailing periodical solicited funds only for vessels damaged by the storm. While we heard generalities that 80 percent of structures in Grenada were damaged or destroyed, sailors reported only damage to marinas and boats. Not a single report covered damages to the host nation, to the local people, to homes and businesses of individuals who probably are uninsured and have no savings, retirement plan or distant family to provide support. No group of sailors promoted fundraising to help the many local people who have been kind to us, received us warmly, given us directions, and served our food.

When foreign persons visit our homes, we expect them to act with respect for our property and for our habits. We respect visitors who have fun with us by going to our fiestas and cultural events and by actively joining in our conversations. We do not respond warmly when visitors complain about our taxes, prices, politics or the quality of American education. If a visitor becomes too negative, we anxiously await his departure and silently wish he had not come. These are not sentiments sailors want to leave behind. Instead, we want to listen, to learn, to be involved, to understand other cultures, and to cause others to speak well of us.