It might have been somewhere along the Chilean coast. Not Tocopilla; that was too small a town. Perhaps in Antofagasta.  One of the sailors knew I was going ashore for a few hours and he asked me to buy a single-unit entertainment center – a portable record player-radio-tape player/recorder.  He handed me a fistful of American currency with which to make the purchase, trusting me completely. Who was it that had the confidence to ask me to do this?  I don’t recall his name any longer, but we were, en passant, friendly to each other whenever our paths crossed.   

My first question – what to do with the dollars in a country that dealt only with their own currency, the escudo.  Back then there were about 1860 escudos to the dollar.  I stopped a policeman and asked him where the currency exchange was.  “There are two locations – one is the local bank which will give you the exact exchange rate minus a bit for their expenses, but the other one is down the block, around the corner, in the basement with José the dealer.  He’ll give you twice the amount.” 

Without giving much thought to the irony of a policeman showing me where to go to break the law, next thing I knew I was walking quickly down the block, around the corner, in the basement, dealing with José who came across exactly as the policeman had explained.  I didn’t understand at the time but found out soon afterward that he was clearly hoarding dollars in expectation of making a huge profit at some point in the future.

With 186,000 escudos in hand, I returned to the street and quickly located a nearby tourist shop that sold cameras, “native” dolls, telescopes, and, most importantly to me, portable radios and other smallish sound systems.  I settled on what I thought my compañero de buque would most appreciate, and soon returned with my purchase to the Glenview. 

Since we’d be in Chile for at least two weeks, stopping in many more ports, to his total surprise, I shared with him the Chilean returns on my exchange. It was as if I had just walked into a place, stolen the item and given it to him.  He came out just about net zero. Not bad.

The day came when we raised anchor and soon were back out at sea.  After my eight hours at the wheel, night had fallen. The stars were up in all their glory. Constellations I’d only read about rocked gently back and forth in the heavens as the ship plowed through the calm waters of the South Pacific.  

On deck, music began sounding from his new acquisition. Mexican love songs floated through the air.  I joined the sailors, not something I often did, and shared cans of beer while listening to love songs like Tú sólo tú,  Allá en el rancho grande, Se va el caimán.  To this day, those songs permeate my musical soul.

Tú, sólo tú

(You, only you)

Has llenado de luto mi vida, abriendo una herida en mi corazón,

(Have filled my life with mourning, opening a wound within my heart)

Tú, sólo tú

(You, only you) 

Eres causa de todo mi llanto y mi desengaño y desesperación,

(Are the cause of all my grief, deceptions and desperation)

Solo tu sombra fatal, sombra del mar

(Only your dismal shadow, shadow of the seas)

Me sigue por dondequiera con obstinación

(It follows me obstinately wherever I go)

Y por la noche olvidar,

(And to forget it all, at night)

Me tiro a la borrachera y a la perdición….

(I drown myself in drunkenness and utter perdition)

The songs went on and on. To the salacious delight of all, one of the more inspired sailors created a vulgar version of that song:

Tú sólo tú,

Has llenado de luto mi vida,

Abriendo una herida en mi pantalón…..

(opening up a wound within my pants….)

I didn’t have much interaction with that marinero afterward. Not for any particular reason. We just didn’t cross paths. I’m fairly certain he was one of the crewmen who worked far down in the engine room, constantly squirting oil from brass oil cans, lubricating the pistons and propellor shaft, who came up to the top deck only for meals, to sleep, and to pass the nights listening to sad love songs from far away.  Night after night, recordings of love songs performed by Mariachi singers or plaintively weeping soloists, mixed with the tired, yet excited voices of melancholy sailors. The notes rose, fell, and reverberated upon the deck of the Glenview above which the Southern Cross and its celestial companions peacefully rocked to the same cadence, seeming from one moment to the next to be caught in the celestial rhythm as the great ship plied the waters toward its next destination.