Crossing the Tropic of Cancer, Enroute to Ghana

1 October 2012

We’re entering the tropics, where we’ll spend the next two weeks—between the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn—sailing south to Cape Town, with an intermediate stopover in Accra, Ghana. As we’d hope in the tropics, the weather today is sunny and very warm, even with the 20-knot breeze the MV Explorer creates as it cuts through the deep, deep blue Atlantic.

That warmth and breeze feel wonderful after spending several hours today teaching in classrooms so cool that wearing sweaters and sweatshirts is the only way to be comfortable. The crew keeps the ship cool . . . some would say damned cold! I understand the reason is that the air conditioning also dehumidifies (of course), and humidity combined with the salt air causes rapid deterioration of almost any building material: wood, steel, even plastic. So by keeping the temperature turned down, SAS extends Explorer’s life. But it also keeps passengers in sweatshirts and sweaters, even when the outside air temp is well into the 80s.

The 7^th-deck pool is a very popular spot today.

As we cross into the tropics, we’re also starting the first string of real school-like classes since we arrived in Galway a month ago. Between that chilly arrival in Ireland and today’s sunshine we’ve managed to complete only 6 class days, which means only 3 meetings of our “A-” and “B-”day sections. To describe continuity as lacking would be a laughable understatement. One of my students put it very well last week: “It doesn’t   feel like school.” (Another said, “We’re all broke!”)

To give them back the feeling of school, I administered two pop quizzes today. God! Teaching is fun!

The stop in the Canary Islands was brief. We arrived Sunday morning—another Sunday arrival in a traditionally Catholic port, where everything is closed—and left last night, spending all night anchored off La Palma while the MV Explorer was refueled.

The Canaries are volcanic islands off the coast of Africa. Though they’re 600 miles away, they are a part of Spain, just as the distant Hawaiian Islands are a part of the US. Like Hawaii, the Canaries erupt out of the sea into volcanic peaks, one reaching 12,000 feet above sea level. And like Mauna Kea on the Big Island, the peak on Tenerife Island is snow-covered in the winter despite its being only a couple hundred miles from the Tropic of Cancer.

(Three porpoises just swam by, not 30 yards from the railing of my balcony.)

Unlike Hawaii, the lee side of Tenerife is rather barren except for the palm trees and other flora planted by the Spanish settlers over the centuries. The mountains hold most of the rain on the windward side, leaving the mountainsides where we were docked, adjacent to the city of Santa Cruz, brown and gray.

In addition, after having spent a week in Spain, Santa Cruz had a certain sameness about it. It’s a pretty city sitting on the edge of the Atlantic, but we’ve been to a lot of pretty cities sitting on lovely bodies of water: Southampton, Lisbon, Cadiz, Malaga. If this had been our first stop, it would have been a marvel. As it was, Santa Cruz was just another port.

Still, the two days were both productive and enjoyable. On Sunday, I finished grading my latest batch of papers: reflections of my intercultural comm. students on their Spain & Portugal experiences. They showed some improvement over the first batch, though, again, a distressing number of students either didn’t read the assignment’s requirements or decided they would do their own thing. I guess I have to remind them that, in college, they have to do the teacher’s thing. That’s real life . . . too.

Late Sunday afternoon, I joined Jim & Shamim and Barry & Jane Hollar (Barry is a professor of religious studies at Shenandoah College) on a short taxi ride to Laguna, a village and university town 9 kilometers into the mountains above Santa Cruz. The village is both historic—many of the buildings date back 400-500 years—and unique in that it was originally laid out in perpendicular avenues and roads. Unlike what seems like every other city and town in Europe, Laguna’s streets cross each other at predictable points, corners sit at 90-degree angles, and addresses rise and fall in consistent directions. While the layout lacks the charm of, say, Cadiz or Lisbon, it sure makes navigation easy.

After wandering the streets, churches, and historic buildings, the 5 of us stopped into a taverna for dinner. At 8pm on a Sunday night, we were one of only two small parties in the restaurant, which had us a little concerned about the place’s reputation. But by 9pm, the place was packed.

It’s all true about the Spanish. They start the day late, at least by US standards; they enjoy a late, light lunch; they close down for siesta from late afternoon to early evening, and they don’t even think about dinner before 8pm. In fact, “real” restaurants (as opposed to tavernas) don’t even open before 8pm.

At any rate, dinner was good, and, by the time we left, the taverna was jumpin’.

Monday morning, Jim and I played golf at Real de Golf, Tenerife, the 2^nd-oldest course in Spain, built in 1932. It was a beautiful layout, rising and falling with the mountains, and offered spectacular views of the volcano, the city of Santa Cruz, and the ocean. Unfortunately, my game hasn’t come back (was it ever “there”?), so, once again, the course won. Jim played well. And we had fun.

After golf, I printed out my mail-in ballot and walked to the Santa Cruz post office to send the thing off to the Lake County clerk. I felt so good having fulfilled my primary responsibility as a citizen that I rewarded myself with a cerveza at a sidewalk café, joined by a few others—passengers, not cervezas—from the ship.

I reboarded at 5:45 last evening, and we were enroute by 7pm.

On to Accra.