The next morning, I encountered a couple of new dive boat acquaintances from earlier in the week, a commercial photographer from Houston and his brother-in-law, who told me there was a chance that the two-tank boat might make a run to both Salt Pier and Hilma Hooker if enough votes could be secured. I checked with the divemaster and was told that it was possible, so I signed up and moved my gear while the other two conspirators talked up the plan among the other passengers. By the time we cleared the lagoon mouth the issue had been decided, and the captain turned south around Punt Vierkant and motored down the coast while we geared up and listened to the story behind the wreck (one of several, I understand) as told by our burly, bearded divemaster.
The Hilma Hooker was an old cargo ship being used to transport marijuana from Colombia. Apparently, the captain’s instructions were to sail to Bonaire and wait to be contacted. He loitered suspiciously in the area outside Klein Bonaire, supposedly experiencing engine trouble, for a couple of days, attracting the attention of the authorities, who seized the vessel, moored it at Town Pier, and proceeded to search it for contraband. At first nothing was found, but apparently acting on information gleaned from a local source, officers persisted and eventually located a false bulkhead concealing twelve tons of yerba mala. The crew was arrested and the ship impounded in place, but while the trial was in progress, the Hooker began to take on water. Pumps were able to keep her afloat, but the cost of maintenance and blocked harbor space put a considerable burden on Bonaire. The ship’s owner, not surprisingly, never came forward to claim his vessel, (or pay the harbor fees, or answer questions about the twelve tons of dope) so eventually it was decided to tow the rusting hulk, now drained of fuel oil, out of the harbor to be anchored where it would not present a hazard to navigation. Some say local dive operators were instrumental in this decision, hoping for an artificial reef to add to the islands other attractions. In the second week of September, 1984, the Hilma Hooker tipped over and sank to the sand bottom between the inner and outer reefs about halfway between Punt Vierkant lighthouse and Salt Pier. She lies on her starboard side in 100 feet of water parallel to the beach.
I was among the first in the water, descending to the dark shape visible from the surface against the white sand. Approaching from the shoreward side, the bottom of the hull was my first view, and it was mottled with broad patches of purple sergeant major eggs. Each patch was well guarded by its parent fish, displaying the darkened color characteristic of its nesting phase. I went to the bottom and checked my computer. It registered 99 feet. I headed forward and came around the bow, flushing out a midsized grouper, and saw the encrusted superstructure amidships, slightly buckled from its contact with the bottom. I used my pocket light to examine the great empty holds as the other divers in the group joined me. Although the Hooker hasn’t been in the water long enough to grow a full coat of coral, many sponges have taken hold and thousands of fish are in residence. Chains and cables, frozen in place by rust, droop from deckhouse cranes; even the ship’s wheel is still there. It was the first “real,” unsanitized shipwreck I had ever dived, and I vowed to come back another day, armed with a camera.
We took a moderate surface interval, puttering around with our gear and making leisurely time to the Salt Pier for our second dive. The color and diversity of fish life flocking around the supports made me kick myself (hard to do with fins on) for not at least renting a camera. I was so busy writing on my slate and making notes I ran out of dive time long before I was ready to surface. Another “must return” added to the list.
Carol and I joined my two new friends for lunch at City Café (excellent sandwiches) and made a short walk through the shopping area of town before the sun chased us back to the Plaza. A Dutch wedding was taking place, and we watched the ceremony from our balcony, wondering at the endurance of the participants, who stood for at least an hour in full regalia under the midafternoon sun while the vows were exchanged and innumerable pictures taken. (Okay, now the bride and her mother, then the men only, then…aagh!)
We were reminded of the day in St. John when we stood in the presence of Rev. Ann Marie Porter and witnesses Dave and Jimbo (current whereabouts unknown) on Trunk Bay beach and made our promise to one another. Perhaps the new happy couple saw the two American lovers holding hands on the balcony as they passed by on their way to a new life, but I doubt it.
That evening, we visited Giovanni at the Coconut Crash for happy hour to go, then walked to the Old Inn just outside the Plaza gate for supper. Our tournados of beef and pork schnitzel came served over vegetable medley with roasted potatoes, French fries and spinach on the side. We did our best to finish it all, but ran up the white flag to avoid internal ruptures. Those with a hearty appetite would do well to visit this establishment; I hear the rijstaffel is truly enormous. A later visit to the casino saw us drop $80.00 at slots before calling it a night. Three days left in Bonaire, and we were still having a very good time. |
By George Owens on Friday, July 12, 2002 - 11:22 am: 
