We pack up the Zodiac and head north. In the hills above the bay, camo-clad checkpoint guards take an interest in our rig. A gathering of baby-faced, semi-automatic-toting soldiers mill around the Ridgeline. Two of them bang metal wrenches on the bed, listening for a hollow knock. They hear it. They seem particularly interested in the hidden 300-pound capacity cargo bin. Can't imagine why. They disassemble the entire bed searching for more hidden compartments. In the meantime, one of them inspects our New York State licenses. "Ah, Nueva York?" he asks. "Si, Si," I answer emphatically. His next question takes me by surprise: "Terrorista?" I shake my head, laugh nervously, and wonder what the hell is going wrong. Then, clear as crystal he says in English, "You may have to turn around and go back." Is this a joke? I catch a glance of the pristine beach below, a thatched roof blowin' in the wind, and that sapphire bay…on second thought, my luck may be turning.