Rachel scratched her head. ‘‘Puente is bridge, right?”
Jesse studied the sign. ‘‘It’s bridge of lovers, or lovebirds, or something like that.’’
They crossed the 100-meter bridge, found several small restaurants, and chose one on the beach for lunch. Afterward, they returned to Prophecy to nap.
Later, the cruisers motored out to the shallow barrier reef, dropped mushroom anchors, and snorkeled for two hours. The pristine reef had many tropical fish including cuttlefish, barracudas, and large green eels.
When they finished, Jesse invited the cruisers on board for margaritas.
‘‘How long will you be here, and where are you going?’’ The skipper from San Diego asked.
‘‘We thought one more day, and then we need to get going. We want to be in Florida by the first week of June.’’
‘‘You have plenty of time. We have a 12-hour weather window; miss it, and you’ll be here for at least three or four more days.’’
Andy looked at Jesse. ‘‘I guess we’ll get to know Providencia.’’
The family had a great time on the tiny island. They toured by car, and enjoyed the company of other cruisers.
‘‘We’ve known lots of people in our lives,’’ Jesse said, ‘‘But cruisers are predictably interesting, intelligent, and accepting.’’
Andy smiled. ‘‘It takes a certain personality type to chuck it all and go to sea.’’
Over the next two days, the weather remained unsettled. The weather fax, NOAA, and Herb all recommended waiting one more day.
That evening, they said farewell to their newest group of friends. Jesse added the cruisers’ boat cards to their five-year accumulation. They planned to pull out in the morning.
Andy stared at the planning chart. ‘‘The trip to Roatan, in the Bay Islands of Honduras, is about 450 miles.’’
Jesse ran her finger along the course line. ‘‘How long?’’
‘‘Let’s say… 60 hours.’’
‘‘Can we stop somewhere?’’
‘‘The cruising guide shows several small island anchorages, but they’re so exposed that we could have an unpleasant night.’’
‘‘Let’s press on,’’ she said. ‘‘There’s nothing I hate more than rolling around all night in an unprotected anchorage.’’
They pulled anchor at first light, and set sail for Roatan.
The passage was a little rougher as the seas ran up to 15 feet. The winds blew constantly at 12 to 15 knots for the first day and then shifted. With the changing winds and headings, Prophecy sailed close to the wind, on the beam, and finally they found themselves running downwind toward Roatan.
On that last leg, Jesse saw several small radar targets that turned out to be small fishing boats, also called pangas. At 3 a.m., Jesse saw another target approaching. When it didn’t answer her call on VHF radio, she wasn’t surprised, as it was likely to be another panga. When it came about a mile and a half away and seemed to be heading for them, she went below.
‘‘You’d better get up. Someone’s getting too close for comfort.’’
Although rare, piracy at sea was particularly threatening to the isolated sailboat. Many cruisers traveled together for protection. Andy and Jesse had discussed carrying a firearm, but rejected the idea, since they’d have to declare it at each port of entry, and would need to surrender it and retrieve it afterward. An undeclared weapon found on board could lead to imprisonment, and jails in the United States were paradise compared to prisons in this part of the world. They had settled for a mock double-barreled shotgun.
Andy grabbed the shotgun and his spear gun, and then opened his emergency flare kit. He broke the flare gun, and inserted a cartridge.
When the radar target came within a half mile, they still couldn’t see anything; at a quarter mile, they saw the panga with three men aboard. They waved their arms and gestured for Prophecy to come closer.
Andy grabbed his binoculars. When three mustachioed and tattooed young men appeared, his pulse increased. He switched on the engine, turned downwind to pick up speed, and stood in the cockpit with the shotgun across his arms.
After one of the men raised binoculars to his eyes, the panga turned away.
Thank God for our shotgun, Andy thought as he stowed his weapon and replaced the flare kit. So much for that emergency. He shut down the engine and returned Prophecy to its proper heading.
‘‘One of these days,’’ Jesse said, ‘‘in fear for our safety, we’re going to ignore a legitimate cry for help.’’
‘‘We’re supposed to assist vessels in distress, but I’m not going to put us at risk unless we’re sure we can help without getting ourselves into trouble.’’
At 4 a.m., Andy shouted through the companionway. ‘‘We’re here.’’
Jesse rubbed her eyes. ‘‘Where?’’
‘‘Roatan.’’
‘‘It’s 4 a.m.’’
‘‘Sorry. We’ll have to wait two hours for sunrise.’’
They stood three miles offshore with the lights of Roatan in the distance. The seas were 3 to 4 feet, and the wind was steady at 8 knots.
Andy turned to Jesse. ‘‘Let’s heave to.’’
They pointed the bow into the wind, letting the main sail drive Prophecy forward, while the jib pushed her backward. When they adjusted these sails, the forward and aft forces came into balance, and Prophecy bobbed peacefully at sea.
Andy grasped Jesse’s hand. ‘‘Nothing makes the distinction between the cruising and the land-based life than what we endure while sailing at night near civilization, or when waiting offshore for an opportunity to make landfall.’’
Jesse pointed to the lights on the Roatan shore. ‘‘They’re sleeping soundly in their warm beds without a care in the world. No worry about weather, tides, hidden dangers below, pirates, or mechanical breakdowns. It’s almost irresistible, isn’t it?’’
‘‘If predictability and security are your objectives, you can’t do better than live on your couch, but look at how much of the best things in life you’d miss.’’
She smiled and squeezed his hand. ‘‘We’ve enjoyed those, sweetheart. It’s time for a change.’’
At first light, they motored toward the town of Oak Ridge. Dozens of rusted wrecks sat on the island’s protective barrier reefs.
‘‘That’s encouraging,’’ Jesse said.
‘‘Keep those pretty eyes open, and we’ll be fine.’’
Jesse and Rachel moved to the bow, staring into the clear blue water to look for channel markers.
Rachel pointed toward the starboard side. ‘‘There it is.’’
Andy slowed the boat. A floating #10 can with a small red flag bobbed on the wavelets. They followed the cans to the harbor’s entrance. Once inside, they turned hard to port, and tied up at the Oak Ridge Marina.
Chapter Eight
The designation of marina overstated the case for Roatan’s shabby Oak Ridge facility. The three finger wooden docks, and the single dock parallel to the beach, accommodated five or six boats, depending on size and draft.
Alex, an American expatriate from Brooklyn, was the harbormaster. With a heavy New York accent, he said, ‘‘You’ve got to check in at Coxen Hole for customs and immigration. I’ll call a cab when you’re ready.’’
‘‘Do we need to do it today?’’ asked Jesse. ‘‘We’re beat.’’
Alex smiled. ‘‘No hay problema. This is the Caribbean, after all. You know the definition of manaña?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Andy said. ‘‘We’ve been cruising long enough to know that manaña means ‘not today’.’’
The marina office sat on the first floor of an aging three-story hotel. The distance across the narrow island from the harbor to the ocean was about 100 yards. Rachel ran back to the boat to get her blanket, beach towel, and suntan lotion.
Andy put Prophecy to rest, covered the mainsail, dropped the dinghy into the water, and hooked up to shore power.
‘‘Don’t leav
e your dinghy in the water at night,’’ Alex said. ‘‘One of the locals may decide to borrow it.’’
Andy knew that even heavy steel cable wasn’t enough to secure a dinghy. He would bring it on deck, hang it over the side with a halyard, or put it on the davits and lock it with stainless steel chain. Theft was a way of life in poor countries.
The next morning after breakfast, they called a cab and rode 15 miles on the well-maintained highway to Coxen Hole. Along the way, they saw many housing developments with large, American-style homes that covered the green, palm-studded hillsides.
‘‘Roatan is already a destination resort area with luxury accommodations and fantastic diving,’’ Andy said. ‘‘I wonder how the natives feel about such affluence in their own poor country?’’
‘‘It’s no different from any tourist area,’’ Jesse said.
‘‘Except for Roatan’s widespread poverty.’’
The driver dropped them off at the customs office that sat at the base of a commercial dock. They arranged to meet him for the return trip at 2 p.m.
Six cruisers cued up at the customs office. When they stepped in line, one cruiser said, ‘‘Go to the bank first, and buy scrip for customs and immigration.’’
‘‘Scrip?’’
‘‘That tells you a lot about Roatan. Cash somehow disappears into official’s pockets.’’
‘‘Thanks.’’
They walked to the local bank, used a credit card to obtain the scrip and returned to customs. After a 40 minute wait, their check-in was complete.
On the crowded narrow streets, they found hundreds of stores. Many were tourist traps, but most simply served the needs of natives and residents. As usual, the selection of fruits and vegetables was fantastic, and Jesse filled two canvas bags.
The craft and artwork was primitive, except for the tourist galleries. They looked, but didn’t buy.
Rachel’s eyes lit up when she saw the Pizza Hut. ‘‘Can we?’’
They shared a deep-dish with pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms, and Andy and Jesse enjoyed a couple of ice-cold Honduran Salva Vida beers.
Afterward, they met the cab driver, and on the way back, asked him to stop at a supermarket, where Jesse purchased a few items. When they returned to the marina, one of the boats had already started happy hour, and invited them to join.
In their first year at sea, they learned the seduction of free time, lack of responsibility, the need for contact with fellow cruisers, and the availability of cheap alcohol. Cruisers had quickly partitioned themselves into antisocial, social, highly social, and beer-with-breakfast groups. Overt alcoholism had become all too common.
One cruiser had been at the marina for months, and by the look of his boat, wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Two others were en route to Mexico. If it worked out, Andy would try to time their departures and cruise together. Often this was difficult, as Prophecy was a particularly fast boat, and it never made sense to keep their boat speed down just to cruise with others.
They stayed in Roatan for six days, toured the island, dove on several pristine barrier reefs, and sampled the local cuisine.
Two days before their planned departure, Andy began his weather routine. While they could get away at once, the weather looked unsettled for Friday, their departure date.
The two boats heading for Mexico were ready to leave. When the skippers met on Thursday night, Andy said, ‘‘We’re going to wait another day, or so. I don’t like the weather.’’
‘‘It’s fine,’’ they had said, and departed the next morning.
By Friday afternoon, the entire area was overcast as a low moved into the area. It rained heavily with winds of 30 to 40 knots.
‘‘I’ll bet those cruisers are sorry they left.’’
‘‘Can they turn around?’’ Jesse asked.
‘‘No chance under these conditions. They’ll have to ride it out at sea.’’
This common expression suggested an amusement park attraction. ‘‘Talk about a euphemism,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘I don’t find weather like that amusing, at all.’’
By Sunday, Herb and NOAA gave the okay, and they pulled out of Roatan for the 300-mile trip to Puerto Aventuras on the mainland of Mexico opposite Cozumel Island. The winds held steady at 8 knots from the east, and the swell ran 2 to 3 feet. They set sail, moved parallel to Roatan, rounded its western tip, and set a course of 340 degrees magnetic for Puerto Aventuras. With temperatures in the mid-80s, and gentle winds and seas, it was likely to be a beautiful, if slow, passage. Somewhere along the way, they’d have to make a timing decision in order to arrive in daylight, and would likely have to run Prophecy’s engine.
At about 2 p.m., they motor-sailed, maintaining a respectable 8 knots.
Over the soft rattle of the diesel, Rachel looked to the sky. ‘‘What’s that sound, Daddy?’’
Andy hated any unexpected sound, as it was often the harbinger of mechanical failure. He stuck his head through the companionway to listen to the diesel. ‘‘Sounds fine to me.’’
When he moved back into the cockpit, he looked up at the sky and the characteristic beating of helicopter blades. In a moment, a bright orange HH-65C United States Coast Guard helicopter appeared overhead.
On the VHF radio, set to channel 16, a voice sounded. ‘‘This is USCG to sailboat sailing 340 degrees, at approximately 16° 54 N. and 86° 53 W. Come in.’’
Andy picked up the handset. ‘‘Good afternoon, Coast Guard, this is the sailing vessel, Prophecy.’’
The helicopter circled Prophecy, and then hovered aft to get a look at the boat’s name and hailing port. ‘‘You’re a long way from San Francisco, Skipper. I’m Lieutenant Sims. Please give us your crew’s names and your destination.’’
‘‘I’m Andy Reiss. I’m traveling with my wife, Jesse, and my daughter, Rachel. We’re heading for Puerto Aventuras, and hope to be in Florida by the first week of June.’’
‘‘Thank you, Skipper. You have beautiful weather ahead for the next few days, but make sure you get to Florida as early as possible. We hate sea rescues during storms and especially hurricanes.’’
‘‘Will do, Lieutenant. Thanks for the weather.’’
‘‘By the way, Skipper, we monitor 2.1280 MHz on your short wave radio for emergencies.’’
‘‘Thanks, Lieutenant; we have it preset, and hope never to use it.’’
‘‘Have a good trip. USCG, out.’’
At 6 a.m. the next morning, after sailing most of the night, they were 20 miles from Puerto Aventuras when calm weather forced Andy to start the engine.
At about ten miles out, the temperature gauge crept into the hot range. Andy looked over the stern: a strong flow of water sprayed from the exhaust.
He shut the engine down. ‘‘We’ve got problems, Jesse.’’
‘‘What now?’’
‘‘The engine’s overheating, and with good flow from the raw water pump, it’s not going to be a simple fix.’’
They sailed on, and after the engine cooled, Andy opened the radiator cap on the fresh water system to discover that there was no coolant. He checked the pan under the engine for water or coolant, but it was dry.
Jesse stared at Andy. ‘‘What should we do?’’
‘‘I’ll replace the water-coolant mixture, but with a leak, there’s no telling how long it will last. When we get close, I’ll tell the harbormaster of our situation. We’ll sail into the marina as far as we can, and then I’ll turn on the engine to maneuver into our slip. We probably have up to ten minutes before the engine overheats. If we let it get too hot, it’ll be destroyed.’’
At 2 p.m., they were half of a mile from the marina channel. Andy put down the VHF radio handset. ‘‘The harbormaster said he’d have two boats escort us in and help, if needed.’’
Andy watched the computer screen, and Jesse peered through the binoculars until she finally waved and pointed to the red and green markers at the entrance. They sailed into the narrow channel, turned sharply to
starboard, started the engine, and dropped the sails. The small boat ahead signaled for them to follow, and within five minutes, they were tied up against the marina wall as the temperature gauge moved again into the red.
Andy shut her down. ‘‘Get the blender going, sweetheart; I really need a frozen margarita.’’
Chapter Nine
Puerto Aventuras was on the so-called Riviera Maya, and it looked like a small version of the marina at Puerto Vallarte. The complex included a large marina surrounded by shops, restaurants, condominiums, hotels, and a large gated community.
In contrast to all the marinas they knew, the waters were crystal clear, due to a natural spring that emptied directly into Puerto Aventuras.
After Andy Reiss secured Prophecy, he stared into the marina waters. He could see every detail of his rudder, skeg, propeller, and a good part of the hull. The floor of the marina shone brightly in the sunlight.
Geraldo Vega was the harbormaster at Puerto Aventuras. He was a Mexican who had grown up in Southern California, and he had returned to Mexico for this position, as well as to be close to his wife’s family.
‘‘Señor Vega,’’ Andy said, ‘‘I’ve got a big problem with my engine.’’
‘‘Call me Jerry, everyone does. What kind of problem?’’
‘‘My best guess is a blown head gasket. If that’s the case, and with the hours we have on the engine, I might as well rebuild it.’’
After the mechanic confirmed the diagnosis, Andy sat with Jesse and Rachel in the cockpit.
Jesse shook her head. ‘‘Two weeks, Andy. We don’t have two weeks; we need to get to Florida by June first. It’s just too close to hurricane season.’’
‘‘We’ll make it with time to spare.’’
‘‘Don’t worry, Mommy. We’ll be fine.’’
Jesse caressed Rachael’s hair. ‘‘I know, sweetheart, but I’m through with depending on luck.’’
Professor Peter Blaire sat in his Miami office at the National Hurricane Center. He removed his thick glasses after he finished reviewing the latest Central American weather data, satellite imagery, and surface conditions.
Deadly Passage Page 4