Leaving Rio

Sea Quill under a full moon in Cayo Quemado, Guatemala (Photo Courtesy: Mavis, s/v Gertruide)

In early November, hurricane season ended and we had finished the major projects on our list (though, it's a truism of cruising, that your list never gets any shorter, no matter how much you do). During the previous six months, we had explored Guatemala and made wonderful friends, but now we were both more than ready to get back to sailing and the sea. Also, Ulf's friend, Andrew, an Englishman and fellow-sailor, who lives in Sweden, was to meet us in the Bay Islands of Honduras in early December to accompany us on the long passage to Panama.

Two days before our intended departure, a drunken lancha driver ran into the stern of Sea Quill, while we sat on a mooring at Tortugal Marina. It was broad daylight, about noon, but the man was so inebriated he could barely speak, let alone drive. Luckily, the lancha was going slowly and rode up our stern pulpit, instead of hitting the hull directly. The collision put a few chips in the gel coat and ripped our propane tank off it's mount, destroying the cables and connections and landing the aluminum tank in the water. We were lucky that the damage was no worse, but with no way to cook, we were forced to delay our departure. We waited in Rio Dulce for another week, hunting down replacement parts, filing reports with the helpful (but ultimately hand-tied) Guatemalan Navy and Tourist Police, and fighting with the lancheros, a charming "fraternal association" of the Rio Dulce, with a well-earned reputation for drunk driving, and coercion through intimidation and threats of violence. We always do like to stir up a little drama before we leave a place.

Those last days in the Rio, friends came through with an abundance of spares and assistance to help us along our way. We are astounded by the generosity of these friends, who, out of plain kindness, did so much to help us. Gerry and Geoffrey of Katinka gave us the spare pump handle and fittings we desperately needed for the leaking Jabsco toilet pump (not to mention, a few more evenings of great food, wine, and funny conversation). Dennis of Frodo, and Vic of Sera, successfully (finally) taught us how to take down weather faxes off our SSB radio, teaching us how to strain out the bugs in the process. Steve and Sue of Evensong (friends from the beginning of our cruising life, way back in Jamaica) gave us four virtually new triple blocks, which completed our needs for the Cape Horn wind vane installation. Maurits of Gertruide gave us the final connections we needed to finish repairing our propane tank, following the lancha incident. Maurits even arrived early one morning with the parts and did the installation himself. We ran around town saying our goodbyes, and stocking up on the last odds and ends. Predictably, time ran out before we could say goodbye to everyone. We miss you.

Don and Ellen, of s/v Moon; Jurrien and Rebecca of the great Sundog Cafe.

We stopped in Texan Bay again, to make some last checks and repairs before heading down to Livingston. There, we spent another relaxing evening swinging in the hammocks around the fire with Maurits, Mavis, and Ellen, in M&M's beautiful palapa-in-progress.

(Two photos, courtesy: Mavis, s/v Gertruide)

We left on a wet morning in the middle of November, having spent the days before going over Sea Quill to make sure she was ready to face the music again. Though we had made many improvements, we were not able to fix our autopilot, which had broken down on the way from Cuba to Belize. We would have to hand-steer to Utila or Roatan, whose large shrimping fleet, we hoped, would harbor an autopilot repairman. In Utila, we also hoped to find the Yanmar parts we needed to repair our diesel water pump, which had developed a leak.

As the crow flies, the distance from Livingston, Guatemala to Utila, Honduras is only about 120 miles, but the prevailing wind and current of the Bay of Amatique conspired to make it feel like double. Leaving Livingston, the wind picked up from the northeast until it was a steady 22-24 knots, right on our nose. Southeast winds had been predicted -- not ideal, but a whole lot better than northeast. We fought our way towards Cabo Tres Puntas, the outer border of the Bay of Amatique, tacking and motoring as hard as Sea Quill could. After five hours of fighting, we had only managed to make 15 miles towards our destination. Seas had picked up to a sharp chop, and buckets of salt water were thrown in our faces every few minutes as we took turns at the wheel. The Guatemalan courtesy flag was wind-whipped to shreds in a matter of hours.

Then a lurching wave took out the upper port side lifeline. It split, twisted, sagged. Pounding onward against the waves, our second anchor, the Bruce, jumped it's roller, and swung under the bowsprit with a bang. We'd forgotten to tie it down. Ulf ran forward to fish it up. Another slam of the bow, and the shelves in the v-berth came crashing down.

Uncharacteristically, Ulf was seasick. Cabo Tres Puntas still taunted us from miles ahead. With afternoon waning, we were already exhausted and did not relish the prospect of hand-steering through a long, windy night. We scanned the charts and decided to reach due north for Moho Cays, Belize, now tantalizingly close. We raced the sun to tuck into the unfamiliar anchorage before dark. It was nearly a straight reach, but needed just two short tacks to gain the approach. When the sun was almost down, we were abreast our entry way point, but an island seemed to be missing. Freya Raushcher's pilot guide, the first edition, pictured four cays in a row, with another behind in the distance, but all we could see -- or ever did see -- were three cays in a row, with the other in the distance. With the light failing, we quickly summed up the islands to our north and east until we were 90% sure we were at the channel entrance, despite a missing island. There was no more time to hold off and re-evaluate, or we would have to go back out to deep water and sail through the night. We made the approach slowly, by inches, and the depth meter seemed to confirm that we were in the right spot. We crossed the channel safely and swung into an anchorage behind the north-most Moho Cay, just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

We had come only 20 miles from Livingston, but had tacked much further. We both felt beaten up, and Sea Quill appeared to feel the same, despite the careful preparations in the river. It had been a real "shakedown cruise," and weren't we rusty after six months in sweet water.... We couldn't remember ever feeling so relieved to sink the anchor for the night. Frayed and exhausted, we uncorked a bottle of red for our nerves, cooked up a filling mushroom pasta dinner for our stomachs, and crashed again -- into deepest sleep.

Before dawn the next morning, we were up again and surprisingly refreshed. With new energy and light, we inspected the damage from the day before and saw that it was no big deal. The lifeline was easily mended. A loose nut had twisted out, slipping its bolt. The Bruce anchor had scratched the gel coat beneath the bowsprit. Nothing worse. Ulf put the v-berth shelves back in order with a few screws. The destroyed courtesy flag was a reminder that Guatemala lay behind us. The wind was blowing gently from the northwest, perfect to push us smoothly east to the Sapodilla Cays, a good staging point for the final jump to Utila.

The wind held throughout the day. Though we were still hand-steering, it was an easy ride, with friendly winds and a smooth, behind-the-barrier-reef sea. We breezed away from Moho Cays, south of Frenchman's Cay, through the reef break at Seal Cay, with a final, short run to Lime Cay, at the south end of the Sapodillas. We sailed easily, accompanied by a huge pod of twenty or more dolphins, including a number of babies. For almost an hour, the dolphins played enthusiastically with Sea Quill -- almost showing off, they jumped and sped across our bow. Over and over, a few bold ones came up beside our beam and turned on their sides to watch us. On the southwest edge of Lime Cay, we hooked a convenient mooring, and Jen dove in for her first briney snorkel of the new sailing season.

We were now on the south edge of the Belize barrier reef, beyond the Bay of Amatique, with Cabo Tres Puntas behind us. We were content to hang out in the Sapodillas for a day or two, just snorkeling and relaxing. But at four the next morning, while the sky was still dark, Ulf woke and saw that the wind was blowing 10 knots from the west -- unpredicted and tailor-made for a run to Utila. He waited and watched the wind for the next hour. It was holding steady. We started the coffee while we tied things down and stowed the small stuff. Then we slipped the mooring before six. Once we crossed the reef and entered the deep water of the Bay of Honduras, we had our coffee. The west wind held at 10-12 knots until afternoon. And we sailed a good 5-6 knots on a calm and quiet sea throughout the day. We even tested our newly-installed Cape Horn Wind vane for the first time. Against our own expectations (since we had installed it ourselves), it worked perfectly. It was November 17, Jen's thirty-fifth birthday.