Gracias y adios, Honduras

The story goes that on his fourth voyage to the New World, in the year 1502, it took Christopher Columbus more than a month to sail 200 miles around the northeast cape of Honduras. Beating against the prevailing easterly trade winds, some days Columbus gained a single mile. Other days -- many others, according to the log -- he finished further west than where he began. Five hundred years later, the trades along the north coast of Honduras are still at odds with any sailing vessel with the dumb presumption to go east.

From Livingston to Utila and Utila to Roatan we had our own taste of Columbus' dilemma. But unlike Columbus, we have an engine -- a 27 horsepower Yanmar, to be precise. On the island of Utila, Honduras, we waited in vain for a pleasant 10 to 15 knots from anywhere in the western quadrant. Ultimately, we settled for a day with NO breeze, and turned the key in the ignition.

It was the beginning of December, 2007. In less than a week, Andrew, a friend from Sweden, would meet us in Roatan to crew with us to Panama. From the time he arrived, we would have two or three weeks to sail to Panama, and deliver him to the land portion of his holiday. With only a few days left before his arrival, we still needed to get to Roatan, Honduras, repair the damaged jib sail (we'd beaten the seams out of the furling cover in a squall off Utila), find replacement parts for our leaking diesel water pump, and provision for the 650 mile passage, plus several weeks in the San Blas.

At least our autopilot was working again, thanks to a plum piece of luck: the day before leaving Utila, we met a friend from the Rio Dulce, Henry Hauck of s/v Antares, who happened to have a spare compass for our exact autopilot model. Henry generously offered it to us. Ulf spliced the wires together; Jen held the new compass in her hands and spun around in circles a few times. The autopilot tracked correctly, so we taped it up with a wad of duct tape; we were off, auto-steering with "no hands" -- and no wind -- for the first time in months.

We left Utila before dawn and had a pleasant motor-ride on a glassy calm sea, arriving in French Harbor, Roatan, before noon. We motored slowly in, carefully watching the breakers. The entrance channel to French Harbor is tricky. The charts of Roatan lack detail, the channel is narrow, and the coral is close to the surface. As we closed with the final channel marker, a sailboat motored out from the town harbor on our port, crossed us, then stopped abruptly with a jolt. It had run up on a coral head.

We shouted over (they were that close), to see if we could help. The four guys standing on deck looked perplexed, sorting out the new development in their day. No, they didn't need help. Jen climbed a little higher on the mast, hoping for a better view of the water ahead. We were setting our anchor in the yacht basin behind Big and Little French Cays a few minutes later, when they motored past at about four knots, speeding toward the next disaster. We watched them drop an anchor ten feet from Fantasy Island, in five feet of water. French Harbor is a gallery of wrecks.

But we had a beautiful anchorage. And we hadn't had a smash-up yet that day. The long reef stretched before us and a fresh breeze blew across the deck. Our anchorage was protected by the green cays and the long, breaking reef. And it was clean -- which cannot be said of the town harbor. The staff at the nearby resort on Fantasy Island, were friendly and welcoming, and we were allowed to use their beach, pool, and wireless internet, for free. Fantasies do come true.

We dinghied to French Harbor village, admiring the fishing fleet, smartly painted in the colors of the respective companies. Then we wandered through the sleepy town, buying fruit and vegetables along the way. Beyond the seaside village, we found Roatan's main road, a busy commercial strip scattered with mini-malls, gas stations, marine supply shops, and the big, well-stocked grocery store, Eldon's.

Frodo arrived the next day, and it was good to be with our friends again, with new beaches and reefs to explore in the hours that we weren't provisioning, fixing, or tracking down parts. When a perfect west wind came, the Frodos went with it to Guanaja. We hoped that that rare west wind would return for us when our guest, Andrew, arrived.

We brought our battered jib sail to Dave Marshall, in Brick Bay. Dave has the only heavy duty zigzag sewing machine in the French Harbor area, and he did a good, speedy repair job for a very reasonable price. We tracked down the Yanmar parts man, but he didn't have what we needed; his business is with the fishing fleet, which uses bigger engines than our dinky 27 hp. It would take a week or two to ship the parts in from the mainland. The water pump now had a steady leak, but we thought that we could not spare the time to wait for the parts. Andrew was due in one day, and we hoped to be in Panama in less than three weeks. That meant we would have to jump on the first weather window that came. The engine was still running smoothly, staying cool, so we figured our luck would hold until Panama, where we could certainly get the parts.

Andrew arrived by ferry from the mainland. He had flown from Sweden to London to New York to Honduras. Besides his own gear, he was schlepping loads of gifts for us: books and letters from friends and family in Europe, plus wonderful gifts from Andrew himself: some coveted sailing books, a stainless steel soup thermos, a blender, collapsible water jugs, and a plethora of herbs and spices to liven up the culinary possibilities on Sea Quill.

We decided to break the 30 mile trip to Guanaja into two parts. At the east end of Roatan, midway between French Harbor and Guanaja, is a bay and small village by the name of St. Helene. It seemed a fitting first stop with our new crew, since his girlfriend's name is Helen. Even with a 15 knot headwind and a contrary current, we would be able to reach Guanaja -- the last jumping off point for the route around the cape -- in two, painless day trips.

It was a squally day with a headwind, so we motored to St. Helene in the deep waters close to Roatan's shoreline. The messiest squall arrived and cut off the visibility, just as we were negotiating the channel into St. Helene harbor. We turned out to sea until the weather passed. When the sky cleared, we turned back inside, swung past the flanking rocks off port, and dropped the hook in 20 feet of sand and turtle grass. The sun came out, and the small islands of Barbareta and Morat stood tall to the east, while the pretty, pastel houses of St. Helene shone on the shore to the west. While we were still setting the anchor, a friendly guy named Warren paddled over in a canoe, offering to bring us fresh Red Snapper, bananas, and Key Limes, from the tree in his yard.

We took a long, meandering snorkel out to the reef. Along the way, we saw many beautiful stingrays. They were relaxed, unfazed, curious. One large ray made a graceful circle around the three of us, examining us closely in our neon plastic masks and fins, as it dream-flew through the water on those lovely wings.

The next morning, we set out on the second leg to Guanaja. The wind was still east, so we tacked south for a few hours with a north swell pitching and slowing Sea Quill to one to two knots. Jen became fully, bucket-hugging seasick. The day wore on, and we worried that would not make it before nightfall. The last five miles of the route would be close to a lee shore, through shallow water of five to ten meters, scattered with shoal and coral patches. We wanted to clear that area with the sun well above. At the helm, Ulf fought hard to keep Sea Quill close to the wind, calculating the best tacks to minimize our miles. Andrew prepared ginger tea from the spices he'd brought -- and Jen's seasickness answered.

Ulf's tacks were spot on, and we shaved the southwest tip of Guanaja with two hours of daylight left. We motor-sailed the last five miles on a direct course, and swung into the anchorage with a half hour of light to spare. The anchorage was in 45 feet of water, with a stiff breeze blowing from northeast. The large fishing fleet of Guanaja assembled to the north against the high green hills of the main island.

East was the crowded settlement, called Bonacca Town. Every square inch of the small cay is built up with houses, docks, and paved walkways, while the huge main island, so nearby, is green, wild, mostly empty.

Between Sea Quill and the settlement was what may be the world's prettiest gas station on it's own little cay with a few palms and a deep water dock:

The next morning we left for the calmer, more protected anchorage at Sandy Bay, in the bight east of Bonacca Town. Frodo was already there; we recognized her tiny, light blue hull from two miles off. At home in Holland, Dennis is a fisherman by profession. On Frodo he is almost always trolling, casting, or spear-fishing. Over the course of the week in Sandy Bay, Dennis caught snapper, mackerel, and a couple of small sharks. Between Dennis's fish, and Andrew's spices, the cuisine in Sandy Bay was tres haute.

There is also a resident, "pet" dolphin in Sandy Bay. It came to visit day and night, swimming in slow circles off our beam. In the evenings, while we relaxed in the cockpit, we could hear it's puffing breaths in the inky dark just beside us.

We were still waiting for that perfect weather window to make our break east around the cape. It was from Guanaja that Christopher Columbus struggled against the trade winds The 200 miles from Guanaja to the point where the Caribbean coast of Central America turns south, cost Columbus several weeks of tacking and frustration. Where he finally rounded the easternmost cape, turned his ship south, and the relentless trades moved from his bow to his beam, he named the place Cabo Gracias a Dios, "Cape Thank God." But unlike Columbus, we had the option of motoring... or so we thought.

Alarming signs...

While we were waiting for the wind to turn, we decided to visit Guanaja's cays. It was on our way to Josh's Cay that the engine began to mutiny. We turned the ignition and an alarm went off. Our Yanmar had never let us down before: never a hiccup; always 100% reliable; even with a leaking water pump. Ulf spent a couple of greasy hours stretched over the bilge, changing filters and oil, checking belts. The alarm stopped, and we motored out to the cays, satisfied that the problem was solved.

We anchored in front of Josh's Cay, where we found another "pet" dolphin. This dolphin lingered close by while Andrew was in the water, cleaning green slime off Sea Quill's hull. Though we like to think that the dolphin favored our company, it may have stayed for the school of tasty baby cuttlefish bobbing in the shade beneath our boat. The long, wide bay between Guanaja and her cays is one of the most stunningly gorgeous places we've cruised... but you'll just have to take our word for it, since we don't have a single photo.

A couple of days later, Tropical Storm Olga appeared on the weather charts, and a norther was following on her heels. The norther was predicted to hit the Bay Islands with winds over 30 knots, then stall over Guanaja for several days. We were concerned about the delay. The first week of Andrew's stay had ticked away, and we had only come 30 miles. With 600 more to Panama, it now looked as though we would be stuck in Guanaja for another week. But there was no question of leaving with a tropical storm and a norther coming. We resigned ourselves, and decided to go back to Sandy Bay, which has good protection from all directions.

Turning on the engine, the alarm sounded again. Ulf spent another couple of hours, checking valves and fluid levels. The alarm went off, and we motored back to wait out the weather. Lost time, stormy weather, and a mysterious engine problem, now worried our minds.

But then, the weather report changed. Olga lost steam well north of the Yucatan, and the norther was down-graded. It was still coming, and would still stall over Guanaja, but the wind was now predicted to top out at 20-25 knots. This moderated prediction looked like our best opportunity to go. The wind would be strong, and we'd certainly get soaked by squalls, but it would not be dangerous. The north wind would be an express ticket around the corner. We prepared to leave at dawn the next morning.

In the half-light of the next morning, we were ready to pull up the anchor, so Ulf turned on the engine and the alarm went off. He spent the next two hours rolling in grease. Oil, diesel, water, belts -- everything looked fine. He consulted the manual and maintenance books for clues, and found none. Hopefully, he turned the ignition again -- there was no alarm this time. With the first light squall coming down from the north, we motored beyond the reef, raised the sails, and turned off the engine. Beyond Guanaja's mountains, the wind was strong and steady, and Sea Quill picked up speed. We flicked on the newly repaired autopilot. It was dead.

Back in Sandy Bay, Ulf and Andrew had finished the new compass installation. Although the autopilot had worked perfectly with the new compass duct taped in the cockpit, the guys had been virtuous in Sandy Bay, and installed it properly below deck. They re-mounted and water-sealed the computer display in the mounting case on the mizzen. But something had gone wrong during the re-installation.

New complications...

Later that afternoon, while reefing the mainsail, the main boom lift broke free (the cable tie securing the shackle nut had broken, undetected). The line swung out of reach, high above our heads, then wrapped itself around the blades of the wind-generator high up on the mizzen. A few more rolls in the swell, a few more swings, and the end of the line hooked around the mizzen boom lift with a perfect, unassisted, rolling hitch. To free the line, we would need to go up in the bosun's seat. We could neither use the wind-generator, nor reef the mainsail, since the reefed main alone could not support the boom. Squalls were now coming regularly, the swell was growing, and night was falling. Our options were to use the full main -- for which it was too squally -- or no main at all. We decided to drop the main entirely and sail by the jib and mizzen.

But at least we were sailing. Repeatedly, we tried to set the wind vane, but it wouldn't hold course. With the growing swell breaking across us, Sea Quill was continually thrown off course. We struggled to balance her with the jib and mizzen, but without success. We would have to hand-steer through a rough, wet night.

That night a big wave broached the cockpit with a bang. Salt water crashed through the companionway into the cabin. The wave had knocked out the front, port-side window of the dodger; the vinyl was hanging by a thread and the cockpit was wide open to the windward spray. It was Andrew's first night sail ever. But, gamely -- or perversely -- he was enjoying himself. Storms. Swell. Soaking Rain. Broken Instruments. Hand-steering. "So, this is what it's like..." Sometimes. Yep.

The next morning dawned beautifully, and the day continued under a clear blue sky with steady 15-20 knot wind from the north. We were making good speed, but we were also concerned about the many things that were not working: the autopilot was down, the wind-generator was entangled, the main sail could only be used full (unreefed), the dodger was torn, and there were still 500 miles between us and Panama. If we continued on course to Panama, we would be skirting the Gorda Banks -- a notoriously confused area of shallow water with a long fetch from the Caribbean and lots of lobster pots -- that coming night. We were all tired from the night behind us. There was another option: we could stop in the Vivorillo Cays to make repairs and recover. The Vivorillos were tantalizingly close, but there was no way that we could make it to them before nightfall.

We had a radio date with Frodo, which had left for Panama 12 hours before us. When we made contact, we learned that they had also decided to stop in the Vivorillos; they had just arrived and set their anchor. The entrance was so simple, they told us, that we could certainly come in after dark, and they would be standing by on the VHF to help us navigate. It is our rule never to enter an unknown anchorage after dark. But we did not relish the idea of waiting out through another long night, neither resting, nor making progress on our route. We considered our situation and decided to try something new.

Sea Quill sailed well throughout the day, averaging five knots, and we closed upon the Vivorillos near 10 p.m. With a waxing moon and a clear sky, we saw the dark outline of Grand Cayo Vivorillo from about three miles away. But as we got closer, a string of squalls arrived, blotting out our view of the cay. We were forced to slow down and wait, despite our impatience to come in and set the hook. Dennis and Natasja stayed up on the radio, while another hour ticked by. Finally, the last squall passed, we turned on the engine, and followed our plotted course. As we passed the south edge of Grand Cayo Vivorillo, Frodo's anchor light came into view. Dennis and Natasja saw us too. They radioed that the way would be free and clear if we turned directly towards them. The water depths diminished steadily, there were no breakers to be seen, and Sea Quill swung safely up beside Frodo.

The next morning, we woke and came out on deck to see what we had sailed into by dark. In the clear morning air, we gasped at the reefs all around us. Had we known beforehand how close they actually were, we would have been too afraid to do it.

But the Frodos had guided us faultlessly, and we were happy to be at anchor to sort out the repairs and recuperate before the final leg. The anchorage was quiet and gorgeous, and we were the only two sailboats there. On the eastern cay, a transient colony of about 50 fishermen work the Vivorillo Banks for shark, and other fish, which they dry and salt, and send back to the mainland on a supply ship that visits once a week.

(Drying shark photo, courtesy of Frodo)

Some of the fishermen are just kids, teenagers. They were happy to trade more crab and lobster than we could eat for Tang, candy, some cookies -- anything to alleviate the monotony of fish and rice. For the men, a couple of beers were a great trade.

It was beautiful in the Vivorillos, and a few days quickly passed as Ulf and Jen dug into the repairs. In between working, there was time for snorkeling and gourmet meals: hogfish, snapper, and lobster, compliments of Dennis and the fishermen; Thai and Indian curries, compliments of Andrew.

(Lobster photo, courtesy of Frodo)

Kim and Debbie learned to swim on their own. At the beginning of the week, they were holding onto Natasja as she swam. By the end of the week, they were propelling themselves forward on their own, kicking their miniscule flippers, and chanting the mantra, "schwim, schwim, schwim."

Each day, Sea Quill's cockpit lockers and cabin were turned inside out while Ulf and Jen addressed the repairs. Andrew tried, but failed, to find a single, calm, uncluttered spot to relax, read, or otherwise enjoy his vacation.

Likewise, on Frodo, Dennis's attempts to sneak off to the hammock for a quiet snooze, were foiled repeatedly by Kim and Debbie (and Ulf).

On Sea Quill, the entangled boom lift and ripped dodger were quickly sorted out. The autopilot was disassembled again, and a broken cable connection was discovered -- an easy fix. Other small repairs to the dinghy and boat, were quickly accomplished. Jen even completed her when-will-she-ever-finish-it, do-it-yourself-project, the Man-Overboard-Pole.

But the engine alarm was a real Pandora's Box. Somewhere between Guanaja and the Vivorillos, the engine had stopped generating power. The alternator and belts were fine, but no energy was going into the batteries. With Dennis's guidance, generator, batteries, and engine, were closely examined -- and the cause, if not the solution, was discovered. The now badly leaking water-pump had been dripping salt water onto the v-belts while the boat was heeled under sail. As the v-belts spun, the salt water had splashed throughout the engine compartment, cable connections, and battery terminals. There was corrosion everywhere; every cable connection -- nearly 150 connections in total -- would have to be examined and cleaned.

Though we were anchored in the middle of nowhere, we had to try to rebuild the ailing water pump. We could not continue to run the engine as it was without causing permanent damage. Luckily, Dennis is a knowledgeable mechanic. Working through an entire night, he and Ulf took the pump apart. One ball-bearing was completely corroded, destroyed. We had a spare seal, but no spare bearings... that was the part we had been trying to get in Honduras. The pump was cleaned and reassembled with the new seal, but only a single, used bearing. In the early morning hours, Dennis and Ulf replaced the pump, and there was no leaking. There was no telling how long the jury-rigged pump would last with one bearing missing. We would have to save the engine for emergencies only.

With enormous help from Dennis, Ulf had done everything that could be done for the engine until we got back to civilization. It was time to move on, and the trade winds were rebuilding. Dennis and Natasja, who were also heading for Panama, proposed taking the inside route, with a night anchorage in the Arecifes de Media Luna, about 50 miles southeast of the Vivorillos.

Frodo's route would take us closer to the Nicaragua coast, avoiding the dangers of the Gorda Banks entirely. There are numbers of hazards along the so-called "inside passage" as well, but they are situated such that, with a night stop in Arecifes de Media Luna, we could time our passage to navigate around the hazards in the best daylight hours. By night, we would be clear of the hazards, sailing through wide open water. After Media Luna, we would have the option of continuing on to Panama (400 miles) or, if needed, we could stop at Isla Providencia (just 180 miles). It was a good plan, and we were glad to continue sailing with our friends. We waited another day for the trades to rebuild. We would especially need the wind this time, since we could not use the engine except for emergencies and anchoring.

On the night we left the Vivorillos, the wind picked up to 15 knots from the northeast, perfect for our south-southeast course. We ate dinner, then slept for a few hours. At 11 p.m., we rose, finished tying things down, and hauled anchor. That whole night was bright and luminous under a near full moon with dozens of shooting stars. We sailed smoothly all night, with a steady wind on our beam and the soft "swoosh" of water along the hull.

Morning came, and when we were five miles from the anchorage at Cayo Media Luna, we finally made out the tops of palm trees on the edge of the horizon. But these palms were not on our course heading. There was nothing to be seen where we were going. We sailed closer and closer to the way point that marked our anchorage, but there was nothing but sea. We rechecked the charts against the GPS. We were in the right place, and the data corresponded... but where was our island? Where was Cayo Media Luna?

When we were almost on top of our way point, we saw the crescent reef that we expected to anchor within... and on the southern end of the circle, below the water's surface, was a bright oval of sand beneath shallow aqua water. Cayo Media Luna was an Atlantis. The cayo was gone, but the reef was still there. We followed Frodo inside, and dropped the anchor.

In 1502, at the end of that long month beating around the corner from Guanaja, Columbus too had anchored at Cayo Media Luna. To the west lies the cape he named "Gracias a Dios." Cape Thank God, which some Americans we met in the Bay Islands call, "Cabo Gracias, Adios." In his log, Columbus recommends Media Luna as a safe anchorage in most weather. In 1502, there was a little island there. In 1984, when our chart was printed, the island was still there. In 2007, when we came, there was nothing but water. The protective reef still quells the waves; we anchored firmly in six meters. But to the eye, there is nothing but sea.

As the sun set on Media Luna, a grey bird landed on our bow for an hour's rest. And we all had a grog for Columbus -- and ourselves. We had weathered the cape. Gracias y adios, Honduras.

In the morning, we woke refreshed and headed for Panama. There was an excellent 15-20 knots from the east northeast, and we now had to pass between a number of coral hazards south of Media Luna. On our east and west were a few rocky passages, some with breakers, others with dangerous heads just below the surface. We plotted the hazards on the GPS, along with our own route. In the early afternoon, the wind died suddenly and absolutely. We wallowed for awhile in the slight swell, unable to move at all. Our speed was a knot, sometimes less. Then we were hit suddenly by a squall with gusts above 30 knots. We saw it approaching, but didn't think much of it. It was the lightest grey, and small, nothing dark or ominous. With all her sails up, Sea Quill was laid on her side by the squall. But she righted herself quickly, and we ran ahead of the wind for the next two minutes. Then the squall passed just as suddenly, and we were wallowing again.

For the next several hours we worked as hard as we could to move. The wind continued to shift and die, followed by periods of squalls. When the wind had first died, we were between two hazards, about eight miles apart. One hazard was to the southwest -- just where the wind wanted to blow us. The wind veered such that we could not move forward on our route without falling off towards the south hazard. We were fighting to maintain a safe margin between Sea Quill and those rocks, while moving forward -- but it was impossible. We had to tack. The other hazard was 180 degrees northeast, more or less on our tack. So we tacked back and forth, within a five mile range between the two hazards, barely making progress. A strange current, and stranger winds, conspired to keep us within that five mile radius. On the GPS, our track traced and retraced itself, drawing a thick black line on the screen. We were oddly stuck, and night was coming. We only needed to gain five miles of headway south to be clear of all the hazards. But try as we might, we could not do it. For half the day, we'd been stalled between a rock and a hard place, and we certainly did not want to be there when night fell. We decided to turn the engine on. Wasn't this an emergency? We would only need the engine for an hour, just long enough to get us past the rocks.

The engine started with no alarm. It sounded good, and stayed cool -- and for the first time in more than five hours, we made a little progress in the right direction. It was 5 p.m. Ten minutes later, we heard a clunk, a grind, a scraping metallic sound. We each knew what it meant, but Ulf leaped down into the cabin anyway, and flung open the engine compartment. The temperature gauge was rising fast. Ulf shouted to kill the engine. Our jury-rigged water pump had broken, this time completely. We were out of luck. There would be no engine... not for running, not for anchoring either.

There was no question of continuing on to Panama without an engine to help us out of trouble, if we should encounter it, in the busy shipping channels off the Panama Canal. We knew that we would have to order parts in Providencia, and that those parts could take weeks to arrive on the isolated island. Andrew would not be sailing with us to Panama; from Providencia, he would have to find his way back to Central America by plane, or on another boat.

Night fell and we wallowed and fought to keep Sea Quill on track. Over the next few hours, the trade winds slowly returned and backed to the northeast, and we gradually made way on our route. First we made three knots, then three and a half, then four. Ever gradually, we made it past the last hazard. By ten that evening, the wind had stabilized and the last wet squall passed. A clear, starry sky stretched before us, and the wind was a steady 20 knots from the northeast. Sea Quill ran swiftly between five and six knots throughout the night. In the last hours before dawn, as we came to the deep water ledge that marks the end of Nicaragua's inside passage, we sighted fishing boats off both beams; they wove haphazard courses, trolling for prey.

The sun came up and the wind was still strong and steady. The sky was perfectly clear. Our new challenge was to make it to Providencia before nightfall. Although Providencia was not the destination we had planned for, and it marked a sort of "failure" of our plan to sail to Panama with Andrew, we still wanted to arrive that day, if possible. It was Christmas Eve, and it would be depressing to spend it hove to with a broken engine, just waiting for dawn to come. With 70 miles to go, and less than 12 hours until sunset, that was barely possible for Sea Quill. Under usual conditions, we expect to average four knots. But this morning, we were averaging six . It was hardly likely, but maybe the wind would hold and the current would be kind, and we would average six for the whole day?

We had an extraordinary run that day in ever growing seas. A big swell was now rolling in from the Caribbean, and Sea Quill was rising and falling on eight to ten foot seas. But we were still sailing a brisk six to six and half knots, with only our mizzen and a reefed foresail. The wind was steady between 18 and 22 knots, and the sky was clear. For the next several hours, we sped along steadily, eating up miles faster than we dared hope. By two in the afternoon, we were less than 10 miles from Providencia.

We had another radio date with Frodo, and once again, Natasja and Dennis were there to help us. They too had decided to stop in Providencia. Over the last day and a half, from Cayo Media Luna, Frodo had also been hit by the same squalls and calms as Sea Quill. But with their engine in order, they had been able to motor-sail out of the weather system. They had just come into Providencia and anchored. This entrance was also simple, they told us. We could sail in. As an afterthought, it seemed, Dennis made a suggestion: "You could use your deck wash pump, you know? Run a hose from the deck wash pump to the engine. That's salt water too; it will do the same thing."

Damn, that guy is smart.

As the mountains of Providencia came into view, we set it up. Ulf screwed the yellow water hose into the deck wash outlet at the bow, and led it through the v-berth hatch back to the engine compartment. He hooked it in where the diesel water pump goes, and secured it with a few hose clamps.

Like clockwork, a squall arrived just as we were negotiating the reef entrance -- the only squall of that whole, bright day. Jen, the navigator, had chosen an alternative reef entrance -- a more subtle entrance, than the main channel that most boats take (on the charts, this southern entrance looked wider, deeper, and easier than the main channel, but what do we know...). With the squall spitting over us at 25 knots, we were against a lee shore with low visibility, and couldn't sail the whole way in. We turned on the engine with a prayer, and took down the sails. The Yanmar rumbled steadily, healthily... and the temperature stayed cool. Dennis's deck wash pump solution worked perfectly.

As the squall passed, we were motoring quietly up to the anchorage in Catalina Harbor. All three of us were excited and happy to arrive -- not simply because it was good to be safe and sound after the stress of the passage -- but especially because of how beautiful the place looked. We had not planned to come to Providencia, but seeing the high green mountains, the rocky peaks, the tall palm trees, and the pretty wood houses on shore, we were excited to be there. Colombia!

This was the first view from Sea Quill -- early, early on Christmas morning, 2007:

And here's the second: