Utila

We arrived in East Harbor, Utila, after an overnighter from the Sapodilla Cays, Belize. It was a fantastic day of sailing, making between 5-6 knots steadily, over a gentle sea with a low, slow swell from the north. We had tried our newly (finally) installed Cape Horn wind vane for the first time, and it had worked! But in the evening the wind died, so we were back to motoring and hand-steering. It was an easy overnighter just the same. We kept our speed down to 3 knots, so we would arrive in Utila after dawn. Any faster, and we would have made landfall in the dark. Through the day and night there was freighter traffic coming and going from the mainland. As we neared the island of Utila, in the last dark hours of night, we passed each other more closely.

We dropped the hook in East Harbor, Utila's only town, and fell asleep. Later, we went ashore and found ourselves in a friendly village of Bay Islanders and international travelers who come there for the good diving. The main street, a dirt road along the waterfront, is lined with cafes, dive shops, guest houses, and even a small art cinema. A number of businesses are owned by European or American ex pats who came and stayed. The main street buzzes with motorbikes, four-wheelers, bicycles and trucks, but the pedestrians -- kids, travelers and dogs -- rule. The vehicles wait or swerve aside.

The friendly Port Captain, Jose, was at the main dock and quickly checked in Sea Quill. We began our wait for the immigration officer. His office is next door, but he seems to keep "summer" hours. We found him a couple of days later and he issued our Honduran visas. Later, back on Sea Quill, we read our new visas and saw that he had given Ulf's occupation as "Capitano." For Jen, he had written, "Domestic." Well, perhaps he is a man of insight...

"Dishing" on deck:

Jen's homemade bread:

After a few days in Utila, we prepared to leave for Roatan. The Yanmar parts we needed for the water pump were out of stock at the dealership on Utila, but we had a lead on another source in Roatan. We also hoped to find someone to fix our autopilot; Roatan seemed the most likely place, on account of its large fishing fleet. The distance from Utila to Roatan is about 30 miles: a decent day sail if we could keep above 4 knots.

We listened to the weather report: 15-20 knots from the northeast, right where we were headed. Hardly ideal, but we decided to go for it anyway. Probably, we should have motored straight north until we were free of Utila. Instead, we tried to sail the whole way, beginning with a long tack to the southeast.

Three times, we tacked southeast, barely making headway towards Roatan; three times, we tacked back, reaching as hard as we could to clear the north edge of Utila. We couldn't do it. Finally, we turned on the motor and headed northeast, into the eye of the wind. It should have been our first move of the morning, but now it was early afternoon, and we were still 25 miles from Roatan. The sea had picked up to a sharp chop. With the motor going full throttle, we still couldn't make 4 knots against the chop and the 20 knot wind. Our little day sail to Roatan was beginning to look like an overnighter.

We could spend the night out, hammering onward, or we could turn around and be back in East Harbor in an hour; try again the next day. We decided to turn around and opened the main and jib wing on wing, for a fast downwind ride. Immediately, we were flying back to Utila at 6 knots. Then the first squall hit. The wind veered, the jib collapsed and filled several times, and somehow -- though we're still not sure how -- the port jib sheet wrapped under the keel and hooked over a deck cleat on starboard. The furling drum was stuck, and we couldn't reef. The jib was out of control, and the wind was gusting to 30 knots. Jen took out the stopper knot, released the fouled sheet, and pulled it out from under the keel. The furling drum still wouldn't turn. She went to the bow to sort out the starboard sheet, which was now twisted around the forestay. She released that line and returned to the cockpit. Still, the furling gear wouldn't turn, and the jib wouldn't reef. The open sail slammed against the spreaders, and the loose lines whipped wildly in the air. As if possessed, one flailing line wrapped itself around the winch handle, hanging in its sleeve on the main mast. Ulf ran up on deck to save the handle, but the line yanked and threw it into the sea before he could grab it. Ulf was heading back to the cockpit when we gybed. Maybe the wind shifted? Or Jen lost the edge of our downwind course.... The boom slammed to port, cracking Ulf on the side of the head. He stood for a millisecond, stunned, then sagged onto the side deck. Sea Quill was heeled hard to port, under pressure of the squall. Luckily, Ulf fell within the lifelines. He was not wearing a tether.

A minute later, Ulf came to and crawled back into the cockpit, holding himself tight against the heeling boat. He was remarkably calm and lucid for someone who had just been K.O.'d by a boom. (Is it the Viking blood?) We ran away from Utila, ahead of the squall. When it finally passed, we turned into the wind and tied down the jib. Then we headed back to East Harbor, both feeling broke and shaken, not yet ready to talk about the what ifs... what if he had fallen overboard?

Although we nearly always wear tethers on deck, Ulf had run up without it in order to "save" the winch. It was a compound mistake, the culmination of lots of little mistakes. One tiny oversight on top of another, then suddenly, the situation turns dangerous, life threatening. It all happened so fast. Preoccupied with our decision to turn back, anxious to get to harbor and finish a frustrating day, too much sail out, acting hastily, not paying enough attention to the sky and the signs around us. The final, faulty move: we over-reacted to a non-emergency; Ulf ran up on deck to save a piece of hardware, at a moment when the boat was out of control and the wind was strong and unpredictable. In trying to save the winch handle, we nearly lost Ulf overboard. Jen was hand-steering downwind in a squall, with the main sail wide open and no boom preventer. She lost the course and gybed. If Ulf had gone overboard, in choppy seas and high winds -- possibly unconscious -- chances are slim that Jen could have kept him in sight, turned the boat around, and retrieved him all alone.

We both saw how nearly the day might have become tragic. Instead, we had been "lucky" -- to have a mind-opening learning experience, instead of an awful, irredeemable accident. We reviewed the events, going over the many little things we had done wrong, the little lapses, each one alone insignificant enough, but added up, they had created a dangerous situation.

Why weren't we watching the approaching squall, taking precautions, reefing? We were frustrated with our lack of progress all day long, anxious to get back to harbor and put a period on a long day of "bad sailing."

Why didn't we alter course or reef the jib as soon as we saw that the wind was not steady enough to keep it filled? Laziness, impatience, inexperience with the spinnaker pole.

Why didn't we drop the jib when the lines became entangled? We were so caught up in "fighting with the jib," that we forgot there was an alternative; we didn't have to fight it at all.

Why did Ulf run up on deck without a tether, in the midst of a squall, with lines and sails flogging, to save a piece of hardware? Again, impatience; not stopping to think slowly, deliberately.

How could Jen lose the course and allow the boat to gybe? Allowing the chaos of the moment to distract; not focusing on her most important task; failing to think about the risk and choose a better sailing angle.

Our biggest mistake: we had spent the day irritable with the sailing conditions and one another. Jen was feeling sick, snappish, and inattentive. Ulf was irritated and angry. We weren't communicating with one another; instead of working together to make the best decisions possible, we were griping, arguing, challenging each other. Instead of acting like a crew, we were fighting about our poor progress, and missing the important signs regarding the weather, the sea, the sails.

Why is it that at the end of a string of apparently "unlucky" events, we could only describe ourselves as extremely, incredibly, outrageously lucky -- to still be alive, to be healthy, together, afloat, with no worse damage than a lost winch handle, some chafed lines, a few broken seams -- and a lump on the head....

With no great ambition to head right back out there, we decided to slow down and join our friends Dennis and Natasja, and their daughters, Kim and Debbie, on the sailboat Frodo, who were anchored off Diamond Cay on the south end of Utila. "The Frodos," whom we met in the Rio Dulce, are impressive. They are crossing the Pacific on a 30-foot sailboat with twin two and a half year olds. Before the babies, Kim and Debbie, arrived, Dennis and Natasja crossed the Atlantic in Frodo. Three years later, they are continuing their sail to Australia, as a family.

We pulled our anchor the next morning and easily motored the five miles from East Harbor to Diamond Cay. Dennis came out in his dinghy to help us through the break in the reef. We swung in beside Frodo and Connie Marie and dropped the anchor in 50 feet.

Off starboard stood Pigeon Cay, a teeny tiny island (two, actually, with a bridge between) densely populated with houses and docks built up on every square inch. Diamond Cay, before us, was (just) for the birds. We set the anchor, locked up Sea Quill, and set off with the Frodos for some snorkeling off Water Cay, a short dinghy ride away.

At 50 feet, this anchorage was our deepest yet. But several meters behind us was a shallow, shoal patch of 5-6 foot water with scattered coral heads. We set the anchor alarm to 35 feet for an early alert, in case we should drag towards the shoal. In the middle of the night, the alarm bleeped. We jumped out of bed simultaneously and ran to the GPS. The wind was 24-25 knots, pushing us toward the shoal. We studied our GPS track for a few seconds and agreed that we had dragged a little. Sea Quill seemed to be holding again, but we could not tell how well the anchor had reset. Would it hold or would we drag again if the wind gusted higher? It was only 11 p.m. and there was still a long night ahead. Considering the danger behind us, we decided to act.

Jen took the wheel and began to drive up against the anchor, while Ulf began hauling. We don't have an anchor windlass. We haul the anchor by hand. But we were anchored in 50 feet of water -- much deeper than any previous anchorage. Also, we now had a heavier anchor, a 45 lb CQR vs. a 25 lb one, and much more chain than we used to have, since we upgraded from chain plus rode to all chain. In the middle of a hard pull, Ulf slipped and fell back on the pile of chain lying behind him, waiting to be stowed. He was hurt badly, maybe with a broken rib; he couldn't lift anymore. We switched places. Jen went forward to haul. As soon as we were directly above, with 50 feet of 5/16" chain hanging beneath, and a 45 lb anchor at the end of it, Jen couldn't budge it. The "Domestic" couldn't lift the anchor any further.

Sensing the commotion next door, Dennis woke up and saw that we were struggling. He dinghied over to help us, and handily muscled the rest of the chain and anchor up. We re-anchored closer to the fronting reef, letting out as much scope as we could (about 5:1). The anchor held firm, and Ulf and Dennis celebrated (and medicated Ulf's pain) by drinking rum until dawn.

"Get Windlass" has been moved to the top of our "To Do" list.

We spent another day and night hanging out behind Diamond Cay, snorkeling and enjoying the water. Frodo left for Utila town harbor early one morning, and when it was time for us to leave, the guys on Connie Marie, generously and kindly helped us raise our anchor again. With Ulf still broken and battered from the boom and the fall, we could not have done it without them.

Days later, Ulf was still walking around town holding his back, but things were looking better. One morning, he announced that he felt as if he was only 72 years old, instead of 87. With Ulf recuperating, and the wind slowing down, it was time for us to make another pass at Roatan. Ulf's friend, Andrew, was due to arrive in less than a week, and we still needed to find the parts and service for our diesel water pump and autopilot. On top of that, we now had a damaged jib sail from the boom BOOM day. The sail itself was intact, but most of the seams along the attached sail cover had been beaten to shreds.

With our damaged jib, and Ulf on the invalids list, we were looking for an easy, calm motor trip to Roatan. No sailing, thanks. The night before our intended departure, we met up with another friend from the Rio, Henry Hauck on the sailboat, Antares.* Mentioning that we hoped to repair our autopilot in Roatan, Henry asked what type we had. It turned out he had the same. We had a hunch that the problem was in our compass, not the wiring or the computer. Henry happened to have a spare, perfectly functioning compass for our very model, the Raymarine Autohelm 5000. We couldn't believe our luck -- or Henry's generosity. We brought his compass to Sea Quill and Ulf wired it up to our autopilot. Jen stood in the cabin turning the new compass through 360 degrees. For the first time in six months, our autopilot tracked correctly with the compass. We were in business... and the solution had come, like so many solutions before, through the kind helpfulness of another cruiser.

*Henry is an amazing photographer and filmmaker. Visit his beautiful website www.sailing-the-world.com.