Heather came to us in the mood for a full-on tropical sailing vacation. She was escaping ongoing house projects and an especially cold and dry Wisconsin winter in the full depths of its horror. We had spent the last week working deep in the bowels of the Gloriamaris. And when I say we, I mean the Nielsens worked in cramped quarters while I sat on the deck to write blog posts. It was with eager anticipation that we looked forward to Heather's arrival. The fun was soon to begin again.
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| Do you see the eager anticipation? |
The first order of business was to visit the lobster park and Arch's Iguana farm, staples of local tourism in the French Harbor area for generations. This day, however, gave us quite a shock. During the night a poacher had apparently slipped in quietly and made off with at least two dozen lobsters. Sherman Arch and his family have prevented poaching on the little stretch of reef for 80 years, long before there was any such thing as a nature preserve in Honduras. In a single night, a determined poacher apparently managed to undo half of the effort.
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| This was our most common sight. |
This is one aspect of life in Central America which came as a shock to us. Many local Hondurans will kill anything they can eat or sell, regardless of season or size. The marine park at West End Roatan is in decent condition solely as a result of constant patrols. A healthy tourist economy based on abundant natural aquatic resources can be an obscure concept for some, especially since Roatan has only been a bona fide destination for 10-15 years. It is at least understandable that some within the community will not make the connection that tourist money will eventually dry up if there is nothing for snorkelers and divers to see. Sustainable harvesting, however, should not be a difficult concept to grasp on a personal level. Never the less, we saw lobsters the size of crayfish being sold in a basket. We only saw grouper or snapper of any size within the confines of the marine park, and we were assured that some locals would come and catch them given the first opportunity. The desperation which comes from abject hunger and poverty does not respect park boundaries, or think beyond the next opportunity. This is not a life many Americans come face-to-face with on a daily basis, but there is much to be learned from being forced to deal with the reality.
Moving On
The weather was fair for Cayos Cochinos. A strong norther was due to roll in toward the end of the week, but was preceded by several days of perfection. We decided to do as much island-hopping as possible in 4 days, and that meant a stop at the archipelago conveniently located only 25 miles south.
Our friend Johnny on Smart Move decided to come with us, as he sorely regretted declining to partake in the Guanaja adventure. We all set off in a loose pack, and had a lovely downwind run to the anchorage at Cayo Grande.
I say anchorage rather than moorings due to the fact that all the moorings had been removed mere months before. Cayos Cochinos is a national marine park, like West End, and they normally provide moorings and prohibit anchoring. Apparently a charter captain was quite drunk even by sailor standards back in November. His passengers stayed the night on shore while the captain elected to remain on a mooring through an especially strong storm. The boat broke free of the mooring and ended up on the reef half a mile away. The staff of Turtle Bay Eco-Lodge rescued the (drunken and naked) captain and all the equipment which could be salvaged. Within two days, the Garifuna locals from a nearby island had completely scavenged the boat, including every last bit of the aluminum hull. The park office's response to all this was to come by and cut the float balls off all of the moorings as a way of disavowing all responsibility for the incident.
The park officials were still more than happy to charge full price for park admission and permits. When we checked in, we were told we could not take a passage between two islands to the southwest of the archipelago. It wasn't part of our sail plan anyway, so we weren't put out, and we assumed it was turtle egg-laying season or some other ecological reason. In fact, an Italian version of Survivor was being filmed on one of the small islands, and for some reason the director didn't want cruising sailboats passing leisurely through his shots.
We had picked up a mooring during our July visit, so we had a pretty good idea where we might still find a line to pick up. Sure enough, we had no sooner set our anchor than we sighted a mooring line floating about 10 feet under the surface. The Gloriamaris took up a hidden private mooring, and we got Johnny set up on a screw of his own. Then, it was time to dive down and check our found line.
There are few situations where my imagination gets the better of me. I can walk the streets of a foreign city alone at night, tour Gothic cathedral crypts by myself, even search out books at the back of an empty library. The idea of freediving to a mooring screw 50 feet below the surface in 15 feet of visibility, however, got the better of me for a few minutes. It wasn't until the fourth attempt that I managed to make my heart stop racing, and make my imagination understand that there probably wasn't a murderous octopus waiting patiently for me on the bottom. The mooring line was in perfect shape, so we recovered our anchor and settled in for a few days in paradise.
After we had exhausted all the hiking and snorkeling options immediately adjacent to the anchorage, we decided to take a day trip to the little Garifuna island nearby.
They do take reservations for lunch, which are handled through Fausto, their chief spokesperson.
A fisherman came sailing in from a successful outing, and we were intrigued by his two-masted rig with black plastic sails. We were so curious how he had set up a ketch rig in a dugout canoe, Captain Dad decided we absolutely had to get a Harken engineer on board for a professional assessment. Fortunately, we had one close by.
Our generous charter skipper very much appreciated having a boat parts engineer as a full-time bailer. Heather's professional opinion was that they could use a stronger topmast truck and maybe a good running backstay system. She promised to figure out a way to rig running stays using driftwood and fishing line.
Hunkering Down
The norther was coming soon, and forecast to be nasty. There was nowhere to stay in Cayos Cochinos, so we had to find a good anchorage to tuck in and ride out the wind. We didn't manage to arrange a commuter flight for Heather from Guanaja to Roatan, so we had to stick to Roatan harbors to make sure she could make her departing flight.
We decided on a day trip to Pigeon Cays and Port Royal. Our previous visit to Port Royal had been a simple turn-and-burn overnight anchorage, and we were eager to explore the gorgeous bay more thoroughly. The possibility of uncovering Henry Morgan's buried treasure and retiring to Leap permanently had nothing whatsoever to do with our eagerness to visit the port again. How dare you accuse us of such bald unmitigated greed.
We anchored in close, and set about some snorkeling.
Sadly, this was not an overnight anchorage. As much as we would have loved to stay, it was time to head for Port Royal.
Port Royal served as the actual base for Henry Morgan after he was kicked out of Port Royal Jamaica. The man may have taken Caribbean piracy to heights never seen before and established a reputation as a living legend, but he wasn't too creative in naming his hideouts. In any event, the British soon moved in to drive out this pirate den, and the ruined forts are still visible on Fort George Cay. We assume the buried treasure is further up in the hills. We abandoned that search as fruitless, and went hunting for lionfish instead.
If you didn't already know, hunting lionfish is one of the more noble pursuits known to man. These fish are invasive, having made their way over from the South China Sea. They are voracious predators, and their favored prey are the hatchlings of native reef fish. They breed by the millions per year per female. In short, they are sweeping across Caribbean reefs like a biblical plague. Fortunately, they're delicious. A whitefish with a relatively solid texture and none of that abominable fishy taste, they are rapidly becoming a favorite of tourist restaurants (the locals won't eat them) and sport fishermen. Only the tips of the spines are poisonous, so once the fins are removed they can be cleaned and fileted like any other fish.
As an added bonus, lionfish favor crevices and overhangs and other rocky structures, so they are most likely to be found in diving sites that are already gorgeous in their own right. Diving on rocky structured reefs at 20-40 feet is rewarding all by itself, but doing so with a speargun and the intent to reduce an invasive species adds a heightened sense of awareness of the surroundings, a new realm of possibilities around every turn and within every fissure. Those possibilities consist mostly of fresh fish for dinner.
Tucking In
Port Royal was no place to ride out a Norther. It would do in dire circumstances, but we had a much better option close at hand. Calabash Bight is a deep, narrow inlet perfectly suited to protect against gale force winds, and it was well known to The Parents.
We sailed on a nice run all the way down, while The Gloriamaris motored in closer to shore. We entered their waypoints into Navionics and lined up our approach, and followed in their wake all the way into the bay. Johnny on Smart Move was already there waiting for us, and the three of us anchored in a line just off the eastern shore. Perhaps we had finally learned to trust our ability to set an anchor, or there may have been a certain reluctance to dive into 30 feet of water with 6 inches of visibility due to domestic runoff, but in any event we decided that the anchor was set after a decent interval of tracking our swing.
One nice aspect of Calabash Bight is that it's not an isolated anchorage cut off from the rest of the island. There are a series of canals and shallow flats connecting Calabash to the towns of Oak Ridge and Jonesville, enabling one to travel miles by dinghy without entering the open sea, and earning Oak Ridge the moniker "the Venice of Roatan."
We were able to find gas, groceries, and beer dockside in Oak Ridge. We quickly arrived at the conclusion that if you need more than that, your life may be too complicated.
We also found Jonesville Bight Yacht Club, the chosen refuge of our friends Patrick and Nicole from Southern Mist. We met them in Tortugal before the grand adventure began, and they being the only other people even close to our age, we took to them immediately. Jonesville Bight was also the temporary refuge of Wind Dancer, who had made the passage from Guatemala to Utila just ahead of us, and had responded to our engine-related distress call to The Gloriamaris. Thus, we waited out a rainstorm in comfort and pleasant cruiser company, and made it back to The Gloriamaris just in time for dinner.
Forecasts of the severity of the coming Norther proved wildly exaggerated. The seas outside the Bight were high, and we definitely would not have wanted to be on the open ocean, but we also never felt the need to set an anchor watch. We spent a day hunkered down in comfort underneath the low, racing grey skies and contemplated the ideal way to close out Heather's week with us.
We settled on live music at BJ's Backyard bar and grill, right on the water in the heart of Jonesville. BJ herself was holding court, an older woman with some of the telltale signs of having lived a hard life. Rumor has it she is the inspiration for the Jimmy Buffet song "Woman Goin Crazy On Caroline Street." In any event, she had a beautiful waterfront deck and stage setup, and plentiful cheap Honduran beer. A band of older guys in tie-dye shirts doing Jerry Garcia impressions put together a lively jam set, and we spent Friday afternoon in a truly classic Caribbean party setting. This was especially appropriate since it was my birthday.
The next morning, we loaded Heather into a taxi, apologized for all the inclement weather, and sent her off to the airport. We're pretty sure she had a good time escaping Wisconsin, if only for a week.
Next time: Guanaja, our home away from home
Moving On
The weather was fair for Cayos Cochinos. A strong norther was due to roll in toward the end of the week, but was preceded by several days of perfection. We decided to do as much island-hopping as possible in 4 days, and that meant a stop at the archipelago conveniently located only 25 miles south.
I say anchorage rather than moorings due to the fact that all the moorings had been removed mere months before. Cayos Cochinos is a national marine park, like West End, and they normally provide moorings and prohibit anchoring. Apparently a charter captain was quite drunk even by sailor standards back in November. His passengers stayed the night on shore while the captain elected to remain on a mooring through an especially strong storm. The boat broke free of the mooring and ended up on the reef half a mile away. The staff of Turtle Bay Eco-Lodge rescued the (drunken and naked) captain and all the equipment which could be salvaged. Within two days, the Garifuna locals from a nearby island had completely scavenged the boat, including every last bit of the aluminum hull. The park office's response to all this was to come by and cut the float balls off all of the moorings as a way of disavowing all responsibility for the incident.
The park officials were still more than happy to charge full price for park admission and permits. When we checked in, we were told we could not take a passage between two islands to the southwest of the archipelago. It wasn't part of our sail plan anyway, so we weren't put out, and we assumed it was turtle egg-laying season or some other ecological reason. In fact, an Italian version of Survivor was being filmed on one of the small islands, and for some reason the director didn't want cruising sailboats passing leisurely through his shots.
We had picked up a mooring during our July visit, so we had a pretty good idea where we might still find a line to pick up. Sure enough, we had no sooner set our anchor than we sighted a mooring line floating about 10 feet under the surface. The Gloriamaris took up a hidden private mooring, and we got Johnny set up on a screw of his own. Then, it was time to dive down and check our found line.
There are few situations where my imagination gets the better of me. I can walk the streets of a foreign city alone at night, tour Gothic cathedral crypts by myself, even search out books at the back of an empty library. The idea of freediving to a mooring screw 50 feet below the surface in 15 feet of visibility, however, got the better of me for a few minutes. It wasn't until the fourth attempt that I managed to make my heart stop racing, and make my imagination understand that there probably wasn't a murderous octopus waiting patiently for me on the bottom. The mooring line was in perfect shape, so we recovered our anchor and settled in for a few days in paradise.
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| Coffee on Gloriamaris deck. |
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| Hiking to the only lighthouse on the islands. |
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| Andrew is in Fort Lauderdale in training. |
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| Yes, we do have beer in 40% of pictures. |
Captain Dad drops us off, and it's up to us to swim back to The Gloriamaris
After we had exhausted all the hiking and snorkeling options immediately adjacent to the anchorage, we decided to take a day trip to the little Garifuna island nearby.
They do take reservations for lunch, which are handled through Fausto, their chief spokesperson.
A fisherman came sailing in from a successful outing, and we were intrigued by his two-masted rig with black plastic sails. We were so curious how he had set up a ketch rig in a dugout canoe, Captain Dad decided we absolutely had to get a Harken engineer on board for a professional assessment. Fortunately, we had one close by.
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| Inspecting the craft. |
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| Negotiating an outing. |
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| Eager anticipation. |
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| Professional opinion. |
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| "You guys are following me in the dinghy, right?" |
Our generous charter skipper very much appreciated having a boat parts engineer as a full-time bailer. Heather's professional opinion was that they could use a stronger topmast truck and maybe a good running backstay system. She promised to figure out a way to rig running stays using driftwood and fishing line.
Hunkering Down
The norther was coming soon, and forecast to be nasty. There was nowhere to stay in Cayos Cochinos, so we had to find a good anchorage to tuck in and ride out the wind. We didn't manage to arrange a commuter flight for Heather from Guanaja to Roatan, so we had to stick to Roatan harbors to make sure she could make her departing flight.
We decided on a day trip to Pigeon Cays and Port Royal. Our previous visit to Port Royal had been a simple turn-and-burn overnight anchorage, and we were eager to explore the gorgeous bay more thoroughly. The possibility of uncovering Henry Morgan's buried treasure and retiring to Leap permanently had nothing whatsoever to do with our eagerness to visit the port again. How dare you accuse us of such bald unmitigated greed.
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| 35.7 nautical miles, max speed 10.3 knots |
We anchored in close, and set about some snorkeling.
Sadly, this was not an overnight anchorage. As much as we would have loved to stay, it was time to head for Port Royal.
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| 11.7 nautical miles, outrunning the sunset |
Port Royal served as the actual base for Henry Morgan after he was kicked out of Port Royal Jamaica. The man may have taken Caribbean piracy to heights never seen before and established a reputation as a living legend, but he wasn't too creative in naming his hideouts. In any event, the British soon moved in to drive out this pirate den, and the ruined forts are still visible on Fort George Cay. We assume the buried treasure is further up in the hills. We abandoned that search as fruitless, and went hunting for lionfish instead.
If you didn't already know, hunting lionfish is one of the more noble pursuits known to man. These fish are invasive, having made their way over from the South China Sea. They are voracious predators, and their favored prey are the hatchlings of native reef fish. They breed by the millions per year per female. In short, they are sweeping across Caribbean reefs like a biblical plague. Fortunately, they're delicious. A whitefish with a relatively solid texture and none of that abominable fishy taste, they are rapidly becoming a favorite of tourist restaurants (the locals won't eat them) and sport fishermen. Only the tips of the spines are poisonous, so once the fins are removed they can be cleaned and fileted like any other fish.
As an added bonus, lionfish favor crevices and overhangs and other rocky structures, so they are most likely to be found in diving sites that are already gorgeous in their own right. Diving on rocky structured reefs at 20-40 feet is rewarding all by itself, but doing so with a speargun and the intent to reduce an invasive species adds a heightened sense of awareness of the surroundings, a new realm of possibilities around every turn and within every fissure. Those possibilities consist mostly of fresh fish for dinner.
Tucking In
Port Royal was no place to ride out a Norther. It would do in dire circumstances, but we had a much better option close at hand. Calabash Bight is a deep, narrow inlet perfectly suited to protect against gale force winds, and it was well known to The Parents.
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| Only 6 nautical miles (which are better than normal miles) |
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| Yep, that'll do. |
One nice aspect of Calabash Bight is that it's not an isolated anchorage cut off from the rest of the island. There are a series of canals and shallow flats connecting Calabash to the towns of Oak Ridge and Jonesville, enabling one to travel miles by dinghy without entering the open sea, and earning Oak Ridge the moniker "the Venice of Roatan."
We were able to find gas, groceries, and beer dockside in Oak Ridge. We quickly arrived at the conclusion that if you need more than that, your life may be too complicated.
We also found Jonesville Bight Yacht Club, the chosen refuge of our friends Patrick and Nicole from Southern Mist. We met them in Tortugal before the grand adventure began, and they being the only other people even close to our age, we took to them immediately. Jonesville Bight was also the temporary refuge of Wind Dancer, who had made the passage from Guatemala to Utila just ahead of us, and had responded to our engine-related distress call to The Gloriamaris. Thus, we waited out a rainstorm in comfort and pleasant cruiser company, and made it back to The Gloriamaris just in time for dinner.
Forecasts of the severity of the coming Norther proved wildly exaggerated. The seas outside the Bight were high, and we definitely would not have wanted to be on the open ocean, but we also never felt the need to set an anchor watch. We spent a day hunkered down in comfort underneath the low, racing grey skies and contemplated the ideal way to close out Heather's week with us.
We settled on live music at BJ's Backyard bar and grill, right on the water in the heart of Jonesville. BJ herself was holding court, an older woman with some of the telltale signs of having lived a hard life. Rumor has it she is the inspiration for the Jimmy Buffet song "Woman Goin Crazy On Caroline Street." In any event, she had a beautiful waterfront deck and stage setup, and plentiful cheap Honduran beer. A band of older guys in tie-dye shirts doing Jerry Garcia impressions put together a lively jam set, and we spent Friday afternoon in a truly classic Caribbean party setting. This was especially appropriate since it was my birthday.
The next morning, we loaded Heather into a taxi, apologized for all the inclement weather, and sent her off to the airport. We're pretty sure she had a good time escaping Wisconsin, if only for a week.
Next time: Guanaja, our home away from home
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