Hunting Lobster

From French Cay to the Ambergris Cays was 50 miles of pleasant sailing across the shallow waters of the Caicos Bank.  After the recent chart inaccuracies around French Cay, I wasn't feeling too trusting towards our chart-plotter.  I needed to regain confidence in it and decided to double check our position along this stretch with some old-school navigating.  No, not Mark's sextant skills.  Every half hour I used the handheld compass to take bearings on several of the small cays dotting the horizon that compose the border of the Caicos Bank.  By plotting these bearing lines, I was able to triangulate our position which I marked on one of the few paper charts we brought aboard in Fort Lauderdale.  

 

I then plotted the numerical GPS coordinates of our position provided by the chart-plotter.  This allowed me to compare the position the chart-plotter put us at to the one calculated by hand based on the surrounding landmarks.  I could also compare our position on the paper chart to that on the electronic chart in the chart-plotter.  The chart-plotter seemed to be working fine.  Confidence in the GPS satellite system was restored and some rusty navigational skills got some much needed practice.

 

Calm though the passage was, it was not without its hazards.  The waters of the Caicos Bank were less than twenty feet deep above a massive shoal of rippled white coral sands.  Rising randomly out of this sand bank were coral heads of varying sizes, some reaching up to within a few feet of the water's surface.  Boat breakers to the inattentive sailor.  These uncharted coral towers presented as obvious and ominous dark spots in the turquoise water.  They were easy enough to spot and avoid if one was paying attention, a trip ending (or worse) accident if one was not.  

 

We kept a continuous bow-watch throughout the day. For the first few hours, everyone was excited to "save the ship from disaster" by standing a dutiful and diligent watch but, familiarity breeds complacency...and boredom.  Mark fashioned a seat at the bow by weaving a line back and forth between the bars of the pulpit.  It was surprisingly comfortable.  We all took our turn on watch but, it wasn't long before we were spending more time reading and napping than watching, and the actual responsibility of maintaining a lookout fell back to the helmsman.

(Mark reads a book instead of keeping bow-watch)

 

 

(Mark is reprimanded for dereliction of duty)

 

We spent that night in the protected waters between the Ambergris Cays.  I was the first in the water, fifteen feet deep, perfect white sandy bottom.  To my right I could see a nearby coral head.  Bars of filtered sunlight illuminated clusters of little fish as they flitted around a low mound of dark coral.  It looked like a little forested island rising out of a flat desert of turquoise white.  In front of me the bright white of the sand and the pale turquoise of the water stretched away into a hazy blue.  My eye picked up a blurry smudge of movement at the extreme edge of my vision.  There was something out there.  

I stayed close to the boat, clinging to the rudder, staring out intently through my snorkel mask.  I saw it again, a shadow, moving contrary to the lazy motion of the water, slowly shimmering into a soft outline.

As I watched, the dark shape steadily grew.  Its edges hardened into something alive, something big.  Methodically, in unvaried cadence, it swam straight for me, head and tail sweeping slowly from side to side.   I could now make out the unmistakable outline of a shark. Its shadow undulated over the rippled sands beneath.  I gripped my little fishing spear tight and pressed myself against Strolla's hull, transfixed.  When it was about a boat length away, it casually turned off.  Never altering speed or rhythm, the shark receded back into the deepening blue distance, as silently as it had come. 

 

I recognized it as a Nurse Shark, harmless, though still intimidating in its size and proximity.  The telltale catfish whiskers on either side of its mouth gave it away.  I guessed it was at least twelve feet long.  I surfaced beside the boat and excitedly called to Nate in the cockpit above.  The shark returned several more times over the course of the afternoon and we grew bold enough to swim beside and follow it around.  

 

When not trailing sharks, we hunted rock lobster in the little caves of the coral head.  We caught four, two each for Nate and I.  I also caught a large crab and Mark a jumbo conch.  

(It should be noted that Mark's only contribution to dinner was an animal with a top speed of four feet an hour and a survival strategy, when threatened, of remaining motionless)

 

 

I parboiled and then sauteed the lobsters in garlic and butter.  Mark smashed his conch with a hammer to tenderize it and then breaded and fried it.  All were delicious.