El Mogote

The next morning, the first day of the new year, to everyone's surprise (and chagrin) Mark was the first up.  It was our last full day in Jarabacoa and we had foolishly planned to climb a nearby mountain.  Mark held us to it.  With superhuman effort and a pillow, he beat us all out of bed at 11:00 in the morning.  We dressed, bought food for a picnic lunch, and piled into a taxi.  At the timely hour of 1:20, we were dropped off on the side of the road at the trailhead, nauseous and weak, ready to attempt "El Mogote".  

Music from some of the clubs was still blaring in the town below, echoing up the valley.  Heavy, gray rain clouds filled the sky.  The breathless, muggy air felt physically heavy.  Heads throbbing, bodies shaking, we began our ascent up the packed dirt trail.  Mark and I brought up the rear.  Each step was agony.  Fifteen minutes in, dizzy and light headed, soaked in sweat that was not from the heat, I wanted to turn back.  Shame kept me moving.

(Negotiating a washout in the trail)

 

The trail was for the most part made of hard packed, red clay, worn as smooth as asphalt.  Some sections sported loose gravel but these were short and rare.  In softer spots, the deep hoof prints of passing donkeys could seen, half filled with cloudy water.  As we went up, the trail became steeper and more deeply rutted by past rain storms.  In some places the washouts were waist deep.  

(Mark poses by a well mixed section of muddy trail)

 

 

An hour from the trailhead, we saw a local man hiking down the trail towards us.  He carried a plastic sack of oranges in one hand and with the other worked a long, stout walking stick with a metal spike on the bottom of it.  As he drew near, he stopped and eyed us appraisingly. 

 

"Do you have walking sticks?" he asked, although he could see that we did not.  

 

"No," we told him, too feeble of body and mind to pick up on the hint he was giving us.  He peered into our pale, sweaty faces and laughed softly.

"Buena Suerte," he said, "good luck," and then turned continued down the trail.

 

"Feliz Ano Nuevo," I called after him with a forced show of enthusiasm.  He waved back but did not turn around.  

 

(Becca uses her hands to augment the traction of her sandals)

 

As we got higher, the air grew cooler, the breeze picked up, and Mark and I began to feel better.  We surged ahead of Nate and Becca.  The donkey prints in the trail disappeared.  Soon, the clay was scalloped and more consistently smooth, broken only by the occasional rocky knob poking through the clay.  

On one side of the trail, a barbwire fence.  On the other, a wall of thick jungle vegetation hiding a sharp drop down to the ravine below.  The clay was sticky and easy walking but, where the trail was still wet from the most recent rain shower, the water had mixed with top few millimeters of dirt to form a thin layer of mud.  It was the consistency of axle grease and had a similar effect over the hard clay beneath.

 

(Posing with a view)

 

 

"This will be fun if it rains," I observed to Mark, an eye on the dark clouds above.  He grinned at me, breathing heavily.  

 

"Like a slip'n'slide," he replied.  An hour later, it started raining.  We kept hiking up.  The clay grew slick.  We moved slower.  We were almost to the top.  No one was willing to give up now.

 

(Beautiful views on the summit from inside a storm cloud)

 

 

By four in the afternoon, we crested the summit.  A radio tower, a lone caretaker's shack, and an observation tower, graced the large flat summit, mowed bare by a grazing donkey.  Chickens ran past. The rain had stopped. The heavy clouds rolled silently by, covering the summit in fog with only intermittent breaks.  We ate a late lunch and made appreciative noises whenever the we caught glimpses of the views surrounding us.  It started to rain again.  We started down.

 

(Rain turns the trail muddy)

 

The rain was light, not enough to create streams in the trail or fill the washouts.  It was just enough to wet the surface and cover the entire length of the trail it in that red mud axle grease we'd noticed briefly on the way up.  With almost no switchbacks, and nowhere to leave the trail to get out of the mud, there was almost no way to stop ourselves once we'd picked up momentum.  Now, we understood why the local man had laughed at us and asked about walking sticks.

 

 

(The trail becomes fast)

 

Faster and faster we moved down the trail, keeping our feet underneath us with varying degrees of success until, either with feet or butts, we discovered the sharp points of rock poking through the mud and were able to stick and stop.

 

(Becca uses multiple points of contact to come to a stop)

 

 

Nate and Becca, in smooth soled sandals, had the worst of it.  With the slightly deeper tread on my sneakers, I had the easiest time.  Mark and I once again surged ahead but, with dusk approaching, we didn't wait for the others to catch up.  We pushed on, propelled by a deep desire to be off the trail before dark.

 

 

(Still daylight and still smiling)

 

 

We'd sent the taxi driver home after it had dropped us off that afternoon.  Now, at night, at the end of an empty dirt road in the mountains, we began the long walk down through the valley and back into the city.  The rain had stopped again.  We were soaked to the skin, covered in mud, tired and hungover, but still, the walk through the little mountain pueblos was fun.  The little stores and bars along the way were open.  People were out drinking and dancing.  Music was blaring.  

 

Mark and I picked up a roast chicken dinner along the way to our hotel, ate and took long, hot showers.  Clean, warm, and fed we listened to the rain that had started up again.  It was much harder than before.  Rain pounded the sheet metal roof of the hotel with a steady, low roar.  I fell fast asleep.   

Sometime in the night, Nate and Becca arrived.  I did not wake up.

(Jungle in the fog)

Jarabacoa and New Year's Eve

(Mark communes with nature)

 

The Dominican Republic boasts several impressive mountain ranges, filled with beautiful mountain rivers and the canyons, waterfalls, and white water rapids they create.  A little asking around in Luperon made it clear that the place to head to and stage from on our excursion away from the sea was the mountain city of Jarabacoa.  It was located up in the largest of the island's mountain ranges and on the edge of the huge Jose Del Carmen Ramirez National Park.

It took half a day of travel in the guaguas to work our way off the coast and up into the mountains to Jarabacoa.  Guaguas were the bus system of the Dominican Republic and could get you anywhere and everywhere.  The typical guagua was a beat up ten passenger Toyota van converted to take thirteen by the addition of extra seats that could be folded out from the end of each row to fill in the aisle.  Bus stations were typically just street corners, often without even a sign to indicate it.  Local knowledge was vital and we got a lot of practice asking directions.  

 

The guagua drivers were not paid an hourly wage but instead made their money directly from the passengers.  As such, they were powerfully motivated to maximize usage.  They didn't run on any sort of timetable we could figure out, waiting instead until they had enough passengers to make it worth the trip, usually about half capacity.  Once underway, The guaguas stopped for every person who flagged them down along the route.  At one point I counted twenty people in our guagua.  No seat belt laws or max carrying capacity here.  In fact, all the seat belts had been removed to save space and facilitate passenger movement.

 

(Traveling in the GuaGuas)

 

 

Jarabacoa turned out to be a not very picturesque city in a very picturesque setting.  We found a hotel room cheap enough to not come with blankets on the beds, enjoyed a fancy dinner out, and then headed back to turn in early.  

 

The room had two double beds and there was some argument about who would sleep with who.  Nate had assumed he would share one bed with Becca,  and Mark and I would share the other.  Mark and I had not assumed this.  We all wanted Becca as a bed mate, she being the smallest and least stinky of the group.  Nate eventually bought us off with a bottle of cheap wine.

 

The next day we hired a local guide named Armando to take us around in his truck to see the nearby waterfalls.  He ran out of gas almost immediately after leaving town and while he hiked back for more, we wandered off to explore.  We met another local, a former river rafting guide, who told us about the class IV rapids in the area.  We decided we'd do that the next day.

 

(Learning from Armando)

 

Despite the shaky start, we were glad to have Armando as our guide, and not just because of the ready transportation.  None of the waterfalls we visited were easily found.  Poor signage, under-maintained and marked trails.  We would not have found any of them on our own.

 

 

(Hiking to one of the waterfalls)

(Rock scrambling to the river)

 

The waterfalls were spectacular.  Swimming, rock climbing, picnic on the beach, natural water slides.  Aided by the use of some old climbing rope turned docklines we'd brought with us from the boat, I think we were able to get the full experience.

 

 

(Natural water slide)

Nate and Mark led the charge out of the water to more dangerous activities.  Having not satisfactorily risked immediate injury since the brittle coral cliffs of the Bahamas, they gaze up at the slippery, algea covered cliffs around the falls with eagerness.  Soon simple bouldering at the water's edge wasn't enough and Nate strung the dock line from a rocky prominence over one of the mountain pools.  Wet hands on wet rope provided too little friction to climb up and down so the rope was de-rigged and loops added every few feet.  Nate and Mark climbed it.  Becca opted out.  Although I could climb up and down Strolla's mast like a monkey, this swinging, stretching, ladder of death was more than my appetite for risk would tolerate.  After a half hearted attempt, I followed Becca's lead.

(Nate's first attempt at a down climb without loops)

(The rope with climbing loops added)

 

(Peter considers a climb, and decides against it)

 

(Swimming with waterfalls)

 

 

(enjoying our perch)

 

As planned, the next day we went white water rafting.  It was a half day trip that included breakfast and lunch.  The river was small but the rapids stretch took us though a stunningly beautiful mountain gorge, with shear, water-scalloped cliffs on all sides.  Low water flow rates made for a shallow and less than challenging rafting experience.  The guides simply pointed the boats down river and let them ricochet and pivot off of every rock along the way.  It was New Year's Eve day.  Everyone's minds were on the night's festivities that lay ahead.

 

We were back at our hotel by early afternoon, in time to grab a quick siesta.  We needed to rest up.  Since arriving in Jarabacoa we had been hearing about the huge, all-night party that would fill the town.  We wanted to be prepared.  The lunch included with rafting had been an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Planning ahead, we really tucked in so that we didn't have to buy dinner.  

At about 8 pm, still full from lunch, we went out and bought big bottles of the cheapest local beer, wine, and Dominican rum we could find.  With a deck of cards, a table, and plenty of time, we started teaching each other drinking games.  Between the four of us we knew quite a few.  Some were better than others.  All required drinking.

Mark and Becca had picked up a big carton of guava juice to use in making rum punch.  With the first swig, however, I discovered they'd not gotten guava juice, but guava juice concentrate.  Our one quart was capable of making four gallons of juice.  We used it anyway.  Even cut with increasing quantities of rum, it was syrupy and sickly sweet.  

 

For some reason, the thought of thinning the rum/guava syrup with water never occurred to us.    

By ten-thirty we'd run through our booze supply and were ready to hit the town.  We crashed boisterously out into the quiet, empty street and headed for the bars.  They were quiet too. In the park, the food vendors were still setting up their stands.  Confused and dispirited, we chanced upon a big tent in an empty lot.  A party was being prepared.  The waiters in their black vests and bow ties were sitting on the curb smoking.  The bouncer was on his cell phone.  Inside we found the DJ stacking cases of CDs.  He explained that everyone spends New Year's Eve at home with their families.  Only after midnight do the people emerge into the streets to party the rest of the night away.

He assured us that no, we hadn't missed the party.  We were just too early.  He was finished setting up by now and, wishing us a happy new year, hopped on his motorcycle and raced off through the city to spend midnight with his family.  Disappointed, we stumbled dejectedly back to our hotel, picking up more beer along the way, to wait out the remaining couple hours until the bars filled up.

When we returned to the hotel room Becca went straight to the bathroom and stayed there.  She said it was food poisoning and I'm sure it was; the kind of food poisoning you get when you eat nothing but two dollar wine and undiluted guava rum punches.  

With Becca guarding the toilet, a motion was made to include her current episode on the trip's seasickness tally.  The final vote was: 3 yays, 0 nays, and 1 abstention (Becca) and the motion passed.  She was now tied with Nate for last place.

At midnight we held a half hearted New Year's celebration in the room.  Then, Nate went to bed.  Finished with the toilet, Becca joined him.  Mark lay down to "rest his eyes," issuing strict orders to wake him when it was time to go out.  I stayed awake reading, knowing that otherwise I'd be out until morning.

At 1:30 a.m., more due to a sense of obligation to Mark than from any actual enthusiasm on my part, I woke everyone up to go out.  Becca got up and went to directly to the toilet.  Nate opened one eye only long enough issue a terse, "No."  Mark hopped out of bed rested and ready.  With a sigh, I followed him out the door.

The bars were bumping.  Columns of speakers at full volume inside and out made sure of that.  The wealthy women of the Dominican Republic had come to their mountain villas to party in the new year.  They were perfectly made up, lavishly dressed and achingly irresistible to two celibate sailors just off the boat.  From bar to bar we tramped, slinging back beers and chatting up ladies, or as much as we could in our broken Spanish, shouting over the pulse of the club music.  Results were poor.  In hindsight, most of these women were probably looking for someone who had put as much time into their appearance as she had.  Dressed in sandals and the only change of clothes we had besides bathing suits, we didn't stand a chance.  As the night wore on, we were soon too drunk to care.  

 

From what I can remember, Mark outdid himself during those first few blurry hours of the new year.  While my energy and interest waned, his efforts to find female companionship took on an increasingly desperate frenzy.  His reward were some of the most spectacularly cold rejections I've ever been privileged to witnessed.  It wasn't always clear what the women were saying, but it was always clear what they meant.  Fortunately, Mark is a resilient fellow and he immediately bounced on to the next girl undeterred.

By 5 a.m. I was done in.  I dragged Mark back to the hotel.  The proprietor had been kind enough to leave the gate unlocked for us.  We both fell asleep fully clothed, on top of the covers.

The Great Bilge Leak

Following a lazy Christmas in Luperon, we made plans to leave Strolla and strike off into the Dominican countryside for a little land-locked exploring.  However, in order to leave Strolla we first had to repair her to the point where she was able to be left.  Strolla had been struggling under a steadily worsening water leak since leaving Florida.  By the time we limped into Luperon, there was water streaming into the boat at a rate of just under two gallons an hour, 45 gallons a day, or about 360 pumps of the hand operated bilge pump.

The drawback wasn't that we had to be continually checking and pumping out the bilge.  There were four of us to share that work load.  The drawback was that if we forgot to do it or, weren't around to do it, the boat would sink.  We'd been able to put up with the leak for so long because we'd physically been on the boat.  It was easy to keep ahead of the leak when we spent most the day sitting next to the pump handle.  That was, of course, as long as the bilge pump didn't break.  Now, we wanted to leave the boat but couldn't.  The time had come to fix the leak.

The inboard diesel motor on Strolla was located directly inside and below the companionway.  There was a varnished, wooden engine box that covered it and served as the companionway stairs into and out of the cabin.  The engine box was held in place by cleats attached to the cabin sole and could be completely removed in order to service the motor.

 

(View from the galley looking aft at the engine box and companionway)

With the engine box removed, the polished propeller shaft was visible, emerging from the backside of the engine and running to the stern.  This rare area of wasted space aft of the motor was formed by the flat floor of the cockpit above and the molded groove of the hull curving down into the depth of the bilge below, with the propeller shaft suspended between.  About halfway back, the propeller shaft passed through a vertical stabilizing board fiber-glassed into the hull of the boat.  Now out of sight behind the board, the shaft continued the last few feet from there and exited through the hull to the propeller outside.   

 

 

(View of engine with engine box removed)

(View of engine with starboard quarter berth in background)

The water was coming from somewhere on the back side of that stabilizing board.  This made the leak impossible to see from the cabin by looking through the gap over the engine.  There were two small, circular access ports in the cockpit sole looking down into the crawlspace but these were forward of the stabilizing board as well.  The only way to physically reach the problem area was to wriggle over the engine and into the cramped crawlspace behind.  At its entrance, the gap between the top of the motor and the bottom edge of the companionway was just big enough to allow access, provided that arms, head and shoulders were threaded through in the proper sequence.  

 

Despite the oven-like heat inside the uninsulated cabin, I donned an old soft shell jacket as a protective layer over my bare chest.  Then, with pipe clamps and screw heads tearing at the coat fabric, I slithered my way in.  Very quickly, I got stuck.  I exhaled, planted my feet, pushed, gained a few inches, got stuck again.  I retreated back out into the cabin to recalculate.

It took several attempts before I finally figured out a winning sequence.  I had to enter left arm outstretched in front of me, head cocked to the side, shoulder shimmy a few more inches, then raise my legs so that I was balanced on my stomach on top of the engine like a see-saw and wiggle forward from there, pulling myself along with my arms.  

In as far as I could go, my thighs braced on the engine, my hands on the sloped sides of the hull, body suspended over the bilge in kind of a push-up position, horribly taxing, impossible to sustain for long.  Mark stood by picking his cuticles, offering the occasional word of encouragement, ready to help.

From this vantage point, I was able to gain a slightly deeper understanding of how hard the leak would be to fix, and not much more.  The tropical heat in this cramped space was suffocating. Tensed muscles began to tremble.  Sweat beaded on on every surface of me.  It dripped from my face, made my hands slippery.  Satisfied that I had seen everything I could, I began the laborious process of wriggling my way back out.  The first few inches came easy.  My bare, sweaty thighs slid smoothly over the motor casing.   

After my thighs had cleared the top of the the engine I got stuck.  Braced awkwardly, arms trembling, sweat stinging my eyes, I paused to think.  I was trying to remember the entrance sequence so I could now reverse it.  Sweat dripped steadily off the tip of my nose to mix its salt with the rising water in the bilge.   My arm strength was failing.  I tried to back out again, and then again with without result.  I was getting desperate.  I exhaled and pushed.  I could hear the fabric of my coat tearing.  Something sharp was pressing hard into my ribs, just below the breast.  I couldn't move.  Forcing down a rising panic, I called for Mark to help.  Taking firm hold of my ankles, he braced his feet on the base of the engine, arched his back, and pulled.  I continued to push with my arms and wiggle.  Slowly, I began to move backward again.  

Finally I was free, breathing hard, bathed in sweat.  Mark was sitting beside me.  I drew him a diagram of what I'd seen and where I thought the leak was coming from.  We discussed what to do.  It was obvious.  We'd have to borrow a saw from someone and cut a larger access hatch down from the cockpit.

We took the rest of the day off with the resolution that we'd start looking for a saw tomorrow.  The next morning, however, Mark suggested an alternative.  He would try crawling in to the leak.  He was somewhat smaller and slighter than I was, not much, but it might be enough.  I rubbed the bruise on my ribs thoughtfully.

"Have at it," I smiled.  "I'll even stand by to pull you out when you get stuck."  Mark stripped down to his bathing suit and I handed him the soft shell coat, blackened with accumulated grease, diesel fuel, and grime.  We reviewed the entrance sequence again, and in he went.

(Mark prepares to enter the crawlspace)

It was easier for him, but only a little.  After I'd helped pull him out, he had the same painful bruise on his ribs and in the same place as mine.  We figured out it was a pipe clamp causing the bruise and rotated it out of the way.  

(A view  of Mark entering the crawlspace)

The leak, it turned out, was at a fitting on the forward side of the stabilizing board.  The water was then backing up through the board to dribble out the hole on the other side.  After lengthy discussion we came up with two options:

The right way - Take Strolla to a marina and have her pulled from the water.  Cut the access hatch as planned.  Detach the propeller shaft from the back side of the engine. Detach the rudder from the back of the boat.  Slide the whole propeller shaft backward to create enough room to rework or replace the fitting.  Reassemble everything.

The wrong way:  Send Mark back in over the engine with a small screw driver and some strips of plastic made from a grocery bag.  Jam as much plastic bag as possible into the hole on the backside of the stabilizing board with the screwdriver.  Fashion a stopper out of some strips of rubber and a pipe clamp and snug it up against board to keep plastic bag strips from working their way out.

(View from the cabin.  A cushion over the motor protects Mark's sensitive bits)

I started shredding grocery bags while Mark selected a screwdriver.  He had the leak stopped an hour later.  We let the boat sit the rest of the day and then checked the bilge.  No water.  We ran the engine at idle for an hour and let the boat sit overnight.  No water.  We put the engine in gear and ran it in reverse, pulling against our anchor for half an hour and then let the boat sit the rest of the day.  Still no water in the bilge.

(Mark places the plug)

The next morning, we walked into town to catch the first of a series of little vans called "guaguas" (gwa-gwas) that would take us away from the coast and up into the mountains for New Year's Eve.

Luperon

(View from our anchorage at Luperon)

 

 

As captain, it was my privilege to spend our first morning in the Dominican Republic clearing the boat and its crew through customs.  It was Christmas Eve and Friday.  Everyone would be going home early to their families.  If I didn't get us cleared right away, it was very likely I wouldn't be able to until Monday.  While I waited in one office after another (port authority, customs and immigration, office of agriculture, office of the commandant at the naval station) struggling to understand the slurred Dominican accents of bored government officials, the rest of the crew were confined to the boat, yellow quarantine flag flying.  They weren't legally allowed to go ashore until I'd gotten them cleared in.  They spent the morning hanging out, napping and snacking.  When I finally returned, angry and exhausted, they were rested and ready.  

 

(Mark waits for the rest to be ready to head ashore)

 

The four of us piled into dinghy for the long ride to the dinghy dock and town pier. Once tied up, we clambered unsteadily ashore and, set forth to explore the town.  It was our first time setting foot on land since Clarence Town a full week prior.  Initial impressions were favorable.  After the emptiness of the sea and the largely uninhabited cays of the Bahamas, Luperon was a shock to the senses, vibrant and raw and pulsing with energy and color.  

 

(The crew of a fishing boat washing up as they motor to the docks)

 

 

One story buildings with rusty corrugated metal roofs lined both sides of the main road.  Concrete and rough-cut clapboard walls were brightly painted in greens and blues, yellows and pinks.  The spaces between buildings were filled with lush palm and banana trees.  Bachata music blared from storefront speakers.  Motorcycles roared down the dirt streets kicking up clouds of yellow dust that swirled in the glaring afternoon sun.

(Exploring the streets of Luperon)

We wandered the town in a dazed little group, soaking up the sights and sounds.  As we passed the front deck of one restaurant near the harbor, a man called out to us in English.  Steve, a native of Key West, called us in.  His restaurant, "Capt'n Steve's," offered free WiFi, a full BBQ chicken dinner for 100 pesos (conversion rate of 37:1), and an owner who spoke English and had eleven years of knowledge in the country to share with us.  We'd found our base of operations.

That night, advised by a fellow sailor, we took our dinghy over to the Puerto Blanco Marina for an evening of caroling.  Fortified by the first cheap beer we'd found since leaving Ft. Lauderdale, we became a powerful addition to the rather pathetic choir.

Christmas morning got off to a late start.  We shambled in to town and spent the day online and on the phone, conversing with family and sipping fruit smoothies.  The town was quiet.  We had nothing to do.  By spending a week aboard ship, no one had been able to get each other presents.  We bought each other breakfast and toasted our success in reaching Hispaniola.

(A local tows a boat past Strolla)

Hispaniola for Christmas!

Still navigating primarily by paper charts and hand compass, we exited the Caicos Bank just north of the Fish Cays, crossed the Turks Passage to Big Sandy Cay, and set our sights on the island of Hispaniola and the Port of Luperon in the Dominican Republic, across some eighty miles of open ocean.

We had timed our departure from the Caicos Bank to arrive off Hispaniola the next morning.  The night was cool, the wind steady and sweet out of the northwest, the deck of Strolla rolling gently.  Long before we could see land, we could smell it in through the darkness,cutting through the clean salt air of the open ocean, the sharp scent of charcoal cooking fires, the faint, musty odor of dirt and cow dung and stagnant mangrove swamps.

(First view of Hispaniola on the horizon)

 

 

With the break of day, the mountainous headlands of Hispaniola could be seen, pale and jagged in the morning light.  From Florida's flat swamps through the low rounded cays of the Bahamas and the Turks and Caicos, none of us had been much higher than the top of our own mast since the trip began.  Here, at last, were real mountains, the tallest in all of the Caribbean, some more than 10,000ft.  We were thrilled.   

 

(The mountains of Hispaniola)

 

 

We picked our way slowly into the narrow harbor entrance at Luperon and took up residence amongst our fellow cruisers on the south side of the well protected anchorage, too excited to sleep despite our long night underway.  It was Christmas Eve day.

 

(Sailing through the entrance to Luperon Harbor)

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.