A bad day turned good, part deux...
I motored out towards open water. Just a couple weeks ago, this passage had been completely clogged up with "lechuga aquatica." It's a rather peculiar plant that floats across the lake with the wind and finds its way into sheltered areas where it grabs hold to whatever it can and then reproduces like mad. Don't let the name fool you. The reason this plant is in such high abundance is because it has made itself completely inedible. It also has some nasty little fibers on it that bore right into your skin if you touch it. A day trying to clear this stuff out with a machete from a panga and you'll feel like you've been working with fiberglass all day with no sleeves or gloves. Lose your machete in there and it stays there. That's how my cuidador lost his cellphone the week before. Without this botanical obstacle plugging the channel, open water is a short 500 meters away.
The 5 hp Johnson will get this boat up to hull speed without too much effort. That's around 7 knots. You can put a PT boat motor on there and it wouldn't go any faster. It's not a planing hull, though it will step up if you can get her surfing on a wave going downwind. The smell of the 2-stroke outboard with the oil in the fuel always leaves me a little queasy, so I wanted to get to open water and hoist the sails as soon as I could. With an extra deckhand I could sail her in the islands, but there are too many rocks to look for and sailing really cuts down on your maneuverability, so the motor is a necessary evil.
As I passed through a pair of the few channel markers in the isletas, I could see all the fishermen in their pangas heading back in. The tourist pangas were flying towards Cabaña Amarrilla with their 100 hp outboards humming along, only the stern quarter of the boat still in the water. The light drizzle was pretty steady by now and I figured it was going to stay that way. As I pointed her into the wind to hoist the sails, I could see that familiar afternoon squall line over Chontales. About and hour out, I thought to myself. I'll just heave-to when it passes over and ride it out for the 15-30 minutes that it always takes to pass. I got the sails up and got on a close reach to the northeast. The swells were around 2-3 feet, a little sloppy but not a problem under sail.
Now I've watched this squall roll in every day for the past month or so from my balcony. It's dark on the leading edge and lightens up as it goes over. The rain is usually preceded by 3-5 minutes of a hard east to west blow and then a thick wall of rain behind it. Granted, it had been drizzling all afternoon, which didn't fit that pattern, but I figured it would be the same as always. I've single-handed small sailboats on the mighty Pacific and never came close to a problem, so I didn't think much of this lake and an afternoon tropical downpour. I was relaxing, a nice gentle drizzle on my face, overcast to keep the sun out of my eyes, and the boat was pointing nicely.
As I got out a couple kilometers, I realized my 1-hour estimate was a bit off. This thing was bearing down pretty fast and the swells were already turning into whitecaps. I was going to have to heave-to soon because the swells were getting up to about 5 feet now. That's not much in a big boat, but a 19 foot daysailer with only about a 1000 pounds of ballast isn't an ocean cruiser. My original plan was to already be in sheltered water by the time the afternoon banana wind rolled in, but my original plan got shot to hell when Union Fenosa decided to change the main power line into town on Friday morning. I had no idea how deep it was to the bottom here. Was it rocky on the bottom? Muddy? No friggin clue. It didn't really matter anyways because the only anchor I had was a little 15 lb. folding type with 4 flukes that pointed outwards. There are a lot of things to consider when choosing your anchor, but I got the one that came with the boat. With that decision made for me, it was time to ride this baby out.
I dropped the little storm job no problem and left it on deck (since I was only going to be here a half hour anyway, right?). The mainsail decided that it liked being up there and got stuck after only about 3 feet. Now the essence of singlehand sailing is to run all lines back to the cockpit so that you can control everything without leaving the tiller. The essence of lowering sails in a hard blow is to keep the boat pointed into the wind so that there's no pressure on the sails. Sounds simple enough in theory, but it doesn't leave much in the way of a plan B.
I decided I had to go to the mast and pull the main down by hand. The rain was getting pretty heavy now and the wind was howling something fierce. La Baby Doc told me later that she had to close up all the doors on the house because it was blowing so strong that every paper in the house was getting tossed around. I figured this was one of those moments where a life jacket was in order. If I were to slip into the water or get smacked by the boom, at least the wind would push me, dead or alive, back to Granada. I scampered up to the mast, grabbing hold of the new stainless steel rigging for support, when I realized that there was quite a bit of lightning in this squall. I guess there always is since you can hear the thunder on any given day, but out here in the open water you can really see the bolts to the east go all the way to the water. I definitely wanted to get this done quick and get back to the cockpit. The mainsail was soaked with rain now and was as stubborn as a mule. Now keep in mind, I'm standing in the middle of the boat at its highest point . . . and nobody is on the tiller keeping her pointed into the wind. A few seconds later and she was sideways to the wind and swell and rolling like a metronome. I pulled on the sail until finally something gave way and it came sliding down in one smooth motion.
As I'm bobbing around like a cork, I now saw a sight that was truly humbling. All I could see in any direction was about 100 yards and a white wall of heavy, cold rain. The wind was howling so hard the rigging was screaming like a pack of depressed ghosts. I no longer had any idea where I was, which way I was pointing, or when this was going to pass. 15 minutes I kept telling myself. 15 minutes and it will calm down to a light drizzle and a manageable wind. I grabbed my pitiful little anchor and got her ready to go over. I had about 10 feet of heavy chain and 100 feet of line on there. I had no idea how deep it was here, but it would have to do. 10 to 1 is a good rule when it's blowing this hard. Any less and the angle on the anchor line becomes too steep for the hook to do it's job. If this was one of those 40 foot deep sections of the lake, I was totally screwed.
I secured the anchor line to the biggest cleat on the bow and hoped it was put on properly when they refurbished this boat. I ran the line through a d-ring on the bow because it's all I had to keep it on the pointy end. I could hear my old man yelling at me for not having this ready before leaving the dock. "You're singlehanding! When were you planning to get this ready, in the middle of a squall? I aint raisin' you to be fish food! You wanna be a shitbird, get your own boat!" Well, here I was being a shitbird on my own boat. Live and learn. He probably learned it that way, too. I sat down with my legs straddling the bow and leaned on the forestay for support. Sure hope the mast doesn't get struck by lighting because I'm on the shortest path to ground. I dropped the anchor and watched the chain clang overboard. By now the boat is going up a good 8 feet on the swells and smashing down at full speed until the water was up to my crotch, all the while rolling a good 60 degrees from side to side. The wind and rain were freezing cold, but the lake was as warm as dishwater. I really wanted to get back to the cockpit and get this thing pointed into the swells. As the chain disappeared below the water I could feel it hit bottom after only about 10 feet of rope. It'll do.
I crawled back to the cockpit, standing up was no longer an option with little to grab hold of, and I fired up the outboard. I wasn't sure what this anchor could do, but then again I wasn't sure what it was doing because all I could see was a 100 yard circle of white around the boat. The rain was horizontal at this point and man was it cold. I've never been so cold in the tropics in my life. My clothes were completely soaked by the rain and now I was radiating heat like crazy with the wind. 15, 30 minutes tops, and then I can get back to relaxing. I stood up to look forward and could see the anchor line was nice and tight. I guess it grabbed the bottom. I couldn't tell if I was moving. This was sailing by braille at this point. I used the outboard to point her around whenever she swung sideways to try and keep the swells, but it was becoming an exercise in frustration. The stern kept coming up out of the water and with it, the propeller. Up and down, listening to the outboard scream up in RPMs and then gurgling as it went back underwater. Up and down, up and down. It would spin up so fast I was sure the whole thing would just blow up, seize up, or just give up. 15 minutes had passed. This will be over soon.
Now I'm no stranger to mal de mer. My first days out on any ocean cruise in a small boat have always been unpleasant. Little queasy, not very hungry, but nothing I couldn't handle. The flat bottomed work boats we used on the oil rigs back in my diving days were a particularly unpleasant ride. Luckily, it usually took a day or two to get to the job site so I'd just ride it out on deck and it would pass. I've never had a problem on the lake. After 30 minutes of smelling the two-stroke (surely this will be over any minute) and bobbing up and down like a cork (the kind that floats, not the Nicaraguan kind) and I could feel that old familiar feeling. I have to say that beyond a doubt, the Tuscan Scramble they serve for breakfast at Zoom bar is really good going down. Not so good on the way back up. I grabbed the rail and chucked breakfast over the side. One hurl, two hurls, three hurls and rest. Nothing left to hurl anyway, so I sat there dry-heaving while heaving to. I was starting to hate this outboard. Friggin two-strokes smell like the gates of hell when you're seasick, but that's all I had to keep her pointing because the girl kept swinging sideways into the swells. Up and down, up and down, dry heave. It was bitter cold at this point. I reached into the water while tossing over some bile that had worked it's way up from my duodenum. It was so warm I wanted to jump in. 45 minutes had passed and no sign of it letting up. I could still only see 100 yards in any direction.
I grabbed a Coke out of the ice chest and forced it down. I knew it would come right back up, but heaving a Coke is better than heaving nothing at all. Plus, I was starting to cramp up from the cold and potassium loss from the vomiting. The Coke stayed down. I felt much better. Something's wrong with this watch because this is taking too long.
Now there's nobody to talk to when you're alone on a boat, which is why I go out alone on a boat. Nobody to talk to and nobody to talk to you. I need that to get my mind right. If I ever went to prison, I'm sure I'd punch a guard just to get thrown into solitary confinement. All I had to listen to was the high-pitched whistle of the wind through the rigging and then ... a starter motor? I don't know how to describe it, but it sounded like and engine trying to start. I quickly ran through an inventory of all the things on the boat that could be making that sound. Nothing came to mind but then it hit me.
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keep trying!
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Originally Posted by Little Corn Tom
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