11 June 2010
Click on photos to enlarge.
We left Providencia at first light, not without a pang; we had enjoyed our stay and would probably never return. Our destination was Vivorillo Reef--not a destination exactly, more a resting place before continuing. As we had come to expect, the wind was against us for the first part of the passage but moderate, and, the sea being kilometres deep, the waves were long and smooth. Heeled over and throwing a bit of spray, we made good time. Then all of a sudden the sea changed, becoming short and steep and uncomfortable. We had to punch jarringly into the waves and it slowed us down greatly. The depth sounder showed the water to be less than forty meters deep and we could feel it. We were on Miskito Bank.
From here on our route was all shallow banks and scattered coral reefs and not a navigation beacon to be seen. By sunset the weather had clouded over and the night became pitch black. We might just have been able to make out the glimmer of breakers on coral in time to avoid disaster if we were very lucky. These are terribly dangerous waters and many ships have been lost here. We are now, however, in the twenty-first century. Unlike our previous voyage in the first TIMESPINNER, this time we were armed with that absolutely magical invention called GPS, Global Positioning System. No more peering anxiously into the darkness ahead, hoping we were where we thought we were. We knew where we were. Approaching Alargado reef, we spotted the breakers at 0100 hours, just when we expected and altered course to pass parallel to Media Luna and Savannah Reefs.
The course change was a great relief because it put the wind and sea on the beam, while at the same time the coral around broke the waves. I could ease the sails out and the boat leaped forward at an easy six knots. Eleven hours later we sighted one of the islands of Vivorillo Reef.
It was only a pile of broken coral with a few palm trees that had seeded themselves there but we thought it would provide some shelter from the waves. We dropped our anchor in eight metres of water but immediately realised that we had made a mistake. There was a gap in the reef just north of the island that was funnelling the seas onto us, making that anchorage impossibly rolly. Hauling anchor is a lot of work but we did it anyway, moving a mile or so north along the reef until we found a sandy bottom, well sheltered in six metres and here we decided to stay. We dropped our anchor, lowered and covered the sails, rigged the cockpit awning and only then could we pour ourselves a glass of rum and sit back with a sigh. That sigh of relaxation after the tension of a passage is one of the most pleasurable moments of sailing. "Home is where the anchor is!"
Almost immediately we were discovered by the local inhabitants, who, in this treeless place, have evidently been feeling terribly deprived of perching places.
It was a constant struggle over the limited room,
while the majestic frigate bird looked haughtily down on the silly antics.
Silly they are, but they are ferocious fishermen
although they apparently thought I was a pretty funny-looking fish and didn't dare come close. 
We could pretty well see all there was to see from our own deck but nevertheless we did make an expedition ashore to stretch our legs. We would have liked to find somewhere deep to look at the underwater scenery, heaped up by the waves.
You can see that the clouds were starting to build up and a few hours later it blew like blazes with horizontal rain.
Next morning, we found that we had company. They must have had an uncomfortable time of it. 
Notice in the picture that Lady Atty carries several dinghies on deck. These boats come over from the mainland to fish for lobsters and the wonderful huge king crabs that we were to enjoy at Guanaja, our next stop.
This leg was 150 nautical miles, a day and a half at a guess, but we left Vivorillo at first light because of our usual anxiety over what if it takes longer than anticipated and we arrive after dark? We needn't have worried. We started with a fine breeze right on the beam which increased and became gusty, so that the self-steering machine would not hold us on course and it was pouring rain. But there were no rocks and reefs along our course and we were making good speed, taking less than thirty hours.
Guanaja is a tiny island, about twenty kilometres by five and although less than fifty kilometres
off the coast of Honduras.
It is protected by a barrier reef all down the windward side, which encloses a quiet lagoon. Entry into the lagoon is not difficult; there are several deep passes through the reef, mostly clearly marked but it is a good idea to pay attention to your navigation and not to rely too much on the GPS!
Almost the entire population lives on a little island in the lagoon called Bonaca.
It's less than half a kilometre across and completely built up.
It's a proper, bustling little town, with all sorts of shops, businesses--and immigration, the reason why we went there first. We had trouble finding the latter because the place is like a rabbit warren and everybody we asked gave contradictory directions. When we did finally find it, it was closed for lunch. So the fat, jolly señora 
made us very good enchiladas. When we finally got to immigration, Marie couldn't resist sneaking round behind the official's desk while he and I were occupied, to take 
this picture. He is probably not very busy most of the time; hence the Nintendo attached to the computer. By contrast, when we departed these Colombian islands, three weeks later, that official was reading his Bible when we entered.
We would have stayed a few days at Bonaca but the anchorage there is bad and I didn't want to stay overnight. Time was getting on and we needed a better anchorage before the light began to fail.
We could see the popular anchorage where several other yachts lay at anchor, just over a mile from where we were as the crow flies but the crow doesn't draw six feet. The actual distance was nearly three miles. We found ourselves in a very pretty little bay with little else there but a charming little pub, The Manatee,
run by a couple of Germans, Annette and Klaus. This became a second home to us during our stay, as it was to all the other yacht people as well as most of the foreign residents. This pretty well means everybody who doesn't live in Bonaca, and even some who do, a cheerful crowd of eccentrics.One acquaintance of note, not an expatriate, was the owner of a fleet of fishing boats like the Lady Atty (although she was not one of his). A most genial chap, who gave us directions to his shop in Bonaca. Accordingly, we made an excursion by water taxi and came home with enough king crab claws to make a feast.
There are no roads in Guanaja but motor boats are used just like cars. Thus quite a few houses, such as this luxurious one owned by an American are built on pilings, with no connection to the shore.
The same applies to this office 
Sitting aboard one afternoon, we were startled to hear the unmistakeable sounds of a dolphin. Sure enough, there was a dolphin lazily circling the boat,
swimming away, returning, diving under the hull and surfacing on the other side. He seemed to appreciate it when we showed signs of recognition and appeared so tame that I wondered what would happen if I got into the water with him but he was not that tame. As soon as I entered the water, he moved away, to return only when I climbed out. Asking at the pub we found out that he had escaped from a delphinarium and had become accustomed to having people about.After the dolphin it was time for a drink and watch the sunset across the lagoon.
We had some nice walks. As I said, the normal mode of transport is the motor boat, but somebody takes the trouble to maintain walking trails. We never found out who. One day, walking westward along the shore and up into the mountain, we encountered this young man
walking with his dog. He had the odd Christian name of Davinci but had no idea where the name came from. He attached himself to our walk and chattered away quite amiably. He showed us where his uncle was building his own house and doing a remarkably fine job. It had a wonderful view over the lagoon. 
The next day we went in the other direction. The views along the shore are spectacular and some optimist had taken advantage of a government grant for the promotion of tourism to build a modern property development.
Probably due to the recession, nothing had sold and the place was starting to look abandoned: rotted holes in the pine decks (here, where teak is almost as cheap as imported softwood!), termite trails up the walls, etc.And then it was Christmas.
The Manatee hosted a big pot-luck dinner to which people came from all over the island, bringing delicious things. There was far more food than the crowd could possibly put away. There was a sort of frontier atmosphere and we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.The barrier reef has a number of little islets strung along it. Most of them are uninhabited, presumably for lack of fresh water, but we were advised to visit Josh's Cay,
where we anchored on white sand in five metres of the clearest water imaginable 
It's a remarkable place because the little islet has been gardened all over, all the vegetation removed except for palm trees, the pure white sand raked and small buildings scattered here and there: a maintenance building, various guest cabins, a beach bar,
etc. Pelicans are always hilarious but this one, obviously used to being fed, more so than most and his long beak creates an amazing study in perspective!
Leaving Guanaja
we made for Roatan, a pleasant day's sailing after a leisurely start. The islands are only ten miles apart and then we had about fifteen miles along the coast of Roatan to arrive just after lunch.
The harbour we arrived in is called Port Royal, a romantic name evoking Port Royal Jamaica, sin capital of the Caribbean, which, in true Biblical fashion, sank without trace in an earthquake. In this Port Royal there was nothing except for a couple of small resorts, accessible only by sea or seaplane.
Entry was a little tricky, for the reefs
) are unmarked, neither are they clearly indicated on the chart and the water there is often murky for some reason, so that the shallows are invisible. We didn't go aground, though at one heart-stopping moment found less than a foot of water beneath our keel.We anchored off a row of pastel-coloured beach cabins
and a larger one that looked as though it might contain a restaurant. Tomorrow being New Year's Eve, we thought to treat ourselves to a meal ashore. We started to put our dinghy in the water to row ashore when a fast motorboat came out to us. This was Terry, the Canadian owner of the resort. He had seen our flag and came to say hello. We asked if he had a restaurant where we might dine ashore tomorrow evening. He told us that they were officially closed, but that they would be happy to feed some fellow Canadians if we didn't mind sharing their meal. They had invited a few people for a party later, so if we cared to stay we would be welcome. The place looked closed but we tried the door and it opened into a very cosy diningroom. We wandered about and were about to leave when the owners appeared, a very friendly couple who told us that the restaurant was indeed closed We explored around. The place was very neat and well kept and obviously set up to accommodate a fair number of guests in high season, 
(F which this was. There was nobody, a story we heard often in our travels. The combination of political instability and the global financial crisis had utterly killed all tourist business. But they were optimistic. They would survive as long as it didn't last too long.New Year's Eve was quite delightful, except for the weather, which was raining cats and dogs, thundering and lightening. We rowed ashore clad head to foot in waterproof gear and were glad to make it to the dry. We had a good dinner in the very pleasant company of our hosts and then the other guests started to arrive, also dripping wet, an amusing crowd and a good time was had by all.
There was another little resort nearby so we went to investigate. This one had one guest and no staff in evidence. He found us a beer each and we wandered about, drinking our beer and waiting for somebody to pay for it. This was a strange place, very rustic, un-luxurious, dedicated to divers but I wonder where the furnishings came from.
Especially the Venetian glass chandelier adorning the palm-thatched ceiling!The other harbour on Roatan is French Harbour, which has a sizeable village and a big hotel complete with a private aeroplane
to take guests on sightseeing excursions. Here there were a few guests, though scarcely a crowd. The main interest of this hotel for us was that they had a good Internet connection.
The bay is wide and open, although we sheltered behind a little islet. As usual, there are unmarked shoals, some of which are on the chart. We found our way in without difficulty but a little later we watched as a charter yacht anchored nearby raised anchor and departed at high speed straight for a shoal that we had carefully skirted and came to a sudden stop. No damage, we thought, until we saw them towed to a dock by the hotel. I think they must have caught a rope in their propeller and broken something.
(Figs. 54 - 57). We felt sorry for them: what a bad start to a holiday!The main town is quite a long walk from the anchorage along a very dirty road full of dilapidated houses and small businesses with unsavoury-looking people hanging about. It was hot and muddy, having rained most of the morning. To our great surprise someone called us by name! It was Patrice, our New Year's Eve hostess visiting the Big City to cure her cabin fever. She invited us to climb in and drove us to the town and showed us her favourite shops. We bought a couple of Bay Island T-shirts.
Returning to the boat, we found to our consternation that it was no longer at anchor but tied up to a little dock on the islet. The boat had started to drag and, as she passed the dock, the people there had put a rope on her. We have had too many anchor dragging incidents, luckily so far without disaster and I resolved to buy a better anchor when we got to civilisation.
They were very nice people living in that isolated spot, a couple with a grown-up daughter and a son of eleven or twelve. They appear to have sort of inherited the place, which was owned by an American couple who ran a small diving resort there, with the couple we met as employees. After the owner's wife was murdered, he ceased coming. They were happy for us to occupy their dock for as long as we wanted and helped us to fill our tanks with fresh water. We had a very big gaudy Portuguese flag (from the Azores) which we gave to the boy. A little later he was proudly parading around the harbour in his little skiff with the big flag.
We visited an iguana farm,
which is a tourist attraction as well as a conservation exercise. Iguanas have the twin misfortunes of being slow and tasty. They don't breed them in the farm but whenever they catch one, instead of cooking it, they put it inside the fence, where they feed them. I don't know how many they have--lots. This isn't an iguana.
He just likes to peep over the wall to see how the other half lives!We stayed a week in Roatan before casting off and weighing anchor for the remaining Bay Island, Utila, some six hours' sailing away. After the usual anxious moments negotiating the passage through the reef we arrived at a charming little place.
The entrance was made more difficult by the fact that, according to the sailing directions, the entrance is 021º compass heading on the church steeple, but somebody had put a large new building hiding the church from sea.Utila had an unfamiliar but pleasant atmosphere and it took us a little while to realize what it was. This was an Irish island. It had not been colonized by blacks transported from Jamaica. Everything is very neat and tidy and it is full of tidy little shops and businesses.
On the main town dock, where we found the office of the Bible-reading customs officer, we encountered this Englishman
and asked habitually which boat he was on, but he wasn't. He spends his time travelling around with his sketchbook and watercolours. We had a nice chat. Nearby we found "The Oldest Dock Bar in Utila"
The harbour is very well sheltered from all directions except the south but southerly gales are fortunately rare. Unfortunately we got one.
It blew hard all night, with heavy seas rolling in through the gap in the reef. We had all our chain out and thank heavens the anchor held. We were quite close to shore and might well have ended up in somebody's livingroom! Several other boats did drag anchor and spent the night motoring around trying to re-anchor. Nobody got much sleep.After that we had had enough of Utila and we just wanted to get away before we got another gale like that. The weather forecast showed that we were in for a period of unstable weather, but the next day did not look too bad and might improve, so we set off westward, up the Gulf of Honduras.
There is a shallow, rock-strewn bank off the end of Utila and on one rock somebody has built his get-away-from-it-all cabin, several miles off the coast. It seems to be very solidly built on concrete piles with a fresh water cistern underneath.
Well, the weather did not improve. The forecast tailwind was a freshening headwind with a rising sea and it began to rain. We could see no need in bashing our heads soft into that and turned back to Utila. It was fortunate that we had marked GPS waypoints as we entered the first time, for by the time we arrived at the entrance through the gap in the reef, the rain and fog had closed in and we could see almost nothing. We groped our way back to our previous anchorage position and dropped our hook, glad to be dry and comfortable.
The weather stayed miserable all the next day but the forecast for the day after was promising. We tried again, with the same result. No rain, but a stiff headwind and a nasty sea that was getting worse and worse. Unwilling to go back to Utila, we looked at our charts and found a little harbour and marina called La Ceiba on the north coast of Honduras, about twenty miles away to the southeast.
Oh, the relief of exchanging 28 knots of headwind for 17 knots astern and the sea besides! Suddenly it was a nice day to be sailing and by lunchtime we were snug alongside in a marina. Getting in there was interesting. To begin with, the entrance is nowhere near where it is shown on the chart. We found out later that the old entrance had silted up, and, rather than dredge it out, they had dug a new one in a more convenient spot. Arriving and finding no entrance, we looked around and spotted these twin breakwaters and guessed that they must mark the entrance.
Once inside, it was by no means obvious where to go.
In fact, the channel is under the bows of the blue, yellow striped boat on the left and it leads to another puzzle
Going very slowly and having to back out and try a different way,we managed to thread our way through the tangle of boats to find ourselves in this idyllic tropical setting
Of course, not everything was idyllic. There is always maintenance to be done in harbour
as well as shopping 
One tends to forget that in these countries violence lies just beneath the surface as the security guard shopping with his automatic riflereminded us.
The supermarket is part of a very large shopping centre that is as modern American, garish and ugly as any to be found. These people seem to be utterly obsessed with American fast food. You would expect to find one or two of these places, but here they were all represented, often side by side. McDonalds, Burger King, Wendy's, KFC, Pizza Hut, etc., etc. ad nauseam. There were also one or two better restaurants. We went to one on our last day in La Ceiba and thereby hangs a tale, to be told in the next chapter.
FRANÇAIS
Un Noel de Pionniers
Guanaja, 25 déc. 2009
La matinée a été laborieuse. Le bateau hebdomadaire de La Ceiba est finalement arrivé après s’être échoué sur les Cayos Cochinos ! Mon frigo était plein de bonnes choses mais comme il ne descend pas en dessous de 10 degrés, j’ai dû préparer des repas à garder dans des Tupperware.
1 livre de crevettes au poivron et lait de coco.
1 autre livre à la vapeur à servir avec ailloli.
1 kg de filets de snapper dans une sauce à la mangue verte, cardamone, ail, oignon, gingembre et piments de Guanaja.
2 livres de King Crabe à la vapeur, mais il a fallu casser la carapace avec tenaille et marteau avant de remettre au frais.
De la sauce piquante à base de lait de coco (Peter) et de piments de Guanaja.
Ce n’est seulement alors que j’ai pu commencer à préparer le dessert que je devais apporter au «pot-luck dinner » organisé au Mandatee. Imaginez des papayes, ananas, pamplemousses, melons et bananes à tremper dans une délicieuse sauce au chocolat pur colombien relevée d’un sirop de cassonade au rhum et épices !
Le « pot-luck » est la formule de réunion entre amis la plus populaire par ici. Sous la coordination d un volontaire, chacun amène un plat et les boissons sont payantes.
Le Manatee. C’est un agréable bâtiment en bois, surélevé par des pilotis et entouré d un deck de vérandas.Il est recouvert par un joli jeu de toits en tôle ondulée. Etabli dans le fond de la baie où nous mouillons, on y accède en dinghy par un petit canal privé. Etant donné qu’il n y a ni route ni piste sur l’île, tout le monde circule en « lanchas ».
Toute la colonie expat était là. Annette et Claus qui nous avaient invités pour la veillée de Noël. (Nous étions 10 en comptant leur fils Laurent, menuisier aux îles Cayman. (Salade de pommes de terre, saucisses allemandes, moutarde, Schnapps et tarte aux pommes!)
Le 25, nous étions une 60taine. Les dit expats et les quelques yachts au mouillage. C’est rare de pouvoir rencontrer les habitants étrangers des lieux que nous visitons. Guanaja est si isolée que même ces gens qui ont tout laissé pour se perdre par ici, sont contents de rencontrer de nouvelles têtes. En plus, nous offrons l’avantage non négligeable de ne faire que passer. Les rapports sont tout de suite chaleureux et directs. On parle de tout, on émet toutes les opinions à bâtons rompus et dans plusieurs langues. Nous amenons les nouvelles de Providencia et Panama, ils nous parlent de la crise politique (du Honduras), de l’ouragan Mitch, de leur vie sans routes ni électricité. Ils vivent comme sur un bateau et nous comme sur une île. Citons en quelques-uns :
Jim. US, plus à droite que mon beau frère, ex Navy. Sa femme et lui ont une maison dans la baie et fabriquent du très bon vinaigre de mangue. Ils en envoient quelques bouteilles, par le truchement d’un yacht en partance vers les San Blas, a des amis navigateurs qui ne peuvent plus s'en passer.
Kathy et Bill, canadiens, elle est d’origine hollandaise. Leur maison est sur l’ile, face à Josh cay. (Ils nous y ont invites par la suite.) C’est un petit paradis, planté dans un jardin tropical, où ils vivent entourés de colibris. Comme partout à Guanaja, on n’y accède qu’en bateau. Ils ne sortent diner que par pleine lune parce qu’autrement le retour (2 MN) se ferait dans l obscurité totale.
Mike et Siddiqa, yogis californiens. Là depuis 3 jours avec leur fils de 8 ans, Ils ont loué une grande maison sur la hauteur et sont venu y installer un centre de retraite, yoga et méditation. Jeunes, beaux, sympathiques et plein de projets d avenir. Espérons que l’ile n’use pas leur belle énergie trop vite !
Les Irlandais de Grand Cayman. Elle ressemble à Agnès et est également potier. Lui est un « barbu soleil ». Ils doivent quitter Cayman tous les 3 mois et en profitent pour aller se balader avec leur voilier. Ça fait 20 ans qu’ils font ça.
Il y avait également David et sa femme qui habitent la Croatie. Il gère et organise des Écoles Internationales en Eu centrale et de l Est. Ils ne viennent qu’à Noel et en été. Leur maison est perchée sur un rocher de la côte nord.
Tous ont construit leur maison avec 100% des matériaux amenés par bateau du Honduras et sans autre électricité que celle fournie par un générateur portable qu’il faut alimenter constamment. Il n y a ni grues, ni tracteurs, ni monte charges. PAS de machines ! On débroussaille à la machette, on plante les arbres fruitiers (dont on a fait germer les graines), on creuse les fondations, nivelle le terrain et mélange les mortiers à la main. Le bois vient du Honduras mais l’ile fournit d excellents menuisiers. La main d’œuvre locale est compétente et fiable.
Le jour de Noel, ils étaient dans leurs familles mais les plus aisés d’entre eux viennent volontiers se mêler aux expats autour du bar du Manatee. Eddy, qui a une flotte de bateaux de pêche sur les bancs du Nicaragua, le maire qui a une usine de conserve de poisson, D’Avinci, gardien d une propriété privée et fournisseur de gibier qu’il traque haut dans la montagne.
Quand aux propriétaires des yachts, citons Candice et Grant, de Las Vegas. Il est guitariste, auteur compositeur et elle est également dans le spectacle. Belle femme, voyante et sympathique. Grant a vécu étudiant, à Salamanca. Un jour, à la terrasse d’un café où il était attablé, est arrivé un guitariste. Après avoir commandé une boisson, l’homme s’est mit à faire des accords et prendre des notes. Après un bon moment, Grant, qui est guitariste également, s’approche et demande s’il peut s’assoir. Bien sûr dit l’autre et ils passent l’après midi à parler musique et à comparer leurs notes. C’est seulement au moment de se quitter qu’ils échangent leurs prénoms.- Me llamo Grant, y ha sido un placer.- Yo soy Andrés y lo he pasado muy bien. -¿Andrés, no serás Andrés Segovia por casualidad? (il faut dire que l’autre était vraiment très bon) -¿Si, como lo sabes?
Il y avait aussi les Canadiens de « Hooligan » et les 2 très gros Australiens « Sunflower ». Elle a l’air juive ou arménienne et est une pâtissière de tout premier ordre !
Laurent et Éliane, les élégants genevois nouveaux propriétaires d’un terrain à bâtir. Ils viennent régulièrement à la voile depuis 5 ans et veulent construire une maison de vacance avec un quai au bout duquel se trouverait leur bateau.
Inutile de préciser qu’avec tant de talents réunis, le buffet était absolument délicieux. La pièce maitresse en étant la dinde enfournée à basse température pendant 12 heures. Mais je ne m’étendrai pas, ayant suffisamment parlé de bouffe !
Les cadeaux échangés étaient en général faits maison. Quilts élaborés point par point tout au long de l’année, confitures de fleur de Jamaïque ou vanille, sauce antillaise faite avec les très savoureux et colorés piments de Guanaja qui poussent sauvages a l intérieur des terres. Nous sommes vraiment TRÈS loin de la société de consommation.
Nouvel An à Port Royal
Roatán, Honduras
Le 31 Déc. 2009 nous trouve à Port Royal, Roatan. Nous sommes le seul yacht. 3 groupes de toitures se distinguent parmi les feuillages le long de la rive. Devant chaque groupe, un quai et un garage à bateaux en bois, derrière eux, les collines couvertes de jungle, aussi sauvage que du temps de Henry Morgan.
L’ancre à peine au fond qu’arrive un canot à moteur surgi d’un garage. A son bord Terry, un Canadien middle age qui s empresse de nous inviter à fêter le nouvel an avec lui, sa femme et quelques amis qui viendraient après le dîner. « –Mais, nous prévient-il, venez à 5.30 h car nous nous couchons à 9 heures ! » http://www.mangocreeklodge.com Ils avaient invite leurs deux voisins, ceux de droite qui assurent le gardiennage de la propriété et regonflent leurs finances avant de continuer leur navigation, et ceux de gauche, qui exploitent leur Ecologic Lodge. Nous acceptons l’aubaine avec d’autant plus d enthousiasme que notre frigo était vide et que nous n avions plus rien à boire !
Comme nous n’avions pas encore déjeuné, nous mettons l’annexe à l’eau et ramons jusqu’au Lodge. Ca n’avait pas l’air très ouvert mais on nous explique que dû à la crise politique du pays et aux tempêtes de neige dans le Nord des USA, ils ont eu des annulations, et que bien qu’ils aient fermé, nous pouvions toujours avoir une bière et visiter les installations à notre guise. On nous dit également de faire attention aux chiens qui sont grands mais pas vraiment méchants. Ce n’est pas ce que nous attendions, mais ca nous permet de nous dégourdir les jambes.
C’est encore une histoire de pionniers : un marais plus ou moins drainé où ces braves gens ont planté cocotiers et bananiers, construit cabanes et huttes et organisé un centre de plongée et d’observations d’oiseaux sans parler des bars et restaurants. Ils vivent là depuis 5 ans, dévorés par les moustiques, avec bébé et grand-père. Cette crise les massacre. La propriétaire, Corinne, est une jolie jeune femme visiblement tendue mais aimable malgré ses problèmes. Le mari se domine moins bien. Nous ne nous attardons pas d’autant plus que le temps se gâte et rentrons sur notre bateau.
A 5 :30 h, au moment de monter dans l’annexe et nous rendre a notre « réveillon », le ciel s’ouvre et décharge la plus torrentielle des pluies tropicales. Après ¼ d‘heure, nous profitons d’une bref sursis pour nous précipiter à terre, nos beaux vêtements au sec sous nos vestes de gros temps.
La salle où ils nous reçoivent se trouve dans un pavillon octogonal aéré par des grandes fenêtres, garnies de moustiquaires. De lourdes persiennes commandées de l’intérieur par un système de cordages, peuvent s’abaisser par grosse pluie. Toutes celles de l’Est sont baissées et la pluie, qui a repris avec force, se fracasse contre la toiture en tôle dans un vacarme assourdissant. La pièce est maigrement éclairée à la pâleur des LEDS. Dommage car le mobilier d’acajou sculpté en formes de fruits et poissons est des plus jolis. Bien sûr il y a de nombreux ventilateurs au plafond, mais on s’empresse de les éteindre car il y a bien assez de vent comme ça. Nos hôtes ne sont pas encore là (il est 6 :00 h !) mais la servante nous offre un apéritif et nous installe autour d’une table chargée de livres de tourisme.
C’est ainsi que nous apprenons le sort de « Fantôme » la goélette a 4 mats, construite dans les années 20 pour le duc de Westminster. Voir http://www.fortogden.com/fantommiamiherald.html pour l'histoire. Vendue dans les années 80 à un centre touristique qui lui fit subir de grosses transformations, elle a perdu beaucoup des qualités marines qui lui auraient donné une chance de survie quand elle a rencontré Mitch. C’était il y a 11 ans, Mitch déplaçait tout doucement ses vents de 200 km/h au sud de Roatan. « Fantôme » et les 30 personnes à son bord ont étés engloutis. Un pécheur crevettier a entendu les Maydays mais personne n’aurait pu les secourir dans de telles conditions…
Nos hôtes et leur beau et grand chien noir font leur entrée, amenés par une rafale de vent. Terry et Patrice (Patrice est une dame toute rondelette et souriante). Ils excusent leur retard dû à une inhabituellement bonne connexion Internet. Ce sont d’anciens navigateurs. Ils habitent ici et au Colorado. Nous dînons à 4 d’une casserole de fruits de mer façon Garifuna. La version locale du Rondon de Providencia, rehaussée de langoustes. Un régal ! Le repas à peine termine, les voisins gardiens font leur entrée. Ils ont une fille de 2 ans toute blonde et menue, appelée Max-Emily !!! Il est Australien et elle est Maltaise et Américaine. La petite va à la cuisine où la cuisinière lui sert un grand verre de Coca. La mère, Patrice et moi la gardons à l œil car le verre est vraiment très grand, très plein et la petite très petite et, la caféine aidant, de plus en plus turbulente. Les conversations vont bon train et nous avons peine à croire que nous ne connaissions aucun d’entre eux il y a une heure ! Nous attendons les voisins du Lodge pour sabler le Champagne, mais ils n arrivent pas. Après tout à 8 heures du soir ici il est déjà 1 heure du matin en Europe. La petite Max veut faire boire du Coca au chien et celui-ci gronde. On appelle en vain les voisins à la VHF. Peter et l’Australien parlent bateaux. Terry me parle de ses plantations. Patrice et la Maltaise organisent leurs navettes de la semaine. Il pleut toujours. Finalement les voisins appellent pour dire de ne pas les attendre, ils ne viendront pas.
Alors le petit groupe se resserre autour de nous et nous raconte : Corinne et son mari hébergeaient un jeune anglais, frère d’un ami, qui essayait de se débarrasser de son addiction aux drogues. Le garçon avait 28 ans et bien que pas très débrouillard, il donnait un coup de main dans ce Lodge ou le travail abonde. Le soir de Noel, il a pris le hors bord, sans doute pour aller à la ville principale. La zone est parsemée de dangereux récifs coralliens et sans connaissance locale, mieux vaut avoir un GPS. Non seulement il est parti sans prévenir, mais en plus on a vu par la suite qu’il a embarque un réservoir de combustible de rechange, plein de diesel et non d’essence ! Tout ce qu’on sait est que le hors bord a été retrouve à la dérive 2 jours plus tard avec personne à son bord. Il avait visiblement heurté un récif et il manquait un gilet de sauvetage. Les avions des gardes côtes sillonnaient les côtes depuis, dans le vain espoir de le retrouver vivant. Les parents et le frère étaient au Lodge et s apprêtaient à rentrer en Angleterre. Sur ce on entend un aboiement suivit d un hurlement : c est la petite qui s est fait mordre au visage. Le chien reçoit la raclée de sa vie et est jeté dehors sous la pluie. La petite est ensanglantée, nous sommes tous affolés, mais heureusement après nettoyage on constate que ce n’est qu’une coupure d’un cm sous l’œil.
C en est trop : le naufrage, la tempête, la faillite à la porte, l’enfant dévisagé, la raclée au chien, le drogué mangé par les requins, les horribles moustiques, les boas constrictors, les fourmis carnivores, les pluies, les projets abandonnes, la misère, les montagnes d’ordures….Assez, assez, arrêtez. Ou est la réalité des Caraïbes, sur les plages de sable blanc bordées de cocotiers, ou bien derrière ce beau décor ?
The Nicaragua Bank
Décembre 2009
J étais pleine d’appréhensions à l’idée de nous aventurer dans cette zone, tant les cartes de navigation, comme la littérature et les récits de marins, la décrivent comme très dangereuse et difficile pour la navigation. Pour les américains qui naviguent dans la région il est connu comme « The Nic Bank », mais son nom officiel est « Miskito Bank », référence à la tribu amérindienne qui peuple les côtes du Nicaragua.
Un banc de 18m de profondeur longe la côte du Nicaragua du Nord au sud et s étend vers l’Est sur 70 miles nautiques. Si l’on consulte une carte maritime, on constate que le relief sous-marin est terriblement accidenté et encore très actif géologiquement, qu’il y a beaucoup de haut fonds et de récifs pas répertoriés. Il y a des zones où il est carrément déconseillé de naviguer la nuit.
Curieusement, les GPS peuvent même causer des accidents car, s’ils sont d’une exactitude infaillible, les cartes ne le sont pas toujours. Les récifs portent des noms évocateurs du genre “ Cayos Cojones”,” Quita Sueño Reef”,” El Roncador” et “ Cabo Gracias a Dios” ! De quoi avoir envie de rentrer chez soi.
Au bord du banc la profondeur passe brusquement de 60 pieds à 3000 pieds. Etant donnée que la mer des caraïbes est en fin de course, vous voyez ce que ca peut donner...Ca c’est pour ce qui en est des vagues, passons aux courants. Quand la mer heurte le banc, toute cette eau freinée par la falaise sous marine doit bien aller quelque part et c’est ainsi que se forment de formidables courants qui sont finalement assez imprédictibles. Dans notre cas ils seraient contraires au début du voyage, puis favorables quand on navigue de Panama vers le nord mais ce n’est jamais sûr. C’est une mer particulièrement chaotique, violente et désordonnée.
Bref, après avoir étudié toutes les routes et envisagé tous les scénarios, nous décidons que nous devrions faire 5 nœuds pendant 98 m.n. vers le N-N/W vent de coté, et vers 24 :00h, virer pour faire 76 m.n. vers l‘E, vent arrière. Heureusement que les profs de math voyagent en train et pas en voilier !
J’avais préparé des rations bien bourratives pour alimenter Peter pendant la traversée, prévoyant être malade tout le temps et en hibernation pendant la durée des festivités.
Et bien rien du tout, ca s’est passé divinement. Il y avait juste le vent nécessaire, la mer était toute plate, nous étions éclairés par la lune et nous avons pu faire 7 nœuds de moyenne ! Sommes arrives a Vivorillo de très bonne heure, jette l´ancre et avons sauté à l’eau pour une longue baignade bien méritée.
