This adventure has previously been posted on my boating blog, but it also is appropriate as travel commentary.
When I was on active duty in the US Navy, 1966-68, I
initially attended navigation school in San Diego. The subject was interesting enough to me that
I continued to study available nautical
references onboard the two ships on which I served. Spending
many hours per day on the ship’s
bridge deck for months at a time (crossing the Pacific twice, navigating
the Mekong Delta, patrolling the Vietnam coast and Gulf of Tonkin, and
cruising to Japan for maintenance) provided plenty of
time for such review.
Later, in
1976 while visiting Hawaii, I picked up a reference on Polynesian navigation
techniques (We, the Navigators) to
help understand how the early voyagers were able to find their way in the
ocean’s vastness. In late 1980, our
family was living in Panama. My dental assistant and her husband were buying a used 44’ trawler (single diesel engine)
in Florida which they intended to bring to Panama to live and cruise on. They asked me if I would act as navigator for
the trip from Miami to Colon, Panama.
They offered to pay for my flight to Miami, which I
declined. If I were to do this, I wanted it to be from a sense of friendship rather than any monetary obligation. I provided a list of the different nautical
charts, references, and instruments which would be necessary for such a trip. My assistant’s husband, Charles, was a
retired US Navy diver who now worked for the Panama Canal Company. He was to fly to Miami and spend one week
examining and preparing the boat, including obtaining the necessary navigation
supplies, before we left port. He was
one very tough individual and totally fearless.
He recruited a third crew member, Bill, who I hadn’t previously met but who
seemed like a solid character. It would
be just the three of us on a quick voyage back to Panama.
I had talked to one of my patients, then employed as a canal
pilot, who had previously been a Caribbean charter captain. He gave me a route recommendation, which
appeared reasonable, and loaned me his sextant.
I flew to Miami on a Saturday in early December, took a cab to the yacht
basin, and was prepared to leave harbor the following morning. Upon arrival, I asked about the navigational charts and references and was stunned to discover that none of the
publications I requested had been purchased because it was now December 6, and
the contained data was only good through the end of the year.
They were deemed too expensive to obtain for
such a short period of use, but without the sight reduction tables, the
sextant was useless. Also, only one
chart had been obtained. It was an
overall chart showing Miami toward the top edge and Panama at the bottom
edge. With such a large area to cover,
the chart lacked any detail of depths and features of the various
coastlines. Additionally, the trawler
had only been maneuvered on various headings once to check the accuracy and
deviation of the compass. The boat was
equipped with a radar set, but the range was only a few miles. LORAN coverage of the southern Caribbean was
lacking at that time, and GPS had not yet been invented. This was shaping up to be quite a challenge,
and I was glad I had some knowledge of navigation without dependency on
instruments.
Twelve-foot swells off the stern of the 44' trawler in the Gulf Stream.
Checking on supplies, the trawler was almost empty with very
little on board for ballast, just some groceries, a few tools, and our suitcases. Our only refrigeration was a single large ice
chest. On Sunday morning, we set out on
our adventure. The first leg was to
follow the coast of Florida southwest to Key West, then head straight south to
the coast of Cuba. The hurricane season
officially ends November 30; we were now in December but encountering strong
winds. As we headed south from Key West
we were headed into night, crossing the Gulf Stream with a strong current from
the west opposing strong wind from the southeast which made for large, steep
waves against our under-ballasted hull.
Forty-four feet may sound like a large vessel, but, on the open ocean, it
is a tiny presence. The strong wind
created a surface haze of spray allowing very limited visibility.
Instead of an enclosed bunk, I had a bed to
(try to) sleep in at night. I tried to
hold onto the bed, wrapping my arms and legs around the mattress while resting, but was completely thrown out of the bed once
by the lurching hull. Once I heard a
scream from Bill, “We are going over!” as the boat slid sideways down the face
of a wave with the rudder seemingly useless.
Fortunately, before we were rolled in a trough by the next wave, the
rudder finally caught hold and the bow came around sufficiently to face
it. When it was my time to go on watch,
I filled a paper cup with water and held it in my hand. If I were to fall asleep, I would drop the
cup, and it would be my alarm. It
worked. Everyone needed what rest they
could get; there was no asking someone else to take part of your watch.
We were glad to see the morning but were now presented with
a new problem. Our large chart showed no
detail of the Cuban coast. As we
continued south, we wanted to approach the coast as a navigational reference
but not get so close that Cuban gunboats would escort us into port. The solution was Polynesian navigation using
cloud formations. Distinctive cloud
formations are found over islands.
Although we never actually saw Cuba, we followed its cloud formations
west along the coast while staying offshore.
As evening set in, we were ready to jump off from the west
end of Cuba toward Mexico. It is an easy
dead reckoning exercise (hard to miss Mexico) but it also meant re-crossing the
Gulf Stream as it flows north. We
subtracted a few degrees from our compass course to allow for the current and
set off into the night. The next morning,
we sighted Isla Mujeres and pulled into port for refueling. That afternoon we headed back out to sea with
Cozumel to starboard and the Swan islands as our next intended waypoint.
Heading
southeast, we encountered rising wind
and waves from the northeast. As the hull angled into the face of each
oncoming wave, it was obvious that the "thump, thump, thump" sound of
the big single diesel slowed significantly. The engine was losing
power. Upon inspection it was discovered that
sludge, stirred up from the diesel fuel we just received, was clogging the fuel
filter. The engine was being starved for fuel. To
clean the fuel filter, we needed to stop the engine. Then it was discovered that the alternator, used to charge the batteries, was not working. The batteries were very low on electrical
charge. If we stopped the engine, it was doubtful that the batteries held enough current to restart it.
It was time to change course and our plan.
We
turned to run with the wind toward the southwest for a
smoother ride and slowed boat speed slightly to match the speed of the
waves and reduce engine load. We shut off almost all electrical
equipment
to save the batteries, and Charles went down in the belly of the boat,
holding
electrical wires by hand on the batteries until the battery acid started
to
bubble, in an attempt to recharge the batteries. Through the night we steered manually, using a
flashlight to read the compass, and no running lights. When
it was my turn to lie in bed, I wondered what the future would hold if that
engine stopped; what bit of shoreline or reef would the drifting hull crunch
coral on? Fortunately, the engine kept "thumping".
Isla Mujeres, Mexico, 1980. I include the date because several years later a disease hit the island and killed all the palm trees there. Hopefully by now, the palm trees are healthy and growing again.
The next morning, we could see some of the Bay Islands near
the coast of Honduras in the distance off our port side. The wind and waves were still strong. Charles thought that the downwind island was
Roatan and suggested we aim for it. I
pointed out that if he was wrong, we would be unable to work our way back to
any of the islands further upwind. So we
angled our course to port and headed for the nearest island. It turned out to be Roatan. The old wooden wharf was on the lee side of
the island, allowing us to get out of the wind and motor quietly up to the dock
(where I was to receive quite a surprise).
I was standing on the bow, dock line in hand, peering intently at the
dock’s shabby state with substantial holes punched in its gray, wooden-planked
surface. I wanted to make sure that when
I leaped to the dock to tie up, I didn’t put a foot through one of those
holes. Suddenly, a young black man came
out on the dock, and his first words, in clear English were, “Hey, did you hear
that John Lennon was shot and killed?”
Here I thought I was in some remote place far from the beaten path, and
I was getting the latest news in my own language! Mainland Honduras inhabitants speak Spanish,
but on the Islands, they speak English due to previous British influence. In Roatan we were able to get an alternator from a wrecked yacht which Charles and Bill then
installed. The fuel filter was also
cleaned, and we had a good meal and rest at anchor before leaving the next morning.
Dixon Cove, Roatan, 1980. Local transport in a dugout canoe. Seldom seen there today; we did see some of these hollowed-out log watercraft in Panama, but they were generally much larger (bigger trees?).
We are looking at the biggest nightclub in the town of Roatan, 1980. Today, the area is more presentable but still somewhat shabby.
We cruised east along the Honduran coast taking turns on
watch. The following morning when I came
up on deck, I was immediately concerned.
I looked down at the ocean and saw churned brown water. I yelled to Charles that we were in too
shallow of water and were in danger of running aground. He replied that the radar range he had taken
indicated that we were a sufficient distance from the beach. I pointed out that the radar was not being
reflected from the gently sloping sand beach, but from a line of tall palm
trees several hundred yards behind the beach.
We immediately turned out to sea until we were in clear blue water. Later that day we passed Cabo Gracias a Dios
which held a lesson for us. The Cabo is
the outlet of a major river marking the border between Honduras and
Nicaragua. A submerged tongue of silt, an invisible
delta, stretches miles out to sea at this location. You can be miles from the coast and still run
aground in very shallow water. Several
shipwrecks stood as evidence.
From here we headed south and slightly east out on the open
seas, away from the Nicaraguan coast, with the next intended waypoint being the
island of San Andres. The weather was
now good, and we were able to troll and catch fish for dinner. Our ice chest no longer had any ice or fresh
food, so the fish was appreciated. We
were again dead reckoning [basically following a compass course allowing for
expected currents and other influences] for navigation. We never actually saw San Andres but were
again aided by Polynesian navigation using wave patterns.
Ocean waves obey the same principles of
physics as other types of waves. When ocean waves or swells reach an island, the lines of wave crests are slowed causing a diffraction or bent
angle toward the shallow water; on the lee side of a small island, you will see a
cross-hatched pattern of waves from being diffracted around both ends of the
island. This phenomenon extends for
miles downstream from the land. Our
intended path was planned so that if we didn’t actually sight the island we would
pass on its lee side, and that is what happened. Watching the wave pattern closely, you could
see the oncoming waves transition to a cross-hatched pattern as we passed on
the lee side of San Andres and then resume their undisturbed linear pattern as
we came back into the clear. Observing
such a pattern, we knew where we were.
For the ancient navigators on the Pacific Ocean, you can understand
how important it was for them to understand natural phenomena to expand the “target
size” of the islands they were seeking. From
an ocean liner, at some height above the water, the horizon is distant, but
from the deck of a small boat the horizon may be only 2-3 miles away. When I was in the US Navy and we were
approaching Midway Island, we had the advantage of a huge radar array atop a
tall mast and still only detected the low-lying island from about 15 miles
away. The Polynesian navigators
understood clouds and waves and had memorized the passing star groupings in an
ever-revolving sky with its seasonal variations so that the stars provided a map
to follow. Additionally, they knew the
seasonal direction of swells (separate from waves), the patterns of bird
flights, as well as other more subtle influences, and had memorized the legends
of previous voyages. Think of it as
their equivalent of an advanced college degree.
I had only learned a few of their “beginner” topics.
On a calm evening at sea, we continued southeast toward the
coast of Panama. I miss-judged slightly
in estimating the coastal currents; when we sighted the Panama coast the next
day, we were 10-20 miles east of the Colon harbor entrance. But
it was a familiar coast, where my wife and I had
spent numerous snorkeling and sailing trips, and only a short cruise to
correct
our position. During the trip, each of us had been emotionally
self-contained. We simply focused on the mechanics of getting through
each day. No long conversations; no sharing of concerns. I still
didn't know Bill's background, and he didn't know mine. However, at the
entrance to the
harbor Bill turned to me and said, “If I were to meet
someone who wanted to do the same trip with me as crew, I would charge
them at
least $2000.” [Remember, these were 1980 dollars] I turned to him and said,
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing, and I came up with the same price.”
Back in Colon harbor. Our children were quite young at the time. My daughter told me, "Daddy, we need to get you home and take the yuckies off your face."
Months later, my wife Dawn and I would cruise with Charles
and Jean to the San Blas Islands where we did run aground with their trawler,
but that is another story.
