As another day and night rolled by with still no sighting of land or other boats in any direction, Larry announced that he wanted to make a slight detour to a remote and little-visited reef called Banco Nuevo. They were south of Jamaica now and this deviation would take them on a southwesterly heading for about 175 miles.
“I’ve always wanted to stop there and check it out, but never had the time,” Larry said. “The Casey Nicole can get in there to the protection of the reef with no problem. The fishing will be fantastic, like that place we stopped on the Cay Sal Bank, remember Doc?”
“I remember the boat that chased us. The men on it that were shooting at us.”
“It didn’t work out so well for them, did it? You don’t have to worry about that at this place. There’s nothing there, just a couple of tiny cays with nothing on them but grass.”
“Is it worth stopping then?”
“I think it is, because we can spend a couple of days doing some fishing. Like we did before, we can dry fish on the tramps and decks. It might come in handy since we’re running so low on supplies. It may take some time to explore the San Blas to find the right place to hang out a while. It would be better if we didn’t show up hungry. Besides, I’m thinking a nice stockpile of fish might come in handy for trading with the Kuna.”
“Won’t they likely already have all the fish they can use?” Casey asked.
“Maybe, but maybe not. At least if we have a surplus we can offer them some. And we won’t have to ask them for food.”
“That’s good thinking,” Grant said. “Nothing would make them want us to leave more than showing up there with nothing but seven more mouths to feed. We’ve got to be self-sufficient, and it would be better if we could give them something they want.”
“Like what?” Jessica asked.
“Useful things, like tools, fishing gear, clothing, weapons…”
“The very things we can’t really spare,” Artie added.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Larry said. “But if everyone is okay with this stop, I think it will be to our advantage to check out Banco Nuevo. It may be the best fishing we’ll ever see.”
Mindy certainly didn’t mind the stop. As much as she liked the way the Casey Nicole sailed and handled the seas, this was already a much longer passage than she’d ever done. A break of couple of days would be nice. Larry said the final leg to the San Blas from this reef would then be around 350 miles. She figured she could handle that after all she’d been through.
* * *
“I don’t like the looks of that one bit,” Tara said, passing her binoculars over to Brian. They had been anchored in the lee of the tip of Acklins Island, just north of a detached, small cay called Castle Island, for nearly two days, having arrived there late the next afternoon after sailing all night from Flamingo Cay. Tara had felt good about the place at first sight, particularly since Brian and his parents had spent quite a bit of time there recently without issues. Now she was worried though. She knew it was just a coincidence, but a large fishing boat that looked very much like the one that had appeared the afternoon before Pocket Change was stolen had arrived from the north and dropped anchor less than a mile away. “I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight knowing they’re there,” she said, as Brian studied the boat and passed the binoculars in turn to his father.
“What should we do?” Holly asked. “It’s going to be dark in another three hours. Should we move to another anchorage?”
“Where?” Charles asked. “They’ll see us if we do, and can easily follow and overtake us if they want to.”
“We don’t know that they’re a threat at all,” Brian said. “They could be just harmless fishermen.”
“We assumed that last time, and look where it got us! No offense to you, Tara. We’re enjoying you’re company, but you know what I mean.”
“Then we have a decision to make,” Tara said. “I know we talked about staying here a bit longer, since it’s so nice here, but I think it’s time to reconsider that now. I think it’s time to leave.”
“For Panama?” Holly asked.
“Yes. We’ve had a chance to rest and recuperate. You’ve all seen how it is sailing and living on this boat. It’s worked out fine as far as I’m concerned and we’ve caught lots of fish since we stopped here. Even if that boat hadn’t arrived, it would be time to move on soon, so what do you think? Are you going with me or not?”
“I vote for going,” Brian said.
“And I concur. What do you say, Holly? Are you ready to see some more of the world? We’ve been cruising the Bahamas for nearly five years now. How about we go somewhere new for a change?”
“It’s not like we have much choice, do we Charles. We can’t ask Tara to put herself and Rebecca at risk to stay here for us, and I don’t want to be left ashore here. Considering that we don’t have anything else to lose but our lives, then why not?”
Tara was relieved to hear it. The last thing they needed to do was argue when whoever was watching them from that fishing boat could be making plans to attack even now. Her sailboat might not be as attractive as Wilsons’ big, extravagant trawler, but any boat was a potential target for anything of use that might be aboard it. She would feel a lot better being at sea tonight even if it was rough, than sitting here in the dark and fretting with the rifle in her hands as she wondered if and when they would come.
“Let’s get out of here without delay, then. We’ve still got time to clear those reefs around Castle Island before sunset. We’ll sail south a while to get well away from land and then take our tack to get our easting.”
They had already poured over the big chart Tara had on board that showed the entire Caribbean Basin. It was obvious they were going to have to make some distance to the east in order to sail south through the Windward Passage. Larry had shown them his proposed route as well, and Tara and the Wilsons were working partly from memory since Tara didn’t have detailed charts for any of the waters beyond the Bahamas. It was going to be scary approaching land in the San Blas Archipelago, because they were going to totally have to wing it and navigate by visual cues alone. Charles and Holly had lots of experience with this from their years of cruising though, despite all the high-tech equipment they had on board. They liked to gunkhole and explore, so they frequently wandered into poorly charted waters and had seldom had a problem, even in their much bigger vessel.
Although they watched it anxiously the entire time they were getting the anchor in and the sails hoisted and trimmed, the fishing boat stayed put. Tara frequently glanced over her shoulder to make sure as they sailed away from the anchorage. Maybe it hadn’t been necessary to leave because of the boat, but it was a good excuse to get going. She knew the longer they stayed there, with good fishing and nice weather, the harder it would be to get moving again. Larry had warned her about this. He said most pleasure cruisers suffered from it—the inertia that overcame them once they found a nice place to stop. He never had that problem, because for him sailing was his work, and time was money. He couldn’t afford to waste it sitting in a harbor when a client was waiting on a delivery. Larry knew what he was doing, Tara had to admit. It was too bad they’d gotten off on the wrong foot, but she thought maybe things would be different the next time she saw him. She would have to concede that she’d been wrong not to listen to him about leaving, but Larry didn’t strike her as the kind of man that would rub her face in her mistakes. She just hoped she could find him again.
Thirty
LARRY FELT GREAT AS he steered the Casey Nicole due south away from the reefs of Banco Nuevo. They had found the remote, atoll-like reef as deserted as he’d expected, the only manmade structure there an abandoned and rusty lighthouse tower that stood on one of the low cays. Using the kayak and the masks and snorkels aboard the catamaran, the crew had taken turns fishing and diving for conch and lobster. Their efforts had netted them all the fresh seafood they could eat while they were there, and so many fillets to dry in the sun that
they’d had to stop when they ran out of deck space and rigging from which to hang them. After three days and nights at anchor, Larry was glad to be at sea again and eager to find out if their next destination was going to turn out to be a viable refuge. If it did, he realized with some misgiving that this final 350-mile leg would be his last long voyage for the foreseeable future. If Larry had been alone, or perhaps alone with Jessica in this situation, his restless nature would no doubt prompt him to keep sailing to farther horizons, exploring what was left of the world in a post-technological age, but that wasn’t feasible with such a large crew. He hoped they could be part land-based for a while, because the boat needed finishing, not to mention all the repairs from the damage sustained since they first launched it. He was certain that even if they did find a place to stay in the San Blas, there would be ample opportunity for short sailing excursions, especially fishing expeditions to keep the crew fed.
As the miles fell astern and they drew nearer to the Isthmus of Panama, Larry was not surprised to find the waters of the southwestern Caribbean devoid of traffic. It was highly unlikely that the Panama Canal was operating, and by now any ships bound there from the Atlantic would be waiting somewhere near the coast, if they had been able to get there at all. With nothing coming through from the Pacific, there was little chance of an encounter other than maybe another cruising sailboat or native vessel. Larry suspected the latter would be much more likely the nearer to the coast they got. The mainland coast of Columbia to the east of the San Blas had a particularly bad reputation as a danger spot for cruisers for decades. Drug smuggling and piracy had been rampant there, especially in the more remote regions. Larry didn’t see why the folks involved in that would bother with the San Blas Islands though, as there was little there to steal among the widely dispersed Kuna villages where the people lived a simple life with few possessions.
The trades proved reliable the rest of the way across the Caribbean and they were nearing landfall late on their third day after putting to sea from Banco Nuevo. “We’ll have to slow down and stand off until morning,” Larry announced, even though there was still no land in sight on the horizon ahead. “Without GPS or detailed charts, we’re going to need daylight to approach.”
Larry hated it when the end of a passage worked out this way, as it often did even before when he was doing deliveries. Many times he’d had to heave-to and spend a miserable night out in the rain, waiting for the tide to change or daylight to arrive in order to negotiate a tricky harbor entrance. It always tested his patience, but it was a fact of life with sailing. He was anxious to see the San Blas and ready for tomorrow to come. They kept to their rotating watch though, sailing another six hours under reefed main and foresail until Larry estimated that they needed to heave-to and wait.
When dawn broke, he brought the boat back through the wind and turned south again, keeping a lookout for land ahead. Grant climbed the ratlines on the starboard shrouds to get a better view, and shortly after sunrise gave the much-anticipated call:
“LAND HO! I see islands dead ahead!”
Twenty minutes later, they were all staring at the cluster of small islets in the distance.
“They’re all covered in coconut palms!” Casey shouted.
“They are so little, though!” Jessica said.
“They won’t all be. We’re just looking at the outer cays. There are hundreds of them. Some are much bigger than others.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mindy said. “Like the South Seas dream you see on a post card!”
She was right. The little white sandy islets with their tall, waving palm trees looked like the stereotypical images of paradise so often seen in travel magazines and advertising brochures selling the idea of a tropical escape. These islands looked the part much more so than the Bahamas, all of them lush and green, tiny and deserted. As they drew closer, more islands materialized beyond the first ones, and stretched off to the horizons, both east and west. It was like they had entered a constellation of them, new vistas unfolding the deeper they probed.
“So, where do we stop? That one looks amazing!” Jessica said, pointing to a crescent-shaped beach on the north end of the nearest island to starboard.
“It does like nice,” Larry said. “I could hang my hammock right over the water, couldn’t I?” The coconut palms on the beach were growing almost horizontally, reaching far out over the water before their trunks bent to lift their feathery crowns skyward. A hammock slung between a couple of them would certainly be an idyllic place for a nap, but Larry wanted to go on a bit farther. He wanted to make sure there were no boats around, or a Kuna village that might object to their trespassing. It would also be nice to find a larger island, one that had a source of water. He knew there were some here like that, but also that those were more likely to be inhabited by the natives.
“Hey, there’s something over there!” Artie pointed to another island to port. Just within the shade of the trees was a thatched-roof house or hut, but there was no sign anyone was around.
“It could be abandoned or maybe it’s just a camp used by fishermen when they come out here,” Larry said. But when they passed by the south end of the island, they could see that there was another, larger one in the distance to the southeast. And from somewhere among the palms beyond its wide beaches, the smoke from cooking fires was clearly visible.
“A village!” Grant said.
“What should we do? Do we need to turn around before they see us?” Artie asked.
“Too late for that now,” Larry said, after having a look through the binoculars Mindy had given him. “Take a look.” Larry passed the glasses to his brother as he let the sails luff for a moment, thinking.
“Those look like dugout canoes!” Artie said. “Do they still use those here?”
“Yep. Here and in a lot of places on the mainland in these parts.”
“They’re definitely coming this way. Should we get out of here?”
“And go where? We didn’t come all this way to turn around and go back.”
“He’s right,” Grant said. “We need to talk to them. If some of them speak Spanish I can handle it.”
Larry turned to Scully, who was standing in the starboard hull companionway. “Keep the shotgun and a couple of rifles close at hand. We don’t want them to see them unless we need to use them though. We don’t want to appear threatening in any way, but if they attack…”
“We’d be screwed,” Grant finished for him. “Look how many there are. I’d say we better do our best to negotiate this peacefully.”
Larry looked where Grant was pointing now and saw more of the canoes appear from wherever the first two came from. As he studied them through the binoculars, it became apparent that each dugout was nearly 30-feet long, and each carried half a dozen men. In the front of the lead canoe stood a man with a rifle in hand, apparently directing the paddlers as they swiftly closed in on the Casey Nicole. By the time the first two canoes drew within hailing distance, Larry counted a total of seven of them, all with the same complement of paddlers. He had no doubt that more rifles were readily available to the others, and like Grant said, if they couldn’t negotiate this, they were screwed, and it was mostly in Grant’s hands, one way or the other. Having lived in several Spanish-speaking countries during his childhood as his parents moved about between anthropology projects in South America, Grant was fluent in the language. Larry could only hope some of these Kuna were as well.
He asked Artie and the girls to drop the luffing sails as he stayed at the helm, trying to keep the bows towards the approaching canoes as Grant went forward to greet them. From all his time spent in the Spanish-speaking parts of the Caribbean, like Culebra, where he and Scully had built the Casey Nicole, Larry certainly understood and spoke a little Spanish. He recognized the greetings Grant exchanged with the man who seemed to in charge of the little dugout fleet, and he could tell when the man’s questioning as to why they were here began. Beyond that, the rest of the fast-paced conversation was
lost on him.
He couldn’t help but notice that most of the Kuna men in the canoes were talking amongst themselves about his boat. This was obvious by the way they pointed out details to each other, like the short gaffs attached to the tops of the now-lowered sails, the rope hinges of the lashed on rudders, and the graceful sweep of the sheer to the sharp bows, that were not unlike the prows of their hand-carved vessels. Larry couldn’t tell if they were making jokes about his workmanship or if their attention to the details was admiration. The Tiki 36, like all Wharram catamarans, was based on the Polynesian double canoes that had been in use in the Pacific for thousands of years. Like most native watercraft, those ancient sailing canoes were derived from improvements upon simple dugouts like the ones these men paddled. Larry had heard that many of the Kuna canoes carried sails, and looking closer at these he saw that a couple of them were fitted with mast steps even though they were not presently rigged.
“This is Mateo,” Grant said, turning to Larry as he motioned for him to come forward for introductions. “He is the sahila for the settlement on that island there.” Grant pointed to the densely forested island in the distance where they’d first noticed the smoke from a village.
Horizons Beyond the Darkness Page 20
