The Curse of the Lost White City

by James Gray

  The boat I chose was a heavy, oceangoing fifty-foot schooner with two oversized, identical masts. For harnessing the wind, as many as four sails could be used at once. Down in the engine room, there was an eighty horsepower auxiliary diesel, a necessary evil. The hull was made of quarter-inch plates of steel, built to travel a long way and to withstand most conditions the wind and the waves could offer. But to be honest, after three days alone at sea fighting with the elements, the boat wasn’t the problem; I was. Perhaps I had become a little soft while hanging around the bar at Puerto Baracoa. Or maybe I was just getting older, because the strain and fatigue of sailing alone was beginning take its toll. I needed a break and I was almost out of food, so as the boat took care of itself, I went inside, made another tea and studied the chart to look for shelter. A little further down the Yucatán Coast was a wide pass through a reef that led into Bahía de la Ascensión, a wide deep-water bay that seemed well-protected. Once inside, I figured that I could rest up a little, pick up some supplies, then continue on southward toward Honduras. I punched in a new waypoint on the GPS and eased off. Ten long hours later, Numada motored into the calm waters of the turquoise lagoon just in front of the village of Punta Allen. However, just before I let the anchor go, the engine suddenly quit. The temperature gauge was up in the red indicating that the machine had overheated. To try and restart it was out of the question, so I dropped the eighty-pound hook with a splash, and as the chain rattled out, the boat slowly turned windward.

  In the fading dusk, I could see a half a dozen small fishing boats hauled up on the beach beside some drying nets. Tucked in behind a cluster of swaying palm trees sat a row of small houses. It all seemed calm and peaceful, a good place to spend the night and maybe even longer, but I had other plans. After more rattling, I locked off the windlass and a hundred feet of chain links went tight. The anchor was stuck fast to the bottom. With a sigh, I cracked open a beer, sat on the cabin roof and listened to the sounds of the small waves breaking on the beach a few hundred yards away, but soon my thoughts brought me back to reality.

  After finishing off my brew, I lifted up the engine cover, grabbed a flashlight and started probing around. Right away I saw the problem, well, one of the problems. A section of the engine cooler had split open, and seawater was siphoning out, a major issue because with the cooler gone, the engine would always overheat and shut down. Then I spotted some more trouble; the head gasket was leaking oil. As my eyes followed the trail of dark lube that dripped down toward one of the engine mountings, the old French axiom Jamais deux sans trois (Bad things happen in threes) came to mind. I could clearly see that one of the fixtures holding the engine to its base had broken off. The big block was now attached by three suspension mountings instead of four. It became clear at that moment that the rest of the trip down to Puerto Cortés would have to be done completely under sail. But that was okay, as sailing was the boat’s primary function. However, sometimes the engine came in handy when times were tough, or for docking, or going against a strong current. For my adventure out to the Mosquito Coast, these things would certainly have to be fixed, and that would mean more delays and, of course, more expenses at the shipyard in Puerto Cortés. At that moment, the image of a friend of mine came to mind. His name was Chief, or the Chief, depending on the situation. The Chief had spent a good part of his life looking after the great engines that ran ships like the Bay Island Trader. I had first met him years ago just after I had bought my boat. Numada had been dockside, stuck in a small fishing port on the Saint Lawrence River, and, you guessed it, it had engine problems and I felt kind of useless.

  “Looks like you have a little problem there. Maybe I can help,” said a voice from somewhere above. I had been sitting on deck with a cracked engine manifold in my hands trying to figure out what to do next. When I looked up, there he was, standing there on the dock in a halo of sunlight like some kind of celestial vision right out of a Hollywood film. Two days later, he had gone through the entire engine, and it was running like a new sewing machine. Since then, the Chief always kept track of where I was because on top of being an engine doctor, he was an addict for adventure. Working on board my schooner was his way of forgetting the intense engine-room rumble that came from the belly of the ten thousand–ton buckets of rust that he was married to for eight months a year.

  The next morning, I unfolded the spare dinghy and rowed over to the small hotel on the beach, found a phone, and called my engineer friend who was somewhere between Newfoundland and Québec City.

  “Chief, it’s me. Jacques.”

  “Jacques Legris, hey, I was thinking about you the other day. Where the hell are you anyway?”

  “On the Yucatán Coast. Where are you?”

  “On a cargo ship somewhere in the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. Where else? Hey, what about Cuba? Have they put you in prison yet?”

  “Not quite. Had to leave kind of suddenly. It’s a long story. I’m on my way to Puerto Cortés with the boat.”

  “Cortés. Was there years ago. There used to be a shipyard …”

  “Yeah, there still is. I’m going to haul out there in a few days.”

  “And I bet that you need some help, right?” said my friend.

  “How did you guess? Are you available for a little dirty work?”

  There was a short dramatic pause at the other end, and I could almost hear the Chief’s brain beginning to grind.

  “Perfect timing. I’m finishing a six-week run tomorrow and ready for something new. I like Puerto Cortés; it’s a lot warmer than anywhere in this country. I’ll book a flight and be down there as soon as I can. Meet you at the shipyard.”

  “You bet, Chief. See ya there.” It was as simple as that.

  Feeling boosted from my telephone conversion, I picked up a few supplies, rowed back out to the boat and prepared for the next leg of the trip. Not long after dark, I hit the sack. However, later on that night, the sound of something bumping up against the hull took me out of my sweet dreams. It sounded like trouble. Rolling out of my bunk, I instinctively grabbed the can of pepper spray that I kept close to the main cabin entrance. Carefully removing the safety latch and putting on my swimming goggles, I slipped the nozzle through the open companionway that led into the cockpit. Numada was anchored facing into the wind, a good thing for me because if I had to pull the trigger, the wind would distribute the spray toward the stern, the same direction as the noise. Suddenly, two invaders came up the transom ladder and stepped on deck. They were young, dressed in the classic shorts and faded T-shirts, and each was armed with a machete. I waited until they got closer then gave them a good long blast. When the stuff hit their eyes, they both dropped to their knees and began to howl. I really don’t think that they knew what had hit them. Over the noise of the wind and their groaning, I heard a third guy shout something up to his buddies. A few seconds later, he climbed up on deck. This time, I slid open the hatch and sent another shot of spray in his direction, but missed. He was too far away. In a flash, he dove straight overboard and that was it. Great, except I was stuck with a couple of skinny, half-blinded Mexican kids wailing like sick puppies. I pitched their machetes over the side then gave each of them a towel and waited until they calmed down. Maybe it was because of the goggles that I was still wearing, but they looked frightened.

  “You guys are lucky I didn’t shoot you with a gun ‘cause you’d be dead! Now scram! Vamos, pronto!”

  My visitors jumped over the side and swam to shore. That was it for my little rest stop. There was no way that I was going to go back to sleep and wait for those freaked-out kids to return with weapons a little more serious than a few rusted machetes. Sure, one could say that I was looking for trouble anchoring in a place like that. Perhaps, but sooner or later you have to put the hook down somewhere. In that part of the world, marinas are few and far between. So what else is there to do? The trick is to expect visitors at all hours, both good and bad.

  I sat on deck and stayed awake most of the night, reachin
g the conclusion that at least I wouldn’t die from boredom. That would be my karma for the time being. When the sky finally began to lighten, I brewed some coffee and cooked a few hardboiled eggs. An hour later, as a yellow sun rose up over the horizon, I was back out at sea heading south toward Honduras. As the morning came alive, the wind picked up, the boat gained speed and I began to savor every mile that slipped underneath the hull. Twenty-four hours later, Numada passed into the sheltered side of the long barrier reef that runs just off the coast of Belize. It felt wonderful to be gliding over this turquoise, tropical sea. For a rare moment in my life, I felt a wave of perfect harmony run through my body and it lasted for hours. This was real sailing; it couldn’t get much better. Funny thing, when I’m offshore, I have a sense of freedom and belonging even when conditions are tough. It’s on land where things get complicated.

  Two days later, I breezed into the Bay of Puerto Cortés and, as they say, “hoped for the best and expected the worst.” Because the bay was so big and fairly well-protected from the trade winds, over the years Puerto Cortés had developed into one of the biggest deep-water seaports in the Caribbean. I sailed in through a dozen anchored ships waiting for a space at the large commercial dock. Once through the maze, I approached the big cement pier in front of the naval base. That’s when I noticed the familiar figure standing on the end; it was none other than my friend the Chief. In fact, I would have been surprised not to have seen him there. He waved and shouted out something, but I was still too far away to understand. I steered toward the dock and closer to the wind, slowing down the boat as much as I could. The Chief was dressed in his usual fighting gear: cut-off jeans, ragged short-sleeve, blue-collar shirt, little ugly black socks and scruffy leather shoes. I coasted Numada in gently alongside the dock and quickly dropped the sails. Immediately my friend grabbed the dock lines with his big hands and secured the boat. He looked as the Chief always looked, a little overweight, but still packing that devilish smile of his. His hair was a mess, and he hadn’t shaved for at least a few days.

  “That was a pretty slick docking, Mister Captain, under sail too. I guess that your engine is still a running kind of cockeyed. Right or wrong?”

  “Forget the engine. Chief, I’m so happy to see that face of yours that I could almost kiss you.”

  He replied in typical Chief style. “Yuck, don’t even think about it. Hey, by the way, I thought you’d never make it here. I’ve been waiting since yesterday.”

  Then the Chief jumped on board. The last time I’d seen him was up in the Bahamas about two years before. Back then, my schooner was in top shape, but in the heat of the tropics, it didn’t take long before things began to slip into disrepair. The Chief was always quick to get to the point, and after looking up and down the deck, he had his own way telling me.

  “It seems that there’s been a certain kind of slackness around here, don’t you think? It looks like your dreamboat needs some love.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I’ve been busy putting my love somewhere else.”

  “Oh, another woman I suppose,” he replied a little sarcastically. The Chief loved to be sarcastic. It was part of his thing.

  “But alas, it’s over and done with. I had to leave her in Cuba.”

  “I guess that you’re close to being a real sailor now, with a woman in every port. But, you know, women can be a big responsibility.” He also edged at times on misogyny.

  “No, not really, Chief, it’s just a question of priorities. You must know all about them.”

  “No sir, I leave that to the experts,” he shot back.

  “Well said, Chief, but tell me, my good friend, where have you been for the last seven hundred days?”

  “Six hundred and eighty-seven to be exact, Mr. Legris. I’ve been extremely busy, working on slightly bigger models of vehicles — real ships with real engines — and I’ve also been depositing real paychecks in my bank account. Real priorities, don’t you think?” he said, looking at the condition of Numada’s deck. The Chief knelt down and ran a hand over a rusty chain plate.

  “Looks like paint is on back order. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, there isn’t any paint to be found in Cuba.”

  “Another excuse, I suppose,” said the Chief, shaking his head.

  “Don’t worry, that rust is just cosmetic. You know what they say down here in the Caribbean — a little putty and a little paint, make de old gal look like what she ain’t.”

  “They say that in Québec as well, but I have a feeling de old gal of yours is going to need more than a little makeup.”

  I was starting to feel guilty. “Chief, I know that I’ve neglected more than a few things lately, but the boat got me here and that’s what counts. Right?”

  He flashed his famous grin. “Right, and she’ll take you away too. I just have to get you started.”

  That’s what the Chief liked to do the most, make order out of chaos. It made him feel wanted. After I checked in with the base commander, the crane came over to the slip and started to prepare its straps for the big lift. Within an hour, the schooner was propped high and dry amidst a banged-up collection of military patrol boats and private yachts all in for repairs that would probably never happen. There wasn’t a puff of wind anywhere, just a burning hot ball of fire above. It was going to take me some time to adapt. But my real worry wasn’t the weather; it was my friend the Chief. He had only ten days before his next run on a cargo ship bound for Newfoundland. As he wrote down a list of things to repair, it was becoming more obvious by the minute that the refit was going to take a lot more than a few weeks. I looked around and suddenly the place seemed more like a ship’s cemetery than a shipyard. I could already smell trouble brewing.

  The Central American country of Honduras is the world’s original banana republic. Today it exports hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of the fruit to North America and Europe. The problem is that this money does not return to the good people of Honduras. A banana picker still works for less than ten dollars a day, and that’s good news for Chiquita and Dole. I wasn’t in the banana business, nor a multimillionaire, but I could pay a guy a little more that Mr. Dole and company. One thing for sure, to get the job done in a hurry, I was going to need to find a lot more cash and some serious help. But as they say in French, Il y a toujours un bon dieu pour les innocents. (There’s always a good God for the unwary.)

  RONNIE RACKMAN

  When Ronnie Rackman got up early that morning and stepped out onto the balcony of his small bungalow on the hill, he saw sails on the horizon. They were heading in the right direction: Puerto Cortés. Ronnie, who was skinny, not too tall and pushing fifty, went back inside, filled a cup with black coffee and returned to watch as the schooner sailed into the bay. Unshaven and a little hungover, Rackman got dressed and then escaped from the house before his wife and three young children awoke. That boat out there in the bay was heading toward the naval base. It could mean new business, which was exactly what he needed. Although the boatyard was a military operation, Ronnie had managed to corner the market for repairing yachts. He could speak both Spanish and English, and he knew how to work with fiberglass and where to get the materials for most of the small jobs that came in. He would subcontract the bigger jobs to the locals, skim 50 percent off the top and then kick back some of it to the base commander.

  He entered the cantina and came out with a stuffed tortilla in one hand and a Coke in the other, then sat in the shade near the dock and watched as the new arrival finally docked near the two-hundred-ton travel lift.

  He stood up for a better look. “That one will be here for a while,” he thought. “Nice.”

  The naval base tolerated Ronnie Rackman because the base commander told his subordinates to leave him alone. Ronnie knew that, at this rate, he would be on easy street in a year or two. His hired hands did the work for fifteen dollars a day, and he charged the clients five times that rate. Ronnie also ran a modest drug and prostitution business
— tailored to frustrated, landlocked sailors waiting for their boats to be repaired. After the new arrival had gotten settled, Ronnie would go over and offer some friendly free advice.

  DOUG BARKER

  Doug Barker wore a nasty scar above his upper lip that his moustache couldn’t hide. Despite a slight limp and graying hair, he was in fairly good health for a man pushing sixty, but he looked like a has-been rock star. When he wasn’t sporting a ponytail, he wore a bandana around his head to keep his hair from falling in his face. His cut-off T-shirt and long baggy cargo pants were his boatyard clothes.

  He scratched his ass and walked up to the foredeck of the big dry-docked yacht that he had been living on for the past year. He was curious about the new arrival. Barker had managed to stay alive in Honduras for more than a decade, ducking bullets, dodging corruption, and profiting from other people’s naïveté. That was not unusual in these parts. It appeared to be the favorite pastime of many in the southern latitudes. But lately, this small-time hustler felt that he was the one being hustled. He had become one of Ronnie’s main clients. Ronnie had hired him and a crew of five full-time laborers to renovate Esmeralda, a big, green motor sailor that he was in charge of. Barker wasn’t the one footing the bill. He was just managing renovations for the yacht’s real owner — Igor Zarkin, an aging, self-proclaimed philanthropist, who was busy making deals in Tegucigalpa.

  Things weren’t all that bad. Both booze and cocaine were cheap, and as for women, Ronnie had been keeping Barker well supplied. That was a good thing because it kept his mind off Valeska, his ex-girlfriend. Valeska De Sela was his associate’s niece and one of the most fascinating creatures he had ever known. They had been lovers on and off for a while, but she had dumped him for good after she had discovered that he was a regular at the local bordello. After the breakup, Barker felt a new sense of freedom because he could get laid anytime he wanted and without all the hassle of dealing with that untameable alpha female. However, after a while he realized that despite Valeska’s complicated personality, he actually missed her. She had the kind of energy he liked in a woman, and deep down, he’d do anything to have her back even if she did drive him crazy sometimes.