by James Gray
She looked at me with wide eyes. “It’s as if the placed had some kind of protective field around it.”
Valeska flipped through more pages of her loose-leaf. For a moment, she reminded me of my student days in the seventies.
“This is also interesting: Local Indian groups have different versions of the lost city legend. Most of these prohibit anyone from entering or even getting near Ciudad Blanca. There’s talk of a monkey god who is thought to have once sought refuge in the sacred city. They also say that the city has always been protected by the gods of the great storms. This is another reason why the locals keep their distance.”
“Yes, I seem to recall reading similar information a while back. Great storms, that must mean hurricanes, but most of the hurricanes pass further north.”
“Sometimes legends have some truth to them. We are also approaching the hurricane season, so maybe it’s not the right time to go up there.”
“But we can’t wait around much longer,” I replied. “I’ll keep a vigilant eye on the NOAA weather center every day.”
“The what weather station?”
“NOAA is the acronym for the National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration. It is located in Miami and gives daily marine forecasts on the Single-Sideband radio or on the Web. Most of the time it is right on and gives a pretty good advance warning when a storm system is building. We’ll have time to take shelter if something big comes our way.”
“Just the same, all this gives me a strange feeling. I don’t like it.”
She seemed genuinely worried, but I wasn’t. There were some pretty reputable hurricane holes in the Bay Islands, and Peter-Pedro Lopez had talked about a place near his village at Barra Patuca that was often used by boats as a hideout during bad weather.
“You know, despite this weather thing, this project has made me into a research addict. I just can’t stop.” Valeska’s dark brown eyes were bright with excitement.
“I’ve noticed. We even have a computer almost full-time in bed now. You know what that means.”
She stretched and smiled without taking her eyes off the screen, but I had a feeling she had something in the back of her mind. I went up on deck for a break. Sailing Numada would do me some good, and doing so with Valeska would put our compatibility to the ultimate test. I gazed up at the stars. I never could get used to the vast show on clear nights, when all I had to do was tilt my head back and take it all in. But after a few minutes, my reverie was abruptly interrupted by a triumphant shout from below.
“Jack, Jack, I found it!”
I sat up and stuck my head through the companionway. “Found what?”
“Listen to this!” Valeska read from the screen. “A company based in Europe specializing in satellite radar imagery was able to identify a site known as the Ciudad Blanca. To detect ancient ruins under very dense tropical forest and in the presence of relief, a new image enhancement technique has just been developed. Such a task is considered a challenge, especially in the presence of very thick vegetation. Indeed, the radar wave does not penetrate the whole vegetation cover of a tropical forest. The identification of Ciudad Blanca was carried out using a Japanese satellite JERS-1 and by the European satellite ERS-2.”
“You’re kidding me!” I slipped inside the cabin and moved closer to the screen. She zoomed in on the black and white image. At first glance, I could only make out certain shapes, straight lines and rectangles.
Valeska read on slowly. “An important finding was made during this systematic examination. Covering a 3.0 x 3.5 km wide area in one of the denser parts of the forest, one side of which is bordered by a branch of the Patuca River, the ruins of a vast complex of important structures are visible in the images. The figures shown illustrate the most interesting part of this area, including what could be a vast ceremonial center. This is thought to be the legendary lost city, Ciudad Blanca.” We examined more of the fuzzy black and white figures on the screen. It took a little imagination, yet we could definitely make out a structure under the thick jungle roof. This new information was exactly what we had been waiting for. Valeska took a long drink of water before continuing in the manner of an archaeology professor giving a class lecture.
“Listen here: The enlargement of the important structures located in the upper-left quadrant of the previous images has been made by photo-interpretation. From the elevation map, and the shadows observed in the images, one may infer the presence of a pyramid in the north-western part of the represented area.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
“The best is coming,” she said. “This could be one of the largest and most impressive untouched archaeological sites in the world. Its position is somewhere in the vicinity between latitudes 15°–16° N and longitudes 84°30’–85°30’ W.”
“Wait a second. I’ll look it up on the chart.” I fished out the tattered chart I had taken from the wreck and calculated the longitude and latitude. It was right at the location Peter-Pedro Lopez had shown us. “We need a topographical map of the area, but I think this location corresponds with the satellite images.”
I grinned at Valeska. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
“We have to follow the Patuca River on the south-eastern extremity of the Biosphere.”
“All we have to do is get there,” I added.
“Yes, Jack, get there and come back. That’s close to Nicaragua, and very rough territory.”
“I’m sure we can trust Lopez to guide us safely.”
Valeska turned from the screen, stood up and kissed me on the lips. “I’m close to an overdose; let’s take a break from all this Ciudad Blanca stuff for a while. I think that we have been sort of neglecting each other lately,” she murmured.
“So I’ve noticed.”
Then our eyes met. We moved outside. The wild tropical night, pounding with the distant thunder of surf, brought our bodies together. Valeska playfully pinned me against the mast. I could feel a strong gust of wind blow in off the bay. Another gust set the shrouds humming. I closed my eyes while her hands and lips charted my body. Soon we were on a voyage of no return. Were we falling in love?
PART THREE
Over the next week, Valeska De Sela and I started to transfer all the things I had stored in a nearby hangar back to the boat. We were really moving in now, making the boat a home. I went to the bank in downtown Puerto Cortés and withdrew the rest of the money that I needed to pay off the guys and the last of the rent that I owed the boatyard. I gave away the Jawa, an electric drill, old sails, a stove, tools and other things for which I had no further use. The schooner’s deck was piled high with boxes of basic canned food, pasta, rice, coffee, tea and almost everything else one could think of to run a galley. Besides that, placed in different sections, were new fenders, coils of heavy dock line, sail bags, a new outboard, and a ten-foot inflatable raft, as well as other odds and ends to make our voyage as safe as possible. I crosschecked the rigging, winches and turnbuckles, greased the windlass and rudder bearings, and filled everything that needed topping off. That done, I double-checked all systems: electricity, plumbing, pumps and filters. Everything seemed shipshape. Finally, we were almost ready to go.
Just before launching, I studied the NOAA Hurricane Prediction website for the last time. After that, we would only be able to pick up forecasts on my Single-Sideband radio. According to the NOAA, things were brewing out in the mid-Atlantic. Hurricane Carl, already rated at category 3, was in the middle of the Atlantic and moving eastwards at 15 miles per hour with winds peaking at 110mph. It was expected to pass north of the Bahamas but posed no danger to us. Then there was Tropical Storm Lisa, with winds of 80mph, currently located between Africa and the Lesser Antilles. It was gaining strength but seemed to be turning northwards. It was no real threat either. There was also a weak depression descending from the Gulf of Mexico which would probably reach Honduras in a few days. But the maximum wind was only about twenty-five knots, nothing that I couldn’t handle. So things
looked pretty good for a launching.
Then, the big day finally came. With a knot in my stomach, I gave the signal. The huge travel lift raised Numada straight up, causing the large wooden braces to fall into a confused pile on the concrete underneath. With Numada in its sling, the crane’s big tires crabbed through the maze of military hulls and sailboats toward the launching slip. I stood on the deck and watched the boat’s long shadow pass over the collection of dry-docked hulls that I had come to know so intimately. Over at the slip, a small crowd of curious soldiers and yard workers had gathered. Even a few secretaries had come out of their air-conditioned offices into the heat and waved us on as we rolled slowly past. It took about ten minutes for the whole show to cross the yard and stop at the end of the long slip. After all those long months, Numada was actually going back to sea. As her keel slipped into the water, a new energy ran through my veins. Seconds later, the boat was finally moving gently in the water. The lift crew unhooked the straps and tied the schooner to the dock. Meanwhile, Valeska was inside, down on hands and knees, checking for leaks. It was now or never.
“All dry,” she shouted.
“Okay, here goes.”
The engine turned over and sprung to life. Valeska stuck her head through the companionway. “Wow, this thing actually works.”
That night, we made a light supper and turned in early. At daybreak, I was the first up. I made a pot of coffee and sat outside in the cockpit. The sea was remarkably still, and the eastern sky had a reddish glow. I walked around on deck, touching the shrouds, the masts, the helm. The boat seemed to be talking to me in a low voice.
Valeska poked her head through the open deck hatch with a sleepy smile.
“Ready for coffee?” I asked her.
“Good idea.”
I could have spent a few more minutes listening to Numada.
As the sun rose over the mountains, we ate a solid breakfast. We were both a little nervous about leaving. After doing the dishes, and taking a final look around, we were all set to go. We slipped the dock lines and backed into the sparkling Bay of Puerto Cortés. Under power of the ship’s motor, we circled the harbor, passing close to half a dozen ships that were being loaded with bananas and other cargo.
I went down to the main cabin by the controls to check engine temperature and oil pressure. Every few minutes, I looked into the engine room and eyed the stuffing box, a delicate sea water–cooled gland where the shaft passes through the hull to the exterior. It was slightly humid and seemed to be working perfectly. Then I checked all the hose connections and pumps. Everything looked shipshape, so I pushed the engine up to 1800rpm, cruising speed. It held fine. Sure enough, around 8:00 a.m., the first solid puffs of wind started to make the surface water dance. It was time to fly.
Valeska took over on the tiller and I went up to the foredeck and started hoisting sail; it felt great to see them fly spotless and white, and beautifully trimmed. I shut the engine down, and we bore off under the power of the wind. The boat heeled over a little and picked up speed. Things were still looking good. After about ten months of grief, dirt, pain and hard work, the payday had finally arrived. I swung the helm over, pointing the schooner northwest, out of the protection of the bay and toward the open ocean.
For a while, we sailed west along the coast. Four hours later, we ducked into the bay at Omoa, circling around some sailboats that were at anchor. When dark rain clouds gathered over the mountains, their thunder rolled down the hills, so we sailed offshore toward a patch of blue sky. Out there, Numada had lots of sea room to kick up her heels. Seven, eight, nine knots, and the wake behind the schooner began to gurgle out a happy tune. It was glorious. I looked up at the weather vane atop the mizzenmast. The wind was just behind the mast and perfect for a run to the Bay Islands. I would have preferred to sail off to Guanaja right there and then, but the plan was to sail back to the naval base that evening, tie up alongside the cargo ship, and in the morning pick up last-minute supplies.
On the way back, I noticed a distinct halo circling the sun. That circle wasn’t a good sign, but probably just that weak northerly I’d seen heading our way during my last weather check with NOAA. Perhaps some bad weather was on the way, but we had possibly another twenty-four hours before a storm. It could be bothersome, but we could always anchor in the lagoon and wait for it to pass. If it got really bad, we would head to sea and ride it out, though that option would be a tough baptism for my new first mate.
Shortly before sundown, we shouldered up alongside the Honduran Navy’s front-loading cargo ship. Its deck was only about four feet higher than Numada’s and could be boarded easily. High on the success of our shakedown cruise, I went below and dug out an all-but-forgotten bottle of rum. Luckily, there was just enough left for two good shots. Our glasses clinked in a toast to the next chapter. We ate a celebration dinner at Delfin’s, a short walk from the boat.
After our main course of roast chicken, the eastern sky turned the color of coal. A squall was on the way, but I was convinced that Numada was well-protected from that direction. The only wind that could affect the boat would have to come from the northwest, which was rare for this time of year. This incoming disturbance would probably just mean a wet walk back. The waiter came over and we ordered coffee. Suddenly there was a loud rushing sound, followed by a strong gust of wind that blew in off the lagoon sending empty plastic chairs skidding across the terrace. Then another blast hit even harder and the tablecloths flapped like flags. A bottle of salsa crashed to the floor and a big deck umbrella sailed up in the air and then tumbled into the muddy river. At the same moment a large piece of tin roof sailed by, followed by a blast of torrential rain. It was horizontal and hit like bullets.
We thrust our payment at the waiter and raced the short distance to the naval base. At the main gate, the guard cried, “Amigos, Amigos, que se mueven! Mueviense! Està llegando una tempesta malo. Vamo!” (Quick, my friends, there is a bad storm moving in. Hurry!)
It sounded urgent. When we rounded the corner of the big hangar, the full force of the storm hit us head-on. We were really in trouble. Over by the dock, in the fading light, I could see Numada bucking like a horse in a stall. The bay was speckled with whitecaps. Breakers were already smashing up against the seawall and spilling water into the yard. We jumped on board the freighter and ran across the deck to our schooner. A few dock lines had already snapped. Others were chaffed out and had become as thin as pencils. A spring line snapped with a loud crack. Spray filled the air and the wind in the rigging started to shriek.
One of Numada’s inflated fenders exploded ripping in two before it disappeared between the two vessels. This was going to be a long night. Another fender split open, then another, as Numada smashed up against the freighter with a sickening metallic bang.
“Valeska, we have to clear out of here, and fast.”
“You’re the captain,” said Valeska over the crashing sound of the breaking waves.
A quick glance at the wind anemometer showed over forty-five knots coming out of the northwest. I let go of all the lines leading to the cargo ship except the spring line that led into the cockpit. I scrambled to the helm just in time to see a breaker smash down on top of the huge slab of seawall just behind us. A large piece of cement crumbled and sank. Suddenly, the navy freighter pitched to port and thundered up against the cement pier. It was time to go. I gave it the gun and dropped the last line that held us to the ship. Valeska looked on with wide eyes, a little unsure of what she was seeing.
We were free, but to steer windward against the incoming waves was almost impossible. To pass the sunken hulk on the leeward side seemed better, though that only allowed for a small margin of error. One false move and Numada would smash up against the seawall. I chose the leeward escape route, hoping to use the shelter of the sunken ship to pick up some speed to find the room we needed to head out to sea.
“What do you want me to do?” shouted Valeska over the wind as we approached the wreck.
“Just hang on.”
Numada picked up speed. I had to pass within a few feet of the hulk and use the sheltered water behind it to pick up speed. It worked. There was an eerie calm as we fell into the ship’s wind shadow. I had the engine racing at full speed and could feel Numada pushing ahead with all she had. Then we slipped past the stern of the wrecked ship. Now there was nothing between us and the wind, and we were hit hard by the full force of the storm. I pulled the helm and we headed out into the dark, breaking Gulf of Honduras.
When we were well offshore, I gave Valeska the helm. “Try to keep it heading in this direction. I’m going to try to put up a small sail. Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse.”
I went up to the foremast, wrestled with the mizzen sail, and after a lot of grief, managed to set it with three reefs. When that was done, I hoisted the small staysail. It was robustly made and very capable of handling heavy weather. Once back in the cockpit, I took the helm from Valeska and set a course. Numada leaned over and stopped pitching — quite an improvement. From out of the jet-black night came another impressive gust; the boat heeled over some more, and a bore of solid water washed over the deck.
“I’m cold,” said Valeska. She was shivering like a wet puppy.
“Hey, you did great. Go inside and put on some warm clothes. It’s going to be a long night.” I hugged her with one arm.
