by James Gray
The point of the Bay of Cortés was just off to starboard, but even in the darkness, I could see the huge waves smashing up over the rocks under the light. We had to gain sea room now and reach deep water, where the steep, breaking sea would hopefully round off. At least we had the wind pushing us in the right direction. I watched the boat move; it seemed to be adapting perfectly to the conditions. For the first time since the beginning of the blow, I began to relax.
A few minutes later, Valeska slid the main hatch open and climbed out in a strange set of clothes.
“You found my winter wardrobe.”
“Yes, it’s a bit big, but warm and dry. Don’t ask me to go back inside. If I do, I’ll puke.”
At that moment, something fell to the deck and tumbled overboard. The wind direction indicator that sat on top of the mast had disintegrated.
“That’s no big deal, just a gadget that tells us what direction the wind is coming from.”
“I don’t think I need anything to tell me where the wind is coming from,” she replied.
It was long past midnight. Even with only two small sails set, strong gusts would put the schooner’s starboard rail under water. Suddenly, there was a loud crack, and the block that controlled the height of the small staysail boom on the foredeck exploded into smithereens. That made the sail flap wildly in the wind. I clipped on my harness.
“Valeska, I’m going up front to take care of the mess. Keep us pointed in this direction and make sure the wind stays over your left shoulder. You’re doing fine.”
The wind pushed harder still, and while I worked on deck, I found it hard to breathe. I secured the sail and the boom, and then set the storm jib onto the forestay. In the semi-darkness, I could make out Valeska holding on to the tiller. She must have been on an adrenaline high. Whatever sustained her, I was impressed by her courage. I signalled to her to bear off to starboard until the sail filled.
Eventually, the sky began to clear and the wind dropped, so I shook out the reefs and beat upwind, heading for the Island of Útila. We arrived just before dawn and dropped the anchor in front of the village. The bay was as quiet as a millpond.
Was it the lack of movement, or quiet jungle sounds that woke me? For a few seconds, I couldn’t figure out exactly where I was. Half asleep, I lay listening to a chirping sound. “Hey, Valeska. Do you know what?” She stirred. “We have a cricket on board.”
“A what?”
“A cricket. Listen.”
“Leave me alone, I want to sleep.” But the little critter started to chirp even louder. “Oh, that’s what woke me up. I thought it was something on deck. It makes a damn racket. What are you going to do about it, my captain?”
“We’ll keep it as a mascot. Everybody knows that a cricket is sort of like a barometer, and the one I have on board isn’t worth a damn.”
Valeska’s head appeared from under the sheet, and she looked at me as if I was going off the deep end. “If you want my real opinion, you need more rest.”
“But, Valeska, you have to let the little critter do his job. All true sailors know crickets can predict the weather. When the cricket sings, it’s synonymous with good weather. When the little guy clams up, it means that the weather will get nasty.”
“Sleep some more,” she said and disappeared back under the cover.
As the sun lifted over Útila, the island came to life. We ate breakfast on deck while we watched the cayukas and dive boats coming and going. People were everywhere, most of them backpackers under thirty looking for inexpensive diving and a little night-time adventure in the dozens of bars that lined the main street.
Valeska sighed. “It’d be nice to stay here a few days. It looks like everyone’s on a permanent vacation.”
“Next time around. We have to meet Eddy and his friend in Guanaja; we’re on a mission, remember?”
“Okay. You win. This time.”
I went to the Internet café situated above a small souvenir shop on the main street and emailed Eddy to confirm that we would be at Isla Guanaja on time for our rendezvous. All he had to do was round up Cowboy George. An hour later, Numada weighed anchor and slipped back out to sea, bound for the Island of Guanaja about sixty miles to the east. Late that afternoon, we sailed past Roatán Island; we could see the small town of Coxen Hole. We avoided the infamous Cordelia Bank, an invisible coral reef with a long history of damaging boats.
I couldn’t help but remember the last time we had sailed past this spot; it was on Esmeralda on the way to Port Royal just a little further east of our present position. We cruised past exotically named places such as Neverstain Bight, Hog Pen Channel and finally, Calabash Bight. Invisible from peering eyes on shore, we sailed on under the stars. It was a sweet and warm night. The weather was on our side, exactly as the cricket had predicted. I had to laugh. That squeaky little stowaway had earned his keep.
As Valeska slept, I adjusted the sails and headed past Helene, and then gave the secret little Island of Barbareta lots of room. The barrier of coral reefs off to the port side had danger written all over it. Only fifteen miles away, the high peaks of Guanaja were barely visible in the full moon. As our schooner approached, the silhouette of the island contained no definition. But soon I could see trees and rocks and white surf on its western tip. Guanaja is three-thousand-feet tall, but two-thirds of it is under water. In a bay on the southern side of the island sits a town called Bonacca, which has been built up over the years on a shallow reef and pilings of wood, rock and cement.
It was early morning when we finally sailed Numada up to this curious place. We lowered the sails, motored up alongside the fuel dock and tied up to the wooden posts. A man shuffled out of the shade and pumped seventy-five gallons of diesel fuel into the tank.
We took time to explore the narrow walkways and alleys that wove through this bizarre hodgepodge. It was a colorful little place packed with small shops, modest dwellings and a few shifty-looking bars. Then we motored a few miles east of the village and anchored Numada at Sandy Bay as a thick wall of clouds moved in. Soon, a series of strong gusts sent a low growl through the rigging.
The silence from the cricket’s new hideout in the forepeak was worrisome. Either the insect had found a drop of lube oil to take some of the squeak out of his landing gear, or its silence was a clear sign that there was a storm on the way. That evening, the wind picked up and big black clouds rolled over the mountain. But we were safe and sound, with nothing to do but wait for Eddy and Cowboy George to arrive.
The next morning, I caught the forecast on my Single-Sideband radio receiver, but the reception was so bad I had to glue my ear to the speaker. The computerized voice from NOAA was spewing warnings about a low-pressure system moving in from the north, winds NNE twenty-five to thirty-five knots, perfect for the direction we were heading. I went out on deck and rubbed the antenna on a backstay wire that led up to the top of the mast. The reception wasn’t much better, but I was able to grab a few keywords through the static. It seemed to be a long-term forecast.
“… strong, tropical depression forming … mid-Atlantic … latitude 12°30’ N, longitude 20° W, heading 270 degrees at a speed of five knots. Wind fifty knots increasing to.” It sounded like another tropical depression was forming a thousand miles to the east of our position, but it was premature to know what it was up to. It would be important to know where each depression lay and to plan an escape route. But for the moment, the possibility of a distant storm didn’t change my plans. Sure, if we were hit by heavy rain, it would make things difficult. As usual, it was all a question of timing. I was itchy to get going.
That evening, just before bed, I was overjoyed to receive another weather forecast. Although the cricket’s chirping was somewhat hesitant, it seemed more encouraging than the forecast from NOAA. The jumpy little barometer seemed louder than ever. Now it was coming from our cabin.
Valeska couldn’t sleep. “Your pet cricket is starting to drive me crazy.”
“I know, but so far
he’s been right with the forecast every time. Give it another twelve hours. Our little stowaway predicts tomorrow will be bright and sunny. According to NOAA, it will rain for another day. I want to prove once and for all that this cricket is worth its weight in gold. I have ear plugs if you ever need them.”
Valeska looked at me and stuck out her tongue.
That night, we slept in a front cabin while the cricket chirped like a bird on a wire, and sure enough, in the morning, the sky was as blue as a robin’s egg.
Valeska sighed. “Okay, you win.” She stepped on deck to drink her essential morning dose of caffeine. “But the first wrong prediction, it’s going on a one-way excursion out of here.”
“Have you ever tried to catch a cricket?” I asked her.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got my methods.”
Late that day, while I was repairing a few things on deck, Valeska sat under the shade of the Bimini tarp I had rigged over the cockpit and managed to hook up to an unlocked Wi-Fi network.
“Jack, I’ve found something new, listen to this.”
I stopped what I was doing and waited for the details.
“In 1969, Pedro Macotto headed a cartographic expedition to Ciudad Blanca. He found ruins, but not the right ones. He and his men also ran into something not too … well … not too pleasant. Aside from the snakes, crocodiles and cut-throats, they ran into bullet ants.”
“What the hell are bullet ants?”
“A king-sized ant that packs a king-sized punch. They say their bite hurts more than a bullet wound. The pain lasts for hours and drives the victim crazy. During this expedition, two of his crew died.”
“From ant bites?”
“Si, señor, from ant bites. But don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t miss this trip for anything.” She smiled and returned to her reading. Nevertheless, she was right; we were going to have to be very careful.
Suddenly a “Kwei kwei, Numada” came in over the VHF radio, the one I use for short-distance communication.
“What was that?” said Valeska.
“It’s Eddy,” I said, grabbing the radio. “This is Numada. Kwei kwei to you, too. Glad to hear your voice. Where the hell are you?”
“At the Guanaja airstrip.”
“Okay, great. Take a water taxi to Sandy Bay and you’ll see Numada. Is Cowboy George with you?”
“Yes, he’s here all right, but suffering from a little culture shock. And our airplane lost a door on the way over from La Ceiba, so it was a bit drafty during the flight.”
“It’s just part of the fun. We’ll be waiting.”
Twenty minutes later, a water taxi pulled up with our two new crew members, their camera and sound equipment and their personal gear. The two nomads looked wrinkled but happy to have finally arrived.
“What a crazy trip. We were delayed in Montreal, Miami and San Pedro. At La Ceiba, we had to wait another day because the plane left without us. For some strange reason, they don’t fly out here on Sundays. But here we are,” said Cowboy George. We shook hands. I had forgotten how big he was, well over six feet tall and at least 250 pounds. His long black hair was untied and flowed from under a black Stetson hat.
We made fresh coffee, and I showed Eddy and Cowboy George around the boat and carefully explained how things worked. At noon, Eddy, Cowboy George and I took the new inflatable ashore for a beer and something to eat at the thatch-roofed joint on the beach. Valeska opted to stay on board and do a food inventory. When we got to the bar, the only souls around were the proprietor and a noisy parrot that sat in the rafters above the open door. The homemade pizza was pretty good. After lunch, the guys caught up on some sleep on the hammocks strung up in the shade of the tall, whispering Australian pines that grew close to the water. It was a perfect time to make contact with my Mosquito Coast connection so I borrowed the bar phone and called Peter-Pedro Lopez. I had to make sure that he was still expecting us.
“Hola, Jacques, mucho gusto. Here in Barra Patuca, we are getting the boats ready for the trip. Everything is fine. We even have a cook.”
“A cook?”
“Si, amigo. My brother’s wife will come with us. She’s used to living on the river. She’s a native Pech and her family came from up that way.”
“Okay, great, so we’ll be seven in all. The rest of my crew has just arrived from Canada.”
When I had finished updating him, Pedro said, “When you get close to Barra Patuca, just call Chili-Chili on VHF channel 69. He’s my brother and the one who knows the most about the river and will be our guide. He’s also the guy who you will want to film the most because Chili-Chili is not afraid of a camera. Anyway, we shall figure that out as we go along, right? For starters, we’ll go out to meet you at the mouth of the river. The pass is a little tricky, so we must guide you in just to be on the safe side. Comprendo?”
“Ok, claro, Peter-Pedro. We should be there in about three days.”
“All good, we’ll be waiting, amigo.”
I hung up and ordered another beer.
The bartender was German, but after living on Guanaja for years, he looked like a real islander: unshaven, with graying blonde hair down to his shoulders and vibrant blue eyes shaded by the visor of a ball cap. “My name is Ernest. But everybody calls me Ernesto.” He stood on the other side of the bar and grinned, then popped open a Salva for himself. “You must be from that boat out there.” Ernesto’s accent lent the joint an exotic touch. “Are you guys really going over to the Mosquito Coast?”
“Yes. I have friends there I want to visit.”
He smiled and looked at me in a strange way, as if he didn’t believe a word I said.
“Hmm, from what I heard over lunch, sounds like you’re going looking for treasure, the Ciudad Blanca.”
“It’s a long story, my friend. Let’s say that we are going to visit La Mosquitia and leave it at that.”
“Yeah, right.” Ernesto looked me in the eyes and leaned over the bar. “I’ve been there quite a few times over the last ten years, you know, just snooping around, just looking … But I won’t ever go back. No way, man.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s too damn dangerous. They don’t want you there, man.”
“Who doesn’t want you there?”
“That place is cursed. And if you’re thinking about finding the Ciudad Blanca, you won’t, because it don’t exist. It’s just a legend and the legend is a man-eater. My friends and I thought at one point we were getting close, but we had to turn back because we got scared shitless. It was bad. People up there are completely out of this world. They live in another time. You know, these people still worship the Monkey God, man. It’s prehistoric.”
“Then why did you keep going back?”
“I don’t know. It was like a drug. Part of me said to forget it, but another part kept urging me on, until the day my partner was shot through the neck by a poison arrow. He died right in front of me. Anyone would turn around after that. And, as I said, man, truth is, that place doesn’t exist. It exists for them but not for us.”
I thought about the satellite photos that had pinpointed a three-by-three kilometer area of the Ciudad Blanca. I didn’t want to tell him we actually had the place locked in. He wouldn’t have believed it, anyway.
Ernesto came around to my side of the bar and perched himself on a stool. “Hey, I remember there was a film crew that went over a few years ago. They were trying to make an adventure film about the ruins. The director’s name was Hazard or Voizard, or something like that. Rumor had it that he was looking for the Ciudad Blanca. Their crew left from right here, right from this very bar. They chartered a big fishing boat, crossed over to Barra Patuca, and went upriver. They were never seen again. No word, no wreckage, no bodies. It was as if they’d been swallowed up by the jungle. Man, I wouldn’t go back in there for a million dollars. No way. I hope that’s not where you’re headed. Believe me, this place is next door to hell. Scheisse!”
Shit, indeed. Feeling a little concern
ed about our safety, I made a call to Canada. But this time it was with my cell phone and I spoke in French so it would be a little more private. It wasn’t long before the Chief was on the other end.
“Greetings, Chief.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Sunny Guanaja Island.”
“Lucky you. We’re in a fog bank here, just off the south-eastern tip of Newfoundland.”
I switched to French. “Chief, on quitte demain pour La Mosquitia.” (We are leaving for Mosquitia tomorrow.)
“Someone must be listening close by, right?”
“Oui.”
“Okay, I understand.”
“Oui, c’est ça. On part avec notre ami Peter-Pedro, le pêcheur et son frère. Je te donne le numéro de téléphone là-bas. Si tu n’as pas de nos nouvelles dans trois semaines, tente de nous rejoindre.” (Yeah, exactly. We’re going to leave with Peter-Pedro our fisherman friend and his brother. If you don’t have any news from us in three weeks, try calling this number.)
“Okay, got it, now just tell me if you prefer to be buried at sea or cremated?” said the Chief.
“T’es drôle, toi. Reste en ligne un instant.” (Very funny. Hang on a second.)
“Sure.”
I walked outside the bar and said in a low voice, “Mark this down: 15°30’ N by 85°00’ W.”
“You mean somebody’s actually located the damn place?”
“We found recent satellite information that shows photos of some major ruins that are exactly at those coordinates. It corresponds perfectly with what Lopez illustrated in the sand.”
“Yes, I remember, that map in the sand wasn’t very hi-tech.”
“Okay, it wasn’t up to ship standards, but I showed him another map after you left; it was close to the real thing. Trust me, it all lines up, and don’t worry, now we have satellite pictures to reference. Our Québec crew has arrived and we are as ready as we’ll ever be. There’s just one thing missing.”
