by James Gray
“What would that be?”
“The Chief himself.”
“You know I’m a chicken for those kinds of trips.”
“Blah, blah, blah. Chief, if you can’t reach us in three weeks—”
“—Yeah I know, call the Coast Guard—”
“—Never mind the Coast Guard. Just let the Canadian Embassy in Tegucigalpa know that we’re missing.”
“Anything else? Some famous last words for your epitaph?”
“You’re the poet, not me.”
“Well then, good luck and I’ll be waiting for news,” said the Chief.
I returned to the bar and paid Ernesto for the lunch and the beer.
Then he surprised me.
“Bonne chance. Et surtout dites bonjour au monde de la Mosquitia de ma part.” (Good luck, and give my best to everyone in La Mosquitia.) Ernesto grinned. His French was perfect. I guess that he had listened in on my conversation with the Chief.
The mood on board Numada was fairly subdued that evening, and it was the perfect to talk about the upcoming passage at sea. We made sure that everything was stowed safely away and that the camera and sound equipment were accessible and ready for action. Eddy and I agreed to begin filming during the passage between Guanaja and the Mosquito Coast. I would eventually use narration to explain exactly where we were going. As the guys looked at the charts, I checked the marine forecast on the Single-Sideband radio. According to NOAA in Miami, another weak cold front was moving in slowly from the north. That meant we would have wind just behind the left ear, behind the mast. That’s what Numada liked best.
Later, as we roasted grouper on a grill on deck, I explained as best I could to Cowboy George exactly what I wanted him to do in the film. “You’ve come to Honduras out of curiosity,” I told him. “You’ve heard there are cultural similarities between northern native cultures and those in Central America. The Mosquito Coast is of special interest to you because, like the Innu, the native peoples live in a coastal area and go inland to hunt. You are also here to see if you can discover information about the Ciudad Blanca and about the pilfering of ancient Mayan artifacts.”
Cowboy George thought a few seconds, then answered in a soft voice, “The white man has always moved in and taken over. This process starts with the removal of artifacts and a bleaching of culture and tradition. We’ve been experiencing the same thing in the north for hundreds of years.”
“You’ve got it. When we get where we’re going, you will meet our contact’s brother. His name is Chili-Chili. He will be with you in front of the camera and tell you about the Patuca River and Miskito people. If it works out between you two, you could also tell him some things about the Innu way of life in Northern Québec.”
George lit a cigarette. “Okay, I understand. It’s not a road movie you want to make; it’s a river movie. I just hope that I will be able to communicate with this Chili-Chili guy. What kind of language does he speak?”
“I guess he speaks some English like his brother. But he must also speak Spanish, Garifuna and probably some native dialects.”
“Well, English is okay to start off with. Another dumb question: What kind of boats do they use, dugouts?”
“Sort of. The boats are called pipantes, built very narrow. They’re at least thirty feet long. They rig them up with little gas inboards. I’m sure you’re going to find these people have a lot in common with the Innu. Those similarities will be an important element in the film — for example, the way you make a fire, track an animal or imitate a birdcall. We’ll film all this.”
“I bet we also have strong differences, like the weather, for one. It’s hotter than hell down here.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that, but imagine our friends in La Mosquitia spending a few months of winter up where you come from.”
“They’d probably freeze their hind ends. That’s for sure,” said Cowboy George with a chuckle. “But tell me, Jacques. What I really what to know is, when does the Ciudad Blanca enter the picture?”
“As we go upriver, you’ll become more focused on the ancient history of the people who once lived there in great numbers. Your role will be to get Chili-Chili to tell you about this history and how things changed to the way they are today. Gradually, as we head up the river, we will begin to discover signs of the ancient Maya, and, if all goes according to plan, the ruins of the Ciudad Blanca. We’ll try to explore there. We expect that there will have been looting. That’s part of the story.”
“Were these people nomadic like my people?”
“The native people who live on the Mosquito Coast,” Valeska interjected, “are called Miskito. There are other tribes who live there, too, such as the Pech, but they live inland. We think that it was the Paya people who built the city. Chili-Chili knows.”
He looked at me quizzically. “Okay, I get it. They’re living today what our people lived generations ago. But it makes no sense that this place hasn’t been located yet.”
“It’s been found, all right, but mostly by the wrong people.”
Cowboy George didn’t seem fazed. He had seen it all before. As we travelled, I hoped that we wouldn’t look too obvious. That wouldn’t be too difficult for my three partners; Valeska was part Maya, Eddy part Innu, and Cowboy George was full-blooded Innu. They would blend in well with the local population, thanks to their dark complexions and Indian features. But me, with my blondish hair and blue eyes, I stuck out like a duck in a flock of chickens.
The next morning, I could smell trouble when I saw George enter the main cabin. He was wearing a long face.
“There is some kind of insect in my cabin, kept me awake half the night. Believe it or not, it sounded like a cricket. You’ve got to do something about it, Captain.”
I tried to tell him about our little friend, but the barometer part of it didn’t faze him at all.
“Sounds like a bunch of bullshit.”
“Okay, sure, we’ll try to catch the thing after breakfast and move it up into the chain locker,” offered Valeska.
Cowboy George wasn’t convinced.
“Trying to catch that thing is not an option. If the bug is not caught, I’m going to move into your cabin, and don’t forget, I know how to snore, big time.”
It was the crew’s first real crisis, a test to see if we could resolve a delicate conflict. I really wanted to keep the critter on board. I liked the sound and it was pretty efficient when it came to predicting bad weather. So we took a vote, and I lost. He was keeping everyone awake and he had to go. The entire crew got down on hands and knees, trying to catch the squeaky little beast. But it was Valeska, who was going through the wet locker, who found him first.
“It’s here! Get it! Quick!” she screamed.
I’d been caribou hunting in the sub-Arctic with the Inuit, witnessed the slaughter of farm animals, and speared and boiled live lobster, but I couldn’t bring myself to harm that cricket. It jumped over Valeska’s head, careened off the bulkhead, passing about an inch from Eddy’s nose, landed on the table, and in a shot, was airborne again in the direction of the galley, where it disappeared into a crack under the sink.
“We’ve got to trap it!” Valeska cried.
“I’ve never seen a barometer jump like that.” Eddy laughed. “At least it’s going to the stern. That’s not too good for you and Valeska.”
But the cricket bounded back onto the galley countertop, and with two long hops, landed on the chart table right beside Cowboy George, who was still trying to figure out if the whole thing was some kind of joke. Then with a whack of a hand as wide as a paddle, he killed the cricket. My trusty barometer was dead. Without a word, he took the remains outside and dropped them overboard. Wiping his hand on his T-shirt, he turned to us and, for the first time since coming aboard, he cracked a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” George said, “I’m going to get some sleep.”
All morning, Valeska made meals in advance. She cooked chicken and baked some fresh bread in the oven. Sandwiches
would come in handy while we were sailing. I divided up the crew for the next days at sea: Eddy and Valeska, Cowboy George and myself; four hours on, two off, then two hours on and four off. That would give us time to sleep and relax a little as we travelled. If we left around noon, with the northeast wind the way it was, we would have Barra Patuca in our sights sometime the following morning. There were no real currents or shoals to worry about; it was a straight shot. I marked in the waypoint on the GPS, then looked for an alternative solution if something changed. There was Puerto Lempira about forty miles to the west of Barra Patuca, and if that didn’t work, we could always turn around.
So with all sails hoisted, we headed out of the lagoon. Once we cleared the reef, I set the course and then the autopilot took over the steering. Now, all we had to do was keep a lookout and adjust the sails once in a while. We threw fishing lines over the stern and made bets on who was going to catch the first fish.
Late that afternoon, Eddy brought the camera on deck and began to film. With twenty knots of breeze on the beam and a rolling sea, there was a good chance to get some fine sailing shots. Occasionally, a cresting wave would smash up against the hull, sending spray high up over the topsides and dousing everybody on deck. At one point, a school of marlin changed directions and raced over to check the ship out.
They bounded alongside the hull, diving through the waves like missiles with fins. Rays of sun cut through the low sky and flashed off the marlins’ glistening skin, making them even more vibrant.
Then Cowboy George’s precious hat, his famous Stetson, complete with eagle feather, flipped up into the air and landed upside down on the back of a wave. There were two options: Either say too bad, George, and keep sailing, or treat this instance as a man overboard drill and retrieve the Innu’s precious trademark as quickly as possible.
“Okay, listen up. Cowboy George, stand amidships and keep pointing toward your hat. And beware of the boom because as we come about, it will swing over to the other side of the boat. If you’re not careful, you could lose more than that Stetson lid of yours! Valeska, grab the long gaff pole and stand by; you’re the one who will hook the hat. Eddy, help me to control the headsail. Pull in on that sheet when I give you the signal.”
Eddy looked confused. “Sheet, what sheet?”
“Sorry, I’ll try to explain. There are no ropes on a sailboat. A sheet is what we call the rope that controls the movable corner of a sail. In this case, the sail I am talking about is called the jib. It’s the one in front. Now listen up everybody, the wind is coming from the stern on the left side; as we swing around, it’s going to pass over to the right side. You call that a jibe. As we jibe, the three booms will move across the deck, so watch your heads, especially you, Cowboy George. After that, we’ll try to come up alongside of the hat, and when we do, Valeska will use that long pole that she has in her hands, otherwise known as the gaff, to hook on to it. Now, is everybody totally mixed up? Good. Heads up, here we go!”
We eased off and began to circle around as George did his best to point in the direction of the hat. It wasn’t easy because it would disappear into the trough of each wave and come up on a crest. We had a lot of sail up, but after a lot of sail flapping and a little confusion with the sheets, the jibe was successful. Once the boat was moving again, I pushed on the tiller and maneuvered the schooner closer to the wind, and with a few more hasty sail adjustments finally managed to bring the boat alongside Cowboy George’s precious black headpiece. Valeska reached out and hooked the thing with the long gaff. A loud cheer went up as she swung the pole over toward Cowboy George who contentedly grabbed his prize possession with two big hands. Perhaps that was the moment when we became a real sailboat crew.
As the sun began to dip into the sea, we sat in the cockpit and ate a delicious wahoo that Cowboy George had caught. He’d won the bet: His was the first fish we’d caught since leaving Guanaja.
In a few hours, Numada was surrounded by nothing but water and a fading evening sky. We were on the open ocean.
Eddy was sitting on a propane box at the stern. He yelled up at me as he reeled in the fishing line that he had been trailing off the end of the boat. “Hey, Jacques Legris, look! There’s a boat off to the right. Over there.” He pointed with a free hand.
Sure enough, almost invisible in the twilight, were two masts way out on the horizon; it was a sailboat without its sails up. From time to time, the dark-colored hull would rise atop a wave. Valeska handed me the binoculars and grabbed the helm. I stood up, steadied myself with one arm around a shroud and took a long look. Was it Esmeralda? Perhaps, but it was too far away to be sure. I just hoped that whoever was on board that mysterious-looking yacht hadn’t seen us.
At nightfall, I turned on the navigation lights in case there was traffic and set the radar alarm for five miles, in case a fishing boat or cargo ship got too close. I spent my first trick at the helm with George, showing him how to mark our hourly position on the chart. I explained that sailors fall overboard most often while having a leak off the stern, and demonstrated how to put on a deck harness by clipping him onto the jack line.
Around 2200 hours, the wind dropped. The second night shift took over. Since neither Valeska nor Eddy had much experience sailing at night, I stayed with them to adjust the sails, then stretched out in the cockpit and dozed off.
I don’t know how long I’d been sleeping, but for some reason I woke up. Valeska was on watch while Eddy had his eyes glued on the radar.
“Jacques, look. There is something out there off the starboard bow that seems to be moving rapidly toward us, much too fast for a fishing boat.”
I sat up and looked at the screen and saw that the vessel was about five minutes away from crossing right in front of our bow. It could have been a navy patrol boat, since we were only about fifteen miles offshore, but unlikely: The Honduran Navy was usually in dry dock at the Puerto Cortés Naval Base. I knew all about that. I went inside and woke up Cowboy George.
“Wake up, Cowboy. We have visitors. They could be pirates.”
Then I passed three flare guns that I had stashed above the chart table outside to Eddy.
“Flare guns. Good,” he said.
Cowboy George was up on his feet.
“Cowboy, pass me that yellow waterproof case underneath the chart table, will you?”
He reached underneath and pulled it out.
“What’s in there?”
“Cartridges for the flare guns.”
I passed them to Eddy.
“Nice, I’m sure a couple of those well-placed could cause a little havoc on board any kind of boat,” he said.
“Or give somebody a bad case of heartburn,” added Cowboy George as he climbed up into the cockpit.
I followed the Cowboy, opened the cartridge case and showed them how to load the guns.
“Press on this part and the gun will open, like this. Slip the cartridge in, then close the gun up and make sure that it’s locked. When you want to shoot, just pull the hammer back, point and pull the trigger. Valeska will stay on the helm. Just keep the boat heading straight ahead for now; if we have to change course, I’ll let you know. That’s it, that’s all.”
“Remember, keep your heads down. I don’t want them to see anyone on deck, and if whoever it is comes too close, I’ll let them have it first, then you guys do the same while I reload. Got it?”
I didn’t alter the boat’s speed or change heading. That would have let them know that we were on their case. We just laid low in the cockpit for a few minutes and waited. Then the growl of two big outboard motors began to grow louder. From where I was crouched, I spotted a long speeding form suddenly pop out of the darkness. It veered off suddenly, then slowed almost to a stop about a hundred feet away. None of us moved. It was a typical drug-running boat, painted matte black, about thirty feet long. I could see two dark shadows at the wheel, and another one, surely well armed, at the bow. But why had they bothered to come out all that way to investigate a speck on th
eir radar? One way or another, after they saw Numada, they gunned the twin engines and disappeared back into the night. A close call for sure; they must have been drug runners on a rendezvous. I guess that we were not the boat they were looking for.
For the next few hours, no one could relax. My crew tried to catnap while I sat at the helm, considering what could have happened to us. During the ordeal, no one had so much as flinched, let alone panicked. Of course, I already trusted Eddy because we had been through a lot of tricky situations together. As for Valeska, I’d seen her moving firearms, and she seemed to be adapting well to life at sea. In Cowboy George’s case, there was nothing really cowboy about the man. He was all Indian, with sharp eyes, sensitive and steady. He’d been brought up on a reservation; good survival instincts were essential.
Ever since he was a kid, that nickname had stuck to him like gum to a shoe. I liked the way he’d stayed cool when that speedboat showed up on the radar. George had been involved in conflicts like the long Mohawk standoff at Oka, Québec, back in 1989. Although he didn’t belong to that particular First Nation, he’d pitched in to help the Mohawks defend their land. The standoff had lasted for weeks, and when the army finally showed up and the shooting began, there were casualties on both sides. Cowboy George never provided details.
As day broke, we saw coastline off to starboard. Through binoculars, I could see breaking surf, a long beach and wave-like dunes of golden sand. Just back from the beach, majestic coconut palms danced in the breeze. Off in the distance, a chain of mountains stretched out in both directions. We all took turns looking through the glasses. Valeska explained to Cowboy George that a good portion of the territory had been converted into a national wildlife reserve. Eddy grabbed the camera and filmed this impromptu scene.
“Actually, most people in Central American are mestizo. Our history goes way back, like yours. My own family is a mixture of Mayan, African, Russian and I don’t know what.”
I was busy concentrating on the action until Eddy pointed out a dark bank of clouds approaching rapidly from the north. It looked like a heavy squall was headed our way, so before the wind picked up, Valeska and I reduced sail and prepared the boat for a blow. We had about thirty miles to go, and we still needed to find the mouth of the Patuca River. Once back in the cockpit, I unhooked the autopilot and grabbed the long tiller. If there was going to be some real wind, I wanted to be the one steering.
