by James Gray
The water windward started to come alive with whitecaps. A strong gust pushed the boat over another ten degrees. I liked preparing for a blow; it was always exciting. For a few minutes, I forgot about everything else but the boat. It was hard over and perfectly trimmed — this was real sailing. Those few minutes put me in another place.
Another gust heeled the boat over some more. The sea, which up to now had been fairly comfortable, was starting to get lumpy, with the odd wave slapping up against the side of the boat. But the heavy schooner didn’t complain at all; it was in its element. According to my chart, we were fast approaching the mouth of the Rio Patuca.
I asked Valeska to let out the jib a little and eased off at the helm. Numada straightened up and we gained another knot.
There were whitecaps heading our way. That meant more wind. Looking up at the sails, I knew that we were set for the next strong gust, and when it hit, the boat reacted perfectly and gained more speed. With my hand on the tiller, I could feel the rudder vibrating underneath. We were really moving and I think that I even let out a loud yell. Everybody was hanging on and enjoying the rush. As we slid forward, I got to thinking how a squall at sea was always a challenge. You just never knew what it could bring. It was the same with every new experience in life. There were always surprises. To survive you had to take it all in stride and do your best, but at the same time never forget where you are, ‘cause shit happens. Since leaving Puerto Cortés, I’d managed to get caught up in the frenzy of my own folly. But during the last few days, just as we were about to begin the most important leg of this project, I had realized that the success of this whole expedition was on my shoulders. But then again, I wasn’t alone. The crew that was riding with me was proving to be exceptional. I had a strong feeling that together, we could handle about anything that came along. This was really living, pushing it to the edge, and that’s the way it had to be. It was here, and it was now. I caught a glimpse of Valeska’s wide shining eyes. She looked ecstatic.
“It’s payday!” she yelled.
We dipped into a large wave and it exploded over the deck.
Eddy and Cowboy George, sitting on Numada’s windward side, caught a dose of the heavy spray.
“Yes!” cried Eddy over the loud sounds coming from the rigging.
Once again, I felt we were all travelling on the same wave as Numada carried us forward.
The wind was still blowing hard as we closed in on Barra Patuca. When I could clearly see details on the shoreline, I called our reception committee on channel 69. No response. I tried again. Nothing. Just as I was about to invent a Plan B, I heard the speaker crackle in Spanish.
“Numada, Numada, me copia. Numada, Numada, me copia, me copia.”
“Hey, Peter-Pedro, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s us, where are you?”
“We’re about five miles northwest of the pass.”
“Okay, Numada, we’ll guide you. When you see our boat, wait for our signal before you come in through the pass. Don’t come in unless you see us.”
“I understand, Peter-Pedro. Graçias.”
It seemed everything was going according to plan. I could feel it in Peter-Pedro’s confident tone. Still, I was beginning to have doubts. The northeast wind that had been our main driving force would now be blowing in against the strong river current as it emptied into the sea. That would making steep breaking waves at the entrance.
Sure, Numada was a great boat at sea, but shooting breakers was a different story. She would need all the speed she could muster to ride safely in, and it was possible she wouldn’t be fast enough. But the schooner had a strong engine and we had lots of weight where it counted. I would leave a mainsail up, centering the boom to help prevent us rolling from side to side. In case things got out of hand, we could douse the sail fairly quickly and try to motor our way out of trouble.
I gave the order to clear the decks of anything that might get swept overboard. All loose objects inside were secured in a safe place in case of a knockdown. Finally, about half a mile offshore, I fired up the engine and lowered the staysail, working jib and second main, then sheeted in the main on the foremast. The only thing now was to cross our fingers. We could see the pass clearly, with deserted sand dunes on each side and surf crashing onto the beach. Then, straight ahead, I spotted Peter-Pedro and his brother standing in a small lancha, well inside the surf line, arms in the air and waving at us like crazy. That was the sign I was expecting. We sat there in the rolling sea waiting for a lull, and when it finally came, I gunned the throttle and we started to move in. It was now or never.
I yelled to Eddy, “Be prepared with your camera; this could be a wild ride.” He ducked into the cabin and pulled out the small camera in its waterproof bag.
Hanging on tight with one hand, he started filming.
“Holy shit, look at the size of that wave!” Cowboy George called.
I looked behind us at the building mass of water and tried to keep my cool. “It’s like Hawaii Five-O,” Eddy hissed, bracing himself.
“Valeska, put in the washboards and pull the hatch shut as fast as you can; we could get pooped.”
Seconds later, Numada lifted up and carried ahead. The boat’s speed went up over fourteen knots on the GPS, and I had to grasp the tiller with two hands to control our direction. The burst of speed lasted about ten seconds before the wave passed and broke just ahead of us, leaving Numada stalled in a swirling, foamy trough. I looked to the stern again. There was an even bigger wave overtaking us. The schooner began picking up speed again, but we weren’t moving fast enough. As we rose onto the next crest, I looked behind again, only to see a wall of water beginning to curl over. The stern lifted suddenly and the schooner shot ahead.
“Hang on, everybody! We’re going to get creamed!”
The wave got even steeper. Glancing to starboard, I saw it start to break. I caught a brief glimpse of Cowboy George standing on the cabin roof with one arm wrapped around the mast, the other hand clutching his famous Stetson, and his long black hair streaming behind. He let out a war cry. At the same time, with two arms extended, I pushed on the long tiller with all my strength. Numada began to turn off slightly to starboard as the water exploded around us, covering the deck with salty brine and shooting us forward into the calmer waters behind the sandbar. Everyone on board cheered. We’d made it by the skin of our teeth.
Peter-Pedro and his brother approached our boat, their eyes round. “You must be crazy!” his brother shouted over the pounding surf. “Those breakers are at least fifteen feet high!” Peter-Pedro couldn’t stop laughing.
“Amigo, in my sweet lifetime, I’ve never seen anybody do anything like that. You must have cojones the size of cantaloupes!”
“But you waved us in, didn’t you?” I said.
“Waved you in? No, hombre, we were waving you away. It’s way too dangerous to try to come in right now. We were waving like this, not like that.” He repeated the same gesture.
“Shit, you gotta be kidding me.”
“No matter, you made it in and it was wonderful to see. Welcome to Barra Patuca, my friends! Numada, follow us.”
They motored up the wide river entrance toward their village. Another close call, I thought to myself. We were damn lucky. The gods had been watching over us. But when I think about it now, they must have been having a good laugh at the same time.
BARRA PATUCA
South of the bay sat a cluster of small wooden houses built on stilts, their tin roofs worn rusty by years of salty sea spray. A dozen dugouts had been hauled up on the beach, and fishing nets had been hung on racks to dry. On the hard-packed sand flats near a small wooden dock, a group of kids played soccer with an empty plastic container. There was a sweet smell in the air — wildflowers and smoke from cooking fires. Everything was peaceful. There was no sign of Esmeralda or of the black lancha that had buzzed us during the night.
Numada motored on carefully into the shallow waters of the estuary. Seen from shore
, it must have looked as if the boat up ahead was towing us like some great fish the two brothers had caught at sea. We glided closer to the center of the village, past a cement dock with a waterlogged fifty-foot barge tied alongside it. On the barge’s deck were stacks of wooden planks, bags of cement and wooden crates. Two men stopped unloading to watch our boats slip by. We continued along the shore, passing a small creek that emptied into the lagoon. Peter-Pedro and his brother guided us carefully toward a fragile wooden dock. Hauled up on a slip was the fishing boat they had welded together back in Puerto Cortés. The deck was piled high with wooden traps. The propeller had been pulled. It was between fishing seasons.
Further on and tucked in behind a cluster of palm trees sat a modest house built of worn wooden boards painted lime green, with a rusty tin roof sloping over a wide balcony. Stairs led up to the balcony, and on the wide muddy bank off to the side, a grove of tall bamboo trees swayed gently in the breeze; their long shadows cast upon the front of house made the structure seem to come alive. An elderly man dressed in a worn white shirt and ragged khaki shorts emerged from the front door as we approached.
I looked down into the murky water. According to the sounder, there couldn’t have been more than a foot of water under the keel. We nudged up against the dock as the brothers climbed onto the rickety wharf and grabbed the dock lines from Valeska and Cowboy George. They jumped down onto the wet sand and wrapped the lines around wooden posts. Numada secured, I returned to the cockpit and gave Valeska a long hug.
“You sure scared the hell out of me.” Her eyes sparkled.
“I know. I scared the hell out of myself, too, but don’t tell anyone.”
Going in when I did could have ended the trip right there in the surf, with a capsized sailboat, waterlogged crew, or worse. When we shut off the engine, we felt a wonderful calm. In the distance I could hear the surf pounding in, mixed with a sweet chorus of tropical birdsongs coming from the mangroves nearby. A dozen wide-eyed children appeared from nowhere. The old man on the balcony came down the steps and soon stood on the dock beside our boat. He seemed in good shape for a man of at least eighty. His dark brown skin contrasted beautifully with his white beard. A ball cap was pulled down over his forehead.
“Beinvenedo,” he exclaimed, and climbing on board, he greeted me with a firm handshake. His palm felt like rawhide. “Mi nombre es Anton Lopez.”
“Mi nombre es Jacques Legris. Mucho gusto, señor.” I then introduced him to my crew.
Anton had the same calm expression as Peter-Pedro. I could see a family resemblance, except that Anton had surprisingly vivid blue eyes. He looked up and down the deck, then tilted his head back to examine the tall masts that seemed even higher now that we were tied up to such a small wharf. He knocked on the deck with his fist. “Que barco solido.” (What a solid boat.)
Peter-Pedro and Chili-Chili joined us and we shared a good laugh about our dramatic arrival. Anton nodded his head, then mentioned another tall-masted boat he’d seen offshore.
“A few times it has entered here and anchored near that point over there. They always load up with cargo brought by lancha from up the river. Then they leave. In fact, they were here a few days ago.”
“What kind of cargo did they load on board?” I asked.
He answered only with a sly smile and then shrugged his shoulders. I changed the subject and explained to Señor Anton some details concerning the film project. I told him that George was a Native Canadian Indian who had come to meet and learn about the Miskito, Pech and Tawahka tribes. I also explained that we had come a long way just to visit the Ciudad Blanca.
The old man stared at us for a long moment. His eyes seemed to have changed color. “Ciudad Blanca?”
He looked over at his sons.
“… Si, possible, pero muy peligroso.” (Yes, possible, but very dangerous.)
“Señor Anton, if possible, we want to film this place before the looters empty it. We hope to show to the world what these people are doing to Honduras’ archaeological heritage. Maybe it will make a difference.”
Anton nodded. I thought that he wanted to trust me but wasn’t exactly certain that he could. I unfolded a map and showed it to him. I had marked an X over the place where Ciudad Blanca was supposed to be. The brothers and their father studied the map in detail, pointing out various spots where the fishing was good or where a small village stood. I brought out the satellite photos. “According to these photos, this is the exact position.”
The old man looked at the photos, then back at the map, then up at the sky. Not a word was said as we waited for the elder to pronounce his opinion. He nodded with a smile. “I think the satellite is correct,” he said in English.
“How many days will it take to get there?”
“It depends on the river. Maybe three days, maybe more if it rains, because lots of rain means lots of current,” he added, gesturing with his hands.
I turned to Chili-Chili. “Are you sure you can get us up there?”
“Claro, I have been on this river all my life. The Pech people who live there will help us if we need gas or repairs, and they can also provide us with food. I know them well. We are all river people.”
I looked over at Peter-Pedro; he seemed to want to say something.
“You are going to need someone to look after your boat while we are gone.”
“You’re right about that, my friend. An important detail that I have been ignoring until today. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Si, mi padre. My father is the best man around. We talked about this already.”
Anton seemed content to have such an important responsibility on his hands. “Yes, I will look after it as if it were my own. If a big storm comes, I can get help to bring it into the mangroves. That’s what we do with our boats when the weather gets bad. It will be safer over there, Señor Jack.” He pointed to a thick cluster of mangroves upriver. “There is a small basin inside. Once your boat is secured there, it will be out of danger.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” I said, feeling a little relieved.
Anton and I shook hands. I knew that with him in charge of Numada, all would be well. That afternoon, we sat on deck and talked a mixture of Spanish, English and Innu, with some Miskito and Garifuna added for good measure. We all seemed to make ourselves understood. Pedro and Chili-Chili had lots to tell us. Charts and diagrams were strewn around the cockpit. I was so involved with making plans that I hadn’t noticed Eddy with the camera on his shoulder. The art of filmmaking often requires one to wear many hats. Up to that point, I had been too busy with the boat and preparations for the next few weeks to think about shooting. Eddy had kept the equipment handy. As we were sitting around, I observed that Chili-Chili didn’t look at all like his brother Peter-Pedro. He was a few inches taller, more heavyset, perhaps ten years younger. If anything, with his long black hair and strong features, he looked more like an Innu. In fact, when he and Cowboy George first met, Chili-Chili began to speak Spanish with him, assuming that George was someone from the region. George had replied in Innu and they’d both found that funny.
Chili-Chili knew the river like his backyard — which it was. He knew it even better than his father did, which made sense because over the years, certain areas of the river had been altered due to erosion caused by deforestation. “Rio Patuca is a good river during the dry season, but when the heavy rains arrive, it swells up and sometimes overflows its banks,” he explained. “The current becomes very strong and sometimes can take out trees. So when it rains, we have to be on the lookout for snags and fallen trees. They could sink a boat in minutes.”
That evening, we ate supper seated around a clay oven fuelled by dry pieces of cedar. Roasted langosta and fresh dorado were on the menu. Chili-Chili’s wife María had prepared the whole meal. She was a quiet woman with smooth dark skin, a beautiful face and a kind smile. Her features were definitely a mixture of Garifuna and Pech. María radiated calmness to everyone around her and it was
the kind of energy we needed. The interior of their home was simple, sparse and spotlessly clean. That afternoon she had shown Valeska around her kitchen, explaining what was needed to do the cooking on the river. They worked together, combining dried food, plastic plates and a few coolers from Numada’s galley with various pots and pans from María’s kitchen.
As the fire outside burned low, a fresh breeze blew in off the sea. The flames crackled and spat the odd spark that sent tracers up into the night. Somewhere not too far away, a dog barked, trying to raise a reaction among his hairy friends. Hardly audible but ever present was the steady rhythm of heavy thumping surf crashing in on the beach on the other side of the lagoon, as long fronds of tall palm trees that grew behind the house danced in the wind. Overhead, the Milky Way stretched its giant ribbon of silver dust across the sky. It felt great to be alive and feeling the magic of that tropical evening and share it with these generous people of the Mosquito Coast.
Anton’s grandson brought more wood and the elder stoked the fire. Its light projected our shadowy silhouettes like early moving pictures onto the wall of the old family home. I mentioned the visit we’d had from the big lancha the night before. The brothers listened attentively and agreed we had been lucky.
“There’s a lot of offshore traffic at night,” said Chili. “You never know who is out there, but most of the time they are narco-trafficantes, the worst kind of pirates because usually they shoot first and ask questions later. The best strategy when you are sailing near the Mosquito Coast at night is to stay way offshore if you don’t want trouble.”
