We shouted our thanks back to Luis as he fishtailed around and headed back to port leaving us to the ocean. We set sail into a headwind � as per usual � and began an arduous tack past the last of Central America. We cleared the boarder between El Salvador and Guatemala in the night. There would be no stopping in Guatemala. The only available harbor is a navy port, by all accounts expensive, inconvenient, and inhospitable. Instead we struggled against the light winds on our nose, zigging a few miles perpendicular to our course, zagging at a productive angle until nearness of shore made us assume the zig again. It felt like the weaving would never stop and our progress seemed almost nil...until we checked the GPS and noticed we were making more miles than could have been possible at our given sailing speed. Sure enough, we'd found a nearshore backcurrent. The prevailing North Pacific currents all flow south and east in this part of the world, exactly opposite the direction our endeavor was taking us. But several times while becalmed we registered one and a half knots on GPS � and in the right direction, northwest! Quite a boon!
Suddenly the agonizing predictions of added days getting to port began to seem superfluous. Adding a knot and a half boost even without wind would shave hours off our passage. If we could only get a push from behind, we'd have no trouble making our first Mexican port in the three days we'd anticipated....
At this point I should describe a certain weather pattern particular to the area: the infamous Chubasco. We were still below hurricane latitudes (about 15 degrees north) but remained wary of the deadly potential of the local atmospheric systems; take our electric entrance to El Salvador. The new threat was the fast moving, suddenly appearing apparitions known to wreck havoc along the coasts from El Salvador to central Mexico. Chubascos pack heavy winds and blinding rains, can come from any direction, and are known to materialize as if by some diabolical will. The saving grace is that they tend to be gone as quickly as they arrive. But for the unprepared they can be hell on wheels, or, shall we say, winds?
Eric and I were on deck, Brian below. (You'd think we'd learn...) This time it was my tiller shift, and I'd been keeping an eye to the south. A wide, black cloud hovered at the horizon, menacing us from afar. I had Eric drop the big jib so we could replace it with the more wieldly storm jenny. I contemplated reefing the main, but opted to leave it up till the last minute. We were continuing to contest with puffing zephyrs on the bow that just barely allowed us to hit our preferred compass bearing. Glancing behind we recorded the progress of the black expanse...."Eric, let's break out the rain gear," I advised. We were suited minutes later. The encroaching cell had grown to twice its perceived size in the meantime. It resembled an impossibly immense flying saucer (ever seen Independence Day? Just like that.) There were no flashes of lightning, no sound to warrant what might lie beneath its ominous leading edge. We cleared the decks and placed the boards in the companion way (the entrance to the cabin) to prevent rain from getting in. I wish I had a wide angle picture of the scene as it must have looked from a few miles ahead of our position: Little blue sailboat slipping along apparently innocent of danger in the foreground; in the background a monstrous, inky maw about to snap down, swallowing the vessel like dust on an indrawn breath.
"Eric, let's get the main � " down is what I would have liked to have said. The command was stripped from my throat with a blast from the stern that tore the tiller from my hand, laying Faith on her starboard beam ends, water pouring over the combings. She righted herself as we clung to the port rails. Under most conditions letting go the tiller causes the boat to turn up into the wind, luffing sails and halting forward progress. With the full main and storm jib exposed there was simply too much sail for this to happen. Instead, Faith sprang up from the knock-over, pointed her bow perpendicular to the edge of the storm � taking the wind over her port forequarter � and went streaking hell bent into the very teeth of the winds. Spray didn't fly from the bow, it exploded. The seas around the hull went from deep blue to white as if bleached by some mad dyer. I grabbed the tiller, training all my strength and concentration on getting us into the wind � now raging at 40 knots in the exact opposite direction from that which we'd been catching moments before. It was no use. Swing the rudder as I might, there was no response. "We have to get the main down!!" I screamed to Eric. He leaped into the gale, stood on the deck with both hands clinging to the main halyard, and began laboriously to uncleat it. I slid forward, abandoning tiller for the time being, and lowered my center of gravity to get the best purchase as I grabbed Eric's beltline in both hands. This steadied my own nerves somewhat, if not his, but he was now able to apply himself to freeing the halyard more effectively without worrying overmuch about loosing balance and being pitched overboard. We dragged in the main. Faith responded by slackening both her heal and her speed, and we were able to bring her nose into the wind somewhat more. Now we could steer, with only the storm jenny flying...well, on second thought, after I studied the foresail for about a minute, I decided it should come down as well. The storm jib was yanking at the forestay as if possessed. More time aloft and it would tear itself to shreds.