Wednesday morning, May 18th, our 48th day on board, found us bedazzled by the sun as we shook sleep from our groggy heads, getting it all over the cabin. We shooed the drowsy air out into the cockpit and then over the side where it dissipated in the sparkling brine. When I say "we" I mean the 2nd mate and myself, Brian having a penchant for getting things going early had already started the coffee to boil over in Tim's shack. Before he had left us the previous night Tim had offered the services of his electricity for mornings use, promising to rouse us at seven. We left a full mug of stout, black joe on his wooden box/table next to his hammock (with him swinging comfortably within) and made our farewells.
According to our new departure program, we made ready the sails, halyards, and sheets (in this case by "we" I mean Brian, who, once coffee was begun, was left to his own devices for 15 whole minutes), and then sat together as a crew to review the charts and our plan of navigation. We would clear the San Pedro Breakwater, as we had taken to thinking of the reef, with all hands on deck. Subsequently, we would bear eastward past the Turneffe Islands and the dangerous reefs lying all around, turn south between these and the Lighthouse Reef, another wreck spattered atoll, and clearing these set the heading on 125 degrees east southeast across the Gulf of Honduras to the fabled Roatan Island. The Sea Gods were with us and the channel out of San Pedro cleared without incident. The Wind Gods were not quite so kind, willing that we should tack our way to the southward turn, but relented as we persisted, swinging around behind us for most of the night crossing. There was an incident at this point, however. Sometimes I think I should never go to bed while underway because the most interesting things seem to occur while I'm sleeping. In this case it was a triple whammy during Brian's tiller shift: the compass light died again, the ship's power started suffering, and Brian and Eric made out an immense object � unlit and only a mile or so distant AND right in line with the course we were following. Some quick consideration suggested it to be a wrecked freighter beached and buckling on the reef. This is always something to avoid, which they did, though they now found themselves having to light the compass with a flashlight while trying to fix it at the same time and manage to steer clear of mystery object and suspect reef�. I awoke to the hushed, frustrated cursing of the 1st mate as he struggled with the wiring of the compass. Having wrangled with it's tangles before I felt obliged to go above decks and give a hand. After a few mild oaths of my own the compass light shown true again and the mates went happily back to avoiding disaster. Running the engine for a time restored some life to the beleaguered batteries � perhaps, we concurred, we should avoid future use of the blender unless plugged into shore-power�. � and I went happily back to sleep. My watch shift came 'round at 4 am, but the mates elected to let me sleep another two hours, bless their hardy hearts! I replaced Brian on deck at 6 am. My tiller shift was uneventful; fair and variable breeze, low seas. So I went to sleep.
I tell you, EVERY TIME! Once again it was on Brian's watch, and this time during the day. We had checked the weather satellite map on the internet the day before we left � scattered thunderstorms and showers everywhere in the Caribbean � but had not directly encountered any foul weather. Nor did we, to our immense gratitude. What did bring me back above board was Brian's urgent call to witness the formation of a waterspout. A waterspout, for any of you not acquainted with a seagoing tornado, is a seagoing tornado. Just a few miles off our starboard beam was a relatively small, isolated storm. It's anvil-shaped cumulonimbus rose head and shoulders taller that the other cloud formations dotting the horizon all around. Brian had been keeping an eye on the dark squall of rain beneath it; to be ready should it decide to move in our direction. It did not, but it did send a sharp little fang down from the grey-blue cloud cover that spiraled lower, lower, and lower still. All three of us watched amazed as the swirling tooth of wind began to churn the water directly under its syringe-like tip; twin vortices stretching narrow fingers toward one another in an awesome meeting of heavenly divine and earthly mutable that Michelangelo would have recognized instantly. We recognized that it might just be a good idea to take the most direct course away from so powerful a communion�.so we put the cameras away and pulled the sheets to, putting a bit more distance between us and the land at the end of the rainbow.
The waterspout dissipated and we returned to our course, maintaining a sharp eye on the ferocious storm cell. As it swept past to the north we were treated to a second waterspout, this one eventually obscured by a driving, white rain. We were appropriately, reverently thankful not to have been in the path of the storm. A blinding torrent interspersed with whirling tornadoes of water is not the kind of entertainment we would be likely to enjoy.
Dusk fell, graying the clouds and turning the seas an opaque, steely blue. Night followed and after a few hours the lights of Roatan Island, Honduras made their appearance on the horizon. With the sighting of the beacons came a slackening in the breeze. For once we were pleased to be becalmed. Running the reefs on the southern shores of the island after dark was decidedly NOT on our to-do list. We spent a restful night ten miles off the coast of Roatan, awaiting the dawn and landfall. Rest easy.