I glanced down at the GPS. The barometric pressure stood at 1005. This was not some especially wicked thunderstorm, I wagered. It was a tropical depression riding that wave we'd calculated � correctly � to be still well behind us as we came to port at Manzanillo. But this depression was now exhibiting the birthing pangs of what Spanish speakers aptly call a Tormente de Tropical, the Torment of the Tropics, a tropical storm.
Faith's average speed, with constant winds now shrieking in at 50 knots and gusting up to 60 � in addition to the mountainous following seas � was now 10 knots. We had 7 miles to go and dusk was upon us. Given the wind direction from the south southeast, Brian and I placed our hopes on the towering rocky hills jutting southwest that marked the southern flank of Bahia Manzanillo; the protected harbor of Manzanillo lay within. Eric, I suppose, placed his hopes in us. If we could round the point before dark we'd be sheltered from the worst of the storm, which was continuing to build perceptibly. Just two miles to go to make the turn....the marker lights of the outer reaches of the bay were clearly visible. I scanned the rigging, looking for weaknesses, found none. I noticed that the top three clips attaching the luff of the mainsail to the mast had popped free � the exposed bottom five would have to hold.....just a little longer.
"We're on the waypoint!" I announced to Brian with relief. "Let's make our turn!"
Brian measured the period between waves behind us � he would have to time our swing just right or we'd take another breaker over the beam as we pivoted in a 270 degree turn to port. The reason for such a strange tactic, spinning almost full circle when our course lay just 90 degrees to starboard, was that if we jibed (swung the stern into the wind allowing the mainsail to fly across the cockpit) we might very well loose the boom, the mainsail, and god knows what else. Brian steadied, glanced back, steadied, began the swing, thought better, went to bring us back on course and POW! a gust caught the edge of the main and threw it over our heads to halt shudderingly on the correct side of the boat with a report like gunfire. Everything held. Including the boombang, a cable system that reduces direct pressure on the boom-mast joint in the event of a jibe. This was significant because I'd repaired one of the clips two days before with some wax string liberally wrapped around a critical holding point....whew!! It was 8:00 pm.
Faith strode past the point. We felt the wind slacken, could hear it tearing raggedly around the cliff to starboard. The swell abated, down to twenty feet, fifteen, ten. Two miles into the Bay of Manzanillo we had to drop the tattered mainsail, turn on the engine, and glide our way serenely to the breakwater mouth of our haven, Marina Las Hadas.
We entered slowly, as we do with all new ports we are completely unfamiliar with. There seemed to be an open spot along a concrete wall next to a pair of diesel holding tanks. We crept up to it, Eric and I climbing the five feet up the side with the bow and stern lines. We tied off. Safe. Or so we thought.
"Hi, guys," greeted the Harbor Master, Ruben, who had been closing up shop as we arrived, "don't you know there's a big rock there?"
"Oh," I responded, "we weren't sure where to put ourselves...."
"How about right over there," he indicated the end of the floating dock just across the little marina from our position.
"That's great!" I liked the idea that this might be a simple process. "Should we meet you after...?"
"Tomorrow morning, Ok? Looks like you had a rough time coming in."
"Not that bad," I responded, "See you in the morning. Muchos Gracias!"
We immediately hit the rock as we swung away from the wall. Luckily, it was at about a half a knot. We backed out instead.
The three of us made the boat fast with the usual set of lines, then redoubled them, then broke out every other thick, strong cord we had and wove a web of nylon from cleat to dock and back. The terrible, majestic beast out at sea was just beginning to wake. Even on the dock, behind the breakwater sanctuary, we had to duck low to maintain our balance under its scalding breath. The sound was a symphony too vast to comprehend....but sections could be picked out: the rigging of the marina's residents the resonant strings, pitched high; the crash of surf clanging against the break a chorus of cymbals; in the background the thrumming bass of the storm itself. That background sounded alive. It was the nerve numbing, wet throated shrilling of an Earth striding jungle cat. It was the Tiger of old charts and legends. The unmapped place in this age of minute and instant detail. The uncharted experience where our power to predict breaks down. As the poet says: What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? Here there be Tigres!