the IMPROMPTU washing line
Belize to Panama (Day 2) - Roatan, Honduras - Heading North-East
At 0250, Sam wakes me. It’s time for my watch. I sleepily pop on a few layers, refill my water bottle, and rummage around for some snacks. These seemingly menial tasks are all, in fact, somewhat of a challenge with how heavily the boat is heeled over, as we beat on into the wind.
On our port side, I can see the lights of Roatan - a long, thin island stretching along the Northern coast of Honduras. Our plan is to sail through the channel in between this island and the mainland, in the hope that the sea state will be calmer. So far, this hasn’t manifested.
By the time I reach the cockpit, the wind has all but died. Have we reached Roatan’s wind shadow, I wonder? But, looking at the chart and given the wind direction, it seems too soon. Argonaut’s speed plummets to just 2 knots. Unfortunately, this is sustained. Has the wind dropped off for good? Perhaps we should shake out a reef?
I ask Sam what he thinks. He nods, and mentions to a half-asleep Charles that we are contemplating shaking out one of our two reefs. For the next half an hour, the three of us sit of deck, pondering the various merits of tacking back North (where we know there is breeze) or shaking out a reef. Then, after an extended period of painstakingly slow progress, the wind decides for us. It comes back with a vengeance. The fall in wind speed was the shadow of Roatan, after all. And now, once again, we are making excellent progress - 7 knots of speed over ground.
Content, Sam and Charles head back to bed. I helm, enjoying the sound of wind whistling through the sails again. An hour or so later, Lieneke wakes up and joins me on deck for a chat, before getting her head down.
Come 0430, the wind dies again. This time, thankfully, it’s only for 5 minutes or so. The shape of this island keeps bending the breeze.
Other than keeping an eye on a few fishing boats South of us, it’s a largely uneventful watch, simply steering the same course. And yet, as Charles later points out, it was the busiest watch of the day!
At 0600 I hand over to Charles and Lieneke, and fall into a blissful sleep.
Around 0800 I awake to the glorious smell of freshly baked apple and cinnamon muffins. What a way to start the day! I gobble down a few, before sleepiness rears its ugly head once more, and I retreat to my cabin. Full and content.
It’s not until early afternoon that I wake again. We contemplate what best to make for lunch. The lettuce seems to be on its way out, so we make a tuna salad. I’m not usually a salad fan, but Charles makes it interesting - adding some gherkins, red onion, and cucumber. Would I make this back home, I wonder? It has a welcome freshness to it, certainly needed in this heat. Perhaps it wouldn’t translate all too well to December in Guernsey!
I’m back on watch. Having tacked, we are now heading North-East, sailing through the channel between Roatan and Guanaja, the most Easterly island in the chain.
The sea state, having being calm for hours, decides to pick up. A wave breaks over the bow and sends salt water gushing through the open hatches in Charles’ forward cabin. The cockpit is promptly turned into a washing line/obstacle course, an attempt in vain to try dry out various mattresses, sheets and clothes before nightfall. It gives us that enclosed bimini we wanted, after all!
We put a reef in the main. Ben pops his head up.
Ben: What’s going on here?
Charles: We’re putting a reef in.
Ben: No *jestures to the decorated cockpit*
For some reason or another, we do not learn our lesson from the bow incident. It is so hot, we keep the aft hatches open to maintain some semblance of airflow. I’m chilling in my cabin, listening to music, when I see a waterfall streaming from the side hatch. The same wave which installed a water feature in my cabin also doused the oven and its electronics. So, we turn all the AC electronics off as a precautionary measure. Our dinner, bubbling away on the hob at the time, is especially well seasoned tonight!
This event lends itself to yet another situation in which my smaller-than-male-hands come in handy. I find myself on the floor of the galley, legs contorted against various surfaces to brace me, sponging salt water out from where it is trapped in a pool behind the oven and squeezing it into a saucepan.
By now, everyone is feeling a little green. So, Charles and I hatch a plan to manage the cooking and washing up between the two of us whilst we keep beating into the wind over the next few days. After that, when we start bearing away, we are hoping that the conditions become a little kinder to everyone (spoiler alert: not quite).
As I head to bed, we tack, heading back towards mainland Honduras. I drift in and out of sleep. We are heeled at quite the angle, which makes for uncomfortable sleeping: one elbow is forced into the hard wooden edge of the boat, and I can feel my stomach rising and falling with each wave.
I am half asleep as Ben hands over his watch to Sam, yet awake enough to feel the wind pick up and hear the rush of water grow ever louder beside my head. It’s clear that Squally Sam is back, with his watch of squalls! Ben clambers into bed beside me. Without lee cloths to separate us, the heel of the boat squishes us into each other. Sticky with sweat, overheating, and uncomfortable, neither of us are best pleased. Now, I am even more squished into the wood.
Then, I hear the engine switch on. There is movement on deck, accompanied by white light so bright it pierces through my shut eyelids. I shield my closed eyes with my arm. Usually, I am not at all a fan of the engine, rumbling loudly next to my head. But it’s been turned on because the wind has died down, meaning for the first time in days we are now more level, making it easier to drift off to sleep.