into pirate waters

Belize to Panama (Day 5) - Offshore, North-East of Nicaragua/Honduras - Heading South-East

In the early hours, as I try to stay asleep as I slowly bake in the cabin, the conditions have become feisty, and once again we are well heeled over. Ben and I are sandwiched to starboard. I miss lee cloths.

Overheating, around 0300 I give in and seek out a cold shower.

0530 I wake to the musical sound of plates and cutlery clattering. Leaving the washing up on the drying rack is evidently not a smart move on passage. I optimistically head back to bed, trying to squeeze in a few more winks of sleep before my watch begins at 0600.

I make myself a lemon and ginger tea - a tea I rarely drink at home, but is my tea of choice this passage. English breakfast tea has long gone out the window - it does not blend at all well with the long life milk we have in stock. The wind has really picked up again, so this tea-making is a treacherous task; handling boiling water whilst the galley is air-bound (it’s on port side and we are on port tack).

From the cockpit, I can see the remnants of a beautiful sunrise. The sun is still low in the sky, painting orange across the horizon. It soon reveals a beautiful day.

During the watch handover, Sam points out a few tankers which are approaching the shipping lane, destined for the Panama Canal.

We are now reaching rather than beating, yet we are still heeled over at quite an angle.

I am enjoying the morning sun. The gentle blue and golden hues are calming, in clear contrast the energy of the wind of waves; the breeze is noisy as it gushes past my ears and the ocean making itself known as it cresting waves slap against the hull.

I check the radar. I see what looks like a boat - similar colouring to the cargo ships, but without AIS to identify it. It looks different to how squalls appear on radar. It’s too far away to see by eyesight. When I check the radar again ten minutes later, I no longer have a hit.

An hour or so later, I spot another possible boat on radar without AIS. And it is getting closer. I wake Charles and we start scanning the horizon with binoculars. It is now just 6 nautical miles away from us. We continue horizon scanning and watching the radar like hawks until we become pretty sure we’d been scared by a couple of clouds. We are happy with that outcome.

As we look back across our wake, we spot a rainbow. We relax.

By now, it’s time to handover to Charles and Lieneke.

Later that morning, we take our first baby steps towards turning South as we ease the main and jib. We are now reaching, with a heading of 120.

The wind noise is loud. We can just about hear a faint alarm sound emanating from the chart plotter, when Argonaut violently swings up. “No rudder response.” Otto has gone on strike again.

Charles: Why won’t you fucking do your job?

There is a 180 metre long cargo ship crossing ahead of us. Apart from potential pirates, it’s the most excitement we’ve had all day. I grab my DSLR to snap some shots. In all the excitement, I completely forget to change the settings until I check back on the first few photos, which are a blurry mess. So, I up the shutter speed, and try to capture the confused sea state instead, as the cargo ship disappears into the distance. Can you spot it in these photos?

Our heading edges further south. 140. 150. And, at last, 180! We are now sailing South, South.

Lieneke is helming, happily surfing down waves. Then, the steering goes clang. Charles takes the helm. It seems okay. He hands it back to Lieneke.

The bruises on my arm are starting to come out from yesterday morning, when a wave flung me from my sleep across the cockpit.

My hair is messy again, even though I washed it last night. The breeze and salty waves are relentless in pursuit of knotting my hair. Claw clips have become my best friend.

Relaxing in the sun, cooled slightly by the breeze, I say “this is nice”. Not two seconds later, Charles gets doused in a wave. Cue a few giggles.

I snack on some reap berry yoghurt. The coolness is a welcome relief from the heat. I make a mental note to myself to pick some up more often.

I hear a cry of “dolphins”!

Lieneke and I venture out to the bow, getting soaked by waves in the process. But what we experience more than makes up for our sopping wet clothes and phones that no longer want to charge. Dolphins, everywhere, showing off with full jumps! I retreat reluctantly from the bow as I lose my footing, the deck slippery with salt water.

On Ben’s insistence, I thoroughly rinse my phone and portable charger (which also got soaked in the dolphin parade) with fresh water. And then we pray it doesn’t explode. I vow not to try charge my phone for the next twenty-four hours. And, in the meantime, my portable charger lives on deck, in clear view of the helm, so that it can be promptly disposed of if it starts kicking up a fuss.

Still soaked to the skin, I shower off the salt and wash my clothes in the shower.

Come lunchtime, I snooze, only waking for nachos with leftover chilli.

We have been surfing down waves for 80 nautical miles. We have reached the channel between two shallow spots, and current is funnelling up this channel in the opposite direction to the wind. With wind against tide, the waves are not only building, but are becoming messy too. There is still another 40 nautical miles of this to go. At five knots speed over ground, that’s eight hours of challenging helming into the night and solo watches, without being able to use the autopilot for a break (Otto is still not happy).

Some hours later, as we continue surfing waves, the steering goes clunk again. The wind speed has increased. Since we cannot reef a third time (not set up), we drop the main, leaving only the jib up.

After a candy floss pink sunset, night falls. Just before my watch ends, I spot a light on the horizon to the East. Sam and Ben think it’s a beacon, as it’s not constant. But from where I’m standing at the helm station, there does not seem to be a pattern. I wonder whether it’s a constant light, obscured by the waves. I check the radar but cannot see anything. The light is not on a constant bearing, which is good. I keep monitoring the radar.

Then, I get a hit. It has approximately the right bearing. There’s another hit now too. One six nautical miles away, one much closer - only four.

Charles takes the helm. We are already sailing dark - we cannot be seen on AIS, and no navigation lights on. But not we go even darker; all lights off down below. We ensure the day tank is full, then switch the engine on. We stick to our plan: if we see anything unidentified, we run away, making unpredictable movements in the process.

Ben is cooking pasta by the light of his phone. I am grating parmesan. Everyone else is up on deck. We serve, eat, and amuse ourselves with alliteration: 

Pesto Pasta with Parmesan, Possibly Pursued by Pirates on Passage to Panama

By the time we have wolfed down our food, Sam spots the vessel’s red port light. We relax.

Once again, the washing up is tough work. We hit a squall, bringing with it horrendous rain. And we still have wind against tide.

Sam: I’ve been waiting for the day we bear away, and now we get this!

Although Otto is helming once again, he is making his grievances known with an eery creaking sound, which would not be out of place in a horror movie. And to this melody  Sam, Ben and I drift off to sleep.

Until the engine goes on.

I pop my head up and ask what’s going on. Charles and Lieneke point out a light they are trying to evade. I head back to bed and close my eyes. Some time later, we get the call.

Charles: Get everyone up. Stow everything.

And so a mild panic is induced as we rush to stow the Garmin inReach, various phones which charts downloaded on them, and our prized possessions - cameras, laptops, and Lieneke’s authenticating phone (wouldn’t want to lose that, and be unable to work for the next few weeks, would we). I place sacrificial items - my old laptop and phone - in easy to find places, in the hope that anyone boarding the boat would be satisfied with this loot and not search deeper.

Lieneke has chosen the most ingenious hiding spot of all - zipped inside our cockpit cushions! The hiding spot I proudly identified back in Florida, when the boat was still in the yard, proves itself somewhat less successful. There is space behind the kitchen drawers. We set about removing the drawers. Except, after we pull out the top drawer, it won’t go back in. Charles mentions that the worktop lifts up (genius!), but even now some items are stowed, it looks pretty obvious - with the top drawer out, on display.

We all don our lifejackets and sit on deck in silence. That is, until Sam says he is going to bed. Ben and I follow suit. We have put enough distance between us and that boat.

Was it a false alarm? We will never know.

Charles’ logbook entry simply reads: “Good night”.