The Voyage of the Manatee

2009-05-19T15:03:00.000-07:00

My daughter, Kate, returned from a high school field trip to Europe. I asked her “How was your trip?”. And instead of the expected “good” or “it was awesome!” she replied, “There were a lot of stairs, and don’t ever call anything in Canada ‘old’.”
There is a lesson here for all of us. When we travel, it is not enough to think of our experiences as ‘good’ or ‘bad’. We should think about how our experiences have changed our relationship with the world at large. Every new experience moulds and shapes us, however little, or it wasn’t truly experienced. Travel is rich in new experiences, and since travelling is costly, economically and environmentally, we owe it to ourselves and others to make the best of it.
Keeping a journal is an effective way to enhance the experience. Not only does having a record allow you to relive your memories, but the mere act of writing down what you saw and did and felt, involves the whole mind in the experience.
Photography is a useful tool as well, for reliving your trip, especially when you share the photos with others. But I find the act of taking pictures removes you from the act of experience. Take a beautiful sunset for example. To sit and watch the colours of the sky gradually shift down the spectrum and fade to that deep indigo, and to see the night stars emerge in order of brightness, can be a deeply spiritual experience. Sunsets can be beautiful, but if you are fussing about setting up the tripod, and waiting for just the right moment when the lighting is perfect, you get a great picture, but no sense of having experienced the sunset. What you experienced was the act of photographing the sunset, not the act of observing it.
I remember a trip I took with Kate when she was eight. We drove around southern Vancouver Island in an old camper van I had. My camera broke(drowned, actually) the week before when we were on a sailing trip, so I was relieved of the distraction of photography and was free to fully experience the act of observing the joys of discovery that only an eight-year-old can truly do well. Without the camera to chronicle the trip, I deliberately took mental pictures. One picture is of an eight-year-old girl dressed in fleece jacket and pants, with new hiking boots. She was standing on a tree stump, which had washed up on the beach. The stump was not very tall but wide enough she could have lain down on it with neither head nor foot hanging over the edge. She was leaning into a pair of miniature binoculars and gazing intently out to sea. Her expression was of serious curiosity, and she was a perfect miniature version of an adult, all the cuter for being a kid.
Now picture a huge conifer, its massive buttress roots anchoring it to the earth. Each root emerges from the tree as a triangular slab of wood, a few inches thick but three feet tall at the base, tapering to a more rounded shape a few feet from the trunk. Now picture this noble tree, long dead, washed ashore with the buttresses radiating from the base, facing the sea that delivered it to some lonely beach. Now picture the same eight-year-old curled up, lying asleep on an horizontal buttress in the root system of this great tree, shaded by the root above. My feeling at this image is one of great joy, at spending this brief moment of time with my precious daughter. The memories of that time together will remain with me all my life, and has shaped our relationship.
So, by all means take a few snaps. But more importantly, write down your experiences. And most of all, live them.

2009-03-26T14:33:00.000-07:00

Well it's time I did some justice to the places I visit, especially Lighthouse Reef. My thanks to Victor and Dawn Meekhof for all the photos in this post. You did a great job, much better than I could have done. By the way, all these images are the property of Victor and Dawn Meekhof.

Let's start with Half Moon Caye. as the Belize Audubon Society says, "It all started with the boobies." In this case it was the red-footed boobies, which have a large nesting colony here. To see the boobies, you follow a trail along the north shore of the island, which then turns inland. You hear them before you see them; strange croaking noises, bill-clapping and other noises beyond description fill the air. As does the smell of guano, also known as birdshit. Peering up into the trees, you can see boobies peering back down at you, sitting on nests that are no more than a few meagre twigs jammed into the crotch of a tree.. They are so tame that they are not the least stressed by the presence of people who are walking quietly beneath them. Presently you come to an observation tower, and a few steps takes you to eye level.

There you see the boobies, and frigatebirds all nesting together. People wonder why boobies would tolerate their arch-enemy, the frigatebird to nest so closely. It is easy to imagine that having the same bully that stole your breakfast from you sitting in the next nest over would be intolerable. But the birds don't take it personally. The frigates are no threat on the nest, and there is safety in numbers, from real nest predators. so they live and let live.

The first two shots are of mature red-footed boobies in the white colour phase. This phase is less common globally than the brown-with-a-white-tail colour phase, but here on Half Moon Caye, the white birds are by far the more common.

The second shot, you have figured out by now. It is all a confusing mess. Newborns are all-white and fluffy. When they lose the baby down, they are brown. Only at maturity do they reach their final colour pattern.

Sometimes a bird falls from the flimsy nest and is rejected by the parents. The Park Rangers may try to replace the bird, but if the parents won't have it then they raise it themselves. Sometimes these orphans eventually take off and go off to feed themselves, but not Gilly. She liked people too much. When placed with her kin, she would immediately fly back to the park office. She would often be seen landing on the outboard motor of an approaching dinghy, begging for fish scraps. She even landed on my kayak a couple of times, then finally landed on my hat. She stayed on my hat all the way back to the beach until I set her on the fish-cleaning table.

She would even make a nuisance of herself when James and Adolfo were trying to clean the day's catch.

We also get in the water to do some snorkelling. Here is Dawn consulting the Oracle, a huge brain coral. Also shown is a hawksbill turtle. Hawksbills are the most common turtle found in the shallow water, but are often too shy to watch for long. They graze on algae and eat a variety of marine mollusks. This is the turtle that was once prized for "tortoiseshell" jewellery, and was saved from extinction by the development of cheap plastic substitutes. Ironic, considering floating plastics are arguably the greatest threat to the survival of several sea turtle species.

Can you see the stonefish in this picture? If you can you may even notice a small sharp-nosed puffer picking at the stonefish as if it were indeed a rock covered in marine growth.

I couldn't resist including this shot of a reef squid checking out a school of snorkellers. Reef squid are real characters; they swim in formation, changing colour and even flashing white and dark. They have amazing control over their skin pigment, opening and closing pigment cells called chromatophores with astonishing speed.

The weather isn't always as it appears in the literature. Sometimes a squall hits us
and dumps a heavy rain for a couple of minutes before it passes. This is Victor smiling because he was smart or lucky enough to still be in the water when it hit. Pity those who sat through the rain on the boat, but not too much. And if you look closely between the engines you will see the head of yours truly, avoiding the rain altogether.

It isn't always raining either, Much more often we have a flawless sky and sometimes the wind is just right for a sail.....

More to come soon. Cheers
Jack

2009-03-16T07:25:00.000-07:00

Just in from Glover's Reef and want to post some photos from some of my guests.

The first is an iguana in a tree. During the winter months the males climb up into prominent spots where they can display their size and orange mating colours. Preferred sites are in the tops of trees directly over water, for a quick getaway if needed. This magnificent specimen was in his prime and probably had several females hanging around in nearby branches to get a piece of him when laying time comes around.

Next is a Morelet's crocodile. This species is smaller and less aggressive than the American crocodile, and unlike the American, is found only in freshwater rivers and lagoons. This fellow was hanging out in the branches of a downed tree along the banks of the New River.

Half Moon Caye hosts a nesting colony of the rare and beautiful white-phase red-footed booby. Trails wander under the booby nests, leading to a three-metre tall observation tower. Standing on the tower, visitors are surrounded by nesting boobies and frigatebirds, almost within reach. This pair of boobies was sharing the duties of feeding each other and sitting on the nest.

Thanks to Birgit Kuhle, for the booby pic, which I have posted with her permission.

More coming next week. Cheers
Jack

2009-02-15T06:43:00.000-08:00

I have some catching up to do. Sorry I am so late. Ok, so last summer and fall, I did a little research on outriggers (amas). I decided to go to two amas after the disastrous consequences of having a single ama fail on me one dark and windy night. I found out that in the Hawaiian chain there is a tradition of making sailing canoes with two amas. Because of the surfy conditions and huge swells these boats have to content with, the amas are swept high in the front, so if the boat broaches (turns sideways) while coming in through surf, or sliding down a big wave at sea, the lower ama won't dig into the next wave and trip the boat.

The first three photos show the basic shape of an ama. It is made of polyisocyanurate foam (which is expensive but doesnt dissolve on contact with polyester resin like styrofoam would), cut with a saw and shaped with planing tools and coarse sandpaper. The foam is two sheets glued together and glued to a plywood backbone which was precut to the right shape, and gives a consistent form and stiffness to the mould. Without the plywood spine it never would have come out symmetrical.

The next photo shows the fibreglass ( a single layer of matte) as it is cut and laid on before adding the resin. The fibreglass and resin are bonded to the foam and this forms the outer layer of the mould (middle picture). Then the foam is carefully cut away from the plywood spine.

After the foam is separated from the spine, it is mounted on a couple of posts, and wrapped with plastic film, of the type you wrap leftovers in. Now is it ready for the thick fibreglass layer: two layers of matte sandwiching a layer of woven roving. The fibreglass will not stick to the mould because of the layers of plastic film. You could use mould release wax, but I didn't have any.

Once I made the first fibreglass cast, I had to grind it off at the ends so it would open enough to remove it. Then I put it back in place and shipped it to Chetumal, near the border with Belize. There it would wait for me to carry it across the border.

Once I was in Belize, I took the bus up to the border and dropped in on my friends Rolando and Mercedes. They were storing it for me, and kindly took me in overnight. The next morning Rolando drove me to the border. I walked across the Rio Hondo bridge into Belize and went to Customs and Immigration. The Customs officers didnt know how much to rob me in duty for this strange-looking object. They base their "duty" on the market value, plus the cost of shipping and insuring the object. The shipping cost was typed on the waybill. It said $845. So they assumed that was in US dollars. I told them that was pesos (it was), and they finally believed me when I explained that the sign for pesos is not found on a keyboard, so they use the $ sign. So when they finally tallied up their estimate they charge 20%, then taxes on their fee (!). It all came to almost $100us. For a chunk of foam and fibreglass that I made myself. So I left the Customs office and started walking to Corozal, a distance of about 20 miles. Of course the second pickup truck that passed by stopped for me and I rode in the back until I saw the bus station. I was concerned about the awkwardness of taking the ama on the bus but it fit right under the seats – the buses here are all old Bluebird school buses, totally unmodified. The rest is uneventful.
When I got to Dangriga I moved into the new guides house. Every year it is a different place, because they only rent it for a few months and have to take what they can get. This year it is the top floor of a two-storey concrete house at the south edge of town, right up against the mangroves (and sandflies).

This isnt it. But it is our immediate neighbour to the west. This picture was taken from the roof, which is accessible and has a rail all around, as you will see.

The first picture is the Manatee on the roof before I got the sawhorses built. After the sawhorses were built, I began work on the daggerboard trunk. On the right you can see the opening in the hull for the daggerboard (a hinged keel: more like a jackknife than a dagger). In the centre picture the dagger board is barely visible sticking up through the opening. I like this picture because it shows how sleek this boat is.

On the left is a better view of the daggerboard, which is an old rudder salvaged off a wrecked Hobiecat, found out at Half Moon Caye. Above the boat is the framework for a shade. I only set the tarp up when I am going to work on the boat. Otherwise the wind beats it up and pulls the poles all apart.

The photo on the right shows the trunk: the box in which the dagger board is housed. Also evident in this picture are the two bulkheads with large hatches cut into them.
Just working on this section made me realise I am not getting this boat done this year; especially since I spent the bulk of my time off vacationing with Lorena, which I don’t regret in the least.
So thats my progress so far, folks. Next posting will come in a week or two. I have to rustle up some photos from some of my guests first. Cheers, Jack

2008-06-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

How can one describe silence? How can one share solitude? How can a desire for aloneness cure a loneliness of the soul? That is the rub, isn’t it? The paradox of wilderness. We want it , indeed need wilderness to exist, even if we never set foot in it. Many insist that there be places on this earth where no human treads, even lightly. I am one such person. But I am selfish. I also need places where no permanent trace of man exists, and yet I want to be there. To live, even briefly, as man lived before civilisation, before industrialisation, before globalisation. To breathe the silence, to drink in the emptiness, to swell inside with the fullness of a lonely planet, empty of my own kind.

I can only speak for myself. When I leave behind humanity and enter the wild world, it takes about three days before the voice in my head quiets. Suddenly I am truly present in my surroundings, no longer buffered and shielded by the continuous chatter that substitutes for my own thoughts. Thinking, feeling and being, are revealed to be three different processes of mind. It takes continuous silence, not from sound, but from noise,the kind you are trained since birth to notice, to interpret. Voices, street traffic, music, commercials. And noise, which comes in a visual form as well, especially if written in billboards ten feet high, demands your attention even if you don’t realise it. And by grabbing and holding your attention, noise, in all its forms, robs you of your presence of mind; that is, it takes you out of yourself, and prevents your self from being present, in the moment, and connected to all things.

In the bush, in the desert, on the sea, your attention is also needed, but the volume of traffic on your brain is much slower, more manageable, and devoid of any social context. The word peaceful springs to mind. There is a peace in solitude that cannot exist in the presence of another human being. But how can one describe this kind of peace, with the words that shatter it, deny its existence? How can one hope to communicate the feeling of that moment, when all internal communication stops, ceases to exist, and all that is is a state of peaceful emptiness of mind, of a fullness of spirit, a moment of mere, bare , pure existence? Alone, but not lonely, indeed the opposite of lonely, in which the connectedness of all the universe is known without thought, felt without sensation, but just is.

2008-04-29T19:00:00.000-07:00

The longest stage of any journey begins when you start to see signs you are almost home.

It is said that “Life is a journey”. We focus too much on the little destinations, the goals that have been set before us, so that we do not live in the moment but are always striving for a distant future. But the destinations are but instants in time: they occupy none of the space of our lives. It is the striving, the journey itself that fills the space between the destinations: this is where we live.
It’s hard to feel that way when you are travelling home. Heading away from home is a form of exploration. Every moment has meaning because travel is the purpose of your life at that moment. But when you set your sights on home you cease to travel, as an activity, as a form of exploration. From then on all the experiences of your travel are an annoyance, something that stands between you and your goal. The goal isn’t to go home: it is to be home.

That was how I felt at the end of my season in Belize this year. Don’t get me wrong: it was a good season for me. I met some very interesting people, and had a great time swimming with the fishies. But once the season was over, I was in a hurry to get home, to be there on my birthday, with Lorena. And a cancelled flight meant I had to get from Dangriga to Cancun overland in a single day. Now I am home, in San Carlos, in late April. The days are warm, the nights are cool and the air is dry. And the sea is chilly. Oh well, I can go a while without snorkelling with no ill effects.

This blog is supposed to be about the Manatee. Well the first one is gone, and the second one is under construction. It has been a great experience working on the new boat this past winter. I had done a little fibreglass work before, but never actually built anything out of fibreglass. This year, with the help of Kerry (aka Bobo), Island Expeditions’ resident fibreglass expert, I have built the decking, the cockpit, bulkheads, hatches and the centreboard trunk, all out of fibreglass. When she is done, she will be all fibreglass except the floor and a folding table attached to the centreboard trunk.

I was planning to photodocument each stage of the process, but I left my camera in San Carlos and took only one photo of the boat with the camera of another guide. So the pictures will have to wait. Now I am home I plan to build the amas (outriggers) and akas (crossbeams between the amas and the main hull) here in San Carlos, and ship them to Belize for the beginning of next season. This gives me plenty of time to work on them. Next season I should be able to assemble the whole boat before I start work and then take her out with me. I will sail her around and find her weaknesses before I set out on my voyage home. This next one will have two amas, so if one fails, I have a backup until I can get it fixed. It will also be very fast as it is longer - 20 ft - and lighter - about 1/3 the weight of the first one. The further I progress, the more excited I become about the voyage home. Sometimes it is an obsession and I have to remind myself to enjoy the anticipation but live my life now. That said, it doesn’t mean I can’t reminisce. So I would like to share some of the moments I experienced this past field season in Belize.

We don’t often snorkel the Western Wall at Glover’s Reef, as it is too far to paddle for most groups, and the groups are usually too big to take the skiff. But this year the number of people travelling to Belize was way down, so we had some small groups. One such trip we decided to skiff over to the Western Wall and snorkel along the outside edge of the atoll where the bottom drops vertically to great depths. The wall is actually a series of walls, separated by ledges. We were snorkelling over one such ledge, with about 20 feet between us and the corals below. We saw the usual assortment of reef fishes, and in small sandy clearing lay a dead squirrelfish. We noted the fish and carried on when someone spotted a large green moray eel, swimming along the bottom in broad daylight. This is unusual, so we followed it as it poked its head in and out of various holes in the reef, until it came upon the dead squirrelfish. It must have caught scent of the fish and come looking for it. We watched as the huge eel writhed and struggled to swallow this spiny fish. The whole effort looked painful.

After the show was over, we spread out and continued to drift southward with the current. I was off to the right of the main group, right near the dropoff, when a large shape directly below caught my eye. My breath caught in my throat as a 12 ft. hammerhead shark swam steadily beneath me. This was the first time I had seen a shark that could easily eat me, while I was in the water with it. The long, lithe body and powerful tail contrasted sharply with the more commonly seen nurse shark. I had a feeling, looking at this fellow, that he could easily turn and take a monstrous bite out of me should he decide to. Rationally I knew I had nothing to fear, as shark attacks are almost always on people who are spearfishing, and the shark really just wants the fish. I also quickly surmised that he wasn’t interested in us because he was already past us and swimming determinedly southward. I tried to follow, but even though he wasn’t in a hurry, he was still far too fast to keep up with. But just for the briefest of moments, he was Jaws, and I was one of his hapless victims.

My second shark encounter was much closer and much, much scarier. I was snorkelling a new patch reef, near the edge of the atoll at Lighthouse Reef, with two guests in tow. We had anchored in about 15 ft. of water, and were working our way around this big patch reef. As we got nearer to the edge of the reef, the patch reef broke up into a series of large dead coral mounds. I got an eerie feeling there. There was no live coral, no fish even. As I rounded one mound, I suddenly saw a big, heavy-bodied shark, swimming away from me, scanning back and forth. Usually when you see a shark during the day, they are milling around, killing time. This one looked like it was looking for something. I turned and looked for my friends. Then I stuck my head back in the water. The shark emerged again, a few feet away. This time he had a school of jacks with him. They knew he was hunting. Again he swam away.

I pressed myself against the coral head and looked for my guests again. I called them over and said “Snorkel’s over. I just saw a really big shark.” Read the italics as a kind of breathy speech. “Ok,” I continued, “Let’s swim over to the boats together, like one big fish.” No one argued or questioned me and we more or less did just that. It seemed to take forever for the two of them to get into the boats, as I stayed under, scanning the water. Then we were all in and on our way back. When the fear is over, you are left with a rush of adrenaline, the kind of high that makes you feel truly and sharply alive. You feel like you are charged with electricity, covered in Saint Elmo's fire. There is nothing like it.

It occurred to me that if one of the Belizian guides was with us, I wouldn’t have felt so spooked. These guys know the sea, they live in these waters, and I rely on them for their knowledge and experience. But when it is all up to me, I don’t quite have the same confidence, not when other peoples’ lives are at stake. Later conversations with Alex, the most experienced of the Belizian guides, convinced me it was probably a bull shark, and that it was wise to get out of the water when we did.

I guess that’s a part of life, isn’t it? Knowing when to get out of the water. That’s my cue.

Cheers
Island Jack

2008-02-01T09:05:00.000-08:00

Back in Belize, with high hopes and empty pockets. Came early intending to work on the new Manadi, but can't do any work until I gt some money, so I am enjoying playing tourist. Went camping for ten with a friend from Tucson. Here are some highlights...

Sailing a double kayak in a lovely NE breeze, we spy a dolphin clearing the water about 100m ahead. So I scratch the hull of the kayak to get his attention. and soon he appears below us in the clear green water. He swims alongside, underneath us for a few seconds, then crosses under us and disappears. We take this as an auspicious start to our trip.

Day 3 Tobacco Range. A cold front has come in and strong NW winds are keeping us on the beach. A fishing boat from the north coast is using our island as shelter from the wind, so the crew come ashore. The Skipper teaches me how to weave a net. We use his net needle and I make a net bag. This is a great skill to have. Later we get some bamboo and carve net needles. Several of us are at work carving these needles, and one suggests a contest to see who can make the nicest one. I have the sharpest knife and so win the contest, not by any skill of my own.

Day 6: We are entering Sittee River after crossing several miles from Billyhawk Cay. Right at the mouth are three manatees, which we watch only briefly before they spot us and disappear. We enter the river, and about a mile in there is a narrow side channel which connects to a lagoon. We pass into the channel and are swallowed up by the forest. The scene about us is magical. We are surrounding by tall tangles of mangrove roots, and enclosed by the forest. Tiny birds flit by so swiftly we can't identify them, and all is still and silent. The silence rings in our ears after so many days of constant wind and waves. We drift with the current and marvel at our surroundings before we burst forth into a large round lagoon and the spell is broken.

Day 7: We are camped on a beautiful sandy beach, with our own dock and picnic area. Through the sparse woods behind us is a lagoon, and a new-built road. In the bush we find a pair of narrow-gauge locomotive wheels, and there is evidence of dredging in the lagoon. We later discover that there is a big marina and housing devlopment planned for this area, but for now we have it to ourselves. Ourselves and millions of nasty biting sandflies. For now the breeze is blowing and we are content to hang our hammocks and make our dinner in peace. But in the morning, after a rain followed by a windless day, we are driven away as fast as we can flee.

Day 9: We are on the Sittee River, at the Riverview Lodge, which for now is just a restaurant and dock, but we are very pleased with the people and the location. We have slung our hammocks under a big thatch, and we have a place to cook our meals and hang our clothes, along with a shower and toilets. This place is perfect for us. The owners are friendly and helpful and plan to build some cabins on the grounds. And camping is only $10 BZE ($5US) per night.

From the dock we watch tiger herons and little blue herons stalk the shoreline. A small black opossum steals by in the night. He is headed to a small channel to drink where he is reasonably safe from crocodiles. Later we see one glide by, about a 10-footer.

In the trees around our campsite we see and hear oropendulas, melodious blackbirds, red-lored parrots, a huge, orange and black iguana, and two keel-billed toucans. The toucans are a real highlight, being such an unusual bird and are a big attraction to the Sittee River area.

We get a couple of bikes and ride up the road, looking for the old sugar mill. A Salvadorian citrus worker helps us find it, and we discover huge wheels and gears buried in the jungle vegetation. By the size of the trees that have grown up in this site, it has been abandoned for a long time. We later learn it was the first sugar mill in Belize, built in the 1830's. We also learn that from here was built a railway to take the sugar to the sea, where it was loaded on schooners. The point of loading was that very beach where we had camped among the locomotive wheels and sandflies. Another mystery solved and a trip worth the effort.

A word about campsites. Much of the coast of this tiny country is privately owned, but we found welcoming people and affordable sites. One such place is Billyhawk Cay, which has a small fledgling resort. For $10bze a night you can camp there and live among Garifuna fishermen. If you don't catch any fish, they will sell you some, and there are nice coral reefs nearby to explore. They also have small rooms available and a bar.

Another spot we found was Castillo's Beach, on the north end of Hopkins. Mr. Castillo let us stay on his beach for $10 bze for the both of us. The beach is very nice for swimming, there is a picnic table and flat ground for a tent or some nice tres to sling a jungle hammock. He also let us use his shower and toilet, in an outbuilding near his house. Right beside his house is Sew Much Hemp, where you can buy natural insect repellent and a variety of hemp-based clothing and other products (not weed). I didn't try the insect repellent, but it sure smells better than DEET.

The last day was a 14 mile paddle from Sittee River to Dangriga against the wind. It was a long day but we enjoyed the challenge and certainly felt we had earned a cold Belikin beer at the end of that day.

See you soon. Cheers
Jack

2007-09-19T13:53:00.000-07:00

I'm back in San Carlos, just after a grazing by Tropical Storm Henriette. we got some wind, much rain, and very little damage.

I recently got a request for more desert photos, so i am dedicating this post to the beautiful Sonoran Desert. Those among you who are more interested in the marine stuff, skip this one but don't give up on me. Soon I will begin construction on the new amas (outriggers)for the Manatee.

San Carlos is in the southern Sonoran desert, in a region of the desert known as the Central Gulf Coast region. Rains here come mostly in the summer. The winter rains which are fairly reliable in the north, particularly around Tucson, Arizona, may not fall here for several years. Despite this, the desert is surprisingly shrubby.

Surprising too, is how dry it can be a few feet from the sea. All that moisture, and it hardly falls on land. This is typical of deserts found in the "Horse Latitudes". The horse latitudes (roughly 30 degrees, north and south of the equator)are a region of descending air, which as it falls, warms and dries. The result is very stable air, with few clouds, little wind, and very little precipitation. And the ability to tie your boat to a cactus.

Much of the Sonoran Desert is in the Basin and Range Province of southwestern North America. Small ranges of moderate to low volcanic mountains rise through a flat basin of volcanic dust and ash. San Carlos is on the seaward edge of the Sierra el Aguaje, a mountain range split with canyons and pushed right up to the sea. The canyons are shady and often have water seeping in from the surrounding porous rock. As a result these canyons often harbour a variety of tropical deciduous forest species, normally found hundreds of kilometres to the south. On the slopes are more typical desert species, such as cacti and agave plants.

Even talk. The pictures were chosen to show the variety of landforms and vegetation. I hope you enjoy them.

Cheers,
Jack

2007-09-17T11:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve been asked to post more frequently and more regularly, lest my readers lose interest. My philosophy has been to post when I think I have something interesting to say, however rare and random that may be. Please let me know what you think.
Lorena and I are at the cottage, on the shore of Lake Talon; a lake in Northern Ontario. The water is a light tea colour, tinted by the water from the bogs in its catchment area. By mid-August it is already chilly for swimming, and so our daily bath is quick and bracing, but necessary, as there is no indoor plumbing this year.
I awoke last night, for the usual reasons, and peering out through the big front windows, I was struck by a rare and beautiful sight. In the bright moonlight a shroud of silver mist swirled slowly over the still, dark water in little peaks, like ghosts figure-skating in slow-motion over black ice. The nocturnal world seemed filled with magic, and I could only stand and stare in wonder. At such moments, you forget about the cold, and the flies, and all the inconveniences of living in such a place, and are only grateful for the brief moments of awe and wonder. Like the lonely call of a loon, drifting in through the fog, or when a bright green dragonfly with crimson eyes comes to rest on your shoulder as you paddle among the reeds and water-lilies, and you know no deerfly will dare approach to bite your neck. Or the sudden slap of a beaver’s tail, warning his neighbours of your approach as you round a bend in the river. Or the immense silence of a windless day, occasionally broken by the chattering of a red squirrel, or the distant drumming of a grouse. These are the moments that, put together, make life in the bush so rewarding in a way that is difficult to describe to one who has not experienced it for himself. And they are the moments that come back to you in sudden flashes, when you are thousands of miles away, and make you suddenly long for home, for the smell of pine and woodsmoke, for the soft rustle of leaves underfoot, for the immense silence of new-fallen snow.
Meanwhile, hurricane Henriette has hit San Carlos, and we have to wait to assess the damages. First reports are good; it was brief and not too intense. So we are expecting minimal damage. I’ll keep you posted.
Cheers
Jack

2007-07-16T17:03:00.000-07:00

Desert Thirst

I had a writer here for a few days. His name is Roland Pelletier, and he is writing a book that takes place in Guaymas in the 1850’s and wanted someone to take him around the city and into the desert. It seemed an easy assignment.

I took him for a hike in the desert. Ordinarily we don’t hike in the desert at this time of year; it was 107F or 42C today (the day I am writing this), at noon. But this was when he came, so off we went. It was a typical summer day; a cloudless sky of rich blue, like looking up at the Caribbean. We walked over some rolling hills and open country at first. The desert is very dry; months without rain have taken every leaf from the shrubs and trees, leaving a brown and grey landscape. The only green is the odd organpipe cactus, scattered along the hillsides, and the dense thornscrub in the deeper washes, where water is available year-round. Two deer bounded into a draw as we crossed over a hill. I wondered what they found to eat. We crossed a wash and strolled over the open ground beyond. Then we descended back into the wash, at first struggling through the dense bush. Eventually the wash narrowed into a boulder-strewn canyon, with palm trees that rustle in the breeze like flowing water, high walls of worn tuff, riddled with caves. After reaching a blind end at a 20 ft waterfall (dry of course), we decided to back out a bit and then climb the side, to get around the barrier. That’s when the trouble started.

The rock here is rotten, soft and easily broken; a perfect handhold may crumble with a light tug. We ascended the near-vertical sides without incident, but there was no going back the way we came up. The rest was a safer slope, but much of it was loose scree and treacherous enough with good hikers underfoot. And my friend Roland was wearing boots with smooth soles. At least they were rubber, not leather, so they held well onto hard rock. But it was treacherous going. We got to the top, and the other side was a long, vertical drop. We tried to find another way into the canyon we left, but it ended in the same, vertical formations. So the only way was to move laterally, and get ahead of the dry waterfall. This choice was the safer one, but we were already almost out of water. And to carry on meant heading a long, roundabout route through desert wash and dense thornscrub bush.

So we headed on. The sun was hot, the air hot, heavy, and still. Walking under the sun was like carrying a hot stone on your back and shoulders. My water was long gone, (I had only brought 3 litres for the two of us, planning on an hour or two on easy ground), and the thirst was intense. Saliva becomes thick, like glue, or a MacDonald’s shake, and the eyes become dry and uncomfortable. On we trudged, over boulders, through brush, out into the open where the mountains dip down to make a notch. Through this notch we descended into another wash, thick with scratchy, thorny and prickly brush. By this time we walked in silence, automatically moving forward, pushing through thickets, crunching over loose gravel, moving onward, forward, towards water, life and relief from the awful thirst. By the time we reached the last section of our hike, a dirt road over even ground, Roland turned to me and said “My hands are swollen.” I looked at mine and realized the same thing was happening to me. He also asked me if I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Fortunately I couldn’t, and we knew we would be okay soon, so we became more relaxed, and began to talk again.

Roland wanted an experience of the desert and he got one. It is important to realize that the desert is not malevolently waiting for you to make a mistake so it can punish you. It is merciless, not because it is evil, but because it is indifferent. Man does not struggle against nature; he struggles against his own fragility, his own limitations, with nature not as his opponent, but as an impartial and disinterested judge. To survive here, you need to know what you need and how to get it. And if you don’t have what you need to survive here, you had better stay on the cilivised side of the edge.

People rarely die way out in the wilderness, far from help, out of communication range. The only people who get that far are those who know what they are doing. People more often die on the edges, near to civilization. Unprepared, unequipped, and caught off guard, they wander lost, or simply get themselves stuck somewhere and perish before they can get back out. We won that particular race, but it could have gone the other way if we were forced, say, to spend the night, or if an accident or injury befell one of us and slowed us down too much. And remember, long before you die from environmental exposure, your judgment becomes impaired, and you make foolish decisions which make your situation worse. So to survive you need enough to keep from getting that far, to the point of no return.

2007-07-01T18:05:00.000-07:00

Well I don't have much to say about the "Voyage". I am in San Carlos, Sonora, a long way from the new Manatee. I haven't even started on the new outriggers, though I have picked up a sail and mast along with a cute little sailboat called a Sabot. I have a new digital camera; the old one suffered an accident with a yoghurt container full of salad in my backpack on a hike in the desert. The resultant leak of oil and vinegar has resulted in the gradual loss of function.

While uploading the last of my photos onto my laptop, I discovered a pair of pictures of the new Manatee.

The first is the boat at the boatyard before I bought her.

The second is the builder: Mr. Bradley of Bradley's Boatyard, Belize City. He was surprised I wanted to take his picture, but was very gracious.

The last picture is of the new boat in Dangriga. I have cut out the plywood moulds for the bulkheads and the decking is screwed on but not yet trimmed. With any imagination you can picture the basic form she will take.

Monsoon

The dogs hear it before we do. The first sign of the approaching storm is the banging at the door by Tequis, who is so afraid of thunder that she tries to get inside. That brings our attention to the flashes of lightning. The thunder soon follows as the storm gets within 15 miles of us.

The monsoon is a wind pattern, not a rainfall. It begins in the summer, when the air over the desert heats up enough to drag the trade winds from the tropics up this way. This brings us moist, tropical air, and eventually, rain. Hence it is called the monsoon rain.

After several months, almost a year in fact, of no rain, the desert is dry, brown, burnt-looking. The sun has baked it until it releases a scorched smell. The cacti are lean, deeply pleated, and the only green things in the landscape, as not a leaf remains over most of the desert. And a walk in the desert raises only dust. But every day since the monsoon began, the air has become a little more humid. At night, flashes of light are seen over the horizon .These flashes, called heat lightning, are the result of static electricity, released as the cooling night air descends. But the lightning I see tonight is the real thing, and the dogs are not at ease tonight.

I have been hoping the rains would come before we head north to Canada. I miss the seasons up there. Here there are only two seasons: wet and dry. Dry is most of the time, but the wet season brings a transformation to the desert that must be seen and heard, felt and smelt to be appreciated. Before the first shower is even finished, the air is filled with the resinous odour of the creosote bush, what is universally known here as the smell of rain. And at the same time arrives the shrill chorus of the spadefoot toad. Lying dormant in the ground since last summer, they begin to emerge in response to the rumbling of the thunder. By the time the rain has soaked the earth, they are crawling out and filling every puddle. Tonight they call out for a mate. Tomorrow they will be silent. The puddles in which they breed do not last long: there is no time for prolonged courtship so by the end of tonight they will have selected a mate and begun to lay and fertilise the eggs. Within days the tadpoles have hatched and started to feed on each other in the mad race to emerge as fully developed toads before the Sonoran sun dries the puddle to a cracked bed of clay.

As soon as the adult toads have mated, they begin to feed and fatten on the sudden emergence of winged termites. These insects are easily desiccated and so they also must mate and seek a place to lay their eggs and start a new colony while the humidity is high. Hopefully they won’t choose the window and door frames of our house.

After the rain ends, the transformation of the landscape begins. Leaves begin to emerge, the desert floor becomes carpeted in flowers. In two weeks, what was bare brown earth and dry grey branches, is green, yellow, orange and blue: a riot of colour and profusion of life. Summer is here.

2007-05-28T07:51:00.000-07:00

Waiting in Can Cun

Finally I got lucky. The Customs officer, whose father I know in Dangriga, arranged it so I could pick up the radio at the Belize International Airport, and carry it myself to the border. He just made a note in my passport, which they checked at the border. Very easy. And then I caught a bus, leaving immediately, which took me all the way to Chetumal in Mexico. Last year we took the bus to Corozal, which is the last Belizian town before - not at - the border. From there we took a Belizian taxi to the exit point, another taxi to the Mexican point of entry, and another taxi to Chetumal. This time one bus did it all.

I bought a ticket to Cancun, leaving at 6:00 pm. I didn´t realise I had crossed into a different Time Zone. Pity there is no big clock in the bus terminal. And of course the public address system sounds like an abductee with duct tape on his mouth in the trunk of a car. So I ignored the garbled message at 5:00. At one minute to six there was no bus at the departure gate, and no passengers waiting around. So I went to the ticket booth and showed the guy my ticket and my watch. He wasn´t particularly sympathetic. Said they were on Mexican time. Hehe, I never thought that would be faster!

So I left the bus station in Chetumal at 10:00 on a second class bus (picture seats about 14" wide) seated (ie squished up against the window) next to a big gal. Didn´t get any sleep. The bus got progressively colder too, so by the middle of the ride I had gone from sticky-sweaty to freezing cold. I reached Cancun at about 4:30 and slept there until it was light out. Then, a few blocks away, I found the Hotel Coloniál. A nice, two storey building with a central courtyard. A room with private bathroom, TV, two beds and a ceiling fan for 350 pesos a night. Perfect.

The Coloniál is on a side alley; quiet, closed to vehicles and lined with trees and restaurant patios. After half a year of rice and beans, it is nice to see some international cuisine and a variety of beers. Modelo makes one here called Leon. It is a dark, bavarian-style lager: very refreshing with a light body and a long finish. But I digress.

The end of the alley opens into a big public park with a stage. It was full of people, food- and crafts-vendors, and some kind of entertainment on stage. The big attraction though was the large screen showing a live broadcast of the National Championship futbol soccer game between Pachuca and America, two big Mexican teams. I sat behind the screens and watched through the back of the screen. The image was reversed, naturally, so I watched a lot of left-footed action, but it was a good game.

I spent the morning at the beach, a 20 minute bus ride away. The beach here is gorgeous, with fine, white sand, firmly packed by the surf, and clear blue, Carribean water. There were a few places where you could rent or use a sailing dinghy, or a wave runner or a sit-on-top kayak, but most people were content to sit and burn their skin. Some had an impressive tan, I must say. Had a little lunch at Señor Frogs, where they make a desperate and vain attempt to animate the lunch crowd and make everything sexy and funny. I´m sure the place is very different at night. Ridiculously expensive and the food is overhyped.

So now I wander and wait for my flights. Meanwhile I am drawing some sketches for the new outriggers and akas. And looking forward to going home again.

Cheers
Jack

2007-05-24T16:46:00.000-07:00

Heading home

This is my progress so far: I have built the frames for the decking and the bulkheads, out of thin plywood, and put a layer of fibreglass over the decks. I don't think I can get away with just one layer of FG though, but I have run out of time for this year. The worst thing is that when I return, termites will have eaten the wooden decking and I'll have to start over. C'est la vie. At least the canoe itself will be undamaged.

I have a flight booked from Can Cun on Tuesday, 29 May. I would stay and do more work on the boat, but I want to get my VHF marine radio back. The Customs agent at the Belize Airport seized my radio when I arrived, back in December. Apparently I needed a permit to import it. They gave me a receipt and told me I could pick it up on my way out. Well I didn't fly out, and now I am going to be taking the bus north, to the Yucatan. To take it with me, I have to pay a Customs guard to come with me to the airport, pick up the radio, and then go back to the city to take the bus north to the border. If I do it on a weekend day, it costs double. So my only chance is to do it tomorrow, Friday, 24 May. Happy Victoria Day to all my Canadian friends and family by the way.

I asked if they couldn't just hand it over to me and phone the Customs office at the Northern Border, and warn them I am coming, and ask them to make sure I have the radio on me. But they won't do that, because there is a chance I might use it while in the country. Who am I: Osama Bin Laden? Anyway the law is the law. Fortunately I know someone who has a family member in the Customs Department, so I have been given his number to call him and see if we can't work out some reasonable compromise.

The only other option is for me to get a permit for the damned thing. The Communications Department is in Belmopan, right near the bus station, so I could go over there and see if they will issue me a permit. But knowing the bureaucracy here, it will probably take seven different departments to stamp it, and radio will be outmoded technology before a permit is issued. Oh, and the streets of Belmopan are full of rioters these days, due to a corruption scandal involving the prime Minister. So the gov't offices might not even be open. So wish me luck.

This means of course, that I will be spending the better part of three days in CanCun. That will be nice: some beer to drink other than Belikin! I should get a good, off-season rate too, so I may be able to stay near the beach instead of downtown. I'll keep you posted.

Cheers,
Jack

2007-05-16T16:02:00.000-07:00

Shipwrecked!

In my last post, I mentioned thinking of buying a 20 ft. canoe in Belize City. I decided to go for it, so, on Sunday I sailed Manadi north in light head winds. I saw not a single boat, but had the momentary company of a dolphin and one manatee. Needless to say, progress was not great, but I got about halfway there, pulling into the mouth of the Manatee River at dusk. I chuckled at the coincidence. I had just enough time to set up my jungle hammock and start supper before dark. I made a rice dish in my brand new Trangia alcohol stove, which was sent to my by my good pal Bruce Swanton. Thanks Bruce: it works great.

The next morning I was underway again. This was going to be a long day. And it was. With more light headwinds, it seemed to take forever. For a while I seemed to be tacking back and forth in place, unable to get to the city. Finally I caught a favourable wind and landed in a shallow bay right in town. There I met a fisherman named Michael, who promised to watch over my boat for me. I locked my stuff in the aft locker and took a taxi to Bradley's Boatyard. I bought the canoe from old Mr. Bradley himself. He got his boys to leave it on the dock behind the boatyard while I went and got a bite to eat.

So after a meal of... what else? fried chicken, rice and beans, I was on my way, paddling through the heart of the city on my way to find the Manatee. The way to see the beating heart of Belize City is by water. The city is laced with canals: the whole city is right at sea level. The river is a garbage-strewn sewer of black water; abandoned boatyards; old hulks lying in the water or thrust up onshore by the last hurricane; squalid, unpainted waterfront shacks with rusted out screens and a boat tied out front; a cantina for fishermen - no parking lot but a pier. Down a little further is a row of brightly painted upscale tourist shops; a big, fancy hotel and casino. Right off the dock you can buy groceries, ice, gas, marine hardware, booze. There is an ancient swing bridge, separating the north from the (poorer) southside. And then the sea.

Around the point from the entrance is the little bay where I left my boat, anchored in the shallows. It wsn't there, but I figured Micheal probably moved it to the canal entrance. And there it sat, part of a motley fleet of fishermen's boats. After a quick phone call I tied the new canoe atop the akas and was underway. I was a little concerned they might not bear the weight, so I kept an eye on them as I sailed out in a freshening North breeze.

It was blowing pretty well out there, so I untied the canoe, slid it off the akas and tied it up to ride behind me. We were running right before the wind, an awkward point of sail. The sail is so big that when it swings out wide, it tends to turn the boat. The new tiller wasn't working great. I really had to lean out to reposition it. It is extremely stiff, and once I get it set I can leave it. But in a following wind the boat is constantly yawing left and right and the rudder neede constant correcting. Add the fact that I was towing. As one boat is slowed climbing the next wave, the other is accelerating down the face of the last one. I had to hold the canoe on a short leash with one hand while steering with the other. I remember thinking that if I ran into trouble, at least I had a liferaft.

Sunset

I could feel a strong drag from the canoe, so I decided to roll it back up onto the akas. By now we were rolling into 2 ft to 3 ft waves. You don't hear or see the moment it happens. Suddenly you are in the water, the boat is gone over and you are trying to hang on and find your hat and paddle. The canoe was tied on. That was a good thing. The outrigger's posts snapped off right at the base, and it was blowing away fast. I bolted after it, caught it and threw it in the canoe, which was half full of water. Did I mention it was a racing canoe design? They are not built for stability. It rolled over when the next wave hit it, and the outrigger was going fast. I said goodbye and focussed on getting the canoe empty of water and stable so I could start throwing stuff in it. Keep in mind now that it is dark, and there are waves smashing against Manadi. I can't bail out the canoe: the bailer was the first thing to blow away. So I did a t-rescue, hauling myself onto the pitching Manatee, and pulling the canoe up perpendicular. This works well, because the overturned boat turns sideways to the wind, and the canoe, once held up, turns downwind. I flipped it over, holding the bucking boat beneath me with my legs. Once it was drained, I flipped it back upright and threw it on the water. Now it was ready to take on whatever I could salvage.

I started to roll the Manatee over. Immediately a hatch cover floated off and stuff was starting to extrude out through the hatch. I grabbed two buckets and my dry bag, and heaved them and the paddle, which I was still clutching, into the canoe. I rooted around in the hatch, but it was dark, the boat was tossing around, and I already had the most important stuff. So I climbed into the canoe, to rest and collect my thoughts. Hanging below the Manatee was a tangled mess of anchor rope and broken spars. I tried to pull the sail up but it was too difficult and risky in the tossing seas. I hauled up the anchor,and got as much rope as I could safely handle, then cut it off and tossed it in the canoe with me. I pulled the rudder pin out and tossed rudder and pin in the canoe. Then I cut the rope that held the two boats together. It was amazing how quickly I was blown away from that heaving boat. And I never saw it again.

The wind was blowing from the NE, and if I didn't paddle I would find myself a few miles south of town on a beach, if I was lucky, or in the mangroves if I wasn't. Belize City is surrounded by miles of impenetrable mangroves. It would be no place to spend the night. Across the wind - for I had no hope of paddling a 20 ft. canoe into that wind by myself - was a set of bright lights. I started paddling. For a paddle, since it was only for emergency purposes, I had a half a kayak paddle with a broken shaft. I could use it by placing my bailing sponge over the end, and use it I did, paddling furiously to keep from being swept downwind. It took a couple of hours before I got to where I could see the lights up close. Of all things it was a marina!

I paddled in, aware that I was trespassing, but there was no one about. I tied up at the first slip. At the base of the dock was a bar. I asked to see the manager and for a glass of water. I got the two owners, a Mr. Francis Woods and Mr. Rigoberto Blanco. I explained my situation, and why I was trespassing in their marina. Their response was to ask the waitress to get me a "very nice" plate of chicken, rice and beans and a glass of fruit juice. I asked if there was a budget hotel nearby, or even two trees where I could sling my hammock. At first they offered me the beach, where I could use a shower and sling the hammock. Then they came back and gave me the use of a staff cabin for the night. It was very nice, with a loft, kitchen, bathroom. I had a shower, rinsed my wet clothes and even watched a little TV while my stuff dried around me. Then I tried to sleep. It didn't come for quite a while: I kept reliving the experience of being in the water. I made a mental inventory of what I lost: my headlamp, sunglasses, all three canoe seats, Finally I slept.

In the morning I hitched a ride into town to buy a decent canoe paddle, a flashlight and some food and water. I would go look for my boat, and for anything that had drifted ashore from it. Then I would carry on down the coast to Dangriga. I never found the Manatee, but miles down the coast I found the rubber fenders that I would use as rollers to haul the boat ashore. Another mile further down and I found the outrigger. I don't know why, but I threw that in the canoe. I found no other piece of flotsam from the Manatee.

I was most excited to find the fenders, for now I had something to sit on. It is very uncomfortable to paddle sitting on the bottom of a canoe with your legs straight out in front of you and no backrest. And I had 35 sea miles of paddling ahead of me. It was still hard on my back, but manageable. The other challenges were a lack of sunscreen and sunglasses. I was still in a salty wet shirt, and developed painful salt rashes below the armpits.

By 3:30 the sun was getting too much for me so I pulled into the beach, cooked up dinner and was asleep in my hammock before the sun set. This, by the way, is a good way to avoid the mosquitoes. Before going to bed, I packed up the canoe for a quick getaway.

I awoke at 1:30, and tried to fall back to sleep until 2:30. It wasn't happening, so I got up, packed up the hammock and sleeping bag, and shoved off the beach. It was a moonless night, with scattered thin clouds. The Milky Way led me straight along the coast. The sea was smooth, with just the slightest hint of a swell. The water was dark and scary. Who knows what lurks in the shallows in the night? Every stroke of the paddle stirred a bioluminescent plume and even the wake of the bow was aglow. Occasionally a fish would dart away underwater, leaving a puff of pale green light where its tail had flicked it away. At one point a needlefish lunged clear of the surface and collided with my hull. I hoped he didn't break his thin beak.

As time went on I relaxed and became more comfortable paddling in the dark, and in a couple of hours, a thin glow began to emerge from the eastern horizon. For the first time I could remember, I was not happy to see the sun rise, as I knew it would bring heat and more burns to my skin. But it also brought a freshening breeze, which was not only cooling, but also nudged me lightly in the direction I wanted to go. The day stretched on and I paddled, rested and paddled some more, until after what felt like an eternity, I reached home and hauled my stuff into the house.

I have learned a few things in the last two days, and have had ample time to rethink the project. I still plan to sail/paddle home to San Carlos, but I need a new sail and new outriggers. After my experience with the original Manadi, I have decided to go with smaller sails of a more conventional shape - maybe even a commercially made set - use a daggerboard or maybe a centreboard instead of a fixed keel, install a kayak rudder and design a lighter, more manageable outrigger (perhaps two?). I will redesign the whole craft to be lighter, stronger and easier to handle. This next week or so I will install the decking, lockers and mast step and partner, but I will have to wait til next fall for the installation of sails, daggerboard trunk and rudder. And over the summer I will design and build a better outrigger system. So don't give up on me yet. I'm not quitting. Just going back to the drawing board.

Cheers
Jack

2007-05-12T11:07:00.000-07:00

Manadi II

I went to Belize City yesterday to look at a 20 ft. fibreglass racing canoe. It is strongly built and a good length, but sits low on the water (ie not much freeboard). Norman the Fibreglasser tells me I should buy it, as we can always modify it. So tomorrow I plan to sail Manadi up to Belize City. I will spend the night somewhere along the coast and sail into the city on Monday morning, buy a few items, including the canoe, and then tow it back to Dangriga. Tuesday we begin the modifications.

Meanwhile, I am living in the ground floor of a house, rented by Island Expeditions, for the owners to live in when they are down here. Denver, the last to leave, is letting me use it. I have got nothing but support and help from the owners of IEC, and am forever grateful and indebted to them. Denver even went to the offices of the water board and the electrical utility, to ask them not to shut off supply yet. I can pay the final bill when I am ready to leave. Didn't work. Yesterday, while I was in Belize City, they came and shut off both my water and my electricity, despite the assurances of the landlord that the planned shutoff dates had been changed. So now Dave, the landlord who lives upstairs, has plugged me into his electrical system with a male-male extension chord, and I am getting water from an outside tap at the side of the house.
So now I have light, refrigeration and TV. More soon.
Cheers
Jack

2007-05-08T17:57:00.000-07:00

Last week together...

Lorena and I took a jarring and dusty bus-ride down to Placencia, at the end of a long, sandy, north-south running peninsula, south of Dangriga. In places the peninsula is very narrow, with the sea on one side and a large mangrove lagoon on the other. Along this road is the airstrip, which has to face the prevailing trade winds. Which means that the runway runs across the peninsula. The "highway" takes a jog around the airstrip, right out onto the beach, but people on foot or bicycle ride straight across. So they have to watch for a flag that tells them a plane is scheduled to land soon, in which case they had better wait or go around.

Placencia is a little town at the end of the peninsula. The beach is white sand here, the best on the mainland, but the swimming area is grassier than what you find at the cayes. Placencia has lots of little bars, and good restaurants, and certainly a more international atmosphere then say Dangriga or Hopkins. A tourist town is not what I usually look for when travelling, but when you spend so much time in a town that offers rice and beans or chinese food as the only food choices, it is nice to go where the tourists go once in a while.

We were also there to hunt for Norman, a Jamaican guy who is known to be an expert fibreglasser. We asked around in the bars and hangouts, but people either said they never heard of him or that he moved. I always figure local people are going to be protective of their own, and if they think a local guy is being searched for, they might want to put me off the scent, in case I am a bounty hunter or debt collector. So finally we learned of a baker who matched the description. We found Norman the Baker an hour before we were planning to catch the bus to Hopkins, a village we rode through on the way south. So we made plans to meet at the Manatee on the following Tuesday, and we parted company.

The bus doesn't go into Hopkins, so we got off at the entrance to the 4 mile long Hopkins Rd. After that little accident we had a couple of years ago, Lorena was determined not to hitchhike again, but we agreed we could wait for the bus to Hopkins, that comes in from Dangriga. At the junction there is a bus shelter. Behind the bus shelter there was a small brush fire, which at one point spread and completely engulfed the bus shelter in heavy black smoke. We waited on the road and watched it burn itself out. At one point, two basilisk lizards came charging out onto the road, driven out of the bush by smoke and heat. These speedy reptiles run on their hind legs like little dinosaurs, and can run right over ponds and streams, thus earning the nickname Jesus Christ lizards.

We weren't the only ones waiting at the junction, so when a pickup arrived and took everyone else onboard, we decided to jump in too. The narrow dirt road runs over a broad, flat savannah, with regularly spaced culverts to handle the annual floodwaters. These culverts elevate the road, with a flat concrete slab on top. As we crossed each culvert, we would fly into the air and come crashing back down onto the truck bed. After a couple of these flights, Lorena asked me if we shouldn't ask to be let out. This is precisely what we should have done two years ago when we got a ride with some young soldiers who were driving so fast we ended up in a rollover accident. I replied that we were almost there. The truck had made the four miles in less than five minutes!

We stayed at a nice little place called Tipple Tree Beya. Beya is the Garifuna word for beach, and the Tipple Tree was a Sea Grape tree that had fallen over in the front yard. The locals make a kind of wine from the fruits of this bush, thus the name.

Our room faced the sea and had a steady breeze blowing in through the front door and hurricane-shuttered windows. On the front verandah were two hammocks for each room. Lying in a hammock, in the shade and the breeze, was a very restful way to spend three days, including Lorena's birthday. We swam in the sea, spotting manatees right off the beach and sampled some of the local fare, which ranged from mediocre to excellent.

Monday, 7 May, we returned to Dangriga on the 7:00 am bus, and spent our last night together (for a while), at Pal's Guest House. It was an emotional time, as Lorena is pretty frightened of this voyage I have planned. The main concern is that the boat is too heavy. It is a challenge to wrestle it up onto the beach, and it would be a bear to handle in surf. So concerned was she, and I admit to my apprehensions about such a heavy craft, that I have made a major concession. I won't be sailing the Manatee home this year, or ever. Instead, Norman and I will be building Manadi II, a 20 - 22 ft. fibreglass canoe. Norm has a mould for a 14-footer, and we will stretch that out with inserts amidships. The result will be boat that is longer, swifter, more seaworthy, and much lighter. It will also have more load capacity.

The construction of the new Manadi will delay my departure by a couple of weeks, but I hope to make up that time with greater daily progress. It has always been a race against the tropical cyclones but with this boat I will have more options for going ashore if a cyclone gets too close, and can either come home 'til the season ends, or resume when the weather clears.

Sorry there are no photos this time: I don't have my camera with me at the moment. But I will be posting lots of photos of the new boat as it is constructed, for those who care to see it. Until then take care.

Jack

2007-05-01T08:49:00.000-07:00

End of Season

Well, Folks, thanks for another great season. This year I saw more turtles than ever before, had better weather, and as always some great guests, with interesting stories of their own to tell. I also have had a lot of support from guests, the people of Island Expeditions, and the people of Dangriga, in my efforts to get the Manatee on the water and sailing home.

Backing up a bit....

After a few weeks of working, I finally got some time off to repair and restore the Manatee. Loose patches of fibreglass were torn off and painted over with epoxy. Broken akas (cross-beams connecting the hull to the outrigger) were replaced. Finally she was ready to put in the water again. Not pretty, with black patches all over a blue and white boat, but functional nonetheless.

I had made a couple of crucial modifications. The first was to reverse the boat, installing a new mast step in what was previously the stern. This was done at the end of season last year, but never tested. The reason for my choice of bow last year was due to the shape of the boat, as seen from the side. One end has a sharp turn from the keel to the stem, the other more rounded. It was plain to see that the rounder end would be more suitable to rolling up onto a beach. The rudder would be an extension of the straight line stern of the boat. But seen from above, one end of the canoe is wider than the other: this was the trunk of a tree after all. And with so much weight of mast, sail and spars so near the bow of the boat, it tended to dive into each wave. With a low bow and a deep keel in the stern, it was also very difficult to steer. I hoped that turning it around would make the bow more bouyant and make the stern easier to turn.

The second modification was to install a new rudder. I had salvaged a rudder from the wreck of a hobie cat sailboat found at Lighthouse Reef. For a fitting, I salvaged a piece of galvanised steel from a telephone pole washed up on the beach at Half Moon Caye, and took it to a welding shop where they bent it into a shallow U, drilled some holes in it, and ground off all the galvanising(!). Oh well. I bolted it into the Manatee and it made a fine rudder, which sits deep in the water and will even ride up when I hit the beach.

This done it was time for a sea trial, number three. I had lost the boom, but brought along a couple of light poles and decided to try to sail it loose-footed, like a lateen sail. Didn't work. As soon as I got out there (light NE breeze), I realised the sail would only allow me to run downwind. So I threw out the anchor and began to string on the two poles, lashed together in their middle. I want to say right now, how difficult it is to find a straight pole, 17 ft long, which is strong enough, yet reasonably light, to act as a boom or yard.

After a half hour of strugggling to get the boom tied on, I noticed, as the canoe pitched and rolled in half-metre seas, that I was feeling oddly queasy. Finally it dawned on me: I was getting seasick. Never in my life have I felt seasick while sober, until that moment. I could only quiet my stomach by staring at the horizon, but this merely slowed things down. Suddenly it became a race to tie the sail on before I get properly sick. I would tie as fast as I could, stringing the black twine around the wood and through the little holes in the sail. Then I would have to stop and stare at the horizon. As soon as I felt a little better I would string away again, back and forth until finally I had it done. And none too soon, I must say.

As soon as it was done, I hauled the halyard and the sail raised up, caught the wind, and we picked up speed. I hauled up the anchor as we sailed over it, and the boat began to push throught the waves, in control, once again of its motion, its destiny, and the queasiness vanished without a lingering trace.

The yard holds up the leading edge of the sail. It is built of pine, with a joint in the middle I never liked. The yard used to be the boom, until the first yard, identically constructed, broke while I was testing the sail on shore. In anticipation of another similar rupture, I reinforced the joint with a metal strap on one side. Well, shortly after we got underway, that joint ended up on the underside (the spar rolled a bit in place) and SNAP! went the yard, turning a fine, flat sail into a tent, folded at the mast (see photo, below).

I turned the Manatee around with a few strokes of a paddle, and the remaining sail caught the wind, and pushed us into shore a couple of miles south of Dangriga at a pace of about 1.5 knots. "Not bad for a broken boat", I remember thinking.

The shore south of town is mostly bush and swamp, with a road running parallel, and the occasional house along its length. As I reached shore at an empty lot, I was greeted by a couple of kids from a nearby house. They were curious and friendly. I told them my problem and they assured me it would be fine with the owners if I cut myself a new yard here out of the mangroves. So I took my big knife and walked into the bush. In 20 minutes I was back at the boat with a fairly straight pole of black mangrove. The kids returned and told me of a bar along the beach, just to the south, so as soon as the sail was restrung, I set out down the beach. A cold beer and a cold coke went down in as much time as it takes to read this sentence, and I was underway again. The bar is called the triple W (despite lacking internet)and a coke and a beer were $5 bz. The beach is well-groomed and has a volleyball net, and the music is very loud. I sat outside.

I sailed SE nine miles across the Inner Channel, to a line of islands called the Blueground Range. From there I sailed south, along the chain, to Billyhawk Caye, where an Island Expeditions group on a Coral Islands trip was camped. I joined them for dinner, and stayed overnight. The owner of this camp is Alex Sabal, a long time guide and boat captain with IE, and their most skilled and respected guide. Alex has been working hard to develop the site into a simple and rustic resort, and I was impressed with all he had done to it. Alex wasn't there, but guides Kris and Domasco were and it was a treat for me to play the role of guest for a change.

The next morning I sailed back to Dangriga; 11 miles in 3.5 hours ESE in a NE wind. On the way, I noticed the sail was not lying very flat so I cut some of the strings and she stretched out better. Gradually, however, the lack of support for the boom caused it to flex excessively, and I wondered that it didn't break before I got ashore.

So here I am a month later. Lorena is here and we have closed the season with the last three trips. I bought (promised to anyway) two aluminum poles from IEC and will be stringing them on the spars today. I also built a tiller to steer by. Before, I was using light chord with stirrups, and steering like a kayak is steered. This works in a kayak, because you are always in a fixed location, but you like to move around in a sailboat, so a tiller is more practical. And today she goes out on the water again, to test it out. If it works well, Lorena and I will take a couple of days and sail down to Placencia.

I want to take Lorena to Placencia because it is a funky little tourist beach town, with a sidewalk as the main thoroughfare. I have also learned of a Jamaican guy who lives there, who is an expert fibreglasser. The Manatee remains a very heavy boat, and I want to talk to him about making a cast of the Manatee in fibreglass. Such a boat would be lighter, with more interior space and be much easier to handle, particularly in surf. It would also respond better in light winds, and ride over heavy seas, keeping me drier and more comfortable. Such a project would mean leaving the original Manadi behind, but that's ok, it was a all an amazing experience, and I am coming home by sea one way or another.

Thanks for tuning in, more to come soon about our travels in Cayo District and Placencia.

Cheers
Jack

ps here is a picture of the Manatee with the broken yard. She lies on the beach where I went ashore to cut another one.

2007-03-04T13:16:00.000-08:00

Dangriga, 4 March 2007

I'm back from a couple of weeks at Half Moon Caye. What a beautiful place! I am still blown away by the colours of the sea. We had a great trip: the people were fun, the weather was warm and sunny, though a bit windy at times, and the fish were most cooperative. We saw many sharks and rays and even a couple of turtles. In fact, this year I have seen more turtles than the previous three years combined.

Lighthouse Reef has two protected areas, guarded by the Belize Audubon Society. This NGO has some very hard-working and dedicated people. This last trip there was only one BAS staff on the island and some commercial fishermen took advantage of that fact. One form of commercial fishing common in Belize is a homemade wooden sailboat, up to about 30 feet in length. On board the boat is a stack of dories; small boats, either of fibreglass or dugouts. When the boat gets to a good location, it is anchored and each fisherman takes a dory. They will paddle to a patch reef or turtlegrass bed and jump overboard with mask, snorkel and fins. As they swim along, they will spear fish, pick up conch, and hook lobsters from under the corals.

The fishermen are allowed to fish in the unprotected areas, but will often sneak in to the protected areas if no one is patrolling. Our BAS Park Ranger asked us for a little help to go out and chase them away, so we sent two guides to ride shotgun (figuratively speaking) and warn the fishers away. They got nothing but scorn from the fishermen, so they came back and called the Coast Guard. Before dark, the Coast Guard was there and had rounded up four boats, each with as many as eight fishermen and boys aboard. The following photos show the boats at the dock at Half Moon Caye, along with a large motor skiff belonging to the Belize Coast Guard.

As a follow-up to my botfly entry, I finally managed to remove my little pet. I tried using duct tape to seal off its air supply, but the location so close to my knee resulted in a fold or crease forming some time during the night. I must have killed it the second time I tried, but it wasn't sticking out the hole at all, and the snake venom extractor I was using didn't convince it to come out. Finally, when I tried it one evening last week, it started to protrude from the hole. A few guests were still up and were quite intrigued at the sight of an insect larva (technically a maggot) emerging from my leg.

I took a few photos. The first is the extractor. The suction on that thing is intense! It left quite a dimple on my leg as you can see. In the next photo, you can see it emerging. Then once it was partway out, I used a (borrowed) pair of tweezers (thank you Carole and the makers of Tweezerman) to pull it out. The last picture is of the larva lying beside the hole from which it was removed. Note the rows of hooks around the thickest part of the body. The hooks are what held it inside me and it was their squirming around at night that I could feel. But it is out now.

Cheers

Jack and Squirmy

2007-02-13T06:54:00.000-08:00

Just keeping up my parasite load….

Dangriga, 13 Feb 2007

Scientists speculate that the reason we have so many autoimmune diseases, is because our immune system is set to be at constant war with germs and parasites. In our hygienic modern world, the lack of parasite load leaves the immune system without an enemy and it misdirects its energies towards its own tissues, like bored soldiers brawling with each other. Life in the tropics gives one plenty of opportunity to keep the immune system sharp and well occupied. In the spirit of a healthy immune system I would like to announce I am the proud host of a bouncing baby (read squirming larval) botfly.

Somewhere in my travels, I picked up a botfly egg on my skin. It could have been left on a leaf or even deposited on a mosquito. Once it felt my body heat, the egg hatched and the tiny larva burrowed into my skin. Once there it makes a small sore, just like a fly bite. At the centre of the sore is a tiny hole which it needs to breathe through a thin snorkel. It barely itches, except sometimes at night, when the growing larva repositions itself, and takes a nutritious meal of my ‘surplus’ body fluids.

Getting rid of it is a matter of waiting a few days until it is big enough, and then suffocating it by blocking the air hole. Duct tape works if you can get it to lie flat. The area around the opening has to be shaved first, to get a good seal and make removal of the tape less painful. This is usually done before bed and removed in the morning. You know you have a good seal when you feel him squirm like crazy! As he struggles to get air, he will stretch as far as he can and eventually he will come out, still reaching for air. At this point, ideally, he will stick to the tape and will come out in one piece. Ideally. Sometimes you have to squeeze and pull with forceps or tweezers until he comes out.

My little guest will stay with me awhile. I am thinking of letting him grow to maturity before taking him out. I want to know how big they get.

Next entry will have some photos of the process of removal……

2006-12-16T10:29:00.000-08:00

Belize, 15 December 2006

I am at the Tropical Education Centre, walking a trail in dense, wet forest. Last night it rained, and water is still dripping from leaf to leaf to leaf to ground. A pair of chicken-like birds chuckle as they whizz overhead. Even though I have been here before, more than once, it strikes me how alien it is. Unfamiliar trees are draped, climbed and strewn with oddly familiar houseplants. I wonder what it is that urges us to seek out the unfamiliar. I remember the Northern Ontario bush of my youth: spruce and birch, pine and maple, poplar and fir. There I know what burns when wet, where to make camp, where to fish; there among the beaver ponds and rock, lakes and creeks I feel truly at home. I must confess that I am a little uneasy travelling in foreign lands. And yet I, like so many others, am compelled to explore. And this puzzles me.

Yesterday morning I was sitting with Lorena in the Tucson Airport, as we waited for nearly simultaneous flights from adjacent gates. We were about to part company for many months, and we were talking quietly about anything but that fact, and suddenly her flight was called and in two minutes she was gone. What can you say to someone you share your life with, every day for months, when you are going to be gone for so long, with some unacknowledged risk you may never return? How can you quiet a desperate longing, in a few minutes in a public airport? There can be no satisfactory answer. There is only hope, and a clinging to familiar memories and shared dreams. And you carry on.

I allow he uncertainties of travel to occupy my mind. Will I land in Houston close enough to my departing gate to make the next leg of my flight? As it turns out, I land in a nearly adjacent gate. Weird luck. but it doesn't last. The flight departing for Belize City is late, a creeping delay that grows to over an hour. Last time I flew to Belize my plane was 20 minutes late landing, and I missed my connecting flight to Dangriga. This time, when we land, the flight captain tells us that connecting flights are being held for us. I doubt my luck, as Dangriga airstrip has no lights, and it is growing dusk outside as I wait for my bag to come off the plane. Then Customs discovers my VHF radio (I told them I had one when they asked what was in my case), and tells me I need an importation permit. Or I can pay duty. I respond that I am passing through, and I would pay duty as long as it is refunded when I leave. They don't buy it but agree to hold the radio for me until I leave. There is nothing to do but hand it over in exchange for a receipt, and worry about it later.

Now my plane is gone, it is too late to catch a bus to Dangriga, and my funds are low for such things as hotels and taxis. It costs $25US to take a taxi to Belize City from the airport. Just my options are drying up, an Island Expeditions bus is spotted leaving the parking lot. I run and jump in. Rudy and Albert are taking two guests to the Tropical Education Centre, so I catch a ride, and get a free meal and nights lodging. Soon I will flag down a bus on the highway and make my way to Dangriga. The luggage will follow me in a couple of days. Time to hike out.

2006-12-03T11:02:00.000-08:00

I got myself into a little trouble with the government over a bit of money. To prove their point they have suspended my passport. I still have it with me, but I wouldn't want to have to hand it over to an officer sitting in front of a computer. So to satisfy the government and get my passport released, I have decided to return to work in December of this year, instead of February as planned.

I emailed Tim (Grand Poobah) at Island Expeditions, to see about getting back to work sooner. The schedule was already set, but he bent over backwards, and, thanks to the cooperation of Dick, one of the guides, I will be starting in two weeks. Tim also asked me if they could help with my financial troubles. Since I need my passport to get to Belize, I have to satisfy the government before I return to work.

This is the kind of company Island Expeditions is: besides all they do to help with conservation efforts in Belize, and all their efforts to improve peoples' lived their, they also take care of their "family". And so now the money is sent, the gov't is satisfied, and the paperwork is out there to release my passport. Unfortunately, although the gov't can take something from you at the speed of the ethernet, getting it back moves at the speed of the postal service. They say it takes ten days. I have fifteen. Will I make it? Stay tuned...

2006-07-23T13:18:00.000-07:00

Swinging in my hammock in the early morning air: it is the only time that this part of the Sonoran Desert is tolerable. I have been home for a couple of months now.

I won't be going back to Dangriga until February of next year, to work the second half of the season. Since the Manatee is pretty much ready now, I will be able to sail her out to Glover's, or perhaps Lighthouse Reef, and get to know her handling characteristics before I begin my voyage. Every delay is a heartbreak for me, but results in my being better prepared so I guess I shouldn't whine.

Meanwhile life goes on here, on the edge of the Sea of Cortez. I am experimenting with sails for my kayaks, and plan to build a 16 ft double ended sailing/rowing craft in the fall, just to keep busy. And you know, you can never have too many boats.

This summer has been great in the Sea of Cortez. Usually in July the sea gets crowded with jellyfish and especially the dreaded and painful Portuguese Man-of-War. There have been times when they are so thick out there that I won't even paddle a kayak amongst them, as their tentacles get tangled up in the shaft of my paddles and end up lying across someone's cheek or at least their arm.

But this year, they have been almost absent, and we can swim every day. The water is warm too, and though not as clear as the Caribbean, it is rich in marine life. There are no trade winds here. The air is calm, the sea flat, until the sun heats up the land in the mid-afternoon. Then the breeze begins and blows until just before sunset. Occasionally, about a day after a tropical cyclone passes to the south of the entrance to the Gulf, swells come rolling in, but otherwise the only surf is from windwaves in the afternoon, and all is calm again at dawn.

In a week we will be heading north, to Ontario, where we will spend five weeks, visiting family and friends, sampling much-missed foods, and hanging out at the cottage. Mostly I want to spend time with Katie, my daughter, who is seventeen (!) now. We have so much to catch up on. I also have two new nephews to see and lots of old rellies too.

Take care all. Check in once in a while.... until then

Cheers
Jack

2006-05-27T19:05:00.000-07:00

It is a month since I finished work, and still I have not been able to start the long voyage home. The little modifications on the boat are not the problem; it is getting my registration papers. I do not blame the folks at the Ship Registry: they have been very quick and helpful. Even though they can’t seem to find the document I sent them a month ago. But shit happens, things get lost. No, the big delay was because I was jerked around for so long by the Canadian Consular Services. A pox on them.

Anyway, when I realized that I have already been in Belize a month longer than planned, that it would probably take another three weeks before my papers arrived, and that my finances were depleted, and hurricane season was fast approaching and freaking Lorena out, I decided to pack it in for the season. Next year I will work a short season, and have the Manatee to play around with on my time off. Then I will come straight home and that is simply a better option.

The trick is getting home. I was almost out of money and couldn’t seem to get at the money I had. So Jaime and I took the bus to Cancun, where he was headed anyway, and bought a flight to Tucson. What a trip. All-night bus ride. An unforgettable taxi ride with an old-timer in coke-bottle glasses driving down the highway at 15 miles an hour an aging Chrysler New Yorker land-yacht, that steered like a barge in a following sea, on a misty night with the wipers set on interval: an interval a bit too long, so we would completely lose sight of the road a second before the windshield was wiped clean, and he would have to swerve this big beauty off the gravel, or out from the kill zone of an approaching car. And all the while he was complaining about how there was no shoulder and not any kind of paint on the road to indicate which half was his, or where the pavement ended. After my earlier experiences on Belizian highways, I lost a pound of sweat that trip.

I remember thinking as we drove into Mexico, that no matter how poor, or prosperous, or how well-kept or how run-down it is, there is a vitality to this country that makes it exciting to be in. By comparison, much of Belize lacks any sign of vitality; in some places it lacks a pulse. I also remember that there is a smell in the air in Mexican towns that immediately distinguishes it from any other country I have been in. It is sort of a combination of diesel oil and cooking grease.

Back to Cancun. We got in in the early light of a new day, and found a cheap hotel, had a bit of a rest and got cleaned up. We spent too much time and money finding a way to buy a flight for me with his credit card, but we got it done and took a bus to the beach. We walked the sand for a couple of miles, noting how much of the damage from last years hurricane has been healed or is in the process. And the lack of topless women. We did find two though before rain drove us all off the beach, so it was worth the walk

I didn’t tell Lorena I was coming home, so when I got on-line at an internet location, I had to lie to her about what I was doing. But my absence and her worries about tropical storms was taking a toll on her, and I compromised: I told her I was going to come home. I really wanted to surprise her completely when I showed up, but it was too cruel making her suffer just to satisfy my selfish desire to see her reaction. So I gave her some hope, and kept from her how close I was. Judge me how you will.

When I got to Tucson I had $20 in my pocket: not enough for a cab, let alone a bus ticket or hotel, but my good old brother came through and put some cash in my account. And I took a cab directly to the bus depot and at 11:00 that night I was on a bus for Guaymas.

She got her surprise at about 8:30 the next morning, and it was worth it. She is happy, and though disappointed, I am relieved and happy to be home again too.

To my readers who have been following along with my efforts, I plead to you not to give up on me yet. I had to make a difficult choice, but what’s another delay if it means I go when it is safest to do so? Who would deny me that? And those of you who have given me your support through generous donations of equipment and clothing, I will requite. Next year.

In the meantime I may add a note or two, and I hope what I say is worth a chuckle or a knowing smile. To all I wish you the best.

Island Jack Wilde

2006-05-12T00:54:00.000-07:00

Still waiting in Dangriga, but not idly. I am still working on the new outrigger, and in the meantime I decided to paint up the manatee in some more nautical colours. The matt black colour of the epoxy paint and her sharp lines made her look like a stealth bomber. Plus black might get a little hot, on the deck surfaces and within the compartments.

A couple of things to note in this photo: first, the name "Manadi" is painted on the bow. Manadi is the Carib or Garifuna word from which we get manatee. The emphasis is on the middle syllable. The second thing you may notice, is the green netting between the akas (crossbeams), between the canoe and the outrigger on the opposite side of the boat. The boat is sitting on two rubber boat fenders, which are not supporting the weight at all. I was hoping to use these as rollers, but I may have to fill them with something first, like dry sand, to give them some support.

This second shot shows her sails better. This is how she will look running before the wind. Today she goes back in the water for her second sea trial. I am hoping she will sail drier with the raised sides. Maybe I'll get some photos of her underway as well. Cheers.

2006-05-07T16:34:00.000-07:00

Each day gets me a little closer. While I await my ship registration papers, I have been fixing the glitches. First, that she isn't sea-worthy: this is a biggie. I added some planking to her sides, adding six inches of freeboard. I also installed deflectors fore and aft, to keep the cockpit drier.

I also installed the rudder. I have to work out how to control it, but I will do that in the water. It is a strange characteristic of this type of sail, that the bulk of the steering is done by manipulating the sails, and the rudder is for a quick push to get her turned. We'll see how that works.

I am still waiting for the ship registration papers to come in. I got severely held up by the Canadian Consulate. I am very unhappy with the runaround they gave me. You see, it is important to me to register the boat as a Canadian vessel. This grants me the protection of the Crown, whatever that may mean, and allows me to identify the vessel as Canadian by flying the Maple Leaf off the stern.

To register a vessel, you need to provide all kinds of documents, including a declaration of ownership. If the vessel is being built outside of Canada this form needs to be notarised by a Consular Officer. Well the nearest Canadian Consulate is in Guatemala City, but Belize has an Honorary Consul, (certainly more of an honour for her than for Canada). I called and asked for an appintment to see the honorary consul, explaining my need. I was asked to give my name, a time period convenient to me for the meeting and a phone number where I could be reached, and when the Consul would come in, she would check her appointments schedule, and make one for me. "When will she be in next?", I innocently asked, and was told she only comes in when she has an appointment scheduled. I wondered how she was ever going to get an appointment if she only made them when she came in, and she only came in when she had one. Seems a convenient lifestyle to me. I hope she isn't paid for this "Honorary" position.

After two months of this nonsense, I called once again, and was told "We have been trying to reach you. I'll get the Consular Officer and ask her to call you right away." I was aghast: finally some break in the inertia. So a few minutes later, a Consular Officer called me, and told me that my situation had been discussed in Guatemala, and that they were not going to cooperate with my request. I should go to a local notary or lawyer and get them to notarise it for me. Shit, I could have done that months ago. so the next day I did. Now I am waiting for my papers to arrive.

In the meantime, there is still work to be done. The Manatee looks too much like a Stealth bomber, and, although the epoxy paint is hard and strong, I want more layers between the boat and the water. Plus I thought that a black boat might be a touch hot under a tropical sun.

So how about a white boat, with blue trim and decking? Tomorrow another coat goes on, and then I'll turn her on her side and paint the topsides.

Riding my bike around Dangriga the other night, I was mentally saying goodbye. It is a different impression you get of a town at night: reggae music spills out an open doorway, light leaks out a thousand cracks in a clapboard house, riddled with termites and dry rot. After a while you realise all sorts of people are watching you ride by, sitting silently in porches or on concrete steps, shadows in the cooling night air. You ride half standing, to cushion the shock of unseen potholes, watching for dogs out for mischief. Everyone you pass says 'goodnight'.

I like the people here. Everyone calls you brother no matter what colour or race you appear to be. They are well mannered, especially the kids. The women scare me though. They can be pretty big and they yell and swear a lot. hehe.

I'll be finishing up pretty soon and I hope to have some pictures of her under sail. But first we'll see if she keeps the waves out. Until then

Cheers,

Jack