Jack's Blog

Jack and I took the bus from Belize City to Cancun, about an eleven hour journey. Halfway there, at the border of Belize and Mexico, we had some problems. Since we were washed ashore on a boat, we had no entry stamp. The first guard said we had to go back to Belize City (four hours by bus) and wait until Monday to get stamped in so we can get stamped out. Ah, bureaucracy. As we have learned, we kept talking, even after he joked about sending us to jail. We got bumped up the food chain, and the next guy let us through, however he made sure to display a sufficient amount of reluctance. But he refused to stamp us out.

Then we had the Mexican border guard, Senor Oscar Duran, to deal with. He told us we had to go back to the Belize border and get stamped. "How are you to ever prove you were in Belize?" he asked. I couldn't imagine why I would have to do that. We kept talking and finally, after another Oscar worthy display of reluctance, he rewarded us with a 15 day pass to Mexico. It's a lot more difficult getting into Mexico from the south than the north.

So we successfully made it through a country without ever legally existing there. Now we are in Isla Mujeres for a few days of rest, before the true test. Unfortunately, Captain Chavez had to stay with the boat - he is the Captain, after all - and will fix it up then sail up to meet us.

If there are any brave souls who want to go on that adventure, as he needs some crew, drop me an email.
Ed

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Among the many interesting people at Turneffe Flats was a woman named Lana. She spent 33 years in the US government, much of it working in the Pentagon. Then a plane flew into her office. She went to the counciling sessions, one of the few, because everyone was afraid of getting diagnosed with something like depression and losing their clearance. Then she decided to take up something she always wanted to do: scuba diving.

Lana hit retirement, was issued a gas mask to keep at her Pentagon desk just in case, and quit. At age 51, she started diving. Five years later, she has completed almost 400 dives, and I met her the day before she was diving the Blue Hole in Belize. That year she had been around the world, from Africa to Thailand to all over the Caribbean diving. Next spring she goes to Antarctica to dive. Her goal is to teach middle-aged and older ladies to enjoy diving. I suggest visiting her website to support her Antarctic expedition, and wishing her luck.

www.divingdivas.com

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Happy Thanksgiving!

While everyone is with their families, Captain Chavez, Jack, and I ate canned crab, canned tuna, and to keep with the holiday spirit, cranberry juice and vodka. Jack lifted his beer can filled with cranberry and vodka, and toasted, "Here's to Thanksgiving without the family." We laughed and clinked cans.

The Belizian Coast Guard stopped by again to finish some more paperwork. They are a motley bunch, nice as can be, but perhaps not the most skilled law enforcement operation - while Jack was being interviewed, the following exchange occurred.

Coast Guard Guy: "Uh, Sarge, I think I broke something."
Sarge: "What did you break - was it the gun?"
Coast Guard Guy: "Yeah, I broke the gun."
Sarge didn't look back, just rolled his eyes and kept talking to Jack.

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After waiting two days for the Mennonite mechanic the Belizian Coast Guard promised, we are still out here broke down and anchored off an island deserted except for one little shack. Travis and I waved down some Belizian fisherman and asked them to take us a few miles south to a resort that apparently existed there.

We told them the story of the adventure, and one of them said, "You guys have had quite an adventure. From a fast boat, to a slow boat, to a tow boat."

The "resort" turned out to be a fishing lodge called Tuneffe Flats. And not just any fishing lodge - one of the top five fly-fishing destinations worldwide. I started to imagine red snapper and grouper, covered with butter, cold beer, and warm showers...and internet, so I could publish these blogg entries finally.

www.turneffeflats.com

We knocked on the office and were greeted by Kani, who turned out to be a Texan. She runs the place with her fiance, Justin, and they are about the best people to know if you get washed up on a deserted island. We turned out to be really lucky when Kani told us that the last people to wash ashore were seven Cuban doctors and engineers on a homeade liferaft. We shot footage of the raft, to be seen in our movie, Cowboy in Cuba.

So here we sit, repairing the boat, as the clock tics down to the festival we must be at for the documentary. But we have rum, cards, and a flashlight chandelier. Also, we appear to have some friends - three dolphins have been living right by the boat. We would swim with them but our little deserted island, Cockroach Caye, is also home to the Western hemisphere's largest breeding ground of saltwater crocodiles.

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Four days at sea. Shitting in a bucket. Tore all the sails, lost the engine. Jack sliced his hand on the leatherman but saved the dinghy. Then dolphins showed up. The boat almost flipped that night. If we didn't steer towards a narrow window of coordinates, it would have. The cold rain pelted our faces and soaked our t-shirts and shorts.

We fought through a norther and two gales. Rescue Eagle 4, a helicopter with an Aussie voice, radioed, "are you taking on water?"

No (lying).

The Belizian Coast Guard, still in their infancy, towed us for 20 miles in exchange for a bottle of rum. "It will keep us warm on the ride back," they said. The rope snapped twice, hitting their driver once in the buttox and once in the back of the head. We were supposed to be in Mexico yesterday but today we are stranded on a desert island in Belize. I think it might be thanksgiving. Best life ever.

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The plane tickets were reserved, but the Cowboy gave us one last hope. Suddenly, everything was fixed: the alternator works, the fuel line is not clogged, the batteries are charged, and the hatches are battened, whatever that means. Everyone is safe, and we pull out early tomorrow morning for Mexico, a three to four day voyage.

Goodbye to Honduras and her many mosquitos.

See y'all in Mexico.

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I feel like a walking mosquito feeder. I exist for them. They have drawn blood, and it’s a good thing for you I have no camera.

The internet is down and the outboard pull string is stuck, but we are working on the engine because decision time approaches. Our festival starts November 28th. I would like to be there a few days ahead to establish contacts. Today is the 12th, and we need three or four days to Mexico, three or four days in Mexico, and two or three days from there, totalling eight to eleven days. If we cannot get out of Roatan soon we will have to abandon the boat and fly.

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We had the engine working, and were leaving. Travis and Jack had to sail the boat to another harbor, while I went with two cops to steal the motor back. The cops were ok people, even though it was strange they had me drive them to the bust. Of course, the motor was no longer there, and for we searched all over Flowers Bay, looking for lanchas, asking questions, and finding nothing. The main cop, Figueroa, had a split pupil and spent much of the time waving to girls on the street and answering phone calls from other girls.

When I got back, the Saltwater Cowboy had returned. More engine trouble. They could have sailed, but it was dark so they aborted mission. We need to change the filters again on the Perkins and check the fuel lines.

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Went with the cops to Flowers Bay this morning around 8:30 am. Still alive. There is a bathroom wall that describes the place well:

Flush twice,
It’s a long way to Flower’s Bay.
-Bathroom Graffiti.

Figueroa was a younger, confident cop. He seemed to be in charge of something. The other was more of the pure gunman type. We drove them to the house (which our informant had shown to us) and they went with our boat Captain to requisition the motor. Unfortunately, there was no motor there. We were sure the informant, a fallen INS guard, was lying, even though he had a bump on his head after he got jumped the other day since someone found out he’s been talking. But the homeowner said this guy Simon had just bought a motor two weeks before for $1000.00. Simon is our man. Finally we know who. But Simon was out fishing so we had to return in the afternoon.

Meanwhile, the boat is still not starting right near the gang’s restaurant. We have a few hours to fix this motor, so after (if we are able to) we get the motor we get the hell out of Honduras.

Listening to: Hell Hound on My Trail, by Robert Johnson.

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Drove to the tiny Oak Ridge today. It’s a cozy neighborhood, starkly third world, with mud bogs by the road and pink and blue houses – the color of coral - up on stilts. An Islander community, which means they speak English but Island English which is incomprehensible. They are Garifunas, a population mostly thought to have been decendents of abandoned slaves, but some of them claim they have been here long before Columbus. Their African skin and English tongue are arguments for the contrary, but then again, who am I to disclaim a heritage, be it real or fictional.

On the way we bumped into a two junkies named Felix the Cat and Dribbles. They are not people you want to run into – wobbly stances and rotted teeth. Again, everything about this adventure would be funny were it not deadly serious.

We asked about the engine, and they knew of a guy who had just bought a 15 horsepower recently at West End. We told them if they could match the serial number we had to the other engine we would pay reward money. Now it is a race between the cops and Felix the Cat to find the engine.

After asking everyone where Sterling’s house was, we were led around a windy dirt road by the water until we found it, which was nice by the community standards. His wife wrote us a receipt on Yamaha stationary. It was receipt #00000003.

We took the receipt to the police who told us to come back manana. So there it is. Manana we go to the police and go get the engine. I am not scared yet, but I know when we roll into Flowers Bay with gunmen, I won’t feel like I’m in a happy place.

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We are going to steal the outboard back.

The diesel engine won’t start, and we happen to be right in front of the restaurant owned by the mafia family who our informant tells us is behind the theft. We will have to get out of dodge after we steal it back. And we will have to sail, because the airport is closed after a drug bust uncovered all the employees of the airport to be in on it, so they have canceled all the flights until they hire new people. It was a large bust – 2000 kilos of cocaine.

Stuck on the island and running from gangsters.

Honduras.

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Found the propeller! We came to the mainland for two things, and left with both of them. This is a small miracle in Honduras. Most of the time you leave needing more than when you came.

The return ferry from La Ceiba to Roatan is so fast that your stomach drops on each wave, which wasn’t good for sea sickness. The crew spent their time handing out puke bags. Jack and I were ok, the sailors we are.

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We got the life raft!!!! Red letter day!

Customs today took three hours, during which they lost the life raft, changed the price again, and wanted to open it. It can only open once, then you have to get a new one.

They were busy ripping open other packages. One had cookies which they passed out, the Oreo thieves. Anyone who decides to ship something to Honduras beware. I would like to find something good to say about them since I have Honduran friends I like and respect, but these folks at the cargo terminal are simply lazy criminals. Except Miguel Ortega, a sort of boss, who took pity on us. But the system is so rotten a good person has no chance.

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Today we went to San Pedro Sula, AIDS capitol of Central America.

Through the bus windows we watched between the big leaves of Honduras: cows, horses, pig trucks, dark girls in pink tube-tops bicycling, smelling of soap and chippering away on pink motorola cell phones; moustached men with cowboy hats and weathered, pockmarked skin; the infinite banana trees, pale blue and green houses, hotels, and internet cafes surrounded by barbed wire; and the fields of crops and crop pickers who all have cousins somewhere up north in the USA, mojado (“illegal”), and sending home the big bucks.

At the airport cargo terminal the chaos came. The price they wanted for taxes, specious guarantees, payoffs, etc, ranged from $50 to $450. We negotiated in Spanish and Jack’s advice was to just keep talking, so that’s what I did for five hours. We finally got it down to $100 total (the $50 mysteriously disappeared as quickly as it appeared) but it was too late, they were closed.

I mean c’mon Honduras.

We are now in a hotel in central San Pedro Sula, where one fast food joint jostles the next. Had I the digital camera, I could show you three-story KFCs with a lifesize Colonel perched Ronald-esque on a bench, playgrounds to the ceiling, and a great fried chicken bucket in the sky.

Listening to: Kenny Rogers. Hondurans love country music. Kenny Rogers and Keith Urban blast out of big-wheeled trucks at the Bojangles. No lie, there are Bojangles.

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