We woke at 4:30 to leave Blanquilla for the nearly 65 miles to Isla Tortuga; since we'd gotten up at the same hour the previous morning for the Leonid meteor shower, it wasn't quite as traumatic as it might have been, and we were underway before 5, steering for deep water in the dark. We made better time than we'd expected in the morning, and regretted the lost extra hour or so of sleep we could have had. But the afternoon brought lighter winds, which we had the luxury of sailing slowly through (rather than having to motor) because of our early start, and we cruised in pretty much on schedule.
Playa Caldera on Isla Tortuga is a phenomenal half-moon of sand (playa is Spanish for "beach"), and we walked nearly its whole length and back the next morning, a good hour's effort. The anchorage itself wasn't so nice -- we were rocked by swell all night -- so we motored the short distance to Los Palanquinos, a small group of reefs and rocks just off Tortuga, and anchored there. Snorkeling was ok but not great as much of the coral was bleached and dead, and the visibility merely adequate. The clarity was further impaired by clouds of walnut-sized jellyfish, their drifting translucent forms thickening the water to near opacity in places. Floating among the jellies was somewhat unsettling even though they are nonvenomous. We did see lots of fish, including one shaggy octopus which I managed to see swimming through a cut in the reef; as soon as it saw me, it plummeted to a corner of coral and pretended to be a clump of seaweed. Only its large eye, opening and closing, betrayed it as a living creature.
The next day we moved to Las Tortuguillas, where the snorkeling was truly awful, ten-foot visibility over a bottom strewn with coral rubble. The only interesting thing there were schools of blue runner jacks and palometas which buzzed through every so often. I shot at several, missed all but one jack which managed to shake off my spear and flee.
Over the past week or so, the winds have been incredibly light, under 10 knots most of the time. Accordingly, we planned to leave around 4 p.m. for the 85 miles to the eastern entrance to Los Roques, which would put us there with good light if we averaged between 4 and 5 knots. The breeze was almost nonexistent while we snorkeled, and we discussed staying another day, but as we returned to Windom the wind picked up, and we decided to leave even though we were a little past our planned time. What the heck, we'd motor a little to make up the difference if we had to.
But we didn't have to. In fact, we had to reduce sail, and then reduce sail some more. The wind climbed from a pleasant 15 knots to a brisk 20, and kept right on going. For most of the night, it howled between 25 to 30 knots. Fortunately the wind was mostly behind us, but the big waves tossed us around, and with the rigging and sails slapping and groaning and banging and crashing, we didn't get much sleep.
Even
with well-reefed sails, we cruised along at close to 7 knots. This
meant we'd arrive at the Boca de Sebastopol cut well before dawn, and
since we wouldn't be able to transit it safely until mid-morning, we
changed course for Cayo de Agua at the western end of Los Roques. We
weren't too upset about this change of plans, since Los Roques is a
national park and a no-fishing zone, and we had heard that since
there is a special entry permit, it's problematic for boats like us,
who have already checked out of the country, to square everything
with the officials. We arrived at Cayo de Agua with perfect overhead
sun, but the entry was still hairy and we almost got blown right onto
a reef when we took the channel a little too far to one side.
Since we couldn't go spearfishing -- and anyway the water looked too cloudy inside the reef, and too rough outside -- we opted for another beach walk. The islands of Cayo de Agua and West Cay are barely connected by the merest sliver of sand; as we crossed, our ankles (and sometimes knees, and sometimes even thighs) were washed by waves splashing in from both sides. A northerly swell and the interference patterns caused by the reefs and islands caused six-foot breakers from the west, roaring in against the wind, curling and crashing on the coral shoals and sending long fingers of salt water up onto the beach.
Ghost crabs scurried out of our way as we strolled. Ahead of us, a family of half a dozen little birds ran along the wave line with a funky stiff-legged stride, stopping every so often to poke a beak awkwardly into the sand, searching for goodies; then they'd skitter back abruptly before an encroaching wave could get their little feet wet. Pelicans wheeled above us, while boobies glided just above the waves.
The sand was sugar-fine, soft and white. In some places the wet surface was hard and packed tightly, with a cross-grained pattern like a woven blanket, and our feet barely made marks; in others, our feet sank deep into gloppy ooze.When we ran out of beach, we slipped on our sandals and picked our way across the coral boulders to the westernmost tip of the island. Nestled among the rocks and coral I found a perfect cowrie shell, the size and shape of a large egg, a pale cream color with streaks of caramel. A bit further on I found another, then a third. It seemed miraculous to find these beautiful shells unbroken on the hard shore after what must have been a violent journey on the waves.
