4/06/02
| Albuquerque4/06/02
| AlbuquerqueNo, we're not in New Mexico. We're in the Cayos de Albuquerque, two dots on the map (but only a very good map; our world atlas doesn't show them at all) about a hundred miles east of the coast of Nicaragua, two hundred or so miles northwest of the Panama Canal. Although these reef-encircled islands are on our computer charts and rate a brief mention in Reed's Nautical Almanac, they are so far off the beaten cruiser path that most people (including us, a few days ago) don't even know they exist. But when we asked Mike and Gloria on Windfree about places they enjoyed when they came to Panama via the Northwest Caribbean three years ago, this was high on their list.
On April first, we left the Rio Chagres at about five in the afternoon. By six we were regretting it. The waves were choppy and sloppy, the wind was from nearly due north, and even motorsailing we could only eke out 4.5 knots. As the hull slammed repeatedly into the waves we both got queasy despite the Bonine we'd taken. (I guess a week of sitting in a flat calm river anchorage makes you lose your acclimatization!) But as we slowly moved away from the influence of the land, the wind shifted more to the northeast. At 11 p.m. we hoisted the jib and turned off the motor; although we couldn't quite steer to our rhumb line (the direct course), the weatherfaxes indicated that the wind would get more easterly the further north we got, and we hoped to be able to compensate later.
The early night was very dark and the stars beautiful. The bioluminescence in the ocean that first night was extraordinary. In addition to the usual tiny specks of light in Windom's wake, every so often an area about the size of a basketball would light up with an eerie greenish light that persisted for several seconds. We'd seen this once before, while at anchor in the Holandés Cays in the San Blas, and joked that it looked like the fish were chasing each other around with flashlights. When the moon finally came up, it was still close enough to full to light up the waves and our white sails.
After the miserable first six hours, the rest of the voyage was fairly pleasant -- or at least, as pleasant as beating into a headwind can possibly be. The wind did indeed veer more easterly, so we were gradually able to bring our course closer to the rhumb line. By the time we neared the islands, around 9 a.m. on April 3rd, our cross-track error (our distance from our intended course) had decreased from a high of over eleven nautical miles, to only three. A tack to the southeast, then back to the northwest, put us at the entrance to the maze of reefs surrounding the Cayos just before 11 a.m., perfect high sun conditions to eyeball our way through to the pair of islands.
The islands, unimaginatively named Cayo del Norte and Cayo del Sur (North Cay and South Cay), are both no bigger than a couple hundred yards across, and covered with coconut palms. The southern island has a few fishing camp huts on it, as lobstermen and fishermen from San Andrés, 30 miles to the northeast, ply these waters. The northern island is home to a navigation light tower and an outpost of the Colombian Navy (Colombia owns the Cayos de Albuquerque, San Andrés, Providencia, and a few other dots-on-the-map out here). As we approached the reef entrance the Navy hailed us, although since they were calling in Spanish it took a few tries before we figured out they were calling us, and of course trying to communicate over the radio in a language we barely speak was a challenge. But I managed to answer most of their questions (where we were coming from, our nationality, the official documentation number of our boat, the number of engines and how many horsepower, and so on), and figured out that they wanted us to come in with our paperwork as soon as we were anchored.
We
rolled our eyes over the "usual bureaucracy" as we dropped the
dinghy, swapped the clothes we'd slept in for the last two nights for
something a little nicer, and headed in to shore with our papers. But
we needn't have worried (nor bothered changing clothes). The
Colombian Navy presence in the Albuquerque Cays consists of about a
dozen cute 18-year-old guys in shorts and t-shirts, two of whom were
waiting on the beach for us and on our approach ran into the water to
help haul our dink to shore. They shook our hands and welcomed us to
the island, then conducted us down groomed sand paths lined with
conch shells to a patio where of the officer in charge, Fabio,
greeted us. Fabio was maybe 20 years old. As he copied things out of
our paperwork into a big notebook, the two guys who had helped us
ashore brought us green coconuts with the tops lopped off, and straws
for drinking the coconut water. "Muchas gracias," we told them; they
offered to get us more to take back with us, but we declined.
Certainly it was the nicest treatment we've ever gotten from
officialdom!
After the paperwork was done -- it wasn't an official check-in, which we would have to do in San Andrés, just something for their records -- the three Colombians showed us around the island. Not that there was much there. A few beaches, a few hammocks, a kitchen, an open-air "gymnasium" with improvised work-out equipment. A small TV satellite dish -- "Broken," said Fabio, with disgust. A concrete helipad sat at one end, strictly for use by the President or other high muckety-mucks; the men on the island were dropped off by boat from San Andrés. They didn't even have a boat of their own other than a little rowboat, with no motor. Sand bunkers for war games were about the only indication that the island is anything other than a low-budget tourist resort. The boys agreed it was pretty darn close to paradise for a month-long duty post, but kind of boring. They keep an eye on the fishermen, to make sure they don't take turtles or do anything else illegal, but we imagine it must be a little tough to police the area without a boat. Other than that, there's not much to do other than keep the beaches tidy. A visit by a yacht is a rare event -- one other had stopped by since their duty began on March 10 -- so they were all pretty excited about the break in the monotony. They even called us on VHF the next day to ask if we'd had a pleasant night, and whether we needed anything! They were such sweet guys, my vestigial maternal instincts kicked in -- I just wanted to bake them all cookies or something.
We
spent the afternoon sleeping off our passage, and the next morning we
started in on the serious snorkeling. The first thing we noticed was
that the water clarity here is unbelievable, as good as the Bahamas
(which is high, high praise). The incredible visibility was almost a
problem, as we'd spot tasty-looking fish that were a hundred feet or
more away, then wear ourselves out swimming against the current to
try to catch up with them. While the fish here are not as plentiful
as in the Aves or the Bahamas, there are still enough that we had no
trouble filling our bellies. We also saw queen triggerfish for the
first time since the Bahamas; unfortunately, the ones here are not as
stupid and unafraid as those in the Bahamas, and it took several days
of futile attempts before we managed to spear one. (They are just as
tasty as we remember.)
Like the Colombian recruits on the island, we sometimes find ourselves getting bored with "paradise". The one type of place we seem to be able to fill all our time easily is in snorkeling paradises like this. Our day typically goes as follows: we wake around 7 a.m. and listen to news on shortwave until 8 or 8:30, while I put together breakfast. We eat and do the ham and SSB nets; Central American Breakfast Club at 8, Panama Connection at 8:30 (now that we are getting away from Panama, we will probably listen to Cruiseheimer's Net again, which we used to participate in when we were in the US and Bahamas, and which is just getting in radio range again), Northwest Caribbean Net at 9. Britt does the dishes, I might work on the web pages, or do a crossword puzzle. By 10 we are ready to go snorkeling, and we usually don't make it back until 1. By the time the fish are filleted, the equipment is rinsed, and we are showered, it's 1:30 or 2. Unsurprisingly, I am starving, so I make us a big lunch. All the exercise followed by a big meal means we don't do much other than rest and read until 3 or 3:30. That gives us time for a brief afternoon boat project, or a walk on the beach, before evening. We usually have a drink and listen to the news around 6-ish, then read or work on the computer a little more. Around 7 I start dinner, we eat around 7:30 or 8, I send and receive email over the radio after the evening weatherfaxes are finished, and then we crawl in to bed and read until lights out, usually no later than 10. What an exciting life we lead!
This
afternoon, after resting up from our strenuous underwater hunting
expedition, we went over to the Navy island, after calling first on
the radio to make sure it was o.k. We took a few pictures and then
Fabio came over to chat. Britt had been talking about how nice it
would be to get an aerial shot of the reefs and was longingly looking
at the light tower. "How do you say 'ladder' in Spanish?" he asked
me.
"Um, why?"
"I wonder if they'd let me climb the tower."
I didn't think so, and he didn't either, but I asked. When Fabio smiled and nodded, answering, "Sure, if you can do it," Britt at first thought I must not have asked the question correctly in Spanish! But we all went over to the light tower and Fabio indicated to Britt that he could reach the ladder by scrambling up from the corner; soon Britt was way up at the tippy-top, getting his aerial view. Try doing that at a US Coast Guard base!
We circled around back to our dinghy on the beach, conversing as well as we could manage. Fabio told us his island duty would be ending next week, that his next month would be on the Caribbean coast of Colombia north of Cartagena. We told him that tomorrow would be our eleventh wedding anniversary, and the third anniversary of living on the boat. When we got back to the dink, Fabio asked, "Tienen Uds. musica en su barco?"
"Sí," I replied, we have music on the boat.
He looked down at the sand, then back up at us, a little shyly. "Do you think," he continued in Spanish, "you could play us some music over the VHF?" He didn't care what kind, whatever we had was fine. They were just hungry for a few tunes on their quiet island.
So after we got back to Windom, we poured ourselves drinks and popped a CD into the player, turned the cockpit speakers on, and called the island. "Canal seis - ocho," I instructed, and after switching to channel 68 I hit the remote, held down the mike, and sent the boys a little music. Ok, it's illegal (or at least poor radio manners) in the US. But I couldn't turn down a request by the local military, right? And a little Doors ("L.A. Woman") never hurt anybody.
