Rule number one of cruising: Thou Shalt Not Get In A Hurry. (After all, if you're in a hurry, what are you doing in a craft that does about 8 m.p.h. at best?) We've mentioned it before, written in these pages and jawed with our friends about it. All sorts of mishaps have occurred as a result of violating this rule. So, what do we go and do?
We'd had a nice sail from West End, Roatan, to Puerto Este on Utila, about 24 downwind miles which began in a pleasant 15 knots but rapidly turned to the typical 20-25 bouncefest. Puerto Este is a slightly more developed version of West End, with a larger, younger, and more pierced-and-tattooed crowd. Lots of restaurants and bars, and approximately one dive shop for every three people. But after a week of civilization we were ready for some isolation, so we just took a long stroll around the town, dumped our trash, and officially checked out of Honduras. Our zarpe (clearance) said we were going to Isla Mujeres, Mexico, but we actually planned to spend a few days in the Water Cays just west of Utila before going northwest to the outer reef atolls of Belize.
When we returned to our boat around 12:30, our wind generator was spinning free. This meant that the alternate energy regulator had kicked in to disconnect the wind and solar from our batteries. Usually, this happens only when our battery voltage is very high -- but this was not the case this day, as we could tell by a quick check of our battery monitor. Ordinarily, too, when the regulator disconnects the alternate energy, a little green light on it goes out, and a little red light goes on. But when Britt poked his head into the engine compartment, he could see no lights at all on the regulator. Something was amiss.
We really don't use the regulator much anyway. We usually only get enough wind and sun to overcharge the batteries once every two months, so when it happens we almost always allow the battery to overcharge in order to equalize it. (If we don't want to equalize, we'll put an extra load on the battery, such as the watermaker, or we will lock down the wind generator.) So Britt decided to simply disconnect the regulator from the circuit -- which turned out to be not so simple. At 2:30 in the afternoon, the job was finally completed, and we were ready to head out to the Water Cays.
We had chosen an anchorage described as a picturesque and protected lagoon between two islets, with a narrow entrance between two reefs. As usual, the chart around here is nearly worthless (it's from an 1835 British survey, with no horizontal datum and so it doesn't match up at all with GPS readings), and the guidebook sketch chartlets are rather vague, so we were counting on being able to eyeball our way in. The anchorage was less than 6 miles away, so we'd get there at 3:30. A little late for perfect overhead light, but adequate, we thought.
What we had forgotten was that the time zone here is a little screwy. Honduras is on Central Standard Time, but it really ought to be on Eastern, or at least on Daylight Savings. Sunrise is just after 5 a.m. and sunset around 6 p.m. At about 3 p.m., as we sailed west, we noticed that there was a considerable amount of glare on the water when we looked northwest, the direction of approach into the anchorage.
This is when we should have turned around. But it would be an unpleasant trip back east into the anchorage, against 20+ knots of wind and 6-foot seas. We both mentioned misgivings, but neither of us mentioned turning around. We just agreed we'd need to be careful. So as we turned toward the cays, we furled the sails and went in on engine alone, figuring to slow way down when we got up to where it mattered, since all we could see was glare and wave backs directly ahead of us.
Unfortunately, we had both, separately, made incorrect assumptions about where it mattered. I had thought the anchorage was behind the line of islands, and that the reef entrance was formed by reefs extending toward each other from two of the islands. Britt had misinterpreted the somewhat unclear description in the guidebook to mean that the entrance reefs had adequate clearance over them. When we noticed the depths varying rapidly and dramatically, from 80 feet to 30 feet and back again to 80 feet, Britt started forward to act as spotter; he usually climbs up on the boom for the added height, which helps in seeing the reefs below the surface. He had just gotten as far forward as the mast when he saw trouble ahead. He signalled for an immediate, urgent turn to the right; I cranked the wheel over, but it was too late.
In the next instant, we felt the whole boat shudder and stop, tilting slightly to the right. Britt pointed right and called, "Off that way if you can, I see the channel!" The wind and waves were pushing us directly on to the reef to our left and ahead, so I hit the throttle hard in reverse, then powered forward and to the right. To my immense relief, the prop and rudder responded properly, and we were soon in the deep water of the channel and in the anchorage.
Which turned out to be lousy. The waves came right in through the channel and over the reef, so the lagoon was only slightly less bouncy than the sea outside. But no matter; neither of us was inclined in the least to go anywhere. After we were anchored, we jumped into the water.
The keel looked pretty good, considering. Lots of scrapes and scratches, including one frighteningly high up on the starboard bow. One significant gouge clear down to the fiberglass; we'll need to repair it when we haul out in the summer. No damage at all to the skeg (the bit the rudder is attached to) or the rudder itself, which are both somewhat shallower than the keel. If you're going to hit something underwater (which you shouldn't, of course!) a long fin keel with a skeg-hung rudder is the way to go.
If our bottom was battered but relatively intact, the coral looked like it had lost the battle. Britt swam over to inspect the spot we'd hit, and reported that there was now a thirty foot long trench where we had smashed our way through into the channel. The point of initial impact had been astonishingly shallow; he said that it looked like any boat that had hit there would have been stuck, and he was amazed we'd made it off. I felt a little guilty about destroying some of the reef, but after swimming around the anchorage we realized that much of the coral was already dead, possibly from Hurricane Mitch. (The sand beaches described in the 10-year-old guidebook were also gone from the islands. The author, Nigel Calder, describes these islands as "mostly uninhabited", but in fact they have one house each on them, and are of a size where two houses would constitute dense development. As far as we are concerned, "mostly uninhabited" is like "slightly pregnant"; either you is or you ain't!)
Sleeping was difficult, between the "what-if" movies running in our heads, and the bounce and roll of the boat in the waves. But sometime in the middle of the night, the wind stopped, as though someone had turned off a switch. The boat settled down, and so did we. In the morning we awoke to a rare glassy calm and clear blue water. We were ok, the boat was ok, birds were singing, fish were swimming around and just begging to be caught. Hitting the reef had not been fun. But other than a few knocked-over coral heads, the only lasting effect (we hope) will be that we have it knocked into our heads to Nevermore Get In A Hurry.