After more than a week of waking up, looking at each other, and saying, "Jeez, are we still in Roatan?" we finally escaped the "Hole In The Wall Vortex". Not that it was easy. The rodes to the two anchors we'd put down to stay put in the soft, squishy mud had wrapped around each other over and over as we'd swung around in the diurnal land-effect breeze, like a barber pole in chain and rope. When Britt went forward to untangle us by his usual method of opening the shackle on the secondary rode which connects the 50 feet of chain to the line, he discovered that the shackle had rusted so badly it could only be opened with a hacksaw. An hour later, our rodes were disentangled. But our timing had been thrown off, and we were hot and somewhat disgruntled, so we just lifted the secondary anchor (now with a new shackle), tested that the first had sunk far enough into the muck to hold us by itself, and stayed put another night. Damn vortex!
The cute little wind arrows on the weatherfax had finally swung around to the northeast, but in the process had shed most of their wind-strength-indicating barbs. We were looking at 5-10 knots for the foreseeable future (which is, according to NOAA, 72 hours). Not the best sailing weather, but perfect for hanging out in Belize's atolls, so we decided to make a break for it. Since Glover's Reef is only about 90 miles from Roatan, if we could find ten knots from the northeast we'd have a nice overnight sail. If not, well, that's why we carry 200 gallons of diesel.
As it turned out, we had a lovely sail...for the eight miles from Jonesville Bight to Coxen Hole. Bent and accelerated by land effect, the wind along the south shore of Roatan was around seven knots out of the northwest, enough for us to do 4-5 knots in the perfectly flat water. But as we approached the west end of the island, the wind dropped off to nearly nothing. ("1-2 knots, gusting to 3," we joked to each other.) The water took on an almost oily look as the minute surface ripples disappeared.
It seems a bit peculiar, unreal, almost otherworldly to be motoring slowly across a silken ocean. The ocean's not supposed to be this way. Windom cleaves the surface like a line drawn by a finger, the only rough spot on the smoothness. The phosphorescent specks in our tumbled wake glow and glimmer all night, with the just-past-full moon mostly obscured by clouds. I watch the most amazing sunrise I have ever seen in my life, a lavender sky and distant pink thunderheads reflected exactly in a watery mirror. I could easily be convinced I'm on another planet.
Our deliberately slow pace will put us near the entrance to the Glover's Reef atoll in another three hours, around 9 a.m. We'll hang out until we have enough sunlight to spot the path through the reefs, then anchor, swim, and catch up on our sleep. The weatherfaxes continue to tell us that the tradewinds across the Northwest Caribbean have gone on vacation. Maybe they're skiing in the Alps or something, but they sure aren't here. So we'll take advantage of this calm spell to enjoy these outer reefs, and when the easterlies finish whatever they're doing and come back here, we'll move on.