Gualby Nation : Vivarillos, Honduras

We stayed in Vivarillos for three days, resting, rejuvinating our sore bodies, patching up broke shit, and again, waiting on weather.
Since we broke our computer we rely on our weather man from the states, Joe Bob, communicating via satellite phone for our weather reports. Conor's dad looks up all the weather he can for our area, we call, and write it down. It's a pretty sophisticated system we have. I find it much more enjoyable than downloading grib files as I always get a "love you guys, stay safe, talk to you soon."

On July 10, with the weather forecast looking promising even though the skies didn't, we pull anchor at 5:30pm in route to the island of Providencia, Columbia, approximately 180miles SE of us. The winds are 15 knots out of the east and there are storm clouds and lightening in the distance. Conor and I both feel apprehensive leaving when there are visual storm clouds in the distance but the wind is projected to be out of the NE for the next two days, which will give us a nicer ride to get to Providencia. We are hoping we are not making a rookie mistake, listening to the weather instead of our eyes and gut instincts but we are hoping the forecast is correct and the winds will help us towards our destination instead of fight us.

Three hours later while Conor and I are both at the helm taking in the dark and turbulent skies and bolts of lightening surrounding us, we hit our first real squall. The wind increases and it is cold, it feels angry, like it's telling us we were fools to leave while mother nature was brewing this weather. The heavy rain hits so we can't see anything, which isn't that big of a deal because the GPS keeps flickering itself off so we don't have anything to look at besides the compass anyway. After about thirty minutes, keeping to true squall definition, the storm passes and we can see again. We evaluate our situation and the boat is fine and we are fine, drenched, but fine. As we look around and see that the boat can completely handle that weather, and now apparently so can we, I am secretly glad (just a little bit) I have experienced a squall on my boat. I don't dare tell Conor this but I can't be a true sailor only sailing in great weather, right? Man, I wish I would have known what the rest of the trip had in store for us. I would have shut my mouth about being happy to experience bad weather.

Through out the night we have the genoa reefed and the main double reefed. We both take turns trying to sleep but with rarely any luck. The seas are rough and confused making the boat jump around uncomfortably. The wind stays at around 20 knots and the seas are 4-6 feet and all over the place. Through out the night we battle squall after squall, getting the other person up who is resting (not sleeping) on the settee for help. At 4:30am a big storm hits. Conor and I are both up, neither one of us with any sleep in us, readying ourselves for the menacing storm that is fast approaching our little sailboat. The main is double reefed and the genoa is reefed to 1/3 of its size when the wind line hits us. The seas are 6 feet or more and there are white caps and crashing waves everywhere. Pelting rain begins to scream from the sky and visibility is near zero. The wind is at least 40 knots. The pressure on the rigging and the sails is scary. I can feel and hear the energy run through the rigging and right down my spine. I am not going to pretend anything, I was scared. We turned to run with the storm to help relieve some of the pressure on the boat and still hit 11.5knots. Conor and I are harnessed into the cockpit and the poor, bewildered dogs are tied on short leashes Penny feels as if she is one of the crew and needs to stay at the helm during all the action. Bubby buries himself down in the hull and hunkers down during the storm. By 6:00am the storm's intensity has lessened and and we are able to reach the crew of Salty Dog on the VHF. They report they are fine but thier jib is "shredded and useless." I go down below and call our weather man to see if there is some good news for us. Joe reports that the weather will be deteriorating further and we are looking at 25knots of wind and seas building to 12 feet for the next 24 hours. Oh, and the wind is NOT out of the NE. Conor and I talk about what conditions lay ahead of us, weighing the fact that we are skirting reefs to the west of us and each storm line that hits will push us further west.  We also want to stay with the Salty Dog, and they are in serious need of regrouping since they lost their genoa. Since we have a spare genoa and the conditions sound like they'll get worse, both boats decide to head for a small reef structure that is about 11.5miles northeast of our current location to wait out the projected weather. The reef is Media Luna.  We have heard of other sailors stopping at this small patch of reef shaped in a semi circle so hopefully it will give us some protection from the seas and wind, a chance to regroup and make some repairs, and give us a chance to get some sleep.

As soon as we decide to change course for Media Luna the wind increases and the seas start to build, as if they heard the weather forecast and are determined to make it true. We try to tack our way to our protected little reef but it is very difficult to tack into the building wind and seas. We sail due north for about one mile but can barely get the boat to make any head way east. Storms are still rolling in and the seas are continuing to build. We decide that our motors are the only option for us to get to Media Luna. We put both of our little 15hp engines full throttle and head east, dead into the 25knots of wind and 8-10foot seas. Another big storm hits. There is at least 40 knots of wind, heavy rain, and no visibility for about 20-30 minutes. The brand spanking new, WATERPROOF Garmin GPS is continuing to turn itself off. I can get it to turn on after about 7 attempts pushing the power button, but only on the night vision lighting mode. I put a shirt over my head and shout to Conor how much longer we have to go and how fast we are going, which is a heart breaking 0.5 to occasionally 2 knots. The rest of the time we navigate by compass and curse technology. Using the compass is not bad, in fact we do it often, it's easier at night. The thing we miss about the GPS and the chip in it is that it tells us where all the reefs exist just below the frothy ocean that lays in front of us. We truck along at a snails pace, hoping our motors can hold out til we make it to Media Luna. We are making slow progress and the engines are getting drenched by the seas but the little engines that could are holding out for us for now.  As the outboards use every ounce of their 15 horses to drive the Gualby up over the frothing mounds of water, the fore crossbeam slices off the top portion of every wave. The progress is agonizingly slow, we are not sure how long the motors will last cavitating the way they are, as they come out of the water at every peak. Our guts wrench every time we hear the high pitched whir of the props, wondering if this is going to be the one that melts the water impeller. Then we do the math and wonder how much longer our fuel will last. At any one time we only have an estimate of how much fuel is in the tank and we have never used the engines in conditions like this so we are not sure about consumption. We figured that running the engines like this at max throttle with frequent cavitation and 10 gallons of fuel we only have about 6 hours before the motors start coughing. We are getting really nervous and start thinking about plan b. If we can't make it to Media Luna, we are going to have to turn and sail straight into this weather for the next 24 hours, because getting to Providencia is our only other option. We are shivering next to each other at the helm, Penny is sitting at our feet shivering, soaking wet just staring up at us, hoping we know what the hell we are doing. The rain at times is nearly horizontal and blinding, so that we wear our sunglasses just so we can keep our eyes open. At one point the damn code zero sheet pops off the cleat and unfurls completely. Meg takes the wheel and holds the boat forward while I run up and just drop the halyard and let the whole sail fall, stuffing it inside the boat as quickly as possible. (In hindsight we should have taken that sail down already, but remember we didn't know the weather was going to be like this.) When individual squall lines blow in, the boat comes to a standstill, and at time feels like we are starting to slide backwards down the steepest waves. We are both just chanting "come on Gualby, you can make it, you can do it, come on baby, you got this." In between Gualby chants Conor is cussing at the top of his lungs, sending clouds of voodoo curses at every squall line that smacks us.

          Four and a half hours later, at 12:45 we spot Salty Dog anchored behind Media Luna reef. We pull to their starboard and drop anchor, exhausted. The boat is a mess, everything is soaked. Conor and I and Pen Dog (Bubby is warm and dry inside) are cold, wet and incredibly thankful we made it there. Conor and I wave to Salty Dog and as Conor talks on the radio and agrees on how brutal this trip has been and that, yes, the last 11 miles were the shittest of the whole trip, I make Con and I grilled cheese sandwiches and hot tomato soup. We shared a bottle of champagne, cheersing to our safety and to each other, and then we promptly fell asleep until the next day.

Throughout all the storms our boat had slowly started, well, leaking like a sieve. We had planned on taking the windows off the dome and resealing them at some point, and that project is now at the top of the list as soon as we get somewhere safe (most likely Panama.) The wind and the twisting of the structure of the boat had caused the small leaks we had in a few places to become full on gushing, put the pots under the windows, water streaming into the inside of the boat, and then leaking down into all sorts of other, univited places.  So after my dead to the world sleep for a day and a half I dragged the cushions and our assortment of drenched clothing outside to dry some integrity back into them. Con troubleshot the GPS that will still not stay on and gave the battled engines a fresh water rinse off. Conor put me up the mast to inspect our rigging for any signs of damage. Everything looks good. I wouldn't say we felt refreshed but we felt ready to brave the open ocean again.