Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
“Yessir, masser,” I complied, doing the weasel face and the foot tap, complete with forked
hand and half closed eyes. Before we knew it, we were under way, leaving sweet Taboga
behind in a halo of pregnant, white clouds and a bubbly tell-tale in our lively boat's wake.
“We were damned lucky with the boat not running aground and also the dinghy,” I said as
we looked ahead, drinking cups of sweet, hot tea from our fat-bottomed, non-tip mugs.
“Yes, that we were. We should regard that as a warning. Next time we won't be so lucky,”
replied Gavin, setting the fishing line out with a new, locally made lure skirt complete with
silver dolly and bright new, silver hook. He surveyed his handiwork then threw it and a coil
of one- hundred pound test line into the boat's wake. He picked up the wooden hosper and
paid out a few hundred feet, attaching the bungee shock cord to the line which immediately
took up the slack and stretched out with the drag of the line in the water.
“It's your turn to cook dinner tonight,” he said with weasel grin.
“Gaanders, well then you can have first watch; plus you can pour out the wine,” I replied,
returning the weasel face.
Once again, it was wonderful to give ourselves up to the exuberance of sailing a downwind
passage sparkling with sunshine, balmy, aromatic breezes, and not a care in the world. I set
the wind vane towards the Las Perlas Archipelago and finished my tea. We glanced back
every now and so often as the mainland and its influence slipped away, and the sea turned
deepwater purple.
And so it went for a few days, and then we were in the area where the Las Perlas Ar-
chipelago was meant to be, but there was no sign of any islands or reefs. There were no
birds or tell-tale signs of land about. My navigation wasn't always perfect, although the
weather had been good, and I could not blame this on any navigational errors.
There was a three-quarter, waning moon that evening rising like old honey out of the purple
horizon. There was a strange feeling with the boat's movement - an almost sluggish feel and
a hesitancy to stay on course. I began to feel nervous but told myself not to get spooked by
the pilot book's reference to this group of shallow reef-strewn islands and strong currents.
I looked about at the dark, swirling waters restlessly washing under our boat's keel. My
tired mind began to play tricks. Was that a slight bump that I felt? What was that white
patch of broken water over yonder; was it really a little wave that just broke? Could it not
be a sharp reef just below the surface? Gavin picked up on my nervous tension immedi-
ately; he had a low threshold of tolerance.
“I don't like this one little bit,” he said, looking about nervously. “I'm sure I can feel a cur-
rent pulling at us. I hardly see any progress in the boat's movement.”
