As the Central American isthmus winds its serpentine way southward, its spine is studded with towering mountains strung together like the tail of a slumbering dragon. There are a few notable exceptions to this topography-the Panama Canal takes advantage of a gap in the southern range-but for 1,000 miles this Cordillera serves as an imposing wall separating the Pacific and Caribbean climates. The most significant break in this barrier occurs between Costa Rica and Nicaragua, where the Caribbean lowlands stretch northwest across the continent to Lake Nicaragua. This basin serves as a natural funnel for easterly winds, which, gaining velocity, spill onto the Pacific in the Gulf they call Papagayo. You could search the world over for consistent gale-force winds and never find a better place.
The offshore gales are called Papagayos, after the Gulf, but we get our first dose over 100 miles south, on the Nicoya peninsula. On the run to Tamarindo conditions deteriorate from a steady morning breeze to howling gusts that blast Gypsy sideways and require dowsing her sails. By the time I reach Tamarindo, mid-afternoon, huge swells roll into the bay, cresting in massive waves with spray licking off in the wind like mare’s tails. Great surfing conditions (I confirmed this over the next several days), but an intimidating approach for the solo sailor.
The Gulf proper starts at Playa del Coco, and my departure from that fair pueblo will forever define the limits of “pleasure” cruising. The morning I leave for Santa Elena, 30 miles north, the sky is clear and the wind light from the north. I sail for a few hours through swarming schools of bonito, but by 8:30, when I call Hoptoad on the sideband radio, the wind has died and I motor through tranquil seas. “Careful how you go,” warns Sonny from their anchorage in the Bat Islands. “It’s blowing hard, and must be gusting over 40.” Gusting over 40? That’s 40 knots. I’m convinced he’s joking, or exaggerating, because I can’t believe conditions are that extreme just 12 miles ahead.
Sure enough, as I approach jagged mountains on the opposite shore the breeze returns and I raise my sails. Over the next hour, I reef one sail and then the next, trying to accommodate the intensifying gusts. But time and again Gypsy is tipped precariously on her beam and spun sideways, and eventually I douse the sails and stand gripping the helm-just trying to stay on course.
As I approach the islands, something breaches about a mile to port-exploding from the water in a plume of spray. Whale!? I scan the frothing whitecaps and again it erupts from the water. It is a manta ray-15 feet across-leaping and crashing in the sunlight. Now, jumping mantas are nothing unusual-I’ve seen them all along the Pacific coast (at Isla Caños, eight were leaping in unison like synchronized swimmers). But they were small mantas, two feet across, and nothing I witnessed has prepared me for this mega manta. I’m awed, but not alarmed. Hoptoad reported seeing a giant leaping manta on their approach to the Bat Islands, but I dismissed their account with the chronic wind exaggeration.
Now I believe-but I’m not sure anyone else will-so I change course in pursuit of photos. Alas, ye doubters, after 20 minutes chasing the manta I never got close enough for a picture. Like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster it will survive only as a dubious legend.
It’s a good thing I lose track of the manta, because the wind gets worse. Rounding the islands, we’re slammed by a gust that must top 50 knots. In the initial panic, with Gypsy is heeled over 30 degrees (without sails), I worry we’ll get swept onto the islands just to leeward. But I gain control of the helm, and we battle, tenuously, towards the anchorage near the mainland.
“Beautiful day!” I shout over the wind when I reach Hoptoad. “I think it’s coming down!” screams Sonny, though if this is abating I’m glad I missed the climax. “We’re thinking of running to Santa Elena.” Santa Elena is a protected bay-ten miles away but on the opposite side of the narrow peninsula we are clinging to. We’ll have to round Cape Santa Elena, where conditions will undoubtedly get worse before they get better. “Sounds good!” I try to stay positive.
It’s an easy mile downwind to the Cape, but rounding the point we confront the full brunt of wind, waves, and current converging from both sides of the peninsula. Hoptoad makes a gamely try, but goes nowhere in the nasty chop and turns back for the anchorage. With a little sail and the motor full bore, Gypsy plows onward-bucking the waves but making perceptible progress along the steep coast. White-knuckled, I hold the helm and manage to keep her more or less on course. When I eventually check the GPS, I discover that we are doing less than two knots. Confronted with another five hours of punishment, after already sailing six hours, I take a quick vote and unanimously decide to turn back and save the Cape for another day.
We regroup back at the anchorage-licking our wounds and swapping “biggest wave over the bow” stories. The Hoptoad crew is indignant. After five years circling the globe this is only the second time they’ve turned back due to weather. Though our anchors hold we are hardly protected. The boats shimmy and jerk in the wind like tethered animals, and actually heel over when the “bullets” blast down from the mountains. Neither boat has a working wind indicator, so we can only guess how hard it is actually blowing.
Bright and early the next morning we pick anchor and set out to conquer the Cape. The good news is that it isn’t blowing any harder. The bad news is that it’s still howling-a typical day in the Papagayo. We round the Cape and hold course, Gypsy easing ahead of Hoptoad, but both boats making headway. Conditions are the same as yesterday, and I resign myself to a five-hour workout-just standing upright and steering the boat. When we clear the Cape the gusts intensify, and I struggle repeatedly to keep Gypsy to windward. As we battle north, two sailboats round the next point, five miles ahead, and come careening towards us, running with the wind.
In less than an hour they blast by, sails flapping and spray flying. I pass within 50 yards of a trimaran, and wave at the crouching captain in solidarity.
When we reach the next point, three hours later, Gypsy is making less than one knot, caught in a cross-current. When I clear the current, I am overtaken by a squall, and hunker under the dodger as the rain pours down, reminding myself how lucky I am to live the good life. And it is true. As quickly as it came, the rain subsides. The sun comes out, and everything is crisp and washed clean-the water, the coast, with steep cliffs plummeting into the pounding waves, and the spray, illuminated like tiny crystals. I’ve made it through the worst of it, and we’re battered but not broken.
We clear the narrow passage into Bahia Santa Elena and enter a watery sanctuary, about two miles in diameter and ringed by lush rolling hills. Pelicans glide past in formation, parrots squawk from tidal mangroves, and schools of tiny baitfish burst from the glassy surface, pursued from below. I drop the anchor and take a deep breath. It has taken over five hours to travel ten miles. The following morning I commiserate on the radio with Ragtime, one of the boats we passed off the Cape. According to their wind indicator it was blowing 30 to 35 with gusts up to 50 knots.
I recuperate in Santa Elena for three days with Hoptoad-snorkeling, fishing and skurfing (towed on a surfboard behind their dinghy). Even in our protected anchorage the winds rage on, blasting over the hills and rattling the boats with unabated fury. Our next passage is 350 miles to Guatemala. Thankfully, the gale will be on our backs, making heavy-wind sailing far more comfortable.
On the morning of January 20 we make a run for it-firing from the mouth of Santa Elena like a watermelon seed. It’s blowing at least 25, but with Gypsy’s mizzen and yankee flying we charge across choppy seas on a broad reach. The wind holds through the afternoon, and when it eases I raise more sail to stay on pace. By dusk the seas are quiet and the breeze is steady-a quarter-moon appears in the star-studded sky. Gypsy carves a phosphorus trail and I catnap in the cockpit as we cruise 30 miles off the Nicaraguan coast.
At dawn, a pair of dolphins joins us, swimming at the bow. As the sun rises more joins us-four, then eight, then 12, then 20. They come and go, but there are at least a few of them with us all day. Just after sunrise I also start seeing turtles-big Olive Ridleys basking on the surface. In less than an hour I count 40. They duck their heads under water if we get close-“hiding,” though their domed shells still bob on the surface. I spot one dead ahead, and before I can run back to change course Gypsy plows right over him-a loud “clunk” as the shell strikes the hull.
Twenty-four hours from Costa Rica we have covered more than 150 miles-our fastest day yet. But by mid-morning the wind dwindles, and then a strong current sets in, and the next day is one of our slowest. Our third day the wind and current are favorable, and we reach Guatemala at dusk-once again foiling plans for a daylight arrival.
Puerto Quetzal is the only deep-water port on Guatemala’s Pacific coast, and it’s after midnight when I first see the bright lights of the terminal 12 miles ahead. I’ve got a detailed chart of the entry, but it’s a tight squeeze behind a breakwater and blind arrivals always spook me. I go below to turn on the radar, and when I climb back in the cockpit we pass a small fishing boat, no lights, close enough for me to call out “buenas noches!” I stay on deck the rest of the way in, my eyes glued on the water ahead. I line up the range markers and motor inside the breakwater without incident-past a grotesque electrical plant belching smoke into the night.
I have been in Guatemala ten days now. I left Gypsy anchored off the naval base in Quetzal, and I traveled by bus to the central highlands. Guate is like a colorful old blanket-faded and frayed at the edges, but warm and inviting nonetheless. The people are as friendly, generous, and hospitable as any I have met. The indigenous wear traditional traie, brightly colored and intricately woven, each pattern different according to the village they come from. For a poor country it is safe and relatively user friendly-I never feel threatened and never worry about my belongings, which are often strapped precariously to the roof of a bus.
The interior is lush and rugged, with Central America’s tallest volcanoes and most spectacular Mayan ruins. Travel is aboard “chicken buses,” old American school buses painted in garish colors and typically packed with families toting all their belongings (including the chickens). I spend a few days in Antigua, the former capital and Spanish-school Mecca with stunning neo-colonial architecture. Then I visit Lake Atitlan, with sparkling waters ringed by volcanoes. I sign up for a week of intensive Spanish lessons in the village of San Pedro, but resign after three excruciating hours with my untrained teacher. Then Xela, the second-largest city, and Fuentes Georgias, a natural hot springs nestled high in the mountains amid tiered farming villages.
And so, with the Papagayos behind us and my first extended excursion drawing to a close, it is time to confront the last daunting passage on the trip to California. From Guatemala we will run 400 miles across the Gulf of Tehuantepec, in southern Mexico-one of the most notorious crossings on the Pacific coast. My friends on Crocodile Rock lost their mast in the Tehuantepec, and many boats spend weeks waiting for a weather window to make it through. If Papagayo is the apprenticeship then Tehuantepec is the final exam. Wish me luck.
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February 1 - The Long Way
