Grande Caribe

The cruise began on Friday the 15th. I chose a cabin on the Forties mid-deck of MV Grand Caribe, despite our friend and captain Mike Snyder’s wish to put me in one of the best cabins on the deck above. I did not like the larger cabins because they overlooked the promenade, where a constant stream of people would pass, either diligently avoiding looking into my cabin or peering in expecting a friendly wave in reply. The alternative would be to keep my curtains closed day and night. Further, I thought the lower deck might be slightly more stable during the crossings between Belize and the Bay Islands.

My cabin had a double bed and limited open space, but a generous hanging locker and four-drawer chest. Settling in was easy. The rectangular window was almost as wide as the bed.

As on previous trips, passengers were friendly. As usual, they were fascinated to learn that I lived in Belize. The first questions, as always, were “How long have you lived here?” and then, in amazement, “How did you happen to come?”

Among the more interesting passengers were two nonagenarians. Mary Sue Cobey, 91, headed a party of thirteen that included her six children and their spouses. They all were delightful and mixed with the other passengers rather than staying in their own exclusive company. Mary Sue’s husband had been a university athletic director and she knew Pappy (Bucher’s step-father, Georgia Tech football coach William A. Alexander).

Fred Sturgis was 91, a tiny grasshopper of a man. His wife Betty was a large, smiling woman, semi-crippled by strokes and cancer. Their devotion was charming to see. In his teens, Fred sailed as a cadet on the round-the-world cruise of the square-rigger Joseph Conrad.

Joyce and Clark were our only Canadians. He was a retired journalist. They became special friends of mine.

Virginia, probably in her 70s, raised horses and ran a riding school. In April, she plans to take a small group of her best riders to Ireland for a riding holiday, as she has done annually for years. In her earlier days, Virginia bred and showed dogs, Beagles and Dalmatians. I loved talking to her or, rather, listening to her.

Marian was Virginia’s friend. They met ten years ago on an American Canadian Caribbean Line (ACCL) cruise. They live in different parts of the country and do not see each other throughout the year. However, every year since their meeting, they have taken another ACCL cruise together. Marian was my partner at the only bridge game I managed on the cruise.

 

Saturday the ship anchored briefly in the late afternoon at Man‑O’‑War Caye so passengers could see the great flock of Frigate Birds returning to the little mangrove island for the night. The island is home to numbers of Brown-Footed Boobies as well. They share a symbiotic relationship with the Frigates. The male Boobies fly off in the early morning searching for food. They return late in the afternoon to feed their mates and broods. The Frigate Birds, singly or by twos and threes, attack the returning Boobies, forcing them to drop some of their food. The Frigates feast. Obviously the Boobies are able to keep enough to feed their families, because their population flourishes. Vicki Sholer, the naturalist, said that the flock of Frigate Birds used to be much larger. However, since Honduran shrimp boats now operate in our seas, many of the birds have left to follow the shrimpers.

Saturday morning after dressing, I walked around the corner to the coffee buffet in the dining room. Julia Cobey, whose cabin was next to mine, was there. I told her that I thought next day I would slip out in my robe to get an early cup of coffee. Julia said she did the same thing earlier that morning and intended to continue doing so. We were so close to the coffee area that we were quite discrete going back and forth en déshabillé.

 

By Sunday the 17th, the winds were moving into the northern quadrant. Mike altered his itinerary slightly so passengers could swim in the shelter of islands. Early Monday morning, we proceeded to Punta Gorda in light, steady rain, and moored at the pier. Passengers trudged through mud in ponchos or with umbrellas to visit the town. Some returned elated to have found roomy shorts of multicolored Guatemalan fabric, which they wore with smiles as brilliant as their bottoms later in the cruise.

As soon as the ship was cleared by the authorities, the Captain sailed from Punta Gorda to take advantage of whatever moderate weather he could before a Norther hit. Even so, heavy swells left from the previous day had us rolling.

I played bridge with Joyce, Clark, and Marian for a couple of hours. We were too busy to notice the increasing motion of the vessel. By Happy Hour, the seas were much rougher. Walking became a perilous zigzag from one grab-point to the next. Once I skittered across the lounge in an impromptu Shuffle-Off-To-Buffalo, as friends stretched out hands ready to catch me if I fell. The cocktail crowd was noticeably thinned. Movement on that deck was markedly worse than on the dining-room deck below, where we had been playing bridge. It was a relief to be called to dinner and return to the lower deck.

More than half of the places set for passengers remained empty. Two or three people sat down, thought better of it, and left abruptly. The rest of us enjoyed Chef Jeff’s superb dinner of steak and stone crab claws. You may remember that I am violently allergic to stone crab. I was horrified to see one sprawling on my plate. The stewardess cheerfully returned to the galley for uncontaminated meat. My pristine steak, when it appeared, was worthy of Palo Alto’s Sundance, the restaurant where I take Carli and Tom for prime rib whenever I visit them. When a spectacular Black Forest cake appeared on the serving buffet, several passengers, including me, decided it was advisable to retire without dessert.

I returned to the safety of my cabin and did my nighttime chores resentfully, wishing I were horizontal. I did not feel sick, but I did not feel good. When finally I snuggled down in my comfortable double bed, the ship’s lurching, which had been tossing me from wall to wall, became a pleasant rocking motion that lulled me to sleep quickly.

Captain Snyder anchored for the night around ten o’clock in the lee of Utilla instead of proceeding to Roatán. He said the entrance through the reef there was wider and safer for the ship in heavy seas. I remember waking up to find the ship motionless in calm water and going back to sleep instantly.

 

I awoke Tuesday at 5:30 am when the ship departed the calm waters inside the reef at Utilla and returned to the open sea for the passage on to Roatán. While still rather rough, motion was moderate compared to that the day before. I stayed in bed enjoying the rocking and slept another hour or more.

Passengers who had vanished from sight Monday reappeared for breakfast, most of them hale and happy at the brilliant weather. The ship moored at Fantasy Island resort. Swimmers and snorkelers padded off down the beach for a morning’s activity. I took a taxi into Coxen Hole to do an errand for María.

My driver, Edgar, was a Honduran from the mainland who had lived on Roatán for eleven years and learned English. He was good company and an attentive driver. He left me at the main store, where I bought some fish-print material for Maria’s T‑shirt appliqués.

Edgar was waiting when I emerged. He took my packages, then led me to a nearby gift shop. When the clerk refused to accept my 20‑Lempira notes because they were too old and crumpled, Edgar assured me he would buy them from me. As it happened, he charged me less for the trip than Alex had led me to expect. I gave him the Lempiras as a tip, about us$6.00.

 

It was only a little after 11:00 when I returned to the ship, so I decided to go to the resort gift shop. It was a short walk, but I misunderstood the directions given me by one of the deck hands. I missed the boutique, but found the bar. My time was running short by then, so I decided to have a Salvavidas for old time’s sake. The Honduran beer was as good as I remembered. I enjoyed it while watching CNN on the bar TV. Nothing much had changed in the world since I opted out.

In the afternoon, the Captain called me to talk to the skipper of a 70‑foot yacht moored next to us. He was headed for Belize and wanted information. Mike and I had a pleasant half hour answering his questions about how to do this and where to get that.

I left the men talking and walked back to the boutique the right way. I found a gift for María, but the postage stamps promised for three o’clock would not arrive until five. The glitch felt rather homey.

Cruise Director Isa called for a Pirate’s Party that evening. Guests appeared for the cocktail hour with bandanas, eye patches, and jagged scars made of eyebrow pencil and lipstick. I wore the over-blouse with a great red macaw that María had made for me for the trip. With it, I wore my navy striped shirt and navy slacks, a red scarf headband, and navy-red-and-gold sash. It was the best I could manage. Several people laughed that my “parrot” had fallen off my shoulder.

 

I signed up for the Roatán tour the next day. Four van-loads of passengers proceeded to a nearby iguana farm. Dozens of the lizards, from babies to great crested orange grandpappys, crawled over and around each other in competition for the mass of leafy greens tossed to them. Other iguanas were in the trees. Two unwary passengers were christened from above in ways they would have preferred to avoid.

The tour took us through Coxen Hole, then on to ticky-tacky-touristy West End. We stopped for the obligatory gift-store visits, then went on to see the dolphin show at Anthony’s Key. Two of the mammals put on a delightful performance of leaps and dashes.

 

Thursday many of the passengers took Dramamine before dawn in anticipation of the roughness of our passage through the reef as we left Roatán for Utilla. The Captain advised passengers to remain in bed until we were back in open sea. I was awake and leaned on my windowsill to watch our departure. We rolled a bit for a short while, but once through the reef, the passage became fairly smooth. I felt safe whisking out to the nearby dining room in my robe to get my coffee before outfitting myself for the day.

Our Spanish cruise director, Isa, gave a short introduction to Utilla in her quaint English. She suggested that people might like to walk down to the left to the beach. “It is at the edge of the water, where beaches usually are.”

I went ashore to explore. I found myself walking with the Sheriff. He was a tall Garifuna, gracious in the old-fashioned Bay Island manner. I told him I was from Belize and that I considered us cousins of the Bay Islands. He beamed in delight.

The town was quaintly old British colonial and reminded me of early Belize…except that it was far cleaner. Everything was tidy, well painted, and immaculate. People were friendly. The Sheriff met me when I returned to the Grande Caribe. He was pleased by my impression of his town and assured me that I had been perfectly safe walking about alone. The alternative had not occurred to me.

 

Friday I happened to be standing by the forward rail of the top deck when the Captain was talking to his weather station. I heard him told to expect another Norther with high winds and rough seas before we reached Punta Gorda that night.

Mike departed Utilla three hours early to take advantage of light seas through the early part of the evening, hoping that by the time the storm hit, most of his passengers would be safely abed. Despite his forethought, the front came through just after dinner. Mike had called at my cabin to invite me aft to see the large Wahoo caught on the ship’s outriggers. I noticed flashes of light above the churning foam behind the vessel, but thought nothing of it.

I returned to the dining room to join seven other passengers in a silly little card game Isa proposed. As we began, thunder rolled. Great flashes of lightning flared almost on top of the ship, and torrents of rain poured down. The storm was short-lived. To everyone’s surprise, especially mine, I was the proud winner of the card game. One of the players offered to accompany me to the bank next day to deposit my fortune of $7.00.

By the time I had retired, the ship was rolling more sharply than it had done on our first passage. Mike later described it as the worst seas he ever had encountered. He said waves were as confused as if they had been whipped up by a giant eggbeater.

 

Daylight Saturday brought clear skies and a temperature of 65 degrees. Passengers appeared topside with their steaming coffee, then retreated to their cabins to get jackets.

We were anchored just off Punta Gorda. The ship moved in to moor at the pier so that officials could enter it into the country. Colorfully dressed Mopan Maya women crowded the pier, and children peered shyly through the windows as we finished breakfast. A brassy little local band greeted passengers when they went ashore.

After dinner, a slightly larger crowd gathered to play “Turn The Corner,” the ridiculous game at which I had won the previous night. To my relief, I was about the fourth player tossed out of the game. I did not want to win again.

Mike wandered by and showed us another mindless game, “Golf,” which involved almost the same percentage of luck versus skill —99% to 1%. We had a rousing game. I intended to sit out, but Mary Sue insisted she needed me to be her eyes because she had trouble seeing the cards. Several rum punches may have affected her already faulty vision. The cards smiled on our twosome. We won easily though, to Mary Sue’s voluble regret, no money was involved.

 

Sunday we awoke anchored just outside Placencia. Almost everyone went ashore. Alex warned me that Hurricane Iris had devastated the town last October. I almost decided against visiting the village. Alex had not exaggerated. Where little homes once crowded together, an occasional building remained standing. Where the beach had been lined by small resorts, only one was left. Where tall trees used to shade a picturesque fishing village, only the occasional palm remained. I fought tears.

Despite the devastation, villagers had begun rebuilding and repainting. Some works-in-progress were a jigsaw of salvaged lumber of dozens of sizes and colors. Those fisherfolk are a hearty lot.

 

As we left Placencia, I braved the wind to stand in my favorite post at the forward rail alongside the wheelhouse. Belize pilot Charles Westby was at the wheel as we proceeded to Laughing Bird Caye.

Despite the chilly wind, many passengers swam and snorkeled.

I was shocked at how little vegetation the hurricane had left. Vicki, our naturalist, said that already Government has planted 150 coconut palm trees, hoping to return the caye to its former picturesque state. They grow so quickly here that, by next year, the new palms should be well established and a few feet high.

 

At the Happy Hour, Chef Jeff surprised everyone with a beautifully roasted whole small pig, bearing a beer bottle instead of an apple in his mouth. He carved it up for bocas. The meat was the most tender, the sweetest I ever tasted.

We went up to the open top deck for the crab races. A green rope formed a large circle. The hermit crabs in their shells were placed in the middle. The crab that crawled its entire body and shell over the rope first won. Bets of $1.00 each were placed. I won $9.00 on the first race, betting on my lucky number, four. I thought I would share in the money from the second race when my Number Two crab appeared to topple over the rope at the same time as Number Five. However, the decision went to the latter.

After dinner the “gamblers” gathered for another round of Turn The Corner. This time it was an accidental Lady’s Night because the husbands decided to return to their books instead of play. Five of the Cobeys joined the group. Mary Sue, in her outspoken way, promptly named the other four of us the Non-Cobs. We were the first to be forced out of the game, to everyone’s amusement. The game continued among the five Cobeys. Finally, only the mother and her daughter Mary Pat were left. Mary Sue had won three times on the crab races. She did everything possible to try to throw the card game. Her daughters, as well as a gathering gallery of her sons, shouted her down. With the final draws, Mama lost honestly to Mary Pat, to her own delight.

 

For the final two cruises of the season, María had Mike’s permission to come aboard to sell her decorated T‑shirts when we moored back in Belize. María gave me her cell phone so I could call to let her know what time Mike planned to moor. I actually figured out how to use it.

Unfortunately, on Monday Mike reboarded his swimmers and departed Goff’s Caye earlier than he expected, so my message to María was incorrect. By the time she and Alex arrived, most of the passengers had left to shop ashore. María waited and sold a substantial number of T‑shirts to returning passengers. She made nearly us$600 on the two cruises.

Alex took my luggage and me home. We all returned at 5 o’clock for the final Captain’s Cocktail Party and Dinner.

I made a point of introducing Alex to Fred Sturgis. Fred told me later that Alex knew facts about his cruise long ago as a cadet on the square rigger Joseph Conrad that he himself had forgotten.

We all had a last visit with Mike at the Captain’s Table. It was painful for the three of us to say goodbye. Mike sailed straight into another Norther next day, returning to Key West for supplies, then on to the Bahamas to finish out the season.