I’ve been spending some time in the shortgrass prairie of southern Alberta around Lethbridge. It took a while to figure it out. At first I thought the prairie was flat and relatively featureless. It’s not featureless, it’s upside down!
Walk along through the grass and it won’t be long before the ground falls away before you. The tiniest creek here, given the immensity of time and the soft, deep clay beneath, will carve out a vast, twisting ravine, known here as a coulee. Standing on a pointed bluff, I peer down into a complex series of cuts and cliffs, slumps and slides. A thin ribbon of water snakes its way along the bottom.
When I gaze across to the equally flat prairie way over on the other side, I can see the mountain’s worth of earth that was removed and relocated by that tiny trickle. Somewhere way downstream all that dirt and clay is on its way, or has already been deposited in some vast delta on the shore of a lake, or maybe it went all the way to the Arctic Ocean. Meanwhile what is left behind are ranges of upside down hills, winding their way across this endless sea of grass.
Even the squirrels here live an upside down life. The branches they scurry along are not in the few trees, but are the tunnels they have carved in the ground. Some call them gophers, some call them prairie dogs. Both such creatures exist but what we see here everywhere that’s grassy are Richardson’s ground squirrels. They can be pretty shy but as you walk among their burrows you will hear their shrill whistle, letting all their neighbours know there’s danger above ground.
Mule deer are common and amazingly tame. This one has five points on his velvet antlers. He was browsing with two of his chums in a strip of park between a row of houses and a big shopping centre.
More to come soon from my daily walks. Cheers, Jack
I changed the name of my boat to Dragonfly. I liked Spindrift, but I got tired of having to explain the meaning. Everyone knows what a dragonfly is. I hope to convey an image of lightness and speed. So Dragonfly she is.
Last year I took her out for her second sea trial. The aim was to head NE, to get to the barrier reef, as the first stage of sailing her to Half Moon Caye at Lighthouse Reef. I had three days of light winds while I finished a few details. On the fourth day, I rolled her into the water. The wind picked up fresh from ENE, and she skipped along heading due N. No matter what I did, I could not get any easting out of her. Four hours we sailed N, essentially running up the Inner Channel between the mainland and the barrier reef, getting no closer to the reef.
About four o’clock the jib sheet unrolled off the spool so I couldn’t reef in the jib. Then a squall hit.
You can see a squall coming a long way off. You see it, and you hope it will pass to one side or the other, but it keeps getting darker, closer and bigger. A long line of dark, low cloud loomed in from the NE. As it approached, the breeze freshened. Then came the taste of rain in the air.
Suddenly it was upon me. Rain pelted me in the face as it hissed on the sea, flattening the chop to tiny rollers. The jib snapped and popped, as the sheet rattled the block. Too maritimey? The sail in front was flogged by the wind, its rope rattling the pulley it fed through on the deck of the boat. Anyway, it made quite a racket and I was concerned the wind might shred the sail.
The whole event was over in two minutes. Squalls are like that: short-tempered and soon calm again. During those two minutes I was blown about a mile closer to shore. So I turned around and tried to make the reef by heading SE.
Darkness settled in. I was heading closer to the reef, but now I couldn’t see it, and I couldn’t see any of the patch reefs that would be lurking in the shallow back-reef, waiting for me. So the only thing to do was to head back to Dangriga.
It’s a little unnerving, sailing in unfamiliar waters at night. I could see the lights of Dangriga well enough, and I was pretty sure there were no islands or shallows on my route, but there was an eerie glow to the right of my course. I tried to puzzle out what it might be. The faint, orangey-yellow glow reminded me of a kerosene lamp. Perhaps I was seeing the glow through the windows of a cabin on an unseen, nearby island? If it was, it was not far away.
The only way to judge distance is to watch and see if the angle changes over time. A nearby object will be seen to pass by. If it is far, the angle will remain more constant, like the moon following your car as you drive through the night.
It soon became apparent that this glow was far away indeed, and then it dawned on me what I was seeing. It was a wildfire, burning up a mile or more of savanna, several miles up the coast. It is a good thing I didn’t decide to go ashore, rather than return to Dangriga.
The mystery solved, this strange glow became a thing of awesome beauty, the natural cleansing of the tropical savanna, an annual event which gets no interference from man in Belize.
Eventually as the town came into clearer view, I could discern some recognisable features: the bright lights of the basketball court, the dark shimmer of Stann Creek, and finally the street light in front of the office. I had arrived. Exhausted and arse-sore, I stiffly stretched as the boat glided up to the beach.
Conclusion: I need to take out the too-small Hobiecat rudder I had used as a daggerboard (retractable keel) and install a bigger centerboard (a keel you slde down from above). But that will have to wait for next season.
Just a brief note about recent paddles. The winds have been blowing out of the S and SE lately, making for a bumpy ride and tricky launches and landings. So a tip of the hat to two brave couples, Bill and Elise, and Jerry and Vicki, who took up the challenge and paddled out with me this past week. They all showed an adventurous spirit we had fun bouncing around in a choppy sea. Good luck to you all, and I hope to see you again.
When we do a night snorkel, we always hope to find an octopus. There is no creature in the sea so interesting to watch. The way they move, their reactions to our presence, their amazing camouflage all make the octopus a favourite animal to find on a snorkel. Because they are largely nocturnal, if you want a good chance of seeing an octopus you have to snorkel after dark.
It’s just getting dark, about 6:30 pm. We gather at the dining hall, and, carrying our snorkel gear, dive lights and regular headlamps, we hike down to the path along the north side of the island. As the trail passes into the littoral forest, we are immersed in deep twilight. Some turn on their headlamps. We don’t use our dive lights, because as bright at as they are, they use up the rechargeable batteries too quickly to waste them above the water.
We get to a point on the trail where the canopy opens up and the trail passes close to the water’s edge. This is the beach where we will enter the water and head to a cluster of patch reefs called The Octopus’s Garden. Shedding our excess clothing and donning our gear, we wade into the shallow water for a quick briefing before we start our swim. As I help one guest with his equipment, another one quietly and calmly gets my attention.
“Jack,” he says. “Do I have a jellyfish on my leg?”
He turns to show me the back of his calf, as I shine my light on it. For a moment I am baffled. There is a strange blob hanging from his calf, half out of the water. Then I see, radiating from the blob, a number of long, fleshy tentacles, some showing rows of suckers. It is an octopus, and it is clinging to his leg like a child that has climbed too far up the trunk of a tree and is afraid to fall.
I remember reading recently, that although is has been known for a long time that the blue-ringed octopus from the Pacific Ocean has a deadly venom in its saliva, only recently was it discovered that all species of octopus are at least mildly venomous. And here was one octopus, probably very nervous, clinging to the leg of a guest, its parrot-like beak, armed with a saliva of unknown toxicity, at point-blank range to his unprotected calf.
My first thought was that we must not frighten the octopus, which also meant we must not frighten the man. If he were to panic, he may panic his hitch-hiker. So keep it calm, keep it light, I thought.
“Wow,” I cried. “It’s an octopus! Now don’t move, let’s take a picture. Do you have a camera?”
I wanted to keep the man calm by giving him something else to think of and to give the octopus the opportunity to decide to leave on his own. Someone handed me a camera.
“Now hold still,” I told him. I took a couple of pictures. Others did the same. The octopus stayed put. Everyone was excited about the octopus but not so much as to make the situation worse. The octopus calmly clung to the man’s leg, and showed no sign of wanting to escape the paparazzi flashing him. I was content that the octopus did not seem too stressed. He wasn’t flashing red or blanching, he just displayed a normal pattern of reddish brown blotches and smooth skin. But it was time he left with his dignity intact.
I asked the man to slow move toward shore. Perhaps if the octopus felt he was getting too far out of the water, he would slide down and swim off before he became stranded. It didn’t work. He continued to cling. So I asked the man to move in deeper. He did but still the tenacious cephalopod refused to budge. So I very slowly and gingerly touched the tips of his tentacles farthest up his leg.
Octopuses have very sensitive tentacles, especially at the tips. They have an acute sense of touch and are also chemosensitive, that is they smell what they touch with the tips of their slender appendages. Octopuses tentacles are also very vulnerable. An octopus caught in the open will curl up his tentacles at the approach of a fish, as even small wrasses love to bite off the tips and eat them.
At first the octopus ignored the intrusion of my fingers against the tips of his tentacles. So I pushed against them, trying to lift them off the leg without actually grabbing hold. I was trying to be as non-threatening as possible, knowing how suddenly he could bite, with unknown consequences.
At the insistent pressure of my fingertips, the octopus began to withdraw his tentacles, peeling them off the man’s leg, and flowed into the water. He was free.
We watched for a moment as the octopus spread himself out on the shallow bottom, with arms spread and stretched out straight. He lay there for a moment, then swam off. There was a collective murmur from the crowd as we acknowledged how rare an encounter we just shared with such an amazing animal. Then we waded out and began our night snorkel. We saw a variety of interesting creatures that night, but nothing as astonishing as that octopus.
This boat I have been working on for the last, oh, let’s say nine or ten years, in my spare time, while in Belize, has finally reached the point where I could put her in the water and see if she floats, or just keels over and goes down.
I built her myself, from my imagination about how a sailboat should work, but I had a lot of questions:
- How high will she sit in the water? This was a big one, as the first boat I built (Manadi) was so heavy by the time I put on the decking, the outrigger, mast and keel, that she sat so low in the water, I was constantly bailing her. Every little wave would slop a little water over the gunwales. I hauled her out and added a few inches to the freeboard, and that made a big difference.
- Are the outriggers or amas set to the right height? Manadi’s single ama could be adjusted up and down a bit, but Spindrift’s two amas are bolted on. They can be rotated up and out of the way but do not adjust vertically.
- This is the big one: is the keel adequate in size, and is it in the right location? The keel on Spindrift is an old Hobiecat rudder, salvaged on the beach at Half Moon Caye. It is not very wide, but it is deep. My main concern is that it is mounted too far forward.
How do I stop this stupid automatic formatting from inserting a new number every time I hit <enter>? There. Got it. Moving on.
Before I start showing pictures, I just have to warn you that, although she hasn’t been in the water since I paddled her from Belize City after the shipwrecking of Manadi, she has been through a few rainy seasons, had a bit of mud thrown at her, been filled with rainwater a couple of times, in short, she is a bit weatherbeaten.
Here she is on the beach in front of the Island Expeditions ops centre, ready to assemble, and with the amas installed.
Here she is with the main sail in place.
Note the curvature of the starboard-side ama. The amas are made from a wind-surfing board, and so they curve upward at the nose. I installed them facing backwards, as I didn’t want the leading edge to hit the water on an angle, causing undue stress. The leading edge is straight, but low, so it might dip into larger waves. Whether this is a problem we will see.
Now that she is ready to slide into the water, it is time for her first sea trial.
I have a pair of dock fenders, which make perfect rollers. They flatten out a little over the soft sand, and support the boat, rolling more like tank treads than wheels. If they were harder, they might allow sand to build up in front of them making forward motion difficult if not impossible.
The wind was light, from the East, coming straight onto the shore. I was ready.
The boat rolled over the beach and slid into the water. With a big push, I jumped into the cockpit, and picked up a paddle, moving away from the shore. As soon as I was far enough off shore, I pulled in the sheet, and the boat immediately started sailing on a SE course, moving steadily away from shore.
The waves slapped against the windward ama as she picked up speed. I could detect a bit of sideways drift, then remembered to lower the hinged keel. I still need to install a cable that will pull the keel down, so I had to reach over the side and, feeling under the hull, I found the slot the keel rests in. I managed to grab the tip of the keel and hauled her into a vertical position. Immediately the boat ceased sliding sideways and picked up more speed. She began to turn to windward, and I compensated by turning the tiller. With full rudder, she still was turning to windward, and began to stall. I looked back and the rudder was lying almost sideways on the water surface. The wooden transom that the rudder bracket was screwed onto had broken or come loose. This sea trial was over, a mere few hundred metres from shore. Oh well. I expected things might go wrong, as they had with Manadi.
I could not get her to head towards shore. If I hauled in the sheet to sail, the boat would turn into the wind, away from land. If I let out the sheet, I could get her to head towards shore, more or less, but I could only drift. So I picked up the paddle and brought her in the old-fashioned way. I was pleased to learn I could paddle her easily enough, This was another question that I had before I launched: could I comfortably reach the water with a paddle? The answer was yes.
Because the boat has a lot of aluminum, I cannot just leave her on shore or someone might steal her for the scrap value. So I moved down the beach a short distance until I was in front of Dave’s house. Dave is a good friend to Island Expeditions, the kind of guy who couldn’t do enough for you. He gave me permission to store the boat on his parking area right in front of his house.
With a bit of grunting and sweating, I managed to get Spindrift on the crushed stone driveway. I went to Sam’s to get some tools. I then came back and unscrewed the rudder bracket and the removed the wooden piece the bracket was screwed to. Then I took it all over to Sam’s to rebuild it.
It took most of the rest of the day, but I got a new rudder assembly built and and ready to re-install.
The rudder wasn’t the only issue. With the keel so close to the mast, the balance of forces between the sail, the keel and the rudder was way off. The keel and rudder should work together to counter-balance the sail. If the keel is too far aft, the boat will turn away from the wind. This is bad because if the sailor falls overboard, the boat will sail away downwind, leaving the sailor floating in the sea by himself.
If the keel is too far forward, the boat will do what it did: point towards the wind until it stalls. What you want is for the boat to want to turn upwind, but only slightly, so the rudder can correct this tendency. This way, if the sailor falls overboard, the boat will turn into the wind and stall, allowing the sailor to return to his boat. More generally, if you let go of the tiller, the boat turns to windward and stops sailing, so you can do what needs to be done without the boat sailing wildly downwind.
The next day was one of perfect tropical weather. Small cotton-ball clouds scudded slowly in a pale blue sky. An Easterly breeze stirred up a light chop in the green water.
I installed the rebuilt rudder assembly and got the sailing rig ready. This time I added a jib, hopefully to move the center of effort of the sailing rig forward and improve the balance of forces.
All through this project and the one before, I relied on my friend Sam to provide me with space, tools and his occasional help. I had promised him a ride, and wanted to make good on it. Sam doesn’t swim and hasn’t even been in a boat since he was a kid so he was pretty nervous, but he wanted to come for at least a short sail. So when the boat was ready, he came down to the beach. I got him a lifejacket and made sure it was properly fitted to him. He rolled up his jeans (grown men in Belize generally are not keen on wearing shorts, as this is seen as a sign of childhood) and he climbed aboard. I pushed off.
Despite her length, Spindrift is really built for one person. So Sam had to sit on the forward edge of the gunwales, facing backward. He was pretty nervous at first as the boat rolled a bit in the waves, but once we were sailing away, he gained confidence that she wouldn’t just tip over on us. Occasionally a set of larger waves would strike the windward ama and the hull. The boat rocked a bit but showed no sign of instability and he began to relax and have fun.
Dinsdale Sampson, friend, furniture maker and first-time sailor.
I had decided to try the keel again, but this time to lower it only halfway. Since it opened downwards like a pocket knife, I calculated that the halfway-down position would place its center of resistance farther back, and hopefully the smaller amount of exposed keel would be sufficient to reduce lateral drift, and its exposed end would be better located to balance the forces with the sails.
I never found out because the keel was inexplicably jammed in its trunk and would not be coaxed out. So we had to sail without it.
Since the forecast was for light Easterlies all day, I thought it might be fun to sail south, along the coast the nine miles to Hopkins. Hopkins was, not too long ago, a sleepy Garifuna fishing village, but in the last decade or so has become a popular tourist spot. Not too popular yet, it is mostly small family-owned restaurants, beach bars and hotels, scattered among the homes of retired ex-pats from North America and the UK. The beach is the main pedestrian road, and running parallel is a strip of seagrass a short distance from shore. People walk the beach and manatees travel along the seagrass bed.
There is a laid-back vibe here, where Garifuna is heard on the streets, and Rastafarians and hippies mingle with wealthier tourists, divers and fishermen. So I thought it might be fun to sail down to Hopkins, have a pint with the locals and tourists, and then sail back.
We were out maybe an hour when the weather changed. What had been a light E breeze suddenly shifted to the N, and grew in strength. A bank of cloud started to form to the south of us and began expanding in our direction. If we continued on our Southward course, we would have have to beat our way back to Dangriga against the wind in a boat without a keel. Not a good option, so we turned around and headed N again, back to Dangriga. We would run along a tack that pointed us parallel to shore, but we slowly drifted shoreward. When we got too close, we would change tack, and heading due E, we would get in a better position to sail farther N. We were not worried about anything. We would get there in due time. So a distance that took an hour to head south, took three and a half hours to get us home again. But get home we did, before dark, and put the boat away for the time being in Dave’s parking lot.
Now to figure out why the keel won’t come down.
In truth I had never seen so many birds. We were camped on a long sand spit near the mouth of the lagoon. As the tide raced in, it swept with it millions of small, shiny fish, a dark mass moving and pulsing in the clear water. Brown pelicans, terns and gulls wheeled and dived in their thousands on both sides of the spit, until the fading of the light as the sun sank over the desert to the west.
Estero Tastiota is a large, shallow lagoon studded with mangrove islands and backed to the N and NW by even larger shrimp farms. To the WNW, a long, nearly straight, continuous beach backed by scrubby dunes and flat, open desert, stretches all the way to Punta Baja. Here, at the mouth of the lagoon, the coast runs up against the Sierra El Aguaje, and takes a sharp turn to the SSE. Our goal is to follow this rugged and rocky coast to our take-out at La Manga Dos, just N of San Carlos.
I awoke at first light to the beating of wings. I emerged from my tent to see wave after wave of pelicans, gulls, terns and cormorants as they arose from the waters of the lagoon, passing low overhead on their way to the sea. The shoreline was lined with the bodies of tiny fish, no doubt killed by the plunging of beaks and bills into their tight schools the evening before. The sandy bottom was dotted with more corpses, which were keeping the blue crabs busy, scavenging the leftovers.
Beating wings, splashing dives and the raucous cackling of terns filled the air as the feeding frenzy continued. Everywhere you looked there were birds, soaring and wheeling in the sky, passing urgently overhead, diving in the sea, taking off to dive again. Our location on a spit of sand separating the coast from the lagoon put us in the middle of the action. Never since the Serengeti Plain have I seen the mesmerizing spectacle of so many animals in one place. You couldn’t stop watching it.
As the sun rose higher, the feeding activity began to fade. We made breakfast and packed up camp. Before we were to leave the lagoon, we paddled to a nearby island, to search the shallows for clams. As most of us squidged our toes in the mud, feeling for clams, two of our party, avid birders, explored among the islands and channels. They reported seeing a flock of roseate spoonbills, some white pelicans and a variety of herons and egrets. Once we had enough clams, about 160, we decided we had enough and headed out of the lagoon, and set our course along the rocky coast.
This past winter/spring I had some big chunks of free time, so I worked hard on my boat. Spindrift is the second outrigger canoe I have built in Belize. The first was called Manadi, the Carib word for manatee. It was made of a dugout canoe, and had a single outrigger and a single sail. Here is the finished product before I took her out and broke her in.
A lot of modifications were made after this picture was taken. The small mast and sail were removed: it was too complicated. The wooden rudder was replaced with one taken from the wreck of an old Hobie Cat. The new rudder would eventually become the keel for the Spindrift.
Manadi was an interesting boat. She sailed close to the wind, and with her full-length keel,she tracked such a straight line that once I got her on a heading, I could steer by making slight adjustments to the sail, without having to touch the rudder. She was, however, extremely difficult to turn.
The big problem with Manadi, though, was that she was so heavy. I needed a boat that I could pull up on the beach, above the high tide mark. And I needed to be able to drag her back down in the morning. This boat, being basically built from a big log, was, basically a big log. In the photo you can see what look like two roundish,white objects under the keel. Those are inflatable dock fenders, meant to be used as rollers, completely flattened by the weight of the boat.
I decided to change my project and build a new boat of fibreglass. This was the beginning of Spindrift. I started with the purchase of a fibreglass canoe from Bradley’s Boatyard in Belize City.
The founder of Bradley’s Boatyard, Mr. D. Bradley Sr. graciously allowed me to take his picture, sitting beside the canoe I purchased. Here is a better picture of the canoe.
The above boat is a three-person racing canoe, undoubtedly built for the Ruta Maya Canoe Race, Belize’s largest annual sporting event. The Bradleys build big boats, and they know how to build them strong. This 20 ft. (5.8m) canoe was built the same way. Too heavy for racing, but strong enough to take punishing waves, or a hard surf landing on a beach. Not so good for racing, but perfect for me. So I bought the boat.
Getting it to Dangriga was a challenge, one which I wrote about in another blog called The Voyage of the Manatee. If you just came back from reading the blog post I linked to, welcome back. At this point in my story, I have the new canoe in Dangriga, and I begin work on it at once.
The first stage was the decking. Everything was made of fibreglass, so I had to invent the moulds for each section as I went along.
Out of thin plywood I made the forms, then coated them in wax and laid out the glass over them. Once cured, the fibreglass pieces were trimmed to shape, and fixed in place with more fibreglass and resin.
The hardest part, psychologically, was cutting a hole in the bottom to accommodate the retractable keel or daggerboard. The keel is encased in a trunk, 3ft. (~1m) long, 1 ft. (~30cm) tall and an inch (~2.5cm) wide on the inside. This long, thin box was inserted into the hull from inside the boat. The keel can be rotated up into this trunk when landing or in shallow water, and then can be extended down into the water when under sail.
The boat was divided into three sections: the central cockpit, and storage compartments both fore and aft.
Bulkheads were built and installed, with hatches for access. I wanted no hatches on deck because I couldn’t be sure of building them watertight. If water were to leak into a compartment, I wouldn’t know until the boat was severely out of trim.
Note the curved upper surfaces of the bulkheads, to give the boat an arched deck. This will shed water and provide more space inside.
This view shows the forward bulkhead with hatch cover in place. I will be able to lock up my possessions when I go ashore. The foredeck is being installed and will be trimmed along the edges when the resin has cured.
The mid-deck is just sitting roughly in place. It has a big opening in the middle, surrounded by a coaming several inches high. This coaming is to shed any water that washes over the deck, before it can enter the cockpit. By itself the coaming is too fragile.
Here is another view of the mid-deck, after it has been attached with resin. It needs to be trimmed. The after-deck is about to be cemented in place. That is yours truly, fiddling with the fit.
A problem developed at this point. The mid-deck covers the forward part of the cockpit. In the middle is the daggerboard trunk. With all of this fibreglass, fixed in place, how can I access the foreward compartment? In the picture below you can see how deep the foreward bulkhead is located.
To solve this problem, as best I could, I had to install another hatch, on the mid-deck, near the foreward bulkhead.
Here is the view from under the deck. This hatch allows me to reach through from above and open the hatch on the bulkhead. From there I can stuff things into the compartment, and if they are tied to a string, they can be retrieved again. Not the best way, but unless I take a trained monkey with me, the whole forward compartment would otherwise be inaccessible.
The next step was to strengthen the coaming.
To strengthen the coaming, I installed gunwales of a local hardwood. I had to cut the wood into thin strips and laminate them together. Then I trimmed off the excess coaming.
Another view. You can see the access hatch, before the frame and cover are installed, as well as the mast step, before it was trimmed flush with the deck.
Inwale and outwale are installed and bolted in place, and the excess coaming has been trimmed flush. A little filling and some varnish are all that is needed at this point.
This is the access hatch. Barely visible in the dark is the hasp that locks the fore-hatch.
The decking is completed, the mast step is installed, and the rudder is in place. Now comes the next big phase, turning it into a trimaran.
There is a saying among nautical folk: two is one, one is none. After the loss of Manadi, I decided my next boat would have two outriggers. If one fails, it might be possible to get safely ashore using the remaining one. I experimented with a number of outrigger designs, and just as importantly, I wanted to be sure the cross-members that connect the outriggers to the main hull are strong and securely fastened.
You may have noticed that the canoe itself does not have gunwales. Instead, the hull is curved at its margins into a half-circle with a diameter of about 2 inches (5cm). I decided to bolt the cross-members to this section of the hull, so all forces will be transferred to the stronger hull, and no strain will be put on the relatively weak deck.
The cross-members are Schedule 40 aluminum poles: thick, strong and relatively light. They extend out from the hull and make a 90 degree turn. Here is a close-up of how they are attached to the boat’s hull. The view from above:
The view from below; the strain is distributed along a half-pipe of aluminum.
Once I got to this stage I decided to have a friend spray the hull with gel-coat, to protect the fibreglass and resin from UV damage, and make the boat look more finished.
Here is the boat ready for spraying. You can see the holes where the aluminum pipes pass through.
Here is Kerry spraying the boat. Note the gunwales have been removed for this step.
And here is the finished product. The boat was never going to look this good again.
Unfortunately, the gel-coat never properly cured, but remained sticky and picked up all kinds of dirt, and foreign debris. More on this later.
The last phase was my biggest challenge. What do I make the outriggers from, and how do I fasten them to the boat? I thought of all kinds of options, and finally settled on one which I could handle.
I talked one of the directors of Island Expeditions into giving me an old wind-surfer board they had lying around in storage. I then took it to the boat, and with the help of Sam, I cut it in half lengthwise.
I really owe it to Sam to pause here, and explain to you who Sam is, and how important – no – critical – he has been to my project. Dinsdale Sampson is a furniture maker who has a workshop in his yard in Dangriga. I met him the first time I came to Belize, and when I decided to do the Manadi project, I asked him to help me. I would need some space, and access to tools as well as his carpentry skills. If he would help me, I would make sure he was compensated for his time and knowledge. He was reluctant, as he had no boat-building experience, and did not want to be responsible if it all went to hell.
I reassured him that I would take full responsibility: just some crazy gringo with a dream. He agreed to help and we have been friends ever since. I misunderstood when he introduced himself, thinking his first name was Sampson, and so called him Sam. Everyone else calls him Dins, but he lets me call him Sam.
Sam has been patient, and tolerant and very helpful throughout my boat projects. I owe him a great debt of gratitude. When Spindrift gets in the water, Sam will be my first passenger. He has lived in Dangriga all of his life and has never been out to the cayes.
This is Sam, building some cabinets, while I work on my gunwales behind him.
Back to the boat. Here is the windsurfer board cut in half. I coated any exposed foam with epoxy paint in several layers.
To attach the new outriggers to the aluminum poles, I bought some 1″ x 1/4″ aluminum bar and got it cut into 18″ sections. These sections I bent and drilled to make brackets that hold the outriggers to the poles. Once fitted, the brackets were fastened to the outriggers with a strong adhesive sealant and bolted through.
Before fastening the brackets to the outriggers, I bolted them to the poles upside down. Then I slid the outriggers in place and marked them before drilling and gluing.
Once they were fastened on, then I swung them down into position. I could only work on one side of the boat, as there is a wall close by. When both are installed it will look the same on the other side.
That is basically it. I also got a deck cover made to keep out the rain and to use as a spraydeck while underway in rough weather. The only remaining tasks are to install a crank to raise and lower the keel, a few refinements on the tiller (steering arm), and to register the boat. Next winter, she goes in the water and I will go through the process of fixing what fails and improving what is less than ideal. I look forward to the challenge.
Well my season in Belize is all wrapped up. I didn’t do any reporting while I was there, hoping to snag some pictures from guests, but the time ran away and I am home again. It was a good season, overall. Here is the first of some highlights.
When the days of preying on the Spanish fleet, loaded with gold and silver pilfered from the natives of Central America were over, the Baymen of British Honduras, as they called themselves, were pressed for a way to make a living. There was one valuable item, easy to harvest. This was the logwood tree (Haematoxylum campechianum) Despite its name, this is a shrubby tree, with a twisted trunk, which grows along stream banks, in swamps and along the shores of lakes and ponds in southern Mexico and northern Central America. The sap of the logwood tree was used extensively for dyeing textiles. By altering its pH, the sap could be made to produce a variety of colours, from reddish-yellow to purple.
Since the logwood grew along the banks of rivers, and the only way to travel in Belize those days was by canoe, it was a simple matter to harvest it and float it to the mouth of the Belize River, where it could be loaded on ships and sent to England. This became the main industry in Belize from the 1670’s to the 1780’s.
Travelling up the Belize River, a party of Baymen headed up a tributary known as Black Creek. They discovered a long, narrow lake (in Belize lakes are called lagoons) which splits, leaving a large, central island. Unlike the surrounding terrain, the island was high and dry even during the rainy season when rising waters from the Belize River would reverse the flow of Black Creek and fill the lagoon and surrounding forest with floodwaters. On this island the Baymen established a logging camp, and named it after the tree they sought, the Crooked Tree.
Centuries later, Crooked Tree village is accessible by road most of the year, and is surrounded by a large protected area known as Crooked Tree Wildlife Sanctuary. Logwood ceased to be a valuable commodity when other, cheaper dyes were discovered. The main industry of the village now is cashew products. The fruit of the cashew tree produces a single seed, hanging from its underside. This fruit is also used to make jam and a notorious fermented beverage known as cashew wine. It is said the hangover from drinking too much of this wine is without parallel.
Other sources of income to the village include a little cattle ranching and tourism. The big attraction here for tourists is bird-watching. The lagoon goes through an annual cycle of flooding and drying. When it is in flood, wading birds inhabit the shores and swamps, and the lagoon hosts a large population of ducks, both tropical and migratory and neotropical cormorants, while snail kites, black hawks and black vultures hover and soar overhead. Ashore, one can spot flocks of parrots, and a variety of insect-eating birds, such as cattle egrets, vermilion flycatchers, tropical kingbirds and many others. But it is when the lagoon starts to shrink that things get interesting.
As the water-level falls, the swamps dry up and then the lagoon becomes a shallow, weedy network of channels. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of birds make use of the shrinking lagoon to gain access to the fish, snails, frogs and other inhabitants. Great flocks of egrets mix with white pelicans, roseate spoonbills, wood storks and the famous jabiru stork, a huge pterodactyl of a bird with a wingspan up to nine feet (nearly three metres).
We were staying at the Bird’s-Eye View Lodge on the shore of the lagoon. The dry season had progressed to the point where our guide Leonard wasn’t sure if the boat would have enough water for a pre-dawn birding tour. As it turned out, we got the last tour before they pulled up the boats for the remainder of the dry season.
We met in the early twilight for a cup of coffee or tea and quickly boarded the boat. Even before we got underway Leonard was pointing out a variety of birds, and we could see great gatherings farther down the lagoon. I won’t bore the reader with lists of species spotted, but this day we were lucky to see something very unusual.
The northern jacana is a small, chicken-like wading bird with huge, long toes, allowing it to walk on the floating vegetation as if it was walking on water. I’ll let you figure out this bird’s nickname…
The jacanas are a very pretty bird with black head and neck, rusty back and wings, with bright yellow bill, forehead and underwings. They have a comical walk as they place their toes on the weeds. The males make a nest and encourage a female to mate, which then lays a single egg. Then the female leaves to find a new mate and a new nest for her next egg. The chicks are speckled brown and are found with their father who raises and protects them as they search for food together.
As we squeezed down the narrow, shallow channel towards the big flocks ahead, Leonard drew our attention to a group of jacanas, three adults and three chicks. They were standing in a circle looking into the middle and chirping excitedly. In the centre of the circle, barely sticking out of the weeds, was a pair of nostrils. Occasionally a whole snout would emerge, revealing a pair of eyes. It became clear that we were looking at the submerged head of a boa constrictor (the only animal whose latin name is identical to its English common name).
The large snake had swum out in the dark and buried itself in the weeds, with only its eyes and nostrils emerging occasionally, ready to snap out and throw a few coils around a hapless egret or duck which waded too close. As long as the jacanas stuck around and warned the others, this snake would go hungry. Of course, jacanas have to eat too, and we knew they would soon fly off. After that, either the snake would eventually get its meal, or a jabiru stork would spot the snake, and the would-be predator, well, would be prey. Such is life in the Crooked Tree Lagoon and I was lucky to be there to see it.
This is a bit of a blast from the past, but to give my reader(s) a sense of what paddling the Sonoran Coast is like, I have a collection of photos, literally snapshots of my kayaking experience here. So to begin.
This is an earlier picture of my fleet of boats. On top is a 17′ Nipissing canoe (red), which I brought with me from Northern Ontario when I moved to Vancouver. Beside the canoe is a Greenland-style seal-hunting kayak (white), which I built in Vancouver with the help of an instructor.Super-light and nimble, she has a wooden frame and a ballistic nylon shell, painted with Hypalon, which is what coats high-quality rubber dinghies.
Below those, in two tiers of three, are my Seaward Southwinds tandem kayaks. These boats are heavy but they paddle well, and can carry a big load for long expeditions.
I have since added three single kayaks to my fleet. Pix to come.
This young couple is passing through a cave I call the elevator. Waves enter from both ends, and if you sit a moment in the middle you will ride up and down with each passing swell..
Winds are light, but with the sailing rig you get a little push, and a welcome rest from paddling. Who said kayaking has to be work?
It’s not hard to find the roosting sites of these beautiful birds. Watching them dive on a school of sardines is a spectacular sight.
The rugged coast is pocked with caves, some of which are large enough to enter and get out of the sun for a moment. Watch those rocks!
This is a group of great people who I was lucky to enjoy a ten-day expedition with. In this shot we have pulled ashore to make some lunch. The sails make a convenient patch of shade and we are eating ceviche made from fish we caught only moments before landing.
This scene isn’t much different from the previous one. I just love it. Here we are taking a lunch break along a section of the coast which is one long beach for miles.
Lizard says bye for now. More pix coming soon.
What is a nation but a group of people united by common principles and traditions? A nation as diverse as ours can easily be pulled apart into competing factions, and this does happen occasionally to some degree. This why our common principles and our traditions are so important, so much a part of what defines us as a people and as a nation.
War is and always will be a horrible thing, something to be avoided at nearly all costs. Loss of freedom to tyranny is one cost too great even to avoid war, and so, when war broke out in Europe early in the twentieth century, the people of Canada answered the call. Over 620,000 men and women signed up and the rest did all they could at home to support the war effort. Many never came back. Many came back broken, physically or mentally. All suffered loss in some way.
The nations of Europe swore peace and promised never to do it again. But they did, and again, the Canadian people again went to war. They went voluntarily, knowing the costs, still feeling the losses from the Great War of Europe.
My dad was one of them. Young, patriotic and eager he ran down to a recruitment office to sign up. He was a hearty fifteen-year-old, and lied about his age so they took his name. But his high school principal found out and marched down to the recruitment office and told the officer to take Harold Wilde’s name off the books.
So the eager young warrior went to a different recruiting office and signed up again. But this raised suspicions and he was called into a meeting with his Principal. His principal made an offer, to him and a group of other eager would-be recruits: that if they would wait a year, they could do an accelerated curriculum, graduate from high school a year early, and then they could sign up. And that is what they did.
Dad never talked about the war when I was a kid. I think it was partly because the scars were still too fresh, and partly because he did not want to glorify war to a young boy. The war had ended fifteen years before I was born but it still was a significant part of our lives and culture. To this day, despite our involvement in many other conflicts around the world, Canadians still call it “the war”.
Passchendale, The Somme, Vimy Ridge: the Great War defined us as a nation. The Second World War cemented that unity, and connected us with a community of nations. We have had our divisive moments, but we remain united in our basic principles of fairness, of kindness, of a duty to each other, to our nation, and to all of humanity. We need our traditions to remind us of the importance of that unity, and once a year we remember those who willingly sacrificed so much to ensure that our people remain free. We owe a debt of gratitude and remembrance to those who made their sacrifice, and those who continue to serve and sacrifice. And that debt will never, ever be paid in full.
Thank you CBC, for broadcasting the national Remembrance Day celebration on the internet. Thank you to all those who organised, who recorded,and who participated in all of the Remembrance Day celebrations across the entire Dominion. Thank you to those who continue to serve in various missions across the globe. And thank you to all who served and sacrificed so much so that we can enjoy our freedom. May this truly Canadian tradition continue to bring us together as one people for as long as Canada stands as a nation.