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| Seeeking Shelter at the Island of Death by Norm Coyer The trip was my idea. A year earlier a Sea of Cortez fishing guidebook lured me to the uncharted waters of Islas Encantadas - The Enchanted Isles. My father, another friend and I camped on the beach in full view of the islands that floated like mirages in a placid sea. We caught Leopard Grouper and Yellowtail around the rocks and reefs and cooked them over an open fire on the sandy beach. One of the islands was even more enchanted. The furthest out in the sea and the steepest, Pomo, or The Spire had hidden underwater caves that moaned with ghostly voices as the swells rose and fell. Out in the deep water to the east, what sounded like artillery fire we discovered later were breaching and spouting Blue Whales. The islands cast a spell over me. In the evenings the setting sun reflected off white guano covered sea mounts like alpenglow on snow covered northern peaks. The dreamy scene surrounded us in a world of red and orange. I wondered why no sailboats were there. Wonderful 15 to 18 knot breezes blew daily, and the sun sparkled off crystal waters teeming with fish. I longed to be free of the beach, to anchor among the islands and feel their changing moods in the early mornings and night, to find more hidden caves and to reach far out into the sea for a closer look at the whales. I vowed to return in a sailboat. I sold my fifteen foot day sailer and bought a twenty three foot sloop. Two of my friends, Steve and Mitch succumbed to my romantic descriptions of the Enchanted Isles. Dad had already seen the islands and wanted to catch more fish. We had spent a lifetime of adventure together - spelunking in limestone caves, trout fishing, diving coral reefs in the Florida Keys and canoeing in Acapulco Harbor. Mitch, a Family Nurse Practitioner and my medical care provider was a fisherman too, a white water rafter and hockey player. He was recently married and left behind a longing but trusting wife who eyed me suspiciously at our departure. My ski buddy, Steve and I had done several adventures - telemark skiing off mountains and exploring Canada's Inside Passage by sea kayak. My boat, Second Wind, a 1984 Hunter 23 with a six horse outboard was fast in moderate breezes but, as I would conclude later, too light for cruising in the harsh conditions of open water, especially when overloaded with four guys and two weeks provisions. I had read a dozen books about ocean voyages and sailing adventures and had sailed on the mountain lakes of Oregon's Cascades. But I was not prepared for what awaited us in the enchanted islands. After surviving the journey I believed that Encantadas meant haunted and possessed. The Encantadas Islands are volcanic seamounts, rising up from deep water. The only available chart was a 1927 datum, large scale, 1:639,400 showing the isles simply as a few little dots along the west shore of the Gulf of California in an otherwise unbroken expanse of open water. A few smaller specks near the islands were sharp pinnacles that dried at low tide and hid just below the surface. It was a harsh coastline - steep, rocky and barren. Few anchorage's afforded protection from wind and waves. But I didn't know that yet. On the beach at San Felipe we stepped the mast as a small group of locals gathered around to watch the tourists in their shiny boat. One sun browned gringo-turned-local approached closer. Apparently concerned for our safety he asked: "Ever sailed here before?" "Nope, but I've done a lot sailing" "Have you heard the weather report? There's a storm coming in" "Yeah, but we've only got ten days and we have to get back to work at home" "Well, I've lived and fished here for fourteen years, I've got a 26 foot Boston Whaler with twin 250's and sometimes I wish I had more. When the wind comes up, you don't want to be out there on the water, I don't care how big your boat is or how big the motor. The locals run big outboards too and sometimes ram their Pangas right up on the beach to get out of the wind. There just isn't any safe place to weather out a storm except on the beach. What size motor do you have?" "Six horse" He walked away shaking his head. His gentle words, that I thought nosy at the time, would come back to haunt me in the next few days. They settled into a safe harbor in my mind where I would draw on them many times over the next 12 years of my sailing education in becoming a prudent captain. But I was preoccupied at the time setting the rigging. I thought; weather be damned, because we were damn good sailors. We weren't afraid of wind…. wind was our friend. But I hadn't been to the Island of Death, and I had never been captain before. I had not felt the Los Elephantes, the elephant winds that locals said come every year in April. I didn't know that when big storms roll in from the Pacific, ten thousand foot mountains funnel and concentrate gales to double in intensity. Forty knots become hurricane force and when they touch down on the other side they shriek like demons through the isles of our destination. Like a herd of rampaging elephants they crush everything in their path. So we eagerly sailed towards Puertocitos, the "little port." All were cheerful as we laughed and joked and decided on our crew names. Dad would be Pappy. Mitch was Doc or Swabby. Steve was First Mate. I was left with being Captain. We dropped anchor in the little bay on a sandy bottom in fifteen feet of water within sight of the island chain. In a half hour the wind swung around to the south and brought sharp, bumpy white caps into our once protected anchorage. We spent the night rolling in our overloaded little boat. The masthead light arcing violently back and forth like a flashlight attached to the wagging tail of a happy puppy. In my quarter berth, and sleeping fitfully, I wondered if there was anything I didn't know about anchoring that would cause problems. This was the first time in my sailing experiences that I was exposed to such rough water at night. I wondered if the anchor would hold. The next morning, when Pappy and Swabby went ashore on a garbage run a local woman spoke her sympathy to them: "I could see your light rolling all night long, and oh…..I felt so sorry for you. Those poor, poor men, I thought; What are they doing out there on such a windy night. They must be so sick" We were a little queasy, but the trip and the storm hadn't started yet. When it came time to pull anchor, it wouldn't budge. After pulling and tugging in all directions I finally dove down in the murky water to free it. I only owned two anchors, light and lighter, and a little bit of chain. It was hopelessly hooked into some twisted scrap iron. Or was it a wreck? This was the first of many anchoring challenges of the trip that would cause anchoring techniques and choices of rode to take a high place on my list of priorities. Never again would I read a list of equipment with a boat for sale and question why there were so many anchors, such long rode and so much chain. There is never enough. We sailed south, with the wind and waves increasing. Steve and I took turns at the helm. We changed head sails and reefed the main as the breeze freshened to twenty knots and the wind chop to three feet on top of six foot swells. Mitch, the ship doctor stayed below and stoically tried to treat his own seasickness. Dad who was nearly seventy years old rested in the companionway. A former Navy sailor as a young man, he now watched my every move with one eye and the waves with the other. "You and Steve are the real sailors, we'll just stay out of your way", He said. We whooped and hollered as the waves got bigger: "We're really sailing now," as we charged over crests and skidded down the troughs. I could see Swabby's green face in the cabin below. We anchored on the southwest side of Islas San Luis. Mitch gratefully went ashore to fish and caught one Triggerfish….. the first, last and only of the trip. We hiked high up on the island flanks. There was a large fishing boat anchored close to us. I thought they were there for the night. Then suddenly they took the Pangas in tow, pulled anchor and motored to the other side of the island. I thought it was odd to move so late in the afternoon. Steve and I took the dinghy out to the north edge of the bay to fish. The water was calm. A few wispy Cirrus clouds streaked the hazy blue sky. I lazily laid back on the warm sunny side of the Zodiac and took in the idyllic scene: My beautiful little boat bobbing gently in the bay with the cactus studded slope of the isle behind. The smell of cooking fish drifting from the cabin. Frigate birds wheeling high in the sky over the island peaks. I had the camaraderie of my friends. I had realized the dream of returning to this magical, enchanted place. Life couldn't be better. The dinghy started rocking violently. I jumped up from my short nap to see Second Wind getting hammered by shore break waves. What the hell was going on? The wind lashed Steve with salt spray as he frantically pulled on the starter rope. Waves sloshed over the edge turning us into an inflatable bath tub. We fought our way back to the bucking sailboat, tied off to a cleat and jumped aboard. Dishes, gear and our fish dinner were crashing around the cabin. I gave the order to start the motor and pull anchor, fearing the shallow depth and not wanting to hear the sickening crunch of keel on rocks. As we fought our way out of the bay through the breakers my mind reeled. Where would be the best place to go? The other side of the island? In the lee? Of course, but what about that uncharted reef and sea stack in our path? We would never see it in those conditions and I heard two days ago from another local that somewhere to the south of us a shoal extended from the island to the mainland. The constantly shifting sand was not shown on the chart. The wind was now howling from the Northwest. It was almost dark. Pappy voiced my thoughts: "We'll have hell to pay if we stay here" All faces turned toward the Captain to give the orders for direction. "West by northwest, straight towards the mainland, keeping the wind on our starboard bow" I knew there was no protected harbor there, but it was the closest we could manage to the local practice of beaching their craft on the sand in a blow. Away from the island the waves decreased but our little motor still labored into the gale, towing the waterlogged dinghy. Soon it was dark and only the white breaking wave crests and the dark silhouette of the mainland mountains aided our navigation. In another hour I watched in horror as the depth gauge went from sixty to six. Steve noticed it first and I tried to calm him by saying it must be a mistake or confused by the churning sand in the water. At the same time the waves jumped up to twice their size. We had no choice but to turn to the south and run before them, the dinghy surfing their steep faces and trying to race past us. I was ready to cut the painter if it swamped. Then the moon came from behind a cloud and shone its spotlight on the horrifying scene, giving us even more to be afraid of. We were over the shoal and fast approaching a rocky lee shore straight ahead. I told my First Mate to come about into the waves and head northwest. The waves were coming from the north now. The motor growled in protest, the boat shuddered, the dinghy swung around and we slammed through the waves barely making headway. Luckily the beach was only half a mile away and we soon found a little protection from the shrieking gale. We anchored so close to the beach that we could have swam ashore. Both anchors were set off the bow in fifteen feet of water with ninety feet of rode. I had no idea what the tides would do that night and I didn't care. With the islands to the east, the shoal to the south and a curve in the beach protecting us from the north, I figured the tide could drop us right onto the sandy bottom and it would be better than getting hammered by the wind and waves in open water. I estimated the wind of at least fifty knots with higher gusts. A little huddle of buildings near the beach showed pale in the moonlight. I got on the radio and made a few desperate attempts to raise someone. All was quiet. All was dark. We were bone tired and hoped we would not have to move again that night. Downwind, menacing like an evil presence was the dark hulk of the point. Pappy suggested we keep an anchor watch for the rest of the night. He had already slept a little and was recently awakened by the rude sound of chain leaving the anchor locker. He said he would take the first watch and Mitch the second. Steve would take the final two hour watch which would put us into morning. I went below and spent the next six hours unable to sleep with the sound of shrieking rigging and the vision of jagged rocks not far away. The wind subsided just before dawn. Steve called me and I came on deck in the warm morning sun. My first thoughts were; "Thank God, it's over". Steve pointed to ugly dark clouds to the north - the ragged edges of the next wave of the storm. Dark red Cirrus clouds. Red sky at morning…. we all know the rest of that phrase. All of us in the cockpit now, bedraggled looking after two nights without good sleep, we needed to make another decision. Should we make the four-hour crossing back to San Luis and look for protection? Stay here and hope the wind didn't slam into us again? Make a run back to the north where we came from and try to get the boat back onto the trailer and out of this godforsaken place? After some discussion we reluctantly decided this would never be the relaxed fishing and sailing trip we all wanted. We needed rest and shelter from the devious and savage wind. Puertocitos was a long day of sailing away but we would try our best to make it. If we were lucky and could beat the storm there and if the wind stayed from the north we could find some protection in that little harbor. Under a reefed main, a working jib and a motor pushing us at full throttle we raced close hauled back to the north. At noon we were half way there when the howling gale closed the door. The sails were down because the wind was too erratic and gusty. Gauging our progress by watching the islands to our right I realized that the little outboard just didn't have the muscle to give us any more headway. Within minutes the wind had doubled from twenty to forty knots. To the right was Islas El Muerte. All eyes turned to me again to make the tough decision. I hesitated for a few moments - realizing the consequences of a bad choice. "Hard to starboard" I yelled out with attempted confidence, doubting if anyone believed it. "We'll tuck in behind that island." I didn't like the name…… but the tiny island was all we had. By the time we got there the sea surface was whipped into froth as far as the eye could see. One little calm spot remained on the southeast side. El Muerte is very steep, nothing more than a rocky mountain tip with jumbled boulders cascading to the waters edge. With our bow fifty feet from the rocks, the depth gauge still was blank at more than one hundred fifty feet. I tried in vain to set an anchor but the rope just hung straight down in the murky green water, the anchor not even near bottom. Steve suggested taking the anchors to the island in the dinghy. I realized captains don't always come up with the best ideas, just recognize them and agree when someone else suggests them. Whatever works is good in times of doubt. We placed our anchors ninety degrees apart in the shore rocks and adjusted the rode so we were in the middle of the calm. The dinghy on her painter off the stern rode the ragged edge of the calm, catching little gusts and holding us away from the island. We were safe for the moment. We didn't trust the wind and silently prayed it would stay from the northwest. We couldn't move again. There was no where else to go. We rested in our safe little prison for the rest of that day, that night, all the next day and the following night. As in the eye of a hurricane we watched hell unleash its anger on the waters around us. Later we learned that winds in excess of seventy knots were recorded in San Felipe. Many boats were lost. Resort guests on rental Hobie Cats were blown out to sea, unable to sail back. Local fishing boats made daring rescues. When we returned and drove down Main Street with boat safely in tow friends who had a sail charter business there ran into the street. They looked at us wide eyed - as if we had come back from the dead. Like the other missing boats, they thought us lost and asked us how we survived. When we said we were on the southeast of El Muerte they exclaimed incredulously: "That was the only safe place you could have been." On the radio we listened to repeated Mayday calls from fishing vessels followed by ominous silence. Steve and I sat in the cockpit playing our guitars and singing. Our songs turned to hymns and we sang them with more sincerity than anyone in a church building. Dolphins appeared in the waves as we played. Directly under the boat they came, cavorting around us for a few minutes - taking our minds away from our serious predicament. In the darkness I had nightmares of the anchors sliding off the rocks and into the unfathomable water, and of the boat silently drifting into the maelstrom while we slept. We would be knocked down and underwater before we even awoke. On the fifth morning the winds died. With an unspoken singularity of purpose, we all rushed to make ready the boat for the sail back to Puertocitos. The plan was to motor sail quickly back to Puertocitos, rather than all the way back to San Felipe. Two would stay with the boat and two would hitch a ride back to get the truck and trailer. We would haul out in the little port, saving another day of sailing north. Battle weary, constantly looking for signs of another surprise attack from the winds we pushed ourselves and the sails to near breaking point. The only mishap was when we sailed close to another steep island. We were on a broad reach, with the wind on our starboard quarter and the full main and genoa billowed out to port. Suddenly the wind came hard from port and caused a violent accidental jibe. Two terrified crewmen shot wondering looks up from the cabin below, as if I had done it on purpose - to try their already jangled nerves. I tightened the mainsheet and looked at the opposing wave pattern. I learned that wind bounces off steep rock walls and reverses direction. Anxiously we watched the northern horizon for signs of the harbor. I watched the time and estimated the distance. It would be very close. We might have just enough daylight. Several times the wind died and so did our speed under engine alone. Then the wind would pick up and our bow would surge forward again, creating the hiss of water along the hull that sailors love so well. Soon the horizon glowed reddish brown and the sky faded to light blue, then dark blue and almost black overhead. A few bright stars pierced through. Pelicans roosted on rocky bluffs. In the fading light we made our last turn to port into the safe refuge. All was calm but I set both anchors anyway. A gentle night breeze came up from the south and swung us around to view the islands again - the same view of five days ago. I saw them now in a different light. They no longer looked inviting and exotic. They looked evil. I slept like I was drugged. In the morning before waking I had the sense that something had changed. I was aware that the boat had remained in one position all night and then suddenly drifted on a different angle. It swung at anchor where before it was steady. I thought it must be another dream, another nightmare like the others. All must be safe for we were in a safe harbor. What could possibly go wrong? We discovered that only one anchor was holding. I pulled on the slack line, brought it all the way in to the bitter end and discovered……. The anchor was gone! There only remained the eye splice. Separated at the shackle! I had wondered about those shackles. What kept them from working loose? I didn't know. With all the books I read, all of the people I talked to and all that I had tried to learn in the past two years no one had told me that shackles needed to be secured with wire. During the recent sleepless nights, screaming wind, malicious waves and menacing rocks I never once checked the shackles. They held through five stormy nights only to fail in calm waters. Now my lost anchor was near the very spot I had saved it from only a few days ago. It was there to stay this time. Back home in Oregon I called the marine supply to place an order. I humbly asked the salesman what he would suggest to keep a shackle from coming apart. "Oh, you mean Monel seizing wire. You better wire your shackles before you use the anchors!" I thanked him and said that I would for sure. "And also send me a twenty two pound anchor with twenty feet of chain and two hundred feet of rope because I like to sleep at night." |