Multinational

We did it.  We made it to our third country by boat.  When we crossed into our first foreign country—Mexico—we did not expect to be there for over four years.  But Mexico took us in and gave us delicious food, lifelong friendships, and fantastic adventures.  It is hard to let go of something so good.  Still, last cruising season was our time to part ways with that great, diverse country and become multinational sailors.  And now, it’s time I caught you up. 

A Shaky Start

After our time off the boat and mostly in the United States from June 2024 through February 2025 for Rob’s cancer treatment, Mapache greeted us in pouring rain and high humidity with CO2 alarms blaring.  Rob worked quickly to hook up the boat’s house batteries to start the fans circulating the sticky air, but in his haste, he cross-wired the batteries, rendering them unusable.  

We splashed anyway and, unable to start the engine (despite the starter battery being isolated from the unusable house batteries), accepted a tow to our slip.  The marina’s panga dragged Mapache with a rope tied to Mapache’s forward cleat, then the panga driver tossed his end of the rope to us with the hope that our momentum would carry us safely into the slip.  It worked, and new batteries arrived via Mercado Libre (similar to Amazon) within the week.  

Cutting Our Mexican Dock Lines

Departing Mexico requires processes with immigration for ourselves, the navy port captain for our sailing plans, and customs for our boat.  Within Mexico, Sarah handled the port captain checks and documentation.  After checking into Mexico with ourselves and our boat, each major port within the country requires vessels to check in and out with them, providing proof of vessel ownership and of immigration and customs compliance.  For the country check-in and check-out, the named captain of each vessel must complete the processes in person.  So, Rob, being Mapache’s documented captain, spent an entire day learning Sarah’s document organization system and traveling to the Tapachula Immigration Office, the Puerto Madero Port Captain’s Office, and the Mexican customs office at the Guatemalan border.  

The following day, the Mexican Navy finished our country check-out, boarding and searching our boat with a drug dog and approving our departure paperwork.  Within moments of the navy official’s signature and stamp, the marina staff untied our dock lines per the mandatory immediate departure protocol.  The band-aid was ripped off with the dock lines, and we said adios to our beloved Mexico, turning to our first voyage in 10 months—a three-day passage through an area known for abundant lightning and testy seas. 

Remembering that Passages are Never Routine

We had the good timing of departing Mexico with four other boats, one of which we have been cruising with since we met them in the Sea of Cortés in 2021.  The sight of other sails in the otherwise vast ocean-nothingness brought comfort, and the persistent group text chatter among the sailors passed the hours for whoever was on watch.  We fell back into our overnight passage rhythm, sharing the cockpit during the day, and splitting the night watch with Rob on after dinner through midnight, Sarah on midnight through sunrise, and Rob back on for the morning.   

During the passage, we encountered long lines, requiring us to blow (release) our sails and hold our breath as we drifted over them.  Luckily, the boat keel and prop did not catch any.  But real problems on passages always come at night.  Our second night brought back our elusive electrical ghost, shutting down all the electrical systems, including our lights, navigation systems, and autopilot.  It was a moonless night, and Sarah peered into the black, steering by compass and cloud-filtered starlight, while Rob worked to install a cable bypassing the battery on-off switch.  The rigged system, although not to electrical safety code, worked.  We would install a new switch in six weeks from Costa Rica, after Rob was able to fly to the United States for work and to fetch the part. 

Welcome to Honduras

After two nights, we safely dropped anchor in Golfo de Fonseca.  The gulf is bordered by three central American countries—El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua.  We chose to anchor off the island of El Tigre, which is part of Honduras.   

Soon after setting the anchor, a panga carrying the El Tigre Port Captain motored alongside of us.  The Captain called out, ordering that we immediately come to shore to complete the official check-in process for Honduras.  Intimidated, exhausted, and un-showered, we threw on button-up shirts in an attempt to appear respectful even though we did not smell it.  We dropped our dinghy, mounted the outboard to it, and motored to the cement steps leading out of the ocean to the port captain’s office. 

Once we stepped into the air-conditioned office, the atmosphere changed, and not just the humidity and temperature.  The Port Captain was all smiles, welcoming us to his country.  His Spanish was clear, which we found common in Honduras, and we communicated well.  Still, the Captain insisted on calling his English-speaking brother, who lived in town.  His brother, introduced as “Benny, like Benny and the Jets,” soon arrived and, similar to the Port Captain, he was a gregarious man.  We carried on for almost an hour in the office, talking about El Tigre, Honduras, and our welcoming committee’s lives.  

We left with the personal phone numbers of the Captain and of Benny with the instruction to call if we needed anything at all.  We finished our immigration process in the office next door, also with friendly officials, and made it back to the boat with time to shower before venturing into the small island town of Amapala for dinner. 

Island Life

With a circumference of approximately 10 miles and most of the land dominated by a volcano, El Tigre is not big, which meant we stuck out as we strolled the cobbled streets, taking in the historic buildings and small-town vibes.  We wandered into a corner store that functioned mostly as a second-hand clothing shop with a few convenience products, including cold beers.  We sat at the bench tables amongst baseball hats and t-shirts, drinking beers from an ice chest and speaking broken Spanish to the shop owners over the loud music on the shop’s standalone speaker.  

The shop owners directed us to a pupusa restaurant for dinner.  There, we sat at a table in the center of a street, ate made-to-order pupusas, and shared scraps with a couple of street dogs.  When I asked the chef about some mangos that she was enjoying, she insisted I collect some of the hundreds fallen from the tree behind her restaurant.  

The next day, we followed loose directions to a family’s house that functioned as a restaurant in its front room.  The menu was whatever they were cooking that day, and everyone in our group of sailors enjoyed hearty stews with chunks of yucca and plantain or plates with salad, rice, and meat.  Our hosts graciously made me a vegetarian plate, replacing the meat with grilled slices of firm cheese.  

Another day, a spindly, 83-year-old man, quickly shuffled our way over the cobble stones, using a tall stick as a cane and hastily waving his free hand.  Bob Kennedy introduced himself as the local historian.  A retired school teacher and native resident, he had vast knowledge of El Tigre’s story, which, due to its vantage in the protected gulf, includes interludes with pirates like Sir Francis Drake, El Salvador’s attempts at annexation, German immigrants, Albert Einstein, Nicaraguan rebels, and the United States military.  

Bob is unusual on the island in that he has traveled around the world.  In his youth, he accepted a crew position on one of the shipping vessels that stopped at the island when it was a major port to Central America.  Bob saw the world from that ship, and he reminisced about his travels to us.  

Eager to share his experiences and knowledge, Bob offered to take us on a tour around the island, which we gladly accepted.  After a long dissertation on the major historic events, three of us along with Bob and the driver, piled into a three-wheel tuk tuk and set off around the island.  We visited a plantation-style property with fruit trees, a former school, and a beautiful gulf view.  We stopped at Bob’s favorite beach, which he insisted on walking the length of with us, despite the uneven ground and extreme heat.  When we offered water on the walk, he declined. Later on the tour, when we offered a beer at his favorite beach palapa restaurant, he jumped to accept.  

Privilege to Travel

The next day, we went ashore for a walk to find Bob and his tuk-tuk-driving friend patiently waiting for us on the beach.  We invited them for a coffee and broke the news that we were moving on.  They asked us when we would return, desperate for continued interaction with those beyond their community.  I still receive text messages from the tuk tuk driver (Bob does not own a cellphone). 

Before departing the gulf, we took a couple of days to visit another larger town of Honduras on its mainland.  To do that, we had to gain the permission of our port captain and his colleague in San Lorenzo.  True to his word of offering help with anything, the Captain obtained the correct official permissions, and we and our friends navigated our two sailboats through mangroves and up an estuary, anchoring off the city of San Lorenzo.  We spent two days walking the streets of a more bustling city.  

We departed Honduras wearing our 504 shirts (Honduras’s country phone code) and a sense of having attained what so many of the sailing novels had promised—genuine experiences in pockets of the world that others rarely visit or leave.  

We recognize, with a sense of melancholy and of duty, that what we call “freedom to travel” and hold as a civil right is really a privilege that many do not possess.