Punta Gorda

We had a peaceful night at anchor and by 10 a.m. we had hauled the ground tackle and got underway powered by the big headsail.  At first, the day was looking promising as the sun was peaking out of the clouds and a 10-knot breeze filled in putting us on a nice broad reach.  But my optimism soon faded as we cleared Tress Punta. With the wind came a steep, 4-foot chop making for an uncomfortable ride and to make maters worse, off to the northeast, a black cloud bank was charging down upon us. We only had 15 miles to go to Punt Gorda, Belize where we intended to clear in but it would prove to be anything but a pleasant Caribbean sail. 

The first of several rain and thunder squalls would strike shortly after clearing the point.  The rains came heavy with each squall striking with stiff winds from between 20 and 40 knots. We were thankful that the squalls usually only lasted from 10 to 30 minutes before quickly petering out.

The town of Punta Gorda was reported to be the best place to clear in as they had a long dock and all officialdom was contained in one building at the head of the dock on which you could tie your dink. We had also heard that corruption in the Customs and Immigration office was minimal. Here we would also have to check in with the parks service and pay a fee as well as we would have to visit health department nurse to answer a covid questionnaire.

The drawback with Punta Gorda was that the approach from seaward was fraught with shallows and reefs, it was an open roadstead so there was no protection from the open sea and the easterly squalls. That is how we arrived, during a nasty thunder squall with 2-meter waves lashing the shore and dock. It was noon and we were anxious to get to shore and clear in so with some trepidation, we anchored a hundred meters or so off the dock, next to another cruising boat, some friends from the Rio, then launched the dink.  

The boarding ladder was useless because when I mounted it on the side, the boat rolled so deeply that the rail almost disappeared underwater, the force of which dislodge the ladder. We had to just sit on the rail and time our jump into the dink.

If we weren’t already soaked to the skin from the rain, waterspouts shot up between Maiatla and the dink, showering us from beneath.  Thankfully the wind died before we hit shore so our landing on the dock we faired better.  On the dock we met the other cruisers who briefed us on the prosses, but they didn’t want to hang around for a chat because at the moment of our landing, the squall blew itself out and sea began to calm. They wanted to get back to their boat before the next squall hit.

As predicted our clearing in was quick and very painless and only cost me $380 US. $50, as I would later learn was an “unofficial” fee the health nurse charged me and I assume, pocketed.

By 2 p.m., we were officially cleared into Belize and since the sky was breaking blue, we took the opportunity to go into town to buy a chip for my phone so I could send an email to let everyone know that we arrived safely. That done, we found a restaurant for an early dinner, which would prove to be a mistake.

We were told in no uncertain terms that we were not to sail at night in Belize, and that we had to be anchored for the nigh at least 1 hour before sunset. After eating we made a beeline back to the customs dock. As we looked seaward, it became apparent that a new squall was about to strike. The rain began to pelt as we bolted towards the dink, As we ran, Jackie spotted a duty-free liqueur store so she just had to stop. Apparently it was my birthday and she wanted to buy a bottle of wine to celebrate. Who was I to argue?

Our trip back out to Maiatla was as wet and wild as our trip in, but getting back aboard Maiatla proved much more difficult. Between bouts of laughter and grunting, with a scraped knee on my part, we finally clambered back aboard.

The nearest protect anchorage was about 7 miles away at South Moho Cay, and of course it was all upwind. And again, our course would have us weaving through reefs and shallows where there was less that 15 feet of water. To see 70 feet of water would be infrequent but anxiety relieving. It was after 3 p.m. before we got underway and I was now regretting stopping to eat. We would be lucky to reach the anchorage before dark.

Our latest squall blew itself out before long and we managed to stay off the reefs but we lost all daylight about a half mile from the cay. It would be navigation by chart and radar to get us in. I chose the nearest spot, a tiny, mangrove encased bay on the south side of the uninhabited island. The only visible reference point came from a pair of masthead lights of boats, I presumed to be anchored on the far side of the island a couple of miles away.

At a crawl, Jackie drove as I stood on the bow ready to drop the hook. I knew instantly that we were inside as the water suddenly grew calm. The bottom came up fast to 40 feet. I called back to Jackie to let me know when we hit 30 feet, its there I would drop the hook. Moments late she gave the word and down went the anchor. I wanted to put out 3 to 1, so about 90 feet of chain but before that could happen Jackie yelled, “8 feet!”

  In the dusk, less than two boat lengths ahead, I could faintly make out the shadow that was a line of mangrove trees. “Reverse!” I yelled back. We would retrace out path and try again, but this time, 40 feet of water would have to do.

 Jackie and I were up at the crack of dawn which broke clear with the morning heat building quickly. We had a pleasant motor down the river while passing the other half dozen of so marinas which are mostly concealed by the jungle. After a few miles the river opens up into a small lake called, El Golfete. The lake is approximately 9 miles long and 2.7 miles at its widest surrounded by a dense jungle and thick mangroves. The jungle hides several villages but the channels give the villagers access to the lake which is the locals’ principal mode of transportation.

This morning there were several fishermen in dugout canoes casting nets and we even passed a couple of long canoes with outboards. The sleek craft was full of children with backpack full of books being ferried to the schools up river. What was also notable about this lake, for cruisers anyway, is the shallow depth which according to the chart, is 4 meters or less.  Or about 15 feet. To wander off towards the shore is to run the risk of getting stuck in the soft bottom mud.

The lake eventually narrows back into a river which winds its way through the jungle and a little further down it cuts through a deep gorge where cliffs tower over the boat and canting trees threaten to snag your rigging of unwary sailors.  There river was busy with commuter traffic moving in either directions, or again with fishermen.

There was not much wind so it was hot and steamy but not unbearably so.  The shoreline for the first mile was deserted but eventually some houses came into view, along with a few waterfront restaurants on piles. This is my second trip along the river and each time I vow to stop at one of these places, but like before, it will have to wait to my return trip.

 Due to the current and a lack of attention paid to the chart, we almost ran aground on a expansive sand bank. I just happened to glace at the depth sounder and was shocked to see that the water depth under the keel was reading 0 feet. In a near panic and before consulting the chart, I called to Jackie, who was on the helm, to turn hard to starboard. Maiatla heeled away from the turn and shot back out into deeper water.  It was fortunate that we had turned the correct way and not driven at full speed onto the bar.

Passing through the last of the gorge, the river widened up to reveal a shore lined with stilted homes and canteens and what looked like a boat yard. The Town of Livingston at the mouth of the Rio Dulce has a population of 18000 people and is noted for its unusual mix of Garífuna, Afro-Caribbean, Maya and Ladino people and culture. In recent decades Livingston has developed a large tourist industry. With a growing American expat community.

We anchored off the town and took the dink ashore to meet Raul, our agent who had processed our departure papers and who would collect the fine for our over staying our permit. All in all, it cost a little over $400 to gain the privilege of leaving the country. The streets are narrow, windy and steep in some parts of the town, but fortunately it was a short walk to our agents office. Next to Raul’s office is a cistern, a concrete tub of perhaps 30 feet square which is full of water and its here where many of the town folk come to do their laundry or as we witnessed, to bathe. 

We were told to come back in an hour and all would be done so we rented a Tuk-Tuk taxi to take us on a tour of the town. Jackie and I had lunch at a water front restaurant from where we could see Maiatla anchored out.

Whenever possible, I would check on the boat to make sure it had not been boarded.  It is reported that theft from boats is common here and many advise not to anchor out here at night, as its can be dangerous but we had little choice in the matter as the next high tide which would permit us from crossing the notorious sand bar was not till 1 pm the next day.

We would just have to take our chances and sleep with one eye open. With our clearance papers in hand, we were informed that we only had 24 hours to leave the country. But leaving was something we were anxious to do.