A quote from a popular guidebook on Belize in a section on “THE WEATHER …”

   “The ‘mauger’ season generally comes in August, when the air is still and the sea is calm; it can last for a week or more.  All activity halts while locals stay indoors as much as possible to avoid the onslaught of ferocious mosquitoes and other insects.”    

n       _Belize Handbook, 3^rd Ed._, Chicki Mallan, Moon Publications, 1995.

PREPARATIONS

  Belizeans generally aren’t too good at planning, but Lester (our moneychanger) goes into serious planning mode.  He schedules a trip to Ambergris Caye for Mon-Tues, Aug. 16-17, because his son, who lives in Gardena, CA, will be here for his annual fishing trip.  Lester gives us some meager instructions.  “I will bring everything we need. You should bring a hamaca to sleep in. Leave your house at five in the morning.  We will be there in two hours – if we leave at six, we will be fishing by eight.”

  We line up Ed to go along.  Our part of the trip will cost 250 dallah, which includes everything except drinks.  Our destination is...

  BACALAR CHICO, a noted Belizean marine reserve.   Everything is restricted to very specific areas, and some things are prohibited.  Fishing, especially diving for lobster, is very restricted. Actually, we discover, it is restricted to friends and relatives of the fishery wardens, one of which is married to Lester’s niece. <grin>  The brother of this relative, “Captain George,” is our boatman.  

THE TRIP

  After five days of glassy calm, (the above mentioned “mauger”) Monday features a 20 knot breeze  and the Bay is very choppy.  Our bill of lading is Rick, Charlotte, Ed, Lester, his son George and his wife Rose, and Nehru, Lester’s 12-year-old grandson (one of many) days worth of supplies including several big coolers of ice.  The boat, a 28-foot Mexican Skiff, is really loaded. We take a four-hour ride across the bay, past Sarteneja, to Bacalar Chico. It is not as bone-jarring as our first trip to Sartineja, but we are soaked to the skin by the spray. We don’t know it yet but we will never really dry out. 

  Bacalar Chico is a channel, originally (reputedly) dug by the Mayans in ca. 200 BC to connect Chetumal Bay with the Caribbean.  It marks the boundary between Mexico and Belize, and makes Ambergris Caye an island.  The channel is between 25 and 75 feet wide, and is shallow enough that we have to shift the weight of the boat to the front so that the motor won’t drag in the mud/weeds.  The sun comes out, the ride is slow going but interesting; my Polaroids reveal myriad fish in the channel, which is totally lined with Red Mangroves – the breeding grounds for Bonefish and everything else that eventually populates the Belizean coast. It is really beautiful and Lester tells us that at one time the mangroves in the narrow part of the channel were growing over the top and had to be trimmed to keep it clear. (Of course, the Ecologists fought this!)  We don’t stop; we are going to THE REEF -- the great Belizean Reef, the longest barrier reef in the Western Hemisphere.  The reef runs the entire length of Belize, sometimes miles out from the shore, but here at the north end of Ambergris, it is very close, and actually comes in and joins the Caye at one point.

ACCOMODATIONS

  We arrive at the destination, a two-story warden’s hut built on the beach.  The beach, observes Mr. Ed, is one of the most beautiful he has seen in Belize (and he has been around.)  It is sand mostly composed of millions of fragments of mollusks.  The warden’s hut, which we will eventually pay 20 dollah rent for, has a watchtower on the roof, an office on the ground floor, and living quarters which are about 12 X 18.  It has four studio-sized bunk beds (with new rubber mattresses) a gas stove, and (sorta) screens on the windows.  A far cry from the primitive shack which Lester told us to expect. We have brought hamacas and a stove and we really don’t need them.  (Yet.)   We will sleep in bunk beds.  The crew and Lester will sleep outside in hamacas. Rose strings up a hamaca inside.  

  Lester has a beat-up hamaca he puts up out on the front porch, and the crew goes up to the watch-tower on the roof, via a 20-foot extension ladder which goes up through a hatch in the roof.  They string up hamacas and Nehru lays out a pallet on the floor up there.  And then we go out to the reef, fishing.

FISHING

  The reef is about 500 yards off the beach.  Six-foot breakers mark the reef, with a constant roar that sounds like an LA freeway at rush hour.  We will fish inside the reef, where the breaking surf is converted to little one-foot swells that rock the boat gently.  Before we fish, we prowl for bait. We use a whirl net about 15 feet in diameter which they throw out and net a bunch of “sardines”.  These are actually Sprats, about six inches long, which we put in a cooler, and then cut into three pieces, and use to bait a 4-OO hook -- an inch and a half long.  The captain has brought rods for the gringos.  Rick has a big rod with a big spinning reel which probably has never been lubricated in its entire lifetime. The spool is about one-third full, so it really doesn’t work.  Charlotte is using a new level-winding Shimano bait-casting outfit which lets her cast bait sidearm about 10 feet from the boat. Her outfit probably would work pretty well, but she has never fished at all before, much less practiced bait casting.  Ed abstains.  Rose starts out with a reel and twice she thinks she has a good fish on the line, only to haul in a big rock.  So much for rod & reel, she switches to handline.  However, she has established herself as the best rock fisherman on the trip. 

  Everyone else is using hand lines.  There is a 3/4 ounce weight on the end of the line, and then a “dropper loop” with the baited hook.  With a 30 pound hand line, they can throw this rig out about 30 feet.  The hand line is wound on a 9” board with V’s at each end.  You unwind about 35 feet of that on the floor of the boat at your feet and then throw out the bait with a sharp flip at the end, much like throwing a Frisby.  You take up the slack and then you wait for a bite with your fingers on the line.  If you do it right, it feels like the fish is nibbling on your fingers when you get a bite.

  Lester catches lots of fish.  I get skunked, first with the spinning rod and then with a hand line.  In defense, I will say that when I was (finally) fishing with the hand line, NOBODY caught anything, but that sounds like sour grapes.  Later, Charlotte, using a hand line, catches a couple of nice Red Snappers (one about 2 pounds – a lunker as far as I’m concerned.)  I’ll let her tell her part of this adventure in detail now.  

CHARLOTTE’S FISHING REPORT

  When we went out in the boat I had no intentions of fishing.  The last time I fished I was a little girl and my Uncle Don  helped me catch a catfish in the stream on our property in Indiana.  Now, Lester hands me a pole and says we need lots of fish and he baits the hook for me.  After many tries I finally hook something.  The pole is bending and everyone is giving advise, get your pole up etc.  I finally land my great catch. A little snapper that I would have thrown back except that he has swallowed the hook.  I can’t believe I caught a fish.  Beginners luck.  Later in the day the guys go out again and Rose, Ed and I opt to stay on shore and rest.  When the guys come back, they have a big sea turtle for us to see. Eighteen inches long, he is a beauty and would make a good soup, but they are seriously protected so we put him back in the ocean at seaside and watch him take off like a rocket.  I never knew that turtles could move that fast. We watch his wake for five minutes as he swims back out to the sea.

  That evening, fishing off the dock, they talk me into trying the hand line.  It’s really a strange type of fishing.  The waves make it feel like you have a bite and you pull in the line and there’s nothing.  The next time you think you have something and when you pull in the line, your bait is gone.  Timing is everything.  Finally I get a real tug on the line and start hauling it in.  George, fishing next to me, says “our lines are crossed” and I assume that I don’t have a fish.  We get uncrossed and after a while Lester looks at my line and says “What’s it doing clear over there?  Let’s pull it in and check it out.”  It’s a two pound snapper and the biggest catch of the trip.

DIVING FOR FOOD

  There is an area which is legal for diving, but there aren’t any lobsters in it!  Captain George and Robert (his mate) are diving for lobster and conch inside the reef 500 yards in front of our hut. Conch --pronounced “Conk” -- is out of season, and we can pay dearly for having any in our possession, but we are related to the wardens, and we need conch for the Belizean Conch Civiche, one of Lester’s gourmet specialties.  The conch shell is a big curlicue looking thing with a mollusk inside that weighs about 10 oz.  He/she is good to eat; and the fresher the better.  He doesn’t want to come out of his shell, but we knock a hole in the back end of his shell with a machete, and poke his big main muscle with a screwdriver and he comes out, and we put him on ice for the Civiche.

CEVICHE.

  Lester (and all Belizeans) pronounce this Say-BEECH-eh.    You can make it with shrimp, barracuda, or conch, but conch is the most traditional.  The basic idea is that you cook the fish/shrimp/conch with lime juice.  You cut it into bite-sized pieces, mix with tomato, onion, garlic, and fresh cilantro (very important), douse it with lots of fresh lime juice, and wait  until the meat is “cooked,” about 20-30 minutes.  The meat turns from transparent to cooked-looking, and it really does taste cooked.  Mr. Ed and I both liked barracuda ceviche better than conch, but that’s probably because conch, at best, is always chewy.  It is a lot like abalone, and it seems to me that it ought to be pounded pretty hard to tenderize it before we eat it.  But then, what do I know??  Lester says no, but then, Lester says no to just about everything I suggest.  He is like a drill sergeant I had in basic training – I can do nothing right.

LOBSTER

  The Belizean government calls the lobster here “crayfish,” and they are legally caught during two three-month seasons.  They are legal now.  They look nothing like the Cajun crayfish (we called them “crawdads”) because they are pretty big.  A big one is about a foot long, no claws, a tail that probably weighs 7 oz when it is separated from the body.  I would call them “langastino” (salt-water crawfish) but Lester objects.  They are Belizean Lobsters, eh?    Most of the fisherman discard the body, but Lester likes the “horns” (front end of the body) so we collect those too.  In fact, the best part of the beast is the tail, which is like a BIG shrimp tail, only more tasty.  Captain George (our boat captain) is an accomplished Chef, and he knows how to do lobster.   He cuts each tail lengthwise, and anoints them with pepper, salt, and “Season-All” which is the McCormick equivalent of Lowery’s Season Salt.  Then he fries them in about an inch of oil.  (He allows as how we could have broiled them if we had a broiler, but we don’t so who cares??) 

  As a side dish, George & Robert cook up a big mess of rice, green beans, and canned mixed vegetables. They heat up a sauce of canned tomatoes, onions, and spices, and we can put this on the rice.  Rice on the plate, and half tails of lobster next to it, and we have a meal fit for a king.  Wonderful!!

 TROPICAL DEPRESSION

  After dinner, it’s very dark inside the warden’s hut (no lights, one kerosene lantern) so we go to bed, to the sound of gentle sea breezes blowing through the window louvers and the waves breaking on the reef. Breeze is good; no mosquitoes, eh? Half-past Midnight, I am awakened by the rattledy-bang of the crew and Nehru coming down the extension ladder in a hurry.  A minute later, Lester comes in the door looking wild and wooly.  It is raining and the wind is picking up.  The rain starts pounding on the tin roof, the crew and Lester bed down on the floor, and the wind starts to really blow – a sustained gale of 65 knots with gusts to 80. I get back in bed, and lay awake for a couple of hours thinking about the prospect of the roof peeling off the hut like the lid on a sardine can.  I pray a lot. If Jesus could calm the waters, maybe I, annointed with the Holy Spirit, can calm this storm.  The roof doesn’t come off, but it the wind doesn’t die down either, for at least two hours. Eventually, I sleep until daybreak. 

  Tuesday, (our scheduled return day) is a “small craft warning” days, lots of 2 foot chop, and blowing rain.  We are stranded on the Caye!  We collect money (Lester, ever the moneychanger, has lots of pesos!) and the crew goes to Xcalac, Mexico for cigarettes, coffee, rum and beer – all the necessities of life, eh?  The survivors go beachcombing.  The beach is littered with the detritus of cruse ships and garbage scows.  It is not total litter, but you have to strain to imagine the pristine beaches of the 19^th century.  Lester shows us the pier where they stayed last year.  Until Hurricane Mitch, there was a nifty house on the end of the pier, and you could fish without getting out of your hamaca!! (it even had a bathroom) As soon as we are stranded, walking the beach, the clouds brighten up and Charlotte and I get very sunburned through the clouds. I go back to the house, and enjoy a mild case of sunstroke in my bunk.  When it’s not big enough to call a hurricane, the weather folks call it a “tropical depression” and now I know exactly what depression means.  We had a chance to visit with Lester’s son George and his wife Rose.  They live in L.A. and can’t wait to retire in 5 years and move back to Belize.  George related stories of his fishing trips with his dad and it seems that he brings the storms with him.  For the last several years he has come in June, July and August.  Every trip has some sort of weather upset.  But he will never give it up as he is an avid fisherman and looks forward to this trip every year.

ABOUT TUESDAY, CHARLOTTE SAYS: 

  On the second afternoon the weather has cleared enough to go out on the boat again  Several of us go out, and a few of the guys fish with hand lines while the Captain dives for lobster.  With a snorkel and fins he jumps in and starts looking for likely spots for lobster and down he goes.  He dives all around the boat for about 30 minutes.  (He is overweight but it sure doesn’t slow him down).  No luck there, so we go back down in front of the hut and anchor.  Now we have great luck –- 4 big lobsters and 4 conchs. Nehru and George join the Captain and have a great time looking at the sea life on the reef.  Meanwhile, topside, the hand line fishermen are catching enough fish that we will have a fine catch to bring home with us.    

MOSQUITOES

  The hut is on the East Coast of the north end of Ambergris Caye.  Just inland from our beach is a Laguna, (actually just over the rise from the beach, about 100 yards away. This is the source of the “ferocious mosquitoes” mentioned in the guide. The crew comes back from Mexico, a group goe  out fishing again (see Charlotte’s report) and now, in the dark, we have more  ceviche, more lobster, a little tequila and a lot of beer and rum. The crew borrows our hamacas and they put them up inside the hut, and we all settle into a sodden slumber.  Along about 1:30 AM, the breeze dies completely and everybody wakes up at once.  We are all being eaten live by mozzies.  Rose is bit in the butt right through the hamaca!  Rick and Charlotte are bit through their jeans.  Ed, who usually isn’t bothered by bugs, is suffering in concert with the rest of us.  We all put on OFF, and Cutter 97% DEET, light up mosquito coils -- which smolder and are supposed to keep the mosquitoes out – and hide out under sheets if we have them. I think the coils work, but the mosquitoes are trapped inside the hut with us, so they “eat, drink, and be merry…”  Anyway, by Wed. morning, Charlotte and I are covered with bites.  Sunburn & bites.   Thinking positively, I kept trying to remember how great the lobster tasted. 

THE TRIP HOME

  Wed. morning breaks at 5.  The sun doesn’t come out, but there’s only a light rain, and virtually no wind. We start packing.  Now It’s six AM, time to go and the boat & crew are gone!  Without telling anyone, they have gone to San Pedro (the resort on Ambergris) for gasoline.  Lester is furious, and stays grumpy for the rest of the day.  The trip back takes about three hours because the sea is almost glassy.  As we get closer to Corozal, we see a squall line off to port.  We are in bright sunlight, but we can see the rain, boiling up the water.  The line is moving towards Corozal.  Maybe we will beat it.  Maybe not.

  Three hundred yards from the boat ramp in South Corozal, we motor into the squall line. It is pouring rain in that “sky is falling” way that I have described before.   Actually, in Corozal, it has been pouring rain, off and on, ever since Monday night, when we were enjoying our storm out on the Caye.  Debarking, I walk the quarter mile to our house, which is now surrounded by water, and get the Scout, come back and get Charlotte and our damp bags.  We are looking forward to a fresh water shower to wash off the salt.  Unfortunately, the shower is backed up with three inches of muddy water in the stall.  Now we know -- the drain doesn’t work when the yard is full of rain. 

  We heat some water and do a sponge bath, put on fresh sunburn lotion & OFF.  We have a drink, and think about how lucky we are. Nobody broke into the house. The roof doesn’t leak, the flood never got into the house, and we have a quiet bed to sleep in.  When we came down here, we vowed that we wouldn’t buy property until we had seen what it looks like in the rainy season.  Now we know that our house is an island in the middle of “Lago Ricardo.” We won’t buy, unless we can figure some way to drain the property during a hurricane.

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