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The night before moving day - our last full moon seen from...

Moving Day - Garwin pulls up the first of two anchors

Much like the photo I took of these gas cans when we...

Pulling away from the dock where we spent the last 3 1/2...

Securing DL to Miss Jessie's wharf, med-moored until we can get a...

"How odd - same back door but new backyard" says Minut, who...

Home for a while

Sunday Sept 30th - all settled in and off to the Sunday...

Returning from Puky's, under the little bridge that connects Oak Ridge Point...

Moving the plants around

A bird too large for the cats to chase

A necessity of life down here - a hammock

Enjoying one of my new hibiscus plants in bloom

A sea horse in our little mangrove beach

Picking up a used propane bbq in Jonesville

Another fire that we didn't have

Our first bbq at the new place

Potatoes, yams, steak and scallops YUM

John built a second planter

and then he built a third planter

 

 

Relaxing in the hammock after all his hard work

Jerk chicken and roasted veggies on real charcoal with a small piece...

4 o'clocks, which boom at 4 o'clock in the afternoon and all...

We needed a guard dog for the property

And this little guy, whose mother had died, needed a home

Theodore has a nice dog house but spent the first night in...

Theodore recovering from his surgery - neutered already!

He loves his dog house

He loves to go out in the truck and sit on bar...

Learning to ride in the boat

Meeting Melito the monkey

Loading the poles for the stable into the truck

Everything must be brought across to the point in our little boat

Poles for the stable and more manure for our plants.

The poles laid out so we can paint them with diesel fuel...

Theodore and I supervised the painting from the hammock

John baling the boat after the fallout from Hurricane Sandy


Sept 30th was moving day. I had myself worked up worrying about moving the boat, even though we didn't have far to go.

"You worry too much. It's a piece of cake," John reassured me.

"You always say that but when we move the boat after a long time tied to shore something always goes wrong," I moaned.

"What could go wrong? We are only going a couple of hundred feet. We could drift there if we had to. Relax."

As we cast off for our mini-cruise to the rickety little dock we would temporarily med-moor to, I noticed that we weren't moving much. In fact, we weren't moving at all, just drifting, more or less. I heard the Captain fiddling with the gear shifters upstairs in the fly bridge. Next thing I knew he was downstairs, driving from our lower navigation station.

"OK let it down," came the command from inside the boat and I stepped on the windlass foot button. The chain rolled out surprisingly well at first but before long the chain coming out of the hold got rustier and rustier. Flakes of rust were flying off as the chain bounced and dropped in fits and spurts. Then it snagged.

"I have a problem up here," I yelled up to John, who was reversing both engines to back us towards the dock."

"What do you mean you have a problem?" he yelled back.

"Hand me the crowbar. The chain is rusty and has jammed." I replied.

Out came the trusty crowbar and I pried and pulled but couldn't loosen the ceased chain, so the boss came up on the bow and tore into it, finally freeing it. He returned to the controls to back us in, while Garwin waited on shore to throw the lines, which John had previously fastened to tress, to him as he backed up to the dock.

Other than the rusty mess on the bow, the whole process went smoothly and by 10:30 am we were in our new home.

The owner of the property, who was here on the island trying to complete the paperwork to close the sale, became ill and ended up in a hospital on the mainland of Honduras with pneumonia. John and I said a few prayers for him (and us).

We can't build the dock or house or connect to the Roatan Electrical Company until we seal the deal, so we're living in the boat and enjoying our little piece of paradise as it is for now. We are thankful that the cooler weather has arrived. At about 3 am the shrill squeal of the battery alarm jolts us awake, as the batteries die and we need to get up and switch off the inverter. This means we lose the power to run our fan. If it's not raining we open the hatch above our bed and hope for a cool breeze. However, it's rainy season, so it's quite often raining.

We welcome rainy season after the sticky heat of May-September. The boat is dry and cozy. People wear heavy yellow raincoats and dart about in boats between downpours. The mountains bleed rust colured run-off that turns the clear, turquoise water to murky brown.

On nights when the rain is very heavy, people without boat houses - like us - get us during the night to bale their boats so they don't sink. Invitations come with the phrase "weather permitting" included. It brings back fond memories of our time spend in Guatemala.



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