On our second day fishing out of the east end of Roatan, our guide, Michael Bodden pointed the nose of his plus-sized panga into the west wind and toward the open ocean. As the sun made its morning appearance over the Caribbean, Earl and I could see what awaited us. Moments later, as Michael guided the boat out of the protected waters of the bight and into the waves, we were in it.
The first giant roller looked like it was 20 feet over our heads, and I’m not ashamed to admit that, even this close to the shallows, a spear of terror shot through my heart. At the bottom of the swell, Michael gunned the 115-horsepower outboard to life, and the panga, a sturdy, time-tested craft, climbed the swell like a dune buggy plugging over a mountain of sand. Once atop the roller, the boat laid down nicely, but another wave was coming – this one taller and more imposing.
Again, Michael goosed the motor, and up the panga went. I was certain the roller would break and come right down atop the nose of the craft, dooming us all to the fates of the blue water. Here we come, Davy Jones.
Open the locker. I inhaled sharply and grabbed the gunwale of the craft, knowing for certain that in moments I’d be swimming. “Oh, my God,” I said aloud.
Next to me, Early scoffed, as if this was nothing. “Don’t be such a ..
.” Then, he saw what I saw, and did a quick recalculation in his head. “Oh, my God,” he said, as the wave started to break and the nose of the boat dipped just a hair.
An aud.
