Buffet, Indy and the Guess O Gear

Indy, Buffett, and the Guess-O – A short visit to Roatan.

October 4, 2008 (sorry this is a little delayed-smile)

Michael and Carl from Naples, FL visited a few weeks ago. It has taken me a few weeks more to organize my thoughts, rinse my liver, and make sense of their stay. They came at the right time – for us, we needed a dose of home and the friends we left behind; for them, they enjoyed the final days of sunshine on Roatan before the skies burst with the rainy season.

In preparation for their arrival, we stopped at the wine store, and were walking back to the dive shop when I spotted their rental car. It was practically brand new. The cleanest, newest rental car I had ever seen on the island. Evidently, Michael had worked his magic at the rental counter. We hopped into the car, and were introduced to Carl.

I asked, “How were your flights?”

Carl replied, “Great. We made it fine, but our luggage is still on the runway in Pedro-Sula.”

With Cat and I in tow, they checked-in at the Paradise Beach Resort in West Bay, Roatan. Michael and Kenny purchased and sold a sweet condo on the sand at Paradise, and it is still Michael’s preferred destination. Given the impending rainy season, Paradise was a ghost town…for that matter, all of Roatan is a ghost town. So, Michael talked to the first Honduran he met, Jenny, who looked confused and language challenged. Talking a mile a minute, Michael overwhelmed her, but did happen to mention Villa 3. Jenny picked up on Villa 3, and the light of understanding swept over her. She could help us. She motioned for Michael and Carl to bring their luggage, at which point they pointed to their backpacks. Jenny looked confused again.

Rental car = good. Luggage missing = bad. Roatan giveth, and Roatan taketh away. Michael and Carl were about to experience “island time” in all its joy.

Armed with beers and a mai tai for Cat, we hopped in the car to drive to West End for cocktails and dinner. West Bay is quiet at night, even in the high-season, so West End was the obvious choice. The road from West Bay to West end goes over the ridge, and climbs to 1500 feet or so. As we wound our way up the road, Michael went to down shift. He tried to jam it into 2nd gear, only to find out that it had disappeared. We rolled to a stop on a 10% grade. Michael methodically tested the gear shift. “That’s 3rd gear. 4th. 5th. This must be first.” He popped the clutch, and said, “NOPE that’s NOT 1st.” He repeated the process several times, as we bust his chops and laughed. With each pop of the clutch, the engine whined and the clutch smoked, and we rolled back down the road into the dark abyss.

Between jokes and barbs, Carl tried to help, “What gear ya in?”

Michael, “I have no idea.”

Carl, “Well, take a guess.”

Michael, “We rented the newest damn car on Roatan, and it has a Guess-O-Gear transmission.”

And, just like that the Guess-O-Gear car was created. For an extra charge, you could rent the Toyota with the Guess-O-Matic. How much horsepower? It’s anybody’s guess. Does it have reverse? Guess not. Laughing at the absurdity of our shiny new car with the Guess-O-Gear transmission, Michael kept popping the clutch and rolling backwards. Because he couldn’t find reverse, we didn’t have any rear lights, so he asked me and Cat, “what’s behind us?”

Cat said, “A cliff, a jungle, and further down a driveway.”

Out of options, and with Cat’s guidance, Michael rolled the car into and up the driveway, and then turned us back down the hill in third gear. We parked the Guess-O-Gear at Paradise, and took a cab to West End. The next day, Michael and Carl would have to track down their luggage through Taca Airlines (Taca = take a chance airline), and get a new transmission from Avis.

Day 2: Michael had packed a pair of swim trunks. He understood Taca. He neglected to share his knowledge with Carl. The bags were supposed to be delivered at 9am. By 11am, the bags still had not left Pedro-Sula. The sun was out, and Carl was baking in 90 degree, 90 percent humidity heat in his Levi’s. Sweating profusely, Carl disappeared up the beach in search of relief. He returned triumphantly, and looking every bit the part of an Ohio tourist. He had found the only shorts in West Bay – baby blue, elastic band basketball shorts with yellow stripes and the number 92 embroidered on the side. He looked odd, but he stopped sweating.

That afternoon, we took a long snorkel tour of Mandy’s Eel Garden, and the shallows of the West End Wall. After beers and a snack at Infinity Bay, we returned to Paradise to find the luggage had arrived, and the transmission was fixed. 24 hours after they arrived, we were good to go.

Day 3: Two tank diving day in/around West Bay: The first dive was The Cave. The second dive was West End Wall. Both went smooth, and the visibility was very good. There was lots of grouper, yellow tailed snapper, lobsters, crabs, creole wrasse, parrot fish, dog fish, and a myriad of others. The Wall, in particular, was exceptional. With little or no current, Martin (pronounced Mar-Teen) took us down to a wreck that can only be seen with a slack current. At 110 feet, we floated in the deep blue and hovered over the Josie James wreck.

Day 4: Over dinner the previous night, Michael had suggested that we take an excursion. He had ventured down the dirt road to Palmetto Bay before with Kenny and wanted to venture again. Initially, Michael babied the Guess-O-Gear along the dirt road. It didn’t take long for his confidence in the new transmission part to grow. With every turn, we went faster and faster. Cat and I buckled in. Our journey took us to Marbella. As we approached the beach, we came upon a rectangular collection of roman columns. They looked completely out of place and mysterious. Why had the owner of this property erected roman columns, and why in this place? Perplexed, and dirt road weary, we deemed the columns Stonehenge. Just past Stonehenge, we parked in a forest of palm trees, and got out to investigate this beautiful, remote, strangely-partially developed slice of the island. The beach seemed to stretch for miles – North to Palmetto Resort, and South to Turtling Bay. It was late afternoon, and the sun shined warmly from the West.

Our peace and serenity quickly changed when Carl took over the driving duties. Revving the engine, he did a figure eight in the palm tree grove, stopped to pick us up, and then blew past Stonehenge in a burst of sand and rock. Marbella Beach to Palmetto is 5 miles or so. Between the two, there are several road/driveways that go to the beach. Carl chose one of these roads to explore, and piloted us to a remote beach village named Crawfish Rock. The locals probably heard us barreling down the hillside, and were curious at the smell of brakes and rubber in dirt road town. We didn’t stay long. When we reached Palmetto Bay a few minutes, and several mild heart attacks, later we were pleased to find an oasis. I nearly got out and kissed the ground.

As we were to find out later, Carl had been BANNED by 2 rental car companies, and was currently sporting a Costa Rican driver’s license. Cat, Michael and I believed strongly that Carl (aka Carlos from Costa Rica) was well on his way to being banished from a 3rd company.

Day 4: Cayos Cochinos

Greg, the boat captain of the Gypsy Sol, likes combo trips. Greg owns and runs destination fishing operations in Oregon and Alaska, and is building a yurt village on the neighboring Bay Island, Guanaja. His passion is fishing, but he likes the adventurous side of scuba diving and boating exploration. There is a lot to see and do in the Bay Islands, and Greg is game for anything/everything.

We booked a group trip aboard the Gypsy Sol to Cayos Cochinos (Hog Island). Cayos is a small chain of islands and cays situated between Roatan and the mainland of Honduras. Once in the channel, we dropped in 7 trolling lines with assorted lures. Greg takes great pride in his gear, and it was all top notch poles, reels, outriggers, and lures. Before long, we hooked into a fish, and lost it. Then, another reel went off, and Michael quickly steered Viv (Martin’s girlfriend) to reel in the catch. Viv is a divemaster and a very sweet woman, but she is no fisherwoman. With wide eyes and much adrenaline, Viv frantically started reeling in the fish. Greg even strapped the standup fighting belt on her. With Michael working the level-wind thumb, Viv got the 4 foot barracuda to the boat in no time. The trip was off on the right foot.

We trolled across the channel, and up and down the 600 foot depth line for some time, before finally making our way to our first dive site. A quarter mile off Cayos there are a set of 3 underwater mountains that rise up from the sea floor to 50-60 feet from the surface. The surface current was ripping pretty good, so we dropped in quickly and went to 40 feet. The mountains emerged as if hidden by a cloud. The soft coral waved in the current. The massive barrel coral dotted the mountains. Schools of fish glided in the current and danced around the coral. As we reached 60 feet, the visibility improved dramatically, and the mountains unveiled their secrets. Because it is not a common dive spot, the coral was pristine. Cat had the camera and shot some very rare “peas”, flamingo tongues, and other exotic tropical fish.

After diving, we had to check in at the Smithsonian Marine Park HQ, and pay a day-use fee of $10/person. Then, it was on to lunch at Cayos Chachaguates, a rustic, small piece of sand covered with pole huts, boats in various stages of disrepair, and an abundance of smiling, playful children. Martin had visited the island last year, and he secured a fresh fish lunch for our crew served under a tarp on paper plates. Over lunch Michael explained his split-personality, his dual natures, his combative complementary self.

“I’m a Buffett,” he explained. “In the ways of the world—finance, marketing, business, strategy – I am like Warren Buffett. In my quest for fun, I am like Jimmy Buffett. Fishing with primo gear on a new 45 foot dual engine boat with a flying bridge….that’s Warren. Eating fresh yellow tail snapper on a small patch of sand 20 miles out to sea with indigenous Hondurans….that’s Jimmy.”

No, that’s brilliant.

After lunch, we took a short ride to Pelican Point for our second dive. Being close to Big Hog Island, the coastal underwater topography is dramatically different from the mountains of the first dive. The dive site was a labrynth of large, coral covered boulders. The boulders were home to lobsters, crabs, eels, and large grouper. The visibility wasn’t great, but plenty good enough to enjoy the robust fish den, rock swim-thrus, and abundant crustaceans hiding in the cracks. Our max depth was only 70 feet, but there was a lot to see and do at that depth.

After our second dive, Greg decided to troll home. We didn’t get any hits, so he pulled the lines after a short time, and started powering back to Roatan. Then, he noticed a puff of water to the West, shimmering in the sunset. “Whale!!!” He turned towards the spout, and gunned the engines. We intersected the whale(s) in time to see one tail fin pop up before disappearing for a deep dive. It was the perfect end to a Buffett kinda day.

Day 5: End of the road.

The general rule is that you should not scuba dive 24 hours before flying. In Coxen Hole, we gassed up the Guess-O-Gear and Buffett invested in several barley beverages for breakfast. The plan was to go to Camp Bay – the end of the road. And, the term road is loosely defined in Roatan. Kinda like loose gravel to be exact. We made stops in French Harbor, got stopped at the gate of Fantasy Island, Parrot Tree Resort, Paya Bay, and finally Pulpit Point. Pulpit Point was aptly named. It overlooks the mangroves at the North tip of the island, with a perfect view of Morat, Barbaret and Guanaja islands. Cat’s sermon from the pulpit was succinct, “Let’s go have lunch.”

And, just like that, we were in a bar IN Camp Bay (20 feet off shore on stilts) having sauted camerones and cuba libres. Jimmy, the owner, first opened Sirena’s (Siren in Spanish) before they had electricity in Camp Bay. His early operation is a tribute to alternative energy – solar, wind, and manpower….oh, and a Honda generator. The shrimp and the rum hit the spot, and the Jimmy in Michael was very happy. This was definitely the road less travelled, but well worth the pot holes.

Staying with the water-tavern theme, the trip home was pleasantly interrupted by a side excursion to Hole In The Wall bar. For me, the side trip was my road to redemption. Four Sundays prior, Cat and I had made a trip to Camp Bay on a kidney altering moped with the express purpose of going to Hole In The Wall for the steak and lobster BBQ . We held out from eating all afternoon just so we could fully indulge in the BBQ. But, alas, even in Honduras, there is a Teo Tax. After paying for the moped, gas, beers, sodas, and the boat taxi, I was left with an ATM Notice – insufficient funds. When I counted it out, we had just more than enough for ONE meal. I volunteered to go without, but Cat was stern…..and plenty embarrassed. So, I did what I normally do – improvise. I paid for Cat’s lunch and ordered a beer for me. Then, I asked for the owner (Bill), and explained our situation. With no ATM in Jonesville, he was very cool, and gave me a tab on the spot. Cat was adamantly opposed, but the smell of grilled lobster was breaking down her resolve. Finally, she acquiesced, and we had a great meal…and another few beers.

So, upon arrival with Carl and Buffett, I had Bill find my tab in the binder, and paid our debt with interest. It felt good to be debt free. Now, if only the US Government……ooops, this is not an op-ed piece. Sorry.

Hole In The Wall is a house boat moored in the shallows of Jonesville Bay, surrounded by mangroves and houses on stilts. It is a heap of shit, and priceless. Michael Buffett ordered lobster sandwiches that melted in your mouth, and Carl kept the beers flowing. We capped off the afternoon with homemade, hand-rolled cigars. There are a bowl of them for the patrons, and they are pretty damn good.

We returned to West Bay by way of sunset cocktails at Anthony’s Key. Over wine for the ladies, and beers for Carl and me, we watched a spectacular sunset and shared stories. One of the stories led to a description by Carl of all the “stuff” Michael stored at his house – including a double-decker stack of classic cars in his garage. Michael gave a knowing laugh, and asked Carl what he stored in his many sea containers strewn around Naples, FL. “Tell them about the antiquities, Carl.” Michael chided.

“What? You have artifacts in your closet?” I asked Carl.

“Maybe….a few………if you can call them artifacts. They’re just some bowls and stuff.”

“How old are the bowls, Carl?” Cat asked.

Carl: “Not sure. Old, I think.”

Matt: “Are you a tomb raider? What the hell do you have in the sea container?”

Cat: “Holy crap, we’ve been travelling with Indiana Jones.”

All in all, it was a pretty damn good week of fun with Buffet and Indy. In between the marquee events there was plenty of time to catch up on private topics, personal thoughts and just reconnecting friendship. In truth, the catch up time with Michael Buffett and getting to know Indy Jones will stay with us longer than the adventures.

The morning they left (in a driving rain storm, I might add), there was a sense of loss. The island was suddenly and significantly smaller, and more foreign again. Cat and I could almost feel the island fever coming on.