Caribbean Travel Guide
18+2,OF 50 TC)
© PHOTOS BY CAPT. CHUCK
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| Pirate Jean Lafitte's and William Walker's West Caribbean Base of Operations CaptainChuck Takes You There Caribbean Travel to Pirate Islands! |
Roatan
Ahh--Way from it all... the unknown Pirate Caribbean.
In the cool blue light of dawn, the sea is tranquil, the air soft.
Green parrots and purple cuckoos squawk from dense, dark
stands of coco palms; the sun still behind them. On the
mile-long white beach a figure strides towards me in a
purposeful gait. Blonde, well put together, wearing – nothing
but a smile.
“Goot morgen!” she gushes. Greta, part of a young
German couple from the next bungalow. “I had a goot svim!”
That’s Roatan. Nobody else around for a mile; so be yourself.
Well, I was wearing bikini trunks. The ocean is warm, clear,
even at dawn.
Roatan? Where is...?
One of the hidden, secret pleasures of the Caribbean. Few
people know it, except divers, who like its rustic inns and
reasonable prices, spectacular underwater walls and reef
diving. There’s more.
Roatan is one of the Bay Islands, a 15-minute flight from
La Ceiba, Honduras, 30 miles off the coast of Central America.
Like a scattering of lush green parsley on the blue Bay of
Honduras, the cluster includes Guanaja, Utila, and Barbereta.
South of Guatemala but north of Miskito Coast (named after a
local tribe, not the conditions).
The Bay Islands lump up suddenly from the ocean floor,
lava pushed up from a colossal crack in the Caribbean plate; the
Bonaca Ridge. Roatan is largest, 30 miles long, slender, with a
1,000-foot hogback ridge at its spine.
One major road winds through wild countryside,
connecting the numerous tiny settlements dotting its coast.
Pirates, for a few hundred years, including Jean LaFitte and
William Walker, plus runaway slaves, were the only tourists.
The British dubbed them the “Keys to the Spanish Main.”
A moody place. Folklore from Payan Indians, Garifunas,
Antilleans, is rife with tales of magic; duppies (evil spirits),
dreams, and yaba-ding-dings, Pirates treasure and ancient
artifacts.
Moving into the 21st century, grudgingly, an electric plant
now replaces age-old kerosene lanterns. No longer a frontier;
but no Hyatts, Hiltons or Holiday Inns, yet. Numerous small
hotels, resorts, might qualify for one star, boasting absolute
tranquility. Mayaka Lodge is one of 30 or 40 quiet inns on
lovely bays, with wonderful sunrise-sunsets. Brisas del Mar
sports Balinese decor. Havens set apart.
For many years Roatan was “The Way We Were.” Perhaps
25 years back. No traffic, telephones – horrors, no TV. Today
the island boasts wireless Tropico Internet, and computers.
The local bi-weekly newspaper, Bay Islands Voice, keeps
Roatan, Utila, and Guanaja informed, touting big-city events;
even high-fashion shows in French Harbor. Yet Foster’s Cove
is so off by itself it takes a 10-minute boat ride to get there.
A local legend tells of “Foster,” a bear-thick, Creole man
whose people fled the Cayman Islands in slave days. Foster
couldn’t drive a car, but he’d thread his skiff flawlessly
through shallow reefs, even in pitch black night. He traveled
everywhere by boat; became a leader in the island community.
Today, Foster’s restaurant and beach are top notch.
Anthony’s Key Resort, owned by the Galindos, is an
outstanding dive operation, with excellent rooms and the finest
in diving. They harken back to their grandfather, the island’s
doctor, called “Granny.” He’d come, riding a horse, whenever
someone was sick. The family owns the gas station and lumber
yard as well.
We lounged in hammocks, immersed in the roseate sunsets
beyond the smooth bay, from Foster’s rough-hewn bar-
restaurant, standing on stilt legs over the clear water.
Stilt houses nestle in the tall trees, built of Honduras
mahogany and island pine. Three bedrooms plus a wide patio,
running water and electric. Raised two stories on pine poles,
they are footsteps from the glorious beach, 100 yards apart.
So what’s there to do? First, relax. Plenty of hammock
time. Swim. Dive. Then if you must, take interesting side trips
on this slender strip of anonymity. A dozen craggy harbors,
yacht clubs, funky little villages clinging to hillsides, festooned
with mellow, red-green-yellow box houses. At Sandy Bay, a
70’ 12-passenger liveaboard dive boat can be rented.
Steep hills look more like the mainland than islands; dense
strands of Caribbean pine, oak, low grasses. Down at seaside,
heavy jungle swaggers with lianas, wild orchids, mango, guava,
coco-palms.
The paved road snakes around compelling names: Tom
Fool Bight, Alligator Nose Point, Iron Shore, Key Hole,
Calabash Point, Never Stain Bight. The main town, Coxen
Hole, appropriately recalls a 16th century Dutch Pirate. Sand
choked, clogged with tiny shops and jangling traffic, where no
one picks up the trash. Three blocks of gritty sand, with a
bank, library, gas station and supermarket. Roatan also boasts a
museum, and the Institute of Marine Sciences, tracing history
back to Columbus.
Island action is diving. Snorkel almost anywhere to
gorgeous walls that start 100 yards offshore and plunge deeper
than daylight. Wild reefs. Layback time aplenty. The local beer
is Salva Vida (life saver). The Pentecostal Church bursts with
song. It all goes to sleep after sundown.
But now, the Red Planet Disco opens. Pulsating high tech
with “intelligent lights” that dance to the music, while stars,
comets and galaxies soar overhead. Owned by Roatan’s
Alfonso Monterroso, graduate of Johnson & Wales U. in Miami.
Roatan, catch it while it‘s still an escape.
#######
http://www.roatanonline.com/
Ahh--Way from it all... the unknown Pirate Caribbean.
In the cool blue light of dawn, the sea is tranquil, the air soft.
Green parrots and purple cuckoos squawk from dense, dark
stands of coco palms; the sun still behind them. On the
mile-long white beach a figure strides towards me in a
purposeful gait. Blonde, well put together, wearing – nothing
but a smile.
“Goot morgen!” she gushes. Greta, part of a young
German couple from the next bungalow. “I had a goot svim!”
That’s Roatan. Nobody else around for a mile; so be yourself.
Well, I was wearing bikini trunks. The ocean is warm, clear,
even at dawn.
Roatan? Where is...?
One of the hidden, secret pleasures of the Caribbean. Few
people know it, except divers, who like its rustic inns and
reasonable prices, spectacular underwater walls and reef
diving. There’s more.
Roatan is one of the Bay Islands, a 15-minute flight from
La Ceiba, Honduras, 30 miles off the coast of Central America.
Like a scattering of lush green parsley on the blue Bay of
Honduras, the cluster includes Guanaja, Utila, and Barbereta.
South of Guatemala but north of Miskito Coast (named after a
local tribe, not the conditions).
The Bay Islands lump up suddenly from the ocean floor,
lava pushed up from a colossal crack in the Caribbean plate; the
Bonaca Ridge. Roatan is largest, 30 miles long, slender, with a
1,000-foot hogback ridge at its spine.
One major road winds through wild countryside,
connecting the numerous tiny settlements dotting its coast.
Pirates, for a few hundred years, including Jean LaFitte and
William Walker, plus runaway slaves, were the only tourists.
The British dubbed them the “Keys to the Spanish Main.”
A moody place. Folklore from Payan Indians, Garifunas,
Antilleans, is rife with tales of magic; duppies (evil spirits),
dreams, and yaba-ding-dings, Pirates treasure and ancient
artifacts.
Moving into the 21st century, grudgingly, an electric plant
now replaces age-old kerosene lanterns. No longer a frontier;
but no Hyatts, Hiltons or Holiday Inns, yet. Numerous small
hotels, resorts, might qualify for one star, boasting absolute
tranquility. Mayaka Lodge is one of 30 or 40 quiet inns on
lovely bays, with wonderful sunrise-sunsets. Brisas del Mar
sports Balinese decor. Havens set apart.
For many years Roatan was “The Way We Were.” Perhaps
25 years back. No traffic, telephones – horrors, no TV. Today
the island boasts wireless Tropico Internet, and computers.
The local bi-weekly newspaper, Bay Islands Voice, keeps
Roatan, Utila, and Guanaja informed, touting big-city events;
even high-fashion shows in French Harbor. Yet Foster’s Cove
is so off by itself it takes a 10-minute boat ride to get there.
A local legend tells of “Foster,” a bear-thick, Creole man
whose people fled the Cayman Islands in slave days. Foster
couldn’t drive a car, but he’d thread his skiff flawlessly
through shallow reefs, even in pitch black night. He traveled
everywhere by boat; became a leader in the island community.
Today, Foster’s restaurant and beach are top notch.
Anthony’s Key Resort, owned by the Galindos, is an
outstanding dive operation, with excellent rooms and the finest
in diving. They harken back to their grandfather, the island’s
doctor, called “Granny.” He’d come, riding a horse, whenever
someone was sick. The family owns the gas station and lumber
yard as well.
We lounged in hammocks, immersed in the roseate sunsets
beyond the smooth bay, from Foster’s rough-hewn bar-
restaurant, standing on stilt legs over the clear water.
Stilt houses nestle in the tall trees, built of Honduras
mahogany and island pine. Three bedrooms plus a wide patio,
running water and electric. Raised two stories on pine poles,
they are footsteps from the glorious beach, 100 yards apart.
So what’s there to do? First, relax. Plenty of hammock
time. Swim. Dive. Then if you must, take interesting side trips
on this slender strip of anonymity. A dozen craggy harbors,
yacht clubs, funky little villages clinging to hillsides, festooned
with mellow, red-green-yellow box houses. At Sandy Bay, a
70’ 12-passenger liveaboard dive boat can be rented.
Steep hills look more like the mainland than islands; dense
strands of Caribbean pine, oak, low grasses. Down at seaside,
heavy jungle swaggers with lianas, wild orchids, mango, guava,
coco-palms.
The paved road snakes around compelling names: Tom
Fool Bight, Alligator Nose Point, Iron Shore, Key Hole,
Calabash Point, Never Stain Bight. The main town, Coxen
Hole, appropriately recalls a 16th century Dutch Pirate. Sand
choked, clogged with tiny shops and jangling traffic, where no
one picks up the trash. Three blocks of gritty sand, with a
bank, library, gas station and supermarket. Roatan also boasts a
museum, and the Institute of Marine Sciences, tracing history
back to Columbus.
Island action is diving. Snorkel almost anywhere to
gorgeous walls that start 100 yards offshore and plunge deeper
than daylight. Wild reefs. Layback time aplenty. The local beer
is Salva Vida (life saver). The Pentecostal Church bursts with
song. It all goes to sleep after sundown.
But now, the Red Planet Disco opens. Pulsating high tech
with “intelligent lights” that dance to the music, while stars,
comets and galaxies soar overhead. Owned by Roatan’s
Alfonso Monterroso, graduate of Johnson & Wales U. in Miami.
Roatan, catch it while it‘s still an escape.
#######
http://www.roatanonline.com/
| CD: Sailing Adventures Cruising the Carib! Hilarious True Tales |
Download the Book
Click 'Home' to order!
The full text: 247 pages of fun,hilarious adventure,
sailing
the Bounding Main! Just $16.95
-OR-
CD only $12.00 free ship.
Order Your own Pirates Pearls & Paradise Today!
Avast, Me Hearties, Ye'll Love the Voyage!
Click 'Home' to order!
The full text: 247 pages of fun,hilarious adventure,
sailing
the Bounding Main! Just $16.95
-OR-
CD only $12.00 free ship.
Order Your own Pirates Pearls & Paradise Today!
Avast, Me Hearties, Ye'll Love the Voyage!