What do you feed your rat? We give ours peanut butter on Bimbo bread, on a china plate, as much as he wants. Reminds me a little of courtship: get the prospective spouse (see how carefully gender neutral I am?) used to the good life, and then, one night, spring the trap. Well, that’s what’s going to happen here in a couple hours.

A rat moved aboard in the midst of a rainstorm two nights ago. I saw it out off the corner of my eye, between me and the meat cleaver, and then it ran back towards the engine compartment. We were warned to button up tight at night, but of course, believing ourselves invulnerable, we didn’t.

Rats on a boat are a sorry joke – they’re said to eat wires as well as groceries, and if poisoned, may die and fester in unknown and inaccessible places. It only took the memory of my grandmother’s Mercedes Benz, which lived near a cornfield in winter and was so badly colonized throughout by mice that it probably was junked despite its little-old-lady-low miles, to launch me into immediate action.

The weapon of choice was a poisonous instant killer,(‘they’ll immediately die within 2 feet of the bait’) but we couldn’t find it anywhere in town. So we came home with a giant glue trap, ‘peanut-butter scented’, instead.

If I were marketing a rat trap like this, I would show a fiendish beast ripping open my chocolate bar, peeing on my potatoes, vandalizing my computer cable. Instead, the package shows a perky, winsome little fellow that I am expected to torture before killing. The Rats Rights League at work?

Right now, this not-quite-bushy-tailed raton is probably lying dreamily in his hammock, looking forward to his day, just like I do!

Meanwhile, the humanoids are strategizing their campaign, arguing about the placement of the Final Sandwich, contemplating the worst case scenario, selecting a coup de grace modestly less cruel and unusual than the tangled-foot torment envisioned by the trap manufacturer. Overhearing our debate, I think it’s about time for us to get away from the dock.

UPDATE: The deed is done. The rat was the one who left the dock, not the humanoids. Raton was last seen in his well-caulked plastic barge, floating downstream; vessel not under command. We didn’t need the 4×4 or the hammer, can re-use the second trap if necessary.

After measuring the come-along (in Honduran Spanish, a ‘senorita‘)against the engine compartment, I pedaled back to the ferreteria to exchange it for a fine Chinese 1-ton chain hoist.I also bought myself a crowbar. Then we scavenged the shipyard perimeter for strong-back and blocking materials. Doug cut some plywood to line the hull. Our strongback, a 4×4, needed some bracing, and so did the battery shelf which held up its starboard side. With this motley crew, we awkwardly inveigled the Westerbeke toward the companionway, then through the companionway. The biggest problem is that the companionway is not on the centerline of the boat where the shaft and engine are. The pros don’t do it the way we did it! I don’t know how you spent the first weekend of spring, but we surfaced on Sunday night looking like coal miners.

On Monday, the yard said ‘no problema‘ to everything we asked, but in the end we towed our own selves around to the lift slip. Thanks to that delightful chain hoist, we didn’t need the ‘four strong men’ who were supposed to physically lift the 500+ pounds out of the tiny space. Removing the hard dodger simplified matters significantly. The travel lift operator, the only English speaker in the crew, sent down his ‘brazo‘ and we cranked the Westerbeke up and out with the chain hoist as the ‘Hyster'(fork lift), moved the Beta into lift-off position.

Kind of like a baby arriving (as if I’d know!) via stork, the Beta flew in and slowly squeezed down the companionway. Our ‘four strong men’ in the cockpit echoed our ‘arriba‘s and ‘abajo‘s and the more urgent ‘stop!’s to the lift operator. The Beta will be named Stan- if the name sticks – for Beta’s US rep who has been a prince to deal with. Its first official act was to gush its very clean motor oil onto me. It sat on the first step while Doug unbolted a few more bits. We climbed in and out of the boat gracelessly through the forward hatch as we adapted to the new crewmember. The re-engining ceremony was accompanied by degreaser, a toilet brush and a toothbrush for buffing around the shaft log and stringers. White epoxy paint in the engine compartment would have been lovely, but let’s be realistic!

Meanwhile, outside it’s Semana Santa – Holy Week. The shipyard workers fled Wednesday at noon; Javier the taxista told me only the poor people like him had to work. Today we watched a lancha loading a dozen or more people, bags of groceries, bottles of water, a yapping dog, and a parrot in a cage, for a trip to the beach.
But we’ve also met people who are afraid to go to the beach – swine flu/gripa porcina still concerns them. I saw three security guards at a bank, dressed like storm troopers, but for their white surgical masks – didn’t have the nerve to take the picture, though!

Next up – shaft alignment – woohoo!

I forgot to mention some clever engine shifting ideas I came across online. One was the use of a partially inflated basketball as a roller under the engine. The other was a long lever arm, which would have enabled a pivot point where there was plenty of headroom (in the companionway for example). Thanks to a French boat with deep lockers, we were able to upgrade our strongback to a 2 1/2″ pipe with a 1 1/2″shaft inside; using the crowbar for leverage, the new engine is responding well.

Looking around our new, temporary, home, here’s what we see downstream. The Caribbean is down the river less than a mile away, but we’re well insulated from most of its effects, it seems

and up this little branch stream – the cockpit view toward the mountains on a lovely morning. With all these fishing boats around it’s easy to forget that there’s a land-based nation quite near, but tonight the clouds ahead of the latest cold front are all that can be seen inland.

The views to the east and west are less romantic, but we’ll get to them another time.

Meanwhile, here in the shipyard, Doug is focused on dismantling the old engine. It’s sad, really, to be taking it apart simply because it wasn’t modern, or might break down in mid-Pacific. Why, someone might say the same about me!

But no, I’m secure on the ‘keeper’ list. For one thing, I am taking advantage of all this water and space to do a thorough spring cleaning. Truth be told, it’s the first thorough and methodical cleaning and re-shuffling we’ve done since we left a year and a half ago. I’m washing clothes, and even foul weather gear, now that I’ve got a small but unending trickle of fresh water. The boat was clean, by my standards, when we got it, and we haven’t trashed it much. Opinions may vary, however.

The Westerbeke is looking less desirable every day. We’re beginning to accumulate boxes of hoses and ‘beke bits tagged with blue masking tape labels. Doug sits in there all day long scratching his head and sighing. I think we should have a de-engining ceremony, but how to design it?

The Music Whore’s Over-Stuffed Ipod on shuffle offered up opera, so Doug dueted an aria Where Did This Wire Come From? and the refrain, Stop Skinning My Knuckles.

Meanwhile, outside, there’s a local woman singing – if she isn’t famous, she should be. She knows all the words, and what a voice! The big motor yacht with the big speakers is broadcasting a soccer game which even has me excited with every R trilled for at least five seconds. SCCCOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEE!!!!!!!!

It took a little Skypeing to Miami to find out that our new Beta 43 was loaded on container #55, and container #55 was en route to Honduras. When we heard that, we moved ourselves toward La Ceiba.

As soon as we got here the heavens opened, same as last time. The river streams thick with mud, branches and trash. We don’t get the full effect of the deluge outside because we’re hunkered below, looking at the new leak over the hanging locker. This is how the river at Lagoon Marina looks after the rain. I’m reminded of a man we met in the mining business, a Canadian, who said that after Mitch, he took a boat up all the coastal rivers and dredged for gold in the deep pockets and bends. The coast is backed up with mountains and apparently, there’s gold, and other minerals too, in them thar hills. In another of those small-world stories, he now owns the boat that we began our charter boat career on, and keeps it in Roatan.

The leak was postponed with a trash bag over the shoulders of Doug’s shirt collection. Doug started ripping open the engine compartment

But he won’t take begin engine disassembly without actually seeing the replacement, so we took a taxi out to Rapido Cargo for a quick peek at this wood and chipboard box which weighs 398 kilos. The shipping packages is 172 x 89 x 135H cms. Now he believes, but I’m starting to wonder exactly what’s in that monstrous box – how could an engine that other people have put into this very model Valiant 40 gotten so big and heavy!

Today, we move to the shipyard and the real fun begins.

We took a hike the other day from our anchorage at West End along the road to the nearest height (a 3-cell tower hill, plus microwave). Then we meandered down toward the beach, diverting from the main road at one of several real estate development signs.

Another diversion at a sign ‘pirate bridge’ took us through a lovely light-dappled woodland and gardens over a small lake on said bridge to an aviary and then toward a Monkey House. At this point we were stopped by staff (young men reclining in hammocks) and told that the monkeys were private, owned by Marcos Galinda. We backed out, wondering what great wealth could afford a private estate like this, and at how much effort was made to entertain their guests. I began to think of the estates owned by extremely wealthy Britons in the 1700 and 1800s with their trout streams, deer-hunting forests, mazes and ha-has. Mr Galinda’s estate, as I saw it, had lovely trees, and mature; the ‘stream’ was an artificial construct of concrete, very artistic, done by a Guatemalan, perhaps the same one who did Aurora Zoo.

Eventually we reached the beach where it was revealed to us that we had just toured the GumbaLimba Recreational Park. Turns out that ‘private’ meant ‘public, if you’ve paid the fee’.Had we arrived at the Pirate Bridge via the Zipline which we saw up on the road, or the next day when a cruise ship was in, we’d have been welcomed with open arms, as upwards of $50 was extracted from our pockets for the zip line part.

We had planned to have lunch somewhere on the beach at West Bay, a resort area thick with tourists. So we strolled along, feeling pretty out of place among the sunbakers with our tans and real clothes. We must have looked out of place too, because it wasn’t long before we were accosted by security guards. Turned out that this stumble was into an all-inclusive resort, and we looked like the kind of folks who might eat someone else’s meal. The beach itself, 15 feet back from the water, is open to everyone, but there we were, suspiciously trying to skulk along the wall in the shade, without our plastic wristbands.

Roatan wants the cruise ship tourist business, but beyond diving and beach activities, there’s not all that much to do. So there’s this artificial shopping village built by Carnival Cruise Lines; other ships which dock in Coxen Hole are pretty rapidly whisked away to some beach, or to the GumbaLimba Recreational Park. One day we tried to anchor in the cruise ship bay, Dixon Cove, but it’s all channel.

If you push your luck, you’ll end up here.

Canopy tours via zipline are getting popular – hang from a wire in a harness, wearing thick gloves for brakes, and glide from pole to thickly padded pole at leaf-top level. I was hoping I could hang out on the wire with the birds for a while, but apparently ‘zip’ is the operative speed, so I haven’t done it (yet).

Also on Roatan is a privately ‘home’built owner-operated 2 passenger plus pilot deep-sea submersible Idabel that will take you 2000 feet down into the Cayman Trench if you’d care to go. I’d be interested, but I think prices begin at about $600 per person. This submarine went into the trench that was going to be used for dredge spoil dumping as the cruise ship dock was built, just to see what they were covering up. Stanley.submarines.com

Caged birds and monkeys are perpetual attractions. I’m starting to think that there are more scarlet macaws behind chain link or chicken wire than free in trees. I felt terrible to see this young toucan though, especially after I was told that it was the last of three – “they’re hard to keep, and can’t digest seeds” Oscar told me. I felt like saying, well, why do you have it then? But I know better, don’t I! Don’t I?

Had to check on what a ha=ha actually is: from the Dictionary of Architecture and Landscape Architecture. In landscape-gardening, a boundary to a garden designed not to interrupt a view from e.g. a country-house. It consists of a ditch with side or revetment nearest the viewpoint perpendicular (or slightly battered), faced with brick or stone, and the other side sloped and turfed. It kept animals away from the area contiguous to the house, yet was concealed.