Survivors – A Novel of the Coming Collapse

“Belize was founded by British pirates . . . Legend relates that the city was built in a swamp on a foundation of gin pots and mahogany chips. If this is so, it would have been better if the city’s fathers had thrown in a few more pots and chips, for Belize is only a few inches above sea level.”

- Time magazine, September 21, 1931

The GPS receiver showed the Durobrabis was forty miles east of the Belize Cays chain just before sunset on March 26. Four months after first setting sail, they were anxious to come ashore. The depth finder showed they were in three hundred feet of water, but fearing that they would approach reefs and shallows, Carston dropped all the canvas and set both sea anchors in order to wait overnight. He had nautical charts for Belize, but they were several years old. Knowing that profiles of sandbars could change in just one year, Simms decided to proceed with great caution. He said wisely, “I wouldn’t want to make it this far only to end up aground on some sandbar.”

They spent the evening excitedly listing to Wamalali Radio, an AM station in Punta Gorda. The city was most often mentioned by its nickname “PG.” There were also a number of FM stations broadcasting, but they were mostly playing music.

Proceeding cautiously, Simms piloted his boat though the Cays late the next afternoon. Not knowing what sort of passport controls might have been enacted under the current state of emergency, they thought it best to wait at anchor on the far side of Lark Cay until after dark. They could see lights dotted up and down the coastline. Then, as the next high tide approached, they motored quietly to the nearby point, past the Creole fishing towns of Placentia on the point and Big Creek opposite, on the mainland side. As they entered the twelve-mile-long Placentia lagoon, Simms was pleased to note that the local electricity was still on. “A good sign, that,” he told Angie.

The skipper ran the diesel engine at low revolutions for a quiet three knots as they progressed up the lagoon. Carston kept Angie constantly watching the depth finder. They passed by an odd mix of well-lit luxury homes-mostly at Seine Bight-and completely dark tin-roofed Creole and Garifuna shanties. They set anchor again just before dawn at the north end of the lagoon, near the village of Blair Atholl.

This end of the lagoon was very quiet. Just two other yachts were anchored nearby, with their sails covered and bright blue canvases snugged down over their stern piloting areas. From their stern markings, they could see that one was from Dunedin, Florida, and the other from Freeport, Texas. They soon learned that both of these yachts were under the protection of a paid “watchie man” from Blair Atholl. The black man, armed with a single-barrel shotgun, motored up in an ancient skiff with a round-topped outboard engine that looked like something from the 1950s. It used a hand-wound spin starting rope rather than a recoil starter. The man’s shotgun had a well-worn stock and had all of its metal parts covered with thick white grease that looked almost like wax. Andy surmised that it was for protection from salt water.

The watchie man, who spoke in a curious Belizean singsong voice, told them that the recently arrived owners of the boats had moved into houses nearby, one on South Stann Creek and one in the village of Georgetown. Neither of the owners, he said, had any plans to sail back to the United States. He also had been told to relay that neither boat was available for sale or rent.

Simms continued talking with the man, making barter arrangements to refill his yacht’s freshwater tanks, which were nearly depleted. Meanwhile, Andy went below and started gathering his gear. He explained to Angie: “I want to beat feet before anyone comes here with plans to do a customs inspection.”

Angie answered, “I think that’s wise, Andy. Of course, we won’t mention that you arrived with us. It’s best that you slip into the country the soft way.” After clearing her throat, she added: “Andrew, I’ll certainly miss the peace of mind that we’ve had with you on board. I think that buying a gun will be one of Carston’s first priorities here.”

Inflating the dinghy took less than fifteen minutes, and in the dead calm water of the lagoon, loading Andy’s gear was easy. The most time-consuming part was first mounting the dinghy’s engine and getting the fuel primed properly to feed the engine. As they packed the dinghy, Andy made his good-byes. Yvonne and Yvette were crying. Andy shook hands or hugged everyone but Simone, who just gave Andy a small wave from the doorway to the saloon.

Prescott, Arizona March, the Second Year