I had no warning of impending disaster. The morning sky was deep blue, and the fronds of the palm trees on Belize’s beautiful South Water Caye were waving to the usual easterly breeze. I was anchored in the lee of this small island, maybe 400 yards from shore.
The previous day we had dropped my 45-pound Manson Supreme anchor on a large patch of sand that gleamed brilliant white amid the ubiquitous seagrass, backed down to snug it in, let out 100 feet of chain for a 10:1 scope, swum over it to ensure it was buried, and called it good. According to the anchor alarm on my Vesper XB8000 AIS, we had not budged since then.
The weather forecast promised nothing but more of the same. To the west, the mountains of mainland Belize were concealed by the smoky pall from days of
