Destination: Honduras : DEEP SECRET : Virtually unknown except to divers, the isle of Guanaja offers gritty adventure with upscale lodgings

The 19-seater buzzed over the Caribbean, its wing tilted toward the little island below, an arrowhead-shaped green wilderness, with no signs of civilization. But obviously it was popular--every seat on the plane was full. Especially mine. I sweated under a lapful of luggage that I’d insisted on carrying aboard after SAHSA, the Honduran airline, had lost it on a flight over from the mainland to nearby Roatan. When one gets this far off the beaten track in the tropics, efficiency often melts into thin air.

The airstrip ran along a narrow point of land between jungle and sea. Our plane bounced to a halt near a thatched hut hung with a sign saying AIRPORT HILLTON. An arrow pointed to a sloppily dredged canal, but I couldn’t see a Hilton. Or a road. Travel around Guanaja is strictly by boat.

My affection for Guanaja began with that sign. The island’s carefree disposition, its grittiness, its lack of asphalt and souvenirs--I loved all that. And its relative accessibility. Guanaja lies four hours by plane from Houston, 30 miles off the Mosquito Coast of Honduras. The second-biggest of Honduras’ Bay Islands, it’s virtually unknown, except to scuba divers.

These 70-odd islands and cays bob in the western Caribbean. Most are uninhabited, and allare flanked by the world’s second-largest barrier reef (after the Great Barrier in Australia), an underwater fantasia of marine life stretching from the Mexican Yucatan to Costa Rica. Maverick divers who have already done Cozumel and Grand Cayman come here seeking less crowded frontiers.

That’s why I came. Guanaja’s remoteness is enlivened by gaudy clapboard hamlets and jaunty Caribbean-accented English, instead of the Spanish of the mother country. Britain ruled the islands from the 1700s until 1859, and English is still spoken by blacks descended mostly from African slaves and Carib Indians, with traces of European and pirate heritage.

Divers keep the three main Bay Islands--Guanaja, Utila and Roatan--on the map. Roatan is the biggest and most popular, but Guanaja promises upscale accommodations, and more adventure.

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I sensed the challenge ahead when our luggage was carted from the airplane to a creaky 30-foot water taxi. At the wheel, a gregarious sea dog adjusted his belly, then steered us out to sea. The foreigners, looking wilted, huddled around their luggage. The locals, fresh despite the heat, chatted amiably and cradled papayas.

Sitting next to me was Javier, a young Honduran employee of the Posada del Sol, where I was staying as part of a dive package. “You like to disco? “ he asked. “Bonacca Town has two.”

Bonacca, Guanaja’s capital, appeared before us, a sprawling and dilapidated stilt city. Why it was built over water and not on solid ground I did not know. The tight maze of shanties looked so precarious that in places it seemed propped up by crutches. Amazingly, this hive-like village was more than 100 years old and supported about 3,000 of Guanaja’s 5,000 people.

Our taxi nuzzled up to a sagging dock. Residents climbed off and disappeared down a plank path into a chaos of turquoise shacks, churches, schools, lobster processing plants and restaurants. As the taxi pulled away, Javier nodded toward the rickety floating town and said with pride, “The Venice of Honduras.”

After 15 minutes we’d plowed beyond Bonacca and could see the main island of Guanaja glowing electric green before us. When Columbus landed here in 1502, he called Guanaja “Island of Pines.” Pines still mantle it today, though some hills are bald where trees were cut to hunt parrots for export.

The hills also are thought to hold the lost burial grounds of the Paya Indians, enigmatically related to the Mayas, whose epic culture swept Central America from around 300 BC to AD 900.

Nowadays, fishing and lobstering are the island’s main concern. Not much else is cooking. In Guanaja’s 12-by-9 miles, the points of interest sound livelier than they are: Mango Bay, Black Rock, Blue Roll Beach, Hell’s Bay Beach. Only two establishments matter to most visitors. We were headed to one, on Guanaja’s windward side, Posada del Sol.

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It was a thrill to see this overgrown piece of coast suddenly yield to a tamed and manicured tract of land with a picture-perfect Spanish villa as its centerpiece. A rich Canadian built this mansion in 1976 as his private retreat. Today, Posada del Sol, with its trimmed gardens and flagstone walks, could rank among the great small resorts of the Caribbean--except for one almost invisible reason.

After being escorted up to the generous deck around the pool, I sat watching hummingbirds flit around as Sandy, my personal attendant, gave me the lowdown on the resort. All was well until I felt a vicious prickling all over my legs.

“Oh dear,” said Sandy, as I went into a slapping fit, “do you have some Skin So Soft?” Locals apparently adjust to the sand fleas, but most outsiders are bug meat unless smeared with repellent. Some swear insects abhor the Avon lotion, and it did seem to help me. Luckily, I’d bought a bottle for $6.95 in California; the hotel gift shop here sells Skin So Soft for $18 a bottle.

When a stiff breeze blows, the bugs are no bother. But during my summer visit their presence wasn’t diminished by what hotel workers insisted was repeated spraying. Perhaps the sand flea is the guardian of Guanaja’s peace, the evil that protects its good. The best refuge from the scourge is 50 feet under water, or in your room.

My room, up about six flights of outdoor stairs ascending a terraced hill, delighted me with its lustrous mahogany furniture and purple-and-aqua wall hangings. Dinner was equally sumptuous: succulent lobster, steamed veggies, ice cream with fudge sauce and superb service. At night, happy sunburned faces attested to the satisfaction of the guests. We could almost have been in the Bahamas, but we also held that delicious feeling of far-flung isolation. And the Posada’s cushiness took a lot of the rawness out of diving in a hinterland like Guanaja.

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On my second day there, we started at Pinnacles, where spire-riddled walls plunge to 140 feet. During that first plunge, our dive master was my dive buddy. He warned us to keep our hands to ourselves since we’d be joined by Cindy the Seamonster, a barracuda with an evil smile. “She has a two-finger minimum,” he said. I jolted once when something gnawed my thigh, but it was a remora, a little suckerfish that cleaves to sharks. Later, when the dive master motioned me into a cave, I saw my first dozing shark and made a rapid U-turn before it had a chance to wake up.

Later, appendages intact, we sailed to another site within whistling distance of the Bayman Bay Club, Guanaja’s other tourist magnet. On the shore I could make out a network of stairways camouflaged by trees, a site that begged for a closer look.

But first we anchored at the 150-foot-deep Bayman Bay Dropoff. At 50 feet, our group drifted along a wall through clouds of sea dust and banks of coral choked in homely growths. In the murky visibility, I bubbled along, trying to keep up with a trumpetfish. The next minute, mine were the only bubbles in the sea.

The first cardinal rule of diving: Never lose sight of your buddy. The second cardinal rule: Don’t panic. I did both. With 50 feet of water above you, it’s easy to lose all sense of direction and any semblance of serenity. I finned around like a windup toy gone haywire, seeking signs of human life. To make matters worse, I spotted a long, lean shadow almost directly above me. Terror clutched my heart and made me gulp air from my tank. But what was this? A shark with an anchor line?

I ascended as though toward a heavenly ark. It turned out to be a dinghy manned by a couple of islanders. “Hey,” I waved frantically. “I’m lost!” They glanced up with a casual unconcern and gestured toward something behind me. A few hundred feet away, the 36-footer I’d come on lolled on the waves like a waiting limo.

My dive master chose that moment to burst to the surface. “Where did you go?” we yelled almost in unison. He dragged me under and back to the dive boat.

*

I hoped to find another dive buddy, but being unattached I had few choices. The Posada guests were mostly couples, except for one pair of friends in their 30s, Jim and Lucy. As it turned out, Jim didn’t dive, so Lucy and I paired up as dive buddies.

The next day we went down to a spot called Jim Silverlode, but Lucy’s tank slid off halfway into the dive and I had to wrestle it back on. At 70 feet, we wormed through a huge crack in the reef. The water was positively pyrotechnic with silversides. A snake-like shadow writhed past us as we emerged at a clearing beyond the crack where local sea life gathered to be fed. The shadow turned out to be a six-foot green moray eel living in a coral head. Great Dane-sized groupers with Mick Jagger mouths whirled around, letting us stroke their velvety bodies as the dive master fed them snapper.

Every Guanaja dive had its moment of truth. At Windmill Reef, I remember little of the dive except that my face mask kept flooding. Blinding saltwater stung my eyes and nose, and no matter how many times I cleared the mask, the ocean poured in again. In desperation, I shot to the surface, with Lucy behind me. While we struggled with the mask, a killer current began to drag us toward a toothy reef above the waterline. Never abandoning me, Lucy adjusted my mask, pulled me out of the current and got us back to the boat. “Buddy” gained new meaning after that.

We were overdue for a celebration. It was Saturday, the big night in Bonacca. Javier rounded up every willing guest and Enrique, the hotel’s driver, revved up one of the BWBs (big white boats).

Approaching the twinkle of Bonacca, our boat tied up against the barnacle-crusted stilts supporting the Mountain View Club, Bonacca’s No. 1 disco. We leaped onto the veranda, and when our group hit the floor, the bar stools suddenly emptied and the music revved up to the boom of reggae, Guanaja’s rhythm of choice. I’d done the salsa and merengue in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, but it took a Bonacca local to teach me to reggae. Danny, a 25-year-old hipster in bun-hugging jeans, planted his feet and shook like a hurricane. He came out dancing every night, he told me; by day he sold lobsters, crabs and conch. I gathered that life on Guanaja was sweet. He, his parents and grandparents were born here. “We have the best drinking water in the world,” he said of the island’s natural springs.

The bugs? “Oh, they don’t be molesting me at all.”

*

Toward the end of my visit, Lucy, Jim and I took a boat taxi to check out the Bayman Bay Club on the other side of Guanaja. From the dock, a long flight of wooden stairs climbed into the jungle, where a tree-house universe unfolded. It was Robinson Crusoe to the max, complete with caged parrots and dripping vines.

The triple-decked clubhouse, held aloft on great stilts, housed the restaurant and bar, a library, game room and a breezy crow’s-nest observation deck full of hammocks. We followed skinny wooden walkways to the 16 simply furnished cabins roosting throughout the inn’s 45 acres, overlooking a small, palmy beach. The one I wanted to stay in was No. 9, “The Tarzan and Jane Primal Scream Room,” with a bed swathed in netting, a hammock under a mango tree and a shower that drained into the rain forest below.

As I settled in for a pina colada at the clubhouse, the resort was steeped in the music of insects and wide open to the smell of the sea, with lavender light on the water. The scene epitomized Guanaja at its most exotic, a backwater destined to evolve at its own natural pace.

GUIDEBOOK

Off the Mosquito Coast

Getting there: From Los Angeles, there are regular flights to Honduras on Continental, American and LACSA--all require changing planes to get to Guanaja (call airlines for details). Local airlines SAHSA and Islena fly to the island of Guanaja from Tegucigalpa, the Honduran capital, and from La Ceiba and San Pedro Sula, both on the western mainland, for about $80 round trip. Continental flies daily to Tegucigalpa from L.A. via Houston, then continues to San Pedro Sula. American flies four times a week, via Miami, to San Pedro Sula (fares for both U.S. airlines start at $550 round trip). LACSA flies to La Ceiba via Mexico City. Both resorts listed below offer special land-air packages with reduced flight fares.

Where to stay: The Bayman Bay Club (telephone 800-524-1823 or 305-370-2120) is the jungle-lover’s preference, with rustic ambience. It has 13 treetop bungalows with balconies, ceiling fans, private baths and ocean views, plus a well-equipped clubhouse/dining room. A seven-night package per person, double occupancy, is $675 for divers (two boat dives per day, one night dive, unlimited shore dives) and $625 for non-divers; the rate includes three meals per day and various outdoor excursions. Rates rise to $775 and $725 (non-divers) after Dec. 19.

The Posada del Sol (tel. 800- 642-3483 or 407-624-3483) is cushier and more expensive. This tile-roofed Spanish-style lodge has 23 rooms, top-notch meals and a pool. Cost for seven nights, per person, double occupancy, is $850 for divers (three boat dives per day, one night dive, unlimited shore diving) and $650 for non-divers, including all meals and various excursions. Prices valid through 1993.

When to go: Early spring (February, March, April) is the prime, when the weather is cooler and more comfortable. July, August and September can be hot; October, November and December tend to have brief tropical downpours.