Goodbye!

During the Panama-Galapagos crossing we had ideal wind and sea conditions and great boat speed. But this time, watching our progress on the chart plotter was different for me. As the miles ticked away, for the first time I almost found myself wishing that the boat would slow down. I was excited to make it to the Galapagos, but knew it would by my last stop as an EYE crew member aboard the William T. Piquette. We mentioned in the classroom visits last year that Adam and Alan would be sailing around the world, whereas I would be disembarking somewhere in the Pacific. It´s now time for me to say goodbye.

It seems like a long time ago that we put the final touches on the boat and backed out of the slip in Hampton on that cold, grey morning last November 2nd. A lot has changed with the boat and my relationship to her. Since we left Hampton the boat has seen the installation of a chart plotter, a radar, an AIS receiver, a life raft, reef points in the main, a working stove and oven, the anchor windlass, and a honking horn, among many other upgrades. A proper ocean cruiser.

Personally, I have gone from seeing the V-berth as a leaky supply closet to a quirky and lovable home. My view of the galley also thankfully changed; I went from being incredulous about the possibility of cooking even the simplest meal in a swell, to whipping up decently edible multi-course meal recipes while offshore, including ¨Eggplant Parmesan Dramamine¨ and Dorado Fish Curry.

Then there was the actual sailing of the boat: messing with the infinite combinations of sail trim and weather helm, controlling the wind vane with a little string, consulting the glowing compass, and typing in the chart plotter at first seemed to require the skills of a mad physicist, a puppeteer, a fortune teller, and a computer nerd respectively. I gradually developed a knowledge of the boat´s likes and dislikes. Especially when at the wheel going upwind, I began to feel almost like part of the steering assembly.

Then there was the unprecedented amount of personal contact that I could expect with the other crew members. How on earth was I going to be able to put up with Adam, Alan, and Will for 24 hours a day, 7 days a week? In short, it´s hard to describe the amount of trust and loyalty that is formed by perpetually close quarters and conditions that ranged from picturesque and fun to painful and intimidating. It was a chance to get to know extremely competent sailors and lifelong friends.

The trip was also full of memorable experiences and I´m already mentally replaying some of the highlights: the bio-luminescent dolphins jumping in our bow wake, busking in Charleston, barefoot beisbol with the kids in the D.R., bartering and grilling in the San Blas, the Panama Canal transits, watching sea lions surf in the Galapagos, catching that sailfish last week. Even some of the character building moments are already funny in retrospect: eating and hitting my head twice over the course of a 72-hour seasickness marathon in 8-foot seas during our Caribbean crossing, falling off a Haitian trash boat in the Turks & Caicos, getting comically ill in Jamaica. Overall, I feel very lucky.

In a way, Galapagos seems like an appropriate last stop. I lived in Ecuador and explored a good bit of the mainland, but said that I would save Galapagos for a future trip. I never would have imagined that I would return in a sailboat from Virginia. Aside from one night on another boat in Charleston, S.C., and a few days traveling in the D.R. and Panama, I have slept every night on board since our departure. I saw the detailed texture of the places in between airports and highways and witnessed the climate, terrain, and culture gradually change from the familiar to the unknown.

Now I will get in an airplane and in a matter of hours, roughly retrace the steps of a journey that took us 5 and a half months to complete. I know it will be an adjustment to trade brushing my teeth over the rail, scruffy beards, salty clothes, midnight watches, exotic foods, and logistics surprises, for the 8-5 work life on dry land. I will miss the adventure.

My next stops are Quito, Ecuador to visit friends and St. Louis, Missouri, to visit my family. Then back to my job in Washington, D.C. this spring and a summer internship in Connecticut before moving to London, U.K. in the fall to start a Masters program. I´m looking forward to unlimited ice cream access, a bath tub, a washing machine, a large and stationary bbq grill, the World Cup this summer, and most of all seeing my friends and family. If you would like to stay in touch, feel free to email crew@eyeotw.org for my contact info.

It has been a pleasure to, as one student put it, ¨teach us things that you learn also.¨ Seeing students´ growing knowledge has been very rewarding, from your well thought-out questions during classroom visits and web conferences, to the encouraging letters and emails and that you send us. Knowing that there are students out there who are interested and engaged was a source of inspiration for us. I hope this trip has been and continues to be as educational and exciting for you as it has been for me.

Thank you students, teachers, supporters, family, and friends for following the adventure and making this experience of a lifetime possible.

Trevor, over and out.

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The Cockpit Sessions: Volume Three

The Cockpit Sessions, continued.

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The Panama-Galapagos Crossing

In short, it was an ideal crossing. As the albatross flies, it is about 1000 nautical miles from Panama City to Wreck Bay on San Cristobal. However, to minimize number of miles spent crossing the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ- the often windless doldrums around the Equator), we took a more southerly route and then headed more westerly once the trade winds shifted into the South.

We had ideal wind for most of the trip and were able to let the wind vane keep us on course most of the time. We watched a movie on deck one night when we were heading downwind and there was not much spray.

The mangoes ripened nicely. I probably ate too many, around 37 of them over the course of the crossing. I would make a cut around the long end of the seed, and then lean over the leeward rail and smash my face into the orange meat, getting all the fibers stuck in my teeth and then chewing on the big seed. Then I would spit it and watch the almost day-glow orange blob disappear into the dark, deep blue water. On a scale from one to exquisite these mangos scored a 10, and the marginal utility of eating each one seemed to hold constant, breaking a fundamental assumption of microeconomics.

One afternoon we filmed a jam session in the cockpit- the video of us playing 4 songs is posted on the website as “The Cockpit Sessions.” Before Will started filming, we had a bite on the big fishing rod and as I tightened the reel we heard a loud “bang!” as the line snapped. The line had been mildly twisted the night before when our swivel stopped swiveling, and so was probably weakened. We lost a brand-new generic Mahi-Jet lure that looked like an appetizing green squid and featured a rattling noise and jet bubble action. After losing it, we had restocked the reel with 40-pound test line.

Just after we finished playing music, we heard the reel scream and saw it bend over. I twisted the reel tight and then let out line (having learned from the last time). It was an epic 30+ minute fight, with a total team effort- Adam, Alan and Will took the pole off the headsail, took down the headsail, stuffed it into the V-berth, passed me the pole around the spreaders and stays, slowed the boat down and prepared for the epic landing well after sunset. Adam saw the fish jump, but I did not see the monster until he shined the spotlight into the water as night fell. We could not believe our eyes! We landed it and jumped it on the bow and the coup de grace was dealt with our anchor windlass handle.

Alan cleaned and cut up the beast as I dumped buckets of water on it. Will battered and fried the first of 5 fish lunches and dinners while I took a shower and started my watch. The moon rose off the port side, bright red and almost full. It slid up into the flat bottom of a cloud bank that was a couple of degrees off the horizon and looked like a muted upside-down sunset. The fish dinner tasted delicious. That was April first.

As we approached the Equator a few days later, we gathered in the cockpit and prepared to buzz/shave our heads and swim a lap around the boat to mark the transition from ‘pollywogs’ to ‘shellbacks.’ I was initially not planning on buzzing my head and instead just shaving my irritating beard, but I think it would have been bad luck. Looking goofy is better than tempting fate.

The days flew by and it was definitely more restful with four people to take watch instead of three.

Finally, we approached landfall on Santa Cristobal and it was time for my last night watch- the easy 8-11. We were motor sailing because the wind had died earlier that day. The wind vane was not working very well so it was a hand steering watch behind the wheel sitting against the mizzenmast on the captain’s box. I wore shorts, my foully jacket, headlamp, glasses, pfd, safety harness, a new buzzed haircut and sketchy moustache.

Predictably, the stars were phenomenal. It looked like the sky was made out of a sheet of black construction paper and somebody had placed a bright white light behind it and poked holes in the sheet. I took my eyes off the compass and navigated our course of 240 degrees by keeping Sirius (the brightest star in the night sky) over our port bow in a visual triangle formed by the spreader, shroud, and mast. I also listened to a playlist on my IPod that is based on a Boards of Canada station that I made on Pandora Radio before the trip. Over the past month I have been smashing these tunes into my head with repeated listenings so that I will remember this trip when I listen to them in the future.

I realized that I was thinking about how to write this post instead of putting all my concentration on steering. I think there is a balance between mentally composing a narrative of what is happening and simply being present for the moment. As my time on the boat has been winding down over the past few weeks, I find myself writing more in my head so that I can post it before forgetting what happened. It was a unique crossing and I hope I’ll be able to look back at its positive memory for a long time.

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Last Days in Panama

Our final Pacific preparation involved tons of provisioning for food and moving the boat to Taboga Island, outside of Panama City, for some boat work. Taboga was like a Panamanian version of Santorini- a colorful, hot, and quiet town built into the hillside on a natural bay. We spent a couple of days varnishing, cleaning, waxing the hull, and scraping the barnacles off the bottom. We also enjoyed the beach and discovering the town. We saw some niños eating homemade frozen bag popsicles so we asked them where they got them. We were led on a long, winding journey up the town hill where we bought them for 25 cents from a talkative entrepreneurial 5 year old who refused to remove a popsicle from her stained mouth while communicating with us. We also made use of the charcoal grill to cook some bbq curry vegetables and hot dogs. We motored back to Panama City the next day past lots of anchored freight ships waiting to enter the canal.

Two days before we left Panama, we busted out the folding bike and razor scooters, loaded them in the dinghy, and transported ourselves to Balboa Yacht Club, with which we have a complicated relationship. We did laundry and ate dinner while being serenaded by a great cover band playing North American rock music of the 90s. On the way back, we stopped by a parking lot with mango trees that Adam had scoped out. We boosted each other up or stood on trash cans in the dark, filling a bag with more than one hundred small green mangoes. We took frequent breaks to sample them to make sure they were still tasty. Our faces got sticky and Alan started throwing rotted mangoes around as if he was an ape.

The day before our departure, we motored over to Flamenco Marina to buy diesel for our tank, fill our jerry cans, and fill our water tanks. We also made an unusual splurge for 3 huge bags of ice that completely filled our cooler. This would prove a wise decision a week later… Later that day we made one last trip to the grocery store to load up on cans and provisions that would be scarce in the Pacific. That night we were joined by our new fourth crew member, Will. It was nice to meet him and know that the V-berth will be in good hands once I leave the boat in the Galapagos.

The next day was our departure date (March 30^th). I went on a long goose chase to find someone who was willing to fill our fiberglass propane tank, which involved trips to 3 different Propane filling plants and copious unsolicited information on the benefits of having a steel tank. Later that day we had a much anticipated final blast from the past visit from a Tito hench-partner who took the bus from Colon to deliver us (some of) the paperwork that we still needed.

I sent a few emails, bought my return plane tickets, and called home. Then, with all the preparation finished and favorable GRIB weather data predicted, it was time to set sail for the Galapagos and start my last crossing aboard the William T. Piquette.

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Panama Canal Transits

While home alone for a week at Shelter Bay Marina, I met some friendly Italians on a steel-hulled double-ended sloop called S/V “Altrove.” They had an upcoming transit date and were in need of line handlers. I volunteered and let them know that a friend of mine, Samirah (a Brazilian girl we met on the flats a couple of weeks before), would be willing to come as well. The crew was set: it was me, Samirah (a professional foredeck hand and Olympic hopeful who has won a Rolex regatta), the circumnavigating Italian skipper Michele, his visiting friend Alessandro (a sailing instructor back in Italy), and their new friend Luisa, an Italian working as a crewmember on a private yacht. I was surrounded by highly experienced professionals! The boat was also a Babel with no lingua franca. The Italians spoke their language amongst themselves, Michele spoke to me and Samirah in a mix of Italian and Spanish, Samirah spoke a mix of Portuguese and Italian, and I did my best to speak Portuguese to Samirah, Spanish to Michele, and English to Alessandro and Luisa.

After motoring out of Shelter Bay Marina with the tire fenders tied to Altrove’s sides, we arrived in the good old industrial flats anchorage to wait for our Panamanian Transit Advisor. While we waited, I taught everyone how to play Texas Hold ‘Em Poker, and we used spare Farfalle butterfly pasta as chips, which seemed pretty stereotypical and funny.

The excellent Panamanian advisor Frank arrived around 6:00 PM, and we motored towards the Gatun locks that would raise us up to the lake. We rafted up to the starboard side of a large catamaran sailboat. Twice, the line handler at the port bow of the catamaran did not cleat off her line after taking in slack, and was unable to control the lateral movement of the sailboats. Altrove’s bow came within 20 feet of hitting the wall on the right side of the lock, but thankfully the catamaran’s other crewmembers were able to secure the line and no damage was done. The canal workers on the walls saw the Italian flag and yelled “spaghetti” and “lasagna” at us each time they took the lines, all the way through each of the 3 locks.

We made it up to the lake and onto a mooring after dark and were rewarded by a delicious, authentic penne dish prepared by the gifted cook and captain Michele. I made sure to write down the recipe.

The next day started before sunrise with the arrival of our next transit advisor, Julio. We started motoring through the well-marked channel in the lake, passing the jungle on the banks, and enormous freight and cruise ships that were headed the opposite direction towards the Atlantic. Michele let me steer for a few hours, and it was interesting to get used to the tiller (which is different from the wheel system aboard the WTP). The day flew by as we approached first the Pedro Miguel and then Miraflores locks. Our morning grogginess added to the language confusion and a couple of times our transit advisor resorted to charades to communicate.

Finally we made it through the last of the Miraflores locks- which were, along with the Pedro Miguel locks, a real let down (altitude loss joke credit- Alan).

Altrove passed under the Bridge of the Americas and we were through to the Pacific! We would have liked to have a nice farewell lunch together, but a poor reception at the crowded Flamenco Yacht Club made it necessary for me, Samirah, and Luisa to jump off Altrove’s bow and sneak out of the marina. The three of us split a cab to the bus terminal, caught a bus back towards Colon, and then another taxi back to the Shelter Bay Marina. I returned to the WTP well after dark and made the memory of Michele’s pasta shine all the brighter by fixing myself a dinner of warm water, powdered milk, and stale corn flakes.

I was happy to spend time with that crew and give a helping hand. Also, it was nice to have a practice run so that we would know what to expect for our own transit aboard the WTP. Alan, then Adam returned, and we were joined by Kelly and Deb, two of Adam’s friends from home who flew in from the U.S. They were excellent company and line handlers for our transit on March 20^th. Our transit was enjoyable, uneventful, and well-documented (see “Our Canal Transit”).

After we were safely anchored on the Pacific side, Adam and Alan returned to Colon to serve as line handlers for our Polish friends aboard S/V “Mantra Asia.” I stayed an extra day then headed back to Colon to line handle for S/V “Wendy Ellen,” an American-flagged catamaran. Aboard were Wendy and Bobby, a friendly and fun retired couple who were sailing back to their home on the west coast of Mexico.

Just like our transit in the WTP, I handled an aft line. After the Panamanian ACP employee on the wall of the lock tossed me a monkey fist knot attached to the manila string, I tied it to our 120-foot line. I sent it when told. About half the time, the Panamanian would pass the eye of our line over the ballard before our rafted boats had completely stopped. It was up to the aft line handlers to gradually throttle the line so as not to stop suddenly and put too much strain on the cleats. One time, we were rafted up to two other boats and were moving about 2 knots when the eye went on the ballard. I put one wrap around the cleat and the strain wrung the water right out of the line. I made sure to keep my fingers clear, especially after our transit advisor told me some gristly (probably exaggerated) stories.

The third transit was a success and I ended up running into 3 transit advisors and a line handler that I had met on previous trips through the canal. Each transit was a very different experience that reflected the boat and crew. Overall I had a great time, learned a lot, and hope to be back someday to do a Pacific to Atlantic trip.

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Colon, Dinghy Sails, The Jungle Base

After our trip through the idyllic San Blas Islands, we arrived in the industrial flats anchorage of Colon at the Atlantic entrance to the Panama Canal. In many ways the two places were polar opposites. The San Blas were wild, clean, quiet, and safe, while Colon was a noisy and polluted shipping hub. Freight cranes loomed over the orange glow of sulphur lamps on the loading docks and we could hear the sounds of alarms, buzzers and sirens on the wind. Colon was also by far the most dangerous place I have ever been. Even during the day, we felt that uneasy hair-raised alertness and walked quickly down the sidewalk. We took cabs whenever possible. We heard quite a few stories about violent crime from locals and travelers alike (see “The Other Side of Panama”), and were very careful.

While waiting to be admeasured for Canal transit, we became acquainted with the small community of other cruising sailors whose boats were anchored around us (see “The Trials and Trámites of Panama Canal Transit Logistics” Parts 1 & 2). Sometimes we went to shore aboard our agent Tito’s launch, and sometimes we rowed/sailed ashore.

Once, on our way to shore in the dinghy, we were stopped by a Panamanian Police boat named “Vigilance.” The officers asked where we were going and when we responded “muelle (pier) 8,” we were firmly told to return to the anchorage and call the Cristobal Signal Station traffic controller on VHF channel 12 to ask for permission to transit. Cristobal Signal was charged with coordinating the traffic of part of the Western Hemisphere’s largest naval transport hub, and it seemed funny to call them about docking our motorless 8-foot dinghy.

There was something ludicrous about taking the dinghy around the enormous port. When the wind was right, we used one oar as the rudder to steer, and the other oar as the mast for a nylon wind scoop that we hoisted as a downwind sail. It looks very goofy. We passed by the 600-foot container ship “Linge Trader” a few times as it was being loaded by four 40-ton cranes. The crew aboard, a few stories above our heads, would stop working, point, laugh and wave at us each time we scooted by.

After a few days of Canal transit bureaucracy and paperwork in Colon and varnishing/boat work on the flats, Alan’s girlfriend Taylor flew in for a visit. We went on a day trip to a rowdy beach and a ruined Spanish fort built in the 1600s.

Two days later, Adam headed back to the U.S. for a couple of weeks to take care of some business. Alan, Taylor, and I set off on a trip to western Panama. What the Panamanian public transport system lacks in comfort, it definitely makes up for with its economy and efficiency. The tricked-out retired U.S. school buses flew around the road and stopped for anyone who waved them down, whether full or not. I found myself standing most of the time, giving up my seats to a seemingly endless stream of pregnant ladies and new mothers who clambered aboard- the other males seated around me having suddenly fallen asleep.

We visited the cool, misty mountain village of Boquete, where the strong sun combined with heavy precipitation to make the whole place look like a magical greenhouse. We took a hike and got lost in the rainy dusk, making for a delicious dinner and hot shower afterwards. The next day we headed to Santa Catalina, intending to surf. The waves were a bummer but the place had beautiful Pacific views and great stars that appeared above the coconut palms. Then it was time to head back to Panama City to drop Taylor off for her flight back to the USA.

Alan and I made our way back to Colon and moved the boat from the flats anchorage to the Shelter Bay Marina. The next day, Alan also left for a week in the U.S. I was home alone and spent the week catching up on emails, applying for housing for next year, cleaning, starting the Pacific provisioning effort, and communicating with Tito about paperwork. Not much wind entered the marina, and I made a bihourly ritual of dumping a canvas bucket of seawater on the teak decks to try and cool the boat down.

I went for a couple of jogs through an abandoned military base in the jungle nearby, which had bands of savage howler monkeys in the canopy. These primates tried to intimidate me with dreadful barking/screaming noises and overhanging tree limb defecation, but their stratagem met with only limited success. There were also highways of red leaf cutter ants. Each ant had a small vertical leaf cutting stuck in its mandibles, and together they looked like an aerial view of a fleet of Optimist sailboats- a wobbly line reaching in a jungle floor regatta.

The Marina was secluded but had nice facilities and I met some new friends there. Some of them asked me to help out as a line handler aboard a Canal-transiting Italian-flagged sailboat. To be continued…

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