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…