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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The San Blas Island Life

After leaving behind the bustling streets and ubiquitous infrastructure of Cartagena, we sailed almost due west to the San Blas islands of Panama for a few days of learning about life the way it has been for centuries.

Our second stop in the Archipelago was in the Dutch Cays, at anchor in a bay between two islands. One of them was lush with coconut palms and uninhabited. The other had a small Kuna Indian village with three houses and out structures. The water was calm and clear, and the only sound was wind in the trees.

We rowed the dinghy to the hull of a shipwrecked sailboat that was sitting on a reef its port side, almost completely out of the water. It was an eerie reminder about what can happen after a simple navigation or piloting mistake or uncontrollable weather phenomenon.

Near the wreck was a group of shallow coral heads that made for incredible snorkeling. I had never seen such a variety of colorful fish! We swam around until we were a little cold, and then got back in the dinghy to row around the Kuna island. We were not sure about the etiquette or customs, or even if these Kuna spoke Spanish, so we approached slowly until we saw a group of people gathered outside a palm frond thatched hut with a smoking fire. A couple of men approached the shore, and greeted us in good Spanish, asking us what had happened to the motor for our dinghy (we don't have one).

They invited us ashore and we exchanged some pleasantries. I saw a bucket of fresh red Pardo fish, and asked if they would be willing to trade for some tasty edible items we brought from Florida. They tossed three fish into the bottom of the dinghy and waved us goodbye. I had dinner in mind before we even got back to the boat; we would inaugurate our recently-purchased charcoal grill!

We attached the grill to the stern pulpit, gave it a quick cleaning, and lit the coals. I put diced eggplant, green pepper, and onions on the grill on a folded tin foil barge and then added some Caesar dressing. Then I rinsed the fish, basted them with olive oil and some seasoned salt, seared the outside until crispy, then put them on top of the vegetables to steam. We were using hardwood charcoal, although harder to start than the briquettes sold in the U.S., it is more pure and burns for longer. So after dinner we still had plenty of hot coals. Alan's aunt had sent him a s'mores kit for Christmas, so we roasted the marshmallows and enjoyed a classic American treat. Then we sliced up and grilled a pineapple. Why not?

It was easy to adjust to the simple and relaxing lifestyle of the San Blas Islands. We hope you enjoyed the photos and posts!

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A Look Back at Cartagena

My first time in Cartagena was in 2007 for a conference. The hotel, museums, tours, banquet, and entertainment were all arranged and paid for by the State Department. We had little time to explore the city by foot, as talks and meetings dominated the schedule. It was an excellent trip to a beautiful city, but I wanted to return and have more time to explore the streets and experience it from a different perspective.

When we stopped in Cartagena last month, circumstances had definitely changed. I was living on a boat at anchor after a 5-day crossing from Jamaica, and on a budget. As we rowed ashore the first morning, I was anticipating the moment when I would recognize surroundings and be able to locate myself on an old mental map of the city.

For the next two days, we walked around the entire walled city and visited almost every plaza, making sure to stop frequently to sample the outrageously delicious and inexpensive street food: shrimp ceviche, grilled cheesy arepa muffins, homemade ice cream popsicles, fresh tropical fruit salads, sno cones, and fried plantains. We walked until we had blisters, and then taped the blisters until our feet looked like mummies, then we swapped shoes until they gave us different blisters.

We met up with some Colombian friends I made during my first visit, and we caught up over a small pizza dinner. It's hard to describe how vibrant and colorful the city is. Combine scenes from Pirates of the Caribbean and South Beach Miami, and fill them with friendly, beautiful people and delicious food.

Of course, there is much much more to Colombia than the preserved and tourist-oriented Cartagena. There are diverse landscapes and cultures across the country and places where extreme poverty and armed conflict still dominate daily life. In Cartagena, it was difficult to imagine this other side, but it is important to realize that these contrasts exist.

I felt like we made the most of our time in Cartagena. I definitely hope to be back someday, and to be able to explore more of Colombia in the future. For anyone looking for historical, romantic, and relatively inexpensive vacation spot, Cartagena is a great option!

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High Seas Humor

Sometimes I wish we had a transcript of everything we say on board here- sometimes it is really really funny. Sometimes we have lots of time to ourselves on watch to think of really really funny jokes.

The jokes on board span many different genres. One category is bathroom humor, which we will be outgrowing any day now.

Not surprisingly, each and every one of the three of us has a different style of humor. Adam combines words. For example, the other day Alan was commenting on the bay bottom being “sandy and grassy.” Suddenly Adam yelled “sassy.” That’s how it works.

Sometimes I like to combine phrases. I find two, two-word phrases that share the same middle word and then combine them and imagine the resulting item. For example- “fly paper” and “paper towels” makes “fly paper towels”: an insect-covered roll of large adhesive towels that would you would hurriedly and unsuccessfully attempt to unravel to clean up a kitchen spill. Ridiculous! The middle words can just be homophones- words that sound the same. Think “rip cord” and “chord progression”- “rip chord progression”- synchronized musical sky divers. Or how about “petroleum jelly fish” or “bean bag pipes” HAHA! If you think of any really good ones, please email them to me. Thanks.

Because we mainly hang around the same crowd each day, we used to repeat the same jokes again and again and again and again. But no longer. Instead, we have now codified our ongoing repetitive inside jokes through a sequence of numbers. This practice is actually not crazy at all- it is efficient and hilarious. Especially after sitting in the galley for a while if the propane stove is lit.

Here’s how it works; the number 5 signifies the beginning of a codified joke. From there, each joke has a number. One of the most popular jokes on board is the “impression” joke (number 6), where we do an impression of one of the other crewmembers and then we have to guess which one of us it is. It’s pretty easy to guess most of the time because of the small possibility pool and because the “impression” is usually just standing or sitting in that person’s berth (bed). Under the old way of doing things, Alan would walk into the V-berth (where I live), and say “who am I?” The correct answer would be “Trevor.” Now, Alan simply walks into the V-Berth and says “5-6?” Again, the 5 is to signify the beginning of a codified joke, and the 6 to signify the specific joke. The correct answer is still “Trevor,” but this way it is much better. You see?

We could fill a blog with the numbered list of excellent jokes, but we will spare you. Also, I have some intellectual property and copyright ambitions here. It’s never too soon to think about your career. In the meantime, don’t worry- no quitting of day job is planned.

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From the Big Dipper to the Southern Cross

The stars are very bright out in the middle of the Caribbean. During our crossing from Jamaica to Colombia there were no city lights, buildings, or haze to block them out. One cloudless night, I came up on deck to take over watch from Alan. There had been no wind for almost a day and we were motoring on a heading of 180 degrees- due south. The first thing I noticed was a strangely familiar constellation off the port bow. "The Southern Cross," Alan (our star expert) confirmed.

The Southern Cross is a constellation which is mainly seen in the southern hemisphere, but was visible in the sky just above the horizon because we were in the tropical latitudes at 18 degrees north of the Equator. It is a very distinguishable constellation, with the form of a cross or kite. The top and bottom stars of the upright cross point towards the celestial South Pole, which makes it a useful constellation for visual navigation.

After Alan went below, I took my eyes off our compass and steered the course by keeping the cross ahead. It rotated slowly across the sky from East to West over the four hour watch, and I could even see it reflected in the calm and glassy water.

Two nights later was a different story. We had killed the motor and raised a lot of sails to harness the light breezes that appeared, then started taking down and reefing the remaining sails as the wind kept building. Eventually, we were sailing under our storm jib and double-reefed mainsail. The waves and swells were keeping pace with the wind, and we were now pitching, rolling, yawing, and heaving like a carnival ride.

I slowly crawled above deck for 4 AM watch, wearing foulies, life vest, and safety harness. The wind vane steerer was well set, so I did not have to adjust the wheel, and instead watched our course on the compass and chart plotter. I eventually tried to hide from the wind and waves in the bottom of the cockpit, facing backwards and looking north- our course was still almost due south.

Well above the horizon appeared the very familiar Big Dipper constellation, complete with the two pole-pointing stars at the end of the cup that pointed down at the horizon towards Polaris, the North Star. For the rest of the night I was able to watch the dipper dance around our mizzenmast, making sure that the waves and wind shifts were not changing our heading too much. It was interesting to glance from the stars to the chart plotter radar display, using both the old and the new to try to keep the boat safe and on course.

See Alan's Crew Journal post "Future Astronomers" for more information on Celestial Navigation and Stars!

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Surf's Up Mon

Yesterday Alan and I traveled from Port Antonio to Boston Bay. We bounced around in the back of an old white van, winding through banana trees, coconut palms, and houses on hills overlooking the coast. The steering column of the van was on the right side, British style, and each time we whipped around a turn and passed an oncoming vehicle to starboard it felt a little new.

We arrived after a 15 minute ride and paid the chauffeur $120 Jamaican Dollars each. Then we walked to the wooden surf shack/office, haggled with some authentic Rastafarians for a longboard and leash rental, and took turns surfing for around 4 hours.

Boston Bay is a small inlet with bluffs on either side that create swells big enough to surf. The water was blue, warm, and salty, and the bottom was (mostly) sand. I was not very well equipped (just shorts), but it was exciting: the first time surfing in a couple of years! I paddled out past the breakers, sat up, waited out the first swell of every set, and tried to catch the biggest ones without getting washing-machined.

Neither Alan or I are expert surfers, but it was a great time. Just one quick ride on a wave makes all the paddling, salty eyes, and nose water worth it. It is a pure sport that does not require complicated man-made equipment, and like sailing, is essentially about harnessing energy from wind and waves.

After the waves started to die down in the afternoon we returned the board, passed on lots of beaded necklaces, and caught a taxi that was headed to Port Antonio. Our driver stopped for some fish tea for lunch (it smelled better than it sounds), and turned down my offer to drive us back (insurance reasons). We unsuccessfully tried to decipher her Patois conversation with another Jamaican passenger. A slow improvement on this front has been noted.

Back in Port Antonio, we stopped by the square for our first Jerk Pork- served in tin foil with white bread, accompanied by a cold bag juice: a plastic bag of juice. We dined sans utensils sitting on some rocks under tropical-looking foliage along the road to the Marina. An excellent day. RESPECT.

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