Chapter 18: Panama

Suka and her crew were departing on a carefully calculated itinerary, one I had designed toward the easiest and safest passage to California, coastwise along Southwestern Central America. The Caribbean's cyclone season had nearly finished, and en route to Panama we would be generally skirting the cyclone belt to its south. My timing called for us to enter the Pacific in mid October. The hurricane season for the Northern Pacific waters adjacent Latin America generally finishes by the first of November, and often there is a few week's gap after the cyclone season, and before the onset of the strong north-westerlies. This gap was my intended window, and our plan was to depart Costa Rica heading north in early November, then to cover as much distance as quickly as possible.

As such, we weighed, that 25th day of September, 1985, and pointing Suka's bow west, filled away.

Passage from Bonaire to Panama

Driven in a 15 knot south-easterly, Suka slid past Klein Bonaire, and sailed to within sight of the island Curaçao before nightfall. Ironically, I was the first one to see the island, even though I had been napping below while Jenny and Debborah sat at watch in the cockpit. Rising, I stepped out the companionway to find the girls engaged in idle conversation. "Excuse me," I interrupted, "We're heading straight for Curaçao. I could only assume that had I continued napping, eventually they would have realized that the vessel's heading was in need of the minor adjustment, to spare us smashing full tilt into Curaçao's reefs.

Back down below in my bunk, I pondered a poem my grandmother had taught me in my youth. It was Eugene Field's "Winken, Blynken, and Nod" who one night:

“Sailed off in a wooden shoe,
sailed on a river of crystal light,
into a sea of dew...

The old moon laughed and sang a song
As they rocked in the wooden shoe:

And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew...”

Some 20 miles farther on, in the wee hours of the night Suka sped past the island of Aruba. The wind was blowing 25 knots and the seas were lumpy. And here a strange event occurred. Jenny was standing watch at the time; rather, she was reclining within her sleeping bag while braced in the cockpit. Debborah lay sprawled asleep in the lee bunk to starboard, and I slept on the port settee. The hatch, the skylight, and some of the ports stood open to admit the needed ventilation. Suddenly, a rogue wave smacked Suka beam on. Green water poured below and struck me full force - not with a casual splash, but in bulk: two or three bathtubs-full it seemed. Awakened, I lay wallowing for a few seconds in a stupor, trying to make sense of the water swashing from side to side on the cabin sole. The invading saline had shorted a pocket tape player's power switch, and the devise was struggling weakly to play music; and its squeaky sound only added to the moment's drama. I had been reasonably certain of our sea room, yet my first rational response was to rush topsides and determine if perhaps we were about to collect some uncharted reef. I saw no land, and noticed that the depth sounder was indicating no bottom. The exigencies addressed, I turned my attention to Jenny, who appeared to have crawled out of a swimming pool, sleeping bag and all. Understandably, she was not pleased, and less so when she learned that the inundation had somehow missed Debborah altogether.

I pumped the bilge in fifty strokes, at nearly a gallon per stroke, then we began assessing the water damage belowdecks, which was not much.

By the following day the seas were easing, the wind slackening, and Suka gurgled along at a cheery 5-1/2 knots under her working sails: the mainsail and jib. The cabin was beginning to dry, and the voyage was approximating another of those poetic dream-like voyages conjured by some uninformed poet (ruffled the waves of dew, indeed) - when we sighted a ship headed our way. A big ship. A check with the hand-held compass indicated that, indeed, the vessel was headed on a collision course. When Jenny issued a call on the VHF, the captain replied that he was "passing well in front of us sir...ah... Ma'am." We waited, watching, expecting that at any moment the mammoth freighter would begin the necessary course change on our behalf, so as not to run us down. When finally we could wait no longer, I asked Jenny to inform the skipper that we were instigating a course change to port. I then swung the rudder hard over, and hove to. "Roger, roger," came the reply in broken English. "You are altering to port, and we are continuing on our present heading." This they did, indeed, and soon we were watching the Mineral Hoboken plow through the place we would have been, had we not altered course. Soon we were bounding frightfully in the ship's colossal bow wave, which shook our little brig like a mouse in a cat's jowls. Letting draw and gathering way, we resumed our heading and watched the ship steam over the horizon in the direction of Belgium. And for the third time during our voyage I pondered the stunning realization that had we been sleeping belowdecks, Suka would probably have collided with a ship on an otherwise vacant sea.

In the days to come, the wind slackened further, and as we rounded the northern terminus of Columbia and bore south-east toward Panama, we seemed to have left the region of those remarkably steady trade winds. The wind here became variable, first blowing from one direction then shifting altogether and necessitating a sail change, then a few hours later dying - leaving the ketch bobbing in situ until I reluctantly started the engine. These calms and variables persisted the next several days, but at least the seas were flattening, and providing a comfortable ride.

During the passage we hauled aboard a couple of sizable dorado, that is once we abandoned the expensive, rubber squid-like lure in favor of an ordinary red feather. With fresh fish, the girls prepared a variety of tasty and nourishing dishes: sashimi, ceviche, sumptuous fish cakes with garlic, spices and potatoes, dorado fillets fried in butter and garlic, dorado salad on toasted bread, and fresh dorado pan-fried in a beer batter.

“We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.”

The nearer we drew to Panama the more diminished was the wind, and the flatter the seas. The trades had given way, and the water's color had relinquished its usual aquamarine, fathomless blue, and now bore an opaque, turf-colored brine, studded with an endless variety of floating tree branches, banana fronds, and discarded bits of plastic in all shapes and sizes. Motoring endlessly across those oily seas, one had the distinct impression of nearing the ocean's end. Although the horizon was empty, with no land in sight, we hardly needed a chart to inform us that land barred the way ahead. I imagined that those early navigators, exploring these regions without accurate charts, would have experienced much the same sensation.

I wondered what it must have been like probing these uncharted regions for the first time. At least the early explorers did not have to deal with the profusion of shipboard conveniences we contemporary sailors cannot live without, yet which seem to have a working lifetimes measured in months. Take our ship's head, for example. Every few years its neoprene waste-pipe contracted an acute case of arteriosclerosis. A mineral-like deposit formed on the hose's inner walls, due presumably to a chemical reaction between the waste effluent and the salt water, and this deposit thickened a fraction each day until eventually it had rendered the head unworkable. And of course the ultimate and sudden failure would occur at the worst moment. At such times there was nothing for it but to make for the after-rail, and soon afterward to disassemble the connections, to convey the hose outside, and, while being careful not to drop the horribly stinky yet irreplaceable hose into Davey Jone's locker, hang it overboard and pound it unmercifully with a hammer to dislodge its tenacious deposits.

Also, Columbus never had the watchkeeper jump down the hatch in the middle of the night and wake him with urgent cries that there was something dreadfully the matter with the engine. Columbus had no engine. But we did, and unfortunately at the moment, indeed, there was definitely something wrong with it. Its shut-off lever was located inside the engine room, now filled with steam, and here I realized the infeasibility of shutting down Perkins had the pall been fire-smoke instead of merely steam. The vessel had originally been fitted with a remote controlled solenoid, such that in the event of fire one could have shut down the engine from the cockpit. But one night the switch itself had nearly caught fire, as I mentioned in our Polynesian sagas, so I had dispensed with it. Curiously, this sequence seems typical of the fate of modern conveniences aboard ship. Out here in the real world, gradually and piece at a time, the gear breaks down, leaving the cruising yacht increasingly stripped to the basics. My engine shut-off, for example, was now a piece of string. At any rate, the engine was at the moment massively spewing steam and hissing like a locomotive. I reached in and pulled the string. This shut the motor off, and by the time I had found a flashlight that worked, the hissing had quit and the fog was lifting. It was Jenny who first discovered a pin-sized hole in the lower inspection plate of the coolant reservoir. With a spanner I slackened the circle of bolts, removed this plate, and found it pitted and eaten away on the inner surface like a miniature lunar landscape. Electrolysis. After sanding the plate, like a dentist I gouged out the little pits with a knife blade. Then I degreased the plate with acetone and an old toothbrush before smearing on a paste of Marine-Tex. Meanwhile, Jenny had cut a new gasket from a sheet of cork. Watching in awe, Debborah said to me incredulously, "You can fix anything, can't you?"

"Just about," I replied, shaking the flashlight vigorously.

In a few hours the Marine-Tex had hardened, being accelerated by the engine's heat. I re-affixed the plate, filled the reservoir with fresh coolant, and soon had Perkins purring along faithfully, and once again sending its reassuring rumblings through the ship.

Sighting Land

One morning before sunrise we sighted land. An hour later, while the autopilot acted as helmsman, and while the captain and first mate slept belowdecks, Debborah sat absorbing the beauty and serenity of the early morning. Suddenly a strike came to her trolling line, and she hauled in a young thresher shark. Awaking to the commotion, Jenny and I rushed to her side. We all agreed that the prospect of battling the brute aboard ship was not appealing, so I reached over the rail with a pair of pliers, and with a mighty yank removed the hook from the shark's jaw, setting it free to bite again.

All that day we traveled along the Panama coast, admiring the splendid landscapes of mountains rising abruptly behind tropically vegetated coastal flats. Occasionally the view allowed a glimpse of a grass-thatched roof or two, set back into some serene bay and hunkered right down at the water's edge.

We found our first favorable wind in days, and at 2:30 p.m, in the wake of a titanic ship we sailed into the wide entrance of the breakwater fronting the Port of Cristobal and the city of Colon in Panama.

Port Cristobal

Harbor control radioed us to anchor in "The Flats," but at that moment we were pressed beneath a heinously black cloud that had us wondering whether we would reach the anchorage before the deluge struck. We did not. The wind went suddenly frigid, and a tremendous downpour fell upon the face of earth with such vehemence that it erased any and all views, save for that of a solitary channel buoy that happened to be close by. There was nothing for it but to putter slowly around the buoy, which provided our only reference. Occasionally the cloudburst eased, albeit slightly, to reveal a ghostly and nearby ship, or even perhaps a building ashore. But then the clouds would spew forth their fury once again, blanking out the known world. Fearfully deafening bolts of lightning rent the air, as around and around the buoy we slowly motored.

Never mind the squall, no amount of rain could dampen our delight of having reached Panama, and the entrance to the Canal. Happy and undaunted, we had reached yet another milestone in our journey.

After an hour of enduring the unlit liquid falling by the bucketfuls, visibility was restored, so we putted into the midst of an assortment of eight or ten cruising yachts. And there we set the bower. Constrained aboard prior to receiving entry clearance, we enjoyed a quiet, relaxing evening in the cockpit, sipping sundowners, listening to music on a local FM radio station, and watching the big ships moving directly past the glaring lights of the busy port. The date was October 2nd, 1985 our third anniversary of cruising. The passage from Bonaire had taken seven days, and the ship's trip log read 777 miles.

!GV-p100-C18-Panama.txt::Chapter 18: Panama

The following day, the boarding officers arrived by launch and issued us pratique. We then moved Suka to pier-7 at the Cristobal Yacht Club, and Med-moored. The local immigration officer appeared and stamped our passports, and drove us to his downtown headquarters where we penciled more paperwork and paid the requisite ten dollars each for 30-day visas. Returning, we each enjoyed a frosty cold drink in the club's delightfully air-conditioned bar. Then the girls headed for the washing and drying machines, luxuries of great significance to the cruising sailor.

Most everyone we talked with warned us not to walk around the city of Colon, because of the danger of mugging. Yachtee friends, yacht club personnel, canal authorities, and even police officers - their advice was the same: don't walk the streets. Perhaps foolishly, we ventured into this infamous city several times, and indeed we received many threatening looks. We were not bothered, but certainly felt we were pushing our luck. Other yachtees told of being openly robbed and even mugged. One fellow had been accosted twice. "I was standing on a street corner under an awning, waiting for the rain to stop," he told us, "when the man I was talking with suddenly grabbed my front pocket and ripped it off my jeans, and ran off with my billfold."

However, the yacht club with its relative security was a haven of refuge - as if a small, tranquil island in a large stormy sea. We spent most of our time there, working aboard by day, and enjoying a late afternoon cold beer and an evening meal at the club.

We visited the Assistant Port Captain's office to arrange our forthcoming canal transit. An officer told us that small yachts were no longer permitted. The inference was that we would have to sail around the horn. After a few long moments, he allowed that he was only joking - much to my relief. These Americans who staffed at the Commission seemed somewhat embittered about the future, 1999, transfer of the canal to the Panamanians. "Who cares?" one fellow told us. "This canal thing (the transfer) is a big joke, and we're down here just biding our time." Nonetheless, I could not help but notice that they had not forsaken their efficiency, for they processed our quantity of paperwork speedily and cheerfully.

One of the forms I signed was a release to the effect that "(Suka's) chocks, bitts, and cleats were of insufficient size, radius, or strength" and that her "mooring lines may not be of the required strength." I considered our gear more than adequate, but as I would later learn, I was grossly underestimating the tremendous forces applied to a vessel by the water's turbulence within the flooding canal chambers.

Almost every day a Cuna Indian woman stationed herself in the yacht club's veranda to peddle her wares: a sizable spread of brilliantly colored, hand sewn appliqués, called molas. We bought several during the course of our two week stay, and with the passing of time Eloisa slowly relaxed and proved herself most affable - despite the strictures of the Indian's cultural taboos. Debborah had just spent two years among South America's indigenous peoples, so she had a special fondness for such people. Eloisa took to embracing Debborah and hanging all over her like a grandmother. They made a quite a sight: the Indian bedecked in her work-a-day colorful garb of molas, her forearms and legs sporting bands, her nose pierced with a golden ring and marked with a black, vertical line to ward off devils - and the California girl dressed in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. I missed that photo, but got a couple of Jenny instead.

Some days, however, another Cuna woman would be there selling molas as well, and on these occasions Eloisa would give us not so much as a perfunctory nod. For awhile we thought we were seeing Eloisa's much less friendly twin sister. But it was Eloisa all right, and as the days passed we realized that she was bound in a culture that shunned relations with the outside world, save trading for the almighty dollar of course. Only when no Cuna witnesses were present was Eloisa free to be warmhearted with us.

The following day, a Panamanian admeasurer arrived with tape measure, calculator, and rather bulky file of paperwork in hand, intent on calculating Suka's net and gross tonnage. This figure would be used to compute her canal transit tariffs. Nervously the officer admitted that this was his second-ever admeasuring job, and the first time doing it alone. He spent nearly two hours measuring the brig inside and out, while poring over his figures at the salon table. Thoroughly confused, at certain intervals he would remeasure something. Presumably my holding my end of his tape comically short at many of the stations was not helping his plight. Even so, his computation put Suka at a net tonnage of 18. Finally he showed me the hastily drawn notes that his boss had sent with him. These were based on years of experience, and estimated Suka at 14 tons. When further fudging of this fellow's figures proved fruitless, he concluded: "Let's just say the boat is 15 net and 16 gross." And these became the official figures on Suka's formal transit documents.

Back at the canal office we paid the one-time only US $50.00 admeasurement fee, and the toll of $55.00. Months later we received a refund of $37.00 by mail. Thus, Suka's actual transit toll was a mere $18.00, including the all-day services of an on-board canal advisor. This was an incredible bargain, considering the alternative.

Overland Trip by Car

SPlacing Suka under the watchful eye of our American neighbors Chris and Jean Kelly aboard their yacht Sobriana, Jenny and I rented a car and the three of us drove overland to Panama City.

The land was covered everywhere in lush greenery, this being the rainy season. Our drive was a scenic one indeed, but we soon found that the Panamanian roads belong mainly to the buses. Outrageously decorated in bright colors, and with comical gaudy gobs of long streamers attached to the mirrors on either side, the buses hurled along the two lane highway at express speeds. One horn-blaring bus driver finally passed when I veered suddenly into the oncoming lane and jammed the brakes, whereupon we were engulfed in its sooty plume of noxious exhaust, and then afforded a brief respite before the arrival at our rear bumper of the next garish transport.

We came to a high bridge crossing the Rio Chagres, which feeds the voracious locks of the Panama Canal (52 million gallons of water is required for each of the 40 or 50 ships that transit a day, it is said). We slowed to have a look at the river, and of the valley it had carved, lying below. This was a rare opportunity to see beyond the ever present thickets, so we pulled to the side and stepped out. To the north-east, the valley narrowed and the winding river was lost in the density of the jungle. People shouting drew our attention directly below, where a dozen youths were playing in the river, jumping from boulders into a natural pool, and swimming and splashing. Some stood on the rocks, waving and shouting hellos to us, and beckoning us to come join them.

Driving on, at one point we found a congregation of buzzards circling overhead. "Those birds can really fly," I commented to Jenny and Debborah. Finally I stopped the car to take a few photographs. Buzzards may seem ugly on the ground, and with their appetites for smelly carrion, they are certainly among the least appreciated members of the winged species. However, anyone who knows much about aerodynamics and the art and lore of thermal soaring will have a special appreciation for the buzzards and vultures, as perhaps the finest in the flying and soaring genre. I had gained much first hand knowledge, having spent many hours thermaling or soaring with a hang glider in the company of such birds, studying and trying to emulate their techniques. However, I had to chuckle when the girls thought my enthusiasm for buzzards was a little daft.

The road followed a bulldozed swath through jungle so thick that the scenery remained unchanged. Bird of Paradise plants grew like weeds along the road banks; heliconias and hibiscus flashed their colors against the deep forest green; pampas grass waved in the breeze. We passed by small villages where traffic slowed and finally stopped at the Guardia stations.

Eventually we reached the outskirts of Panama City, where we discovered, of all things, a fast-food hamburger restaurant. Jenny and Debborah showed little interest, but I managed to prevail, if only just.

After our binge we selected a hotel from the tourist brochure, but finding it proved no simple matter, and in the process we became much more familiar with the city than we would have liked. That evening we went out on the town, and lo and behold I found another fast food joint. However, this was beyond the patience of the girls, and protesting I was dragged away by both arms to a pizza parlor.

The next morning we drove about the city, visited the Old City ruins, then later set out for parts north: "local north" as the inhabitants say. As anyone knows, North America is north of Panama, and the Panamanian highway, on which we traveled, went to North America. Therefore, when driving in that direction one goes north. "Not so," refutes the map.

Nevertheless, off we went, traveling "local north," or as the map indicated, south - but that is the problem with maps: sometimes they only confuse the issues. Anyway, we set off in the direction of North America. No, that cannot be correct either. Well, then, off we went in the direction that one would drive in order to reach North America. South, by the map.

Later, we stopped at a small beach resort, where the proprietor sat with us at lunch enthusiastically describing the localities many and obvious attributes. "Which way are you headed?" he asked. "North," I replied to test his reaction. His comprehension was absolute. "What direction is that?" I then asked, pointing at the west coast and out to sea. "South-east," he replied. "The sun comes up over the ocean right over there," pointing a little to the left. "It's a little quirk in the land that has us all confused," he admitted. "Everyone knows the highway goes north and south; it's the sun we don't believe."

The drive was was long and hot, and of the type where the passengers wither lower and lower in their seats until ultimately they reach the supine with bare feet extended from the car's open windows. At one point the otherwise blue sky blackened, and an intense cloudburst assailed the area, obliterating any view of the road ahead and inundating the pavement in several inches of water. All too soon, though, the clouds passed, and after the sun had seared the tropical earth awhile, one could hardly tell that the deluge had been real.

Reaching the city of Santiago late in the afternoon, we checked into a small motel. The girls elected for a browse of the shops and a quick dinner at a Mexican restaurant. I was more inclined to relax quietly with a news magazine and a bag of chips. I awoke well after midnight, prompted by the aromas of my Mexican dinner the girls had kindly fetched from the restaurant. My feast drove Jenny and Debborah to bury their heads underneath their pillows.

The drive the following day proved significantly more interesting, as the road began climbing into the higher districts. The dense, impenetrable vegetation of the lowlands began thinning, and this allowed a view of the countryside. Whereas before we saw only two parallel walls of green jungle flanking the highway, here we viewed immense mountains of the Cordillera Central towering in the distance, and numerous, capacious and fast flowing rivers coursing beneath bridges. This was the Chiriqui province.

We arrived at the city of David, (Daw-veed') Panama's northernmost municipality of consequence, which incidentally on the map lies on a latitude more southerly than does Colon and Panama City. From here we left the Pan-American Highway, and followed a lesser road that climbed into the mountains proper. The higher the road climbed, the more its views expanded. This is dairy country, known for its rich grazing land, and many of the locals, being descendants of Swiss emigrants, lived in beautiful chalets. "This is Panama?" we asked one another incredulously.

Boquete

At last we reached our destination: the village of Boquete (Bo-ket'-tay) a study in tranquility, nestled in a valley overshadowed by mountainous volcanoes. This is coffee country. Most residents owned at least one small finca, or coffee farm, either in their yard or tucked away on a mountainside. Also, nearly every back yard featured a modest orchard of orange trees, loaded and drooping ponderously with succulent fruit. Towering above the city, Volcan de Baru - Panama's highest peak - rose to 11,450 feet and beckoned mountaineers to explore.

After checking into a pension - a small hotel charging modest rates - we strolled about the town. Here we felt rather obtrusive; the people obviously did not see many tourists, as evidenced by most of them staring at us, although without meaning offense.

Jenny:

We were glad to be touring the highlands during the rainy season. Flowers were blooming profusely, fields were a patchwork of vibrant greens in various hues, and the air was clean and fresh. We inquired in a couple of the shops as to where we could purchase fresh coffee beans, and were directed to the office of one Doña Toby Hackett, manager of the Associo: a local, coffee-bean processing cooperative. Toby was a congenial American who preferred the slower pace of life in Boquete, and who had been living here for 20 years. She gave us an insight to the coffee grower's life in the highlands of Panama, and escorted us on a personal tour of the Associo.

Here the villagers bring their harvest of ripe coffee beans to be processed, bagged and exported. First, the red seeds are washed as they tumble down a wooden chute, sluiced with fresh water piped from a nearby river. A chafing machine removes the dried husks. After "pulping," a fermentation process that brings out the flavor, the beans are spread under the hot sun to dry, roasted to remove the moisture, and poured into 100-pound burlap sacks, ready for the Panamanian coffee market. Much is exported to the States, where, according to Toby, the coffee is "adulterated with legumes, lentils and other cheap fillers."

On parting, Toby presented us with a couple of kilo bags of the Associo's premium roasted, aromatic ground coffee. Later, aboard Suka we brewed some of this and found it wretched. This is where we leaned that we had been accustomed to blending coffee containing fillers, and as such, I had brewed this genuine coffee far too strong. I tried again, using only one third the amount of grounds we normally used, and the coffee was delicious.

Volcan de Baru

Interested in climbing Volcan de Baru, we inquired around town as to the best approach to the mountain. Curiously, though, each person gave a different reply. "Well, I think there's a dirt road," said one woman, "but I don't know if it goes all the way to the top. Anyway its the rainy season and that road will be a mess. You'll be up to your knees in mud."

"That's at least a two-day climb," said another. "Volcan de Baru is not an easy hike, but a friend of mine knows the way."

We asked to speak with this friend. "Yes, there is a track up there," the friend offered, "but it's really hard to find. I can guide you to the top for only $25."

Surely, we imagined, we could find our own way. We drove to the periphery of the village, and walked the steep streets at the mountain's base. But we could not find the dirt track we were looking for. Later that evening we asked the señora at our pension if she knew the way. She said that her son had been to the top of the volcan. We talked with this young man, and he explained how to find the jeep track.

The following morning before first light, we drove to the end of the paved road, as the young man had described, then in the crisp mountain air we set off on foot up the steep track. Debborah did not accompany us, as she wished to spend the day exploring on her own. We were unaccustomed to strenuous hiking, or to the higher elevation, so of necessity our pace was slow. We seemed to gain altitude rapidly, though, and soon the sun greeted us with its first rays of light and warmth. Below were magnificent views of the valleys, while overhead, persistent clouds shrouded the surrounding peaks, blocking our view to the south, where we might have seen the Pacific.

On the volcano's lower slopes the rain forest comprised a dense wall of vegetation alongside the track. Most of the flora seemed in a perpetual struggle for soil, space, and light. Ferns grew in tall thickets; wild flowers bloomed in profusion; and bromeliads clung to tree trunks and branches. These bromeliads grew in such abundance that many had fallen to the ground, perhaps as a means of propagating the species. Despite all the verdure we were surprised to find no creeks, rivulets or springs. And contrary to what some of the villagers had said, the track was dry.

Gradually we passed from the lower rain forests into a montane zone of pines and cedars, where in shaded glens we found small groves of intricately patterned bamboo. Then reaching a low cut along the extinct volcano's rim, we looked down into the crater, long ago nearly filled and heavily vegetated.

We forged on, and eventually passed through timberline. As we approached the mountain's summit, the track became even more steeply inclined. Near the top is a microwave relay station, which accounts for the track we were following. We passed the station buildings, where the road ended, and followed a footpath to the top of Panama's highest peak. The air was cold, especially to our tropically acclimatized blood. Grey clouds moiled around us. On the far western horizon was Costa Rica's Cordillera de Talamanca, and northern extension of Panama's central mountain range. Somewhere in the mass of mountain tops blending with heavy rain clouds lay Chirripo, Costa Rica's highest peak. The freedom of the hills was now flowing in our blood, and as we retraced our steps from the peak we discussed the possibility of also climbing Chirripo. By car from Boquete it would have been only an hour's drive to the Panamanian-Costa Rican border. But Suka was waiting, and we decided it best to attend to our canal transit before spending time sight seeing in Costa Rica.

We walked quietly down the road, each absorbed in our own thoughts. I wondered where we would be a year from now. As I recalled the year past, an interesting coincidence occurred to me. One year ago to the day we stood surrounded in misty clouds, marveling at our lofty location atop Reunion Island's Piton de Neiges. This boundless globe we were circling again seemed immense.

Half way down we came upon a pick-up truck parked on the steep grade. Three men stood at the back, their attention focused on something intriguing. The men appeared surprised to see us tromping down the road. We exchanged greetings and learned that they were scientists sponsored by the National Science Foundation, studying anopheline mosquito larvae - the malarial transmitters. They were collecting specimens from bromeliads, and they showed us how the leaves of this plant form a natural, water-holding cup at their base. These cups were but one of the many habitats of mosquito larvae.

We arrived back at the car late in the afternoon exhausted and thirsty, but happy. Tomorrow we would return to Panama City, and soon enough we would be preparing for the canal transit and our trip north-westward along the Central American coastline.

Ray:

With regret the three of us left the sleepy, hanging valley of Boquete. Like many of the interesting places we had visited, here was a beauty, a charm, and fascination that deserved more time. As always, though, our main concern was for Suka, and we knew that the longer we extended our forays, the less likely we would find her undisturbed.

We arrived in Panama City late that night, and found a hotel. Then the next morning, dawn found us traversing the breadth of the long, thin isthmus of Panama, from the Pacific to the Caribbean coasts.

Nearing the outskirts of Colon we were approaching one of the usual Guard stations so frequently seen, when an officer motioned vigorously for me to stop. I went inside the station thinking he wanted to have a look at my credentials. He asked to see my driver's license. "You went through the stop sign," the officer asserted, pointing to a stop sign directly behind where I had parked the car. Curiously, the sign faced in the opposite direction. I was in no position to argue, however, especially with his machine gun wielding sentry glaring at me. The officer wrote me a traffic ticket for $50.00, but thinking I might be able to reduce the "fine" I said that I did not carry that much money. Without a moment's deliberation the fellow said that my driver's license would be delivered to Colon police headquarters, where I could present my $50 for its redemption. When I asked for the location of the station, he asked me to leave.

Arriving at the yacht club, we were relieved to find Suka lying quietly and undisturbed. Stepping belowdecks, however, we found the cupboards, walls, overhead, and sole had sprouted a thin coat of gray-blue mold. My mistake for having closed the hatches, skylight, and the ports. The hot, humid climate coupled with lack of air circulation had precipitated the parasitic growth. But a liberal application of elbow grease and vinegar soon remedied the problem.

We kept the rental car for the day, and drove to the gas station six times, refilling plastic diesel jugs and returning aboard to empty the fuel into Suka's bilge tanks. Also, we purchased victuals at a large supermarket. The cashier chided me for withdrawing the money from my shoe. "They just cut off your foot," she related. From there we drove to a propane bottle filling station, and then to the Canal administrative office where we scheduled Suka's transit, a few days hence.

We spent two days preparing Suka for the long voyage ahead. While the girls busied themselves with the usual endless domestic chores, I spent most of my time in the engine compartment. Perkins was running hot, and prohibitively so at higher rpm's. This was a persistent disorder that was to worsen during the weeks to come, despite my best efforts at determining its cause.

The Panama Canal

Transit day, we rose early and set to work scrubbing the anchor and mooring lines, which, along with Suka's hull, were coated liberally with crude oil - large patches of which occasionally floated by, as though a tanker had wrecked in the vicinity.

Besides a canal advisor (Panamanian pilot) and helmsman (myself), we were required to carry four line handlers. The authorities had deemed Jenny and Debborah as qualified, if only just, so we needed two more. We had received a few unsolicited offers from other yachtees eager to see what the transit entails prior to taking their own vessel through. Also, the club provided a list of locals ever eager for a free ride. Yet as a goodwill gesture I employed one of the more friendly if slightly less dishonest yet nonetheless needy yacht-club-sanctioned workers. His name was Poncho, and at my request he brought with him one other - one of his sons.

Promptly at 8 a.m. our assigned adviser: Rogelio (Roger) Busch boarded. So with a generous supply of lunch materials, cold sodas, and snacks to see us through the long day, we set off.

The canal is 50 miles in length, and the sailboats were prohibited from overnighting along the way. So our day would be a long one, especially considering that our top speed was limited to 4-1/2 knots because of the engine overheating problem.

The initial three locks would lift Suka 85 feet to Gatun Lake. To negotiate these, we were assigned to side-tie to a trawler, which would in turn side-tie to a tug, which would side-tie to a chamber wall. Our three-vessel raft would occupy the scant space remaining directly astern an immense cruise ship - immense at least from our perspective.

Entering the first chamber, we learned that the cruise ship was required to maintain her colossal propellers slowly spinning. These were sending back a strong prop wash, creating the sensation of motoring the brig up a turgid river. Our advisor cautioned me to maintain Suka's bow directly into the flow, for if we should fall away, even slightly, I would lose steerage - and as the current came to bear on one side of Suka's hull, she would be swept out of control, only to smash into one of the concrete walls. Never had Suka's long wooden bowsprit seemed so vulnerable.

Maneuvering alongside the trawler, I thought our troubles were over. But as my crew heaved our bow and stern lines to the trawler's crewmen, these fellows merely stood there, as if wondering what to do with them. Incredible as it seemed, they had no idea how to tie mooring lines! Without steerage-way, I could no longer control Suka, and it was only by our yelling that eventually these seagoing landlubbers managed to wind the lines around on-deck protrusions. At that, my line handlers quickly took slack and made the warps fast, barely in time for the brig to snub hard against them. Our fate rested in those fickle windings aboard the trawler, which, incredibly, held.

The Herculean chamber doors slowly swung closed astern, thus concluding Suka's travels in the Caribbean. Huge valves were opened somewhere below, such that fresh water from Gatun Lake began filling the lock. The water's turbulence increased markedly, and Suka began bucking like a wild stallion tied to a corral fence and hell-bent on busting loose. The significance of the release form I had signed back in the APC's office finally dawned on me.

Suddenly we heard a horrible CRACK! It was the tugboat's aft hawser, a line 1-1/2 inches in diameter, parting in the strain. Perhaps we should have rounded the Horn, I conceded. But the American tug's crew adroitly jumped into action, and tossed a heaving line to their equally adroit fellows ashore. Within seconds another hawser was made fast, and our three vessel raft was secure to the wall once again.

In the commotion I scarcely noticed that our microcosm was slowly ascending the monolithic concrete walls. After the lock had filled to capacity, gates opened at the opposite end, and the electric mules, cabled to the cruise ship, pulled this mammoth boat into the next chamber. At our signal, the crew of the trawler released our lines, and we stood off waiting for the tug and trawler to reset themselves into the next lock.

Twice again we repeated motoring into position against the harrowing prop blast, fortunately without mishaps. Then as we slowly rose for the third time I pondered the engineering marvel here: the canal-locks are gravity fed from Gatun Lake; the big ships are lifted without the use of pumps.

The final gates opened to one of the world's largest man-made fresh water lakes. Wonderment aside, Roger advised me to make all haste, as a container ship was fast approaching from the opposite direction.

I had been looking forward to reaching Gatun Lake, which represented our only chance during the round-the-world voyage to navigate fresh water. The well-marked channel winds 23 miles to the lake's opposite shore, but Roger directed us through the "Banana Cut," a slightly shorter route. Once out of the busy shipping lanes, he then directed us to stop for a 15-minute break, to enjoy a refreshing swim. We moored to a buoy, then leaping overboard I discovered that I did not float nearly as well, and that Suka's water line was up about an inch, such is the difference in buoyancy between salt and fresh water. While the gang splashed about, I worked at cleaning Suka's hull with a piece of carpet, wiping away some of the algae that had accumulated during the past two months since our departing Bonaire.

Shoving us slowly across the vast lake, Perkins chugged away faithfully, if feverishly. So eventually we reached the most famous portion of the canal, the Gaillard Cut - a trench excavated eight miles through the Continental Divide. The intense tropical sun beat down brutally, prompting us to rig the large cockpit awning. With Suka thus attired, we bantered that we were emulating The African Queen.

Reaching the Pedro Miguel Locks, we learned that, as had been the case in the ascending locks, we would share the descending ones with a big ship. However, this time we would "center chamber", meaning that we would secure the ketch using four lines ashore, one from each quadrant. But first, in fading daylight we had to side-tie to a quay directly in front the lock, to await the ship's arrival. An hour later the ship arrived, but to our dismay we saw that apparently the captain had been in too much of a hurry, and was now experiencing some difficulty slowing the boat. These massive vessels typically require several miles of full reverse power to come to a stop. Unfortunately, Suka lay less than an eighth mile directly in this ship's path. Our first indication of trouble were the two large tugs pushing the behemoth mightily on the nose - with notably little effect. Two ship-lengths away, cables were tossed ashore and made fast to immovable bollards. The ship's cable winch brakes applied full power, and began screeching and howling like banshees. Still, she came. Suddenly a bow cable parted with an explosion. Quickly another was launched ashore and secured, but the ship's momentum continued to carry her forward. The powerful tugs tore water from beneath their sterns and hurled it into the air. As a last resort, the tugs repositioned, and slammed the ship's great bow into the wharf, grinding the hull terribly against concrete. And at last, less than half a ship-length away from us, she came to rest.

With a few more gray hairs added to my rapidly growing collection, I motored Suka into the lock ahead of the ship, and stopped short of the far end. At that point, workmen ashore were supposed to throw us lines. But no workmen were to be seen. That helpless feeling came upon us once again, and Roger's otherwise durable patience suddenly eroded. Justifiably, he began castigating the obviously under-motivated shoreside personnel to "get the lead out and throw us the lines, NOW!" Eventually he received what he asked for, as four rock-hard monkey's fists attached to thin heaving lines rained down onto the brig. One nearly missed putting Jenny's lights out. Had it done so, perish the thought, the thrower would have no doubt won his comrades' highest accolades.

My crew members bent their bow and stern, port and starboard warps to their respective messengers, which the workmen then hauled ashore and dropped over the bollards. Then the appropriate winching on the part of my four line handlers secured Suka center chamber. The electric locomotives pulled the ship slowly into the lock behind us, the massive gates closed, and someone pulled the plug. Down we went - 31 feet, and casually so in the absence of turbulence, as my line handlers paid out their lines slowly and in unison. When we reached bottom, the gates before us opened and the shore personnel released our warps, not in unison of course. Now in darkness we motored the one mile across Miraflores Lake and into the Miraflores Locks, where we repeated the procedure twice again.

After lowering to sea level in the final lock, the gates opened to the mighty Pacific Ocean. Roger had warned me to accelerate quickly out of this lock once the gates opened, because when the fresh water mixes with the salt, a hefty surge enters the lock, rebounds off the far wall, and carries a strapping punch as it surges back out. The idea is to exit the lock before the surge overtakes the vessel, and we barely succeeded.

As we motored out into the night, light rain prompted us to again set the small awning. The channel was well marked and easily followed, although it was busy with shipping, which sent us dodging this way and that. After about five miles we passed under the Bridge of the Americas, a lattice work of steel linking the continents via the Pan American highway. From there we turned in to the pontoon wharf at the Balboa Yacht Club, where here, at last, we said fond farewells to our canal advisor and friend Roger Busch. Of Panamanian extraction, Roger was bright, genial, and conscientious, and his company had meant much to us. Now 10 p.m, he was faced with a three hour drive across the isthmus to reach his home. What a long day's work it had been for him.

The closer we had come to Balboa, the more belligerent Poncho had become. He now wanted booze. But having endured his grumbling and his disagreeable attitude most of the day, my generosity toward him had waned. Standing on the wharf, he grabbed his pay. And when I paid his son, Poncho grabbed that also then stormed off into the night.

I inquired of the Yacht club's night keeper if there might be a buoy we could secure to for the night. Hesitating, he assigned us one, on the stipulation that we would be away at first light, which, indeed, was our intention.

We motored Suka among myriad yachts, and found the empty mooring and bitted its bridle. The marina was ill protected and its waters agitated, but the day had been long and trying, and we were past caring. Too tired to tidy the disheveled ketch, the three of us relaxed in the cockpit - the Captain and the girl in each arm - admiring the glittering lights of nearby Panama City.

Pacific Coast of Panama

SThe DMA pilot charts of the Pacific, adjacent Central America, suggested that the voyage's next and final leg were unlikely to be much of a picnic. The winds and current would probably be contrary. As mentioned, however, our being here at this time of the year was not happenstance. I intended plying the hypothetical window between the termination of the north-east Pacific's hurricane season and the onset of the strong north-westerlies that typically blanket the northern half of the Mexican Pacific coast. As such, my intent was to depart Costa Rica heading north in early November, and then to cover as much distance as quickly as possible.

From the Balboa Yacht Club, we rose at dawn and motor-sailed in light airs ten miles to Taboga Island, where we then laid anchor near the village pier. Jenny and Debborah spent hours scrubbing the tenacious Cristobal crude oil from Suka's hull, while I addressed the engine compartment, trying my latest ideas toward mitigating the overheating problem.

Taboga Island

Within a few hours the tide had dropped much farther than anticipated, requiring that we re-anchor farther out to avoid a nasty patch of rocks rising to meet Suka's fiberglass hull. The Pacific's 12-1/2 foot tides contrast markedly with the 10-inch ones of the Caribbean, so our having re-entered this part of the world was calling for some mental reprogramming.

We went ashore and enjoyed a relaxing stroll through the village, where at the post office I mailed to my parents a card that farcically arrived at their mailbox not until a year and a half later.

Crossing to Punta Mala

The next morning we set sail in a 12 knot westerly, and lay a course south-west across the Gulf of Panama for the distant headland with the woeful name of Punta Mala.

If the indifferent winds here did not provide the world's greatest sailing, the waters certainly did offer some of the best fishing we had seen anywhere. A medium sized sailfish was the first to attack our trolling lure. As the fish leapt into the air, and as our motorcycle inner-tube shock absorber stretched to double its length, the 100-pound-test braided nylon line parted with a resounding twang. Excitedly, we re-rigged for another try. This was our method: I made the line's business end fast to one end of a sturdy swivel. Through the swivel's other end I passed an end of a six-foot length of wire trace, then I swaged a bight in the trace, using a small copper ferule and a pair of vice grips. The working end of this wire trace I passed through one of those orange, rubbery lures resembling a long, narrow grass skirt, and which are unimaginatively dubbed "feathers." I then roved this same end of the trace through a hollow lead weight, and swaged on two hooks, back-to-back.

After paying out 150 feet of line, in a few minutes the lure attracted the attention of another sailfish. This one, however, merely nibbled. With each of its cautious bites, the inner-tube, (draped over a winch) would grab slack and stretch torturously, only to relax. In the next 20 minutes the fish enacted this routine time after time. Once, thinking to snag the beast I held onto the line, ready to give it a hearty yank. This was a mistake. Even though I wore thick leather gloves, when the big fish struck, the strain was so immense that it felt it could have torn my fingers out by the roots. Soon afterward we landed a measly little mackerel, weighty enough, however, to feed us for the ensuing two days. This brought an end to our fishing endeavors for that period of time, which seemed as well, as we could not possibly have eaten all the meat of a big sailfish.

In calm airs we motored into the afternoon and night, taking the brunt of a few electrical storms of staggering proportions, when the decks would course with rain, and our ears would ring from the exploding crashes of nearby thunderbolts. Perkins was running so hot that at the farthest I could nudge the throttle without boiling the engine coolant, Suka plodded along at a mere 3-1/2 knots. This was not the most appropriate rate of travel with which to cover the 4,000 mile length of the Central American coastline, but we could only reason that although Suka was slow, the earth was, for the moment, patient. Without wind to steady her, Suka's motion was severe, even though she flew a taut sheeted, reefed mainsail in order to help dampen the rolling. As along we gallumphed, the watchkeeper sat in the cockpit dressed in shorts and a rain jacket, and armed with an umbrella, while the others rested belowdecks.

At one point I opened the hatch to check on Debborah, and she directed my attention aloft. In the otherwise coal-black night the solitary masthead light was careening about the sky like some overgrown Fourth of July sparkler being waived about by a child. Attracted by its light, scores of small, swallow-like birds wheeled and whirred around, randomly and at dizzying speeds. (The following morning we were saddened to find a few dead birds lying about the topsides; no doubt they had collided with the mast or rigging.)

In the wee hours of a night of Stygian, impenetrable darkness we passed within a few miles of Punta Mala, and here the scene became somewhat tense, largely due to our unknown position. I could navigate only by observing the big ships passing us by. A bearing to the solitary lighthouse gave a line of position, but I had no way of knowing our distance off-shore. The depth sounder ran continuously, and indicated no bottom, but a shoreline can shoal too steeply for the sounder to give much warning. I reasoned, though, that if we held seaward of the occasional passing freighter, then indeed, deep water was assured. In the process, if we traveled miles farther off-shore than we would have done in broad daylight, at least we did so in safety.

The following morning the girls related that while I was sleeping they had seen two large whales. Steering by autopilot, Suka had come close to the motionless creatures, which appeared to be sleeping. I contemplated the dreadful consequences of colliding with one of these massive beasts in the night. At least, I reasoned, we were not moving too fast.

Punta Naranja

With the advent of daylight, we angled back towards land, and continued motoring slowly along the coastline, holding shore a few miles abeam. Then late that afternoon we closed the coast and found secure anchorage north of Punta Naranja. Again, I exerted my deductive reasoning with the out-of-kilter power plant, but without results.

Punta Naranja

Decamping at first light the following day, we sailed until later in the morning when the breeze headed us. We caught a bonito and a nice dorado, and the girls fixed sushimi for breakfast, ceviche for lunch, and batter-fried fish for supper.

Isla Medidor

Jenny:

Isla Medidor and her surrounding sister islands were on the horizon, but we often lost sight of them as squalls rolling off the nearby mainland beleaguered us with dark, rumbling cumulo-nimbus clouds that blocked the sun's light, and with rain coming down in sheets and driven sideways by the blasts of wind. Without a doubt this was the rainy season in Central America. When the squalls hit, they reduced our visibility so severely that we could only keep a strained lookout and pray that the currents were not playing games with us. Ray stood watch at the helm while Debborah and I took turns sitting outside with him and maintaining vigilance. Down below we brewed cups of tea, and hung our wet clothes to dry by the warm engine.

Isla Medidor

Isla Medidor and Malaria

The latest downpour slackened, and the surrounding gloom had begun to lift when the form of Isla Medidor appeared less than a mile ahead. With relief we studied the land, took compass bearings, then motored around to the entrance of a bight, just as the rain ceased and the spent clouds began drifting seaward. Inside the small bay the water was thickly silt laden. On the water's quiet surface floated leaves, twigs, and other debris washed from the island. We eased our way slowly toward the head of the bay, Ray at the helm, Debborah on the bowsprit, and I reading the depth sounder and calling the numbers to the helmsman. Then I climbed outside to help Debborah lower the anchor. When it rest on the seabed Ray backed down, to set it. I looked around and noticed that we were land-locked; we seemed to have stepped suddenly from a dreary, cold world into a vibrant green one full of smells and sounds of the wet and teeming jungle. The three of us took turns gazing at the surroundings through the binoculars, until at dusk a drizzle chased us belowdecks.

The next morning we unshipped and inflated the dinghy, and with camera and insect repellent went ashore to explore this uninhabited island. We wanted to hike to its highest point for a view, and in the process we hoped to see some parrots or other tropical birds. Also, I wanted to collect a sprouted coconut to take back to the boat as a galley treat. We landed on a short strip of sandy beach, and tied the dinghy to a coconut palm. The air was fragrant, and the inland soil was saturated. Shrubs and ferns sparkled with rain droplets, and new growth sprouted almost everywhere. Bromeliads clung to tree trunks, while philodendrons and other vines twisted and stretched upward toward the sunlight.

Ambling along the edge of a cleared hillside that appeared to have been cultivated at one time, we followed a narrow path continuing up a ridge. I stopped to have a look back across the small valley, and could see our footpath winding through the green carpet of grass. In the basin far below, Suka looked like a toy ship on a pond. From a high vantage we could see a mainland peninsula, and to the south a cluster of nearby islands. These were soft greens against a grey background of sea and clouds. A giant butterfly flitted by in iridescent blues and greens. A Morphos, it measured some 10 inches across. We returned to the valley floor, tromping through tangles of vines, avoiding mud holes, and stepping over rotting logs moiling with large ants. As we inspected budding orchids, and admired the plethora of tropical plants, we talked about how valuable some of them would be back home.

We paddled along the shoreline, dodging submerged rocks, and circumventing fallen trees, and found a freshwater stream cascading between tree trunks and tumbling over smooth rocks into a pool near the high water mark. Here we could have bathed or laundered clothes, but the rain had left us with no inclination to do either. So we paddled back to our floating home.

The rest of the day we attended to Perkins; Debborah and I assisted Ray as he adjusted the valves, checked the torque of the head bolts, and generally inspected the motor's external working parts. I climbed outside for a breath of fresh air while Ray worked the torque wrench, and saw three dug-out boats turn into the bay. Dark-skinned Panamanians motored by, disregarding our presence, and after landing ashore they tethered their boats and headed into the bush. An hour later they reappeared shouting and driving a couple dozen cows. Medidor was inhabited after all, with cows. Standing in the water, three men and a boy wrestled one thrashing, protesting beasts into a dug-out. And when finally they departed with their cargo, peace returned to the bay.

We were looking forward to reaching Costa Rica the next day, God willing. This small country had a certain appeal, not only because of its unique political situation, but also because we expected to see diverse and abundant flora and fauna in this "Garden of the Americas." Costa Rica: the name had an enticing ring.

Ray:

We weighed at first light and motored away from Isla Medidor with a magnificent orchid draped over the steering pedestal. What pleasing memories of the place we were carrying away, and oh, how those memories were to sour. Unknowingly, I was also leaving with a mosquito-borne souvenir in my bloodstream that was to make me regret having gone anywhere near Isla Medidor. I didn't know it yet, but I had contracted malaria.