We catch a ride aboard one of the open launches, with its ear-splitting Diesel motor.


Here we are, tied to a buoy at the Balboa Yacht Cub, less than a mile from the Bridge of the Americas, the tie that binds Panama together. The Yacht Club was a bizarre wooden structure that went up in flames a few years ago and has been replaced by a tiny, one-walled bar and a mobile “restaurant” that features fried everything.

The steps from the club lead down to a block-long pier stretching out to the anchorage. A handful of open launches wait at the end to ferry us to and from our floating home. These tough steel boats, powered by air-cooled Lister Diesels, are an important piece of the history here. We’ve been looking forward to the opportunity to casually call for a “launcha” and hop aboard for an ear-splitting ride ashore. Each time I get off at the other end I have that satisfied feeling of a kid fresh off a ride at the World’s Fair.

Just 1,000 feet to the west of us is the buoyed channel that leads to and from the Miraflores Locks, the beginning of the Panama Canal. A steady flow of marine traffic passes by day and night, and watching them is the greatest show on earth. There are mystery ships carrying chemicals, munitions, crude oil and who-knows-what. The most obvious are the slab-sided car carriers bringing new wheels to the world. One morning just before dawn, we saw six blue security lights moving at high speed through the channel -- right in the middle of those escort boats was the conning tower and low profile of one of America’s finest subs!

On our first visit to Panama in March of 1989, Noriega was in charge of the military. His camp’s re-election, a fierce and questionable event, was just weeks away. U.S. economic sanctions had been in place for a year, and everyone advised us not to venture beyond the gates of the Canal Zone. Bullet holes on buildings were warning enough. Our second visit here was in the spring of 1995, and it was much different. The canal was in a state of transition, slowly moving from the hands of the Americans, who had built and run it for 80 years, to the eager Government of Panama. Politically the country was more stable, but we were still issued “safety advisories” by the local people and the American military, so again we didn’t venture far.

Just like Goldilocks, the third time’s the charm. Panama feels just right this time. We’re encouraged to visit the city, tour the countryside, shop and eat wherever we want. We can even ride the local buses. The only warnings we’ve received on this visit are common sense: don’t walk in certain areas at night … the policy we follow wherever we go.

A Zonian (a person born and raised in the area formerly known as the Canal Zone) told us about an event in Casco Viejo, one of the oldest and most beautifully historic areas of the city. The Panama Jazz Festival was happening on a stage set up in front of an ancient stone cathedral. We took in the show from a gazebo in the middle of the Plaza Cathedral, a perfect spot to watch the colorful crowd and street vendors.

One morning I met Susan from the yacht Moira at 6 a.m. and we headed to a second-growth forest on a bird-watching tour. Our guide, a youthful Panamanian, bubbled over with information on his country’s flora and fauna.

A bit of local color has been paddling past us since our arrival. Modern-day cayucas – long, open boats paddled by four people -- have been tuning up for the first of four races that lead up to the Ocean-to-Ocean Cayuca Race in April that goes through the canal. Traditional cayucas were made from a hand-carved log.

Laced between our shore excursions and adventures, we’ve been slowly stepping through the process of transiting Woodwind and crew through the Big Ditch. Our first stop was the Office of Admeasurement where Micky, an American, filled out a handful of papers for us. Ironically, he was the same fellow who measured our boat 18 years ago! That done, we had a green-light for an admeasurer to visit Woodwind to inspect our horns, ropes, running lights and to make sure we hadn’t lengthened her since our last transit. Next we went to the only bank designated for paying transit and buffer fees (money held against you if you delay the schedule in any way).

We’ve called for a transit date and are looking at Saturday, February 3. The Canal Authority will give us an advisor for the day; Bruce is the skipper; our four line-handlers will be two couples we met here from other yachts; and I will be the cook and chief entertainer for the day. Now all we need is a pound of luck to get us safely through to the other side in one day. I wonder which tienda sells that?

We did it! We’re hooked in at Balboa, Panama, farther east than Florida. Our arrival came 80 days from our San Diego departure; 45 of them at sea. We have 3,784 nautical miles on the log (4,730 land miles). Along the way we visited three foreign countries. The crew is very much alive and well, but what a wild ride it’s been!

Gnarly weather had kept us captive in Bahia Benao for three glorious days, and tried to keep us there longer, if only we’d learn to listen. Late on the third day, though, Bruce hoisted sail and we tacked twice across the bay, putting on a sunset sail show for our friends on shore. Downwind and out of the bay, before turning east toward Punta Mala, the knot meter held a solid seven. That glorious ride ended all too soon, though, the moment we passed the point that would allow us to enter the howling Gulf of Panama.

Here comes yet another tale about bad weather ... We had a solid 25 to 30 knots on the nose, with tight, tall seas breaking and crashing every which way. A pitch-black sky with a layer of haze diminished visibility and the radar painted a clear picture of at least five to six ships passing all night long. To make a quick exit from the shipping lane, fight the negative current and get the last Pacific thrashing over with, we let the 40 horses out of the barn (we started up the motor).

The motor sailing motion was so disgusting that we had our first seasickness victim (and it wasn’t Jan). Bruce fought that battle and later the storm jib after it ripped and needed to be taken down. When he woke me at 3 a.m. to take over, he described the motion as the worst six hours he’s ever experienced at sea. It was even bad in the bunk.

We ditched the idea of turning back, though. Who would have the courage to try it again? So we pounded on until the next afternoon, finally sliding in behind Isla de San Jose, the first of Las Perlas, an exquisite group of islands in the middle of the Gulf. Exhausted and relieved, we hooked in off a deserted white-sand beach, our only company a group of leaping rays and a mega yacht that pulled in behind us. Our dinner was three cooked beets (our last fresh stores) accompanied by canned cuisine. We could only imagine what the neighbors were eating.

According to the weather report, we would have one day of diminished torture to get near Balboa, so we fueled up early the next morning and set off, 40 miles to the northwest. The topsail made a dramatic exit as it tore apart midway to Taboga Island, which is about 10 miles from Balboa. Since it was almost dark, we circled the entire island to find a decent anchorage that would protect us from the wind.

The area between Balboa and Taboga is the staging area for ships waiting to transit through the canal, and we saw almost 50 of them of every possible size, color and purpose. The next morning, as we motored through them in a rare and relative calm, we felt like a Volkswagen Beetle pulling into a crowded truck stop. Tankers, transporters and even super-seiners dwarfed us. It was both fascinating and eerie. Pilot boats darted through the area, delivering and collecting ships.

We motored up the channel until we came to the first yacht anchorage, La Playita, where we put down the anchor, ending what we thought was going to be a 30- to 50-day uneventful sail from San Diego. Boy, were we wrong!

Getting clearance into this country is a four-stop, half-day “scavenger hunt” that requires taxis, money, decent Spanish and patience. Luckily, we found a driver – Tony -- who knew the drill and drove us to each office, stepping in to help when needed. After the last stop, Tony dropped us off at a cafeteria outside the immense port area. Lunch was great, but they didn’t have the cold beers we needed to toast our long-awaited arrival and good fortune.

A stroll through Balboa took us to another restaurant, where a waiter pointed us to the bar. Following his outstretched arm, we found the kitchen, pantry and a closed door. As we pushed on it, a serious looking chap opened it a crack and said “Yes?” “The bar?”
After looking us over, he gave us an “OK” and we slid past him into a musty, windowless room and sat at the bar. Turns out it was an Elks Lodge!

The two beers arrived and, as usual, we looked at each other and said, “Where are we?” Bruce raised his glass to mine. “We did it, Janny.” I raised mine. “We sure did.”

Choreographing the canal transit is our next mission. We’ll keep you posted.

Bruce, Jan & Lars, the sailor bird

Just a quick update on the adventures of Woodwind and crew. We left the Nicoya Peninsula of Costa Rica Jan. 7th thinking we'd have a five-day easy sail/motor to our long awaited destination of Balboa, Panama. But that would be far too easy for the Gusty Smiths, right? Just as we crossed the imaginary border into Panama we got hammered by headwinds and steep oncoming seas. Steady 20-25 knot winds with frequent 40-knot gusts. So we decided to do what sane people do ... seek shelter.

But, of course, there wasn't anywhere to go near us. After two days we finally reached the only bay on the southern coast of the Azuero Peninsula -- Bahia Benao (or Beano Bay, as we call it), just 12 miles west of Punta Mala. It’s a 1970s scene … only three houses and one third-world looking bar/restaurant in front of a hot surf spot with camping. Cold beers are 50 cents, fish dinners are $2. Not a bad spot to be "trapped."

We've been hanging out with five 20-something year-olds from the northern cold-front of America, who were each traveling solo through Central America and joined forces to form an entertaining team.

We have 100 miles to go to get to Balboa, but right now it's upwind and in the world’s heaviest shipping path. It can wait.

Bruce & Jan

Twenty four hours since leaving Bahia Ballena. Back in our “sea-capsule,” feeling very normal. Normal, of course, is a relative term. Out here it means either good weather conditions or bad, with “normal” meaning that we pretty much know what to expect. The past month, in Puntarenas and Tambor, brought treasured surprises every day. We love that. It keeps us alive, spices up our conversation and gifts us with lasting memories. But it wasn’t normal.

This morning I’m trying to decipher the wave action that has at least three patterns crossing each other. I know it’s a clue to weather and I’m watching it closely for a sign of what will be today. We’re running closer to the coastline than we usually do, so we’re plotting our position hourly on our 63-year-old charts. These never-used charts came from a Liberty Ship and were given to us by our late friend, Heine Dole. (Heine, a yacht and ship designer by trade, was one of the most competent seamen we’ve had the pleasure of knowing.)

The charts were published by the U.S. Hydrographic Office under the authority of the Secretary of the Navy. They were printed on exceptionally high quality paper that seems to repel the elements of the sea. The original price on the chart we are using for Costa Rica was 40 cents. It was last updated in 1943.

We pulled out the charts to show a friend who sails this area with the latest electronic navigation images. He was amazed to see that details of rocks he’s familiar with appeared on our charts but not on his. Our old paper charts were first created in the late 1800s by highly skilled sailors, navigators, cartographers and artists. How they did it remains a mystery that I ponder all the time.

Yesterday, as we put up sail and motored out of Ballena Bay, we were hit by very stiff headwinds. Everyone had told us, though, “Calm winds from here to Panama.” The ketch, Serraya, left right behind us, so we raced together across the choppy sea, photographing each other’s boats rising and crashing with the waves. The unexpected blast of wind reminded us of my new and unflattering nickname … while in the Northwest for two weeks in December, near hurricane force winds hit the Puget Sound area. Seattle experienced 70 mph gusts and our hometown, Gig Harbor, took the brunt of it. Trees were downed and power was out for days. It was the worst storm to hit the area since 1964. When Bruce read about it he declared me the cause of our stormy path, so now I’m known as Hurricane Heiney. I swear … I had nothing to do with any of it!

Back at sea. Back to work. Back to normal.


The local fisherman on the pier in Bahia Ballena. That pier had at least 20 huge dorado on it!

The chain slowly clattered out until our anchor came to rest on the bottom of this two by three mile open bay on the southeastern side of the Nicoya Peninsula, here in Bahia Ballena. The main awning that doubles as Woodwind’s rain catcher went up, followed by three large sheets tied across the sunny side of the boat to give us a break from the melting heat and glare. Bruce jumped overboard to inspect the condition of the bottom paint and found that the gooseneck barnacles, which only grow on moving objects, had been replaced by the kind that seem to attach themselves with epoxy-strength glue. And so, the scrubbing began.

Over dinner in the cockpit, surrounded by a bay of tropically clad hills, we realized this was really our first “cruising anchorage” since the journey began in June. As dusk settled around us, the water, finally clean and warm, began to sparkle with luminescent light. No more busy estuary or crowded city anchorage. After the many times we’d questioned our intentions during the past two months, the answer hung in the hot night air. This is it ... we’re cruising.

On our first morning in the bay, Bruce pushed my arm to wake me. “Janny, what’s that sound?” I listened for a moment before hearing something that sounded like the soundtrack from Jurassic Park; a long, low screeching noise, echoed over the water. We let our imaginations run wild, finally deciding it must be howler monkeys -- tiny creatures making tough-guy noises.

A 40-ton sailing vessel from British Columbia, Swagman, swung by and our neighbors aboard introduced themselves, told us about the Saturday market and extended an invitation for drinks with them in the evening.

The organic market at the Bahia Ballena Yacht Club bar is run by Honey, an ex-pat who has called this bay home for 25 years. She has organized 38 growers on the peninsula to produce a gourmet selection of produce, cheeses, breads. Most of it is sold to restaurants in the nearby surfer towns. We met Honey and Heart on our first Costa Rican visit when they were squatting on the beach, contemplating a land purchase. They now own a large section of the bay and are working with the local government on a sustainable energy project.

Each day this week we’ve found a new adventure on shore and the water. My first trip to the grocery store was heart-stopping when two large blue iguanas nearly ran me over! The one little grocery store in the town of Tambor was about 105 degrees inside because the fans weren’t working. As sweat poured off me, I slowly made my way down the isles trying to make sense of the offerings. We needed eggs but they only had one left. I passed on it, wondering why it was left behind alone.

One of the cruising boats we met here is Serraya, with Antonia and Peter aboard. Bruce and Peter spent a full day together working on a project to build a jib boom for their boat. Part one was finding a suitable piece of hardwood on the beach. They took Serraya’s small skiff and motored along the beach until they spotted a pile of driftwood logs. Bruce swam ashore, and after ferrying out two five-foot hunks of wood through the surf, Bruce hauled himself back into the dinghy and just then noticed dozens of sting rays swimming below the boat. In his best Crocodile Hunter accent, Bruce said, “Thea’ cousin to a shaak, mate.” Peter, who had seen them sooner, said, “Yeah, I saw them but didn’t want to scare you.” Bruce was just thankful there were no barbs in his feet!

Today, Bruce and Peter went fishing under sail in our small, open West Indian skiff, Funny World. They had four in the bucket and lost a few more before they made one long tack across to the other side of the bay. A pod of pilot whales had just entered the bay and were heading straight for our ten-foot, gray-hulled vessel, maybe thinking they’d found one of their own. There were at least 30 of them, babies and adults who were over 10 feet. Peter and Bruce, knowing how dangerous the situation was, started yelling and rapping on Funny World’s hull to scare them off before they flipped the boat, then bee-lined it back to Woodwind, ending the fishing expedition for Captain Ahab and Ishmael. Might be why the name of this place translates to “Whale Bay.”

Well, it’s time to move south. Panama is still calling our name. This part of cruising -- leaving friendly surroundings and new-found friends -- is the difficult one. The modern world will allow us to stay in touch via e-mail, and maybe, with luck, we’ll meet up again.

Happy New Year to you all! Bruce is just climbing into our dingy to row ashore because there’s a five-foot shark thrashing on the beach. Some guy is trying to pull it out of the water by its tail! There is so much in the unusual wildlife department here at Bahia Ballena that it's starting to seem normal. We've had rays jumping out of the water around us, and I’m happy when they don't hit our deck.

We spent New Year’s Eve with our buddy, Allen, and the owner of the boat he skippers. It was at a magnificent house overlooking the sea, with an odd combo of guests ... several Texas trial lawyers, a pro-wrestler and his stunt-woman wife and someone’s college-age kids. Funny world, mon!

Anyway, we rang in the new year at the surfer town of Montezuma, with a beach full of people. We will leave Costa Rica in a few days for Panama.

Jan and Bruce

Bruce and Peter on the driftwood adventure