1/21/07
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
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