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 The Yacht Club was a bizarre wooden structure that went up in flames a few years ago and has been replaced by a tiny, one-walled bar and a mobile “restaurant” that features fried everything.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?