We are at 19.35 north, 74.00 west ... within 55 miles of us lies Guantanamo Bay, Cuba and Haiti. Not great stopping spots, for sure. The Dominican Republic is just around the corner and we may stop at Luperon on the north coast to stitch the two jibs that were blown out, make numerous repairs, clean the mess that happened on the way here, and buy paper towels (all of ours fell in the wet bilge). The highlight of this part of the trip was passing Jamaica the other night and hearing English on the FM radio, along with some hot reggae tunes! Stay tuned ...

Jan and Bruce

Two-hundred miles south of Jamaica and heading right for it (14.26 north, 76.50 west). Yesterday was another nasty one! The coast of Columbia is notorious for wild weather, and it didn’t disappoint. It was blowing a solid 30 knots and the seas were 15 feet (the waves in the Caribbean are different than the Pacific ... underneath the white foamy top is a turquoise pool of clear water). Woodwind plunged down the waves and lurched back up, knocking us and any loose bits around. It was like riding bumper cars.

We had to pump every half hour because the hatch caulking was knocked loose. The boat was working so hard we started getting hairline cracks in the deck, which means water in the bunk and everywhere else. Our fastest jib ripped out, a jib block broke (after 50,000 miles), then I heard Bruce say, “Oh, no! Check this out!” The mizzen was making a strange squeaking noise, and the epoxy boot on deck was cracking as if a baby dinosaur was about to hatch out of it. The mast was moving with each wave smack and the sail wasn’t even up.

Down below we discovered the problem. The fuel jugs in the back cabin had put pressure on the mast and somehow the key that holds the mast in place had come loose and was missing. We could see the Australian dime (for good luck, a coin is always placed under a mast; both of our coins have great stories and we didn’t want to loose this one). So … sails down, engine off and back to work.

We spent an hour emptying the back cabin and setting up a line from the top of the mizzen to the bow to act as a back stay. We had to start the generator so we could drill a new hole in the bottom of the mast, then used brute force (and a big piece of lead) to move the mast into place. Since everything was out, we spent another 30 minutes transferring fuel into the tank and another 30 putting everything carefully away … whew!

Today, conditions are Caribbean casual. The seas are normal for the area and the wind is a steady 15 to 20.

Jan

Bruce called the exit conditions yesterday our baptism. I call them more of the bad weather luck we’ve been having all along. We pulled up the anchor and motor-sailed out to the bay, lined on both sides with coral reefs and breaking seas. Just as we got outside the opening to the bay, we could see a black sky bearing down on us. Black. Our chart indicated breaking rocks a half-mile in front of us, so all eyes were scanning for them.

Just then the block on the mainsheet popped loose and our world turned to water … water from the sky, sea water crashing over us and a few spills down below. I thought we were in a Hitchcock horror movie, or maybe a special sailing episode of “Survivor.” Frankly, I was hoping to get voted “off the island.” We couldn’t turn back because the entrance was obscured by a dark mass; we couldn’t run off to the east because of the many rocks and small islands that were also shrouded in darkness; and we couldn’t tack because the land was too close.

At the worst possible moment during the squall, our position indicated the breaking rocks were right under us. All we could do was continue scanning for them and keep pushing north. Visibility was a mere 200 feet and driving rain was stinging our skin and eyes. The only positive aspect of the frightening conditions was the fact that the torrential rain calmed the sea.

Once the rain slowed, Bruce began to fix the mainsheet block. We never did figure out where those boat-crushing rocks were, which means we escaped them safely.

Jan

Ten miles east of Portobelo (9.37 north, 79.35 west). We had sailed an island further, to Isla Grande, but it looked like Coney Island on the 4th of July. Too many Jetskis and ferry pangas. So we backtracked and anchored behind Linton Island with a few other yachts. We watched three monkeys scare away dinghy-loads of people from the dock on the island. Apparently they run the place. Later in the evening we went to bed in a calm, but got rolled out in the night by swells hitting us on the side.

Jan

Walking down the sidewalks of Portobelo. Note the brightly colored homes.



Bruce at San Fernando Fort Battery, with Woodwind in the background

At dawn on Valentine’s Day, we motor-sailed toward the Cristobal breakwater, the northern entrance to Limon Bay and the Panama Canal. Bruce reached into the dodger pocket beside him and pulled out a child’s plastic, jeweled crown. “Happy Valentine’s Day. You’re ‘Queen of the Panama Canal’.” I happily placed it on my head, feeling quite regal.

As we proceeded through the parking lot of ships, each waiting a turn to transit, we recounted the last time we left this place, 18 years ago. The wind was a full 25 knots on the nose that day. As we went to make our first tack, we realized the jib sheet winches had seized up. Bruce hurriedly took them apart and greased up their innards. Just as we were about to lay the tack that would allow us to clear the breakwater, a pickle jar got loose down below, exploding on the galley sole and leaving a stink bomb. That’s how and why we all got sick.

But conditions this time were pleasantly different on my favorite day of the year. The wind was light, the seas down and our destination a mere 25 miles east. Portobelo, the tiny town named by Christopher Columbus in 1502, has a history laden with riches and bloodshed. Francis Drake plundered the port in the 1500s; the buccaneer, Henry Morgan, raided it in the 1600s. The forts were partially destroyed by the British in the 1700s, and by a severe earthquake in the 1800s. In the early 1900s, pieces of the port were removed to create the first Cristobal breakwater for the Panama Canal project.

With our full rig of six sails flying, we entered the pristine bay. Portobelo is said to be one of the rainiest places on the coast, but its dramatically lush hillsides, a stark contrast to the industrial grime of Colon, drew us in. Laying a tack toward the town and some anchored yachts, we picked our way forward. As we passed the British yacht, Panache, its owner gave us a thumbs-up and yelled, “Very nice. Well done. Nice to see a boat sail in.” Two more tacks to the north side of the bay, under the hillside ruins of San Fernando Fort Battery, then we dropped the sails and anchor. We hurriedly put up the awnings and brought out the binoculars to get a closer look at the place.

The fort in front of us was built on two layers. Brown and gray hunks still stand as an outline of the former stronghold. Across the bay we spied a huge church looming over the town. A few open fishing boats sped past.

In the afternoon, we rigged our sailing dinghy and set off for the town anchorage, stopping off at Panache, where we met Jeffrey and Nancy, who gave us the lowdown on the town. After checking out the rest of the anchored yachts, we sailed to the cement pier and tied up. The town, a cluster of tiny houses and two story buildings, clings to a road that connects Portobelo to the rest of Panama. We wandered through the streets, met by smiles and the relaxed Panamanian greeting, “Buena.” After weeks of being on guard for city-dwelling bad guys, we were surprised and relieved to be with people who wanted nothing more than to look at us as we walked by. In the town center, we stopped to watch a group of children and teens playing soccer. The ball shot toward us and a young man yelled, “My friend, my friend, punta.” Bruce kicked it back receiving a wave of thanks.

The buildings of the town are a palette of colors. Nothing is too strong or too strange a hue, with pink houses next to bright yellow ones. Murals are painted on many storefronts and everywhere plants and blooms sprout from the earth and stone.

Nancy and Jeffrey were going to rendezvous with us at the “cruisers’ bar,” El Drakes, so we ambled there, awash in a feeling of calm. In the little bar and restaurant we met the friendly East Indian owner, Keshni. Bruce pulled my crown out of his bag and I put it on, explaining that it was my Valentine’s Day present. Keshni’s eyes lit up and Bruce became the romantic hero of the day!

Nancy and Jeffrey arrived and shared with us their cruising knowledge and adventures of the past eight years. Jeffrey, who’d turned 70 the week before, was animated and excited. Listening to him, we felt like kids during story hour. After they headed back to their boat, we wandered around and looked for a bite to eat. Knowing I was only “Queen for a Day,” I opted to leave my crown on for the evening. Just as expected, curious stares came from every passerby.

We walked into the ancient town fort, through the guard towers and past the forgotten cannons aimed at the sea. Several youth were sitting on top of the stone wall, politely trying not to stare. After a few minutes I walked toward them, pointing at my jeweled head. “Una regala de mi esposa para la dia de San Valentine” (a gift from my husband for Valentine’s Day). As if on cue, they all began to applaud and hoot. Bruce, smiling along with them, took a bow. The crown was a hit again at the small open pizza place we found, where we opted for fish and rice. The owner brought us our dinners and as he set them down, he bowed and said, “For the Queen. For the King.”

Early the next morning we rowed back ashore to scramble over the 300 year old ruins of San Fernando Fort Battery. The bay holds the remains of four forts, each maintained with historically significant signs. We sailed our skiff along the north shore, checking out the ex-patriot houses and the jungle that drapes down and over the water’s edge. Back at the town, we roamed on new roads toward the gigantic Church of San Felipe of Portobelo. Built in 1776, it houses a wooden statue of the Black Christ, a patron of pickpockets (among others), celebrated with massive fiestas each October.

Necessity took us back to El Drakes to use their Internet café and look up some weather information. Although there are dozens of places we would love to visit in this remarkable country, the alarm clock on the calendar is ringing. The big beat to windward that will carry us back to the islands of the Eastern Caribbean lies ahead, and it’s almost time to begin.

Woodwind anchored in "The Flats" of Colon. The red pennant at the top of the mast was flying for our son’s 20th birthday! We wish Kess could have been with us that day.



At the fuel dock of the Panama Canal Yacht Club.


Perhaps Colon, Panama, wasn’t meant to be an anchorage … but it is. The facilities for cruising boats began decades ago as the Cristobal Yacht Club, now the Panama Canal Yacht Club. It’s really more of a marina with enough docks to hold half the boats. The remainder spill out to “The Flats,” an official buoyed area that sits downwind and off to the side of two very industrial piers. That’s us. The Flats.

To get to the yacht club, we row or sail our eight-foot pram between and around these piers, sometimes dodging tugs and pilot boats. We first visited here 18 years ago, and to our eye it hasn’t changed a bit. There’s a restaurant where you can get a simple meal, either outside or in an air-conditioned room, and a separate bar that has the same paint, burgers and decor from several decades past. The efficient and friendly bartender has worked there 40 years; the manager of the club for 20; his office manager 25. It’s a well-oiled machine.

Leaving the club for other parts of Colon is another matter. We were warned, “It’s dangerous. Don’t walk around.” Just outside the gates of the club, project-like housing sits several stories high. The poverty and grief are obvious. The old town is in ruins and there are no parks nearby. It’s a national shame that, to our eyes, has gotten worse over the years.

Today we fell victim to the kind of scam that sometimes pervades this place. After tying up Woodwind to the fuel dock this morning, Bruce went ashore to find the office that dispenses it. He stopped at the first open door where two ladies sat at desks and asked, “Fuel? Diesel?” One began to rattle back in Spanish that he would need passports, ships papers, crew lists, cruising permit.

When he came back to fetch the necessary papers, I said, “All that for diesel?” He took the papers back to the office, which was for immigration, not fuel. The woman told us our two-day zarpe had expired and we would have to pay a fine and get a new one. I told her we only speak a little Spanish and that the yacht club assistant had told us on our first day in Colon that all our papers were in order until we departed for a new port or country.

Just then, a taxi driver we had ridden with earlier appeared in the door. He is Panamanian-born and Texas-raised, so we asked him to translate. Duke, as he likes to be called, jumped right in. Words were flying around the place, the volume kept increasing with hand gestures and pointing a plenty. Our heads turned from one to the other, until Duke said in English, “You lucky you got me here to help you. These people want to rip you off. I know how to fix this. You come with me.”

After finishing our fueling job and returning Woody to “The Flats,” we grudgingly got ready to get ourselves out of the jam we were told we were in. It made no sense. Our Panamanian visas were only a month into their three-month duration. The same was true of our cruising permit. But we know the rules in the third world are sometimes just plain crazy.

Once we got back to the yacht club, we found Duke at the entrance, ready to go. On the way into town he continued assuring us of our good fortune in having his help. We were both quietly wondering just what kind of help we were getting.

The first place he took us was a funky office store. He told the chap something, started shuffling through our papers and gave Bruce a new form to fill out. The fellow opened a gate in the counter and motioned for me to go in behind to have my photo taken. When we asked Duke what the photos were for, he started ranting about “these people in the government” and how they do things. He grabbed our papers and headed across the street to immigration. Once there, Duke began his loud talking again with the four immigration ladies. Our papers were passed around and we were each given a new form to fill out. Duke interpreted the questions and gave us the answers, all the while complaining about “these people.” Every now and then he’d remind us of the big fine he was saving us from. When our passports were returned to us, they had a duplicate visa stamp inside.

We followed Duke back to the cab thinking we were done, but there was still the issue of a zarpe to take us from Colon to the San Blas Islands. Duke led us inside and up four flights of stairs into a huge room. One wall held an antique blackboard with two lists of ships’ names scribbled on it; those with zarpes and those without. I whispered to Bruce, “Is this how they keep track of it?”

Another form. Some more money. Next office. More waiting. We followed Duke into the last office, confused and irritated. Finally it was all done. We collected our mountain of forms and trotted down the stairs behind Duke. Back at the yacht club, we paid Duke for his very helpful service. He took the money and said, “I’m not ripping you off or anything.” Had he read our minds?

We decided we should chat with the yacht club office manager who had initially told us our papers were in order. She repeated her earlier statement, so I told here what we’d just been through. A few other cruisers were in the office listening and soon everyone started confirming what we had been feeling all day. Apparently, the lady in the first immigration office is famous for extracting money from cruisers on false pretenses. And Duke has his own infamy around the place. We call it graft, the Panamanians say, “Mordida.” We’d been scammed.

We went to the air-conditioned bar to review the day’s events. As we were sipping a Panama -- the national brew -- Roger, the club manager, asked to speak with us. His assistant had shared our story and he asked us to recount it. Then he asked to photocopy the useless second visa stamps in our passports. “I don’t like corruption,” he said as he shook our hands and left. We felt a bit vindicated and relieved.

Jan

$50 was the charge for Woodwind to transit the Panama Canal in1989. By 1995 it was $160. This year it was $600 … still quite a bargain, considering the alternative of sailing around the Horn of South America! On January 4th of this year, the transit cost and rules took a slight twist. If yachts can’t make a Pacific-to-Caribbean transit in one day, they’re charged an additional $830. The added cost, plus the difficulty of sleeping four extra people on our walk-in-closet of a boat gave us extra incentive to make the run in a day.

Our transit day began early, picking up our line handlers, Cheyenne and Joshua from the California based trimaran, Time Machine; and Nola and Jerry from Moonsong, the sloop they built in Alaska. At 7 a.m. we motored up to the Balboa Yacht Club for an 8:30 rendezvous with the pilot boat. We were very early; they were very late. At 9:50 the pilot boat finally arrived and Oswaldo, our advisor for the day, stepped aboard. After introductions, he checked our lines and crew and radioed for our lock time. 11:00.

Oswaldo explained that the two tourist boats approaching from astern would lock up with us. The riverboat-style blue vessel had the most people and best party fever going, but he determined we’d be neighbors with the white one, Principessa. As 11:00 came and went, we felt the possibility of a one-day transit slipping away. Finally, around noon the heavy steel gates of the locks swung shut behind us. Water began to rush in and turbulence, caused by the mixing of salt and fresh water, rushed in pools around us. The party boat behind us was a sea of people, cameras and excitement.

In just minutes we rose nearly 30 feet and the gates before us slowly opened. We motored into the next lock, and after 90 minutes, at 85 feet above sea level, we entered Gatun Lake and took off toward the Gaillard Cut. Oswaldo said we would lock down in company with the blue party boat at 16:00, giving us a mere 3 ½ hours to motor like maniacs to the other side. The first seven miles are the most difficult because of the narrow channel and frequent turbulence. A strong headwind didn’t help.

Bruce, who had the most difficult job of the day, intently drove the boat with Oswaldo by his side, directing us on the shortest possible path. The rest of us, on break from handling lines and cooking, sat down to enjoy the show. At Gamboa, at the end of the first seven miles, Oswaldo called Gatun Signal Station to request a delay in time for our lock down because of the one hour hold up we’d had getting started. They coughed up an extra forty minutes. It was something, but probably not enough.

The engine was running at maximum RPMs. We were holding a solid 6.5 knots, even with the howling headwind. The Canal is now asking small yachts to maintain a speed of 8 knots -- an impossible feat for most. For many engines, it’s the hardest day of their diesel-fueled, piston-pounding, crankshaft-cranking lives. It was no exception for ours.

Oswaldo came and sat in the middle of the deck with Joshua, Cheyenne, Nola and I and answered the many questions we had about the canal, the lake, the fascinating history of the canal operation. In broken English, he worked through each one. He was kind, courteous and throughout the day concerned about our desire to get through in one day. Four miles from the first Gatun lock he again radioed ahead. His supervisors told him if we were not at the lock at 5 p.m., we were done for the day. On we sped.

We missed it by a mere 15 minutes. As we came into the staging area for ships inside the lake, Oswaldo directed us to turn to the west and proceed to the buoyed area where we would spend the night. It wasn’t the end of the world, but we all felt the disappointment. We’d played a good game, gave it our all, but lost. Our coach, Oswaldo, was down about it, too. The pilot boat came to collect him and we stood on deck yelling, “Thank you!” and waving goodbye.

“Well, campers, you’re with us tonight,” I announced. Bruce broke out the rum and juice while I set to work creating a bowl of guacamole to launch us into dinner. We couldn’t have found four more amiable, roll-with-the-punches people to help us move Woodwind to the Caribbean Sea.

Oswaldo told us Gatun Signal Station would call on the radio at 10:00 in the morning, so we had plenty of time the next day for coffee, breakfast and another swim. It was Super Bowl Sunday and we joked about the possibility of being ignored all day until the game was over. At 11:00, when we’d heard from no one, we were starting to wonder. Bruce called the Signal Station and was told to wait. Just as I was finishing up the lunch dishes, a pilot boat came to drop off our new advisor, Ernesto. After serving Ernesto his lunch, he directed us to proceed to the lock chamber,

Sometime later, we finally entered the final chamber. We could look out over the catwalk to the sea beyond. As the last pair of gates opened and the men on shore cast off our lines, Ernesto stood up, his arms outstretched, and announced, “Welcome to the Caribbean!”

A full 25 knots blew straight at us. Cheyenne, Joshua, Jerry and I coiled down our lines and went looking for cover from the water flying over the bow. Our little green engine pushed back against the wind through the remainder of the choppy channel, as a pilot boat came to pluck Ernesto off, bringing an end to a successful transit.

Our four line handlers and new best friends, exhausted and salty, still had a journey ahead of them -- a long bus ride back to their boats on the Pacific side. We pulled up to the fuel dock at the Panama Canal Yacht Club, passed out hugs and handshakes and a boatload of thanks, hoping to meet up again sometime.

We finished our Panama Canal transit Sunday afternoon, 2/4, and we’re in the Caribbean Sea! That’s the good news … the bad news is, it’s blowing as hard as we knew it would and we have to sail 1,200 miles up-wind to Antigua. Oh well, it’s a job and someone has to do it, right?

Last Friday’s usual untypical events took us down the homestretch for our transit through the canal. The first item on our long to-do list was to call the scheduler’s office to confirm our spot on Saturday’s docket. The helpful person on the phone told us they had us down for a one-day transit and the pilot boat would drop us an advisor at 08:30.

Next on the agenda was procuring a Zarpe (a clearance to move from one port to another within the country). We set off on foot for the Port Captain’s office, thinking it wasn’t far. Several hot miles later we arrived at the gates of the ominous Port of Panama City. Heavily-armed security guards were searching cars, and one looked at us and simply waved us in without even a “buenos dias.” We must have had “cruising sailor” written all over us.

At the Port Captain’s office we went past two more armed security guards and into the same overly air-conditioned office where two weeks earlier we’d purchased our cruising permits. After filling out some very confusing Spanish forms with the help of a senora working there, we paid our $8.20 and got directions to the next required office. Rats … we thought she was the end of the line!

Another armed security guard walked us down a hall and into the Maritime Authority Office, where we had to fill out yet another form, to go along with the other 15 pieces of official papers already in Bruce’s hands. Bruce returned the completed form and we were told to sit down and wait. Over in one corner of the office, hung from the ceiling, was a blaring TV, running through a medley of commercials and the second half of a titillating Spanish soap opera. But it was the next show that got everyone’s attention … an episode of the “Flintstones,” with Fred and Barney speaking Spanish!

As the credits for the “Flintstones” started rolling -- a full hour after our arrival -- we were finally asked to step up to the desk again. “One dollar-fifty,” said the man. I whipped the money out as Bruce signed his name to the last official paper. The man reached out for a handshake and said, “Have a nice trip.”
“We’re done?”
“Yes.”
“We can go?”
“Yes.”

Next stop was REY, a mega-grocery store on the other side of the port. Once there, we filled a cart as fast as we could with all the food we’d need to feed seven people (Bruce and I, our four line-handlers and the canal advisor) for one or possibly two days. A taxi took us back to the Balboa Yacht Club and we lugged our 10 bags down the pier. Bruce ran back up the dock for two blocks of ice, then we piled everything in the launch for our last thrill-ride out.

After waving goodbye to the launch driver, we fired up the engine to move to the La Playita anchorage to scrub Woodwind’s bottom. It’s crucial to maintain top speed during the transit to make it in one day, and barnacles and slimy growth would easily cost us a full knot of speed … and we had no knots to spare. So Bruce jumped in and started the job no one ever volunteers for.

At sunset, our preparations were complete. Two of our line-handlers rowed over for drinks and a conversation that included all the transit horror stories any of us had ever heard. The long awaited event was just hours away and we had to wonder what story we’d be telling on the other side.

Jan