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