$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.