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