AT SEA AGAIN
At sea between Bahía de Caráquez, Ecuador, and Boca Chica, Panama, Friday, November 16, 2007

It never ceases to amaze me that different days have different times. A day in a sickbed can be interminable. A day on a pleasant outing flies by in next to no time. The thought arises here because, after a rapid succession of days in Bahía de Caráquez while we prepared Vilisar for her next voyage, finished up our last-minute tasks and said our good-byes, we are now entered on our sixth day at sea. The pace has slowed. We stand our night watches between dusk and dawn; the three-hour shifts have now become almost routine (it helps that the nights and days are so conveniently arranged here near the equator to be almost exactly twelve hours each). We have got back into the habit of cooking again after six months of eating out in Ecuadorian restaurants. As such, and without refrigeration, we are back de facto on a vegetarian diet until we get organised enough to get a fishing line over the side. We have picked up nearly seamlessly the old shipboard habits of keeping one’s space tidy, preparing light meals, arranging the berths with lee cloths and pillows to avoid being rolled out ignominiously and unexpectedly onto the cabin sole, wearing a hat at all times out on deck. In a minute or two now we straighten up, sweep around and wipe down the cabin of dust, debris and, if possible, obvious deposits of salt. At regular intervals during the day we check the GPS and mark up the chart with our position, enter the details into the log book, calculate the distances run and the average speeds achieved. Some might find all this tedioso, but it is refreshingly slow for us. These days at sea have different times.

Leaving Bahía de Caráquez, I had been anxious about travelling near the Ecuadorian coast at night because of the hugely extending sand banks and the plethora of fishing nets and drift lines. The only appropriate exit tide across the harbour bar at Bahía, however, was late afternoon. We decided therefore to take that opportunity to exit the estuary but, once outside off the town’s beach, to anchor overnight in the so-called “Waiting Room”. Normally only arriving boats wait there until the tide allows the pilot to bring them into the Rio Chone estuary. We ourselves had parked there 18 months ago for a few hours.

A small gaggle of boats is leaving with us; it is the season for departures from Bahía. Now that the hurricane season is over in the Caribbean and Mexican Pacific coast, now six-month tourist visas are expiring, cruisers are getting ready to leave. First out that afternoon is the junk-rigged Gaia, with Damon and Desiree aboard, bound for Hawaii. Then Austrians Karl & Alexandra with their two pre-school boys aboard S/V Muk Tuk and Alexandra’s parents, Erich and Erika, and their second daughter Claudia aboard S/V Timoun motor past us just as we were heaving in on our anchor chain, grunting to get the heavy CQR up onto the bow rollers. This physical work has not got any easier after so long at anchor. Fortunately, however, I have cleaned the anchor chain of all the slim and growth1 that makes it impossible to get a real grip on it. Lots of waving and “bon voyages” as the three yachts pass. We had especially grown to like this family of three generations who are now setting out together on a 7-week voyage south to Chile via Easter Island. At the end of the parade of boats comes S/V Vilisar.

Crossing the bar without a pilot is a bit of a Nervenkitzel, as the Germans have it. There is no pilot at present in Bahía; the pilot is a full-time skipper of one of the car ferries and his car ferry is off in Manta or Guayaquil for an overhaul. But there are reliable coordinates and GPS waypoints available from other cruisers; there is even a set of coordinates on the Puerto Amistad virtual marina website (www.puertoamistadecuador.com). We had also saved our inbound GPS track so could compare several routes out. It is important to get it right since there is not much depth to spare. We draw five feet even before we load the vessel down with all our gear. In fact, the old depth sounder shows only seven feet for quite a bit of the tortuous and curvy route out. We laugh to ourselves that the exit is more nerving than the thought of a long bluewater voyage.

The night at anchor within sight of the town is a bit rolly. Kathleen, anticipating her normal 3-day bout of nausea at the beginning of each passage, debates taking some medication but opts instead for the ineffective-looking acu-pressure wrist cuffs that we have been carrying for years now in a drawer under the chart table. Somebody ashore recently showed her how to use them properly and she is pleasantly surprised to find that they actually work. She has been pretty much free of symptoms and has been enjoying the trip from the outset.

The late afternoon, evening and early morning at anchor permit us to finish stowing for sea. The main cabin is now orderly although the forecastle looks a bit like Fibber McGee’s closet. We have moved sleeping into the main cabin and use the forecastle now only for storage. There is a semi-orderly jumble of various items that might be needed at sea (the para-anchor and spare headsails, for example), on the one hand, and things that will definitely not be needed at sea (mooring ropes, dinghy oars, spars and sail), on the other; we try to make the items that will be needed in the cabin during the voyage easily accessible but for which there is no stowage space there (food items, for example) easily accessible. The cabin is hung with net-bags of fruit and vegetables. The cold, roasted chicken that we bought from the pollo asado place in town is parked near the galley to serve as an early meal. Putting to sea with pre-cooked food is “take-away” with a vengeance.

I am up several times in the night because of the rolling. The waves are not large but the wind and the surprisingly strong current parallel to the beach are not in agreement. Given all the electric lights on shore including the big illuminated crosses, however, it is easy to check the reference points I had picked when we anchored yesterday. The anchor is holding. Farther along the deserted beach under the large sandy cliffs, I spot a couple of lights and assume them to be fishermen pangas.

But, no! We awaken as usual at dawn to find that Muk Tuk and Timoun, whom we last saw disappearing over the horizon yesterday afternoon, are also anchored off the cliffs about a quarter mile away. We had said we would leave at dawn. But we are slow getting started, tired after the hectic days of preparation. And, after letting our curiosity build and waiting a decent period to let them drink their coffee too, we call our friends on VHF. Timoun’s gear box broke down in the night, Alexandra tells us, and Muk Tuk towed her back to shore in the dark. Believe it or not, her father, Erik, has a spare gear box aboard and he and Karl are already rectifying the situation. When we have finished our coffee and spent an hour or more stowing everything reasonably well, we motor past them on our way out to give a final wave and greeting.

The sandbars from the river mouth extend for a couple of miles out to sea to the west and northwest. Waves break over them somewhere at nearly all stages of the tide. At the neaps the sandbanks lie exposed for miles. At one time Bahía de Caráquez could accept large ships. But the widespread removal of the mango forests to make way for shrimp farms as well as the two large earthquakes in recent memory have caused the river mouth to silt up. The Armada del Ecuador might charge yachts a Lights & Buoys each year, but so far none of this money has ever gone into marking channels or demarking the sandbanks. The only navigational aid at Bahía de Caráquez is the lighthouse at the river entrance; don’t steer for it at night! In fact, even so far out from the beach where we were anchored the water was only about 10 feet deep.

We therefore motor until we are well clear of all the sand banks and, finally, after eighteen months, we get up all sail. The day is the usual overcast with high marine haze, as it always is for the dry season. But there is a 10-knot wind from the SW and, with all sail up and the noisy Lister, bless ér, at last shut down, we are scooting along on a broad reach at over six knots. Exhilarating! This is what we came for!

Moreover, the sails have all gone up with no hitches. Considering the length of time since we last employed them and given that the whole rig had been taken down while we repaired the mast last summer and then re-assembled, I am not smug but I more than a little relieved that everything has gone well. I tidy up around the deck, checking to make sure there are no imminent problems. I note that one of the shrouds seems a bit too loose and decide to re-tune the rig. This is not difficult but it is a little time-consuming and awkward when you are heeled over. The dinghy, now stowed over the forward hatch, has a tendency to want to shift to starboard as we heel. I do something about it and resolve to develop a more secure system when we get to Panama. Our mainsail definitely looks old with its 3M 5200 cloth patches everywhere. But it still looks strong. The small genoa on the jibstay looks clean and new; the staysail has patches too but is otherwise strong.

With all the sails pulling well it is time to set the Cap Horn windvane steering. The thrill of holding the tiller in your hand while you rush along is fun for a while. But it very soon becomes a chore since on long voyages you are generally sailing only long, straight tacks and not competing around the racing buoys. Every cruiser agrees that “hand steering” is the biggest single drag on long passages.

There are a lot of things we like about our Cap Horn: it is lightweight and petite, i.e., it doesn’t look like an oil rig on the stern of the vessel. When the boat is balanced, too, it works a quiet charm. Our biggest problem seems to get Vilisar balanced. Going to windward or on a reach, it is relatively easy. The acid test is with light following winds. We have discovered after a lot of experimenting that our big mainsail can easily overpower the windvane with quartering winds. We then either drop the main altogether or reef it down so the boat is being pulled more by the headsails than pushed by the main. We curse and swear in our frustration at times. But eventually we get it right.

Kathleen eventually also gets our Navico 5000 electronic auto-pilot functioning; we intend to use it when we are motoring. Of course, it also works without the engine running but it uses battery power and we don’t have a lot of spare battery capacity. And what do we have a windvane steering for, anyway? It definitely helps to have a Navico User Manual! We have been struggling with the electronic controls on our own and getting not very far. Thanks to Joe aboard S/V Panacea, we now have a proper manual. “Electronic Joe” Bayne also installed a new cockpit plug so we are ready to rock and roll. In (nearly) no time Kathleen has the little appliance set up and steering us. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! Blessed relief from cold and rainy or night-time cockpit shifts! It is so much simpler to use than the windvane steering despite the little squeaks and squawks the little electric motor makes as it pushes or pulls the tiller back and forth. Since it only makes very small adjustments it does not in fact seem to be using much power.

We are both still tired and frazzled from the preparation days before departure, from the strain on our nerves getting ready to go and from adjusting to the action of the boat and the sleep-disturbing watch system. But slowly we are becoming adjusted to life at sea again. It hasn’t been hard at all, really, once you get caught up on sleep and you have everything working well. As I write, we are just starting our sixth day at sea and, while we both even talked in the first few days about giving up the cruising life, we are back on course. Start thinking about alternative lifestyles, and you soon arrive back at Vilisar. Starting any long voyage seems to be like going on a camping trip. You start off tired, eager for a change. But, the first few nights are generally uncomfortable, maybe even wet. Your back hurts and you are not used to the hours of sun and wind. Remember those awful first early mornings when you crawl out of your tent to go for a pee? On a boat your sleep pattern is also thrown off by the watchkeeping and even when you are in your berth, the boat is bumping along. The good news is that, after a while you learn to relax and love it.

My fear of running into drift lines or fishing nets near the Ecuadorian coast prove false. We see lots of fishermen but, to our surprise, they are all a hundred or more miles offshore in open pangas with outboards. We once see a larger fishing trawler farther away and think that the two-man pangas must be from a mother ship; they do not carry enough fuel for their outboards to cover huge distances. The panga fishermen set out drift lines with big baited hooks. At one end of the line is a flagged buoy, basically a bamboo pole cum float with a small dark rag attached. You have to look sharp to spot them in good time. The panga is often, though not always, tied to the other end. The fishermen sleep while they wait. We had been told by other cruisers to steer for the pangas to get around the lines. We surprise a few dozing fishermen who wake up to see a sailboat has silently approached them so closely while they doze.

Unfortunately there were also drift lines that are not attended and not marked very well: in a couple of cases we drive right over the lines. Fortunately they eventually pass under Vilisar without hooking onto the propeller or the windvane tab. We would not hesitate to cut the lines to free ourselves. But we can not reach them with our boat hook. You can see the lines and hooks clearly in the now pure pacific waters. But too deep to reach. Eventually they slip along the bottom of the keel and we leave them behind.

In one particular case, however, while we are down below, we hear an outboard motor and much whistling and calling. On deck we discover a panga with two slicker-clad fishermen pointing out that we had snagged their line. They want it back. Sure enough, there it is! But how to get it off? We have a couple of scary moments when the panga driver actually comes close enough to tap our windvane steering while trying themselves to recover their line. Eventually, the panga fishermen use a big gaff hook on a weighted line that they drag until they snag the line. With a tug on the grappling arrangement, the line just passes under the vessel and does not have to be cut. We wave the panga fishermen over and throw them a couple of cans of beer. Big smiles all round.

Passing close to another panga, we see the two young guys clubbing a swordfish that they have hooked. It is not dead and is a thrashing menace to the fishermen. That pair of fishermen in fact follow us in their panga and ask us for “comides”, i.e., food. We give them some chopped up pineapple and two cervezas (beers). The driver of this panga is really skilful. He brings his boat up alongside us close enough that I can just hand off the stuff to the be-slickered man in the bows. They look mightily pleased at the beer. Don’t know if getting pineapple was quite what they had in mind.

The skies remain overcast for the first few days until we get away from the influence of the cold Humboldt Current. Then the air and water gradually begin to feel warmer and more tropical. The skies begin to open up more and show us some blue. On the fourth night we get heavy tropical showers and thereafter our nice sailing winds disappear in exchange for weak and fluky gusts.

Last night, after a nearly a whole day of slatting around in nearly no wind at all, the heavy mainsail boom banging away annoyingly and making us nervous, we finally decide to motor through the night. The seas are calm and gentle. In the openings in the clouds we see bright stars and a sliver of the emerging moon. All around us there are squall clouds and it feels humid and mildly threatening; you feel like a thunder storm is coming. Is this the Doldrums already? We are at nearly N 5o now; when I checked the NOAA weather site just before we left, the ITCZ was still hovering over Costa Rica and Western Panama. Maybe this is just a squally area. I hope so. Lister is running smoothly but we would prefer to sail.

We remove the bulkhead door to the engine room so the air-cooled diesel can get lots of breeze. Noisy, of course! And hot! I stick plugs in my ears and eventually I get used to the background noise. It is a damned sight better than the techno music we were bombarded with back in Bahía every weekend until four in the morning! The Navico takes over and we “stand” our watches from below, coming out every ten or fifteen minutes to sweep the horizon. We see a lot of freighters in the first night, which keeps us on our toes. Thereafter only very occasionally though we expect to see many more as we cross the shipping lanes from the Panama Canal.

This morning begins with clearing skies and a wonderful sunrise. It has been months since we have had this. Glorious! It lifts our spirits. There is still no wind whatsoever and we continue to leave the steering to Navico, Lister & Cie. I have to admit that the Navico is really pleasant to use. It makes little squeaking and squawking noises when it pushes or pulls the tiller. But these fade into the background after a while. I was worried about power drain if the engine is not constantly topping up the batteries. But even without the engine running the tiller pilot makes only very small corrections once the course has been established so perhaps it doesn’t in the end use very much electricity at all. Maybe we could also use it when we are under sail. On a sunny day the solar panels would surely supply all the power necessary. At night we might run the batteries down a bit. Will have to test this.

It is now nearly 1000 hr. Time to do our daily 24-hour course readings. We have been making about 5 knots under power since before dark last night. Our best day-to-day (and a new Vilisar record for us) was the first 24 hours when we made 147 Nm under sail.