ANDREW: Isla Secas

We spend the remainder of Tuesday in the cove. Andrew sails the dingy around on an inspection tour while I prepare dinner. Later, after dark, we sit in the cockpit like regular old salts and smoke our pipes, sip our whiskies and talk until our own lights began to dim to the level of the little yellow anchor lights on the lightboards amidships. We are both tired from our exertions of the day and Andrew is still relaxing from his regular routine at university, glad to be away from it all for a while despite the backpack full of homework and reading he had brought with him.

While we were working on the running rigging, we saw S/V Anna III, Copenhagen, sail into the bay following our old route. I had got to know and like Joergen and Judy in Boca Chica, and Joergen had helped me fix a fuel line problem on the Lister diesel engine. They anchor some way off more in the lee of Isla Paradita where they have better protection from the swells. On Wednesday morning while we are whistling for a wind, we row over against a strong current to pay a social call. Judy makes us a cup of coffee and Joergen gives us some tips about routes and destinations. They themselves are waiting for some propitious weather to carry them to Puntarenas in Costa Rica. Joergen was surprised at how big the swells have been and how rolly the anchorage. Although this morning the swells were much diminished these have been the biggest swells they have seen in Panamá to date, probably the result of some far-off storm out on the Pacific.

After an hour, we pull back to Vilisar, now beginning to roll again in the current despite the smaller swells. Time to get going. We pump out the bilge again (we have been having some problems with the stuffing gland because the engine was not totally aligned with the prop shaft back in Ecuador when the engine had been pulled. A problem, but for the moment manageable. Wacho would have to align things when I got back to Ecuador.) Soon we were moving past Anna III, a final wave – for the moment, at least; we seem to keep running into each other- and out past the little entrance island we go and over the reef. There was no wind really so we were motoring. All around us there were rocky islands and rocky underwater islands that we were watching for in case they rise up from the sea bed to bite us.

ANDREW: Bound for the Islas Secas (The Dry Islands)

Finally, near small Isla Gámez, we turn east bound for the Islas Secas, visible in the morning haze about fifteen miles away to the ESE. Eventually, around 1330, a light SW breeze picks up, we shut down the engine and glide along at last on a gentle reach doing about 4 knots, our new red-brown tan-bark sails pulling beautifully. Andrew is in Seventh Heaven as he sits at the tiller. He is shirtless and likely to get a sunburn, although he slaps on lots of sun cream. I try not to think about it. I am retired from telling people how to avoid sunburn (stay out of the sun or stay covered up). I also retire below to read and be out of the sun.

As we enter the large bay at Isla CavadaI under sail, the largest of the Secas, two big black sting rays with fat white bellies leap about three feet into the air, do one and one-half gainers and land on their bellies with a loud smack. It feels like the inhabitants have greeted our arrival. We sail in our anchor but since we run out of breeze before we can get in closer to shore we drop the anchor in some 50 feet of water. The water is much clearer here than along the coast and we can see not only fish but our chain go down a few fathoms before disappearing into the blue depths. We pay out 150 to 200 feet of chain in order to get a minimum catenary effect. At one pound per foot of chain and a 45-pound anchor at the end, the straight pull to raise it tomorrow will be about 100 pounds. But, tomorrow is another day. At least it is completely calm here. We secure the anchor, tidy up the sails, rig the cockpit awning and the swim ladder, make two cans of Atlas beer ready from the bilge storage (after pumping out) and jump overboard into the refreshing seawater. After the sun’s hot rays all afternoon, the water seems cold. It’s all relative, of course.

Later in the evening, long after we have finished our meal, the wind starts to veer round to the north so that we are beginning to get little wind waves into the cove, the boat turns parallel to the beach, and the anchor chain is beginning to get a bit of an angle to it. The wind begins to pick up. I let out another four fathoms of chain for safety’s sake and to salve my conscience. I wonder if we should leave now and find something more sheltered for the night. But where? There is precious little shelter from NW winds here in the Secas. After dark, as the night advances, we have washed up the dishes and finished our pipes and drinks, the wind picks up even more. The awning is flapping noisily: I tie it down closer to the deck so the wind can’t get under it. It is as much the noise on the boat especially at night - the flapping awning, the anchor chain rubbing occasionally against the bobstay, loose items that want to move around or rattle on deck or down below in the galley, the unpleasant bump, bump of the rudder – that increase the pucker factor. Get rid of the noises and your nerves will thank you.

Several times in the night I get up. Nervous. The wind has moved farther around to the east and now we are definitely on a lee shore. We still have lots of depth under the keel although we are certainly closer to the beach than before. Vilisar is now pitching up and down straight into the waves. Not bad yet. But it is dark and that makes one wary. A small fishing boat that had come into the bay at dusk to anchor about 200 yards away, has moved over behind a point to get more protection. We can’t follow as it is far too shallow over there. In fact, there is no protection for us from NE or E winds in these islands except to tuck in behind that rocky islet we passed coming in. But trying to get the anchor up from those depths at night promises to be a tough job against the wind and waves. The other alternatives are to wait it out and hope that wind and waves do not increase significantly, or to put to sea in the dark and ride it out farther out. For the moment, watching and praying seems like the better part of the bargain. I let out even more chain and make sure everything is secured aloft and alow. The waves are only about 2 feet high, I judge in the dark. I go below to my book. It does not seem to be getting any worse. I doze fitfully. Andrew snores in the presence of trouble.

ANDREW: Rio Santa Lucia & Isla de Afueras

At dawn the moderate east wind is still blowing and the waves are still rolling in. It hasn’t got any worse, but I expect that, as the day progresses, it will either intensify or drop altogether. East winds are not common here in this season. We had thought about staying the day here and exploring the island. But now we want to be moving on. Recovering all that chain in such depths and against the wind and on a pitching deck proves to be quite a challenge. It might possibly have been done without the Lister diesel engine, but we were glad to have her help. Andrew learns to bring in chain hand-over-hand as rapidly as possible when the bow pitches downward and then quickly drop the chain over the gypsy before the bow starts to rise again. We recover most of it in this manner. Slowly. But it also requires going forward frequently on the engine to head the vessel up, take the strain off the anchor chain and have another go. Part way through this, we switch places and I pull on the chain for a while too. Eventually we are “straight up and down” and we drive forward on the engine to break out the anchor. At least it has set well during the night. The last straight pull is left to youth and the more energetic of the two crewmen. Once the anchor is secured in its bower, we begin to get up sail, the main first, followed by the jib and finally the staysail, the easiest to set. Heeling over on a starboard tack we began to pick up speed out of the “shelter”, passing a reef on the island to the left and a rocky satellite island to the right behind which a fishing boat had just dropped anchor. We wave to each other.

Andrew does not have enough time left in the week for us to visit the national park on Isla Coiba. So we elect to head for a mainland river entrance to the east along the mainland coast; Rio Santa Lucia. It is noon before we have struggled our way out of the anchorage. This means we have until sunset at 1835 plus perhaps another half hour to find a new spot for the night. It is one of the problems of coastal sailing that you frequently have to use your engine just to make an anchorage. In fact, in coastal sailing you find you are using the engine quite a lot. On long offshore passages, if there is no wind, you simply wait. You are not going to bump into the land at night anyway. So, we have about 6-7 hours of daylight. But, the winds are still quite light. In the afternoons, SW sea breezes normally spring up and, when they finally come, we shut down the diesel and are pushed along at over 4 knots, the sunshine bright and hot and heating us up, the breeze cooling us down.

It is always tempting to sit out in the cockpit without being covered (our cockpit is completely unshaded when we are moving); if you are pale and pink from months inside and you want to sport a real tan when you get home, who wouldn’t sit out? I use thrift shop pyjamas in the midday sun. But these are not at all “cool. Andrew has been getting a sunburn nearly every day because he really wants to get brown. He therefore misjudges the intensity of the sun’s tropical rays here at about 8º North because there is always a friendly breeze to keep him cool, and he has forgotten from previous voyages how painful sunburn can be. Especially after dark! At night he feels like he is afire, and I don’t mean with religious enthusiasm! Aspirin helps to cool this fever down but he has had a few uncomfortable nights.

Even at 4 knots it is going to be a near-run thing for us to make the river mouth accurately and find the second or third protective bay inside. I don’t have a detailed chart for the river entrance. But there is a wooded and hilly tropical island standing guard over the entrance to the river. The cruising guide says there is a pretty beach and cove there on the north end of this little island (Isla de Afueras), well protected from the SW ocean swells. We are rapidly approaching it as the sun gets lower behind us. The cove looks very attractive indeed and, if we have to circle right around the island to get into the river mouth, we have a good chance of losing the light altogether. So, disregarding that the cruising guide says to “regard this anchorage as at best a day anchorage”, we decide to put in. Almost exactly at the midpoint between the two points defining the cove, perhaps a quarter of a mile apart, we drop the anchor in clear water at 25 feet and about 200 yards from shore. We douse and furl the sails, rig the awning, set the swim ladder, jump naked overboard and climb out to drink a relatively cool can of warm beer pulled once again out of the bilge below the cabin sole. After rinsing off with fresh water, we have a chance to take a good look at the anchorage.

ANDREW: Isla de Afuersa (Outside Island)

Over on the mainland that stretches towards Panamá City, rain clouds have formed and there is thunder rolling around. Clearly it is raining heavily over there. We keep expecting to get a shower but we are bypassed. We are just far enough offshore. The beach in the cove is not large, dark basalt-looking sand while the points are made up of basalt rocks about the size of soccer balls or larger. Along the right half of the cove there are thatched shelters. The many palm trees there are painted white at their bases. Very tidy and colonial looking. In the middle of the beach and on a slight rise between the beach and the higher hills that make up the backbone of the island, there are a few more bamboo huts with thatched roofs. These are more primitive not to mention that they have walls and a door, and I suspect they are storage huts for fishermen or caretakers. Under a second thatched roof without any walls hammocks are slung. A colourful local fishing boat is tied by the stern to a tree and there are five or six people watching us. We wave. They have probably been resting there for the day. Eventually, however, as dusk begins to settle and waving as they pass by, the fishing boat motors quietly out for its night’s work and the cove is left to us. Later a indigeno paddles through in his dugout canoe. When we wave, he comes over. His name is Victor and he lives in a large family on the other side of the island. He is a fisherman. In his canoe he has only a few nylon lines with hooks. I ask him if he can sell us a fish. He agrees to bring one back in the morning. “Pargo?” he asks. Red snapper? About two or three pounds? No problem.

The night is calm. The cicada season has arrived and they send out their siren sounds and squeaks. We even hear howler monkeys. We enjoy our meal again, sit out with pipes and drinks to talk and watch the stars come out. It has been one of the treats on this trip that we have so much unhurried time to converse. Sometimes we discuss Andrew’s childhood as I remember it or our various family trips on Vilisar in British Columbia and Alaska, Mexico or Ecuador. We laugh a lot as we each tells his view of the same incident, or are surprised by things one of us has forgotten. I tell him about his paternal side of the family, about his grandparents, his aunts and uncles, his cousins – most of whom he has never met or only fleetingly or long ago. One of the many negatives about a divorce. We talk about his future, his plans for when he graduates next year. By nine o’clock the silences become longer; we are both ready for bed. There is no wind. The sea is perfectly calm. A half moon shines down on us and lights the scene in silver. Occasionally a fish jumps.

We pass a wonderful quiet night. The dawn is golden. It is not yet seven o’clock when from the foredeck I see Victor come paddling around the point a half mile away. He brings us a beautiful four or five pound grouper. He said he didn’t catch any snapper last night. It is already scaled and cleaned it. Thank goodness! I hate doing that job. We agree on two dollars. We talk for a while in Spanish. The island is privately owned by a Frenchman who only comes occasionally for a visit, we learn. We admire his canoe which is delicately carved from a single log, and his hand-carved paddle. Unlike the dugouts in Bahía de Caráquez, Ecuador, which have a wooden transom are seem quite dilapidated, this dugout is all one piece. A perfect traditional design. When he leaves, we put the fish into a bucket of seawater to eat that evening and park the bucket under the cockpit seat in the shade.

After breakfast we decide to take a walk ashore, the first time we have been on shore on this trip. The cove is deserted. The thatched buildings with the white-painted coconut palms seem to be picnic shelters. There is a makeshift bar made of rough planks nailed between various trees. Probably it is used for occasional parties where the people come from around the other side of the island by boat. Nobody walks here; they use their canoes or boats to get around the island. There are plenty of coconuts on the ground for the taking but we don’t have a machete to cut them open so we leave them. We walk around the point on the small boulders where the Pacific swells are languidly washing up and down. The big swells of earlier in the week have subsided. It is hard going and soon we are sweating. Each turn of the point beckons us to the next. We are hoping to find a path leading inland. But there is nothing and the underbrush away from the beach is for the most part impenetrable even though, from the deck of the boat we saw banana groves, mango trees and maize farther up the hillsides. In the distance to the north across the water the blue mountains making up the spine of the Panamanian Isthmus are clearly visible, the daily rain cloud build-up not yet begun. The sky is a pure azure blue. Looking out towards the Pacific we see lots of wooded islands. Eventually we make our way back to the beach while overhead macaws squawk at us and fly off with their yellow tails.

ANDREW: Isla Venado

Until noon it is very hot. The wind only comes up late in the morning around here. Sea breezes. It is Saturday and Andrew has to catch a bus to Panamá City on Sunday night if he is to make his plane on Monday afternoon. It is thirty nautical miles back to Boca Chica. We sail out of our anchorage on a very light breeze, which however picks up as we come around the point. Very gently sailing. We are making about 4 knots and close-hauled as we pass one rocky and wooded island after another set about two or three miles apart. Most of them are being washed by big heavy swells. By mid-afternoon, it is clear that we are not going to make it to Boca Chica entrance by dark, so we begin to look for an alternative place to stop overnight. The cruising guide says we could hide behind Isla Venada about five miles short of Boca Chica, dropping the anchor a half mile offshore on a mudbank in about ten feet of water. This works and we are well settled by dark. More talk, more pipe smoke, more drinks. We drained the water tanks today and decide we shall wait until we are at anchor before trying to empty the deck-borne jerry jugs into the bunkers. We drink warm beer instead. With the dehydration of several days of bright sun and wind, with a couple of more drinks before dinner, we are both rather unsteady, almost drunk by the time we have refilled the tanks, had our fill of water and had our dinner.

ANDREW: David & farewell

We both have hangovers the next day. But, there’s no time to doddle if we are to make it to Boca Chica on the high tide at noon, settle the boat and make a dash for David. I have no idea how we are to get there since the local taxi drivers don’t work on Sundays. We decide we’ll hitch-hike to the Trans-American Highway and catch a country bus from there. Back in Boca Chica, our cruising neighbour, Mike of S/V Dragon Lady, Seattle, gives us a ride in his motorised dingy to Boca Chica. Luck is with us! A David taxi is there that has just unloaded hotel guests out from the airport. He is happy to have a return fare and we cut an attractive deal for us both. By early afternoon we are at the bus terminal, Andrew has reserved a seat on the midnight bus to Panamá City and we are free to look around. We spend a bit of time in a cyber café but are drawn outside by the noise of brass bands playing loud music in the street. On the main street there is a cavalcade of horses and riders. It is the last day of the state fair and every ranch has sent it vaqueros into town to make up a 1000-mount parade. What was once tropical forest is now all ranching country and the men and women are very horse-proud.

In the evening, we grab a taxi to a suburban mall and take in a snack and movie while, later, back in town, we eat a pizza and drink some more beer together while we wait for midnight and the departure. I am feeling more than a little sad to see Andrew go. The week has flitted by so quickly. At the station, there is such a press of people to get bus seats that they have to lay on four more busses. But he has a seat and, just at midnight, he goes aboard. I wave and head back to my hotel. Can’t wait for him to return.

ANDREW: Cruising with Andrew

We finish stowing and preparing and, on Monday in the early afternoon, we motor out of Boca Chica on the way to Isla Parida about ten miles away. The Golfo de Chiriqui is littered with tropical islands. Unfortunately, a great number of them are underwater islands, aka hazards to navigation. And a lot of them are not marked on the charts. If you are lucky you can see the long Pacific swells breaking over them and therefore avoid them. Near the coast you get used to reading the underwater hazards but you can never be totally sure until you get local knowledge. Drive slowly! (I am reminded here of the traffic sign at the entrance to a village in the Vogelsberg district north of Frankfurt. Under a sign ;picturing playing children was the admonition, “Fahrt langsam! Es koennte auch Dein Kind sein!” [“Drive slowly! It might even be your child!”])

Once clear of the mile-long entry channel from Boca Chica, we continued to motor for a while before finally, at long last, putting up the new sails and setting a course for Parida. As we approached Isla Gámez, a smaller island just off Isla Parida where we intended to drop anchor, we spotted a fishing panga about a quarter mile away. It suddenly started towards us at speed. I immediately thought that the island must be private and they would want to chase us away. As it turned out it was my friend Doug of S/V Luna. He has been out in the islands for the last week or so. He and the guys in the boat with him had come over to this particular spot, not to fish, as I suspected, but because they could get a connection with their cellphones! He recommended not anchoring at Isla Gámez. He himself was anchored about two miles away in an all-weather cove. He would return with us and pilot us in.

Forty-five minutes later we were anchored near him. It was certainly protected from the wind. But there was a gap in the reef about 300 yards across to the south between Isla Parida and Isla Paradita through which very large Pacific swells were rolling into the bay at long intervals, washing white and frothing up onto the rocky points at the entrance and carrying on ponderously to spread out inside the anchorage. There was a strong and circular tidal current flowing from the other entrance to the bay, the one by which we had entered. The result was that Vilisar was turned at such an angle that we were constantly rolling around like a bottle at sea. The anchorage was protected from wind, but the swells were going to make our life a little more than just uncomfortable.

DAVID: Working at the masthead on Isla Parida

This rolling was not just a question of comfort. While our new red sails were perfectly fine, the jib halyard had somehow jammed in the block at the top of the mast and, once hoisted to nearly full height, the jibsail could not now be got down. After a lot of futile pulling and twisting, it was finally decided that the only way to deal with it was to go up to the masthead in the boson’s chair. This promised to be exciting given the rolling of the boat. The arc, after all, at the top of the mast was going to be much greater even than the deck, which at this point was rolling badly and making footing difficult. But, of course, that is why one’s children come to visit one, isn’t it? To exchange their youthful vigour for episodes of raw experience.

Immediately after the question, “Who’s going up?” is posed aloud, Doug and I turn to look wordlessly at Andrew. He goes slightly pale, his eyebrows shoot up nearly to his hairline, his eyes widen like locomotive lights and his nostrils flare. It’s a picture, isn’t it? He said later his re-solve nearly dis-solved as we were digging out the bag with the boson’s chair and line, carrying it on deck, shaking out the gear and attaching it to the mainsail halyard. We never gave him a chance to discuss it, really. Up he goes, hanging onto the swaying mast for dear life, the pockets of the boson’s chair filled with various hand tools. Once past the sticky bit around the spreaders, there are no more reachable shrouds to hang onto to. Only the mast itself. “OK! Tie it off!” he calls down. “I’m at the top.” His voice has a perceptible nervous quality about it, and he seemed to be a little short of breath.

“The jib halyard is jammed hard between the sheave and the frame of the block. There’s no way I can get it free. I also cannot loosen the shackle from its fastening to the masthead corona.” The boson’s chair works fine with its four-part purchase system of blocks and line. But, even fully hoisted to the mainsail sheave, the occupant of the chair cannot quite reach over the masthead to, say, the masthead light. All work has to be done at the full extension of only one arm while he grasps and wraps his legs around the mast to prevent himself from being swung out as the boat rolls, the masthead arcs and, on the return swing, smashes him against the rig. Even a safety belt did little to help here. We finally decide to send up a hacksaw to see if he could cut the block open from its side. This proves futile and it is finally decided to cut the halyard and rig a new block and new halyard the next day. As it turns out, this was probably unnecessary. Andrew was just unfamiliar with the cotter ring that held the block cum shackle to the corona; he didn’t realise that the ring could be removed and the pin simply withdrawn. But you win a few and you lose a few.

Doug was rowed back to his sailboat, Luna, which was rolling around about 100 yards from us. We tidy up a bit on deck and then get busy fixing a “Caribbean stew” (black beans, tomatoes, bell peppers, okra, ginger, red pepper flakes over white rice). Our meals have been rather skimpy over the day and by now we were ravenous. Andrew deserves to sit in the cockpit with a whisky in his hand and contemplate his fate for the next morning. We finally turn in, worn out by eight o’clock, everything alow and aloft secured against the night and the rolling. Uninterrupted sleep is difficult despite the beauty of the deep blue night sky, the Milky Way almost solid light, the Big Dipper rising to the north (the polar star just barely visible near the horizon) and the Southern Cross above the entrance to the bay to the south.

In the bright morning sunlight, Doug calls over that he wasn’t about to spend another night in these swells. He is going to move his boat around to another bay, which he thinks might be calmer. He promises once there to let us know by radio if this is in fact the case. We would then follow him to begin our masthead work. Off he motors. But after several hours and repeated attempts to reach him on vhf radio, we have more or less given up. The rolling seems however to have abated somewhat by early noon, mainly because the currents are not turning us broadside to the swells. We are pitching a bit, but that is much easier to deal with on a boat since that is what her hull is designed for. We decide we should forget about moving the boat to an unknown anchorage, and take advantage of whatever calm we can get right here.

We also rig a pair of rope stirrups to the boson’s chair so that Andrew can stand up once he is aloft. He takes a stout safety belt with him, as well. Once he has learned that it is possible to pull the cotter ring on the jib-block’s shackle, it is relatively easy, standing up in his stirrups, to remove the whole block. Down it comes in a heap, unfortunately with a pair of snub-nosed pliers that barely missed me where I was working directly beneath him.

Doug had found an old block in his bilge before he left. It is missing various parts for attaching it to anything. But Andrew seizes a galvanised shackle to it and, taking the new halyard up with him, he ascends now for the third time, attaches the block and shackle and ‘mouses’ it to prevent it vibrating free sometime at sea, runs the new halyard through the sheave and brings the tail end down with him as I let him down. The rolling continues light and, with the stirrups and lineman’s safety belt, it has been possible if not easy for Andrew to reach everything aloft. The work is all done in about 90 minutes. It’s midday and the sun is directly overhead. But there is at least a cooling breeze that comes in from the south along with the swells. We gave silent thanks to Liam, a sailor cum musician from Kingston, Washington, whom we had met in Port Townsend years ago. He lives on an engineless wooden cutter. Around 2002 he gave us about 500 feet of three-ply 3/8-inch line, much of which ended up in our boson’s chair hauling rig. Now a smaller though significant portion is our new jib halyard. For the moment we simply tie the halyard to the peak of the headsail with a bowline ready to sail out in the morning. We never do hear from Doug again, so perhaps his radio is not working. But we spot him the next day in the distance as we motor-sail past the head of his new cove.

ANDREW: Cruising with Andrew

We finish stowing and preparing and, on Monday in the early afternoon, we motor out of Boca Chica on the way to Isla Parida about ten miles away. The Golfo de Chiriqui is littered with tropical islands. Unfortunately, a great number of them are underwater islands, aka hazards to navigation. And a lot of them are not marked on the charts. If you are lucky you can see the long Pacific swells breaking over them and therefore avoid them. Near the coast you get used to reading the underwater hazards but you can never be totally sure until you get local knowledge. Drive slowly! (I am reminded here of the traffic sign at the entrance to a village in the Vogelsberg district north of Frankfurt. Under a sign ;picturing playing children was the admonition, “Fahrt langsam! Es koennte auch Dein Kind sein!” [“Drive slowly! It might even be your child!”])

Once clear of the mile-long entry channel from Boca Chica, we continued to motor for a while before finally, at long last, putting up the new sails and setting a course for Parida. As we approached Isla Gámez, a smaller island just off Isla Parida where we intended to drop anchor, we spotted a fishing panga about a quarter mile away. It suddenly started towards us at speed. I immediately thought that the island must be private and they would want to chase us away. As it turned out it was my friend Doug of S/V Luna. He has been out in the islands for the last week or so. He and the guys in the boat with him had come over to this particular spot, not to fish, as I suspected, but because they could get a connection with their cellphones! He recommended not anchoring at Isla Gámez. He himself was anchored about two miles away in an all-weather cove. He would return with us and pilot us in.

Forty-five minutes later we were anchored near him. It was certainly protected from the wind. But there was a gap in the reef about 300 yards across to the south between Isla Parida and Isla Paradita through which very large Pacific swells were rolling into the bay at long intervals, washing white and frothing up onto the rocky points at the entrance and carrying on ponderously to spread out inside the anchorage. There was a strong and circular tidal current flowing from the other entrance to the bay, the one by which we had entered. The result was that Vilisar was turned at such an angle that we were constantly rolling around like a bottle at sea. The anchorage was protected from wind, but the swells were going to make our life a little more than just uncomfortable.

ANDREW: Working at the masthead on Isla Parida

This rolling was not just a question of comfort. While our new red sails were perfectly fine, the jib halyard had somehow jammed in the block at the top of the mast and, once hoisted to nearly full height, the jibsail could not now be got down. After a lot of futile pulling and twisting, it was finally decided that the only way to deal with it was to go up to the masthead in the boson’s chair. This promised to be exciting given the rolling of the boat. The arc, after all, at the top of the mast was going to be much greater even than the deck, which at this point was rolling badly and making footing difficult. But, of course, that is why one’s children come to visit one, isn’t it? To exchange their youthful vigour for episodes of raw experience.

Immediately after the question, “Who’s going up?” is posed aloud, Doug and I turn to look wordlessly at Andrew. He goes slightly pale, his eyebrows shoot up nearly to his hairline, his eyes widen like locomotive lights and his nostrils flare. It’s a picture, isn’t it? He said later his re-solve nearly dis-solved as we were digging out the bag with the boson’s chair and line, carrying it on deck, shaking out the gear and attaching it to the mainsail halyard. We never gave him a chance to discuss it, really. Up he goes, hanging onto the swaying mast for dear life, the pockets of the boson’s chair filled with various hand tools. Once past the sticky bit around the spreaders, there are no more reachable shrouds to hang onto to. Only the mast itself. “OK! Tie it off!” he calls down. “I’m at the top.” His voice has a perceptible nervous quality about it, and he seemed to be a little short of breath.

“The jib halyard is jammed hard between the sheave and the frame of the block. There’s no way I can get it free. I also cannot loosen the shackle from its fastening to the masthead corona.” The boson’s chair works fine with its four-part purchase system of blocks and line. But, even fully hoisted to the mainsail sheave, the occupant of the chair cannot quite reach over the masthead to, say, the masthead light. All work has to be done at the full extension of only one arm while he grasps and wraps his legs around the mast to prevent himself from being swung out as the boat rolls, the masthead arcs and, on the return swing, smashes him against the rig. Even a safety belt did little to help here. We finally decide to send up a hacksaw to see if he could cut the block open from its side. This proves futile and it is finally decided to cut the halyard and rig a new block and new halyard the next day. As it turns out, this was probably unnecessary. Andrew was just unfamiliar with the cotter ring that held the block cum shackle to the corona; he didn’t realise that the ring could be removed and the pin simply withdrawn. But you win a few and you lose a few.

Doug was rowed back to his sailboat, Luna, which was rolling around about 100 yards from us. We tidy up a bit on deck and then get busy fixing a “Caribbean stew” (black beans, tomatoes, bell peppers, okra, ginger, red pepper flakes over white rice). Our meals have been rather skimpy over the day and by now we were ravenous. Andrew deserves to sit in the cockpit with a whisky in his hand and contemplate his fate for the next morning. We finally turn in, worn out by eight o’clock, everything alow and aloft secured against the night and the rolling. Uninterrupted sleep is difficult despite the beauty of the deep blue night sky, the Milky Way almost solid light, the Big Dipper rising to the north (the polar star just barely visible near the horizon) and the Southern Cross above the entrance to the bay to the south.

In the bright morning sunlight, Doug calls over that he wasn’t about to spend another night in these swells. He is going to move his boat around to another bay, which he thinks might be calmer. He promises once there to let us know by radio if this is in fact the case. We would then follow him to begin our masthead work. Off he motors. But after several hours and repeated attempts to reach him on vhf radio, we have more or less given up. The rolling seems however to have abated somewhat by early noon, mainly because the currents are not turning us broadside to the swells. We are pitching a bit, but that is much easier to deal with on a boat since that is what her hull is designed for. We decide we should forget about moving the boat to an unknown anchorage, and take advantage of whatever calm we can get right here.

We also rig a pair of rope stirrups to the boson’s chair so that Andrew can stand up once he is aloft. He takes a stout safety belt with him, as well. Once he has learned that it is possible to pull the cotter ring on the jib-block’s shackle, it is relatively easy, standing up in his stirrups, to remove the whole block. Down it comes in a heap, unfortunately with a pair of snub-nosed pliers that barely missed me where I was working directly beneath him.

Doug had found an old block in his bilge before he left. It is missing various parts for attaching it to anything. But Andrew seizes a galvanised shackle to it and, taking the new halyard up with him, he ascends now for the third time, attaches the block and shackle and ‘mouses’ it to prevent it vibrating free sometime at sea, runs the new halyard through the sheave and brings the tail end down with him as I let him down. The rolling continues light and, with the stirrups and lineman’s safety belt, it has been possible if not easy for Andrew to reach everything aloft. The work is all done in about 90 minutes. It’s midday and the sun is directly overhead. But there is at least a cooling breeze that comes in from the south along with the swells. We gave silent thanks to Liam, a sailor cum musician from Kingston, Washington, whom we had met in Port Townsend years ago. He lives on an engineless wooden cutter. Around 2002 he gave us about 500 feet of three-ply 3/8-inch line, much of which ended up in our boson’s chair hauling rig. Now a smaller though significant portion is our new jib halyard. For the moment we simply tie the halyard to the peak of the headsail with a bowline ready to sail out in the morning. We never do hear from Doug again, so perhaps his radio is not working. But we spot him the next day in the distance as we motor-sail past the head of his new cove.

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CRUISING WITH ANDREW
Boca Chica, Panamá, Thursday, March 18, 2008

It has been months of hanging around Boca Chica’s somnolent anchorage with occasional trips into David, the local market town some 90 minutes away, to renew one’s Permiso de Marino (essentially a month-by-month Shoreman’s Card issued to visiting yachties), to re-provision and to use the cheap internet access in town. Time was hanging heavily on my hands, and, believe it or not, even the Great Procrastinator had run out of important boat projects to do. For too long I had been feeling like a slave to the bloody boat (pace Vilisar!) anyway.

Prior to Christmas, after a few weeks of heavy tropical showers each evening, the ITCZ had finally moved south towards Columbia and the friendly, drier, wintertime Caribbean weather with its refreshing trade winds had arrived. Huge thunderheads still formed up threateningly around Panamá’s mountainous spine between the Caribbean and us to the north and out over the sea to the south, but now they rarely boiled down to the Pacific to dump their rain.

Instead of enjoying this improved weather however, I was pining away in Boca Chica; Kathleen was away in wintry Germany to work on a musical in Frankfurt with her friends Debra and Sheila. Last year, house-sitting in Venezuela for seven months, I had plenty of visitors and I helped a German friend from time to time to run his posada (B&B) while he was away. I also had easy internet access to research articles I was preparing. Here, on the other hand, despite a pile of paperback books in all quality classes, it was just plain lonely at times.

Certainly a few other cruisers showed up from time to time, especially around Christmas, including yachts like Carina, IWA, Claire de Lune, Plan B, Harmony and others whom we had known in Bahía de Caraquéz, Ecuador. Others, like the junk-rigged Batwing out of Seattle, we had met in Mexico. Anna III, Copenhagen (Joergen & Judy), Aquastrian, Campbell River, B.C., (Dennis & Michelle), Fulle Polle, Bonn (Berndt & Renate), Luna, Panamá (Doug & Suleica) and Leonidas, Santa Cruz, CA, (Tom & Ann), I met for the first time and enjoyed. Rick & Barbara aboard Kirkham Annie out of Prince George and Vancouver, BC but now semi-permanently in Boca Chica are clearing land to build a small house on a nearby beach; they were especially hospitable. Suzie & Jim of Sparta and Marco Polo are permanently there, I guess you could say. Mike and Maria aboard Dragon Lady out of Seattle became friends too. By late February, however, most of the yachts had moved off heading north and home to the States, to Costa Rican haul-out facilities or towards Panamá City.

So there was quite a lot of coming and going of old and new sailing acquaintances. They would head out “to the islands” and come back in a week or so later to renew visas and re-supply. But, as much as I enjoy cruising islands, I don’t find it fun to cruise alone. I have also never been one for just taking walks or day-sailing. Not that I don’t like walking or sailing. Quit the opposite. But I have to have a purpose, a destination. When living in Frankfurt, for example, I did nearly all my errands by foot or bicycle, and only used the pubic transport for longer distances. But I never went just for walks. As for day-sails, they are like cleaning house; you need a visitor to get started in earnest and to make the floating apartment into a sailboat.

Andrew’s arrival

All the more reason than that I was eager to have Andrew’s visit over his Spring Break from college. A visitor on board! And a great person as well! And somebody who loves the boat and cruising! Maybe it is too much to say that he is ‘sail-struck’. But maybe it’s close to that. Getting to Boca Chica was going to be somewhat complicated: he was flying from New Orleans then changing at Houston for Panamá City. Then, in a strange country and with modest Spanish, he had to get from the aeropuerto to the bus terminal quickly to catch a long-distance bus to David. That bus trip takes 6 hours. What made it all the more complicated was that Andrew was also bringing two large packages containing our new tan bark sails. The price for the Lee Sails of Hong Kong included delivery to anywhere in the U.S.A. but not to Panamá. Seventy pounds in addition to his own suitcase! I can’t believe they let him on the plane without charging him extra! And Panamanian Customs passed him through without even a raised eyebrow, let alone a hand held out for a bribe.

I met him at the David (bus)Terminal around 2300 on Saturday night. I had taken a room in a backpacker’s hovel (-sorry, I meant hotel) and reserved a taxi to take us, the sails and several boxes of groceries that I had already purchased for the week out to Boca Chica the next morning. The bus arrived more or less on time. We got some sleep. The drive out the next morning was delightful now that the road in from the Trans-American Highway has been up-graded and gravelled in preparation for paving. At one time this was all tropical forest, but, although poor sandy stuff, the land was cleared years ago for ranching. The only virgin forest left at all in Panama is on the ex-penal colony island of Coiba, fifty miles out in the Pacific. It is now a national park. How’s that for upgrading? The gravel road was lined with ripe cashew trees and we stopped to eat some fruit picked from low-hanging branches. Delicious. (Each of the cashews you have to go with your beer comes from one fruit; the ‘nut’ - i.e., the fruit’s seed- hangs down below the fruit externally. This is unusual when you think about it since most stones or seeds in fruits are internal to the flesh. Although the fruit is delicious there is apparently no way to can it or otherwise preserve it). By noon on Sunday we were ensconced back on Vilisar, having taken a local wooden motorboat-taxi out from Boca Chica itself.

Bend on the new sails
The first big job is to strip off the decrepit, old, grey, salt- and sun-whacked sails. When we bought the boat in 2001, Roger van Stelle, the seller, had opined that we would probably need a new suit of sails soon. Well, that was well over six years ago and we have covered at least 10,000 Nm. He was right though. We just never had the lolly. Now, if we plan to sail to French Polynesia and beyond this year or next, we simply had to have new ones.

These new Dacron ones are beautiful. Tan bark (i.e., red to imitate the old-fashion cotton or canvas sails or yore). We mail-ordered them through Lee Sails of Hong Kong. (I can highly recommend Mr. Kwan, Lee Sails representative in Vancouver, BC. vancouver@leesails.com. The workmanship is first class and the price and service was everything one could want.) There’s a picture above of our new sails.