At sea between Isla Cébaco, and Bahia Honda, Panamá, Friday, 11 December 2009
After three days anchored in beautiful Ensenada Naranjo on the mainland, it is time to get moving. ‘Tropical waves’ (of weather) pass through in these latitudes about every three or four days, and we confidently expected the breezes to come around to a more northerly direction and give us a push to the W or NW. Meanwhile we manage a temporary fix on the fuel-filter problem, cook, play cards and read. Unlike the Golfo de Panamá where the dry season seems finally to have arrived, there are still nearly daily rain squalls here and we take our showers on deck and collect rainwater off the sun awning. There are some lancha-fishermen and some ranchers about; long slim open boats with outboards and several men in them pass us headed into the beach, and cattle come down to the beach at low tide. Otherwise, the area is deserted and quiet, and at night we never see any lights other than our own anchor lantern.

So yesterday we pull up the anchor shortly after 0800 and slowly glide out of the cove. The wind is in our favour, but still quite weak. Rainy mist still hangs over the green hills. It looks like a Chinese painting. Even this fitful breeze lasts only until about 1000 and then dies altogether. We throw on the Lister, something we hate to do. But we are headed across the 25-mile stretch to Ensenada Naranjo (i.e., the same name as the one we have just left), this being the only anchorage on the south side of Isla Cébaco. The morning and the engine get hotter, but the electronic tiller pilot alleviates the drudgery of steering. The electrical contacts have always been a bit iffy, so one of us sits out in the cockpit. At lunch, we heat up the remains of the borscht soup. This is our third or fourth meal from this batch. It’s getting old. The cruising life is tough.

Maybe I will have more luck catching a fish. As long as we still have fresh foods aboard that are likely to go bad without refrigeration, I tend not to fish. Now everything except some potatoes and some onions has been consumed and we are down to tinned and packaged things. After many years of cruising, too, I have made the profound discovery that one’s chance of catching a fish go up if you put a hook in the water. As the Germans say, “You never learn out”. After six hours of motorsailing I pull in the hand line again at mid-afternoon inside Ensenada Naranjo on Isla Cébaco. No luck today.

Ensenada Naranjo is well protected from northerlies – not yet admittedly a major problem for us, unfortunately- and relatively well protected from SW ocean swells provided you can cozy up to the southern side of the cove. The cove however is a base for Cébaco Bay sport-fishing tours. Along the long beach this outfit has posted ‘No Trespassing” signs on land, and they have set out so many permanent buoys, that anyone coming later has to take what he can get. I anchor first near some empty buoys. Later an America chap named Chris motors over and asks us if we could move since at night the winds will shift to the north, and we are likely to swing into the buoy. This buoy moreover he confidently expects to be occupied by one of his motor cruisers coming from David in the night. I don’t suppose they actually have any more right to the water than anyone else. But, they have squatters’ rights, and anyway he is very nice and says to contact him on Channel 06 if we need water, fuel, eggs, or anything else. I ask him if he has any extra fish, what with all their fishing activities. He says that fishing has been very bad, but that along the coast to Costa Rica we should find the best fishing in Panama. He will bring a fish over if his guests bring extra in. We move a couple of hundred yards off and anchor 500 yards off the beach in 30 feet with a nice sandy bottom that grabs our anchor at first go. The sport-fishing motor vessel never arrived in the night.

We don’t bother to rig the sun awning or cover the sails in the afternoon. We plan to avoid getting any more sun exposure then necessary the next day by starting right at dawn. After rummaging around for it, Kathleen eventually finds a bathing suit and announces she will swim ashore while I am making bread. Pleasantly exhausted from her swim and walk along the beach, she returns an hour later. The bread is rising in a pressure cooker set on top of the still-warm diesel engine. We swim around the boat and rinse off with fresh water, and then settle down to watch the sunset while we have a drink and eat (what else?) left-over borscht. Soon after dark, we move below to read.

Shortly thereafter I hear a strange noise like a roar and stick my head out of the companionway hatch. Everything is pitch-black towards shore and there seems to be a loud rushing noise. I recognise this as an approaching rain squall. It’s loud on the palm trees and other vegetation and then over the water as it moves towards us. Already big drops of rain are splattering on the deck. I do a quick check-round to make sure everything is put away, go below and slide the hatch shut. Let it rain! I stretch back out on my berth to sleep. The rain is hard and prolonged. Kathleen is determined however to catch rainwater and gets up to try and catch some off the furled sails. She actually manages to get about a gallon by standing out in the rain. I roll over and go back to sleep. Some people should be left to their folly.

Sometime in the night the rain finally abates. But the air when I get up in the night is heavy with water and the lights on board Cébaco Bay, the base ship for the fishing tours, look watery. Everything on the boat is still dripping. At dawn, we stretch and, like automatons, start through the drill of getting Vilisar moving. Thick clouds of mist still hang over the hill. The whole island is after all, I guess, a tropical rain forest. There is no wind and we are thrown back on the engine, which we start noisily at 0625, then weigh anchor, haul up the big red mainsail and motor out of the bay. Passing the reefs at the mouth of the cove, I remind myself to get a hook in the water. Loyal readers will recall the impact this actually quite simple action has on fishing success. Mornings and evening are better times to catch fish, rocky reefs are better places than far offshore; mid-tide currents are better than high and low slack. Something is working right! Ten minutes later we have a dorado (mahi mahi, dolphinfish, whatever). He’s a fighter too. I am using only a lure and stout nylon line on a hand reel. We are not sports fishermen who play the fish up to the boat and then let them go. No, no! None of that! We eat what we catch. Or, we intend to if I can get this sucker on board! I intend to drag this big guy until he gets really tired and I can then get him onto the deck. I was warned once by an experienced fisherman not to try to get a dorado on board too soon if I don’t have a gaff hook. Just tire him out thoroughly. Dragging a fish will drown him and then you can get him on board. The process this morning takes half an hour, however. I get him up near the boat after twenty minutes and admire his beautiful golden and blue colouring. Surely, dorados have to be some of the most beautiful game fish around! Even its eyes are stunningly colourful. Finally, he seems to have given up the ghost and, after half an hour of dragging, I can lift him onto the bridge at 0750. When we measure him, he is 40 inches (just over a metre) top to tail. All true! O exaggeration! Unfortunately, the camera’s battery gives up before we can photograph him, so readers will just have to believe this fisherman. I have a witness, remember!


The breeze has picked up after rounding the point and soon we are closehauled doing three knots or more, while I strip off and begin the somewhat bloody job of butchering the fish. Cutting off huge filets from a dorado is a relatively simple task although rather bloody at first. Soon I have a big bowl full of filets weighing probably five pounds in all. Hate to think what that might cost in Baltimore or Frankfurt! Kathleen has meanwhile put the pickling mixture on to heat. I cut the fish into chunks leaving some filets for our lunch, and when the brew is boiling I drop the fish chunks into it, bring it quickly back to a boil and then turn it off to cool. The excitement of the fish and the fishing somewhat makes up for the loss of what were after all simply sea breezes. We drop the headsails and throw on the engine. It’s still nearly 20 Nm to Bahía Honda, but we should be there by early afternoon.