Poof!

We’re hanging onto a tire just off the docks at the Balboa Yacht Club, watching a steady stream of ships enter the Panama Canal from the Pacific Ocean. Our tire mooring is attached to the bottom with a stout chain, as befits an anchorage with 12-15 foot tides, and sits 100 yards from a channel where 1000’ ships pass in a steady progression of global commerce. Container ships, reefer ships carrying refrigerated goods, oil tankers, and an endless stream of pilot boats carrying men to and from the ships, all pass by our fair Grace just 100 yards to the west. We spent the last 24 hours transiting the Canal, and our boat rolls sometimes not so gently in the bow waves of these (very) large vessels. Guita put it well: we spend all of our time at sea avoiding these ships, and now we sit, by choice in fact, practically astride them.

It’s been a vivid testimony to the old adage that cruising in a sailboat is really just an excuse to work on your boat in exotic locations. Upon arriving in Panama last Thursday, we’ve been balancing the need to address issues with Grace with the desire to see the country. It’s a tough balance, especially for me, and I have yet to let go completely of my “need to get all the work done before we play” mindset. I’ll keep you posted on my progress.

In short order, upon arriving, we engaged the services of Victor, an agent whose business is to help cruisers navigate the labyrinthian bureaucracies of the Canal Authority, the Port Captains, Immigration, Customs, and the local economy (more on that later). Put it this way: if carbon paper and Selectric typewriter ribbon ever became scarce, Panama would grind to a halt. Entering the country on the Atlantic side adds another dimension to these many officials, forms, and offices: they are all located in the city of Colon. Here’s what the Lonely Planet says about Colon: “Simply put, Panama’s most notorious city is a sprawling slum of decaying colonial grandeur and desperate human existence.”

There are 2700 taxi cabs in Colon – a city measuring 16 blocks by about 6 blocks, and thus, there are just 2700 “safe” places to be in Colon. Victor knew his way around. I got into his car, and his immediate demand was for me to lock my doors, place my case on the floor, and keep the windows shut. Thus ensconced, we drove from building to building, hustling inside to offices with TVs blaring soap operas, and whose furniture would not have looked out of place in 1950s. The offices’ staff were, by contrast unfailingly polite, forthright, and solution-oriented – as long as they had their carbon paper and rattling typewriters.

We couldn’t finish all of our paperwork on Thursday, so back to Colon we went on Friday – with the additional burden of having to find $1500 in cash to then deposit into a Citibank account, from which it would be transferred to the Canal Authority, at which time they would schedule a measurement of my boat. No boat can pass through the Canal without such a formal measurement – but once measured, we were assured we need not be measured again. Once we had paid, and were measured, it was just a matter of a few hours before we received a call from the authorities: would we like to transit on Tuesday or Wednesday? Poof! Hand-written carbon copies, a cash deposit, a few faxes, and we had our date. Magic.

(Each serial number of each bill is also recorded. ATMs are guarded by men in bulletproof vests with rifles. And thus, we know we’re not in Kansas anymore.)

Other boat chores also took up our time: we’ve been leaking into our port hull – nothing serious, as they say, but annoying at best. We had thought we had fixed this in Annapolis, and then again in the Bahamas, but half-fixes left our bilges wet. So off came the rub rail, where we discovered large gaps. Stephen took the lead on this, and as of now, our fingers are crossed that we’ve identified the source of the salt water. In addition, our wind generator suddenly decided to stop rotating. Again, with Stephen’s help, we dismantled the entire generator, learned all about rotors and stators, and bearings, and seals, and failed to discover anything amiss. So, we put it back together, having cleaned it up. Nothing. (Yesterday, after frantic calls for a replacement, it started working again like magic. Poof! Now we make electricity from the wind again.)

Back to the Marina, where we all took Sunday off, honoring our to-date steadfast rule that we rest at least one day a week. Lounging around the pool, catching up on email, etc. Meanwhile, the boats that arrived with us were making their own preparations for leaving, and boats that arrived before us would up-and-leave for their appointed transit time – with the required 4 lines of 125 feet each, 4 line handlers, and the obligatory ten used tires wrapped in black plastic to protect their hulls from the lock’s walls and dirty tugboats (more on the actual transit in a subsequent post). Here today these boats, gone this afternoon. Poof!

So now we lie in Balboa, where we too plan to go Poof! in a few days. That is, after we fix the autopilot that’s on the fritz, after we take some time to visit the jungles and rainforests of Panama, and after we’ve had a chance to savor the end of the beginning of our trip. Just south lies the Pacific Ocean with its new ecosystems, its longer, more gentle swells, and an ocean of islands sprinkled like magic dust. Poof!


Postscript: The autopilot failed because of condensation arising from being on the bulkhead between our air-conditioned cabin and the humid outdoors; taking it apart, drying it off, and re-soldering some leads did the trick, and we’re back in action. We challenged the sailing gods with our A/C … live and learn! Tomorrow, we visit the countryside.