You may think our first order of business would be to resolve the steering problem. But in fact we needed to see a doctor. No, my virus was finally letting up, so I didn’t need medical attention. Rather, Bob did. He had developed an infection at the base of one of his big toenails , and, despite our washing it daily with hydrogen peroxide, treating it with Neosporin, and wrapping it, the infection had worsened. Enrique, the agent arranging our Canal transit, recommended we see his aunt, the general manager of the Hospital Nacional, to arrange for a doctor to see us.
The taxi driver Enrique called to drive us to the hospital downtown went inside with us to explain, in Spanish, that we needed to see the aunt. She came right out and immediately called an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in feet. Then she chatted with us, in perfect English, while we waited for Dr. Carlos Navarro, who also speaks perfect English, having attended schools in Texas and Tennessee. He diagnosed the infection as the result of an ingrown toenail. Yes, Bob had broken the nail five or six months ago, but it had grown back seemingly normal. But all the while it was also growing under the skin on the side. Surgery to remove that side of the nail would be on Monday, after a regimen of five days of a strong antibiotic.
After a sumptuous lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant recommended by Carlos (the way the doctor introduced himself to us), we stopped at the gigantic Albrook Mall to check e-mail for the first time in many days and to buy fresh produce at the supermarket. Once back on the boat, we could now get down to all the other reasons to be in Panama City.
One usual chore we wouldn’t need to address was washing all the saltwater off the boat. Carricklee had had daily drenching for days now, in Balboa as well as at sea. I’d venture a guess she had not a grain of salt anywhere but in the galley.
To conclude the saga of problems to solve: Bob had his surgery on Monday and has had very little pain. We go back this morning for a check-up, which we’re sure will be routine.
Two young men were aboard yesterday re-installing the autopilot pump and making up new hydraulic hoses. All the seals on the 22-year-old pump had deteriorated, allowing the oil to leak out of the entire system. Both steering systems, the autopilot and the helm, seem to be as good as new, though we haven’t given them a sea trial yet, only a trial here on the mooring.
Bob installed the replacement starter last week and has subsequently taken the old starter to a shop and had it rebuilt for a back-up.
Finally, a word or two about Balboa Yacht Club. It is still our least favorite marina this side of Ma’alea, on Maui, where the surge was so strong the line ripped the cleats off the deck. Here, in the Canal Zone, the transiting ship traffic passing less than a hundred yards abeam of us is great fun to watch, but those that exceed by double or triple the 5-mile speed limit throw a tremendous wake plowing into Carricklee, usually on the beam, and send everything aboard, including the crew, bouncing. We have to keep things tied down as if we were in a sea way.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
November 15
On this our last leg of the passage to the City, we have another story to tell. Though the southwest winds were light, as was the rain, the swells were quite large, in the 6-foot range. Alphy had begun to work again the last couple of days, so we set the course and let him steer.
About 20 miles into the 40-mile passage, Carricklee headed widely off to starboard, then back to port, and kept going to port, making a full circle. When we turned off the autopilot to steer manually, we had no steerage. Thinking the autopilot hadn’t disengaged, we shut off the power to it on the electrical panel. Nothing changed. Fortunately, we had no traffic to watch out for as we bobbed around in the swells.
Bob went below to check the hydraulic steering system in the bilge and found red hydraulic oil floating on top of the bilge water. All the oil had drained out of the system, leaving us without steering from either the autopilot or the helm.
When he gave me this report, my heart sank. This was a scene straight out of a recurring nightmare that I have less frequently nowadays, but still occasionally after these almost 20 years of sailing. In this nightmare I’m at the helm and run Carricklee up on shore. The boat miraculously continues to move inland. Then I realize boats need water for locomotion. I must get Carricklee back to the ocean. But I discover to my dismay I have no steering. I’m helpless. Then I wake up.
The always calm—well, almost always—Captain Bob assured me we weren’t wholly without steerage. Though we didn’t have sufficient wind for the wind vane to work and the little auxiliary auto helm is too erratic and difficult to use to take through the busy harbor we were approaching, Bob could stand back on the transom, with the wind vane shaft in his hand, and control the rudder. I would control the throttle. This scenario reminded me of a family story. Two grandchildren of my brother Mylon were driving a golf cart in this manner, one at the wheel and the other on the pedals and ran into another grandchild, breaking her leg. As bad as that was, I thought the potential for disaster here was even worse.
Our choices, however, were decidedly limited. The boat also has, as do all boats, an emergency tiller built in, but ours is below decks, under our bunk, and requires a lengthy set-up. And I’d still be in control of the throttle above deck, calling down steering directions. Worse and worse.
By this time we were within 2-3 miles of the anchorage area for ships waiting to transit the Canal. Few of them were on the move, so that was good. Once in the middle of them, however, one approaching from the west came up on our stern, obviously traveling much faster than could we. We hailed the ship, now close enough to easily read its name without binoculars, on VHF 16, and asked what the captain’s intentions were. The response in heavily accented English was that the captain planned to anchor about where we were. Bob explained our reduced speed, necessitated by the sluggishness of the hand-control of the rudder, and the captain agreed to slow down and not run us over.
After that, we called the Balboa Yacht Club, a panga met us as we approached the mooring area, and Bob followed his lead to a mooring. Then Bob abandoned his post at the rudder and went forward to take the line from the panga driver while I reversed as needed. Safely in port!
About 20 miles into the 40-mile passage, Carricklee headed widely off to starboard, then back to port, and kept going to port, making a full circle. When we turned off the autopilot to steer manually, we had no steerage. Thinking the autopilot hadn’t disengaged, we shut off the power to it on the electrical panel. Nothing changed. Fortunately, we had no traffic to watch out for as we bobbed around in the swells.
Bob went below to check the hydraulic steering system in the bilge and found red hydraulic oil floating on top of the bilge water. All the oil had drained out of the system, leaving us without steering from either the autopilot or the helm.
When he gave me this report, my heart sank. This was a scene straight out of a recurring nightmare that I have less frequently nowadays, but still occasionally after these almost 20 years of sailing. In this nightmare I’m at the helm and run Carricklee up on shore. The boat miraculously continues to move inland. Then I realize boats need water for locomotion. I must get Carricklee back to the ocean. But I discover to my dismay I have no steering. I’m helpless. Then I wake up.
The always calm—well, almost always—Captain Bob assured me we weren’t wholly without steerage. Though we didn’t have sufficient wind for the wind vane to work and the little auxiliary auto helm is too erratic and difficult to use to take through the busy harbor we were approaching, Bob could stand back on the transom, with the wind vane shaft in his hand, and control the rudder. I would control the throttle. This scenario reminded me of a family story. Two grandchildren of my brother Mylon were driving a golf cart in this manner, one at the wheel and the other on the pedals and ran into another grandchild, breaking her leg. As bad as that was, I thought the potential for disaster here was even worse.
Our choices, however, were decidedly limited. The boat also has, as do all boats, an emergency tiller built in, but ours is below decks, under our bunk, and requires a lengthy set-up. And I’d still be in control of the throttle above deck, calling down steering directions. Worse and worse.
By this time we were within 2-3 miles of the anchorage area for ships waiting to transit the Canal. Few of them were on the move, so that was good. Once in the middle of them, however, one approaching from the west came up on our stern, obviously traveling much faster than could we. We hailed the ship, now close enough to easily read its name without binoculars, on VHF 16, and asked what the captain’s intentions were. The response in heavily accented English was that the captain planned to anchor about where we were. Bob explained our reduced speed, necessitated by the sluggishness of the hand-control of the rudder, and the captain agreed to slow down and not run us over.
After that, we called the Balboa Yacht Club, a panga met us as we approached the mooring area, and Bob followed his lead to a mooring. Then Bob abandoned his post at the rudder and went forward to take the line from the panga driver while I reversed as needed. Safely in port!
November 14
At 0800, after another sourdough hotcake feast, Bob tapped the starter with his little hammer, and we were off to Contadora, the northernmost of the Islas de las Perlas. Motorsailing under overcast skies, we passed several large fishing boats, but generally the traffic was light. As we approached the anchorage on the south side of Contadora, where we’ve anchored in the past, not a single boat was in this spot usually cluttered with tour boats. But we could see the reason as we came closer. The southwest winds and swells were roaring straight in. We went around to the east end of the island and anchored there for a generally comfortable evening, though the tide change headed us north for awhile, pushing the boat toward the beach. But the anchor held securely.
November 13
Back aboard, we prepared for the next short leg of our passage to Panama City, an overnight stop at Garachiné, farther up the Darién coast. At start-up, we had no start-up. The starter had stuttered a couple of times recently, but this time it showed no signs of life. Bob did his troubleshooting, concluding the solenoid was probably failing. He tapped on the housing with a hammer while I gave the starter button short bursts. It fired up, and we were off.
The Darién coast is splendid from the water, with lush green hills and the occasional waterfall pouring into the ocean, reminding Bob of the rainy coasts of the Big Island, though the falls were much shorter. An occasional small village occupied a small cove, but largely the coast is a primitive luxuriance of green, with white water exploding on black rocks on its shores.
The other notable natural phenomenon reminded us of our cruising in another part of the world, the Pacific Northwest to Alaska. As we were passing Roca Guajala, about 1 mile off the Darién coast, the seas became abruptly and increasingly tumultuous. Our depth sounder as abruptly dropped from 85 feet to under 10, then down to 6 (the depth Carricklee draws). Had we encountered an uncharted reef? We could see no other reason for such turbulence and change of depth. Most unnerving. We headed straight out to sea and soon were out of the Mixmaster.
Then we had time to analyze the conditions. It seemed exactly like one of the several narrow straits in Canada and Alaska, where the 20+-foot tides push such volumes of water through the straits that even the largest of ship avoids navigating these straits at any time other than slack water. As for the shallowness, Bob surmised the extreme turbulence was sending the new and apparently highly sensitive depth sounder a false reading. But what we can’t explain is what created such turbulence on the sea side of a single rock.
In minutes we were safely around Punta Garachiné and into a small cove of Golfo de San Miguel, this “lake” in which we’d anchored so still we were each up at various times throughout the night to check to see if we were aground. But we were always in 20-26 feet of water.
The next morning we had more time to contemplate the steep, green-shrouded cliffs surrounding this lake. We were up at 0600, listening to the sounds of the jungle, those reverberant sounds we first heard in the jungle movies of our youth, indescribable but always recognizable. But we saw only the quietly busy black-headed vultures and one lone cattle egret.
The Darién coast is splendid from the water, with lush green hills and the occasional waterfall pouring into the ocean, reminding Bob of the rainy coasts of the Big Island, though the falls were much shorter. An occasional small village occupied a small cove, but largely the coast is a primitive luxuriance of green, with white water exploding on black rocks on its shores.
The other notable natural phenomenon reminded us of our cruising in another part of the world, the Pacific Northwest to Alaska. As we were passing Roca Guajala, about 1 mile off the Darién coast, the seas became abruptly and increasingly tumultuous. Our depth sounder as abruptly dropped from 85 feet to under 10, then down to 6 (the depth Carricklee draws). Had we encountered an uncharted reef? We could see no other reason for such turbulence and change of depth. Most unnerving. We headed straight out to sea and soon were out of the Mixmaster.
Then we had time to analyze the conditions. It seemed exactly like one of the several narrow straits in Canada and Alaska, where the 20+-foot tides push such volumes of water through the straits that even the largest of ship avoids navigating these straits at any time other than slack water. As for the shallowness, Bob surmised the extreme turbulence was sending the new and apparently highly sensitive depth sounder a false reading. But what we can’t explain is what created such turbulence on the sea side of a single rock.
In minutes we were safely around Punta Garachiné and into a small cove of Golfo de San Miguel, this “lake” in which we’d anchored so still we were each up at various times throughout the night to check to see if we were aground. But we were always in 20-26 feet of water.
The next morning we had more time to contemplate the steep, green-shrouded cliffs surrounding this lake. We were up at 0600, listening to the sounds of the jungle, those reverberant sounds we first heard in the jungle movies of our youth, indescribable but always recognizable. But we saw only the quietly busy black-headed vultures and one lone cattle egret.
November 8-11
Today we would begin our only long passage, from here to Bahía Piñas, in the Darién, Panamá. So, not needing to reach a destination that day before dark, we were in no particular hurry to get going, We breakfasted leisurely, out with our binoculars trying to locate the birds we could hear. Their sounds reminded Bob of those of the cocks-of-the-rock we’d seen in the Andes of Ecuador, but we thought they were more likely coming from toucans of one of the many varieties in Ecuador. The only birds visible were the hundreds of roosting brown pelicans in the branches of the trees closest to the water.
At 0800 we hoisted, now in 11 feet of water, and motored farther north past the city of Atacames, similar in appearance to Salinas, Ecuador, with numerous high-rise hotels and condos and the fishing port spread along the 3-mile beach.
Then we headed offshore, setting our course for Bahía Piñas, Panamá, 402 miles northward. Once again, we were on fish net buoy alert. About 10 miles offshore, two pangas appeared on the horizon, speeding toward us. We checked the ocean surface all around for any signs of nets but saw none. Still they sped our way. We had a slight bit of apprehension, wondering who they were and what they were doing so far offshore if not fishing. They seemed aimed for a direct hit on our beam, but both veered off at the last minute, waving and shouting cheerily to us. Obviously, they were among the four to six pangas that many of the fishing trawlers tow behind them like a string of duckies as they head out to sea. We couldn’t see the mother ship, but it had to be nearby.
More alarming was a second incident when our course had taken us about 20 miles from our last anchorage but to within 60 miles of the Colombia coast. Bob had gone down to sleep in preparation for the night watches, when two pangas again came speeding over the eastern horizon, identifiable initially by the white water splashing. But instead of continuing toward us, they stopped ahead about a mile, as if waiting. I could see three figures in each boat. After sitting there a few minutes, they headed toward us. Oh, dear, this did look ominous. I called down for reinforcements as we sailed steadily on at about 7 knots. Bob rushed up in time to see the two pangas swerve behind, once again waving and calling merrily, before disappearing over the western horizon.
When a pod of spinner dolphins began creating white water all around us a bit later, we had no apprehensions at all—just big smiles. We’d not been visited by these graceful creatures for a long time. Gray-hooded gulls, pintado petrels, Nazca boobies, and least storm petrels filled out the bill of entertainment until sundown.
During the night, I came on-deck for my 0200 watch to find Bob rather than Alphy, the autopilot, steering. Once again, our recently troubled helper had failed us. Without sufficient wind to use the wind vane, we hand steered in turn until 0600, when the winds rose from 2 to 10 so Vanna the Vane would function.
This day was the most gorgeous we’d had for awhile: no marine layer but fresh breezes. One rain cell passed over us briefly, washing off the decks. Then the sun shone brightly for the remainder of the day. The water temperature had now risen from a cool 74° to 84°.
At about 1400, when we were parallel with Buenaventura, Colombia, a U.S. Coast Guard plane did the two low flyovers we’d had from the helicopter, but no frigate followed. Guess we were even less suspicious looking this time.
At dark, the wind had died so that Vanna was wandering wildly. Bob set up the rather complex and fussy auxiliary autopilot/vane combination that doesn’t rely on wind but electrically controls the rudder through Vanna’s system. (Silly us. We call this vane “Vanita.” Our only excuse for such silliness is that “Vanita” is much easier to say than “the auxiliary steering vane.” But it may also be these pieces of equipment seem to share certain qualities with people. We become particularly fond of those that give us little grief.)
The following morning the USCG plane gave us another pass as we trudged along, making only 4 knots good over ground because of the adverse current. But it passed over only once. Apparently we’re gaining ever more acceptance as a legitimate pleasure craft.
Despite our lack of speed, the day’s sailing in light southwest winds and long sinuous 6-foot swells was a delight. But the conditions changed during the night, when we’d apparently reached the southernmost limit of the ITCZ, with winds now from the northwest.
We motorsailed throughout the following day and made good time, covering 140 miles in the 24-hour period despite the uncomfortable conditions. We missed several rain cells that loomed on the horizon, but one enormous black cloud caught up to us. Once I’d determined the cell was not going to miss us, as had the others, I reluctantly awoke Bob, who was getting some much needed sleep. I should have awakened him a few minutes earlier, for the storm, bringing 40-45-knot winds and torrential rains, was upon us before we could get the mainsail down. Bob played with the mainsail sheets while I steered. The storm quickly passed over us, and crew and equipment survived intact.
The next cell followed shortly after, with only 8-12-knot winds but lightning all around the boat and, again, torrential rains. We unplugged all the electronic and electrical equipment, gritted our teeth, and plowed on through, counting the steadily diminishing seconds between the flash and the thunder.
Such heavy rain did have the benefit of flattening the seas somewhat, but it also identified leaks in the dodger we hadn’t known we’d had. Or maybe that’s a good thing, too. Now we can try to seal the holes.
The intervals between lightening and thunder began to increase after about an hour, but the heavy rain continued for three hours. We can’t remember when we’d last been so happy to reach a port as when we rounded the rocks at the entrance of Bahía Piñas, in Panamá. We anchored about 150 feet from shore in about 34 feet to be clear of the moorings of the Tropic Star Lodge, a pricey fishing lodge, the only one in the Darién.
We had quite a bit of swell, but they were only uncomfortable at times, not dangerous, so we could rest peacefully, though we had to sleep in the main saloon rather than aft in our bunk. Bob was feeling well, though he still had a cough, but I had felt increasing ill with each day. Apparently we had picked up a virus in Manta rather than an allergy in Pasado.
The next morning we took Abby ashore. The reports we’d heard about the lodge were that cruising sailors were not particularly welcome. We motored around the beautiful sturdy dock, longing to tie Abby there rather than make a beach landing. As we circled around hesitantly, two young men came rapidly down the dock from shore, and we said, “Oops. We’re going to be told to stay away from the lodge docks.”
But instead, they motioned us to come to the dock, where one of them took our line, tied it to the cleat, and then put out a hand to help me up onto the dock. We asked if we could leave the sportboat there while we explored ashore, and they said, “Claro.”
At the head of the dock, Hennie, the South African who manages the lodge, met us to welcome us to explore the grounds and the facilities and generally to make ourselves at home. Visiting sailors, he said, are welcome to tie up at the docks and explore the grounds, though if the lodge is filled, as it will be between December and May, the restaurant and other facilities may not be able to accommodate these additional visitors. So much for the rumor mill!
When we met Ursula, Hennie’s wife, she suggested we might want to ride over to the neighboring village of Piñas with the lodge panga that afternoon to see the village and possibly purchase native crafts from the local Emberá or Wounaan people. The panga would return to pick us up two or three hours later. Charlie, an American, and former cruising sailor, whom we’d met as we walked around the grounds, offered to ask his wife, a Panamanian who had been teaching elementary school in the village when he met her to go with us to show us around.
Lisbet, his wife, did indeed accompany us to the village, where she was treated by all the villagers as visiting royalty, children and adults alike calling out, “Maestra, Maestra!” as we walked by. The first section of the village was modern looking, with small stuccoed houses, their bright paint chipped and fading with time. Beyond the school, incontestably the spiffiest structure in Piñas, the architecture changed. Now we were walking down narrow dirt streets and footpaths past traditional dwellings, large wall-free platforms on stilts under a thatch roof. The only “furnishings” we could see were hammocks and woven reed mats, with an occasional small room defined by these hanging mats.
At one of these homes a young man and woman brought out a plastic bag of woven reed masks and platters, which Lizzie described as the best quality in the village. We purchased a stylized wolf mask to add to our collection of Mexico and Costa Rica masks and a large woven platter with intricate animal and geometric designs, a well as a smaller oval plate, with a scorpion in its center.
The panga driver had taken us up the Rio Piña at high tide so we could disembark in calm water. When he picked us up again two hours later, the tide was too low for the panga to cross the bar at the mouth of the river. The driver, alone in the panga, expertly backed the 40-foot panga through the wild surf, breaking at about 4 feet high, raised the motor, and kept the panga in position with a single paddle. We climbed into the panga, getting wet only up to our knees, and he just as expertly maneuvered the boat back through the breaking surf. We hugged our cameras to our chests to protect them from the inevitable breaking wave across the bow. We got nary a drop of water inside the boat. Amazing! We’d never hesitate to make beach landings if we had his skills. We wonder how many drenchings he’d had in training.
As we’d waited on the beach for the panga to arrive, we watched just such a training session as he must have had. Two young boys from the village, perhaps 10-12 years old, were launching a narrow dug-out canoe through this same surf. They filled the canoe a couple of times, hastily scooped out the water with a plastic bottle, its top cut off. But, after about 10 minutes, they successfully navigated through the surf to join two other groups of boys in canoes already beyond the surf and seemingly greatly entertained by the travails of these latest canoeists. Of course, you already understand that none of these boys, a mile or so away from any adult supervision or assistance, wore lifejackets.
In the evening Charlie and Lizzie came out for drinks and a visit, and we made plans to get together with them after the holidays, when they’ll both be home in Panamá City. Charlie had owned a small fiber-optics gyroscope company in the U. S.—one of his gyros is on some equipment on Mars—before selling out to go cruising about ten years ago. Now he says he’s home. Lizzie has much to say about public education in Panamá, as well as many hints about sights to see in Panamá.
On Monday, our last day in Bahía Piñas, we went ashore to hike up the hill behind the lodge to see if we could spot the three-toed sloths, the harpy eagle nest, and the white eagle reported by Hennie and Charlie. But the trail was quite steep, and muddy and slippery, and I was still not wholly over the virus, not to mention the ever-present cranky back. We’ll try this potentially wonderful hike another time.
At 0800 we hoisted, now in 11 feet of water, and motored farther north past the city of Atacames, similar in appearance to Salinas, Ecuador, with numerous high-rise hotels and condos and the fishing port spread along the 3-mile beach.
Then we headed offshore, setting our course for Bahía Piñas, Panamá, 402 miles northward. Once again, we were on fish net buoy alert. About 10 miles offshore, two pangas appeared on the horizon, speeding toward us. We checked the ocean surface all around for any signs of nets but saw none. Still they sped our way. We had a slight bit of apprehension, wondering who they were and what they were doing so far offshore if not fishing. They seemed aimed for a direct hit on our beam, but both veered off at the last minute, waving and shouting cheerily to us. Obviously, they were among the four to six pangas that many of the fishing trawlers tow behind them like a string of duckies as they head out to sea. We couldn’t see the mother ship, but it had to be nearby.
More alarming was a second incident when our course had taken us about 20 miles from our last anchorage but to within 60 miles of the Colombia coast. Bob had gone down to sleep in preparation for the night watches, when two pangas again came speeding over the eastern horizon, identifiable initially by the white water splashing. But instead of continuing toward us, they stopped ahead about a mile, as if waiting. I could see three figures in each boat. After sitting there a few minutes, they headed toward us. Oh, dear, this did look ominous. I called down for reinforcements as we sailed steadily on at about 7 knots. Bob rushed up in time to see the two pangas swerve behind, once again waving and calling merrily, before disappearing over the western horizon.
When a pod of spinner dolphins began creating white water all around us a bit later, we had no apprehensions at all—just big smiles. We’d not been visited by these graceful creatures for a long time. Gray-hooded gulls, pintado petrels, Nazca boobies, and least storm petrels filled out the bill of entertainment until sundown.
During the night, I came on-deck for my 0200 watch to find Bob rather than Alphy, the autopilot, steering. Once again, our recently troubled helper had failed us. Without sufficient wind to use the wind vane, we hand steered in turn until 0600, when the winds rose from 2 to 10 so Vanna the Vane would function.
This day was the most gorgeous we’d had for awhile: no marine layer but fresh breezes. One rain cell passed over us briefly, washing off the decks. Then the sun shone brightly for the remainder of the day. The water temperature had now risen from a cool 74° to 84°.
At about 1400, when we were parallel with Buenaventura, Colombia, a U.S. Coast Guard plane did the two low flyovers we’d had from the helicopter, but no frigate followed. Guess we were even less suspicious looking this time.
At dark, the wind had died so that Vanna was wandering wildly. Bob set up the rather complex and fussy auxiliary autopilot/vane combination that doesn’t rely on wind but electrically controls the rudder through Vanna’s system. (Silly us. We call this vane “Vanita.” Our only excuse for such silliness is that “Vanita” is much easier to say than “the auxiliary steering vane.” But it may also be these pieces of equipment seem to share certain qualities with people. We become particularly fond of those that give us little grief.)
The following morning the USCG plane gave us another pass as we trudged along, making only 4 knots good over ground because of the adverse current. But it passed over only once. Apparently we’re gaining ever more acceptance as a legitimate pleasure craft.
Despite our lack of speed, the day’s sailing in light southwest winds and long sinuous 6-foot swells was a delight. But the conditions changed during the night, when we’d apparently reached the southernmost limit of the ITCZ, with winds now from the northwest.
We motorsailed throughout the following day and made good time, covering 140 miles in the 24-hour period despite the uncomfortable conditions. We missed several rain cells that loomed on the horizon, but one enormous black cloud caught up to us. Once I’d determined the cell was not going to miss us, as had the others, I reluctantly awoke Bob, who was getting some much needed sleep. I should have awakened him a few minutes earlier, for the storm, bringing 40-45-knot winds and torrential rains, was upon us before we could get the mainsail down. Bob played with the mainsail sheets while I steered. The storm quickly passed over us, and crew and equipment survived intact.
The next cell followed shortly after, with only 8-12-knot winds but lightning all around the boat and, again, torrential rains. We unplugged all the electronic and electrical equipment, gritted our teeth, and plowed on through, counting the steadily diminishing seconds between the flash and the thunder.
Such heavy rain did have the benefit of flattening the seas somewhat, but it also identified leaks in the dodger we hadn’t known we’d had. Or maybe that’s a good thing, too. Now we can try to seal the holes.
The intervals between lightening and thunder began to increase after about an hour, but the heavy rain continued for three hours. We can’t remember when we’d last been so happy to reach a port as when we rounded the rocks at the entrance of Bahía Piñas, in Panamá. We anchored about 150 feet from shore in about 34 feet to be clear of the moorings of the Tropic Star Lodge, a pricey fishing lodge, the only one in the Darién.
We had quite a bit of swell, but they were only uncomfortable at times, not dangerous, so we could rest peacefully, though we had to sleep in the main saloon rather than aft in our bunk. Bob was feeling well, though he still had a cough, but I had felt increasing ill with each day. Apparently we had picked up a virus in Manta rather than an allergy in Pasado.
The next morning we took Abby ashore. The reports we’d heard about the lodge were that cruising sailors were not particularly welcome. We motored around the beautiful sturdy dock, longing to tie Abby there rather than make a beach landing. As we circled around hesitantly, two young men came rapidly down the dock from shore, and we said, “Oops. We’re going to be told to stay away from the lodge docks.”
But instead, they motioned us to come to the dock, where one of them took our line, tied it to the cleat, and then put out a hand to help me up onto the dock. We asked if we could leave the sportboat there while we explored ashore, and they said, “Claro.”
At the head of the dock, Hennie, the South African who manages the lodge, met us to welcome us to explore the grounds and the facilities and generally to make ourselves at home. Visiting sailors, he said, are welcome to tie up at the docks and explore the grounds, though if the lodge is filled, as it will be between December and May, the restaurant and other facilities may not be able to accommodate these additional visitors. So much for the rumor mill!
When we met Ursula, Hennie’s wife, she suggested we might want to ride over to the neighboring village of Piñas with the lodge panga that afternoon to see the village and possibly purchase native crafts from the local Emberá or Wounaan people. The panga would return to pick us up two or three hours later. Charlie, an American, and former cruising sailor, whom we’d met as we walked around the grounds, offered to ask his wife, a Panamanian who had been teaching elementary school in the village when he met her to go with us to show us around.
Lisbet, his wife, did indeed accompany us to the village, where she was treated by all the villagers as visiting royalty, children and adults alike calling out, “Maestra, Maestra!” as we walked by. The first section of the village was modern looking, with small stuccoed houses, their bright paint chipped and fading with time. Beyond the school, incontestably the spiffiest structure in Piñas, the architecture changed. Now we were walking down narrow dirt streets and footpaths past traditional dwellings, large wall-free platforms on stilts under a thatch roof. The only “furnishings” we could see were hammocks and woven reed mats, with an occasional small room defined by these hanging mats.
At one of these homes a young man and woman brought out a plastic bag of woven reed masks and platters, which Lizzie described as the best quality in the village. We purchased a stylized wolf mask to add to our collection of Mexico and Costa Rica masks and a large woven platter with intricate animal and geometric designs, a well as a smaller oval plate, with a scorpion in its center.
The panga driver had taken us up the Rio Piña at high tide so we could disembark in calm water. When he picked us up again two hours later, the tide was too low for the panga to cross the bar at the mouth of the river. The driver, alone in the panga, expertly backed the 40-foot panga through the wild surf, breaking at about 4 feet high, raised the motor, and kept the panga in position with a single paddle. We climbed into the panga, getting wet only up to our knees, and he just as expertly maneuvered the boat back through the breaking surf. We hugged our cameras to our chests to protect them from the inevitable breaking wave across the bow. We got nary a drop of water inside the boat. Amazing! We’d never hesitate to make beach landings if we had his skills. We wonder how many drenchings he’d had in training.
As we’d waited on the beach for the panga to arrive, we watched just such a training session as he must have had. Two young boys from the village, perhaps 10-12 years old, were launching a narrow dug-out canoe through this same surf. They filled the canoe a couple of times, hastily scooped out the water with a plastic bottle, its top cut off. But, after about 10 minutes, they successfully navigated through the surf to join two other groups of boys in canoes already beyond the surf and seemingly greatly entertained by the travails of these latest canoeists. Of course, you already understand that none of these boys, a mile or so away from any adult supervision or assistance, wore lifejackets.
In the evening Charlie and Lizzie came out for drinks and a visit, and we made plans to get together with them after the holidays, when they’ll both be home in Panamá City. Charlie had owned a small fiber-optics gyroscope company in the U. S.—one of his gyros is on some equipment on Mars—before selling out to go cruising about ten years ago. Now he says he’s home. Lizzie has much to say about public education in Panamá, as well as many hints about sights to see in Panamá.
On Monday, our last day in Bahía Piñas, we went ashore to hike up the hill behind the lodge to see if we could spot the three-toed sloths, the harpy eagle nest, and the white eagle reported by Hennie and Charlie. But the trail was quite steep, and muddy and slippery, and I was still not wholly over the virus, not to mention the ever-present cranky back. We’ll try this potentially wonderful hike another time.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
November 7
The fishing pangas began going out, noisily, at 0430, so we, too, got under way early, at 0610. We were both on alert for the numerous buoys marking fishing nets under the surface. We never want to repeat the net-in-the-propeller episode of our Hawai’i passage!
Along this coastline of Ecuador roughly 100 miles south of the Colombia border, the appearance of a gray military-looking helicopter flying low over us, then returning to make another low pass, should not have surprised us. But it’s nevertheless always startling to see such a flying machine only a few hundred feet above our masts. The Armada de Ecuador frigate that came out from the direction of the shore shortly afterwards and passed a few hundred yards abeam was no surprise after the helicopter. But both helicopter and frigate disappeared over the horizon with no contact, so we assume our appearance aroused no suspicions. Otherwise, we had a glorious day of downwind sailing, wing-on-wing, the mainsail tied off to starboard, the genoa on a pole out to port.
We had wanted to go into Esmeraldas, the northernmost Ecuador port and one visiting yachts generally have avoided because of its rumored role as the port of choice for the shipping out of Colombian drugs and in of arms for the various paramilitary groups. But the port captain at Esmeraldas had two or three days before advised the crew on another cruising boat that recent storms had destroyed the breakwater for the marina, rendering any anchoring there unsafe. (The marina docks have reportedly been sinking into the ocean for the last several years.)
So we had thought to anchor behind Punta Galera, 26 miles south of Esmeraldas but the shallowness of the water far offshore near this point and the shallow indent at the point meant we couldn’t get in far enough to escape the 5-foot southwest swells wrapping Galera.
We went on 10 miles to Ensenada Don Juan, a small cove within the larger Ensenada Atacames. In the larger bay, at Punta Same, we had passed an extensive complex of condos reminiscent of Las Hadas, in Mexico, the numerous gleaming white structures climbing up the hillsides and along the ravines above a long, wide creamy beach. Tucked into the corner at Punta Same, and entirely surrounded, except for the narrow entrance, by a sturdy breakwater, is a small marina. We hadn’t tried to contact anyone at the marina, but possibly it could have been an option for us for the night. Yet the anchorage on the opposite side of Punta Same had a natural beauty we wholly relished and was comfortable except for the tidal swells a couple of times during the night.
To get in far enough behind the point to avoid the swells, we had anchored in more shallow water than usual. So we stayed in the cockpit until past low tide at 2300 hours to watch the depth sounder. It registered 7.5 feet briefly (Carricklee requires 6 feet) before getting deeper.
Along this coastline of Ecuador roughly 100 miles south of the Colombia border, the appearance of a gray military-looking helicopter flying low over us, then returning to make another low pass, should not have surprised us. But it’s nevertheless always startling to see such a flying machine only a few hundred feet above our masts. The Armada de Ecuador frigate that came out from the direction of the shore shortly afterwards and passed a few hundred yards abeam was no surprise after the helicopter. But both helicopter and frigate disappeared over the horizon with no contact, so we assume our appearance aroused no suspicions. Otherwise, we had a glorious day of downwind sailing, wing-on-wing, the mainsail tied off to starboard, the genoa on a pole out to port.
We had wanted to go into Esmeraldas, the northernmost Ecuador port and one visiting yachts generally have avoided because of its rumored role as the port of choice for the shipping out of Colombian drugs and in of arms for the various paramilitary groups. But the port captain at Esmeraldas had two or three days before advised the crew on another cruising boat that recent storms had destroyed the breakwater for the marina, rendering any anchoring there unsafe. (The marina docks have reportedly been sinking into the ocean for the last several years.)
So we had thought to anchor behind Punta Galera, 26 miles south of Esmeraldas but the shallowness of the water far offshore near this point and the shallow indent at the point meant we couldn’t get in far enough to escape the 5-foot southwest swells wrapping Galera.
We went on 10 miles to Ensenada Don Juan, a small cove within the larger Ensenada Atacames. In the larger bay, at Punta Same, we had passed an extensive complex of condos reminiscent of Las Hadas, in Mexico, the numerous gleaming white structures climbing up the hillsides and along the ravines above a long, wide creamy beach. Tucked into the corner at Punta Same, and entirely surrounded, except for the narrow entrance, by a sturdy breakwater, is a small marina. We hadn’t tried to contact anyone at the marina, but possibly it could have been an option for us for the night. Yet the anchorage on the opposite side of Punta Same had a natural beauty we wholly relished and was comfortable except for the tidal swells a couple of times during the night.
To get in far enough behind the point to avoid the swells, we had anchored in more shallow water than usual. So we stayed in the cockpit until past low tide at 2300 hours to watch the depth sounder. It registered 7.5 feet briefly (Carricklee requires 6 feet) before getting deeper.
November 6
Another sailboat had anchored in the cove during the night and was getting under way as we took an extra half hour or so retrieving then cleaning the stern anchor that had been firmly lodged in gray clay. Three hours later, at 0930, we anchored in 11 feet behind Punto Ballena, off the village of Puerto Matal, leaving the mizzen up to keep the bow of the boat into the 16-20-knot winds.
The traffic of pangas and canoes, these latter powered either by paddles or black sails, was steady as the winds steadily increased in the afternoon. The heavy surf on the beach eliminated a safe landing in Abby, the sport boat, and we were content to remain aboard, watching the fishermen passing by, often close enough to wave and greet us, and the pelicans, cormorants, and terns fishing around us.
We were both experiencing symptoms of what we thought was an allergic reaction to something blowing off the hills at Pasado—scratchy throats first then sinus infections and coughs. So we welcomed another restful day.
The traffic of pangas and canoes, these latter powered either by paddles or black sails, was steady as the winds steadily increased in the afternoon. The heavy surf on the beach eliminated a safe landing in Abby, the sport boat, and we were content to remain aboard, watching the fishermen passing by, often close enough to wave and greet us, and the pelicans, cormorants, and terns fishing around us.
We were both experiencing symptoms of what we thought was an allergic reaction to something blowing off the hills at Pasado—scratchy throats first then sinus infections and coughs. So we welcomed another restful day.
November 5
The laundry was ready the next morning at 0830, and we were off. Today was the sort of day to give you some idea of how really arduous our existence in this cruising mode normally is. We embarked at a civilized 0920, motorsailed in gentle swells until 1130, then hoisted the main and head sails for the remainder of the day’s passage. While Alphy the autopilot steered, we lunched on a spinach salad, with pears, pine nuts, dried blueberries, and feta cheese, washed down with fresh limonada (limeade). We saw not another boat on this Sunday at the end of a four-day holiday—November 1-2, All Saints’ and All Souls’ days and November 4, Manta Independence Day. The fish were getting a holiday too! At 1630 we dropped anchors, both stern and bow, behind the reef off Punta Pasado. We immediately also set out flopper stopper.
In the curve of the small bay was a small fish camp of tarps and tents, but we saw only one man, apparently clothed for diving, paddle out to the reef at dark, where we saw his small, bobbing light whenever we were up during the night. Two adults and two children at the farmhouse a few hundred yards from the camp were busy around the stable with the evening chores.
In the curve of the small bay was a small fish camp of tarps and tents, but we saw only one man, apparently clothed for diving, paddle out to the reef at dark, where we saw his small, bobbing light whenever we were up during the night. Two adults and two children at the farmhouse a few hundred yards from the camp were busy around the stable with the evening chores.
November 2-4
After the most restful night so far of this passage, we spent a couple of hours taking care of the chores of boating before leaving Isla de la Plata at 0930 for Manta, back on the coast. Again, we had a wonderful day’s sail, this time downwind in 20-25 knots of wind.
As we approached the breakwater at Manta, the relatively benign sea conditions deteriorated into short, steep 5-foot seas. As we headed into the wind to drop the mainsail, everything loose below decks went flying, including a jug with 3 gallons of water our little old watermaker had struggled for hours to make. But we forgot that loss when the boom swung out a few inches and banged into Bob’s forehead. He had thought I had pulled the boom completely in, but it still had about 6 inches of swing room, enough for him to misjudge it as he scurried along the side deck. I’m sure on both our minds were the two sub-dural hematomas from an accident in 1990. Fortunately, he has developed no symptoms of another injury.
We’d heard such negative reports of the Manta harbor that with some misgivings we motored along the edge of the anchorage dotted with moorings to which were tied 150 or so fishing boats of every imaginable size, and condition. All the way inside, along the city front, sat the Manta Yacht Club. We anchored just outside the yacht club moorings in about 13 feet, between the first line of fishing boats and the seawall. On the way to shore in Abby, we stopped alongside the sailboat Wooden Shoe, to talk with the captain, Susan. We had wondered about the strange lash-up on her mainmast: three thick, long bamboo pools lashed on at various levels up the sides of the wooden mast. She explained the wooden mast had broken in the heavy weather around Punta San Lorenzo, in the same sea conditions where, thankfully, we’d lost no more than our jugful of water. Local workers had lashed the mast up with these poles so she could make her way on to Puerto Lucía for repairs. She was waiting for the seas to calm down enough for her to challenge that point again, this time with an even less stable mast.
We returned to shore the next morning to check in officially with the yacht club manager, Jorge Luis, who had been away the day before. He welcomed us most cordially and assured us our anchoring position was okay, though he cautioned us to stay aboard at night. The boat was a bit distant, he said, for the night guards to assure its security.
Next, we went across the busy street to the Capitanía del Puerto, where we had to wait about an hour while the friendly young naval officer at the reception desk called someone in who knew how to process the arrival and departure of private yachts. While we waited, a steady parade of captains or agents (identifiable as such because they were women) for fishing boats passed through, many of them fairly obviously slipping the young man a $10 bill—in one case that must have been extreme, a $20—all of which he quietly pocketed. Once again, we wished for better Spanish so we could understand the drill here, but, from what we did follow, the payoffs were assumed rather than demanded. And certainly no “Gracias” passed the lips of the naval officer.
We spent our last day in Manta re-provisioning, filling the diesel jerry jugs we carry on deck; adding water, and Clorox, to the non-potable water tank; taking our laundry up to the yacht club; having lunch with Susan; and calling Enrique Plummer, in Panamá, to begin the arrangements for our Canal transit in January.
As we approached the breakwater at Manta, the relatively benign sea conditions deteriorated into short, steep 5-foot seas. As we headed into the wind to drop the mainsail, everything loose below decks went flying, including a jug with 3 gallons of water our little old watermaker had struggled for hours to make. But we forgot that loss when the boom swung out a few inches and banged into Bob’s forehead. He had thought I had pulled the boom completely in, but it still had about 6 inches of swing room, enough for him to misjudge it as he scurried along the side deck. I’m sure on both our minds were the two sub-dural hematomas from an accident in 1990. Fortunately, he has developed no symptoms of another injury.
We’d heard such negative reports of the Manta harbor that with some misgivings we motored along the edge of the anchorage dotted with moorings to which were tied 150 or so fishing boats of every imaginable size, and condition. All the way inside, along the city front, sat the Manta Yacht Club. We anchored just outside the yacht club moorings in about 13 feet, between the first line of fishing boats and the seawall. On the way to shore in Abby, we stopped alongside the sailboat Wooden Shoe, to talk with the captain, Susan. We had wondered about the strange lash-up on her mainmast: three thick, long bamboo pools lashed on at various levels up the sides of the wooden mast. She explained the wooden mast had broken in the heavy weather around Punta San Lorenzo, in the same sea conditions where, thankfully, we’d lost no more than our jugful of water. Local workers had lashed the mast up with these poles so she could make her way on to Puerto Lucía for repairs. She was waiting for the seas to calm down enough for her to challenge that point again, this time with an even less stable mast.
We returned to shore the next morning to check in officially with the yacht club manager, Jorge Luis, who had been away the day before. He welcomed us most cordially and assured us our anchoring position was okay, though he cautioned us to stay aboard at night. The boat was a bit distant, he said, for the night guards to assure its security.
Next, we went across the busy street to the Capitanía del Puerto, where we had to wait about an hour while the friendly young naval officer at the reception desk called someone in who knew how to process the arrival and departure of private yachts. While we waited, a steady parade of captains or agents (identifiable as such because they were women) for fishing boats passed through, many of them fairly obviously slipping the young man a $10 bill—in one case that must have been extreme, a $20—all of which he quietly pocketed. Once again, we wished for better Spanish so we could understand the drill here, but, from what we did follow, the payoffs were assumed rather than demanded. And certainly no “Gracias” passed the lips of the naval officer.
We spent our last day in Manta re-provisioning, filling the diesel jerry jugs we carry on deck; adding water, and Clorox, to the non-potable water tank; taking our laundry up to the yacht club; having lunch with Susan; and calling Enrique Plummer, in Panamá, to begin the arrangements for our Canal transit in January.
November 1
Away at 0710 for one of the best few hours of sailing we’ve had for a long while, in 10-15 knots on the beam, at reached Isla de la Plata, 24 miles to the northwest, at 1020. In the anchorage there, as we motored around, looking for a better place to anchor than we’d found when we were here in February, the park attendant came down to the beach and motioned where to go. He was of course absolutely correct. We were on a narrow 22-foot shelf near the beach that abruptly ended in a 64-foot drop.
With the anchor secured, we had time to observe the numbers of green turtles popping their heads above the water as they swam round and round the boat, studying this new fish in their water.
After an early lunch, we met the park attendant, Favio, for a 2 ½-hour hike up a trail so steep stairs were provided much of the way. Too bad we didn’t have that wonderful marine layer of the coast! The equatorial sun was searing. But we had a splendid outing, for booby birds covered the ridge of the island. The blue-footed, in every stage of the reproduction cycle, were prevalent. Some couples were performing their elaborate mating dances, others were taking turns sitting on nests of eggs, limp gray newborns, or white downy chicks.
Farther along the trail was a much smaller colony of the elegant white and black masked, or Nazca, boobies. We saw no mating displays but nests with eggs and/or chicks, each guarded by one or both parents. In the tree tops of a narrow, remote canyon visible from the ridge perched a few red-footed boobies. And in the trees along the walls of many canyons were magnificent frigatebirds, the most numerous of the species on the island. Late in their season,, few males still displayed their vivid red pouches, but many fluffy white chicks stretched their long necks as they sat on the tree-top, fully exposed nests.
With the anchor secured, we had time to observe the numbers of green turtles popping their heads above the water as they swam round and round the boat, studying this new fish in their water.
After an early lunch, we met the park attendant, Favio, for a 2 ½-hour hike up a trail so steep stairs were provided much of the way. Too bad we didn’t have that wonderful marine layer of the coast! The equatorial sun was searing. But we had a splendid outing, for booby birds covered the ridge of the island. The blue-footed, in every stage of the reproduction cycle, were prevalent. Some couples were performing their elaborate mating dances, others were taking turns sitting on nests of eggs, limp gray newborns, or white downy chicks.
Farther along the trail was a much smaller colony of the elegant white and black masked, or Nazca, boobies. We saw no mating displays but nests with eggs and/or chicks, each guarded by one or both parents. In the tree tops of a narrow, remote canyon visible from the ridge perched a few red-footed boobies. And in the trees along the walls of many canyons were magnificent frigatebirds, the most numerous of the species on the island. Late in their season,, few males still displayed their vivid red pouches, but many fluffy white chicks stretched their long necks as they sat on the tree-top, fully exposed nests.
October 30-31
The next morning we set the stern hook to hold Carricklee’s bow into the swells breaking around the point. Completing our morning chores below decks, we became aware of whistling alongside us but paid no attention, often the fishermen whistle as they pass close by the boat. But this whistle persisted as did the sound of a nearby engine. One of the tour boats en route to Isla de la Plata had stopped for a crewman to tell us to hail the port captain, who had been hailing us on the VHF radio. Oops! We hadn’t turned our radio on for the morning. The port captain requested we come ashore and present our official documents. Visiting sailors cannot, of course, refuse such a request. We had wanted to go ashore to see the town, but had been reluctant to challenge the breakers on the beach. His request took care of our hesitancy.
To our relief, we made a splendid landing, timing the swells, then, after rowing the boat stern first to the beach, stepping off with no more than wet feet. (I had worn my old rather than new glasses in case we took a dunking.) We walked the mile or so to the other end of the beach, threading our way past the fishermen offloading their night’s catches into space cases, carts, truck beds, and the hands of buyers. The brown pelicans snatched up any leftovers.
The port captain welcomed us most amiably, looked at our passports, stamped our zarpe, wished us “Buen Viaje” as he shook our hands, and sent us on our way.
The dusty streets of Puerto López were a bustle of pedicabs and walkers, with a pervading odor of fish throughout. We found the headquarters of the Parque Nacional de Machalilla, where we purchased tickets to visit Isla de la Plata the following day.
Back aboard Carricklee, we received a VHF call from the sailboat Clair de Lune, passing outside the bay, to inquire about the anchorages between here and Puerto Lucía YC, their destination. In return, they recommended the anchorage behind the “big rock” off the fishing village Machalilla, our next destination.
After lunch, we hoisted anchor and were under way at 1410, arriving there at 1520. The anchorage behind little Islote Sucre was indeed a splendid one. We were across the bay from the noisy fishing harbor; for entertainment we contented ourselves with the cormorants, pelicans, and black-headed vultures scattered on the rocky islet, the only sounds the swells thundering on the opposite side of the islet, exactly where we desired that thunder to remain.
The following morning we tried a batch of hotcakes from the sourdough starter I’d made a couple of weeks earlier. The result was favorable, though the dough was not as good and sour as from our previous starter. We’d been carrying back and forth each cruising season a jar of starter our friend Katie Bloom had brought to us when we were in Hawaii in 1997, the starter at that time about 25 years old. We had nursed it, fed it, and shared it wherever we had been by sea or land since that time. But we knew this year we weren’t going to get it aboard an airplane in our carry-on luggage. So we divided it and left one jar in the care of our granddaughter, Elise, and her husband, Chris, and the other jar in Vickie and Jon’s freezer—this latter an experiment to see if the yeast can survive being frozen. But, since sourdough was born in the far northern reaches of Alaska, we should think the chances are good that it can. We’ll be happy to reunite with our babies next summer.
Fortified for our chores for the day, we were busy on the boat when a fishing panga came alongside, and one of the three young fishermen chatted for awhile before asking if we’d like them to go to the “tierra” and bring back “langostina.” We agreed that would be a fine idea, and they returned an hour or so later with nine of the largest prawns we’ve ever seen. As they motored away, we checked our watches and nodded: not too soon to prepare lunch.
Ours was the quintessential cruising sailors’ lunch—shrimp Louis with local lettuce, sweet tomatoes, crisp cucumbers, and onions, dressed with freshly made Louis a la Carricklee, and served in a quietly gorgeous remote anchorage.
The winds had risen to 20 knots by mid-afternoon, but we still needed to get out in the sport boat and take photographs. We motored slowly to keep ourselves from getting drenched and captured some good images of the sparkling water and environs. All was well until the sport boat was back alongside Carricklee. As I stood on the thwart and grabbed the boarding ladder, a big swell caught the sport boat and it bounced off the hull and out from beneath me. I had but a moment to wonder where I might end up as I was stretched my length between the two boats. But quick-thinking Bob grabbed me with one arm around the waist and pulled me back into the sport boat, where we fell in a heap, but a safe heap. My hero once again! (I’m going to have to watch that waistline to make sure he can always reach around it with one arm.)
To our relief, we made a splendid landing, timing the swells, then, after rowing the boat stern first to the beach, stepping off with no more than wet feet. (I had worn my old rather than new glasses in case we took a dunking.) We walked the mile or so to the other end of the beach, threading our way past the fishermen offloading their night’s catches into space cases, carts, truck beds, and the hands of buyers. The brown pelicans snatched up any leftovers.
The port captain welcomed us most amiably, looked at our passports, stamped our zarpe, wished us “Buen Viaje” as he shook our hands, and sent us on our way.
The dusty streets of Puerto López were a bustle of pedicabs and walkers, with a pervading odor of fish throughout. We found the headquarters of the Parque Nacional de Machalilla, where we purchased tickets to visit Isla de la Plata the following day.
Back aboard Carricklee, we received a VHF call from the sailboat Clair de Lune, passing outside the bay, to inquire about the anchorages between here and Puerto Lucía YC, their destination. In return, they recommended the anchorage behind the “big rock” off the fishing village Machalilla, our next destination.
After lunch, we hoisted anchor and were under way at 1410, arriving there at 1520. The anchorage behind little Islote Sucre was indeed a splendid one. We were across the bay from the noisy fishing harbor; for entertainment we contented ourselves with the cormorants, pelicans, and black-headed vultures scattered on the rocky islet, the only sounds the swells thundering on the opposite side of the islet, exactly where we desired that thunder to remain.
The following morning we tried a batch of hotcakes from the sourdough starter I’d made a couple of weeks earlier. The result was favorable, though the dough was not as good and sour as from our previous starter. We’d been carrying back and forth each cruising season a jar of starter our friend Katie Bloom had brought to us when we were in Hawaii in 1997, the starter at that time about 25 years old. We had nursed it, fed it, and shared it wherever we had been by sea or land since that time. But we knew this year we weren’t going to get it aboard an airplane in our carry-on luggage. So we divided it and left one jar in the care of our granddaughter, Elise, and her husband, Chris, and the other jar in Vickie and Jon’s freezer—this latter an experiment to see if the yeast can survive being frozen. But, since sourdough was born in the far northern reaches of Alaska, we should think the chances are good that it can. We’ll be happy to reunite with our babies next summer.
Fortified for our chores for the day, we were busy on the boat when a fishing panga came alongside, and one of the three young fishermen chatted for awhile before asking if we’d like them to go to the “tierra” and bring back “langostina.” We agreed that would be a fine idea, and they returned an hour or so later with nine of the largest prawns we’ve ever seen. As they motored away, we checked our watches and nodded: not too soon to prepare lunch.
Ours was the quintessential cruising sailors’ lunch—shrimp Louis with local lettuce, sweet tomatoes, crisp cucumbers, and onions, dressed with freshly made Louis a la Carricklee, and served in a quietly gorgeous remote anchorage.
The winds had risen to 20 knots by mid-afternoon, but we still needed to get out in the sport boat and take photographs. We motored slowly to keep ourselves from getting drenched and captured some good images of the sparkling water and environs. All was well until the sport boat was back alongside Carricklee. As I stood on the thwart and grabbed the boarding ladder, a big swell caught the sport boat and it bounced off the hull and out from beneath me. I had but a moment to wonder where I might end up as I was stretched my length between the two boats. But quick-thinking Bob grabbed me with one arm around the waist and pulled me back into the sport boat, where we fell in a heap, but a safe heap. My hero once again! (I’m going to have to watch that waistline to make sure he can always reach around it with one arm.)
October 28-29
With our first destination the neighboring Salinas Yacht Club, only about 5 miles distant, we had time to answer a last-minute e-mail from our publisher concerning the revised edition of the Hawaii book, due out next month, before casting off the lines at Puerto Lucía for perhaps the last time. After leaving our boat on the hard here for the past three summers and spending many weeks aboard each season, we were leaving with a mixture of eagerness to see new harbors and regret to be leaving both the salubrious climate of Bahía de Santa Elena and the charming and generous people of Ecuador.
Our first destination was such a short one because we had decided to research the tenable anchorages between PLYC and the Colombian border. Though we’d been to the city of Salinas by land many times, as recently as the day before to check out with the port captain, we’d not been into the harbor there. The anchorage turned out to be good except for some roll at the tide changes and the loud music from the bars along the beach.
The next morning we took the sportboat past the breakwater into the Salinas Yacht Club to take pictures and immediately recognized we had all the security personnel on alert. One came down out of the tower on the end of the breakwater to watch us, another studied us closely from the dock farther in, and a third leaned on the rail of the clubhouse deck. We waved and smiled to all. They responded with waves but not the smiles. Yet no one made any other movements towards us, so we took our photographs of the spiffy clubhouse and deteriorating docks, many of them vacant except for generous populations of royal terns.
We hoisted the sportboat and the anchor and motored out of Bahía de Santa Elena, northward toward the next anchorage, Bahía Ayangue. With southwest winds of only 7 knots, we had high hopes for an evening at Ayangue. Motoring into the anchorage area at 1230 hours, we were on our way out to sea at 1235. The 5-foot swells rolling straight into the bay would clearly be more than our flopper stoppers (roll stabilizers, to be more technical) could dampen.
Motorsailing in 5-10-knot winds in a thick but high marine layer, we cautiously skirted the rocky islets along the shore, to Isla Salango, 32 miles north of Ayangue. Again, the swell made the island anchorage unappealing, so we went on into the bay and anchored among the fishing boats off the coastal village of Salango. The swells and wind pushing us toward shore were unnerving, so we abandoned this stop, too, and went on another 6 miles to Puerto López. Despite having deployed the flopper stopper upon our arrival, I was up during the night stuffing throw pillows, potholders, and dish towels in galley lockers and drawers to dampen the rattles of dishes and bottles, reminding myself to get back into the habit of noise abatement before going to bed each night. (None of these little annoying noises bother Captain Bob.)
Our first destination was such a short one because we had decided to research the tenable anchorages between PLYC and the Colombian border. Though we’d been to the city of Salinas by land many times, as recently as the day before to check out with the port captain, we’d not been into the harbor there. The anchorage turned out to be good except for some roll at the tide changes and the loud music from the bars along the beach.
The next morning we took the sportboat past the breakwater into the Salinas Yacht Club to take pictures and immediately recognized we had all the security personnel on alert. One came down out of the tower on the end of the breakwater to watch us, another studied us closely from the dock farther in, and a third leaned on the rail of the clubhouse deck. We waved and smiled to all. They responded with waves but not the smiles. Yet no one made any other movements towards us, so we took our photographs of the spiffy clubhouse and deteriorating docks, many of them vacant except for generous populations of royal terns.
We hoisted the sportboat and the anchor and motored out of Bahía de Santa Elena, northward toward the next anchorage, Bahía Ayangue. With southwest winds of only 7 knots, we had high hopes for an evening at Ayangue. Motoring into the anchorage area at 1230 hours, we were on our way out to sea at 1235. The 5-foot swells rolling straight into the bay would clearly be more than our flopper stoppers (roll stabilizers, to be more technical) could dampen.
Motorsailing in 5-10-knot winds in a thick but high marine layer, we cautiously skirted the rocky islets along the shore, to Isla Salango, 32 miles north of Ayangue. Again, the swell made the island anchorage unappealing, so we went on into the bay and anchored among the fishing boats off the coastal village of Salango. The swells and wind pushing us toward shore were unnerving, so we abandoned this stop, too, and went on another 6 miles to Puerto López. Despite having deployed the flopper stopper upon our arrival, I was up during the night stuffing throw pillows, potholders, and dish towels in galley lockers and drawers to dampen the rattles of dishes and bottles, reminding myself to get back into the habit of noise abatement before going to bed each night. (None of these little annoying noises bother Captain Bob.)
October 2-28
Our latest cruising season began, as is customary, with a road trip from Lake Stevens down to Eugene, to spend a few days with my family. We stayed with Vickie and Jon, and Debra had all the brothers and sisters and spouses for dinner at her house. Jon accompanied us to the airport in mid-afternoon on Monday and took our truck back to baby sit it for the winter. And soon we were off for Los Angeles; San Jose, Costa Rica; and Guayaquil, Ecuador, where we arrived in mid-afternoon on Tuesday, feeling remarkably well despite having been in combinations of airports and airplanes for about 24 hours.
Customs in Guayaquil was a matter of turning in our declarations, picking up our five bags, piling them on a cart along with the four we were carrying, and waving to the guards as they waved us out the door. Stepping outside the terminal, we paused a few moments to take deep breaths of the hot, humid air enveloping us—something of a shock after the past few weeks in the cool Pacific Northwest.
In the luck of the draw, we happened upon the perfect van and driver to take us from Guayaquil to the Puerto Lucía Yacht Club, about 100 miles to the west. The van was a new Toyota with air-conditioning that worked, and the driver spoke English. He had lived in New York for many years, where his Puerto Rican wife and daughter continue to live while he resides temporarily in Guayaquil, taking care of his ill mother. We had a speedy, comfortable, and enjoyable ride out to the coast.
Once again, we spent the first four nights in the PLYC hotel while the workers in the yard completed their refinishing of the teak on Carricklee and sanded and painted the bottom and Bob returned all the boat’s systems to working status. We had virtually no mildew below decks to clean this year, having left two open buckets filled with a strong bleach and water solution sitting in the sinks. After five months, both buckets still had an inch or so of liquid remaining.
On our fifth day back, the Travelift cradled Carricklee in its slings, transported her to the marina dock, and lowered her into the water. Then we motored across to the sea wall, where yard workers tied our stern line to a mooring and others waited on the rocky wall to take the bow lines to cleats on the wall. And here we sat for the next four weeks, the lone occupants on the boats on the wall.
But we had plenty of company among the many boats still hauled out and joined in the ongoing active social life. While we’d been away for the summer, the yacht club had converted one large room in the complex to a cruisers’ lounge. Besides several large round tables, where we joined the group for weekly potlucks, the lounge has four computer stations with Internet connections, so we no longer had to take the hike to the shopping center for Internet access.
For our daily hikes, we instead walked around the yacht club complex for about 45 minutes early in the mornings and enjoyed splendid birding each day. The chattering green parrots were waking up and getting under way for their daily flights to wherever it is they go to feed. Long-tailed mockingbirds provided the music for the walks, with the occasional tiny clicking hummingbirds the timpanists, while the vermillion flycatchers added quiet color.
The one significant equipment failure on the boat for which we had no spare parts was the dead battery we discovered in the satellite phone a few days before our departure for Panamá. As with too many pieces of equipment on our boat, we learned when we contacted Telenor, the distributor of the phone, that our model has long been out of production. However, on our last day in PLYC, the Telenor rep. sent an e-mail to say she had rounded up two re-conditioned batteries and would send them to us, free of charge, with of course no guarantees either would still power the equipment. Of course we would not receive them until we reached Panamá. So we’d have neither e-mail nor phone access for the passage.
Customs in Guayaquil was a matter of turning in our declarations, picking up our five bags, piling them on a cart along with the four we were carrying, and waving to the guards as they waved us out the door. Stepping outside the terminal, we paused a few moments to take deep breaths of the hot, humid air enveloping us—something of a shock after the past few weeks in the cool Pacific Northwest.
In the luck of the draw, we happened upon the perfect van and driver to take us from Guayaquil to the Puerto Lucía Yacht Club, about 100 miles to the west. The van was a new Toyota with air-conditioning that worked, and the driver spoke English. He had lived in New York for many years, where his Puerto Rican wife and daughter continue to live while he resides temporarily in Guayaquil, taking care of his ill mother. We had a speedy, comfortable, and enjoyable ride out to the coast.
Once again, we spent the first four nights in the PLYC hotel while the workers in the yard completed their refinishing of the teak on Carricklee and sanded and painted the bottom and Bob returned all the boat’s systems to working status. We had virtually no mildew below decks to clean this year, having left two open buckets filled with a strong bleach and water solution sitting in the sinks. After five months, both buckets still had an inch or so of liquid remaining.
On our fifth day back, the Travelift cradled Carricklee in its slings, transported her to the marina dock, and lowered her into the water. Then we motored across to the sea wall, where yard workers tied our stern line to a mooring and others waited on the rocky wall to take the bow lines to cleats on the wall. And here we sat for the next four weeks, the lone occupants on the boats on the wall.
But we had plenty of company among the many boats still hauled out and joined in the ongoing active social life. While we’d been away for the summer, the yacht club had converted one large room in the complex to a cruisers’ lounge. Besides several large round tables, where we joined the group for weekly potlucks, the lounge has four computer stations with Internet connections, so we no longer had to take the hike to the shopping center for Internet access.
For our daily hikes, we instead walked around the yacht club complex for about 45 minutes early in the mornings and enjoyed splendid birding each day. The chattering green parrots were waking up and getting under way for their daily flights to wherever it is they go to feed. Long-tailed mockingbirds provided the music for the walks, with the occasional tiny clicking hummingbirds the timpanists, while the vermillion flycatchers added quiet color.
The one significant equipment failure on the boat for which we had no spare parts was the dead battery we discovered in the satellite phone a few days before our departure for Panamá. As with too many pieces of equipment on our boat, we learned when we contacted Telenor, the distributor of the phone, that our model has long been out of production. However, on our last day in PLYC, the Telenor rep. sent an e-mail to say she had rounded up two re-conditioned batteries and would send them to us, free of charge, with of course no guarantees either would still power the equipment. Of course we would not receive them until we reached Panamá. So we’d have neither e-mail nor phone access for the passage.
Welcome to the Adventures of Carricklee!
I've been pestering my grandparents, Bob and Carol Mehaffy, to set up a website for a while now. With their last adventure-filled newsletter from South America, I thought now would be the perfect time to set up a site for them! As pictures are too big to send through e-mail from the slow Internet cafes they're confined to, we'll have to wait until they send me a disc, or get back to the States, to post any pictures. In the meantime, as you read the newsletters from Bob and Carol, sit back, relax, and imagine yourself living the sunny life of a cruiser!
~Elise Hansen, Granddaughter
http://cehansen.blogspot.com
~Elise Hansen, Granddaughter
http://cehansen.blogspot.com
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