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.