The Adventures of Carricklee

February 13-28, 2007

2007-03-18T19:00:00.000-07:00

February 13-28: On Daniel's recommendation we motorsailed from this
anchorage over to Isla Zapatilla #1, with New Passage following, to snorkel
around Zapatilla #2, which has no tenable anchorage. On this day the
anchorage on #1 was not so good either. We put out the flopper stopper,
which decreased the discomfort. But as we looked at nearby #2, we knew there'd
be no snorkeling there with the water breaking onto the reef. We did have a
brief snorkel at the reef off #1 and saw some beautiful brain and staghorn
coral, purple sea fans, coral-colored starfish, and a few colorful fish.
The next morning we were off early for Bocas Marina, on Isla Colón,
carefully following our progress through the reefs between Zapatilla and
Isla Bastimentos on our computer navigational program. Once again, we
encountered 12-foot seas at the bar, but they seemed less formidable this
time. Past the bar the seas were flatter, and we motorsailed in comfort,
despite the light headwind, into Bocas Marina.

Our 90-day visa for Panamá was expiring in two days, so we had to get
ourselves up to Changuinola, on the mainland, to renew it for another 90
days. This process took us all of the following day. From the marina, a
local water taxi took us the short distance to the town of Bocas, on the
same island as the marina but separated by wetlands. From Bocas we took a
high-speed water taxi, this one more like a bus carrying about 25 other
passengers. At the dock in Changuinola, we caught a land taxi for town.
And this was the easy part. A renewal process that should have taken about
a half hour took us almost three hours to complete, with much unnecessary
running around and sitting in the office. But we can now stay legally until
mid-May if we choose.

Planning to catch the 1230 water taxi back to Bocas, we were back at the
dock at 1200. But the 1230 was already sold out, so we had to wait for the
next one at 1400h. At first we groaned, but then we talked with three young
surfers, one from Australia and two from Minnesota, and another young couple
from New York. All these people were spending several months on the surfer
route in Central America, camping out on beaches or staying in hostels-and
having a grand adventure. Very entertaining.

The waterway between Bocas and Changuinola is an old canal built by United
Fruit, now Chiquita, to transport bananas. Bananas remain the primary
industry in Changuinola, but Chiquita no longer uses the canal, perhaps
because the water hyacinth is taking it over. It's nevertheless a lovely
way to travel between these two small towns.

When we went into Bocas the following day to re-provision, we had a pleasant
surprise. The town itself is funky, most of the aging structures, primarily
wooden, that once must have been homes along the main street now either
restaurants, hostels and hotels, or tour companies. But, perhaps because
the economy of the town is now clearly based on tourism, the provisioning
options are excellent for such a small, out-of-the-way place. Three or four
supermercados have a good selection of local foods, and another, Super
Gourmet, has many specialty items, such as cheeses and frozen imported
salmon-the latter surprisingly good on the palates of two salmon-deprived
norteamericanos.

After a week in Bocas Marina, getting the boat shipshape again and
acquainting ourselves with the services in the area, we welcomed aboard
Kerry and Spencer, the mother and son from Panama City who transited the
Canal with us. They arrived in the rain by water taxi at 0730, tired but
ready to go after an overnight bus trip from Panama City. As soon as we had
a break in the rain, we motored the sort distance to our first stop, Punta
Concho, where our day was a late lunch, naps, a late afternoon swim, a
shrimp risotto dinner, and a short evening.

And that was pretty much how our days went, except we varied the dinner
menu. We listened to howlers in the distance early morning and late
afternoon, we took rides up small channels in the sportboat, on one of those
rides coming to a Ngöbe-Bugle settlement of two huts. A man, a young woman,
and two children were trying to wrestle some kind of large fish out of the
bottom of the cayuco. The man quickly answered "Si" to our offer of help,
so Bob, Spencer, and Kerry got into the water alongside the cayuco while I
tended the sportboat. When they saw a hammerhead shark filling almost the
length of the 18-foot boat, Bob asked for reassurance: "It is dead, isn't
it?" Then they all went to work and got the fish into the water.

After a night at Punta Concho, we spent the second night at Ground Creek.
For the third night we moved to the anchorage behind Quary's Point, a mile
or so from the coastal town of Almirante. Kerry and Spencer had ridden the
bus from Panama City to Almirante and then had caught the water taxi for the
30-minute ride to Bocas. But to return they would have had to leave Bocas
at 0600, and we were unsure of the taxi service from the marina to Bocas at
that hour. So from the anchorage we ran them around to the dock at
Almirante, and they caught a local taxi to the bus station.

We went back to Carricklee and did a few chores while we waited for more
light to return to Almirante and take pictures of all the houses on stilts
lining the estuary. At a service station on the water, we filled up our
jerry jugs with gasoline for the sportboat.

Besides the convenience of the anchorage we were in, it was another
splendid, quiet bay with numerous channels we could follow into the
mangroves at another time and reefs we could snorkel over. We will return
perhaps in a few days.

Returning to Bocas Marina later that day, we got back to all the usual
chores, but we did have one more land trip for this visit in Bocas. Once
again, we took the water taxi to Changuinola, this time the 0700 one, where
a driver met us at the dock and took us out to Río San San and the entrance
into the San San Pond Sack Wetlands. Here we crawled into a lancha with our
guide, whose name I'm still struggling with-something like Austraques,
maybe? Along also were four bags of cement, shovels and other tools, and
five other men.

The river is wide at this landing, but, when it joins with Río Negro a few
miles downstream, it doubles in size. We were too late to see birds except
for great American and cattle egrets and little blue herons. But we did see
them by the scores.

The primary tourist attraction of this trip, though, is not the birds. The
manatees are what we'd come to see. The lancha stopped at a site about 10
miles downriver, where Austraques, Bob, and I climbed onto the first of a
series of wooden steps leading to a look-out in a tree. Three of the men in
the lancha tied stalks of banana leaves to strings hanging from low limbs of
our tree down almost to the water's surface. Then the boat sped away on
down the river, and the three of us quietly waited.

After 15 or 20 minutes, Austraques alerted us to some quiet splashing sounds
among the mangroves around us. We waited again. Then he pointed to a
variation in color in the coppery colored water: splotches of tan on black.
The first of the ultimately five manatees had come to feast on the banana
leaves. We could see them only hazily through the water as they ate the
tips of the leaves hanging into the water. But we could hear the loud
crunch, crunch, chomp, chomp of their eating. Then they would all swim out
toward the middle of the river, disappearing from view. In a few minutes,
one by one they returned to the leaves. The best views came when the only
portions of leaves left were all above the water. Then we saw their black
pig-like snouts, lips, and tongue as they consumed every last morsel tied in
the strings.

As Bob observed, these were the most mannerly of mammals. They glided
quietly, their motions almost sonorous, up to the leaves, never interfering
with another's progress. Two might be munching off the same long leaf, but
always at opposite ends, with no bumping. It was a rare experience.
So now we're making plans to go out cruising again in the next day or so.
In just three weeks Kim and Caitlan will be coming from Idaho for a week's
visit-not nearly long enough, but they both have only a one-week spring
break. Then we'll be getting ourselves and the boat ready for a separation
when we return to the States, probably in late April.

January 17- February 3, 2007

2007-03-18T18:59:00.001-07:00

January 17-February 3: A taxi picked up Thom and Allen at midday to drive
them back across the Isthmus to the airport and their return to San
Francisco. (And that's another story. Because of various delays, they
arrived in SF not on Wednesday night but on Friday afternoon.)

We soon came to appreciate so much about Shelter Bay Marina. To illustrate
how grateful we can be for minor conveniences, we were delighted to find a
small self-service laundry room at the marina. While there's much to be
said for having someone else always do the laundry for us, we'd prefer to be
responsible for bleach spots on our clothing or missing articles; and it's
easier to fold the laundry in the first place than to unfold and refold it
because it won't fit into our small designated spaces.

Another asset here is the access to WiFi for Internet. While this wasn't
the first marina where we've had this service, this one was the most
consistently reliable.

The major inconvenience of being at Shelter Bay is its location so far from
Colón, where all the services are available. The marina does have a van
that has two scheduled trips into town each day, the one in the morning
going for four hours and, in the afternoon, for two hours. Though the
marina is only 12 miles from town, the travel time is usually extended for
as much as 30-45 minutes each way because the only route to town is across
the swinging bridge at Gatún Locks. If a transiting boat is entering or
exiting the locks, the bridge must be swung open, stopping all road traffic.
When the bridge is passable, only one lane may cross at a time. Rarely did
we ever get to the bridge and not have a delay of some duration.

But this out-of-the-way location also resulted in making this marina one of
our all-time favorites for the multitude of interesting walks we took daily.
Built on a portion of the old Fort Sherman, first established here in about
1910, the marina structures are all conversions of old fort buildings.
Paved roadways lead to deserted housing complexes, barracks, airstrips,
batteries, and firing ranges. The jungle, with its myriad animals and
birds, is steadily reclaiming all these, except for the barracks now used by
the Armada de Panamá.

Each morning we were there, we struck out on one of about ten possibilities
for long walks. We soon learned where to see the howler and the capuchin
monkeys, where scores of oropendulas nest, which trees the Amazon parrots
and caciques favored, and the high bare perches where we'd see the several
species of hawks and falcons. We saw a mother and baby coatimundi (here
called "gato solo," or lone cat, though we've never seen one "solo")
crossing the road one day, and a few days later startled a treeful of them
on our approach. About thirty coatimundis scampered down from the top limbs
of the leafy tree and disappeared into the jungle before we could think to
engage our cameras.

Near the end of our stay in Shelter Bay, we rented a car to do a bit more
sightseeing and shopping in the city. Bob and Cheryl went with us first to
Achiote, a small Ngöbe-Bugle village in the foothills west of Colón, where
we had arranged for a guide to take us on some of the nearby trails. This
guide, a local man named Felipe Martínez, spoke no English, though he was
taking classes from the Peace Corps worker in the village, a young woman
from Wisconsin. But he was skilled at finding the birds and animals and in
describing their habits. Though we were too late in the day to see most of
the wildlife, he showed us several groups of trogons and a troop of tiny
titi monkeys. Near a cane field and a creek, he pointed out several species
of antbirds, antwrens, flycatchers, and tanagers.

Then we had a delicious lunch at the restaurant run by the budding tourist
board of Achiote, where Felipe's wife cooks and where we met and chatted
with Michelle, the Peace Corps volunteer.

The next day the four of us took the hour or so drive across the Isthmus to
Panama City to shop at PriceSmart (remember Bill Price, who had the Price
Clubs before they were merged with Costco?) and the wonderful gourmet market
Riba Smith.

The social event of February at the marina was a farewell bash for a
California couple, Judy and Dennis, on the sailboat Emerada. These two had
been working at the marina for the past year. The marina brought a chef out
from Panama City to prepare Box Pig, a Chinese method of seasoning and then
smoking a whole young porker in a wooden box. The galley staff at the
marina prepared baked beans, Russian potato salad (potatoes plus beets) and
cole slaw. To begin, Russ, the manager of the club, gave out tally sheets
listing the dozen kinds of wines opened and sitting on the bar. He asked us
to sample and rate each to help him decide which ones to offer in the
restaurant. What a great idea for all!

We, too, said our farewells on this Saturday and gave an article to a couple
from Lake Tahoe visiting on one of the other boats in the marina to mail for
us from the States. The next day we would begin the passage to Bocas del
Toro, the archipelago, and town, at the northwest end of Panama.
February 4-12: We slipped out of the marina without notice, for most of our
fellow cruising sailors had gone on the weekly Sunday morning hike with
Bruce, another cruiser now working at the marina, and his family of the
catamaran Chewbaca.

We had waited for a calming in the weather, and the channel between the
breakwater of Bahía Limón was a much more inviting sight than it had been
the last time we were near it. But we did circle around for about a half
hour, waiting for a ship to pass the breakwater and head into the bay. We
still don't think that narrow channel has room for a ship and a sailboat at
the same time. As we motorsailed out, another ship was heading our way from
the outside anchorage, so, rather than turn west in front of this one to get
on our course, we headed off to the northeast for a few minutes before
picking up our course.

For the afternoon we sailed, close-hauled in 12-15-knot winds, but in the
evening, when the wind fell to 5 knots and the seas grew irregular, we
turned on the motor for the night. At 0800 the next day we arrived at our
first choice for a stop, Isla Escudo de Veraguas, at the outer edge of Golfo
de los Mosquitos. But the seas weren't favorable in either of the
recommended anchorages, so we went on another 14 miles to Punta Valiente and
into a small bay designated "Laguna de Bluefield" on nautical charts but
called locally "Bahía Azul."

This protected bay has numerous good anchorages, we learned in the days to
come, but we tucked into the first available anchorage, a small embayment
behind Punta Raya ("Raya" as in manta raya). What a treasure this smaller
bay within the larger is, with flat water and jungle-covered hills
surrounding it! We could see only two huts inland but soon learned that the
dense jungle concealed a few others.

Our first visitors, a man and boy in a small cayuco, arrived soon, not
saying anything, just smiling as the man kept the dug-out canoe alongside
Carricklee. We gave them a small package of cookies, and the man paddled
across the small bay to the other side, where the cayuco disappeared into
the jungle. Then we eagerly jumped into the 85.8º water to cool off.
During the night we had intermittent showers, teaching us to close the three
overhead hatches before going to bed each night. (Surprisingly, the
temperature cooled down enough at night that we didn't mind having these
hatches closed.)

One of our first chores was to prepare the tax planner to send back to our
CPA in California. When I had completed my assignment in this process, I
began working on an article for Yachting magazine. We had intermittent
visitors in cayucos throughout each of our three days in this anchorage.
Many of them wanted to come aboard and see the boat, but we decided not to
get that started if we were to get our chores done. We gave them all
cookies but answered, "No lo entiendo," to their subtle-and sometimes not so
subtle-hints to come aboard.

One day for our afternoon swim, we snorkeled off the rocky shore alongside
us. The rocks underwater here are brick-red lava domes, smooth and
bulbous. Sea grass waving slowly and sinuously in the light current covered
most of the bottom otherwise, with brilliant turquoise water highlighting
the few sandy patches. Large coral-colored starfish in great numbers
decorated both the rocks and the sand. Though the fish were few, we did see
large schools of tiny fish, perhaps the ones we'd seen local men, women, and
children herding into nets along the shore earlier that morning.

Near dark each day we heard the usual parrots, macaws, and toucans in the
jungle-but those "usual" sounds never fail to bring smiles.

Among the mundane chores of living aboard, Bob had replaced the membrane
housing on our 15-year-old watermaker, and this little machine was working
flawlessly, if slowly, again. We found that with the light winds for our
wind generator and the frequent cloud cover over the solar panels, we needed
to run our new Honda 2000 generator every couple of days to keep our
electrical systems going, including our two computers for writing.
One of my challenges was to use up our half of a stalk of bananas we'd
bought with Bob and Cheryl along the road near Achiote. These bananas were
so tasty, with a hint of the flavor of cinnamon, that using them was really
not much of a challenge. But the cook was sometimes challenged
nevertheless. One recipe I made was for banana-oatmeal cake, but I was so
busily using up those bananas I forgot to put in the oatmeal. It was
delicious anyway-who knows? Maybe even better.

After three nights we moved farther up the bay to an anchorage that was
equally comfortable and gorgeous but even busier with visitors. In the late
afternoons, many of the young people paddle around in their cayucos. On our
first evening in these new digs, we counted at one time seven cayucos
carrying one or two young men milling around alongside us. We were clearly
the star attraction, though that attraction may have been the boat. All the
young men were gazing up at the rigging for the sails and talking excitedly
among themselves. No doubt they would have been happy to come aboard and
have Bob explain it all to them. But we were certain that chore was beyond
our abilities with Spanish. To complicate the translation, we understand
some of the people around the bay speak only their native Ngöbe-Bugle
language.

On our fifth day in Bahía Azul, Bob and Cheryl arrived on New Passage, but
we talked with them only on the VHF for a couple of days as they rested up
from their difficult overnight passage.

One afternoon Bob and I went ashore at the village of Ensenada and hiked
across the steep hill behind the village to a stunning beach on the
Caribbean Sea. Imagine all the pictures you've seen of such a beach, and
this was it: white sand curving along the shore for 2 miles, aquamarine
water breaking in sparkling waves of white, and, beyond, the deeper sapphire
water.

On the beach we chatted with a charter group from Mystic, the other sailboat
in the bay: the captain, Daniel, a young man from Perú and California; a
Canadian couple, Rosalie and Harry; and an Italian-New Jersey woman, Cathy.
Bob, always alert for a mail courier, asked Cathy if she'd take an article
back with her when she left for the States in a few days. She readily
agreed, on the condition that she get to read it. Daniel was taking the
group to another anchorage the next day, so we had a busy evening getting
the piece and the illustrations wrapped up.

When Bob took the package over to Mystic the next day, Daniel said they were
being picked up by a local man, Zacarías, who would take them up the narrow
Río Quebrada in his lancha and invited us to follow in our sportboat if we'd
like. We eagerly agreed and invited Bob and Cheryl to ride with us. The
lancha came slowly by a short while later, to our surprise towing a plastic
kayak with a young man in it.

We followed the boat to an obscure opening into the mangroves, cutting our
motor when Zacarías did to row through the entrance. The river (more likely
an estuary channel) narrowed to a tunnel of tall trees, their overhanging
branches dripping vines over the water. The going was slow as we rowed
around rocks and fallen branches. We had lost sight of Zacarías rowing his
much more narrow, pointy lancha. Then around the bend ahead came young
Alfredo, the boy riding in the towed kayak. He motioned for us to throw him
a line so he could now tow us. We were a little embarrassed to have this
young boy of perhaps sixteen rowing and dragging our clumsy sportboat with
four adults in it. But certainly he was getting us up the river at a much
faster clip.

We saw little wildlife, perhaps because Zacarías's dog, Cuy, ran along the
banks the entire length of the river, hunting for rabbits. Zacarías said
Cuy had a special bark that signaled when he'd found one. We didn't get to
hear that bark. A good day for the rabbits!

On Monday morning, as we were cleaning up after breakfast, we became aware
of a round brown face pressed against one portlight then another. When Bob
went up on deck, he saw a young teenaged girl with a small boy and girl in a
cayuco. He smiled and said, "Buenas dias, señorita." And immediately the
teenager hoisted the boy and then the girl up on deck. Then she tied her
cayuco to a stanchion and followed.

Bob and I smiled at each other. This one had spunk. She wasn't waiting for
an invitation to come aboard. So we chatted with her for a few minutes.
She, Brigida, was fourteen, Lorena was six, and Anselmo, five. They were on
their way to school, in the village of Ensenada, and Brigida had brought
with two wood carvings, a wolf and an eagle she said her older brother had
made. She wanted $3 for each, so we bought the wolf, though its head and
body look more like a skinny bear's, one front leg is twice the size of the
other, and the tail could have been stolen from a beaver. But we've grown
quite fond of our piece of primitive art.

Anselmo and Lorena gobbled the chocolate bars we gave them without getting a
morsel on their spiffy school clothes. Brigida put her bar in her skirt
pocket. I also gave Brigida an almost new knit shirt that I never wore.
We don't know what time school began, but finally we had to tell them they
could go after we'd tried various hints: "We have to work now." "We're
leaving shortly for another anchorage." "We'll see you later." Brigida
stood up and gave me a hug. So sweet. Bob's theory is that in the
Ngöbe-Bugle culture, visitors must stay until they're clearly excused to
leave. He may be right, but we don't know how to ask them such a delicate,
potentially insulting question in Spanish.

January 12-16, 2007

2007-03-18T18:55:00.001-07:00

January 11: Side-tied at the Panama Canal Yacht Club, we waited for Enrique
to arrive from the city to collect the four 150-foot heavy-duty lines we had
rented from him and to return our $450 deposit because we had not had to
stay in the lake overnight. After lunch Thom, Bob, and I took a taxi to
Fuerte San Lorenzo, a 16th century Spanish fort that remains in fairly good
condition, having been rebuilt for the third time in the mid-18th century.
The drive to the fort was in itself worth the trip. The only roadway across
the Canal on the Caribbean side is on a single-lane swinging bridge running
along the base of the gates of Gatún Locks. The water, only a few feet
beneath this low bridge, was swirling and churning as the chamber behind the
gates was draining.

After going through a checkpoint, we passed former housing for Americans
stationed at Fort Sherman, one of the four former U. S. military bases
around Gatún, just before the road deteriorated from a smooth paved surface
to a series of rock-and-gravel potholes.

January 11, 2007

2007-03-18T18:53:00.003-07:00

January 10, 2007

2007-03-18T18:53:00.001-07:00

January 10: From the Panama Canal Authority, we'd received the instructions
to be ready for our advisor by 0730. So we were all up shortly after 0500.
Then Keith, Kerry, and their 15-year-old son, Spencer, our new friends who
are Americans living in Panamá, arrived at 0630. Then we waited. The
advisor, Orlando, finally came aboard at 0930.

He may as well have waited even longer. We slowly motored to the basin at
the entrance into the locks, where we circled for another hour and a half
before we entered the chamber at Miraflores at 12 noon.

On the locking up from the Pacific, we were side-tied to a mega yacht, so
there was much scurrying around on both boats each of the times (three) we
tied up and untied. The crew of about six on the yacht was most concerned
about the multi-million vessel they were in charge of. The owner and family
looked on with what we thought were expressions of disdain. But all went
well, and neither the multi-mil. nor the multi-thou. was damaged.

As we raced across Gatún Lake, our poor old gal pushing 7.5-8 knots, we were
all sure we'd have to spend the night in the lake. But fortune shone on us.

As we approached Gatún Locks, our advisor, Orlando, who was in every way
excellent, could see the ship that was supposed to be the last to be locked
down for the day still parked outside the locks. He called the lockmaster
and was told the ship was delayed with mechanical problems and we could go
in with this ship if we could make it to the first lock by 1730.

We had about 5 miles to go in the winding channel and 25-28-knot head winds,
and it was 1645. Nevertheless, we arrived at 1720, pulled around in front of
the ship, and were centered-tied through all three locks, with the ship
behind us.

We came into Colón in the dark, but had called our agent for the passage,
Enrique, and he had talked with the harbormaster at Panama Canal Yacht Club
to arrange for a slip for us for the night. So we were in safely on the dock
at PCYC at 1930. I had had probably the most exciting birthday of my life.
Maybe I'll do it again at 80!

January 3-9, 2007

2007-03-18T18:52:00.001-07:00

January 3-9: We spent the last few days at Balboa Yacht Club getting our
boat ready for the transit and shopping at Super Kosher, Rey, and Abastos,
the big produce market. One night Jim and Leslee treated us to a superb
dinner at Ten, an upscale restaurant downtown, to celebrate my upcoming
birthday. It was undoubtedly the best meal we've had at a restaurant in
Panamá.

Thom and Allen, our friends and fellow boaters from Orinda and Alameda,
respectively, arrived on January 8 to line handle for the transit. On the
9th we went out for a bit of last-minute provisioning. We found everything
we wanted except the beer that our guests enjoy. Because it was a national
holiday, Martyrs' Day, no alcoholic beverages could be sold anywhere in the
Republic de Panamá.

January 1-2, 2007

2007-03-18T18:51:00.000-07:00

January 1-2: Our New Year's Day was the most unusual we'd ever had. Friends
Barbara and John had asked for and obtained January 1 as the date to take
their Island Packet 42, Songline, through the Panamá Canal. When they told
us they had only three of the four line handlers required, we happily
volunteered that Bob would make up the fourth member and I'd be the duty
photographer and galley helper. This opportunity excited us because we've
come to enjoy Barbara's and John's company so much, but also because we
wanted to experience a transit before taking Carricklee through in ten days.
David and Liz, of the Island Packet 37 Isla Encanto (the other two line
handlers in addition to Barbara and Bob) and we were aboard Songline at
0600, waiting for the adviser. He came aboard at 0830, and then John
motored north through the canal to the entrance into the first set of locks,
Miraflores.

Everything about this practice transit for us went smoothly. John and
Barbara had gotten the very best of positions in the locks, tied center
chamber behind two tugboats. The beauty of this position is that Songline
was not tied alongside another boat and therefore had much less risk of
damage. The disadvantage was that all four line handlers were kept busy.
They all had to catch a long line with a monkey's fist (for non-sailors, a
tightly knotted ball of line about the size of a billiard ball, and about as
hard) in each lock, pull that line in and let it out as needed to keep the
boat centered in the chamber, and quickly reel in the boat's lines at the
termination of each lock.

They all returned to the shade of the cockpit to sit down and eat and drink
between locks. But it was a long day for them.

Despite the success of getting through Miraflores Locks and then those at
Pedro Miguel without flaw, our start had been delayed enough that Songline
couldn't cross the 28-mile Lago Gatún in time to go through the last set of
locks, those on the Caribbean, before dark. John and Barbara were
disappointed, and a tad uneasy. If the delay was deemed the fault of the
boat's captain, the charge for a night in Gatún would be $380, a sum they
had had to deposit in advance. The advisor, who stayed aboard throughout
the day but who would be picked up by a Canal service boat in the lake,
assured them they would not be charged. But one can ever be quite sure how
such arrangements will work out down here.

Though no one was happy that John and Barbara were somewhat nervous, we all
took advantage of this opportunity to spend a night on the lake. Our
advisor, before he left us, told us, with a wink, that we were not allowed
to swim in the lake. Then he added, "The patrol boat passes through at
about 2100 and not again until 0700".

By the time we had Songline tied to the buoy and the advisor was away on the
service boat, it was dark. Soon we saw the lights of the patrol boat
passing, earlier than expected, some distance away, and we were into our
swimsuits and into the cooling freshwater lake. We took with us bars of
soap and bathed in one of the most commercially significant bathtubs in the
world.

After a late dinner-a simple, tasty spaghetti, all we needed after a large
lunch of home-baked turkey, freshly baked rolls, baked stuffing, cranberry
relish, and salad, and snacks and drinks available throughout the day-we
went more or less straight to bed.

We had rain showers off and on during the night, each one accompanied by
howler monkeys roaring in the tree near the boat. At first light, the
toucans and the parrots added their squawks to the howls. It was a
delightful way to awaken.

By mid afternoon that day Songline had completed transiting the last leg
and tied up at the Panama Canal Yacht Club, where we showered, put on our
traveling clothes, and caught the train around the lake and over the hill to
the city of Panamá.

Ecuador to Panamá

2007-01-19T13:14:00.000-08:00

Make video montages at onetruemedia.com

January 12, 2007

2007-01-17T19:53:00.000-08:00

We had an entirely successful transit on my birthday. But the excitement was high. On the locking up from the Pacific, we were side-tied to a megayacht, so there was much scurrying around each time (three) we tied up and untied. As you can imagine, the crew on the yacht was most concerned about the multi-million vessel they were in charge of. The owner and family looked on with what we thought were expressions of disdain. But all went well, and neither the multi-mil. nor the multi-thou. were damaged. As we raced across Gatun Lake, our poor old gal pushing 7.5-8 knots, we were all sure we'd have to spend the night in the lake. We had been delayed at Miraflores an hour and a half, so we hadn't entered the first lock until 1200. But fortune shone on us. As we approached the Gatun Locks, our advisor, Orlando, who was in every way excellent, could see the ship that was supposed to be the last to be locked down for the day still parked outside the locks. He called the lockmaster and was told the ship was delayed with mechanical problems and we could go in with this ship if we could make it to the first lock by 1730. We had about 5 miles to go in the winding channel, 25-28-knot winds, and it was 1645. Nevertheless, we arrived at 1720, pulled around in front of the ship, and were centered-tied through all three locks, with the ship behind us.

We came into Colon in the dark, but had called our agent for the passage, Enrique, and he had talked with the harbormaster at Panama Canal Yacht Club to arrange for a slip for us for the night. So we were in safely on the dock at PCYC at 1930. I had had probably the most exciting birthday of my life. Maybe I'll do it again at 80!

We're off within the hour for a five-day cruise up the Chagres River, the source of the water for Gatun Lake, the source of water for the canal. Thom and Allen will be with us until next Wednesday, when they must return to Panama City and then on to San Francisco. We'll not have any Internet service, since our satphone is still not working, until we return to Colon on the 16th.

Greetings from Bob and Carol 11-23 to 12-23, 2006

2007-01-17T19:29:00.000-08:00

SEASON’S GREETINGS, dear friends and family . . . . and all the latest news from Carricklee in Panamá, November 23 to December 23, 2006

Our holiday season began with Thanksgiving and a wonderful afternoon and evening spent with new friends who live here in the Canal Zone of Panamá. The weekend before, we had met a norteamericana, Kerry, and her 15-year-old son, Spencer, while we were all standing in line for the movie All the King’s Men. We soon discovered she and we have much in common: She is from Walnut Creek, CA, with more recent homes in Port Townsend, WA, and Costa Rica. A junior sailor of Cal 20s in San Francisco, she shares with us many of the same fond memories of sailing in the Bay.

Over a fabulous feast of turkey and all the trimmings with Kerry, Spencer, and his father, Keith (who lives next door but is no longer married to Kerry), we exchanged our stories.

The next few days were spent dieting, and getting the boat prepared for a cruise with our guests, Mary Lou and Frank Nugent, who arrived the following Monday evening.

After a couple of days of provisioning and relaxing on the boat while the Nugents acclimated to the heat and humidity of Panamá, and were treated to a few torrential rains with impressive thunder and lightning, we set out on an eleven-day cruise.

We had set our sights for the nearby island of Taboga for our first stop, but we thought the residual swells from the south winds of the night before would make for an unpleasant night for our friends (though I reckoned they’d proved their mettle, and their sea legs, after two nights aboard a boat moored in Balboa). So we set a course instead for Pacheco, the northernmost island of the Archipiélago de las Perlas.

We dropped anchor in sparkling turquoise water offshore of spectacular rock formations, but knew we would stay for lunch only because of the lack of protection if the south came up again. After a respite of a couple of hours, we sailed by Isla Contadora and anchored behind the next island to the south, Chapera, where, the last time we had anchored here, the Survivors crew was filming. This time we were alone both in the anchorage and on the long beach, where we walked below the mosaic of colorful rock walls interspersed with stands of tropical plants. Back aboard Carricklee, we commenced our daily ritual for the cruise: we jumped into the clear, cool water for a cooling swim before our solar showers on deck, to be followed by cocktail hour—invariably, Bob’s renowned margaritas—and dinner.

After some discussion about where to head the next day, the Nugents decided to extend their planned two-week visit for another week so we’d have time to add a visit to to the Darién to our already full itinerary. Early the next morning we set sail for Golfo de San Miguel and the sweet anchorage behind Punta Garachiné. Along the way we had a short but glorious sail, and dolphins twice thrilled us with their acrobatics alongside the hull and beneath the bow. The coup de grace was Frank’s snagging of a 50-inch dorado, and the dorado filets that followed for dinner.

Next we were off to La Palma. As we turned into Boca Chica, shown on our chart as having deep water, four fishermen in a panga slowed down a distance off our starboard beam and waved frantically to us, all the while shouting, “Bajo! Bajo!” We immediately shifted into reverse to follow them over the deeper portion of the bar at the mouth of the river. Once past this “Little Mouth,” we had plenty of water and motored to the anchorage at the far end of the town.

Young boys paddling narrow dug-out canoes rapidly appeared alongside us. After we gave the first two boys oranges, other youngsters soon followed, reducing our large bag of oranges so drastically we had to close shop. Then the women selling canastas (woven baskets) began to arrive. In order to have a little privacy for lunch, we finally told them we would come ashore later and look at all their canastas.

Later, after going ashore to view and purchase a few of the canastas and a couple of small vases carved out of tagua, the popular “vegetable ivory” we had seen first in Ecuador, we went around by sport boat to the center of town. La Palma is one of the least attractive villages we’ve seen lately—noisy, dirty, smelly, with little of interest. Of course the people were as kind and friendly as Latin Americans are everywhere we’ve been. Nevertheless, we decided to leave the unappealing harbor behind and seek a more placid anchorage for the night.

Back to Boca Chica we went, this time knowing exactly how to avoid the low water at the entrance, and motored on to Río Lagarto, where the only sounds were those of the birds and the only debris in the water was the leaves. (Later, when the tide ebbed trunks and branches of palm trees swept downstream overshadowed those few leaves.) The swift outgoing tide in this small bay made our afternoon swim a bit more challenging than usual: we all held onto a line tied to the boat so we wouldn’t end up back in the Perlas.We had wanted to go birding up one of the small inlets, either later that day or early the next morning, but as the tide ebbed, we could see the now solid bars of sand in the sport boat could be crossed only at high tide, near midnight that night or noon the next day. We would content ourselves with the little blue herons and great American egrets pecking at the exposed mud flats, the green parrots and white ibises flying over the tops of the mangroves, and the distant howler monkeys, unseen but distinctly heard.

Refreshed by a splendid night’s sleep and a lazy morning, including listening to the Pan-Pacific net, with everyone in the Perlas reporting heavy rains, erratic and strong winds, and lightning perilously close, we got under way at 1000 hours for the short run back to Garachiné. Here, our afternoon swim again required a safety line. After the cooling swim, again including a safety line, and a solar shower, we motored in Abby slowly along the shore, spotting male and female vermillion flycatchers, collared bacards, and a common black hawk. In a cove near Punta Garachiné, we went ashore and walked through the jungle across the narrow tip to the beach on the Pacific side of the point.

The beach there is beautiful, the sand interrupted by black lava ledges and flows. But the most striking sight was the hermit crab procession from the water toward the jungle. Many of these crabs inhabited some of the loveliest shells we’ve ever seen, so lovely we almost yielded to the temptation to collect them. But we left them all to their tenants, allowing the crabs needed them more than we.

In alternate sunshine and light rain showers, we had an easy passage the next day down to Bahía Piñas. Ashore to confirm the arrangements for our visit the following day to two Emberá villages, we also tried to make reservations for dinner at the Tropic Star Lodge to celebrate Bob’s birthday. But the lodge was full. So we had our usual quiet dinner in the cockpit of Carricklee—not really a bad alternative.

At 1300 hours the next day, a local Emberá man, Johnny, collected us in his panga to take us across the bar of the Río Jaqué near high tide. No more than three hours later, we would have to exit the river. The coastline between Piñas and the river is spectacular, with small green islands, rocky islets, and sea spires and stacks set against the verdant green jungle peaks of the Daríen. On the return trip the tide was low enough so that Johnny drove the panga through an arch rock and a narrow pass of rapids, adding a thrill to the aesthetics.

At Jaqué, Johnny’s village, our first stop was the outpost of the local militia. After Johnny had spoken with the heavily armed soldiers and shown them our passports, I took a couple of pictures of the guard shack and soldiers. Immediately, one of the soldiers motioned me over and informed me, albeit with a pleasant smile, that no picture-taking was allowed. Fortunately, I was using a digital camera and could show him the images as I erased them. Otherwise, I’m sure he would have confiscated a whole roll of film. (This village only 15 miles from the Colombia border, is so carefully controlled that Ursula, one of the managers of the Tropic Star Lodge, had had to call ahead to get permission from the militia for our visit.)But the highlight of the day was our next stop farther up the river at the village of Biroquerá, where once again Ursula had called and Johnny checked us in. You can bet I kept my camera carefully pointed in any direction but that of the soldiers.

The children of the village, as well as a few adults, had lined the high banks above the ramp when we arrived. As soon as we were ashore, the dozens of children clustered around us, wanting to see the images of themselves on our digital cameras. (Clearly, we weren’t the first outsiders to arrive with digital cameras.) The entire group of about fifty children, from two- to three-year-olds to perhaps ten-or twelve-year-olds, followed us closely as the jefe showed us the school and then took us to a small hut to view the local crafts: woven baskets and plates, tagua and wood carvings. Many of these Emberá works were exquisite, and the Nugents and we both went away with a bagful each.

The next morning, our Darién adventure at an end for this time, we sailed north, back to the Archipiélago de las Perlas, with Frank catching a lunch-sized dorado for our midday repast. We anchored behind Punta Cocos, at the southern tip of the southernmost and largest of the islands, Del Rey.

Our friends Jim and Leslie, of the sailboat Trilogy, port of call Sisters, Oregon, were already anchored, having agreed with us by radio earlier that we would meet up there. They joined us for our cocktail hour, or two or three.

Ashore the next morning, we hiked across the Punta Cocos, past the now deserted Panamanian navy facility, along the runway of a small airport, the recent wheel tracks suggesting it is still in use, and through the tall grass to the cliffs above the Pacific shore. But we find no path down the steep cliffs to the water for a walk on the beach and a swim. Never mind. We had miles and miles of uninterrupted white sand beach around our anchorage and clean water for swimming.

The following day we along with Trilogy went the short distance across to another rich anchorage on Del Rey, Cacique, this one not only featuring the same luscious combination of sparkling water and white sand beach nestled beneath luxuriant jungle-covered hills but also a river for birding. At dinner aboard Trilogy that night we agreed on an 0600 departure for the sport boat ride up the river.

A heavy rain the next morning delayed our river trip slightly, but we nevertheless saw whimbrels, scarlet macaws, and yellow-headed caracaras aplenty. But our primarily pleasure was the quiet drift back down the 3-mile Río Cacique.

Then we were off for my favorite anchorage in the Perlas, Bayoneta. Tucked tightly between Isla Bayoneta and Isla La Vivienda and accessed by a winding, and carefully navigated, route around several reefs, this secluded little anchorage has calm water, secure holding, and a picturesque combination of narrow passes between black lava reefs and verdant hills. The nearby white sand beach is on La Vivienda, but our favorite beach to visit is the one on the northeast point of Bayoneta, popularly called “Pink Beach.”

In most years, thousands of scallop shells, the bulk of them tinted in shades of cranberry, mauve, and pinks, give the beach a pink glow visible from a mile or more away. We couldn’t wait to show Frank and Mary Lou this unique sight. But the heaps of scallop shells we’d seen in past years were greatly diminished this year so that we couldn’t detect the pinkness of the beach until we were within a few hundred yards of shore. Another change from previous years was far more disquieting. Having never landed on this beach late in the afternoon before, we’d had no notion it was a haven for the no-see-ums that typically appear around 1600 hours. After about 15 minutes, we were all scampering for the water and then into the sportboat for an urgent escape from these vicious little gnats. Fortunately, we left them all behind and relished our usual quiet afternoon and evening in Bayoneta.

The final destination of our cruise was Contadora, not our favorite anchorage—no more than a roadstead busy with tour boats and jet skis and reverberating with music from the shore. But it is the convenient and most proximate Perlas anchorage for the return to Balboa. It also has several fine reefs for snorkeling. Soon after getting the anchor down, we went in Abby to the nearest one, the reef at Punta Verde, where we all saw a variety of tropical fish. But Frank had the prize sighting of the day, a rare frogfish, just as we were climbing into the sportboat in the now torrential rain.

We could say we were soaked by the rain that flooded the sportboat, keeping us busy sopping up the extra water. But of course we were already soaked, and indeed appreciated the fresh water rinse, though our visibility was limited to about 10 feet.

We had rented a mooring in Balboa for the month so had a spot waiting for us the next day in this now full yacht club, though not the mooring we’d been on before. This one, near the fuel dock, was slightly less rolly but considerably more noisy, with the lanchas that transport the sailors back and forth to shore chugging nearby night and day and the club music blaring far into the night. But in a couple of days the manager asked us to move to another mooring because the permanent tenant of this one would be returning. So now we have no sounds of music but considerably more roll as the ships hurdle toward and from the Canal. We haven’t hit upon the win-win situation in the Balboa YC moorage yet.

For the last week of Mary Lou and Frank’s visit, we rented a car for a bit of land cruising. Our first stop, after the necessary provisioning, was at the Miraflores Locks, where we were in time to see a cruise ship and a giant container ship (called by the guide at the locks a “Panamax,” that is to say, the maximum size that will fit in the locks of the Panama Canal) in the locks. These two, arriving from the Caribbean, were being locked down to the level of the Pacific. Afterwards, we all enjoyed another hour or so in the new museum that wasn’t yet open when we were last at Miraflores.

The next day we drove to Colón, where we had lunch at the new mall on the outskirts of town. Then we went on to Portobelo to visit the remains of the 16th- and 17th-century Spanish forts and to shop for molas, the intricate appliquéd rectangles of cotton that are the signature craft of the Islas de San Blas women.

Our grand land cruise began the next day with an early departure for Boquete, in the cool Cordillera Central, 250 miles west of Balboa and but 45 miles from the Costa Rica border. Jim and Leslee, on Trilogy, know Boquete well, owning three lots and having built a spec house there a couple of years ago. They had provided us with names and phone numbers of contacts and recommendations for lodging and restaurants that proved invaluable for our brief three-day visit.

The drive on the Panamericana began pleasantly, with much less traffic at 0730 than we’d anticipated. Once we reached Santiago, roughly the mid-point between Balboa and Boquete, road construction, and then rain, slowed us down. After a quick late lunch at TGI Friday’s in David, we turned north on a winding road into the mountains.

In addition to its refreshing climate and growing norteamericano population, Boquete is also the coffee capital of Panamá. We had all determined we would sample coffee from as many fincas as we could, so our first stop was at Kotowa Coffee Estates. Here we sampled the coffee served inside and a bird’s-eye view of Boquete across and beyond the deep canyon.Fortified for the last leg of the day, we drove through the business district—described by our host for the next two nights as “about a hundred yards long”—and into the hills to Finca Lérida. John Colllins, whose father and mother bought this coffee finca in the 1940s, and his wife, Soroya, returned to Boquete four years ago to take over the operation of the coffee production as well as to expand into the hospitality business.

We had spacious and well-appointed rooms in the new lodge, opened only two months earlier, and traditional Panamanian breakfasts—fresh tropical fruits as well as fresh fruit juice (naranjilla one day and maracuya the next), a savory mix of smoked dried beef, red bell peppers, tomatoes, and onions; a corn tortilla mix rolled and deep-fried, called almojabanos; local white cheese; eggs to order; and the specialty of the house, café de Finca Lérida.With that hearty breakfast under our belts, we met a local bird-watching guide, Chago, for a five-hour hike through the hills and vales of Finca Lérida, our primary goal to see quetzals. That goal we achieved only partially, seeing only one male quetzal, and that seen clearly by only Frank and Bob. But the sightings were plentiful, with the four varieties of hummingbirds a delightful addition to the those we saw daily around the lodge.

Following lunch, John, the proprietor, treated us to a three-hour tour of the processes of coffee production on his finca. Among his goals are to restore to working condition much of the original equipment put in place in the first decades of the 20th century by the original finca owner.The last morning we arose early to try for a better view of the quetzals that often perch on a particular tree near the Collins’s house. Again, we saw dozens of hummingbirds but no quetzals.

After another fabulous breakfast, we checked out of Finca Lérida and took a last drive along the Río Santa Barbara, circling Boquete, before returning to the Panamericana and back to the boat at Balboa, both our sea and land cruises with the Nugents ended for this year.

Following a busy weekend of last minute shopping and organizing their luggage, the Nugents flew out for Sacramento on Monday, ending their vacation, and ours. Now we’ve settled down to boat chores and writing. The autopilot that we’d thought was repaired has come unrepaired, so we have the mechanic coming back on Tuesday to try again. One of the replacement batteries for our sat phone takes and holds a charge, but we haven’t been able to make a connection with Telenor yet.

But here are the successes. We’re giving ourselves romantic Christmas presents—a new and larger Honda generator that can recharge our batteries, a new bimini for the cockpit to replace our 20-year-old one that seems to let in almost as much water from the Panamá deluges as it keeps out, and new upholstery for the sofas and chairs in the dinette and main saloon. Santa Claus is being very good to us this year.

We’re looking forward to a pre-Christmas weekend with friends: dinner tonight with Kerry, Keith, and Spencer and a Christmas Eve dinner and concert with Jim and Leslee. But none of these new friends, as wonderful as they are, can replace holidays with long-time friends and family. We’ll be thinking of you throughout the holiday season and wishing you well for the new year.

November 16-22

2006-11-30T13:31:00.000-08:00

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.

November 15

2006-11-30T13:30:00.000-08:00

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!

November 14

2006-11-30T12:46:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-30T08:56:00.000-08:00

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.

November 8-11

2006-11-30T08:50:00.000-08:00

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.

November 7

2006-11-29T22:29:00.000-08:00

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.

November 6

2006-11-29T22:28:00.002-08:00

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.

November 5

2006-11-29T22:28:00.001-08:00

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.

November 2-4

2006-11-29T22:26:00.000-08:00

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.

November 1

2006-11-29T22:25:00.000-08:00

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.

October 30-31

2006-11-29T22:22:00.000-08:00

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.)

October 28-29

2006-11-29T22:20:00.000-08:00

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.)

October 2-28

2006-11-29T21:55:00.000-08:00

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.

Welcome to the Adventures of Carricklee!

2006-11-29T21:24:00.000-08:00

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