Back in 2022, we hauled out Miette in Mexico for new antifouling paint. I’d hired a couple locals to do the work.
I was not satisfied with the quality of the work, but because we were sweltering in the August heat, we just wanted to get Miette back in the water and continue cruising. I figured the paint-job would last at least a couple years - and it did.
Fast forward to 6 weeks ago, early 2024. We’d paid for our Panama Canal transit, but the scheduler gave us a 7 week wait. That would be more than enough time to haul the boat out of the water.
3 gallons of barrier-coat/primer, and 3 gallons of antifouling paint: $1,500 USD.
I’d still been unable to find someone who could take on the work of removing the old paint and primer, and we’d resigned ourselves to doing it. We found a small apartment nearby for $35/night that we could rent, since the marina would not allow us to stay aboard the boat while she was on land.
Getting the boat out of the water was a lot more difficult this time. With 15-20 mph winds behind us, and a tidal range of nearly 20 ft., and the availability of the marina staff, it took almost a week of waiting for all of that to line up. The afternoon of our haul-out, the winds were still high, and pushing us towards the rocky breakwater, but with three marina workers, including one of them in the water, Miette was safely loaded onto the hydraulic trailer.
Two days into the work, we realized we were in over our heads, literally. This was intense physical labor, hours spent reaching up to sand the old paint and primer off. My screaming shoulders, holding up a belt sander, felt like seizing up.
A well-dressed Panamanian, introducing himself as Dámaso, walked up at the end of the second day, curious what we were doing, and why we were using a sander. I explained that I had a short time frame to get the hull repainted, but had been unable to find laborers. One team was fully booked, another guy was a no-show due to car trouble.
“I can have two guys out here tomorrow at 8am, and be finished by next week,” he said. He pointed at 4 men working on one boat, then at another few men working on another. “Those are all my men.”
We hammered out some details, making sure they’d also repair the small bit of hull damage from hitting an underwater rock, and 5 minutes later, shook hands on the deal. I gave him some initial cash, ostensibly for supplies, but really more of a sign of good faith.
I arrived at the boat at 8am the next day, and two men were already well into the work.
Dámaso strolled by later to check on progress. I asked if Shawn and I needed to be around while the work was complete, since this might also be a good time for us to leave Panama for a few days to renew our visas. He assured me it would be fine, he’d be supervising the workers, and the work would be complete when we returned. And it was.
A few days later, Shawn and I boarded an Avianca flight to Bogotá, Colombia - a short hop from Panama City. I contacted my friend Salima who lives there to let her know we’d be coming, in hopes we could meet up for meal. I’d spent a couple weeks traveling around Colombia with Salima 12 years earlier, introduced by a friend in common back in Portland.
Salima was delighted we were coming and began making plans. She and her mother picked us up from our rented apartment in La Candelaria, the old-town area of Bogotá. We drove out of town into higher and higher elevations (Bogotá is already 8,600 ft. above sea level).
We picked up a man named Nivardo on the outskirts of Bogotá, squeezing into the car with us, and directing us up dirt roads out of down. Reaching a point in the road the car could no longer travel, we got out and walked up to a small farm where Nivardo lives.
From there, he led us up, up, and up. We walked through high Andean forests that gradually gave way to the páramo, a biome of high-altitude tundra in the tropics, far above the timberline. This páramo in Sumapaz is the largest in the world, and is of massive hydrological importance to the country. The dominant plant there, called frailejones (big monks), efficiently capture water from the clouds that move across the landscape, and drop it through their tube-like interiors into the soil in such vast quantities that it forms lagoons, rivers, and underground deposits.
Our hike reached a viewpoint at 3,800m (12,467 ft) above sea level. It wasn’t just cloudy - we were in the clouds. Here’s a very short video:
Sadly, I didn’t take too many photos or videos, since I’d begun suffering from altitude sickness. For me, it was not just a shortness of breath, but a debilitating and nauseating headache. Seeing that Salima’s 66 year-old mother was soldiering along, I kept my complaints to myself and did the same. After a few hours, my headache was manageable.
The next day, Salima signed us up for a 3 hour walking tour of La Candelaria, and another 3 hour bicycle tour of the Bogotá city center. We had just enough time between the tours to grab a quick bite to eat and take a selfie.
Along the way, I kept seeing lots of great graffiti, and learned there was a walking graffiti tour, which we did the following day. It was OK, but once we felt comfortable enough with this part of town, I found it much more exciting to go hunt for graffiti on our own, off the beaten path and away from tourist areas. Graffiti is legal as long as it’s not done without permission on private property, and it’s legitimized as a form of art. The best of it draws attention to important social issues, from classism against the indigenous people of the Americas, all the way to crisis in Gaza.
To some extent, graffiti is even encouraged - it certainly gives a tremendous amount of colorful interest to an otherwise drab urban sprawl.
Our whirlwind trip to Colombia wound to a close and we returned to the boat.
The work we’d asked for was completed, and we tackled the last bit - painting over the old boot-stripe with primer and antifouling (it hadn’t occurred to me to ask Dámaso’s guys to do it).
We’d cleaned and lubricated the propeller, and applied a special antifouling coat for propellors, and Miette was ready to splash.
The morning after we were back afloat, we said goodbye to our friends around the marina, and set sail for Isla Otoque, thrilled to have the boat yard work behind us, and the Panama canal ahead.
If you’ve never seen a sailboat hauled out of the water and placed on stands, our video will give you an idea of what the process is like:
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