I'd love to regale you exciting tales of our adventures in exotic places, of deep blue waters and dolphins jumping through rainbowed sprays off our bow, of lush green forests full of tropical birds... but that hasn't been our reality lately. We've been in crowded anchorages off a big city.
One day, winds of 30 knots and higher suddenly began screaming through the anchorage and mooring field we were in. A charter fishing boat dragged anchor and had to be pulled off the breakwater, lucky the hull didn't get bashed open, to become the 3rd boat sunk against those rocks. The two people aboard were barely more than boys, and certainly not owners of this charter boat.
Poor devils, I thought, then went below to log into work. A half hour later, I popped my head out to see if any other boats dragged and what Shawn was doing out in the cockpit. I looked around and realized that we had dragged anchor too - and were about 10-15 minutes away from being smashed into the rocks! Adiós Miette. Shawn had been focused on a task and hadn't noticed we were a couple hundred feet away from where we should have been, and I mistakenly assumed she'd be keeping watch.
Two men on a panga, seeing how perilously close we were to the rocky breakwater, came by to see if we needed help. I waved them off and said we were ok and were going to move to a different spot. They held station for a few minutes until they saw us start the engine and begin moving forward.
Hurriedly, we weighed anchor and left, bashing into ugly waves blown into a fury by the winds, slowly picking our way through the overcrowded anchorage full of derelict boats of all kinds pitching violently against their sketchy, filth-encrusted mooring lines.
I filmed a little bit, but it was such an ugly moment for us, I haven't yet pulled the footage off the camera. Surely, the attention-whoring sailing crews on YouTube would dramatize the hell out of this, drumming up outrageous click-bait titles of the ordeal NEARLY SMASHED AGAINST ROCKS with a racy thumbnail highlighting Shawn’s tanned butt-cheeks in a skimpy bikini, head turned, looking worried. YouTube is full of such shameless crap.
Living at anchor, we’ve got to pay attention to the weather at all times. We escaped, but it was a wake up call not to be complacent. It had not only been a dangerous situation, but an embarrassing one. We know better.
As we slowly picked out way through the anchorage/mooring field known as Las Brisas (“the breezes”), we watched another sailboat come loose from her mooring. A white-haired old man was standing on her deck, helpless, as his boat careened into another boat tied to a mooring. Despite the shrieking wind, the crunch of fiberglass was unmistakable. We weren't out of danger, barely making 1 or 2 knots against the sea, our 27hp diesel at full power, in no position to help or even watch what became of him. (A few days later, we saw his boat was still afloat).
Once away from the anchorage, it got much worse before it got better. The seas were particularly upset near a long breakwater for the cruise ship terminal. Several times the bowsprit, Miette's pointy end, was plunged into a steep oncoming monster wave among angry white-capped peaks 5-6 feet (2m) tall, one right behind another. Right after securing the anchor, Shawn had rushed to close and dog all of our portlights and hatches, otherwise we would have taken bathtubs of seawater into the cabin.
When the sea is upset, even if the waves are only 3 or 4 feet high, every few minutes or so, two waves will stack on top of each other to create a giant wave, and they often come with little warning. Rogue waves, sneaker waves, or sneaky waves.
Once we rounded the islands, the water flattened out, I backed off the engine RPMs, and our heart rates settled down.
We dropped the anchor near the La Playita marina, on the opposite side of the causeway. It was still windy, but protected from waves. La Playita (“the little beach”) was not a comfortable anchorage due to ship wakes, but the anchor held better on the sandy bottom there than in the soft muddy muck of Las Brisas.
Surrounding us were sailboats that had just crossed the Atlantic and passed through the canal, flying flags of faraway lands. The Union Jack of Great Britain, the Red Ensign of the United Kingdom, the flags of Germany, France, Switzerland, Norway, Sweden, a few we couldn’t identify, and one or two boats flying Old Glory, like us.
A couple weeks ago, we were waiting on the last of the expected packages to arrive in Panama, anchored off Isla Taboga, when the high pressure hose on our water-maker burst. “It’s always something!” is a common exclamation among sailboat cruisers. If you live in a house, things are also always breaking, but most such things often get ignored and or forgotten. You can’t do that when your life depends on the integrity of your home, as it does aboard a boat.
There'd been a kink I hadn't seen that blocked the flow, probably caused by heavy items shifting around in that compartment in heavy seas. That meant tracking down parts, and another shipment to Panama to get in motion. Another delay. Like our solar panels and wind generator, the water maker is critical in our ability to cruise remote areas.
We had completed all the tasks we'd set out to do before a Panama canal transit. The lithium upgrade, a new alternator, a shakedown cruise around the Las Perlas islands without getting robbed or assaulted, and completed various boat maintenance tasks. With this new delay, our water maker got a make-over with a new reverse-osmosis membrane and impeller, along with the high pressure hose.
Folks with money to burn can hire an agent to make all the arrangements for a canal transit, but we'd met several crews who recommended we save money and do it ourselves.
Successfully navigating the clunky website of the Panama Canal Authority, I got Miette into their system, had her measurements and documentation approved, and wired the $3,280 toll to their bank. With that done, the next step was calling their scheduling office. I was so excited, having jumped through so many hoops and imagining seeing the last locks open in front of us and sailing into the Caribbean.
I had originally requested a date of February 16th, and hoping for that, Shawn and I spent a few exhausting days riding busses, subways, taxis, and covering many miles on foot around Panama City to buy provisions and other items easier to find while in the big city.
I'd also struggled to find someone to help us hire line-handlers for the canal transit because of the 4 or 5 days of Carnival, and multiple inquiries went unanswered. At what seemed to be the last minute, I finally got a response from someone. I explained that I would let them know the date as soon as I got off the phone with the Canal scheduling office.
The instructions said to call the scheduler after 6pm after paying the toll. I called at 6:01.
"Ok, yes, I see Miette in our system. What date would you like to transit?"
As soon as possible.
"That would be April 5th."
I was stunned, but accepted the date, 7 weeks in the future. It's not like the date is negotiable.
He paused.
"Hmm. I don't see a payment, however. Please verify your payment with accounts receivable tomorrow and call us back to reserve that date."
Our status showed PAID on the website, I said.
“It's not in my system. Maybe it's the holiday.”
Excitement turned to disappointment and frustration.
The accounts receivable person on the phone the next morning said the banks have been closed for the 5 day holiday, but it should show up today. They have an intermediary bank in New York and a bank in Panama.
Even though I followed their instructions, she said it was possible my funds went to the New York bank, and if so, she'll have to ask them to refund my money, and have me send it to the Panama bank. She'd let me know that day.
My bank in the US says they can only do international wire transfers if I go to a branch in person, but Portland Oregon is a long, long way from here. I'll have to beg for an exception or find a different method. It's possible to pay in cash, but ATMs here are limited to $250/day with a $6 fee.
That whole day passed without hearing from her.
Meanwhile, I contacted the marina in San Carlos where we did the lithium upgrade, to schedule a haul-out so we could replace Miette's antifouling paint, and repair the nick in the keel where we bumped against an underwater boulder. I didn't hear from them, either.
I contacted a service that does boat work in San Carlos, and they are booked solid, saying that even if they could get to us, it would cost around $3,000. We may end up having to do it ourselves, but will have to go buy respirators, a sander, stripper, primer, and the antifouling paint which runs about $300 per gallon. It will be back-breaking work and could take several days or more. We'll also have to find a nearby hotel since we can't stay aboard in this boat yard like we did in Mexico.
I've also been struggling with organizational chaos and deadlines where I am doing remote work. The executive I reported to was unexpectedly terminated in the middle of many big projects in motion. While I had been in my happy-place, doing 5-10 hours a week of writing code and wrangling data, I suddenly had to make decisions, attend meetings to explain complex systems to non-technical people, and drive strategic and architectural conversations that would normally have been her responsibility (roles which had been mine when I still worked full-time). I prefer being a code-monkey.
The work is in a mixed environment where two companies who were once competitors are now uneasy partners acquired by the same parent company, forced to play nice. Everything is a grey area and harder than it should be, with resistance to change from all directions.
Meanwhile, Shawn was trying to get a boat liability insurance policy for the Caribbean.
She finally had a highly recommended agent respond to a request for a quote and mistakenly thought it was a good idea to tell them we recently installed lithium batteries. I wish I had paid attention to what she was doing because her remark instantly nuked our chances of getting a policy. Underwriters are wary of lithium - they said they'd insure us if it was done by a US-based certified marine electrician and only if the batteries were from a short list of brands.
She didn't know any better, but that huge mistake just piled onto my frustrations.
We'd been anchored for weeks in Panama City, and were downwind not only of all the air pollution of a large urban area, but the city trash dump caught fire twice and smothered the whole city (and a swath of the Gulf) in toxic fumes. The anchorages are downwind of the city.
I'd been suffering from painful headaches, not sleeping well, and we were both physically exhausted from days of carrying heavy loads on our backs across town and back to the anchorage in the blazing heat.
The ships going into and out of the canal passed close by us 24 hours a day. Fortunately, none of them are at full speed. Along with the massive cargo freighters, there is a much traffic from the fast pilot boats that attend them, the hourly ferries to Isla Taboga during the day, and the clueless assholes who drive their luxury motor yachts at full speed through the tight anchorage. We'd be fine one minute, then violently shaken and rocked by their wakes the next, day or night. Wakes don’t travel fast, but they travel far, so often we don’t see the culprit - not that it matters.
In addition to that rolling with trying to work on a small laptop with my already head aching, it was difficult to get restful sleep. It was 2am when I wrote this.
Hoping that we don't lose our place for the April transit, we decided leaving Panama City for a while, heading towards better air and water.
With how everything's presently going, I don't want to state any plans during our wait because I feel so beat down, like something will get in the way if I say an optimistic word. Hopefully we can get the hull repair and paint done quickly, then have time to roam, but we’re over Panama City, and don’t intend to do more here than re-provision and pick up any shipments.
Seven weeks of waiting isn't the end of the world. As our friend Mike from SV Whirlwind often says, "it's hard living in paradise!"
We'll make the best of it, as we always do, and remind ourselves of the sage advice: keep your chin up.
I crafted this short video to share the raw sights and sounds of Panama City on a day we went shopping for groceries in Cinco de Mayo, and picking up packages in Casco Antiguo, districts within the city.