Soaking up the Serenity

Two months bouncing around the San Blas Islands of Panama

Exposed as we are, living on a sailboat at anchor, weather dictates our safety, our comfort, our activities, and often our spirits. Miette's batteries, and maybe ours, are craving a little more sunshine. I normally wake at daybreak, and the first thing my eyes search out is the color of the sky. Is it gray again? Or do I see hints of blue?

We arrived in the San Blas islands of Kuna Yala in November, a month ahead of the normal start of the dry season. The islands are jewels of lush green dotting a bay of the most vibrant blues. They're covered in mangroves and coconut trees, though some a mere sticks - a reminder that Panama might be the lightning capital of the world.

The weather remains grumpy, however, refusing to settle down into the expected pattern of pleasant easterly tradewinds and golden sunshine.

Our first week, we could not leave the boat, even to swim. The sun was out, but winds howled nonstop day and night, whipping up waves, even in the relative protection of our anchorage. It was a crash course in getting our sea legs back since the boat never stopped rocking, but we were so elated to be off a dock that we didn't mind.

When those winds passed, we spent a few weeks island hopping, catching up with friends or waiting for veggie boats. These enterprising locals bring fresh produce, and anything else you request from Panama City at a fee of 20% and are always a welcome sight.

When we'd gone a couple weeks without seeing veggie boats, we made a quick stop in the conjoined island villages of Narganá and Corazon de Jesus, populated exclusively by the Kuna people. We anchored Miette in the mud of a river delta, wanting a little distance from the island since they are ringed with outhouses that make direct deposits into the sea. Plop!

Kuna men, in thin dugout canoes carrying large buckets slowly paddled their way through the murky, trash-strewn water around us, past mangroves and up the river, far enough upstream to fill the containers with fresh water.

These two islands are nontraditional Kuna villages connected by a low cement bridge, at whose foot we landed in search of fresh produce. When we tied off the dinghy, the first thing we saw was a sign stating that sailors are not allowed past 6pm.

As we walked by, a bilingual school broadcast a bingo game, in Spanish, that blared on loudspeakers across the tiny island. Their native language is unlike any I've ever heard, but most Kuna we've met speak passable Spanish.

The walkways through the villages are made of packed white sand of crushed coral. Some young kids played soccer on a basketball court, while others shot marbles in the street. Aside from boats, there are no motorized vehicles here, since you can walk from one end of the island to the other in 10 minutes.

Kuna locals went about their business, with only a passing glance at us. As hot as the day was, Christmas music drifted from an open door.

Searching for food, we find a small cement building that has a fading hand painted "tienda". A store?

A Kuna woman looks at me from a window. In Spanish, I ask if they sell vegetables and fruits. She points to an alleyway around the corner, where we duck through a low door into a dim room lit only by a bare bulb or two.

The Kuna woman stands near a scale, weighing almost everything we pick out from some dirty crates, scribbling the results on a notepad. Once we're ready to pay, she begins to point out other items we might want. She holds out a tray, lifting a cloth cover, revealing little fingers of freshly baked bread. I can't resist, especially at 10 for a dollar.

Before returning to the dinghy, we stop at another tienda that seems to have a variety of dry goods. From the street, we stand at an open window to see what they have. Suddenly, I feel two tiny hands grab my right hand and press them against a soft face. I look down and see it's an adorable little girl about 5 years old, beaming a smile at me. I say "hola!" and she giggles and runs off.

Happy with our bags of produce, since we'd run out a week before, we head to the cays of Coco Bandero. Though we only spent a couple nights, mainly to see old friends, we'd return a couple weeks later to share a bonfire with a few crews that also came from the Pacific.

Our South African friends, Mike and Laura from SV Gilana welcomed us to an anchorage known as "the hot tub" where we anchored in white sand and 7 ft of clear blue water. On a sunny day, the blues are eye-wateringly brilliant but beautiful.

Gilana has 5 transatlantic crossings behind her and 27 years of cruising experience. While those credentials might give others insufferably inflated egos, Mike and Laura are not just profoundly knowledgeable, but some of the most friendly, funny, and approachable sailors we've met. Six months after meeting then in Turtle Cay, I'm still enthralled by their stories.

One day, Mike took us to snorkel some caves. I say they're "secret" caves because they're not marked on a map, and even getting to them requires knowledge of a winding path through shallow reefs. While Shawn and Mike dove down, I stayed at the surface capturing footage with my camera on a long pole I could plunge beneath me.

Although Mike is in his 60s, he's in his element, having been spearfishing since boyhood.

Susan, one of our neighbors, is a solo sailor. She's 82 years old and still very mobile and sharp. She's taken Shawn snorkeling a couple times on her dinghy on days I didn't feel up to it.

For Christmas, those of us anchored in the hot tub shared a potluck dinner aboard a neighboring catamaran, bringing together the crews from Miette, Gilana, Respite, Morgan, and Gris Gris.

Throughout the day, we survey the horizon, eyeballing the clouds and forecasts with suspicion. We soak up the good weather days and take the others in stride.

There were sunny days where Miette's battery banks were fully recharged by 11am. And some blustery nights when the boat hummed with the wind turbine pumping enough juice to balance the draw of the refrigerator and the fan keeping us cool as we sleep.

On calm, windless nights, the no-see-ums attacked us into a painful, itchy misery. The freckle-sized invaders are nearly impossible to see until you feel the needle of their bite. They ignore DEET and other repellants. We've recently learned that rubbing vegetable oil on the screens of our hatches is enough to keep them out. They land and get stuck, and after a few days, we saw hundreds of them on the screen above our bed.

As the weather permits, we've spent a lot of time in the water. Shawn snorkels about twice as much as I do, and often with another sailor for company when I stay behind. It's undoubtedly the best snorkeling we've yet to find. Back aboard, Shawn showers off, dries in the breeze, then pages through the color photos of our book on Caribbean reef fish to learn the names of what she saw, while I copy underwater footage to a hard drive.

On nights with a clear sky and light breeze, we've taken to reclining on the deck near the bow, marveling at the stars, wondering where we'll sail in 2025.

As usual, here are some un-narrated videos we made for your enjoyment.
Happy New Year!