In the last post, I described troubles with installing the alternator (a small generator attached to an engine that creates electricity). We rented a car to drive to Panama City, about an hour and a half east of us. There, we found an electro-mechanical specialist who stopped what he was doing, tested my alternator, installed my spare rectifier (which turns the AC current to DC), and re-tested it all.
For the better part of two weeks, Miette’s cabin was littered with tools and parts while I built the lithium batteries. This involved many questions and photos sent through WhatsApp to our electrician friends at First Rate Marine who’d designed our upgrade. They were terrific - patient and prompt with answers. ChatGPT was also indispensable for answering a hundred questions, and in clearly explaining concepts I was struggling to understand.
There were times throughout this build where I felt like I should have just hired an electrician, or bought off-the-shelf lithium batteries (which are 5 times more expensive than building them yourself). The learning curve was very steep, and with the extra pressure of handling components that can easily kill you, maim you, or burn through the hull.
The end result, aside from 560 Amp-hours of lithium power (about 5 times more than we had before), is a new-found comfort with tackling electrical projects that were formerly too daunting.
Shawn was key to the success of the entire project. She keeps all of Miette’s parts and tools organized, and while I was sweating with my body contorted uncomfortably to reach into difficult compartments, Shawn was always standing by, ready to put whatever tool or part I needed into my outstretched hand. Some days we easily put in 8-10 hours of work, and at the end of each day, she packed away the tools so we could have a somewhat normal living space for the evening.
For her hard work and patience, I treated her to a few days up in the mountains in El Valle, about 45 minutes away and 2,000 ft (600m) above sea level. We’d done a day-trip there once before, where we hiked up to India Dormida (sleeping Indian). On that trip, we stumbled across the town’s Christmas festival and stopped to watch for a little bit. We stood in the back of the crowd and after I looked across the scene, I whispered to Shawn “I feel so tall!” I’m only 5’9” but could easily see over everybody’s head.
For this trip, I rented a small cabin off a gravel mountain road. There is not another house in sight, and only the occasional passing of a vehicle. It was just what we needed to recharge ourselves in the cooler mountain climate after weeks of sweaty boat projects.
We hiked several hours up a steep jungle trail only to find at the very end that the viewpoint was temporarily closed.
The little town of El Valle has a few thousand residents, and hosts many weekenders who drive in on the weekends from Panama City. We went on a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, so there weren’t too many tourists ambling about. El Valle is a great place for birding, and because of the elevation, a nice reprieve from tropical heat, with the temperatures staying around 70°F (21°C).
Before leaving El Valle, we stopped at a butterfly haven, and saw how the butterflies are grown from eggs to caterpillars to larvae and then to winged beauties.
With the new alternator and the new lithium bank installed, we were itching to go, but still waiting on some spare parts I’d ordered weeks before. Shipping anything to Panama is a headache, but at least it’s possible. The courier services are lazy and slow, and I had to consistently be on top of package tracking, contacting them periodically to make sure they kept moving the packages along their route.
One night, around 4am, I was awakened by the sound of someone knocking on the hull. I leapt out of bed and opened the companionway.
“I’m sorry, do you speak Spanish?” asked an older white woman.
I said that I do.
“I think my husband is having a heart attack, can you call an ambulance?”
As I called the ambulance and explained the situation, I walked over to their boat in my underwear. He was conscious, but clammy and in pain, laying down on his settee. In Spanish, I answered what questions I could, then talked to the dispatcher to make sure they knew where to go.
At one point in the conversation, the dispatcher asked if the patient was a foreigner. I said yes. She noted it. Dumbly, I said “I don’t know the patient, but I’m a foreigner, too.” She said, “Oh, I know.”
In the meantime, I asked Shawn and another sailor who was standing there, to track down a security guard, so the guard could contact the front-gate and admit the ambulance. We have a pair of handheld VHF radios, so I took one and gave Shawn the other, so we could stay in touch.
The paramedics showed up, and thankfully one of them spoke perfect, un-accented English. They carried away the patient and took him and his wife to a nearby hospital. The patient ended up being ok, coming back a few hours later. He’d had some kind of arterial spasm, but no heart-attack. A week later, Shawn and I went birding with the couple.
The next weeks passed calmly.
Although we don’t normally spend much time in marinas, they have benefits. Being able to simply walk off the boat to go for a stroll is a nice luxury.
We also befriended other sailing crews that were passing through. We spent New Year’s eve with the Swedish crew Mike and Annika of SV Matilda, a beautiful Najad 460, and the American crew Dave and Mary of Yo-D-Yo, who we’d briefly met in Barre de Navidad, Mexico. We had long walks with world sailors Gordon and Louise of Coho, preparing to sail home to New Zealand.
There were also stray dogs and cats around the marina that we befriended with treats. Most of them kept their distance, but if we put a treat on the ground and slowly backed away, they’d eat it (and then expect more the next time we passed by).
Every day, we’d spot the dogs in different places, wondering where they’d journeyed that day. We’d spot them at the beach, in the boat yard, and sometimes on the dirt road to San Carlos.
The cats stayed around the marina, and had very clear social groups.
In this photo, we saw the rare occasion of the tabbies and the calico getting close without an altercation. The orange tabby is a ringleader who bullies the calico into isolation. We called him Orangey. His buddy there is Kitler, due to the short mustache. The calico I named Ditchy, because he’d always pop up out of a ditch to strut alongside us as we walked the breakwater, begging to be pet, then darting off a few feet the moment we tried.
Yesterday, we were finally ready to leave the dock, and said our goodbyes. We are looking forward to new adventures in 2024.