PACIFIC PANAMA…

The ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me“, secret beauty of the Panama’s Pacific Islas.

How the hell could the majesty of the jungle dripped anchorages on the Pacific Ocean side of Panama go so unnoticed? It’s not like it’s off the beaten track. It’s barely a mile from the off ramp to one of the world’s main ocean highways, were all shipping roads lead to the Panama Canal.

First, some geography. Panama has two sides, the Caribbean, and the Pacific. There’s about 400 nautical miles of the Panama Pacific coast, some 300NM above the equator, north of the canal. In December, the wet, and I mean WET, backs right off, but the equatorial jungle life sure doesn’t budge an inch.

Pulling out of Costa Rica’s Golfito at dawn, it’s was a few hours motoring down a becalmed bay before we reached the ocean. As we pull out, a live sheep carrying cruise ship pulls in.  ”Bar, Bar”, I hear the onboard alcoholics bleet.

Clearing customs was, shall we say, informal. In fact, we actually cleared the Golfito’s Costa Rican customs and immigration on a Friday, but didn’t actually get to leave till the next Wednesday. Manyana, Manyana. The immigration office has a glass shopfront counter, feeding directly onto the main street, where we rode or walked past daily, oblivious to the fact that we were hadn’t actually left.

We had stocked the boat with enough fuel and food for Captain Cook’s expedition to the vast unknown. Our first easy destination was just around the corner of a long peninsular called Punta Burica, also marking the Panamanian border, and  a running tide and a good score on the GPS’s speed over ground feedback, laid the best made plans of mice and men to waste, so we steamed and sailed into the night, into the darkness, dumping our unambitious first anchorage plan, instead daring an island entry under radar and GPS alone.

GPS may be fine, but the idiots who feed data into the local digital mapping need to be sacked, as our last two anchorages have, according to the GPS charts, had Ave Maria safely anchored on an island mountain top. Idiots.

23 years back, they barley had digital charts, and GPS was unheard of, but rather Satnav was the go. If you were lucky, one of the Satnav satellites would be in the ‘hood. If not, you were in the shit. Take the time when we had been as sea for 11 days, trying to find some low lying islands called the Maldives.

In the black of night, reassured we were well on track through one of the few safe paths between reef death, and resort heaven, with nothing by way of a hint of landfall for days, we waited for our latest satellite pass, around 1am, and took a deep breath, and headed into the darkness. This was not the time when the next position update could take hours. So sure enough, it took hours.  All night infact. It was only by the grace of Saint Someone the holy fisherman that dawn broke, and we were surrounded by coconut swaying islands.

There’s nothing like some decent moonshine, when approaching a small bay in whole new country.  This hopefully was Panama’s most northern off shore island, Isla Parida. So to make things sporting, the moon exited the scene below the horizon, 30 minutes before land-fall , or land-crash, as potential option 2.

Also making things sporting, were a few more challenging setbacks. Like no stern light, infact no mast head light either. But that was nothing, compared to the steering handicap. A few weeks back Ms Ave Maria had decided to go freestyle, by sheering her rudder shaft. Yoked back together like a fibreglass cast on a broken arm, when the ‘bone’ had been set, Ms Maria had only one way she wanted to go. And that was to the right, or starboard, as ridiculous marine code demands.

Given the imbalances of a 1967 ketch rig atop a keel that blends into a rudder, unlike newer designs, with turn on a dime, dagger rudders, Ms Maria wanted to go east, when we wanted her to go south. Could it be, that the rudder had been reconnected with an inbuilt 15-20 degree twist?

Sure enough, the truth of the miss-set fracture was revealed the next day, in the first anchorage, a stunner, on this first Panamanian Isla called Parida. Whilst there was a one or two houses for the rich and famous in sight, not a soul was to be seen.

Up anchoring in the fresh morn’, we headed to the Crusoe parts of Isla Parida,  where there was but one boat to be seen in a Whitsunday grade selection, a floating men’s lounge style thing called Black Diamond, in 60 powerful feet, and she was alone  in an island complex with more deserted, Swiss-Family-Robinson style beaches, than you could find on an abandoned Survivor set (which was in fact, just ahead).

A gracious morning after tour of the island revealed a bay of Tuamota grade grandeur, sporting a small mast that we could just see between the island gaps on our morning surveillance tour.

After a few attempted anchorage shuffles, we soon ended up tucked into a small bay with a dead calm demeanour, looking at range of beaches within 5minutes reach of my kayak, where my daily yoga classes could be conducted in the land of coconut milk and honey.

Behind us the, over the small island, the faint ocean swells kept the spear fishing grounds sporting. We get our $45/kilo live fish meat delivered daily, at the end of an $80 spear gun. We get special rates. Fish is free. As are our rare arboreal, bromeliad flower arrangements, and with them, the daily coconut juice for the deadly evening vodkas. They say, a coconut a day keeps the urologist away, and when you add healthy stuff like coconut juice, to clean but toxic stuff like vodka, it’s a nil-all-draw the morning after. Hippocrates was right about coconuts being the world’s health gem.  Pity that doctors who swear the Hippocratic oath never understand who they swear by. Vandals.

The WW2 doctors of Kokoda, however, who operated on my dad, in deaths dorm, would have understood Hippocrates, as they were forced to use the coconut juice in the intravenous substitution for plasma.

EDITORIAL NOTE… the writer is also the deck hand, and the main just had to be set, with all its 1967 contraption-ary. Rudely, I was interrupted by a kamakazi tuna, which fought like as though we’d just hooked the massive whale, who coincidentally just stopped by, a moment back. When the whale did a sudden U turn on sight of our sexy looking under body, I was nervous that we were about to be sexually donated 50 kilos of a sperm whales best shot, ah, so to speak. Ms Maria’s below the belt bits were looking particularly sexy this morning, after I blew a tank of air, scrubbing her arse. Needless to say, everything had a happy ending, and the kamikaze tuna underwent a rapid weight reduction programme, and part of it is sitting alongside the freezer plates, whilst the head and spine are on a confused path to Neptune and the crab’s bonanza.

Where was I…I can never finish anythi

Ashore was a mysterious bit of Ma and Pa survivor activity, marked and moored with a ramshackle old, Californian registered, ply trimaran, which looked as seaworthy as box of tissues. Across the bay were 3 palm frond huts. The rest was ours. Over the headland, were three, bamboo and palm frond hideway huts, on their own magnificent beach, surrounded with a patch of manicured lawn, and of the maybe 1000 ‘resort’ settings I have seen in this lifetime, this for me was the best I’ve laid eyes on. It was heaven.

A one night stopover turned into 3 days of spear fishing, reading, yoga, and some Zen and the art of boat maintenance. More on that, ahead, in a separate prelude to a new best seller.  As for Parida>let the photos speak for themselves.

Somewhere in this journey, we are theoretically meant to check in with Panamanian immigration office, up some mosquito infested river somewhere, miles back. But fuck that. The word amongst the yachtistas, as we sailing gringos are known, is that you might just as well wait till grand central station, at Panama City. Boat matters at the canal are the daily grind.

Islas Secas were next. Or Isla’s Thrill Seekers, in my re-interpretation.

Now things were getting ridiculous. I mean, in terms of beautiful anchorages, you’ve gotta be kidding me.

Aside of the regular magnificence of  massive Central American trees, and azure water, and romantic beaches without a single foot print in sight, this anchorage had a thin sand isthmus dividing ocean from anchorage , delivering fresh, down the hatches breezes, ocean views, and perfect calm. What more could you do than just swim ashore, make camp, and chill. The photographic essays that ensued were compulsory.

This anchorage was packed. Tahitian French sailors Andre and Claire were there. And a local. The rest was ours.

Andre and Claire are a story unto themselves. He’s a dentist, she’s and architect.

He’s younger, she’s older, they’re both fit and vigorous, having been sailing around for about 40 years> her, and 20 years> him. They occasionally sail back to Tahiti for work. Claire has done the Panama Canal 5 times.

Their boat is one of those indestructible, French kinda’ unpainted aluminium things, with rudders pointing every which way.

They hunt and fish their way around the world, shooting geese in Canada, rabbits in Mexico, and lobsters in the thrill Seca’s.

Their non nonsense 35 footer is called after a tree>Naoli…as I’m told.

You won’t believe the next part of this story. Once upon a time, Claire was sailing along in her former boat. As you do. A big bad cyclone was not too far away, ripping away at trees and stuff. Clair was asleep. Then, all of a sudden, she was very wet. Why? Well, here’s the bit you won’t believe. A tree, that’s right, a tree, just fell outta the sky, and sank the boat. Splash bang. Can you believe it?

In all my 53 years afloat, and 20,000 miles of sailing, I’ve never heard a story anything like it. So anyway, Claire wanted a tougher next boat, for obvious reasons I suppose, and she called it after a tree.  It’s anchored, as a matter of fact, just nearby us as I write, in Bahia Honda. I can spell the tree’s name > because of binoculars.

Last night’s anchorage was a jungle draped, closed ‘U’ shaped bay, 40m across, just jumping outta the ocean floor. Isla Brincanco was its name, but no-one would have heard of it. It’s part of a pay-to-stay Coiba National Park, far enough away, we had hoped, to avoid the pay-to-stay rangers….and at over US$70 per day, on a grotty yachty budget, we were going to avoid the rent, by staying away from the ranger base. Our plan worked. But we had the fake repair and tool kit ready, to plead safety stopover, if needed be.

Photos of the Ave Maria anchored almost under the overhanging arboreal bromeliads were quite a treat. Fish jumped onto the spear. We drifted around the schooling aquarium fish in a delighted daze. Time to read, cook and practice yoga, whilst pondering the latest insights on consciousness through our daily spiritual literary nutrition, mixed in with some Spanish DIY lessons.

Swimming and diving miles meant the muscles ached, but the mind had slowed. No more flat-screens, no more EMF, no more incessant communication and counter communication. The world outside looked insane.

There was no more shopping, as there were no more shops.

There was no more expenses, as there was nothing we needed to buy, and no where to buy it. Bar one exception. Here in Bahia Honda, a lone outboard dugout sells fruit, and baby, we need lemons.

Lemons you ask? Well, for starters, there’ll be no scurvy on Ave Maria. But more importantly, lemons we used for a biochemical start to the day. We don’t miss the dawns, and at dawn, your body is hard at work in waste management mode. A lemon drink, first thing, fools those parts of the digestive squirt and filter system into thinking they are about to be inundated with acid. So they counter with alkali production. Within 20 minutes, your waste removal, at all levels, is in compete, comfy sign off mode> your Ph is fully chilled, as is your whole demeanour. I recommend it. And I just ordered another 20. Lemons that is.

And again at night. In the evening, or later, try a vodka on the rocks, with lemon alone. It sure as hell beats beer and wine for a clean buzz.

They say you spend the first half of your life trying to kill yourself. Then you spend the second half of your life, trying to live forever. I’m 53.  Go figure where I’m at.

Allow me, please, some comments about fishing. Or more to the point> fishermen.

YOU’RE IDIOTS.

Firstly lures. Lures are designed to catch fishermen, not fish.

Secondly, rods and reals. What a waste of time. Stupid inventions.

Take trolling, today for example. In some well intended attempt to understand where fishermen are at, Ave Maria has a selection of fine rods and reals. But what a waste of time. Trying to land a fish, with silly geared windo things, with brakes and a whole heap of fancy hardware, is madness. I can land a fat fighter, faster, with a $1 dollar spool, with less energy and less angst, than all you Lee Marvin wannabees, with your fancy gear, and plus, I can land a shitload more fish, with a simple two dollar Aussie spoon lure, with single fixed hook, than all the useless catch-a-fishermen lures on earth.

I’m not maybe the best guy to ask, as I’m not a patient fisherman. If  I wanna meditate, I do it in a shevasana pose, not with line across my index finger. If I want dinner, I go down where the fish are, and select my fish from the giant fish tank known as the ocean, and spear the fuca. Pick and Tick. None of this fishing line, lucky dip shit. You don’t see professional fishermen using all the nonsense recreational fishing equipment. Besides, taking on fish on their own turf, underwater, is much more sporting>>>> it’s eat, or be eaten down there.

After the giant harbour bay that was Bahia Honda, there was a famous, seaman’s peril ahead. Its called Punta Mala: “mala” as in malaria, malicious, malady…basically, in Aust-gringo re-translation, it means sick punters.

There is but one small bolt hole anchorage in this, the shitty sea on approach to the Panama Canal. The mix is as follows. More 500,000 tonne shipping traffic than anywhere in the Pacific. Currents strong enough to sweep you 500miles somewhere else, if you break down. Winds from every-which-way but behind ya. Short sharp seas. Add 18 hour sailing shifts,  fuel strangled then dead engines, re-broken rudder shafts, and things got a tad demanding. Watching nervously as Ave Maria slewed semi uncontrollably into the path of some mega tanker, in broad daylight, was only relieved as the bridge deck crew of the tanker hit the hard-a-starboard call.  At night, as container ships come out of the canal in packs,  and we felt like a WW2 hospital ship surrounded by Gerry U-boats. Again, the third fucking mast light blew.  And again, Ave Maria would only turn left, not right.  Has the bridge deck crew of this next block looming monster seen us? Oh for something as simple as ships passing in the night. The radar screen seemed to full of big green botches coming at us from all directions.  But with nota fishing boat in sight, all of sudden, out of nowhere, some blaze of neon lit trawler, so lit up that its captain could not have seen more that 5m outside his non existent night vision, we had no idea what direction, angle or type of ship was seemingly stalking us, as the Panamanian version of navigation lights is some disco light sourced from  the back seat of Habib’s fully sic pimpmobile.  Again, with barley no steerage, the oblivious Panamanian disco trawler was hell bent on a collision course. With us. For fucks sake mate, I was thinking, there’s a whole ocean out there, and you want to stalk and sink us, despite our spotlight beam directly into your fishing disco> but twas just another stoned light beam on the trawlers dance floor.

Anyway, despite tempered discussion about the helmsman’s right to call and emergency, ‘Lee-O’ ( sudden tack), we survived, and crawled into yet another Island anchorage, fully fried, at a around 2 am, for 3 am beers. Ave Maria at least will turn away on one direction at least.

This was the Isla Perlas, some 20 to 30NM outside the Panama Canal. Again, re-translated into Aust-gringo, these islands are more aptly named the, ‘You Little Pearlers”.  For example, here today anchored at the privately owned Isla San Jose, where a small and empty resort sits on a location that makes my last top of the pop resort location look like yesterdays dinner, a white sandy beach made a fine yoga hall this morning, where giant blue and aqua Macau’s flapped around like our cock-or-twos, and much to the delight of all my fruit loop dreams,  the trees were full of Toucans.

I dropped by the neo-empty resort last night, to review the menu, but it just didn’t seem right, to keep a whole laid back resort staff at work, just to feed two yachties. Besides, they had already been busy all day making driftwood reindeers for the incoming Christmas bookings. How ridiculous northern European Christmas decorations seem in Robinson Crusoe’s island condo.

An odd English speaking translator was called to the deck of the resort, looking over a bay full of geological towers to rival any Thai based James bond set, and out wanders a tall handsome, San Franciscan American in a khaki jump suit, with smoke browned  teeth, and Cheech and Chong dope smoker’s laugh. Despite my architectural comments to the assumed owner, it turned out the guy was just a passing yachty who had become the resorts occasional maintenance engineer. He too had sailed here, through Punta Male, some 20 years back, and had not moved on. His tale of punter sickening point, was way worse than ours, he got torn to shreds and sent a month and 500 miles south into Ecuador on the current, only getting back when he eventually found the return ticket current. He reckons the worst part of the ordeal was running out of cigarettes.

His idea of a close call with cruise ship made ours look lightweight…he was that close, that the bow wave of the super ship that hit him, hit him at just the right time to sway his mast away from the 5 storey topsides. Now that, is close.

Last night, reading the cruiser’s guide to the Pacific Panama, the author noted that the wild and jagged rock formations of the Little Pearlers had a nasty way of taking a chunk outta the keel of many a cruising boat. Today, exiting the anchorage at low tide, we put his advise into action, by finding our own nasty mini volcano, and K-Oing it. Ave Maria, from the school of brick shithouse design, will need $10 worth of bog, next time she’s slipped.

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