Protected: Pirates y Panama, ZEN AND THE FART OF BOAT MAINTENANCE 1



Introduction. Ave Maria Publishing, in partnership with the Salty Sea Dog Spiritual Institute, has released extracts of the soon to be released Zen and the Fart of Boat Maintenance, by internationally acclaimed gonzo writer, Roderick Davis, or, as he is known backwards: Kciredor Sivad .



“… a monumental milestone into the spiritual insights of the sphincter” Hay House.

” astonishing, incredible, you fall asleep on every word”, The New York Times.

“zis fuca putz me outva za job” His Holiness, Rat-Singer the Pope.

” Fuc Tibet, I’m going sailing” …the Never Delay Lama.dsc07072.JPG


My Mon, My Pop, some drunk at the bar, and any idiot who bothers to read this shit.

To my editor, I need one badly. Anyone.dsc06990.JPG


Never start a novel with not a clue where to begin. Even worse, never start a novel with no idea where it’s then going to go. But being that these two principles are infact the basis upon which all boating experience is based > let the story weigh anchor. (Why you always have to weigh anchors, I’ll never know, everyone knows they are bloody heavy).dsc07000.JPG

Clever writers can sometimes hook their intellectually blessed readers, by proffering a tricky introductory hypothesis that needs testing. Something like, can one find enlightenment, through mucking around on boats? There we go. There’s a deep one. Or maybe, did Jesus actually have a girlfriend who was a shit hot sail trimmer? Did Buddha infact instruct us to bow in the act of humble meditation, or did he simply want us to know the difference between a stern, and a bow?dsc07008.JPG

I suppose, after some 53 years of tooling around the world in boats, I could summarise my basic, emotive and unphilosophical position on boat maintenance. Firstly, some if not all boat maintenance is a pain in the arse, but unless you do it, you’ll fuck ya boat, sink, and die. Secondly, um, I haven’t got that far yet.dsc07010.JPG

There are two basic ways to maintain a boat> one is to $cough up, and have some other guy do it. The other is DIY. Both have their draw backs.dsc06961.JPG

For example, let’s take the cough up method. Off we sail, on the nice, newly fitted 50 foot Beneteau, and its soon all swaying coconuts and tropical sunsets. Then something serious happens. The diesel dies. Zen and The Art of Boat Maintenance predicts that the most common reason why most diesel engines stop, is because they’re outta fuel. Indeed, this is an insightful treatise. dsc06974.JPGTo the guy who has never had to get all greasy in his engine room before, because he was so busy in the office writing cheques, well, he now has a big problem> how do you bleed a diesel engine, its filters, lines and injectors…in rolling sea, with a nervous and nagging wife, when the only boat tool he has mastered, is his credit card? Jesus died on the cross, that we would find salvation from Visa Card.

Then there is the do it ya’self method. This is where you can find enlightenment> at the end of a hammer, after flattening ya’ thumb with a misplaced blow. Samara, in all its trials and trails has manifest itself for our spiritual growth, in the form of the fucking outboard that won’t start. Awareness and growth can only come to those who know in their hearts, that the rotation of your 5th chakra is also a good guide in knowing which direction to spanner a bolt tight.dsc06963.JPG

With the Mayan Calendar ticking away at an ever accelerating rate, and with the end of time, ( not times), looming as fast as 2012, there is maybe little point in doing any boat maintenance at all. Maybe we should just all head to sea, and be. Eckhart Tolle, in his best selling masterpiece, THE POWER OF NOW, reckons that our egoic mind has us all fucked, and that the world as we know it has gone insane, killing and murdering 100,000,000 of us in pursuit of what the mind deems as right, in the last 100 years of peace. 50 million were slaughtered because the mind convinced us that the right kinda society shares its wealth. The idea sounded fine. It was called communism. Tell 50 million dead Chinese and Russians the idea was fine.dsc06959.JPG

There is only one way in which the mind can fuck ya lunch. And ya boat. The mind only works when it can reference the past, or the future. The past brings with it a raft of emotive experiences that can keep the mind ticking over and over like a power tool with no off switch.dsc06965.JPG Or then there is the future. The mind, its loves working in the future. What shit could be about to go down? Again, the mind will worry you to death, given its capacity to keep all experiences perpetually referred to the past, or the future, rather than the now.dsc06955.JPG

Take a moment and ponder it. When does the power tool ever stop? If ya wana stop it, for just a second, trick it with question like, “OK mind, what’s going to be my next thought”.


That fucked it for a second, before it found a way out. But a longer term practise, to find that chilled space, is disarmingly simple…its just to stay in the now. Bugger the past. To hell with the future. What’s happening, right here, right now? Oddly enough, it’s a peaceful place, right here, right now. And Zen and the Art of Boat Maintenance is founded on just this principle….and, ah, a bit of a piss-take along the way, as the way, (and the truth and the life) can all be a bit serious at times. Future and past times, to be specific.dsc06949.JPG

So there we go, I knew we would come to core theme in the novel sooner or later, if I was just to keep writing, and stay in the now. This is how, so say the sailing sages, that pottering around in boats in good for ya. A simple task, like a bit of wet and dry work, with the sandpaper, does not really need much by way of perpetual referencing to the past of the future. It’s a now kinda gig. Just like cooking the deadly marinara I just whipped up.dsc06947.JPG

For the sake of referencing the lat, long and demeanour of the writer, I am currently in the pilot house of an old 1967 Alden ketch: yes yes, 50 foot for all you size matters types > and we are bearing down on an island full of what we projected as being full of cute backpackers. I am, right this second, about 30 miles off Panama City, enroute, the moist canal cutting a swathe between the Pacific and Caribbean. As this book is only written in the now, please note that the authors point of reference is perpetually changing. No, I’m not sitting in some romantic boathouse loft, overlooking the Long Island sand dunes. I can’t write all this shit in one nano second, a so if the angles and flavours of the book change, it’s simply because I write whilst I travel. dsc06929.JPGNow there’s a good idea, how about we make this a bit of a romantic adventure travelogue, not just workshop guide. Now even I’m getting more interested.dsc06916.JPG By the time we are through, we all will have found enlightenment, fixed our outboard, and, made love at dawn under the swaying coconuts of a distant shore. What a great idea for novel. How to hang it all together, if you will excuse me, is something I have not yet figured.dsc06908.JPG

For example, at the start of the above paragraph, I was on approach to a small Island called Contadora. By the end of the paragraph, I was watching Contadora disappear over the stern. How I can reconcile that in with some degree of writer’s cognitive skill, is beyond me. So fuck writing convention, hoist the sails, and see where the wind blows, aside of out my arse.dsc06896.JPG

Panama City has always been one of those places, or so I’m told, that was the fancy of all sorts of marauding types. The marauders even marauded the marauders. Take Contadora for example. It lies I guess 30 nautical miles off Panama City. dsc06885.JPGYour school history will remind you, that the Spanish had a right regular wild time with the Caribbean and Central America. But then horny pirates, such and the Brits wayward Captain Morgan and his successor, Frank Drake, had a right regular wild time, fucking with the Spanish. dsc06889.JPGCap’n Morgan had this kinda island a holiday adventure format, sitting blissfully at anchor not too far from Panama City, and, when he felt the need to shop, he and his mates would whip into town, and get about some vigorous shopping, the type where you rape the checkout chick, then drive a sword through the trolley collector. He did it so regularlly, he no doubt had accrued heaps of frequent flyer points.dsc06884.JPG

His protégé, Franc Drake, or Francis as he pitched himself to his majesty, was one of those lads who really gave the Spaniards a right regular dose of the shits. As Jones said in Dad’s Army, they don’t like it up ‘em…the cold steel that is. The Brits and the wog Spanish diplomats had this ever so polite agreement, that the British, at one point in history, wouldn’t rip of the wog’s already, ripped off gold. Meanwhile, hip privateers like Frank Drake sat out in the little Perla Isla, just of Panama city, right where we were anchored, and with chest full of Morgan’s frequent-fuck-em points, made his way into Panama’s El Dorado shopping mall beheading the fruit and vegie attendants, on the way to the safe. The safe. What an oxymoronic concept. dsc06880.JPGThe Queen, her Royal Shape-shifting Highness, was supposed to poo poo Frank Drake for sticking the cold steel up the wog shop attendants, but she was apparently quite chuffed with dear Frank’s naughty ways, giving him a bit of cold steel herself, by way of the shoulder, arrising Franc to Sir Francis Drake, under order of the Royal Illuminati realm.dsc06810.JPG I love the way Microsoft refuses to allow its software to even consider spell checking the word ‘Illuminati’, free of some annoying red underline, as we all know who’s side that, get on, get honour, Bill gates in on.dsc07070.JPG

Don’t hold it against me, but you can’t help but fancy gett’n into a bit of pirate fun . I mean, after all those Johnny Depp, Pirates of the Caribbean movies, I’m there. And besides, Johnny has tip for us in this book. Take his compass for example. It only points at what you want. If you don’t know what you want, the compass spins like a polar shift on acid. Mind you, things could easily go a tad off course in this novel, but hey, that’s what keeps Johnny Depp’s gig a happening thang.

But more on Pirates of Ave Maria later, it’s time to momentarily get back into back to fixing ya outboard. On this journey, we’ve indeed have had some real mind-fuck boat maintenance issues. Proving my Eckhart theory straight up. Had we just gone about repairs , naively in the now, without a mind full of monkeys , we would have been way better off.

Let’s take an issue around the rudder for example. Rudders are the big spoon bit at the back of the boat, that like all spoons, have a nice long handle, called a rudder shaft. Ever tried eating spaghetti marinara when the spoon handle broke? I hope you weren’t wearing a white shirt at the time.

Well, the old rudder shaft on this boat, had been subject to an interesting history.

Somewhere in the recent past of the sailing yacht Ave Maria, it appears that the former owner had a problem, in his mind at least, and in form true to the theory of this novel, fucked his boat well and truly.

Ave Maria, when she was launched in the mid ‘60′s must have been the ducks guts of the Santiago Yacht Club. That was the club that gave us the world’s greatest, fun loving, sailing cheat, Dennis Conner, and with him, a committee, that just about ruined the Americas Cup after the fine effort that Alan Bond, then Iain Murray and the Australians restored at Freemantle. This came, as some sailing types may recall, after thdsc07076.JPGe Aussie winged keel beat the other US East coast wankers called the New York Yacht Club. What is it about US yacht clubs that can’t stand loosing, so they just change the rules to suit themselves time after time? Shame on them. And go the Kiwis for stealing back the cup and restoring the America’s Cup to a proper yacht race once again. I was at the Free’o cup on my gorgeous ocean jaguar, Fullmoon, for 5 months. Sitting at the packed bars full of salty eye-browed yachties, as you do, you would oft wander into gently pissed conversations with the race officials and ‘measurers’. Measurers make sure the $40M , 12m lead bottomed money gobblers, were infact, measuring up to the size on the specs. But Dennis and his fun loving criminals had’em fucked. He couldn’t win a race to save his life. Then, all of a sudden, right before the Kiwis were about to take the Louis Vuitton cup, and with it, the right to challenge the Aussies under Iain Murray, Dennis suddenly became unbeatable. It was as though he suddenly remembered that he had to take up the anchor before going sailing.dsc07075.JPG

Back to the bar with the measurers. With 30 knots of wind on the Free’O course every second day, ballast was an issue. But when it backed of, to less puff, ballast, or too much of it, was a big problem. The measurers had to make sure no one added or removed ballast. dsc07086.JPGBut those measurer’s , whilst slowly slurping their designer beers, head at a quizzical angle, and chin in hand, would swear that Dennis’ boat was a good inch or too lower in the water when they measured it yesterday, than when they saw him being towed outta the dock, for a light airs race today. We figured he was pumping in mercury, and draining it, but being the fine cheat Dennis was, we had no proof, nor did the world, and Dennis won.dsc07073.JPG

Anyway, this very seat I’m in, albeit faded a bit like the back seat of a rusted Bently, was once the seat that the fat arses of the Santiago Yacht Club sat in, pontificating over regattas, in that shitful weed bed off the Californian coast, as this, dear reader, was once the Santiago Yacht Club committee boat. But that was then, and this is now.

It seems the owner of the once fading Ave Maria, decided to sail south to Mexico, where he dutifully managed to put a bite in the rudder, that the director of Jaws would have been proud of. Consequently, referring constantly to the noise running around in his mind, the former owner slipped the boat onto the hard, and commenced the repair. dsc07062.JPGGiven a mind in confusion and despair, he seemingly figured that the rudder, or what was left of it, needed to be removed. Not being able to jack the 34 tonnes that is the fulsome Ave Maria, it seemed the owner figured the best way to remove the rudder was to take an angle grinder to the rudder shaft. dsc07055.JPGMeanwhile, the past and the future was obviously ruining this guys ability to see the now. With the rudder shaft half cut, like a drunken sailor, the owner freaked out. And, all this with a liquidator circling above the debt endowed owner, as Ave Maria sat still on the hard, half cut on the edge of a Mexican Desert.

One man’s mind mess, is another man’s opportunity.

Dutifully, the boat was snapped up for a song by the current owner, unaware that the snap in snapped rudder shaft was just around the corner. And snap she did. Fortunately not miles out at sea, but in a Costa Rican port, sailing south. To here. Off Isla Contadoradsc07056.JPG How we fixed, or fucked , depending on the day, the rudder, is a exciting tale awaiting the already entangled reader. But relax reader, stay with the now.

Contadora, the island of choice for Panama’s $millies and $billies, has had a few functions, mostly built around the spoils of plunder. As before, Frank Drake and range of horny, one eye patched, ex-parrot wearing pirates, used Contadora and the other Perla Islas, as hangouts between Panamanic shopping sprees. dsc07048.JPGNo doubt they had a fine time getting on the piss as they divvied up the spoils. Not much has changed on Contadora, now home to the rich but hopefully not so famous current plunderers of Panama, were El Dorado meets McMansion .

A black crow just landed on the stern, so in true Carlos Castenda style, I’m sure that means I’m on the edge of a great shamanic insight. Or maybe the fuca just wanted to peck a hole in my inflatable kayak.dsc07030.JPG

Anyway. Back to the rape and pillage of Panama City. Where I add, I’m currently now in the cockpit of Ave Maria, on Christmas Day 2008, sitting at the end of the Amandor causeway, with shipping sliding by, in and out of the Panama Canal behind me. Or infront of me now, as the boat is swinging on the mooring, throwing sunshine on my laptop screen and giving me the shits. Ah, now I got it, the crow was telling me to change ends of the cockpit, like Jesus giving Pete the fisherman a netting tip.dsc07044.JPG

The US retirees have nominated Panama City as number 4 on their world’s favourite place to die rich and fat, with servant wiped arseholes, declaring this place the Dubai of the western hemisphere. Panama can be seen from 30 miles offshore, as the towering apartment and office blocks make mere mountains seem like sand hills. Its rich, rich, rich here, mixed in with poverty that a passing English philanthropist suggested as rivaling the most desperate poverty of modern India. Contrast is a word that comes to mind. Total social depravity is another.dsc07028.JPG

So Contadora, bedecked in stylish mansions, is but one sign of the incredible wealth of Panama City. The Flamenco Marina, at $ US150 per night for a 50 footer, is chock a block full of other spoils, and even the long term marina rates run at many $thousands per month. For the many Panamanians still on $2/day, the obscenity of the in-ya-face injustice must weigh on their minds. Albeit, at $2′day, in a tribal beachside village, the NOW weighs a lot less lightly on the mind, than the need to find $6000 month to impress people who you hate, as you put another $6000 worth of diesel in ya game boat’s tank for a run out to your El McMansion.dsc07019.JPG

Boy Bush was filmed on Contadora snorting coke and having kinky sex, and the tapes used by Noriega to black mail Bush senior when he was president, who then retaliated by invading country without an army. More on that below. Source, The secret History of The American Empire by John Perkins. Read it. I just gave a copy to Pablo for Christmas, and he can’t put it down.dsc07020.JPG

Columbia. What’s the first word that comes to mind when you hear the word Columbia?

You too?

Depraved readers.

Well, here in Panama, the spoils of the perpetually lost war on drugs is manifest in 30 stories everywhere. Why wouldn’t a self respecting Columbian buy into Panamanian towers? Hey, they eat the same food here, speak the same language, and the two governments are separated by impassable jungle and impassable angst. So we have the separation, the view, and the tucker. It’s a launderer’s winner. Why not throw in a few nice holiday McEl Mansions on Contadora, a 60 foot Bertram game boat, and some Latino babes for decoration, with jeans so tight, they have gyanacologically challenged genes.dsc06979.JPG

Of course the Columbian drug trade isn’t all it takes to make a buck here. Doing deals with the US was a big hit. The yanks have long fucked with Panama. Not so long ago, they had a military base here employing 4000 locals. Sitting in the back seat of a kamikaze taxi packed with Christmas shopping, I was greeted yesterday with a ‘Merry Christmas, Amigo’, from guy squashed in the back seat, who said he once worked for the US base, before they pulled out like a drunk finished with a whore, leaving the guy a darn sight down on doe, but with a good grasp of Gringo-esque English. “Koalas, Kanagaroos y Crocidolo Dundeee, ci?” They say the only difference between Panama city in Florida, and Panama city here, is that they speak more English, here.


The US has always been tactful and diplomatic with Panama. It’s Christmas. 19 Christmas’s ago, the US made like Santa’s sleigh, just that they used B52′s instead of reindeer. Santa’s little helpers came in the form or 26,000 marines, along with tanks and naval barrage. There was that bloke, you may remember his name, the guy who made fortune for acne cures across the world: Manual the Man Noriega. This bloke Noriega, like all fallen angles, was once a full ticket, superannuated member of the CIA. dsc07014.JPGBut like most CIA-meets-the-Illuminati’s training programmes, the final year of training in the School of the Americas has a 16 weeks post grad course in biting feeding hands. Old Norey had tried to do the right thing. He bunged on an election, just to pretend he wasn’t a rabid, out of control dictator. Despite all the rigging of a 3 masted schooner, Norey still failed to get his man across the line come erection time. So he just said fuc it, appointing himself president, and as his first act of presidential decree, declared war on the United States of America. Not a good idea. Within days, half of town was rubble, and 2000 Panamanians had made their way to heaven for Christmas. All this, because one of Norey’s gun toting crew filled an off duty marine with lead, along with his beans, rice and chicken, minutes after he left a restaurant. The yanks are almost as bad as the Zionists on the Lebanese border, when it’s comes to a Black Marine Down.dsc06998.JPG

The yanks ain’t the only ones to fuc with the Panamanians. Take the Spanish before them, all the same Iluminati blood line, I add. Christmas in 1519 was barbeque time for the founding governor of Panama, a bloke called Pedrarias. Those locals who weren’t chewed to bits by his Pal deprived dogs, were dutifully roasted alive. Ah, the Iliuminated ones, they are such a kind compassionate lot.dsc06991.JPG

Today, the US use the same B52 hangers to bomb the Panamanians as they did years back, but this time it takes the form of converted US Air Force hangers that have now been happily transformed in to the mega super mercado, Allbrook Mall, where the US now bomb the locals with the same junk food, aspartame, MSG, transfats and processed foods that has every second guy in the States facing cancer. It shouldn’t be too long before the Panamanian oncology wards are full of panicked victims being told the only cure takes the form two choices, either we can fry you with radiation, or we can poison you with Cheemo, and either way, the chances of the cure helping are miniscule, but hey, sign here or you’ll surely die. The Iluminati, such wonderful folks.dsc07010.JPG

I overheard a tale from the US last month, where names and pack drills are compulsorily and still nervously protected. There were once 10 brilliant young US scientists who, in the 70′s stumbled, with some Vedic alchemy, across a revolutionary cancer cure. Taking the information to the conference circuit, it was on one of their first international conferences, in Brazil, where all 10 scientists were poisoned with radioactive doses, all but one dying within 40 days of the foul act. And it wasn’t a pretty death. One of the nine, a woman, unnamed and purposefully unknown to me, but close, spent 3 years battling with death, but with a good understanding of the radioactive science, somehow managed to survive with a herculean and miraculous effort. The story will one day make a best-selling book and movie. The cure is still known, very nervously, by one survivor.dsc06975.JPG

Next time someone asks you to donate to cancer cure research, do as I do, offer a polite no, and under your breath, curse the evil Iluminati controlled medical research system that keeps the multi-billion dollar oncology business bedecked in new black Mercs, as the world suffers. Its either you or me, statistically who will get cancer, and the way its heading on the graphs, it will soon be just about everyone who will at one time in their life, cop a call from the doctor saying the results are just in, and you better come see me now. Eat clean, study the new info on the net, and understand your real consciousness.dsc06976.JPG

Ooops, what the hell has all this got to do with Zen and fixing fucked outboards. Not much, I must confess. And whilst on confessions, I must admit to never having read Zen and the Art of Motor Cycle Maintenance. So at least I can’t plagiarise it. I do have an old BMW F650, an off road tourer, and I do plan a chapter or two by bike, so I promise to find a copy in some dusty book exchange, and read it before this tale is finished.dsc06979.JPG

I has been a bit down on breeze here today, but there was a short lift a moment back, as two, terry towelling hat’ed father Christmas yachistas pulled alongside Ave Maria, offering to share with us a rum and egg nog, as a wee Christmas drink, for breakfast. Bloody yard arm, it’s on the deck again. Dudley Moore and Peter Cook couldn’t have made a better dinghy touring pair. I hadn’t yet made a Christmas breakfast, and I was quite ravenous, after going out to my usual a wi-fi bar and grill, ready to eat a horse, just to have the place closed down around me, with all the good Roman Catholic locals heading home to mama at the sharp end of what seemed like a military enforced , Mother of Jesus, Christmas eve curfew. So I sat there in the dark, calling family and friends by Skype, alone and sober, before heading back to the boat for some stiff lemon and vodka Christmas drinks. We ran out of drinking water, along with the whole causeway, a few days back, so Christmas re-hydration is an issue. We have fresh water tanks full of salt water, after the reverse, in reverse osmosis water maker, went badly wrong. What’s left in a bucket to drink must be boiled.dsc06975.JPG

Some writers get it easy. Water to drink. Power for their laptops. I just had to crawl in to the engine room with crocodile clips and cable, to get some more juice to my inverter fed laptop, being that I write with such immense power and spark. So much so that my laptop just gave me a little electric shock. I better get this shit uploaded soon, before my hard drive goes floppy, and the bell tolls for my Dell.dsc06954.JPG

Sailing into Panama was no big deal, just a pleasant reach from the nearby Contadora, albeit the passage before, at Punta Mala, or sick punter, was a tad more trying. The rudder shifted once again in its splint, despite more locktite than an Arabian chastity belt, and Ave Maria dutifully went about sailing her own course. This course, at one passing moment seemed to throw an approaching container ship into a silent panic manifested in a slewing turn.dsc06946.JPG

When midnight, lone fishing boat seemed to be stalking us, we passed a moment’s thought to pirating possibility, and tried, in vain, to steer away. With no idea what was the front back or side of the neon lit up trawler, where the skipper was blinded by his own light, no end of spotlights in the face roused the fast approaching collision. With Ave Maria refusing to bear away, it became time to take the politeness out of the helmsmen’s call of, “Ready About?” Fuck being ready, its was Lee O well before anyone was ready to go about, as the only way to do so was to double back on ourselves in the only direction the boat would turn. Fucking Panamanian fishing boats. No wonder my occasional colleague, on the round the world record holder, Peter Bethume, on his extreme trimaran Earthrace scuttled sank and drowned a couple of these fucas last year, up the coast. He did manage to video one body being brought back the surface partly alive. He wasn’t in jail too long. They have these green and red lights on boats so as you can figure which way they are going. But in Panama, Habib’s Datsun disco light will suffice.dsc06947.JPG

When we checked out of Costa Rica, we didn’t actually leave for a 4 days after we were stamped as gone. When we checked into Panama, we did actually check in until we had been here for a 3 weeks. Checking in by yacht is like one of those mystery hint chases, where you never know where you will end up, and each point in the game gives you a hint about where to go next. Thank goodness we stumbled on a taxi driver called Israel ( what the?) and he was partially able, at $10/hr, to at least get us to the strange, back street, back door entrances that make up the harbour master, immigration and sundry other offices of one of the busiest ports on earth. No wonder everyone gets an agent. We had not so secret agent Israel.dsc06952.JPG

Being averse to chemicals like Thimerosol, that has single handily contributed to the recent 1000% rise in kids autism, induced by the mercury content of allegedly harmless vaccinations…. the harbour masters office became momentarily tense, as the new boy at the desk decided he was going to insist on sending us to the ex US base hospital for a dose of yellow fever vaccination. Those fuckers were no sooner gunna get their ‘harmless’ chemicals into me, than slip a chip in my arm.

Equally problematic was the fact that Ave Maria papers were, shall we say, a work in progress. However, a bit of intervention here and there by Israel, and we the white boys finally had all our cruising permits, visas and clearances. The fact that we could have had 5 tonnes of smack on boards was irrelevant.dsc06897.JPG

It wasn’t irrelevant in Cochin, years back, however. Cochin was the export point of choice for both the corrupt narko-customs, and the drug exporters of India’s Goa. This at the time was unbeknown to me and crew of pregnant girlfriend , now mother of my kids, and my rasta -fried, Ethiopian grade black, a semi-paid crew member. We were a bit confused as to why there were lots of rotting cruising boats tied up at the docks, with not a yachty in sight. Had we read the true tale thriller, Cochin Connection, about a naive lot like us stumbling into the world’s most Customs corrupt port, we may have been more wary. This was about 1987, and my SY Fullmoon looked like plum pickings in her elegant 53 foot of Sparkman and Stevens styled lines, trimmed in preppy navy blue topsides, with a vogue magazine crew.dsc06887.JPG

At dusk, infront of the Hilton, we were dutifully boarded by flotilla of naval officers, eyeing our hardware, and guzzling our whiskey, in their neo British bullshit ways. Hungover like fuc the next day, we figured that all the whiskey and polite entertainment would have assured us of a swift run through customs and immigration. Wrong. Alongside came no less than 30 officers and sari clad grunts, and each of us, the 3 crew, were doing all we could, to maintain some sort of order as the 30 fuca’s took our boat to pieces.dsc06911.JPG

As it turned out, the officer’s game plan was simple, either find drugs and confiscate the boat then jail the crew until all their teeth fell out, or plant drugs, and get the same result. In the process of the raid, one of the towel heads knocked off $400 cash, and dutifully spilt the force the next day with the equivalent of 5 years wages. This was ceremoniously followed by me bashing the desks of every officer in Cochin, until I finally go to the Admiral, whose desk was squash-court esqe, and whose old British office had 20 foot ceilings, with faded yellow files stacked atop cupboards all the way to the ceiling. He was not amused. Nor was I.

Gratefully, on wondering back through markets full of not yet dead seafood, an Ensign Parker type of fellow in Naval attire grabbed me by the arm and shepherded me into a back lane, warning me that my temper had not impressed the admiral, and to immediately post guards on the boat, as we were about to have smack planted on the boat.dsc06925.JPG

I got guards real fast, and had them at work 24/7. One had claws instead of fingers, and had a habit of sleeping on duty, so I found that creeping aboard, and yelling WAKE UP FUCA, two inches from his ear, improved his diligence.

Things got more difficult when the local newspaper put a story about us on the front page, how we’d survived wild storms, and fought off attacking whales, when in fact the passage was so quiet from the Maldives, that we motored all the way, drinking wine from long stemmed glasses, left standing happily on the foredeck in water, 10 miles deep. The new found celebrity status made the guard jobs even more difficult, as a fleet of small tour boats soon circled us non stop, around the clock, for days. Which one had the smack, we wondered, as our nails got shorter, and as attempts at getting our exit permits were strung out some two weeks, by our looming captors. Read the Cochin Connection. We seemingly, were the one boat that got away.dsc06961.JPGdsc06995.JPG

So by comparison to India, Panama was a breeze.

But as this is about the now, the now is boxing day 2008. And everyone takes a holiday on boxing day. So I’m having a holiday away from my holiday. Air Panama had no seats.

Aero Perlas had no seats. So tonight at 8, I’ve got myself a seat on the little overflow bus that trails the big mother bus. And I’m heading to some Caribbean side partay islands called Bocos Del Toros, and whilst laid back, they are laid back in the partay backpacker style, which should add spice to a tequila new years eve. Here it is with a Google Earth Link….I hear Jesus is on Google Earth daily, trying to figure out a good come back drop. . It will only take a casual 10 rattling hours, but it’s nothing a good book can’t, oh…and I wonder where I left that last Sri Lankan valium tab?

There’s that crow again…..this time is shamanic message is seemingly, “Gimme the remains of the hot chips on the departed tourists luncheon table, and ye will find peace”.dsc06984.JPG

On the subject of God, I managed to get an $8.50 copy of a Bible at the bus terminal. I also bought a bottle of B complex. One is for the learning, the other is for the liver. There may be little difference from a Qi Gong point of view, but never travel without B and the Bible. Especially in Jesus-and-Mother-Mary obsessed Central America. We have more Buddhist shit ahead, maybe some Zen, certainly a lot of atheism, so, as they say, when in Rome.

By the way, I reckon these Latin Catholics get things all muddled by…I mean, they can’t distinguish between their mother and their girlfriend, as when they all got nutso over Mother Mary, I thing you’ll find the Dan Brown was right, and they are really nutso over Mary, the Mary that was Jesus’ wife.dsc07011.JPG

As if. I mean as if Jesus was getting his feet wiped by a passing friend. He was getting laid. But Catholic popes could not have all that 16th century tithe-ing cash getting spent on the missus, then inherited by the kids. So they changed the text in the Bible, made priests celibate, pocketed the poor frustrated priest’s cash when he kicked St Peter’s bucket, and the rest is history > the Catholic Church became the richest institution on earth.

So when they worship Mary, I think you’ll find the hot chic saint, was Jesus’ babe, not the mum. As a cultural synopsis of the whole Latino boy’s relationship to women, my theory explains everything.dsc07015.JPG

But back to tonight>>being that these Roman Catholic blokes can fuc their brother’s girlfriend whilst married, repent and confess, and go again, there is an obvious need for Vitamin B to keep the whole gig cycling.

Holy B, Holy Bible, Holy Grail, Holy Tail. There’s life in one.dsc07017.JPG

This entry was posted on Friday, December 26th, 2008 at 8:54 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

6 Responses to “Protected: Pirates y Panama, ZEN AND THE FART OF BOAT MAINTENANCE 1”

  1. Jennifer & Jim Says:

    Thank GOD the photography has improved. Some really beautiful shots in this one. As Lord Litchfield found to his benefit, a good subject helps enormously.

    Notwithstanding that your quals are in engineering, you desperately need an editor or a [better] spell-checker and a grammar-check.

    Hope you had the decency to warn the unsuspecting Caribbean honey’s that you were roaring down their back door and that New Years would never be the same. Hope you’re using better condoms than Frank Drake (they’re also helpful in temporary watermaker repairs) – perhaps you could also hijack a diaphram or two during your R&R- we’d hate to think of you without rehydration abilities. The right kind of girl (likely an aetheist or disenfranchised Catholic) will provide a prophelatic that fits a Jabsco like a glove – mind your manners and remember that a real gentleman would say ‘thank you’.

    Oh, and if you’re going to tout your twitterings as a maintenance guide for boats, you need to actually mention them more than twice, particularly as you have have so many apparent nautical problems: the outboard, the watermaker and the rudder stock. By-the-by the bright work around the coachhouse looks a tad tatty so when you’re done with the ‘partay’ you should make with the wet ‘n dry and the varnish – at least you’ll enjoy the fumes!

    Where to next?

  2. Grant Chandler Says:

    Ahoy panamanic man,come about “squark squark” n pieces o eight!!
    Enjoyed your tangential missive over morning cuppas in bed here at
    The Morris estate/compound (neva quite sure which is the correct/preferred social climbing ,status seeking term)
    3 acres of beachfront with the guesthouse in which I reside and the villa both with pools n water features.
    Quite like this caretaking/housesitting? im doing something….
    But Verde with envy of your travels and adventures.
    Pity im not tech savvy as I would send you a vid clip of my famous n most convincing imitation of Ecky Lad( thats Tolle!)
    His image conjures instant mirth!
    I am in negotiation with Sara Palin(acting manager n agent)for both Ecky and Dolly(as in Lama)to tour the pair in a stand up comedy sellout extravaganza.
    Cept there both allways sitting!!
    Perhaps thats the secret to enlightenment and supaconsciousness ,,stay seated!!
    Perhaps all this in the now means one is unable to multi task and keeping ones balance whilst standing is something one must think about?
    Who wuld have thought!!
    I digress………..

    Enjoy Exalt Exhale

    Stay Well

    The G spot

  3. steven king Says:

    s’funny – robert pirsig’s other book was about boating – down from the ‘lakes through the canals etc to new york and beyond … more on human maintenance and only a bit of zen; if i find my copy i’ll have it at your place when you get back.
    love s&s

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