“Can you come up here? It’s getting pretty shallow, and I think I’ve lost the channel.” 

This inauspicious statement from the skipper, coupled with the shrill beeping of the depth sounder, had become familiar the past two days. I finished putting the coffee on to perk, and hauled myself up through Wild Rye’s companionway. 

Our Wauquiez Centurion 32 was en route to Pedregal, Panama, a small fishing town some 20 miles from the sea via a winding network of estuaries. It’s the country’s westernmost port of entry on the Pacific side. Our depth sounder, circa 1980, had been working overtime ever since we’d cruised up the Estero Boca Chica Channel the morning before. We had already touched bottom twice: Once, we were able to reverse off the sandbar with the engine throttled all the way up; the second time, I got a crash course in kedging. Happily, that second time, a panga whizzed past us, saw our dilemma and did a U-turn to assist. Its skipper led us slowly back toward deeper water and around the last few bends. We sighed with relief as Pedregal came into view. 

The return trip, when we could rely on our own GPS track, was much less twitchy. We had two beautiful days to appreciate the serenity of our surroundings. The wide, calm estuaries were edged with thick mangroves. A chorus of birdsong erupted at dawn and dusk. Pangas emerged from narrow tributaries and disappeared back into narrow cuts, hinting at a hidden way of life behind the dense growth.

While the Panama Canal is a crucial crossroads between the Atlantic and Pacific, our journey taught us that Panama is more than a place to pass through. It’s a place to linger. 

We had departed Boca Chica’s narrow, rock-lined channel and made the sail to the Islas Secas, 15 nautical miles away. Anchored on the northeast side of Isla Cavada, our views—of deep, clear water and rugged islands—were strikingly different from the murky estuaries of the mainland coast. Crescents of pale sand fringed the deep green jungle and stark gray rocks. The afternoon haze reduced the mainland to a moody indigo smudge on the horizon. We saw no other boats, and the resort appeared to be empty. 

In fact, with the exception of Panama City, we would find almost every anchorage deserted in our explorations of Panama throughout the fall season. The country had a sweet silence, only occasionally marred by our desire to share the experience with others.

Our next stop was an estuary at the mouth of the Rio Tabasara. My boyfriend, Liam, had used satellite imagery to pinpoint the location as a likely convergence of calm anchorage and surfable waves. It’s an important combination for a surf-­loving guy whose girlfriend doesn’t like being seasick on the hook.

We anchored just east of the river mouth and motored upriver in the dinghy, using its anchor and rode as a lead line to find a route that would be deep enough for Wild Rye. We later dropped the bigger boat’s hook in a mangrove-lined riverbank indent. At slack tide, the water was still; with the tide running, it rippled gently on our hull. From the deck, we could see the surf break out beyond the river mouth. A few small homes dotted the edge of the estuary, with the chatter of children playing and the smell of cooking smoke. With no roads or power lines, nighttime brought silence and velvety darkness. 

We spent a week in that piece of paradise. Fishermen in pangas and dugout canoes would wave. Liam found the surfing to be best at midtide. Slack tide was our cue to jump in the dinghy and head down to a rocky outcropping to jig for some dinner.

Next, we ventured east to Bahia Honda, a quiet spot where a local family has a reputation for trading with passing cruisers. Almost the moment we dropped the hook in front of Don Domingo’s property, he motored out to greet us with one of his grandsons at the helm. We bought eggs and fruit, and traded fishing lures and matches for citrus, papaya and taro root. His 10-year-old grandson gave us a picture of Wild Rye colored in painstaking detail, in exchange for a fishing lure. He returned later with two small fish for our dinner. Sitting in the calm bay, ringed by green hills on all sides and a low ceiling of stratus clouds, we felt completely removed from the outside world. 

In all our travels along Panama’s Pacific coast, our interactions with local people were relaxed and genuine. Our short ventures into remote communities left an impression of a simple way of life quite far from the glossy tourist towns of Costa Rica’s Pacific coast, or the abundance of Panama City.   

After we anchored at Isla Cébaco, we went ashore to explore by foot. The road was red clay and slippery-smooth from the daily rain. Water pooled in the deep ruts. A mixture of fenced pastures and lush farmland lined the road, and the air was earthy with the scent of manure and wet grass. We bumped into a farmer on a mule with a full propane tank slung across the saddle. Once he understood that we weren’t lost, he bid us goodbye with a wave. Later that week, when Liam was surfing Cébaco’s beach break, another local farmer stopped for a chat. Leaving his horse, he waved Liam over to give him advice on a better surf spot, and then proceeded to split a six-pack of beer. The only Spanish phrase Liam recognized was uno más (“one more”) every time he tried to leave.

We slowly worked our way eastward toward Panama City, which is a great place to stock up and work on the boat (it really does have everything a cruiser could need). But it wasn’t long before we craved quieter places. As soon as we could, we set sail for the Islas de las Perlas, an archipelago 30 miles south of the city, in the Gulf of Panama. 

Squally conditions mellowed out as we cruised, and we enjoyed several weeks of beautiful daysailing among the islands. With numerous well-charted anchorages available and a wealth of fascinating nooks and crannies, the Perlas could easily keep a cruiser busy for months. On Islas Saboga and Contadora, we snorkeled in the clear, silky water and scrambled along sculpted slabs of sandstone at the tide line. We walked to a beach with pure, shimmering black sand, and to a tree with buttress roots that towered over our heads. The locals say it’s more than 700 years old. They call it arbol de vida, the tree of life. 

We then broad-reached south to Isla Bayoneta on the falling tide, and picked our way through a narrow, rocky channel before dropping the hook in a cove tucked snugly between three small islands. One afternoon on Isla Pedro Gonzalez, where we filled our water jugs at the village tap, several hundred cormorants landed right in front of me. They descended in a smooth, dark cloud and alighted on the water for a moment before taking off again. 

On Isla San Telmo, we saw the rusted hulk of the Sub Marine Explorer, one of the world’s first submarines, circa 1865. We stayed for hours to walk the beach and admire the marbled patterns of black and white sand.

After a two-week, counterclockwise circumnavigation of the archipelago, we still felt as though we had barely scratched the surface. From the Perlas, we ventured into Golfo de San Miguel, the meeting place of some of Panama’s largest rivers, and an access point to the remote province of Darien. Our first anchorage, at Punta Alegre, proved the most social. We woke to an authoritative tap on the hull at 6:30 a.m. We poked our bleary heads out of the companionway, and a cheerful man welcomed us to his town and offered us a ride to shore. After several cups of coffee and breakfast for the three of us, our guide took us on a tour, collecting various grandchildren along the way. We spent several dizzying hours fielding rapid-fire questions in Spanish. We accepted gifts of tiny shells and hermit crabs, listened to explanations about natural phenomena, and got shepherded up and down the beach by a flurry of tiny hands.

The rest of our stay in the Darien passed much more quietly. We sailed up the Rio Sabana and explored a few of its smaller tributaries, sinking into a meditation of motion and stillness that flowed with the tides. The magnificent, deep rivers offered some of the best sailing we’d ever had. With the current in our favor, not a wave in sight for miles, and a steady afternoon breeze, Wild Rye felt like it had grown wings. We skimmed smoothly at 6 or 7 knots, and experienced marvelous tranquility every night at anchor. 

When we left the Darien to prepare for our departure from Panama, it was with a sense of regret for all the things we had yet to see and do. Five months, it turned out, was not enough. Beneath this region’s quiet surface is a wealth of experiences waiting to be had for cruisers with the time and patience to linger.

The post Cruising Panama: A Hidden Gem appeared first on Cruising World.

Ever since we cruised from Acapulco, Mexico, to Bay of Islands, New Zealand, in 1988 on Freelance, our 28-foot Bristol Channel Cutter, my wife, Harriet, and I longed to return to the South Pacific. In spring 2021, while going through a closet full of stuff in our condo, out slid a box of old paper charts from our voyage. A large chart of Bora Bora unfolded in my hands. The perfect circle of reef, the lagoon of dazzling blue, clouds streaming like cotton from the island’s volcanic peaks—the South Pacific had enchanted us again.

We sketched a plan: From our home port of New Bedford, Massachusetts, we’d head to Bermuda, then Puerto Rico, then the Panama Canal, the Galapagos, French Polynesia, the Cook Islands, the Kingdom of Tonga, and Fiji. We’d arrive in New Zealand a year later. It would be about 10,300 nautical miles, most of it ­downwind in the northeast and southeast trade winds. 

Ocean, our Dolphin 460 cat, had ­recently undergone an extensive refit and was up to the task. So, off we went.

Massachusetts to Bermuda 

Bermuda is an old friend for us. During the 13 years we operated our Caribbean child-literacy nonprofit, Hands Across the Sea, we called into the island 22 times. But getting to Bermuda from the US Eastern Seaboard in the fall is tricky. 

First, we looked for the tailwinds of a departing front to launch us off the continental shelf. Next, we looked for the Gulf Stream to quiet down. Finally, we looked for a favorable slant to get us into Bermuda after a three- to four-day hop.

Powerful autumn and early winter gales can be dangerous, so we checked and double-checked the forecasts (we find PredictWind helpful, and we rely on meteorologists at Commanders’ Weather to determine a weather window). We also had an old friend, Capt. Bill Truesdale, join us. Bill is a circumnavigator, and is cool, calm, and able to diagnose and fix anything. 

With breezy winds abaft the beam, we made great time on Day One. Ocean pushed through chunky, confused seas, flying a full main and the code zero. But after dinner, I felt seasick. Really seasick. Nine times over-the-rail seasick. Bill, who rarely gets seasick, felt similarly ill. He stood his watch, and Harriet held down the fort. 

In the morning, we decided we’d been pushing the boat too hard, sailing too fast for the sea state. Plus, I had started out the passage on four cups of coffee and not much breakfast; my stomach never had a chance. We knew all this was wrong, but we’d been away from passagemaking for a year and a half, and we’d forgotten. Lessons relearned: Ditch the coffee, eat enough noncombustible food to head off the stomach growlies, and take our foot off the gas until we get our sea legs.

The final two days into Bermuda were smooth and fast, pulled along by the code zero. 

Bermuda to Puerto Rico

Commanders’ Weather advised us that in a couple of days, a massive system would move south and overspread Bermuda, slamming shut the weather window to Puerto Rico. The choice was to leave the next day, or hunker down for weeks with uncertain prospects. We quickly wrapped up some engine maintenance, saw Bill off to the airport, and hoisted the main for Fajardo, Puerto Rico.

Harriet and I had both been looking forward to getting south, into the tropics and the soft, warm trade winds. It is certainly possible, however, that our hiatus from passagemaking had turned us into softies. Chunky seas bounced us. We slowed down Ocean enough to keep our stomachs calm, and to keep the off watch rested. Our sailhandling skills—reefing the main in the dark, rolling up the code zero before squalls—were a bit ragged, and we revisited our teamwork. We felt more tired than usual.

We’d been pushing the boat too hard, sailing too fast for the sea state. We’d been away from passagemaking for a year and a half. We’d forgotten.

On Day Five, the profile of Puerto Rico rose in the dawn light. We’d been there before only for connecting flights between the United States and British Virgin Islands, so everything about the island surprised us, mostly in a good way. Puerto Rico is larger than we realized, more developed (with malls that have US big-box stores and franchises), and uniformly welcoming to visitors. The shores are ringed with high-end marinas—we spent two nights at what’s now Safe Harbor Puerto Del Rey, the Caribbean’s largest marina—and the island has luxury housing developments, along with funky settlements behind barrier mangroves, and more. 

We spent 10 days exploring from the Spanish Virgin Islands to the sheltered south coast of the main island. Nature preserves have kept Puerto Rico’s cruising grounds in good shape, with lots of hidey-hole mangrove anchorages, plus some bioluminescent coves. On holidays, anchorages are crowded with raft-ups of local sport-fishing boats and personal watercraft.

Puerto Rico to Panama

Finally, an entire passage in the trade winds. The course from Boquerón, Puerto Rico, to the entry breakwater at Panama is nearly dead downwind, so we jibed to take advantage of shifts in wind direction and to avoid the near-permanent low-pressure system (possible winds to 35 knots with steep, ugly current-against-the-wind seas) that lurks off the northwest coast of Colombia. 

Our sail-carrying plan called for a single reef in the main, and Ocean’s 95 percent overlap jib (roller-reefable) and furling code zero (nonreefable) to suit the daily variation in wind strength. But just a couple of days out, we concluded that we’d idealized the trade winds just a wee bit. “I can’t recall seeing so many squalls like this,” Harriet said. “Maybe on the passage from Fernando de Noronha, in Brazil.” 

On Day Three, powerful squall clouds—to the south, west and north—triangulated on Ocean. Each announced itself with alarming gusts, and followed up with sheets of rain just short of a whiteout. We had little choice but to reef down or furl up. We’d peer out at the rain, then turn the ignition key and trundle along behind the squall in weak, ascending air and leftover chop. The squalls meant sailhandling work and slower progress—and nighttime squalls seemed worse in every way.

One evening, a prolonged 25-plus-knot blast sent us surfing down a steep sea at 18 knots. The autopilot steered blithely onward. (Ocean’s hull has lots of buoyancy forward, and a cat’s twin hulls are not prone to broaching, as a monohull might.) But the brief thrill ride through the darkness freaked us out. We double-reefed the main—we were happy averaging 8 to 9 knots—and concluded that we needed a better sail strategy for running deep in intensified trades. 

Later, we talked to a cat crew on the same passage who had used only a reefed jib. Their mainsail stayed in the lazy bag. We needed to keep reminding ourselves that, even though we are ex-racers, we were not in a race. We love fast ­passages, but quality off-watch rest for our ­doublehanded crew was the top priority.

When we pulled in the second reef, we disturbed a red-footed booby that had taken up residence on our solar panels; the bird squawked, moved to the tip of the port bow, tucked its beak into its wing, and continued sleeping. Later, we found a small black bird, maybe a petrel, snoozing on the dinghy davits. Later still, a flying fish flew into our dinghy. All of it seemed to say: “You are in the trade winds and you are a part of the trade winds, so pull up your socks. Enjoy.”

Some evenings, of course, were ­astoundingly beautiful, an impossible canopy of stars arcing across the horizon. “There’s the Southern Cross!” Harriet exclaimed, pointing out her favorite. 

Nearing Panama, the trade winds ­mellowed out: 15 knots, 20 in squalls, and far fewer of them. The seas grew smaller and kinder. These were more like the trades we remembered. 

By the time we jibed into the inbound lane of the ship-traffic separation scheme for the Panama Canal, I’d finished David McCullough’s 700-page The Path Between the Seas, so I was already in awe of the place. Unfortunately, we were stuck on the Caribbean side for three weeks because of issues with our mainsail batten pocket ends and steering cylinders (Ocean has hydraulic steering). We tied up in Shelter Bay Marina, at the Caribbean entrance to the canal, and the marina’s shipment wizard wrangled our repair materials for us. All the help we needed—a sailmaker and hydraulic guys—was on hand. 

After several weeks of work, Karen and Paul Prioleau, cruisers we’d met back in 1988, flew in to join us as line handlers for the canal transit. We also had a required Panama Canal Authority pilot and a specified line handler, who between them had more than 2,000 canal transits. So the 10-hour transit was easy. These 47 miles were a milestone and the gateway to a new life for Harriet, me, and Ocean. 

By the time 26 million gallons drained from the Miraflores locks, the final southbound lock, lowering us 27 feet to sea level, and we motored around the bend and under the final bridge, we saw a thin blue horizon waiting ahead: the Pacific. 

After 20 years of dinghy racing, the siren song of bluewater cruising called Tom Linskey, aka TL. In the ’80s, he built a 28-foot Bristol Channel Cutter in his ­backyard from a hull-and-deck kit, and sailed with his wife, Harriet, from Southern California to Mexico, French Polynesia, New Zealand, and Japan. Together, they’ve covered more than 50,000 doublehanded miles, most recently in their Dolphin 460 catamaran, Ocean.

The post Sailing From Massachusetts to Panama With Just Two Stops appeared first on Cruising World.

As a child, I was fascinated with pirates: fearless, swashbuckling buccaneers plundering galleons and burying loot on desert islands—maybe that’s why I took up cruising. As my husband, Neil, and I sailed through Panama and the Greater Antilles, the name of the infamous pirate Henry Morgan kept popping up again and again. We found ourselves following in his wake: sailing routes that he had traveled, anchoring in bays he had frequented, and inspecting the ruins of forts and settlements that he had built or destroyed.

Neil and I had arrived in the Caribbean after crossing the Pacific in Distant Drummer, our Liberty 458 sloop, and spending three years dawdling down the west coast from Alaska to Central America. We enjoyed a season exploring the Gulf of Panama before transiting the Panama Canal and finally reaching the Spanish Main, the honeypot for pirates in the 17th century. Tales of Capt. Morgan had me hooked; I had to find out more about this notorious privateer so loved by the British, loathed by the Spanish, and iconic enough to have a rum named after him.

Panama: A crossroads, past and present

After the serenity of cruising in the rivers and islands in the Gulf of Panama, Panama City is a great place to enjoy the buzz of city life while getting organized to transit the canal. The city has two anchorage areas on either side of Isla Perico; La Playita on the south side of the island provides better shelter during the northerlies of the dry season, and Las Brisas on the north side is preferred during the wet season when a persistent ground swell rolls in from the south.

As with any city, there are good and bad districts; the old Canal Zone offices in the Balboa area with their immaculately clipped lawns border the slum tenements of El Chorrillo. Downtown is crowded with skyscrapers competing for the most radical and eye-catching design, whereas the old Spanish quarter known as Casco Viejo is the hippest and trendiest part of the city.

There are actually two “Old Panamas” in Panama City: Panama Viejo is the ruins of the original settlement after it was razed by Morgan in 1671, and Casco Viejo is the historic district where the town was rebuilt. The battle for Old Panama City was a complete fiasco. Morgan’s reputation as a ruthless and bloodthirsty pirate preceded him, and although the Spaniards were superior in number, the troops were mostly inexperienced, and many fled before the first shots were fired. The governor of Panama had sworn to burn down the city if it were lost to the privateers. The resulting fires destroyed the wooden buildings, leaving only a few stone structures standing in what is now Panama Viejo.

In 1673, the offices of colonial government were rebuilt in Casco Viejo, but as the modern city grew, the old Spanish town was abandoned and became a tough barrio where no rational person dared to tread. However, since Casco Viejo was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1997, money has poured in. The denizens have been relocated, and many of the old pastel-colored buildings have been restored and reopened as chic restaurants and bijou hotels.

Chagres: The route across the isthmus

The route of the Panama Canal follows the Chagres River and the Camino de Cruces, one of the trails used for transportation of Peruvian gold and silver from the Pacific coast to the Spanish Main. The canal joins the Caribbean Sea about 7 nautical miles east of the mouth of the Chagres River, and entrance into the river requires a slalom around the Lajas Reef to port and a sandbar to starboard. The anchorage behind the bar is sublime, but it pays to listen for ACP (the Panama Canal Authority) radio warnings; when the floodgates open, the current and water level increase dramatically, and in the past, at least one vessel has been washed up onto the sandbank.

In 1671, Morgan arrived at Chagres with the largest pirate fleet ever assembled, on a mission to march to Panama City and destroy it. An advance party was sent to take Fort San Lorenzo, which protected the mouth of the Chagres River. Unfortunately for Morgan, as the rest of the fleet arrived, five ships were wrecked on the treacherous Lajas Reef, including his flagship, Satisfaction.

Unperturbed, Morgan took the town and then ascended the Chagres River. The river was difficult to navigate, and although part of the expedition could be completed in canoes, much of the journey was on foot through dense rainforests and swamps. After three days, Morgan arrived at Las Cruces (near present-day Gamboa), where he landed his men and continued on the Camino de Cruces to his infamous attack on Panama City.

After exploring the well-preserved ruins of Fort San Lorenzo, we motored up to the Gatun Dam through pristine rainforest. The river is deep and easy to navigate, and we spent a few wonderful days anchored on the side of the channel enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of the jungle. Floating peacefully in the kayak, we watched howler monkeys capering in the trees and finally spotted a couple of toucans, the first we’d seen since arriving in Central America.

Portobelo: Pirate riches

Portobelo is a beautiful sheltered bay and a popular anchorage for cruising boats en route to Guna Yala. Sadly, a recent spate of armed robberies persuaded us against stopping, and we continued on to the marina at Turtle Cay, but we were able to hitch a ride back to Portobelo by road and enjoyed a couple of days exploring the historic town.

The old customs house, which still dominates the plaza, was where gold, silver, and slaves passing through Panama were counted and registered. Every year when the Spanish galleons arrived to transport the treasure back to Spain, merchant ships selling luxury goods and traders selling oriental wares would gather in the town. Because of the value of the goods passing through, Portobelo was protected by three forts: two on the harbor and another in town.

The wealth of Portobelo was an irresistible target to Morgan, and in July 1668, he attacked the town and quickly captured two of the forts. As he stormed the walls of the third, he purportedly used captive nuns and monks as a human shield. When Morgan returned to Jamaica, he was rebuked for his actions, but in his homeland of England, he was widely acclaimed as a national hero.

These days Portobelo is a sleepy little town with a trickle of tourists passing through. We enjoyed our stay, exploring the ruins of the forts, checking out the customs house, which was under reconstruction, and visiting the church where the famous Black Christ statue attracts pilgrims. Several yachts were moored in the bay, and if we came back again, we would be very tempted to anchor there for a few days.

Jamaica: Exploring Morgan’s home base

Cruising friends had recommended that we cross from Panama to Jamaica before mid-December, when the northeast trades—known as the Christmas winds—increase in strength, commonly reaching gale force at night. We left in early December but nonetheless ended up beating into the teeth of a relentless 15- to 20-knot northeasterly, and with a low choppy swell, it was slow-going. We motorsailed most of the way, turning off the engine and enjoying a couple of good days of sailing only when the wind finally veered eastward.

We anchored outside the Royal Jamaica Yacht Club, on the inside of the sand spit that defines Kingston Harbour. Most visitors bypass Kingston because it has a reputation for squalid shantytowns, with gangs and violence controlling the streets. This could be true for parts of the town, particularly at night, but during the day, the city is crowded and vibrant; street markets clog the pavement, restaurants and shops throb with music, and the smell of ganja wafts in the air.

It was a short trip by bus to Port Royal, now just a peaceful backwater, but during the 17th century, the town provided a safe harbor for privateers and pirates, and benefited greatly from the revenue generated by their activities. One in every four buildings was either a bar or a brothel, and despite being overrun with liquor, pirates and prostitution, it soon became one of the most important ports in the English colonies.

Between 1663 and 1673, Morgan conducted numerous successful and highly lucrative raids from Port Royal. In 1666, he married the daughter of the island’s deputy governor and, ironically, was made colonel of the Port Royal militia, responsible for the defense of Jamaica. However, the following year, diplomatic relations between England and Spain deteriorated, and Morgan resumed his piratical career.

Local sailors advised us to make an overnight passage to Port Antonio, on the island’s north coast, by leaving Kingston at dusk and rounding the eastern point around midnight, when the wind is lightest. We motored along the south coast into a light breeze, then once we passed Morant Point, we enjoyed a pleasurable sail until the wind dropped at dawn.

Sailing along the north coast of Jamaica was superb, with the easterly trade winds picking up in the afternoons and speeding us into the next harbor. We stopped at the beautiful tiny keyhole anchorage at Oracabessa, the home of Ian Fleming, where he wrote all of his James Bond novels. We also anchored for a night at Discovery Bay, which had nothing much of interest to see apart from a bauxite mine used as the headquarters of Dr. No in the James Bond movie of that name.

The anchorage at the Montego Bay Yacht Club is full of moorings but has room for a couple of visiting boats to anchor, provided you do not swing into the turning circle of the cruise-ship dock next door. The yacht club welcomes cruisers, and on Christmas Day, local sailors Julia and Phil on Diva invited us for a potluck barbecue. We met a friendly crowd and enjoyed chatting and picking up a few tips on cruising in Cuba and the Caymans.

Cuba: Off the beaten path

As we departed Montego Bay bound for Cienfuegos on the south coast of Cuba, conditions for the passage could not have been better. A fresh northeast breeze on the starboard beam and a moderate sea made for a fast reach across the Cayman Trough. As the wind eased and veered in the lee of Cuba, we poled out the jib and had a beautiful run up to the Cuban coast.

From Cienfuegos it is a relaxed overnight sail to the Jardines de la Reina, a chain of remote, uninhabited cays fringing the southeast coast of Cuba. It would be easy to get lost exploring the convoluted channels that weave through the maze of mangrove islands. We visited a fishing platform at Cayo Breton and shared a bottle of rum with the lobstermen. They cooked up a platter of grilled lobster and delicious garlicky fried fish—one of the best meals we ate in Cuba!

We spent hours snorkeling on the patch reefs along the southern shore of Cayo Caballones. In the late afternoon, when the zephyr of wind dropped, we raced across the crystal-clear water in the dinghy—like skimming across the coral on a flying carpet. Moving on to Cayo Caguama, we walked along the beautiful white-sand beach searching for turtle tracks and savoring our last afternoon in the remote, uninhabited wilderness of the cays.

At Cabo Cruz, at the southeastern tip of Cuba, we waited a couple of days for a cold front to bring northerly winds for the passage to Santiago de Cuba. The first part of the voyage was comfortable, with 15 to 20 knots from the north-northeast, but as the sun set, katabatic winds rolled down from the Sierra Maestra, gusting to over 30 knots. We quickly put a second reef in the mainsail, took a couple more turns on the jib, and settled in for a boisterous night. At daybreak we were glad to see the sun rise over the magnificent Castillo del Morro, which guards the entrance into Santiago de Cuba.

Morgan’s first command as captain of a privateer ship was with English vice admiral Sir Christopher Myngs’ fleet, a group of privateers operating out of Port Royal. In 1662 the fleet carried out a preemptive strike against Spanish forces gathered in Santiago de Cuba who were planning to launch an attack on Jamaica. The raid was a resounding success; they demolished the town, and the infamous Castillo del Morro was totally destroyed. They returned to Jamaica with vast amounts of booty and to a hero’s welcome.

While in Santiago de Cuba we attended a Santeria ceremony. Similar to voodoo, Santeria is a religion based on Catholic beliefs blended with spiritual concepts brought from West Africa by slaves arriving at the port and adding their culture and creeds to the melting pot of the city. We entered the temple and prostrated ourselves before an altar adorned with dolls and carved figures. After hugging a huge tree chalked with mysterious symbols, three rugged-looking men began beating a frantic rhythm on bongo drums. The babalawo (shaman) danced and chanted stories and songs of praise to the tree. Much rum was drunk, and we were totally embraced in the vibrant rituals.

Île a Vache: A popular stop in Haiti

Before crossing from Cuba to Haiti, we waited for a lull in the strong northeast trades, which often reach gale force as they funnel through the Windward Passage. We enjoyed a wonderful beam reach from Santiago to the west end of Haiti, but in the lee of the island the wind veered, and we picked up a west-setting countercurrent. We spent the second night of the passage motorsailing slowly into a headwind, and the next morning dropped anchor at Île a Vache, a small island off the south coast of Haiti.

Morgan frequently used “Isla Vaca” as a base for his operations, and in January 1669, he gathered a fleet of 10 ships in Baie à Ferret for a raid on Cartagena. During a night of drunken revelry, a spark in the ship’s gunpowder magazine triggered an explosion that blew up Morgan’s flagship, Oxford. He and the captains seated on one side of the table were blown into the water and survived; those on the other side were killed, along with about 200 of his men.

Île a Vache is a popular stopping point for cruisers waiting for fair winds to sail east to the Dominican Republic. The cruisers provide a trickle of income to the village. Every day dozens of villagers paddled out to Distant Drummer and knocked on the hull; children asking for sweets, fishermen hoping to sell us their catch, and other men looking for work cleaning the hull, polishing the stainless steel or guiding us to the market—anything to earn a few Haitian gourds.

From Haiti we sailed directly to Puerto Rico, taking advantage as best we could of the land breezes and favorable countercurrent close to the coast. We bypassed the Dominican Republic where, as a junior army officer, Morgan had taken part in an unsuccessful attack on Santo Domingo.

Cruising eastward through the Greater Antilles, upwind and against a west-setting current, was challenging, but the opportunity to get off the beaten track in the Caribbean was ample reward. The people we met reflected the distinctive character of each island—the boisterous humor of the Jamaicans, the extraordinary resourcefulness of the Cubans, the poverty but enduring courtesy of the Haitians, and the affluence and bravado of the Puerto Ricans. Although each island is unique, they are linked by a  grisly history of colonialism, piracy and slavery. Whether a pirate or patriot, Capt. Henry Morgan played a significant role in shaping the destiny of the southwest Caribbean.

The post Cruising in the Wake of Capt. Morgan appeared first on Cruising World.

Wendy Mitman Clarke is a longtime sailor and author who spent four years sailing with her family aboard their Adams 45 Osprey. Their travels took them up and down the western Atlantic, starting in Chesapeake Bay and reaching as far as Panama and the Maritimes.

The post A Conversation with Wendy Mitman Clarke appeared first on Cruising World.

From Ocean to Ocean

Charter transits of the Panama Canal, including landfalls in the San Blas Islands in the Caribbean Sea and stops in the Pearl Islands in the Pacific Ocean, are offered by San Blas Sailing.

The crewed trips feature an 18-day itinerary. The first week includes stops in the San Blas archipelago. Next is a visit to the historic port city of Portobelo on the Panamanian mainland. Spanish colonial fortifications there are a protected UNESCO World Heritage site. The two-day transit of the Gatun, Pedro Miguel and Miraflores locks of the Panama Canal follow. After a stop in Panama City, the charter heads 40 nautical miles south to the Pearl Islands for wildlife viewing, fishing and beach combing.

Peak humpback whale-watching season is from June through October; rates vary according to season. The fleet for this excursion includes a 100-foot gullet; a 77-foot maxi; a Lagoon 440 and 500; a Fountaine Pajot Salinas 48 and Bahia 46; a Nautitech 40 and 43; a Feeling 446 and a Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 49. For details and explanation of costs, contact San Blas Sailing.

Sweepstakes Net Literacy Funds

The American Sailing Association (ASA) raised $41,379 in the fall 2018 Caribbean sweepstakes to benefit the Hands Across the Sea Caribbean literacy nonprofit organization . The ASA has helped raise some $180,000 for the group since becoming its partner seven years ago.

Sweepstake participants earned a chance to win the grand prize of a weeklong sailing charter in St. Vincent and the Grenadines, courtesy of Horizon Yacht Charters. Participants also could win a weeklong vacation at The Verandah Resort & Spa in Antigua or the St. James’s Club Morgan Bay Resort & Spa in Saint Lucia, courtesy of Elite Island Resorts.

Hands Across the Sea has raised funds to provide over 464,000 books to more than 400 schools and libraries in the Eastern Caribbean. Over 100,000 students have benefitted from the support of sailors and other donors. The charity has expanded its services to providing teacher professional development and student librarian training to Eastern Caribbean schools.

Sail, Learn in the Sea of Cortez

West Coast Multihulls has expanded its charter fleet based at Marina Puerto Escondido, Baja California Sur, Mexico.

Three sailing cats are now available: a Fontaine Pajot Saba 50, a Fontaine Pajot Helia 44 and a Leopard 43. Crewed and bareboat options exist for exploration of the anchorages and islands in the Golfo de California, popularly known as the Sea of Cortez. Puerto Escondido is 10 miles south of the nearest airport and has convenient connections.

Instruction through the curriculum of the American Sailing Association is also available at Baja and at the company’s base in San Diego. For details contact the company.

Powercat Added

Offshore Sailing and Power Cruising School has added a new Fountaine Pajot power catamaran MY 37 to its fleet at The Westin Cape Coral Resort in Cape Coral, Florida. The boat will be used to teach the school’s Fast Track to Power Catamaran Cruising course. Offshore also offers this same course aboard Moorings power catamarans in Tortola, British Virgin Islands. For details contact the school.

The post April 2019 Chartering Update appeared first on Cruising World.

It’s not easy finding four line handlers smart enough to catch a rope and dumb enough to get involved with a Panama Canal transit aboard Ganesh, our hard-used 43-foot ketch. Here’s the truth of it: The only common denominator among my friends is that they lack judgment. Thus, I coaxed aboard Handsome Henry, of London; the notorious Sailor Sandy Lord, of Vermont; and Greg and Liz Ann Mulvany, of Lagniappe, a Pacific Seacraft 37 from New Orleans.

This wasn’t our first transit. My wife, Carolyn, and I have used Neptune’s Stairs so often the Panama Canal Authority gives us frequent-flyer miles. And our last transit had been a piece of cake. We’d ­center-locked through, with two other vessels rafted alongside as potential fenders. No problem; their crews did all the linehandling while I gave Carolyn a pedicure.

Still, a Panama Canal transit requires four physically able onboard line handlers regardless of the ease of passage, so Carolyn and I had no choice but to beat the bushes for the unwary.

Once we had our pickup crew aboard, we moved into place on the Flats to await our adviser pilot — on April Fools’ Day no less, which seemed wholly appropriate.

Here is a little-known fact: The poorly paid hands working on the lock walls in the canal don’t have iPhones, Sony PlayStations or Microsoft Xboxes. Thus, they are entertainment deprived, so they spend a lot of time on target practice with their encased-steel monkey fists (outlawed in most places), and are said to be able to hit the eye of a fly in midflight.

The guys on the wall can be dangerous, in other words. Before entering the canal, Carolyn had covered every solar cell and breakable object on the deck of Ganesh with mattresses held down with duct tape, or cockpit cushions tied off with string. I would have gladly worn a football helmet had I had one aboard.

Our first pilot was Roy, a careful man intent on doing a good job. “My transom backs to port,” I told him, just to let him know I understood prop wash and other esoteric nautical tendencies.

“No problemo,” he said. “Tranquillo!“

There was a problemo, however. A decrepit tug boat by the name of Tito One kept getting too close to us as we were awaiting our first lock. The tug was covered in rust, flaking paint and thick grease, and carried a battle-scarred crew to match.

There is a swift current as you enter the three-stage Gatun ascending locks, but it is on your bow and thus can be used as a brake. I felt in perfect control as I maneuvered to be center-tied between two other boats.

“No,” said our adviser Roy. “We side-tie to the tug.”

My cakewalk transit suddenly turned into a grease-smeared, tire-marked nightmare. The problem wasn’t merely that I didn’t want my vessel to touch the filthy Tito One. A commercial tug has its own agenda. When it needed to go to assist the ship locking through, it went. I’d best be able to grapple or untie in an instant if I didn’t want to be damaged.

“Do not worry,” said Roy. “We’ll be portside to, so your transom will tuck in easy.”

By chance, it was Handsome Henry standing by on my aft port cleat. Once Sailor Sandy realized she’d have nothing to do on starboard, she rightly went to gently assist nervous Henry.

Since I had the strong lock current to use as a brake, I was able to approach the tug, kick my stern in by tapping reverse and hold Ganesh stationary alongside, which was a good thing because there was no one to take our lines. Finally, a crewman wandered over and Handsome Henry handed him his stern line. Then we cheered. “Good job, Henry!” I said.

“It was easier than I expected,” he replied, grinning.

Alas, the deckhand who took our stern line disappeared without taking our bow line or springs, so I had to hold Ganesh in place with my engine until our pilot, Roy, corralled another crewmember to assist.

“No problemo with a side-tie,” said Roy with a smile, and who certainly would not be around when Carolyn and I buffed out our once-white topsides.

Suddenly, the water exploded all around us as millions of gallons rushed into Gatun lock at the same instant. Picture a toy boat buffeted in a strong Jacuzzi.

We instantly began to surge on our lines, but didn’t have to tend them for the rapid rise of water level because that was the job for the crew on the tug. Only they weren’t doing it. They’d all disappeared into the engine room on break.

I had a moment of panic. The stern of the tug pulled away from the wall and then swung wider. Both vessels surged back hard. Now the tug was 90 degrees to the wall, loudly smashing its rusty bow plates into the concrete. Just a few more meters of slack in the lines as we rose, and Ganesh‘s bow would be ground off. We all started screaming in unison. A sheepish crewmember ambled on deck, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and begrudgingly took in enough scope to prevent our being crushed.

It had been close, and I’d felt powerless. I was now on full alert, amazed to have been so near to disaster. Ganesh is everything we own, and she is uninsured. It would not take much of an accident to force us to abort our circumnavigation.

That evening, we moored in placid Lake Gatun, right around where a penniless Paul Gauguin (the French painter, pre-fame) shoveled dirt as his Spanish friends died of malaria.

On the way into the final series of three locks (there are a total of six), I told him what I’d told Roy: “My transom walks to port in reverse.” He showed no signs he understood.

Ganesh has a full keel. I cannot back her straight under most conditions. This makes close-quarters work stressful.

Once in the lock on the downhill descending side (Pacific) of Lake Gatun, I realized the current was behind us now, and stronger. I got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. We were going too fast toward the south lock gates even though I was in neutral. I tapped Ganesh into reverse, but she started to slew. I jammed her back into neutral to realign, but we had too much forward momentum.

To confound things, we would be tied starboard-to this time.

This was going to be tricky. I had planned on having the experienced Sailor Sandy make the line toss to the other vessel, but at the last minute, Ivan had told me to put my strongest man to starboard, aft. I would have preferred not to, but did not want to ignore my adviser. Plus, I was struggling with the current. So I asked Sandy to change places with Handsome Henry. It was a mistake on my part.

Henry thought he could hand the line over as before, but as I gunned it in reverse to slow, thanks to the prop walk, he got farther and farther away from Tito One. Everyone started yelling at poor Henry, especially the impatient guy on the tug. Henry sort of pushed and shoved the coil of line away from himself and it plopped into the water right next to Ganesh‘s prop.

I am, perhaps, not the best skipper in the world, but I have spent a lifetime attempting not to make bad matters worse during an emergency.

“Sandy, help him keep it clear of my prop, OK?” I said as calmly as I could. And then, I did nothing.

This was very hard to do because we were still moving forward and Greg already had his bow line cleated off.

I did not shout. I did not make the newbie mistake of leaving my helm to help.

Sandy and Henry were asses and elbows as they desperately attempted to get the heavy hawser back aboard.

“Clear,” said Sandy, as I jammed Ganesh into full reverse, but a tad late as the bow line took up and my transom fully swung out.

“Slack, Greg,” I shouted forward and saw he understood what was needed. Greg was, all joking aside, magic on the foredeck.

He eased.

We were now sideways to the strong current in the lock, and I was just about to have my $4,000 Monitor windvane wiped off my transom by the east wall. I gave my Perkins M92B full power forward. The lock wall missed my Monitor by inches. But now my bow was lunging for the opposite side of the lock. It was clear to me that I was not going to have enough room to round up into the current before smashing hard into the gate. All I could do was buy time.

And I bought some, even though I was doomed.

Ivan, our adviser, suddenly came alive. He dashed forward and snatched the bow line from Greg. Then he yelled in Spanish for the tug crew to run it aft. Ivan moved as gracefully as a rotund ballerina as he trotted the heavy hawser aft at the same time. I suddenly realized he was more than an iPhone adorer, he was a sailor’s sailor who could think on his nimble feet.

Once Ivan had the long hawser aft on both Ganesh and the tug, he snubbed it off, and my bow straightened just before it rammed the lock door. Once straight, I was able to reverse with good effect, with Big Ivan grunting in the ensuing slack.

“You saved her,” I said to him in both admiration and appreciation.

“Only because you kept her off the wall long enough,” he replied.

We smiled at each other. I tipped my hat (well, my head scarf) to him.

“Well that deserves another Coke-with-ice for Ivan,” said Carolyn, and everyone laughed.

“Did I screw up?” asked Henry.

“Not at all,” I said. “The comedy of errors was entirely mine. Thank heavens for the fleet-footed Ivan.”

When things go sideways, there is only one person to blame on a boat, and that is its skipper.

We all gave Ivan three loud and hearty cheers as the lock gates opened and we were spit into the Pacific. Well, almost. As Ivan was taken off by a crew boat, I told my mates, “There is only one more challenge: We’re going to refuel in Balboa.”

This was not easy, because a crowd of land sharks descended upon us at the fuel dock, demanding all manner of imaginative fees, charges and mystical payments. At one point, a dock hustler physically grabbed Greg, and I had to wade into the crowd of greed-heads to mellow things out.

“Fatty, I am ready to cast off,” yelled Carolyn loudly from the bow. I could plainly hear the worry in her voice.

I didn’t rush to step back aboard. After all, I am a captain. I calmly and lovingly hugged Greg, Liz Ann, Sailor Sandy and Handsome Henry goodbye and said, “Thanks. You guys were great. I would sail with you anywhere, anytime.”

“It’s been, well, like a dream,” said Henry, and there was a catch in his throat.

His hug was strong.

Then I was back aboard Ganesh, ­gunning her away from the dock as Carolyn tidied up our tangle of grease-caked dock lines. We’d already cleared out in Colón. We were free.

“Ready to relax at sea for the next 45 days or so?” I asked Carolyn.

She smiled. “I’m all yours,” she said, and meant it.

Sometimes, after 48 years of bluewater sailing together, I have to be careful not to tear up around my best friend, my lover and my wife.

I glanced up at my masthead Windex. The wind was fair.

“Take the wheel,” I told her. “I’ll hoist the main.”

Cap’n Fatty and Carolyn are wrapping up three months in French Polynesia and setting sail for Tonga.

The post Transiting the Panama Canal appeared first on Cruising World.

I confess to having the wrong ­perspective when it comes to the city of Colón, Panama, at the ­Caribbean mouth of the Panama Canal. I see it as the last barrier, the last stand, if you will, of bureaucratic dirt dwellers ­attempting to prevent me from reaching the ­comparative paradise of the Pacific. I know that this is so geographically unfair. The port of Colón is more than a den of greedy thieves intent on robbing you with a ­fountain pen — or, so they say.

But my own personal prejudice is ­revealed in the first factoid I tell people about Colón: It is pronounced like the perfume but smells like the body part.

Oh, the stories I could tell about the old Panama Canal Yacht Club ­before the wharf rats stormed it ­into ­oblivion! The fly-speckled restaurant on ­premises sold a delicious and spicy “chicken special” (complete with tiny rib cage) that ­welcomed no inquiries as to ­ancestry. Where else but Colón does a ­shotgun-wielding security guard clear the street before allowing you to dash from your taxi to the cybercafe?

But every dark cloud has a silver ­lining. On one visit, we met a pugnacious ­German yachtsman who field-trained in martial arts each night by strapping on a fake Rolex and strolling into the no man’s land just outside the PCYC and taking on all comers. I ask you, where else but ­Panama offers a steady stream of young, eager live combatants willing to fight to the death daily? Where, indeed?

“And only four times have I lost a watch,” said the German warrior. “Only when someone pulled a gun or knife. You must come with me sometime, Fatty! The ghost of Bruce Lee would be proud!”

Yes, there were some interesting lounge lizards at the dilapidated PCYC. But that was 20 years ago, when the place had a certain Third World, tequila-­scented charm. It’s much worse now. Put it this way: In my watery world, the cowards choose Cape Horn rather than risk a night or two of slithering through the bureaucratic sewers of Colón. Nonetheless, we shoved off from St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands on our fourth circumnavigation with joyous hearts. Part of the bliss of being a sea gypsy is philosophical; you have to take the sweet with the bitter. We’d do a shakedown across the ­Caribbean, ­survive the greedy paper-pushers of Panama and be back in our beloved pearl-strewn Tuamotus in no time.

Alas, a persistent low-pressure zone just south of Santa Marta, Colombia, ­intensified and decided to have some fun at our expense. We’d just spent a year tooling around the benign Lesser ­Antilles, and it was time for an offshore reality check. Yes, we knew we were sailing ­into gale-force winds and an area of strong ­currents, but the low-pressure system was rudely in our way, and I’m a macho guy.

“How bad can it be?” I asked my wife, Carolyn, who looked stricken and ­replied, “That is always a stupid thing to say, ­Fatty. Always!”

It wasn’t the steady 36 knots of breeze that got us, or the gusts to 47; it was the weirdly jumbled current and ­confused seas. Oh, yes, and the cross swell too. It was like sailing through a wave-heaped storm cauldron with huge geysers of water clapping together into random ­mountainous wave trains.

Translation: It was rougher than I’d ­anticipated.

I have another confession to make: I’d just spent the past year shaking the ­money tree by giving cruising seminars, during which I was forced to listen to ­myself publicly proclaiming some small degree of intelligence coupled with a ­massive dose of bravery. And, well, it was impossible not to start to believe some of my sophomoric drivel! So, evidently, Mother Ocean and Neptune had a little meeting and decided to take De Fat Mon down a peg or two.

The first incident took place just ­after midnight, when the steering line that connects our Monitor windvane to our ­cockpit wheel broke. I was dozing au ­naturel in the aft cabin when we unexpectedly jibed, were caught aback, ­sharply heeled and started to round up. All this before I could say, “Where are my shorts?”

Normally, jibing our storm staysail isn’t too bad, but in these boisterous seas (think waves breaking astern and some coming aboard) it was somewhat exciting, believe me.

At once, I rushed on deck, ­pantsless, shoeless and brainless — evidently, the ­exact combo Ma Ocean and King Nep had hoped for. It was overcast. ­Numerous squalls were about. There was no moon, and the seas looked like dark, ­looming liquid mountains. Our intermittent ­compass light (the problem was hard to ­troubleshoot and fix because the bulb ­always worked in harbor) oriented me as to the vertical. I grabbed the helm, glanced at the Windex aloft and forced Ganesh‘s bow back down in the 30 to 40 knots of wind trying to round us up.

Sad to say, Carolyn, my partner offshore for 48 years, found this all amusing, especially my clothing disarray, so to speak. In the cockpit, there were snapping lines and a spinning self-steering clutch on the wheel, right at belt level.

She’s a bit of a feminist. “Ah,” she said with a smile from the companionway, “the advantages of an inboard rig! Watch the soft bits, honey.”

Then just when I had things back on course, our compass light strobed off. Then on. Then off.

“Damn it,” I hissed to her. “I haven’t been this disoriented since Studio 54.”

She sounded amazed. “Bits of the 1970s are starting to filter back into your ­consciousness?”

Gosh, she was in a playful mood!

I ­ignored her and instead ­concentrated on the blinking compass light while ­attempting to keep the careening ­surfboard of a boat on course.

“Loose connection,” I blurted out at one point. She knew that I’d replaced the compass light switch just before we left Great Cruz Bay.

“Perhaps the problem is in your ­brainstem,” she said, misunderstanding me completely.

In order to save money, we keep most of our electronics belowdecks to prevent water intrusion. In this case, I had to have Carolyn hand me the electric-powered ­autopilot head so I could connect its wires while steering with my hips amid the lumps and potholes. Occasionally, she’d shine her flashlight out at me, just to spice up the challenge.

“Give a man some modesty!” I bellowed.

“Must be scared,” she teased back as she tossed pieces of clothing my way.

Finally, I managed to dress, if ­wearing one shoe and inside-out sailing shorts qualifies as such.

“You are a fashionista,” she ­said, then added coyly, “Should I grab the ­camera for your many fans?”

“No time for posing,” I said hastily after the Robertson autopilot was engaged and tracking. “This SOB must fix the Monitor ASAP, OK?”

“L-O-L,” she replied.

It was a wild, storm-tossed night, and we both felt giddy. We came here for ­adventure, and we were getting it. What could be better?

Now, our Monitor windvane lives low on our boat’s generous transom. Re-­reeving the control line was difficult in a shipyard, and rather more so in 18-foot waves. Plus, I had to hang upside down, practically by my ankles. Occasionally, a tumbling sea boarded and made me wonder if that pain in my chest was my ribs breaking, my back straining or both.

Carolyn came out into the wave-dashed cockpit just in case she could help. I felt a surge of love. How lucky can one man be?

Finally, I managed to get the ­control line routed through the long stainless-­steel tube and out the turning block. Then I had to thread it through the ­rudder hole and secure it, with the wild gyrating ­rudder still mostly immersed in large seas.

“Ten,” I said aloud. “Ten.” Then a bit later, “10!”

“Meaning?” Carolyn asked from ­forward and above in the cockpit.

“Meaning I want to end this process with the same number of fingers I began it with!” I replied.

“You are such a wuss,” she chuckled.

Finally, I completed the task, crawled back into the cockpit, shut off the ­autopilot and engaged the Monitor. It held course.

I was too tired to do anything but ­collapse in Carolyn’s arms.

“My hero,” she said simply as she ­patted my head. We stayed that way for a long time. I was utterly content to remain within throbbing distance of her heart.

Bang! The Monitor’s other control line snapped.

This time I was quicker, and caught the wheel before we jibed.

“You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?” Carolyn asked.

“Well, a man can hope,” I said ­wearily as I crawled aft again. It turns out the problem wasn’t chafe so much as age and sun damage to the synthetic cordage. I guess hoping for two circs with the same steering lines is one too many.

A few days later, the wind was down to 25 knots and we were steering for a ­persistent smudge on the horizon. ­Carolyn, my Pactor babe, was twiddling the dials of her single-sideband radio. Her ham call sign is NP2MU, aka Miss ­Universe. There was an email from Herb McCormick at Cruising World. One of my fans (Andrew B) had messaged him to give us a heads up: There were riots in Colón.

“That smudge is tires, police cars and at least one major building downtown in flames,” Carolyn said.

I smiled. It was a test, just another ­cosmic trial. The gods were toying with us. Nothing new, really.

I shrugged, just as I’d seen Bogie do to Katharine Hepburn in the movie The ­African Queen.

“You ready for the pandemonium of civilization, Panamanian-style?” asked Carolyn.

I mimed rolling up my sleeves and ­taking the cheap wristwatch off my arm and putting it in my pocket, something that males born on the south side of ­Chicago are all-too familiar with doing.

“Let me at ’em,” I said confidently.

After an April transit of the Panama Canal, the Goodlanders pointed Ganesh’s bow straight at the Marquesas and French Polynesia.

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