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.

Me, go around Cape Horn? Seriously? Do I want to brave roaring, high-latitude gales just to earn an earring in my left ear? 

Um, no. 

When Harriet and I decided to trade the Atlantic for the Pacific, we kept Cape Horn at the bottom of our bucket list, especially because there’s a safe, enjoyable, fascinating way to swap the Atlantic for the Pacific that doesn’t involve an 8,300-nautical-mile detour. The Panama Canal, a roughly 50-mile-long journey through history, is a cruising milestone that opens up both oceans to long-distance exploration. 

Life is short, so why not take the shortcut?

Lots of help 

For cruisers reaching the Panama Canal Zone for the first time—as we did in mid-December on our Dolphin 460 catamaran, Ocean, after beginning our transit from Colón, Panama, on the Atlantic side—there’s lots of research and reading to tap into beforehand.

Start with historian David McCullough’s 1977 book, The Path Between the Seas, and follow that with books and websites that look at more-recent developments, such as the 1999 transfer of the canal from the United States to Panama and the 2016 opening of a second set of locks to ­handle the mammoth Panamax and Neopanamax vessels (up to 1,200 feet length overall, carrying as many as 14,000 20-foot containers). 

While you are waiting your turn to transit, we recommend checking out the Agua Clara Visitor Center in Colón or the Miraflores Visitor Center and the Panama Canal Museum on the Pacific side in Panama City, which is a modern, cosmopolitan city.

We had a lot of questions about the requirements and mechanics of transiting the
canal, such as the official admeasurement of our boat (length, beam, draft, tonnage speed under power, and details about our crew and deck equipment), and the line handlers (Panama Canal Authority-supplied crew, your own crew or crew from other cruising boats), and the necessary fenders and lines. There’s lot of help available online, including from the Panama Canal Authority itself, and you’ll no doubt meet other cruisers who have done the trip before. 

The Panama Canal operates around the clock 365 days a year, and communication about all aspects of the transit, in these days of email, texts and WhatsApp, is well-organized.

Need an agent? 

How’s your Spanish? As first-timers, we contacted a few cruisers who’d been through the canal, and their advice was yes, get an agent for the transit, especially if your command of Spanish is, um, basic. 

Our agent, Erick Galvez of Centenario Consulting, proved invaluable. He spoke English well; answered our questions quickly; explained every step of the transit; arranged our canal booking, our admeasurement and line handlers; kept us updated as our time slot drew closer; and helped us with non-canal stuff too. 

The transit requires ­supplying the right documents to the right government official in the right office at the right time, and given the language barrier, there’s a fairly high chance of things getting lost in translation. 

Overall, the cost of this enterprise, including the $1,500 transit toll for Ocean—and the transit admeasure, security fee, fenders and lines rental, agent service fee, Panama cruising permit, and one line handler and a pilot/adviser—came to just over $2,900.

Our transit

Before heading for the canal, we spent about 10 days chasing down boat projects at Shelter Bay Marina, a full-service facility a few miles from the canal entrance. Two friends from our late-’80s cruise through the South Pacific, Karen and Paul Prioleau, joined our boat for the transit, so we needed only one more line handler. Our agent arranged for Juan, who was studying to become a canal pilot, to join Ocean, and a Panama Canal Authority pilot boat met us to drop off Roy, our pilot/adviser, as we approached the first lock. 

Once we were safely inside the Gatun Locks, the bells of the electric locomotives clanged and the sliding steel sluice gate closed behind us. Twenty-six-million gallons of water flooded in, silently lifting Ocean, along with the 45-foot powerboat we were rafted to, and an imposing container ship, 27 feet above the Atlantic. 

Our crew was excited: “How cool is this!” Yes, the Panama Canal is very cool—suddenly you find yourself in the middle of amazing history and modern technology.

The rush of water boiling up in the chamber combined with prop wash from the ship just in front of us was alarming, but Roy had positioned Ocean in the best spot in the lock. It’s safer to be alone, if possible, with your lines keeping you in the center of the lock, or to be rafted to another yacht that is tied to the wall of the canal; avoid nesting to a tug or alongside the wall. 

Keep your two bow and two stern lines taut. We rented 125-footers of seven-­eighths polypropylene and eight round fenders from the Panama Canal Authority. Be sure to ease the lines to avoid a high upward load that could snap your cleats. 

We found that the counter-­rotating props of our cat’s twin 40 hp diesels helped Harriet adjust our position as needed; the prop walk of a monohull’s single screw will require more anticipation by your line ­handlers. In any case, your pilot/adviser and local line handlers are experienced (Roy and Juan had each transited more than 1,000 times) with all kinds of boats.

Once released from the three Gatun Locks, most yachts spend the night on an official mooring in Gatun Lake, resuming the transit early the next morning. Swimming from your boat is not allowed, however, because of crocodiles. This shortcut between the seas is also a slash through the jungle: howler monkeys, which are pint-size creatures swinging through the canopy, let loose a roar that sounds like an 18-wheeler, while jaguars and pumas pad through the rainforest. 

Oh, and if you transit during the May-to-November rainy season, it likely will be pouring: Panama receives 12 feet of annual rainfall. The timing of our one-day transit was a bit unusual, beginning at 0430 and finishing by 1700, so we missed the overnight stay among the crocs and jaguars and howler monkeys. We missed the rain too.

The rest of the transit was easy. The interoceanic waterway eases into long, winding stretches, including cuts through mountain ranges that were won at a tremendous cost in human life—an estimated 25,000 people perished from tropical diseases and industrial accidents during the canal’s 1880 to 1914 construction. Just two final sets of locks—the Pedro Miguel and the Miraflores—and the canal dropped us into the Pacific.

Well worth it

History and politics weigh heavily upon the Panama Canal, but for cruisers, the experience is equal parts educational and magical. 

More than 100 years ago, the ditch was dug with steam-powered diggers and men with shovels. Some of yesteryear’s leading-edge technology, such as the line-handling electric locomotives running on both sides of the locks, are still operating today. The canal’s million-dollar tugboats with omnidirectional propulsion are present-day cutting-edge. The six new Panamax locks are a showcase of engineering and construction; the colossal project consumed more than 1.5 billion cubic feet of concrete and 192,000 tons of steel reinforcement. The Panama Canal has functioned in spectacular fashion from its opening in 1914.

Our transit of the Panama Canal was memorable—a milestone for Harriet, me and Ocean. It’s also difficult to sum up. As McCullough wrote, “The 50 miles between the oceans were among the hardest ever won by human effort and ingenuity, and no statistics on tonnage or tolls can begin to convey the grandeur or what was accomplished.” 

For cruisers, it is all that, of course—plus it’s a fantastic shortcut. And worthy of an earring in your starboard ear.

As of press time, Tom and ­Harriet Linskey were headed to the ­Marquesas.

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A proposed Trans-Isthmus Corridor project across Mexico would connect the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific Ocean by rail and highway, which could serve as an alternative to the Panama Canal. When completed, cruisers could potentially haul out and truck their boat the relatively short distance from one side of the isthmus to the other.

President Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador is urging approval to build transportation along the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Nearly 190 miles across, the isthmus is the narrowest landmass in Mexico. Cargo companies and ­private-­vessel owners view the proposed project as an overland alternative to the Panama Canal, which many cruisers know can be intimidating, expensive, lengthy and sometimes dangerous. Mexico sees the Panama Canal as a ­monopoly, and this project as an opportunity to help customers with a new route to save time, distance and, potentially, money. By avoiding the canal route, the distance saved could be up to 1,000 nautical miles in either direction, although any cost savings is undisclosed at this time.

RELATED: Sailing to Mexico with the Baja Ha-Ha

The project would include a modern railway and highway to connect the Port of Salina Cruz in Oaxaca’s state on the Pacific with the Port of Coatzacoalcos in the state of Veracruz on the Gulf. Mexico envisions this project as a source of new jobs and increased competitiveness for its economy; it includes wind energy, business parks, telecommunications and services for the region. However, it is not without its critics, which include human-rights groups and environmental organizations. President Lopez Obrador cites a focus on helping the Indigenous people and the economy while protecting the environment—a tall order for a project of this size and ­complexity. If approved, the world will be watching to see that construction treads lightly because this region has one of the highest concentrations of biological species on Earth.

Historically, the isthmus was first used to haul ships by rail in 1907 when the American Hawaiian Steamship Company pulled its cargo vessels across on the Tehuantepec National Railway, carrying passengers and sugar from Hawaii to New York. This use ended due to politics between the US and Mexico, the Panama Canal opening in 1914, and World War I.

If this project is right for Mexico’s people and economy, let us hope that it will set a standard for major projects globally by also protecting Indigenous people and the environment.

The post A Panama Canal Alternative appeared first on Cruising World.

I scrambled out of the ­dinghy onto Minh’s transom steps as a last-minute addition to the crew, the required fourth line handler needed for a transit of the Panama Canal. The French-flagged 41-foot Fountaine Pajot catamaran was weighing anchor in the Flats anchorage near the Port of Colon, a staging area for vessels preparing to enter the waterway, bound for the Pacific.

Amid a flurry of activity, Bruno, the only English speaker, offered me a kindly welcome aboard as we felt a bump on the port side: Mr. Tito, the rental agent, was delivering four tires wrapped in plastic bags to use as fenders, and four stout 125-foot polypropylene hawsers, which were also necessary for the passage through the canal. In another moment, on the starboard side, a 40-foot steel pilot boat nosed within inches of our hull, and the Canal Authority adviser stepped aboard Minh. Right away, he instructed the captain to get underway and proceed along the 2-mile channel toward the Gatun Locks.

For many cruisers, a transit of the Panama Canal is a milestone accomplishment. The canal itself is an engineering wonder of the world. Completed in 1914, it consists of six locks and 45 miles of waterway, a shortcut between continents connecting the Caribbean Sea and the Pacific Ocean. It is immense in scale. Each lock is 85 feet deep, 1,000 feet long and 110 feet wide. For the original canal, the maximum dimensions for a Panamax vessel—the term used to describe the midsize cargo ships that will fit the locks—are 965 feet long and 106 feet wide. With only 2 feet to spare on each side, there is little room for pilot error. The design of this canal has dictated the parameters for shipbuilding worldwide for nearly a century.

There are three ways a yacht can proceed through the canal. Perhaps the most common is center-chamber lockage, where boats are rafted up two or three abreast. Yachts can also moor alongside a tugboat or small tourist cruise ship. Or they could be tied against the rough cement walls of the canal, less common and also less desirable because water turbulence can crash your rigging into the side wall. Our adviser told us we would raft up for a center-chamber configuration—one less thing to worry about.

As we motored ahead, we prepared the boat by covering the hatches and solar panels with seat cushions and other thick padding to protect them from the monkey’s fists, which are used by canal workers to heave messenger lines to the boats. We were gradually approached by another yacht, the 42-foot Froot Salid from Australia, to which we rafted up, as instructed by the advisers on each boat. Spring and breast lines held us firmly together. We entered the first Gatun lock after the ship ahead of us was secured. Canyonlike walls rose up on both sides. The captains kept the boats centered under the watchful eyes of the advisers, and soon the canal workers atop the high walls threw down the monkey’s fists with messenger lines to be tied to our hawsers. The workers hauled up our lines, and together the men and boats moved slowly forward to the proper position, where the workers secured our lines to bollards.

The advisers and canal workers communicate effectively with each other using walkie-talkies, but also by sharp whistling, reminding me of Scottish shepherds directing their dogs. I jokingly asked our adviser whether a man who couldn’t whistle could get a job here. He thought for a minute, laughed and said, “Probably not.”

In his book The Panama Cruising Guide (fifth edition), Eric Bauhaus gives comprehensive information pertaining to transiting the canal. As a line handler, there were two things I needed to keep in mind. First, having a hawser or any other line go afoul of the prop during the transit is bad—really bad. The water churning around the vessel while the lock is filling is turbulent, made even more dangerous by undercurrents and the mixing of fresh and salt water of different densities. Do not fall in; even if your dog falls overboard or your prop gets fouled, do not enter the water for any reason.

The second hazard is when the monkey’s fist is thrown to your boat. The fist consists of a ball of lead, covered with woven rope, and it’s enough to crack the cranium of the unlucky swabby who wanders into its path. I was vigilant when the lines were thrown to Minh but was startled when the monkey’s fist intended for Froot Salid landed just ahead of me on Minh’s deck!

When all was ready with the ship ahead and our rafted yachts, the massive lock gates behind us slowly closed. These impressive doors weigh 800 tons apiece, and are made from massive steel plates joined by hand-forged and hammer-driven rivets from the Steam Age. They are so precisely balanced on their hinges that only a 40 hp engine is required to open and close them.

When they were closed at last, the water began to swirl up in massive, powerful eddies, and the boats slowly rose. As this happened, the line handlers had to keep a steady tension on the hawsers, holding the boats in position against the turbulent waters. Pressures on the mooring cleats can be tremendous and in an upward direction, which the cleat installations must be able to withstand.

The churning water quieted, the lock was filled, and with a metallic rumble, the lock gate ahead opened. Four chunky electric locomotives, weighing 20 tons each, towed the ship forward into position inside the second lock. Once it was in position, our advisers directed us to move our rafted boats forward. Both vessels motored at dead slow into position, and the canal workers manning the bollards walked the hawsers along the wall and up the steps to the top of the next lock. Sharp whistles reminded us line handlers to raise our lines overhead as workers climbed the steps. When we moved into the canyon of the second lock, our lines were secured and the whole process slowly repeated, and again for the third Gatun Lock. After transiting these three locks, the boat lay 84 feet above the level of the Caribbean Sea from which we had started.

Halfway There

As the evening sky ripened to tangerine and scarlet, we left the third Gatun Lock and headed into Lake Gatun. This meandering lake was formed when the Rio Chagres was dammed to create a navigable waterway leading farther on toward the Pacific. The advisers guided us to a giant mooring float, where both boats moored securely with bow, stern and spring lines for the night. This is more convenient for prompt departures because anchors dropped in Lake Gatun might foul on 100-year-old logs or stumps still rooted beneath the dammed waters. As a chorus of howler monkeys heralded the approach of twilight, I dived overboard for a delicious swim in the sweet fresh water, and was soon joined by everyone on both boats, in spite of rumors about lurking crocodiles. Refreshed and relaxed, the wine was poured, the stars came out, and we slept.

After a French breakfast of coffee with fresh crepes and jam prepared by Annick and Charles-Henri, our advisers rejoined us around 0715 and we resumed our passage. We had to maintain a speed of at least 6 knots to stay on schedule. The well-marked shipping channel meanders just over 20 nautical miles through the lake. We kept to the side, as container ships and roll-on/roll-off ferries—or roros—passed us from both directions. It was a quiet passage, revealing glimpses of jungle vegetation, bird life and the geology of the isthmus as we went. Using a mixture of French, Spanish, Portuguese and English, we crewmembers and our cheerful adviser got to know each other a little better throughout the day.

Eventually, we approached the village of Gamboa, where Rio Chagres flows into Lake Gatun near the head of the Gaillard Cut. It is the only settlement along the canal because the waterway lies within a secured area of a large national park. Here the current running toward the Pacific becomes noticeable. Also, there is massive construction on the north side to widen the canal, so the water became muddy, and dreams of splashing in fresh water again slowly expired, if only for a minute. A drenching rain began, which continued for most of the afternoon.

Along the Gaillard Cut—also known as the Culebra Cut, which spans about 7.5 miles—the scenery changes. Here the canal was blasted and carved through rock and shale, right through the Continental Divide, making it the only continental divide on Earth you can sail across. It is still susceptible to landslides. There are sections where the steep, terraced cuts across mountainsides resemble Mayan step pyramids standing silent watch along the passage. Flanked on both sides by those pyramidlike mountains, we passed under the elegant Centennial Bridge, gracefully soaring above the canal.

I asked our Canal Authority adviser about the breakdown of yachts transiting the waterway. He estimated that of recreational boats moving into the Pacific, about 40 percent are French, 20 percent British, followed by German and Australian vessels. Relatively few American yachts pass through. Perhaps they are lured to stay in the Caribbean by the beautiful San Blas Islands, or the ease of obtaining permanent visa or residency offered by the Panamanian government. Fewer yachts pass from the Pacific to the Caribbean because the winds and currents to reach Panama’s Pacific coast are often contrary.

Going Down

We approached the Pedro Miguel Locks, the first descent toward the Pacific. We rafted this time to a brand-new Amel 64, crewed by at least 16 cheerful 20-somethings. Now the raft of yachts entered first, with a ship looming behind us. We stared at its bulbous bow, thinking that this is as close as we ever want to come to a yacht crusher like this. Over came the monkey’s fists and messenger lines; we secured the hawsers and prepared this time to slowly ease them out as the water fell. In the outgoing locks, the turbulence is much less.

Exiting the Pedro Miguel Locks, the system of buoyage changes. We were now outward-bound, so green markers were kept to starboard; it was “port wine” from here on out.

We proceeded on through the man-made Lake Miraflores to the final two Miraflores Locks. In these chambers, we were lowered another 54 feet. As we approached the first lock, the sky opened up and rain poured down again, continuing for the entire transit of both locks.

The young people on the Amel were singing, dancing and playing guitar in the downpour. On Minh, Andre gallantly stood with a little umbrella over Annick, who was handling the port bowline on the final lock; both of them were soaked to the skin. Bruno mimed a shower scene using his line like a scrubber to wash his back. Laconic Charles-Henri would’ve been chewing a cigar if he’d had one, hunkered down at the wheel. All of this was observed by hundreds of tourists in the cozy, dry observation tower overlooking the second lock. As we exited into the Pacific, there, floating like a log in the water, lurked a fair-size crocodile.

Waving farewell, we separated from the Amel as the sun melted in the west, and proceeded to the Balboa anchorage where a Canal Authority vessel nosed alongside to pick up our adviser. We anchored at La Playita near the Flamenco Marina in Panama City. Already we were starting to feel the creeping nostalgia of a passage completed.

Our final dinner together was at a little cafe with great wood-oven pizza, wine and multilingual chat. In the morning we would go our separate ways. Annick and Andre would return to their boat in Portobelo, to bring it through the canal in a few weeks; Charles-Henri and Bruno would sail Minh on to the Marquesas and Tahiti. I would rejoin friends Claudia and Rolf aboard Tika and continue our cruise along the steamy Caribbean coast of Panama.

A lifelong sailor and licensed captain, Diane Gorch has been voyaging on yachts around the world for the past eight years.

Know before you go

When do boats go through: Most cruising boats transit from the Caribbean Sea to the Pacific Ocean, and traffic peaks in February and March. This backs out to an optimal arrival time in French Polynesia’s Marquesas Islands (nearly 4,000 nautical miles away) as the Southern Hemisphere’s cyclone season wanes. To avoid the crush, plan to transit before the World Cruising Club rally passes through in late January. Earlier departures allow an interlude at the Galapagos; it’s easy to bide time in the beautiful Pearl Islands on Panama’s Pacific side too.

Plan ahead: Cruising boats can’t reserve a date in advance; it’s determined after official measurement and payment are completed with canal authorities. Even a quick transit will take a few days to complete these steps. During peak season, it might be several weeks from the time your boat is measured until your assigned transit date.

Cost to transit: Tolls for transiting the canal are set to hike on January 1, 2020, for the first time since 2012. Boats up to 65 feet will be charged a toll of $1,600; for most, that’s double the prior toll. Fees for measurement and security add nearly $200 in additional fixed costs. Other expenses include a Panama cruising permit; the cost to rent lines and fenders (standard boat gear is not sufficient); line handlers, if you need them; and, if you choose, an agent to handle arrangements. It’s easy to add another $1,000 in expenses to the transit.

Equipment required: Four robust lines of 1 to 1.5 inches diameter and at least 125 feet long are obligatory. Fenders too are necessary, and the standard kit on most cruising boats won’t cut it. Many boats use car tires wrapped in plastic to prevent scuffing, but large, sturdy fenders can be rented. Hiring an agent can be a shortcut to quality gear at reasonable rental rates, but it’s also entirely achievable to do this on your own. One requirement we didn’t anticipate was sufficient cockpit shade for the adviser; Totem was required to add canvas to our Bimini frame before transiting. It’s your responsibility to provide meals, snacks and beverages (Coca-Cola preferred) for your ACP (Panama Canal Authority) adviser.

Crew aboard: In addition to the ship’s captain, four line handlers are required. It’s common to pick up crew from other cruising boats, since transiting as a line handler is a time-tested way to gain valuable experience before taking your own vessel through. Experienced handlers can be hired if necessary for about $100 per person. In addition, you’ll also have an adviser assigned by the ACP on board for the duration of the active transit (advisers don’t spend the night aboard in Gatun, but line handlers will).

Greatest risks: Situations such as a line handler thinking about capturing the scene on a GoPro or cellphone instead of listening for directions; cleat access that’s encumbered by deck clutter; or a language barrier between adviser, captain and line handlers all present risks to crew and vessel safety, and are all too common in creating stressful situations during a transit.

Greatest assets: The assigned adviser is key to a safe transit: They have years of canal experience to understand the nuances of current flow in particular locks. A strong adviser, as well as a crew who listens and responds to that adviser, are the greatest assets for an uneventful transit.

Transit duration: Most cruising boats transit in two days, anchoring overnight in Lake Gatun. For boats that can motor at least 7.5 knots, a single-day transit might be assigned; this pre-dawn start winds down by late afternoon and is assigned at the ACP’s discretion.

Canal resources: The official Panama Canal site (pan canal.com/eng) is packed with information, but it’s not terribly user-friendly. By contrast, Mad About Panama’s website has a downloadable eBook with a clear orientation to all aspects of a canal transit. Outside the canal, Eric Bauhaus’ book, The Panama Cruising Guide, is a recognized authority.

Canal transit isn’t just about execution; it’s about the experience. Thanks to the historical nature of the canal, a wealth of books exists to increase your appreciation: The Path Between the Seas by David McCullough is one of the more exceptional reads. A visit to the museum at the Miraflores Locks for a real-time view and interpretive exhibits enriches a later transit. Don’t forget to have friends grab screenshots of your boat in one of the many webcams when your canal day arrives!

For Totem’s posts on costs, process and experience, visit sailingtotem.com.

—Behan Gifford

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

Each time I’ve transited the Panama Canal (as I write this, I’m completing my third), I’ve carefully studied the waves of first the Caribbean Sea and then the Pacific Ocean. They are slightly, but distinctly, different.

Perhaps it’s the increased salinity of the Pacific. (Once, I pulled into New Zealand after a severe gale with stanchions that looked like they had snow caked on one side, thanks to all the encrusted salt.) As a sailor, I first picked up on a subtle wave variation between oceans in Japanese art prints. The waves in the pictures always looked slightly off to my East Coast-America eye. Now I realize it’s because they were Northern Pacific waves: slightly mistier, sharper and more jagged.

I suppose all of us are intrigued with the neighborhoods we grow up in, and I grew up in Oceanus. As an adult, I divide up my watery world into three smaller, more definable ’hoods: the Atlantic, Pacific and Indian oceans.

The Atlantic is, for me, the most illustrious. It is incredibly rich in maritime traditions. It’s the home of nearly all my childhood sailing heroes. Mystic Seaport in Connecticut is the closest this sailor ever gets to a land-church. Ah, the shipwrights of Maine, Cape Cod and City Island. There’s Minot’s Ledge Light and its blinking message of love (1, 4, 3: I love you); Boston Harbor; Throggs Neck; Marblehead and New Bedford and its wheeling seagulls; the skipjacks of the Chesapeake; Cape Hatteras; Joshua Slocum; John G. Alden; Nathaniel Herreshoff; Olin Stephens.

It was in the Atlantic that Howard Blackburn, a humble Gloucester cod fisherman, left most of his fingers frozen to his dory oars years before he started singlehanding across the Pond in an engineless, gaff-rigged craft of modest dimensions.

Landlubbers ponder the Mystery of the Bermuda Triangle, when, of course, there’s no mystery there whatsoever to an offshore sailor. It’s the most heavily traveled body of water and has a major ocean current, the Gulf Stream, which is regularly opposed by gale-force winds. (With one hand you can count the times I’ve been scared in 53 years of ocean sailing: two have been in that same Gulf Stream and one occurred where the Indian South Equatorial and Agulhas currents collide off the north tip of Madagascar).

Why the Atlantic is still considered the graveyard of ships is because it was the civilized world’s ocean crossroads for so many adventurous decades. The Atlantic is relatively small as Earth’s oceans go, but it packs a lot of action into its confined space. The south Atlantic is amazingly benign and almost totally hurricane free. Harborless St. Helena is my favorite island between South Africa and South America. It’s a watery, wave-tossed community that is still obsessed with Napoleon Bonaparte, as if he’d died just yesterday. If you have to cross an ocean in an Optimist pram, make sure it’s the South Atlantic — you can even use a candle as a compass light.

It’s the North Atlantic that captures all the attention. The passage through the cut into the harbor at St. George’s Island, Bermuda, is a voyage-weary sailor’s moment to be cherished forever. It’s akin to pulling into the Azores or the Canaries after a full ocean’s crossing.

The unique feature of the Atlantic is the Bermuda High, which sits fairly stationary in the middle of the sea during the summer months, spinning like a clock. It plays a large part in all Atlantic weather, particularly the Caribbean trade winds and the Gulf Stream.

Far, far before the time of Columbus, ocean navigators knew this, and that’s why they told the Admiral of the Ocean Sea to head south to the Canaries before attempting to cross westward to the West Indies, which, of course, weren’t the Indies at all. “Leave low, return high,” is still the mantra of European cruisers taking off a year to sail the Caribbean and East Coast of America, with the prevailing winds and currents astern the entire time.

Directly south of the Bermuda High is an area of calms still known as the Horse Latitudes. Horses are thirsty creatures. According to lore, if a west-bound transport ship cut the corner of the Bermuda High too closely, they’d be becalmed. The men would immediately be put on half water rations, so the parched cargo would survive. But if the horses began to die, the remaining ones would have to be run off the deck by the weak, weary crew. Horses can swim for a long time. Horses can suffer for a long time. They can also scream and whinny and foam at the mouth for a long, long time. Even worse, they’d try to clamber back aboard, hoofs frantically clawing on the hot, swelling, sun-bleached topsides. Meanwhile, the ships were unable to sail away for want of breeze. It was madness, pure madness, which caused more than one ol’ salt to slip his hawser and go insane.

As a circumnavigator, I have tremendous respect for the Atlantic. Her weather is fickle. Rocks abound. Currents rip. Sirens lure. You never feel perfectly comfortable there, not like in the Pacific. But the Atlantic is a great teacher. If you learn her often cruel lessons, the rest of the world is smooth sailing by comparison.

The Pacific strikes me as far more benign. Yes, its distances are vast, but its weather is usually stable. The giant waves the surfers ride in Hawai‘i are mere wave trains when encountered by an experienced Polynesian navigator, known as a wayfinder.

I think of the Pacific as home to the Mythical Isles because the Polynesian gods will nonchalantly chat with you in Fatu Hiva and Bora-Bora.

The Polynesians are utterly beautiful and naturally sensuous; even the manliest of the men are beautiful beyond belief. Gauguin captured the colors and the eroticism of these sun-drenched isles perfectly. It’s easy to be bewitched here. I have been smitten many times and still am, I guess.

On one voyage through the Pacific, we were adopted by the entire village of Kauehi, in the Tuamotus. We could take any fish in the lagoon and pick any fruit from the trees. What more could any man ask for? Heaven, for me, is wandering the Tuamotus with neither clock nor calendar. This is where my sailing family set off for in the mid 1950s, and it remains our personal, private rendition of Homer’s Ithaca.

In a sense, my whole life has been spent either sailing the Pacific or preparing to. The vast distances between islands intimidate some sailors — in the Caribbean, most of the isles have 40 or so miles between them; 1,000-plus isn’t unusual in the vast, vast Pacific. But I don’t view the distances that way. To me, the islands aren’t far apart; rather, the dangers are few. It’s the land I fear, not the sea.

But the best I’ve saved for last: The Indian Ocean is my favorite big body of water. It offers a myriad of advantages, at least to this sailor’s eye.

First, it blows down south. If you want full-on sailing with high winds and big seas, head there because the Roaring Forties truly roar. You’re completely on your own too. There is no nitpicking Nanny State a-tall.

Secondly, it’s culturally incredibly varied. Think Australia, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, India, the Mideast, Chagos, Madagascar and Africa. There is no superpower lining its shores. There’s an advantage to not having a bully in the neighborhood.

In the Atlantic, you sail from civilization to civilization. In the Pacific, world cruisers still sort of “hold hands” on their way to New Zealand. Only in the Indian Ocean is it every man-jack for himself. To the north of the equator across the Indian Ocean, the wind is monsoonal. Imagine the Caribbean trade winds reversing direction every six months and you’ve got the picture. This means you can get from anywhere (say, Chagos) to anywhere east or west (say, Malaysia or Africa) by sailing dead downwind if you’re patient and wait for the monsoonal shift. Or shift hemispheres to pick up an opposite breeze. Patience is, of course, a sailor’s virtue. Cruising is as much attitude as skill. The power boater wants to go when he’s ready; the sailor, when the conditions allow. That’s why, even while sharing the same ocean, we’re philosophically worlds apart.

Once upon a time, I sailed Lake Michigan. Ultimately, I knew it like the back of my own hand. Ditto, the Caribbean. It’s fun to sail in home waters, where the charts are etched forever in your head. But now, as we sit in Panama, waiting to strike off across the vast Pacific and with the Indian Ocean still farther beyond, I feel that I’m living my destiny, sailing my dream, ocean mile by ocean mile.

Even as a child, I didn’t want to be a policeman or fireman or park ranger; I wanted to be a sailor. Now we are on the Balboa side of the Panama Canal, idly observing the waves. My arm is around my wife, Carolyn. The air smells like cotton candy. The sky above and the ocean that’s calling are both bluer than blue. We sit poised on the tip of another great adventure. The horizon calls, the entire world beckons, but phrases fail.

“What’s next?” asks my wife, lover and fellow sailor of 43 blissful years.

“Some sailing?” I ask.

She thinks about it, pauses, and smiles as she considers the next year or two. “I could use more pearls,” she admits.

“The Tuamotus,” I say, “are but a broad reach away.”

“And some of that flowered fabric in Papeete.”

“We’ll chill out in Moorea for a while too,” I agree, “and check out the mantas of Bora-Bora.”

“It would be great if this time we could finally afford one of those carved paddles from that fishing village just south of Nuku‘alofa.”

“Sure.” I smile. “Tonga, Fiji and Vanuatu are all on the list.”

“As much as I don’t want to retrace any of our steps,” she muses.

“You’d love to go back to Borneo, Southeast Asia, Chagos and Madagascar, right?”

“Exactly,” she says, and giggles. “Westward!”

“Westward ho!” I agree.

Fatty and Carolyn, aboard their Wauquiez 43, Ganesh, are bound for French Polynesia, one landfall at a time. Click here to read more from Cap’n Fatty.

The post Three Oceans and Several Fat Notions appeared first on Cruising World.

Beached

Ashore, my driving skills supplied endless material for family jokes, and since some things never change, my skills at the helm now fit that bill. So, I knew the family grapevine would blaze like an out of control wildfire when pictures hit their computer screens of our 53-foot Catana catamaran, Esprit de Tizza, parked in the sand at a resort in Panama.

We had set sail from the Panama Canal, eight degrees north of the equator, during rainy season. Cumulus clouds morphed into a tumultuous squall and belched a thundering roar. Lightning pierced the sky and sparred with our mast as we navigated around anchored ships waiting their turn to transit the Panama Canal. Logs, washing down the rivers into the ocean, reared up like cowboys on bucking bulls and rode the water’s foaming fury around us. At the helm, my husband cautiously maneuvered through the stationary and mobile monoliths. I nervously dashed about the cockpit in my reflective foul weather gear. Glowing in the electrical storm charges like a neon rubber duck, I attempted to sight the debris before an encounter brought our ride to a complete stop.

Fortunately, the squall passed quickly and the sun peeked out, highlighting freshly washed rainforest greens on the island of Contadora, 38 nautical miles south of Panama’s Balboa Yacht Club. Contadora, a frequent venue for Central American political meetings and a vacation spot for wealthy Panamanians, appeared inviting. But we sailed on to less developed islands further south in the Las Perlas archipelago, lured by the stories we’d read of their beauty.

The islands of Morro de Cacique and Isla del Rey provided hours of kayaking and exploring between peacefully dreamy catnaps in the cockpit hammock. On our approach to the Don Bernardo anchorage at Isla Pedro Gonzalez, the sun dissolved into the sea and ended another delightful day. We were tucked in tight beside the tiny islet on the east coast of the island and noticed a white cross crowning its peak. It was illuminated in the colorful burst of sunset. Hand-cut stone stairs, carved steeply through thick vegetation led to the cross that ignited our imaginations but suggested sacredness.

Dawn the next day accentuated the island’s practical beauty. Two dwellings, hidden at dusk, were visible now. Fishermen sat visiting and preparing their boat for departure. We sat admiring the velvet beach and commenting on the magnitude of the 18-foot tidal range-optimal conditions for careening.

My husband is an experienced sailor with a sense of humor and an uncanny ability to play my gullibility. So when he suggested driving the boat up on the beach, it sounded more like a conversation I would start with, “Honey, there’s something I need to tell you…”

Though anxious to take advantage of this rare opportunity to careen, we thought it more appropriate and courteous to receive permission first. Going ashore with our two children, we approached an isolated dwelling at the far end of the beach. In front of the home, flat rocks had been placed strategically to create a functional and aesthetically pleasing knee-high sea wall with stairs. Beyond the wall, the yard was sculpted from the rainforest flora and swept spotlessly clean with a palm frond broom. The thatched-roof home, built on stilts above the high water line, had framed openings in the front and rear to provide ventilation. Dots of color bloomed from hanging plants inside while a hand carved sign at the door reflected pride and warmth. Chickens roamed freely in the yard and clucked with mild interest at our presence.

A slight-framed man with gray hair and wise eyes emerged from the house with the aura of a native chief. Beside him his protective dog, the size of a peanut shell, tried out a territorial bark quite contrary to his wildly wagging tail that begged the kids to play. With motions and our best gringo Spanish, we requested permission to beach our boat and received his consent.

Our preparations started with combing the beach at low tide for the most even-sloping spot free of rocks and debris. Identifying a clear area, we visually noted a log on the beach as a reference point. Then using our kayak, we traced our approach in the clear water to search for any underwater obstacles we would need to avoid or clear with our four-and-a-half-foot draft when coming ashore. There were none.

RELATED: Tips for Transiting the Panama Canal

The plans in order, we turned our attention to the inspiring serenity of the island. We indulged in a deliciously fresh tropical meal and a siesta before entertaining the kids with more swimming, snorkeling, and kayaking. It was early to bed and early to rise as the following morning’s high tide was at 6:30.

With an invigorating breath of morning air and some strong Panamanian coffee, we raised our anchor and eased toward the driftwood that marked landing spot. As we approached, we noticed a side current not evident at yesterday’s low tide, so we dropped our stern anchor to prevent us from swinging. My husband reminded me it was imperative to rest the hulls perpendicular to the water’s edge to achieve even weight distribution. Otherwise, the boat could suffer structural damage. We inched forward intermittently snubbing the stern anchor rode to keep our boat straight.

Next we needed to set our bow anchor to hold the bow to the beach until the ebbing tide rested our hulls in the sand. I had dropped our hook hundreds, probably thousands of times. Under normal circumstances, we just drop it, then back down to set it. But now we’d have to drop the anchor and then hand set it slightly farther forward to secure the boat. As this was my first attempt at careening, I was anxious to impress my husband with my aptitude.

As we crept forward, I let go the anchor rode dropped the bow anchor. Circulating strong coffee through my system instead of brain stimulating oxygen, I leaped over the bow fully clothed and prepared to manually nudge our 75-pound spade anchor the necessary few feet. Unfortunately, the clear water was deceptive and well over my head. I clung to the chain smiling, giving the thumbs up, and pretended to be making progress. John, though, suggested I come back on board and try again. We advanced into shallower water.

After a short game of tug of war with the anchor lines, we secured taut bow and stern lines in water that was deep enough to ensure we wouldn’t become a permanent landmark. We lowered the dinghy from the davits while still afloat to reduce unnecessary weight on the hulls and to provide a source of play for the kids so they could paddle about at the end of our tethered painter. John shut down seawater dependent boat systems, then dropped the swim ladder for getting on and off board while beached. As the water began to recede, Tizza nested her hulls in the sand for her afternoon mechanical examination and cleaning.

With the exception of changing zincs, disassembling or repairing either of our three-blade folding propellers must be done out of the water, and we expected they’d need some attention. Due to a line handler getting his line caught in our port propeller during our Atlantic-to-Pacific transit of the canal, we had hauled out recently in Panama City to check for damage and to apply new bottom paint. When back in the slings, the travel lift bumped another boat as it approached the launch and sent Tizza swinging. We had not been lifted properly and our forestay slammed into the crossbeam of the travel lift. The result was grease our new head sail and cosmetic damage to our hull. Back in the water, we sensed a slight vibration that suggested the possibility of damage to the propeller once again. It was an easy decision not to haul out at that yard again for an inspection.

As the water ebbed, John began washing the waterline and taking care of routine maintenance as he waited for the propellers and zincs to become exposed.

Meanwhile, when the kids tired of their imaginary adventure in the tethered dinghy, I took them to explore tide pools and go for a swim. The chief appeared with his dog and spoke emphatically. I was able to interpret danger as he suggested the kids should not swim in our chosen spot. Grateful for his local knowledge and warning, I started packing up our things so we could go the area he deemed safe. As I was packing, he nodded toward our French-made and named boat and inquired flawlessly, “Parlez-vous francais?”

My Spanish has progressed to mildly amusing, but my French is still strictly limited to a travel phrase book. I replied in Spanish, no. He asked me if we liked mangoes but walked away before I finished my lengthy reply of yes.

I was a little puzzled, but quickly turned my full attention back to our children splashing wildly in the water again. Moments later, the chief placed two overflowing bags of mangoes in the middle of the beach then walked away without a word. Being the only other people within miles, there was little doubt the mangoes were meant for us.

I collected the freshly picked mangoes and returned to the boat to refill his bags with items I thought he might appreciate: pasta and sauce, bread and preserves, homemade chocolate chip cookies, and a cold beer. The kids and I walked them to his house and called from the stairs of the seawall. There was no answer, though we knew he was there, so my daughter set the bags on the stairs out of the chickens’ reach.

Back at the boat, John had completed the work list successfully and the slack tide was beginning to flow. As we prepared to leave, the chief returned with another two bags of mangoes and a smile. We thanked him and said goodbye. It was a mystifying but memorable exchange that I hoped was a simple demonstration of mutual respect.

We shackled our tender back to the davits but left it floating to keep weight off the hulls. When we were fully afloat, we first raised our bow anchor and then hoisted up the dinghy. Smooth as Tupelo honey. Moments later however, marriage vows were tested as I attempted to raise the stern anchor without getting yet another line caught in the propeller.

When my mission was accomplished, I admitted I wasn’t ready to write the textbook on beaching a cat, but I proudly added a new notch to my sailing belt.

A few months later, happenstance found us on the beach again. Cruising friends had invited us to sail to Taboga, eight miles south of the Balboa Yacht Club. Known as the Island of Flowers, Taboga tastefully blends natural and manicured beauty to create a charming retreat from the hustle and bustle of Panama City. Among its attractions are the ruins of the sanatorium that housed French canal builders plagued with malaria and yellow fever. One noted patient was French Impressionist, Paul Gauguin, who once worked as a laborer on the canal. Colorful tributes to Gauguin grace the sanatorium’s entrance while a short hike up the road from the sanatorium leads to breath-taking ocean views. Taboga also has a soft, sandy isthmus that’s exposed at low tide. Once again, we were presented with the opportunity to careen for routine maintenance.

This time, conditions allowed us to simply set our stern anchor then motor forward until our bows rested in the sand. It was an easy on and easy off this beach. I surmised careening is like so many other things in sailing…you can strive to perfect technique, but Mother Nature often dictates the outcome. She granted us pristine conditions in Taboga, and a picture worth a thousand laughs amongst our family.

Claudia Lee-Ottman and her family are in New Zealand, where, they report, they’re continuing their cruising and having fun.

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