Of Foreign Build (27 page)

Dad pulled his weight and matched our hours on shift. It was really odd that both Noel and I could sleep at the same time while sailing. I got up every hour or so to check on Dad during his watch, not because I thought he couldn’t cope, but because I felt it was a lot to ask. Standing night watches on a sailboat while traversing a difficult sea, is not easy. But, I needn’t have worried.

Four days after leaving Jamaica’s shores, the bouncy but speedy ride delivered us safely into the sanctuary of the San Blas islands. We all relished the dawn welcome into what would reveal itself as paradise. On asking our newest crew member what he would remember most about his first off-shore sail, he grinned and exclaimed, ‘The dolphins! The dolphins were the highlight, seeing them leap towards the boat I could almost hear them sing yippee!’ Watching over twenty of these beautiful, friendly animals guide
Mariah
along, while taking advantage of a free ride on our bow, was a gift he would never forget. I was elated that I could be part of that with him and perhaps I had finally given something back to him, after everything he had done for me.

As for me, the weirdest thing was sleeping, while sailing, at the same time as Noel. Normally one of us was always on watch; my memories of Dad surviving within our strange world with a cheery smile and willingness to learn and take part in all aspects of the boat, left me feeling proud.

‘You gife mi fiv dollar,’ the abrupt stocky Indian pointed sharply at me, himself, and our timber boat with his leathery finger.

Here we go again
, I thought, with vivid memories of cunning Egyptians, shrewd Malaysians, and darn right calculating Caribbeans. His worn hands reached to his pocket and revealed a slim printed receipt book. For once, I was grateful for my indecision of reaction and the official booklet declared the five American dollars fee for sailing boats to stay in the San Blas, for up to a month. Our new smiley friend showed his relief as he witnessed the proverbial penny dropping in our salt sluggish minds. We gladly exchanged cash for receipt.

‘Bambino,’ he nodded his wrinkly head at the young girl curled up at the end of their sturdy, dugout canoe. Her dazzling smile lit up her eyes, the sun had yet to perform its harshness on her smooth, brown skin. ‘Mag-a-zine,’ old smiley pronounced with some difficulty. We were pitifully short on glossy magazines; it was a rich request. The one tattered, but colourful, publication exhumed from the bowels of
Mariah’s
burdened hull caused the youthful youngster to hold her breath. A small whimper confirmed she was breathing again as she gratefully clasped the smooth pages and immediately became lost within the colourful pictures and foreign printed words.

‘A gift,’ the next words, painstakingly practiced from her cheerful dad. He handed over three large, un-ripe avocados. ‘Quatro dias,’ he said with a more comfortable tongue, they would be ready to eat in four days.

Behind schedule by three months (due to problems on terra firma not nautical), we had hurriedly sailed two thousand five hundred miles in just six weeks to enable us to witness for ourselves why the San Blas was “a place to see.” We were also preparing for the Panama Canal experience, traversing the magnificent Pacific Ocean, and heading home to Australia.

It was not what the San Blas Islands had so much, but rather it was what they hadn’t got that made them special. The necklace archipelago that threaded its way along the northern Panama coast was happily void of ugly, noisy jet skis and thumping music. Absent were the flamboyant tourist boats skimming our bow, housing burnt faces straining to peer into our home. The glorious silence with only the backing rhythm of the gentle rolling ocean was soothing, even the flies buzzed in a soft key.

I think most cruisers have a certain respect for places they visit, such as the San Blas Islands. As we took our first steps in paradise, it was extraordinary to feel and witness the respect. There was a display of pretty shells left untouched for all to enjoy, a pile of coconuts set in neat piles next to a mismatched bench in a welcomed shady spot, no litter to tarnish the beautiful picture. Our mementos were, more often than not, gathered at beaches: a shell, piece of washed up coral, and even an old Cuban paddle hung precariously around
Mariah’s
innards. Here, we did not want to touch or take anything, this place should be left as it was found; it was like an unwritten, unspoken rule.

San Blas has 365 islands, but some figures say there are up to 379. I imagined appointed island counters kicking back and enjoying the peaceful scenery, and then losing their place. Besides who really cares exactly how many there are! On each flat atoll the strapping, vivid, green palm trees bestow cool, dark shade to the Kuna Indians that inhabit some of the islands. This indigenous group offered us a warm welcome, but they were a tough bunch. After decades of conflict and a short war with the Panamanian government in 1925, the victorious Kuna won a self-governing region of 2,360 km² they call Kuna Earth (Kuna Yala).

Around 35,000 Kuna’s lived here, scattered from thirty to a few thousand per village. The brawny Indians, as you would expect, fish and cultivate their coconut plantations. They didn’t do too badly from cruisers, too.

The vibrant women paddle daily in their tough, dugout canoe to each boat swinging in the welcomed breeze.

‘
Molas, molas,’
they called, which was wasted on our inadequate Spanish tongue. Gran, mum, and daughters made it clear that each pile of
m
olas
they tried to sell were individual to each of them. To keep them all happy I felt I should buy one from each, but that was not going to happen at around fifty American dollars a-piece!
Molas
are intricately hand stitched, many layered, cotton panels, which depict colourful turtles, parrots, or indigenous patterns. Muddling the separately crafted pieces left you on the end of some severe tutting.

‘Don’t tell anyone about this place,’ our new neighbour on the New York boat said after we bid them good morning and exclaimed our astonishment at the beauty of our surroundings. As we gazed around the picture book islands and reefs that formed a perfectly protected anchorage, we felt like we should have been in that glossy magazine we gave away. Crystal clear beckoning water, model palm trees that were the healthiest thing we’d seen since vegemite sandwiches, and glistening sandy islands that appeared to have just had a make-over and were ready for their photo shoot with
Vogue
magazine.

The sandy islands summoned us to explore their shady secrets. We exhausted ourselves by snorkelling within the dazzling live reefs, matched only by the Great Barrier Reef. My weary limbs were cajoled by the excitement of further exploration, and I took a solitary ride to a partially inhabited island. Tacking through the abundant waving shallows, I was alerted by whistles showing me where to land the dinghy. The natives hauled up the dinghy and tried to peer into my bag for goodies. Endlessly embarrassed by my lack of Spanish, I tripped over words spoken in English laced with a Spanish accent, hoping something would catch. ‘Salade, Banan, tomat,’ I chanted in a poor mimic of their tone. We all ambled into their tiny village centre, where two strong huts weaved down into the dirty sand with dried palm leaves surrounding a ramshackle table amidst the dust. Fresh lemons, avocados, and bananas were assembled by the excitable children who stared at me – a stranger daring to enter their home, alone. The small bounty was just four American dollars. I did not attempt to negotiate, but pulled out of my bag two extra dollars, popcorn, and a small magazine to show my appreciation for making me welcome and perhaps enabling me to take a couple of photos. Sighting the camera, the chief put on his shirt, lined up two incongruous pink and blue plastic chairs, and sat down stiffly with his wife.

‘Not what I had in mind,’ I muttered, but obligingly took the picture. With a bit more chocolate and even a coke (I felt a tad stingy with yesterday’s coke purchases), a lot of hand movements and miming, I convinced our smiley, avocado gift-friend to take a picture with me, the fruit on the dusty table, and all his family. Trustingly, I handed over the camera with foreign instructions and frantically waved at all the kids to gather around. Many smiles, giggles, and shaky pictures later, we bade farewell with the promise of my return with a black and white print-out of their pictures.

With Dad in tow, I returned with the printed pictures. Squeals of joy permeated through the solid palms out onto the flat, green-blue water as the chief unrolled the photos.

‘Come, come,’ beckoned a new arrival. She trotted off east, with my dad and I trying to keep pace in the dusty path, dodging falling coconuts. Summoning her husband, she expounded the details of the new pictures that I presented, and we were met with a toothless, mischievous grin from her cheeky husband. Raucous laughter bellowed from the gathering crowd as our new friends posed for pictures, calling us to sit with them and cuddling each other, a tactile show that I think was usually for private.

An hour later, on board
Mariah
,
we handed the remaining pictures to the younger girls of the family who had paddled over to see us. They could hardly wave farewell, as they tipped the canoe by gathering at one end to grasp an early peek of the pictures. The thrill etched on their faces and eager fingers gave us our own joy and memory that was equally imprinted in our minds.

As some sailboats drifted silently away and others puttered in, we wondered if it was too late to keep San Blas as it was. On the well-worn routes, sailors ply around our planet the San Blas islands were an ideal location to stop at before dealing with, and ironing out, the mountainous rumours that cloaked the Panama Canal. The cruising grapevine would keep growing, weaving its information to all who explore, revealing this enchanted archipelago. I wrestled with myself while writing an article about our experience in the San Blas, advertising such a place in a popular magazine.

After three days, it was time to leave. We opted for a night sail to Colon City on the mainland of Panama. The cool night with its bright full moon brought a welcomed reprieve to the still, sticky days.

A shroud of mystery enveloped the modus operandi for traversing the Panama Canal. Gossip, rumour, and dare I say, a little tittle-tattle gave the crew of
Mariah II
some serious frowns as we approached the infamous isthmus.

There were assorted methods to choose from to achieve the same thing; whether at anchor, or in the mosquito-infested marina, there was a standard three days to complete all the paperwork. Once you had handed over all your dollars to everyone you met, lied through your teeth, and signed your life away, you accomplished your “go through” date. Depending how you reached this highly sought status, those three days could be effortless or could feel as though you had a three-day pass into hell.

Colon was a dangerous city. It had been for years, and there was no sign of improvement. Almost thirty percent of the population were unemployed and their idea of making a buck was somewhat frightening. While at anchor we heard about a death and several muggings only two hundred yards from the cool, shabby bar on shore. The anchorage (which was called The Flats) was safe, but each night dinghies were vanishing at a scary rate of knots. At least four went missing in our fun-filled ten-day stay. It made you wonder how much longer before the dinghy thieves expanded their business into other malicious endeavours.

On shore, imprisoned within the compound (which had high walls with barbed wire), we were safe. Tough guys with immense attitude instead of sense walked into town, while we thought the one American dollar taxi ride was fair – why take the risk? A murder in Colon was as regular as boat maintenance.

Contrary to the plethora of advice, we learned that we could complete all the paperwork ourselves. Since a probable mugging and potential death was part and parcel of this option, and we were told that a fine of five-to-six thousand American dollars was applied if the paperwork is not completed properly, we decided to hire some help. Hiring an agent cost an extra ten percent of the total fee, with which you added the privilege of cooking a steak dinner for your mediator. The rewards of an agent were slim; they could maybe buy you one day (i.e. got you booked in earlier), but you could still be ungraciously bumped like everyone else.

We opted for the taxi driver option. This did have its pitfalls, but the drivers offered steerage through a seemingly rudderless experience. For thirty American dollars an English-speaking driver took us to each office in an air conditioned car with good locks on the doors. They helped us complete the forms that were in Spanish and explained what the beejeezus was going on.

Day one
–
We had to keep our patient heads screwed on tight. The Immigration office was near the laundry and showers within the grandly named compound. Spanish countries love paperwork, and we were already armed with boat papers and crew lists in triplicate. Here they stamped and signed one of the crew lists. This document was incredibly valuable, all the remaining box tickers wanted to see it. It was here that the taxi drivers started to tout for our business. Once a driver had selected us, we could sit back, (double checking that the doors were locked) and enjoy the surreal surroundings from relative safety. At customs, we completed an inordinately detailed form that covered all but our inside leg measurement. This was for each person that arrived to Panama via boat.

Next, a young officer at the marine office stamped our paperwork and signed papers with lots of scribbling; we handed over more bits of paper, and he continued scribbling. Lastly, as we started to sag at the knees with heat and a tree load of paper, we arrived at the advisors/schedulers office. Here they looked at one or two of the sheaves we possessed and arranged for the
admeasurer
to come the following day to measure the boat.

Day Two
–
This was where the pressure started to mount. They said that the
admeasurer
would come to our boat between 9 am and 2 pm. What they actually meant was that he would arrive at about 1 pm, leaving you in a panic to get this part done before he finished at two. You had to pay your transit fee after the
admeasurer
had given you another piece of paper, and you could only pay at a bank.

To gain a smidgen of a chance to complete the two simple tasks on the same day, we kept a sharp look out for the
admeasurer
. A boat with “pilot” written on the side cruised around the anchorage with the
admeasurer
standing on the bow in a life jacket. We engaged in ferocious waving, horn blowing, and a fair bit of shouting to make ourselves known. Other cruisers had said that if the pilot does not see you, or cannot jump on board your boat due to your sun covers being in the way, he would shrug his shoulders and tootle off home. Once we had him on board, he ran a tape measure from the bow to stern and then arranged to meet us in the bar. It was here, we found out, that you had to get to the bar early and pounce on him. If you didn’t do this someone else would, and an hour or so later, you’d get your chance to complete another tonne of paperwork. For us, 2 pm had been and gone, so we had a beer or two and arranged a taxi driver to take us to the bank the following day.

Every piece of paperwork contained a little box where you had to declare your speed. Never had a little square on a bit of paper raised so much background debate. This was where true-blue, honest cruisers struggled. You
had
to lie or you didn’t get to go through the canal! You
had
to put eight knots as your speed. You knew you were lying, they knew you were lying, and you all knew that everyone knew you were lying. Still, we had to write eight knots. Sitting with our friendly
admeasurer
the strain of blatant deceit took its toll, and Noel took a gamble at suggesting seven knots. It was still a lie, but a splash closer to the truth. In response, the official screwed up his eyebrows, frowned, and said, ‘I’ll just put eight knots anyhow!’ It was all a game of ticking the right boxes and writing what they wanted to read.