RTW Leg 10: The Panama Canal

I have not shared my bed with my wife all week. Under normal circumstances this could be symptomatic of a temporary absence from home, a rare unreconciled argument or perhaps an ailment that necessitates solitary confinement. But none of these are attributable. In fact, here, avoiding one another is all but impossible, with our living space of just 45’ by 12’ and no separation available, voluntary or imposed. As I write, we are at the half way point between Panama and Galapagos and Lucy is in bed and I am on my three-hour watch and we will not sleep together again until landfall.

It was over a month since Lucy guided our loyal readers over the turbulent Caribbean sea from Aruba, landing on the enchanted San Blas, scattered with hundreds of dessert island picture postcards, through the vibrant verdant jungle of the in dominatable Chagres River and on into Colon, gateway to the Panama Canal. The prospect of transiting the canal has both fascinated and excited me ever since the idea of this journey was hatched. The canal is a magnificent tapestry woven of threads of power, money, politics, war, ambition, failure, death, fortitude and ultimately success.

A sixty second potted history: In 1881, a French bloke called Ferdinand de Lesseps, fresh from the success of building the Suez Canal, decided to have a go and did a deal with Columbia, who owned Panama at the time. He was defeated by the vast human and financial cost with thousands of workers dying of Malaria (they thought Malaria was an infection in the air; “mal air” or bad air) and Yellow Fever. It was an unmitigated disaster leaving all involved destitute or bankrupt. President Roosevelt recongnised the strategic importance of a canal and backed Panama’s run for independence from Columbia in return for control of the Canal Zone. The Americans built it for a cool $352m (you couldn’t buy a tram line in Edinburgh for that today), and in the process eliminated Yellow Fever and brought Malaria under control, a legacy still enjoyed today. The original French design for a sea level canal was usurped in favor of locks; three locks up 27m to the manmade Gatun Lake and three locks back down to the oceans. The US ceded control of the canal back to Panama in 1999 and in 2016, Panama opened a second set of locks to cope with both the increased traffic and the larger vessels classed as Neo Panamamax. These new locks were completed at a cost of staggering $8 billion and the investment has already been recouped. The largest vessels pay $1 million to transit the canal one way.

Construction: Thousands died and many were left bankrupt

Thankfully, Broadswords fee was a little less than that of a Neo Panamax, but before we could transit, we had to be measured and approved by the canal authorities and once that was done, we had to wait our turn; a ten day wait. What to do for ten days? Why not hire a car and drive into the center of one of the most dangerous cities (outside a war zone) in the world? Great idea. Colon has a Free Zone and the lure of this was inescapable; cheap tax-free booze. To get into the Free Zone one has to pass through a check point, fill in numerous forms and be scrutinized through a letter box aperture by a bureaucrat who was as interested in you as a cat with a bucket of water. I joke not, at the desk behind the said bureaucrat lay her colleague slouched fully over her desk, fast asleep. Once in, the fun really started. Colon streets are built like an American city grid with blocks divided by streets and avenues. At every block there is a four-way junction. Now, imagine Dehli in the rush hour and then understand that at each junction there are no traffic lights, road markings, give way protocols, road signs and no-one, and I mean no-one, uses indicators. To proceed, was a bit like a blind man crossing the M25. With his white stick tapping out ahead, he nudges out into the traffic hoping beyond hope the oncoming cars will see him and stop in time. We found the bevy shop and loaded up with four cases of wine and four cases of Panama’s best beer and then had to do it all again in reverse. Getting out the Free Zone was not as challenging but no less interesting. At the same checkpoint, an untidy official comes up and gestures that he wants to see in the boot, which I obligingly open using a convenient little lever at the side of my seat. I was forewarned about this and had a $20 note handy. He returns to my window and starts throwing all sorts of Spanish at me to which I can only return the international shrug of the shoulders saying in my best public-school English, “I understand a small charge might be appropriate?” offering up the $20 note. This seemed to make him cross, more Spanish but the pitch and pace had increased with some finger waving thrown in. Lucy was becoming thoroughly agitated and unhelpfully suggested that if he wants more, for gods sake just give him more. But I hold firm, exchanging my best glaiket gaze, another shoulder shrug and for good measure, raised palms. Infuriated, the official lets out a loud “pppfff”, snatches the twenty dollars and to Lucy’s enormous relief, waves us through.

Monkeys seen on every one of our daily walks through the jungle from Shelter Bay

The transit was everything we expected and more. On the morning of departure, our three line handlers, Kai, Santiago and Jose arrived with four CalMac size lines and six huge fenders. I quickly got the measure of the three amigos, as they settled into their seats, got their phones out and started watching “Butros Butros Gali, Scortchio, George Sounas, Scortchio” at maximum volume. Phones, Eat, Sleep, repeat with occasional spurts of activity in the locks would characterize the next 24 hours.

The three amigos, from left, Kai, Santiago and Jose

All the waiting was at last over and we motored out of Shelter Bay to excited waves and shouts of encouragement from our new Swiss friends Dominique and Guylene. Our instructions were to drop anchor in the bay and wait to receive our Canal Advisor. Renaldo was duly delivered three hours late and at 1630, away we went to transit the canal. Sailing yachts go through the canal like a bunch of bananas. We were rafted together with Sava (sailed by Mel and Brian from Nuoojoyzi) and into the first lock we entered where a huge tanker was already in front of us. The lines are secured to the canal sides, two on each, in order to keep the raft in the middle and away from the nasty bumpy concrete. Then the magic happens, the gates close behind, water floods in and up you go. By the time we had negotiated the first lock, it was dark adding to the excitement and drama. All went well and as we left the third lock to motor two miles into the foreboding gloom and moor against (not too) a ginormous mooring buoy. Lucy outdid herself cooking vast quantities of Spanish friendly dishes including her own new specialty, carefully created just for the Panamanian occasion: Picqante Pasta A Senora Lucia. This was a delicious melody of smashed fetta, marinated vegetables all on luxurious bed of olive oil drizzled pasta quills dressed with assorted sausage sizzlers, thus providing the “must have meat” component to every meal. The heaped plates were received with joyful “oohs” and “ahhhs” and the three amigos tucked in. But then something odd happened, the three amigos started to pick at the sausages. What ill table manners are these? Lucy and I exchanged WTF glances as the picking continued and an uncomfortable silence descended around the cockpit table. Santiago, gently coughed and in his best faltering English explained that sausages in Latin America come enclosed in inedible plastic that needs to be removed before cooking. Poor Lucy was utterly mortified. Clement Floyd once mused that: “Sausages are best enjoyed not wondering what is in them”. What’s on them would have made more sense in Panama.

Renaldo, our canal Advisor as Broadsword climbs 27m to the Gatun Lake. We

The next morning, we cast of early and had a joyful six hours negotiating the channel through the Gatun Lake, formed by the largest dam ever constructed at the time and taking four years to fill with water. All the islands we passed were hill tops, and the occasional crocodile could be seen sunbathing on the waters edge. Great excitement was had by all when Lucy spotted a Manatee not five meters from Broadsword. Around lunch time we arrived at the Mira Flores Locks and this time, we would enter first with the tanker coming up our rear (titter ye not). Our banana bunch reassembled, three this time, with Broadsword in the middle, calling the shots. Our job was to steer and propel the raft while the outside yachts acted as giant fenders protecting Broadsword, a more than satisfactory arrangement. Down 27m we went and as the final lock’s mighty gates swung open, the salty sea water mixed with fresh in a turbulent fury, the heavens opened with a crack of thunder and a torrential down pour soaked us all to the skin. I could not think of a better way to be introduced to the greatest ocean of them all; the Pacific.

The Pacific Ocean is revealed. A double gate for safety.

It was not far to La Playita Marina, tucked into a small bay at the end of a causeway joining the mainland to some islands, the causeway made from the spoil extracted from canal’s construction. Our backdrop was the incredible sky line of Panama City, an extraordinary vista of tall slender towers filling the horizon as impressively as any mountain range. Here we lay up for a week to top up provisions, effect repairs to Broadsword and explore the city with a Panamanian friend we had met in the UK some years ago.

Aixa and Lucy with a long over due catch up

Taxi’s are cheap and we made good use of them with one excursion taking us deep into the bad lands of Panama City where an optician promised me a new set of prescription glasses, replacing ones lost overboard in the Caribbean, within 48 hours. Jose our driver was diligently protective explaining “no good, bang bang, banditos, sniff sniff, cocoa”. This was clearly an area as dangerous as Partick on a Friday night, but at least the locals were more coherent here*. Not wishing to linger longer than we had to, off we trundled to our next stop, a motor cycle shop to buy a new outboard for the tender. I’m ashamed to say that it’s a smelly smokey two stroke Susuzki, banned in first world countries on environmental grounds, but it goes like stink and increases our tender’s expedition range exponentially. Our trip with Jose was three hours, the charge? Twenty dollars plus a five-dollar tip.

The moment soon arrived to leave the America’s in our wake, home now separated by time, an ocean and a continent. We joined forces to form a mini flotilla with Horizon and Kawanie II. Horizon sailed by a Swedish couple Annette and Andres who we met in Bonaire and Kawanie II sailed by Swiss couple Dominique and Guylene who lived in Sion. “Sion!” I exclaimed on meeting them, “I’ve been there, I drove my friend Keith to the hospital in Sion at two in the morning when he broke his neck”. And no, before you ask, despite my formidable reputation for fighting friends, I did not break his neck, it was self-inflicted with a carless head plant whilst skiing.

We cast off with a rich cocktail of excitement and anxiety coursing through our veins over the prospect of what lay ahead. A vast ocean to cross, weather to contend, islands to explore, peoples to meet and friends to forge. This was perhaps the biggest moment in our adventure and Lucy and I shared it together, with the wind in our sails, the sun on our backs and hands held tight.

The Panama City sky line receding behind us as we head into the Pacific

Footnote

The penny has at last dropped over a long unexplained mystery. A good few years ago, The Royal Yacht Britannia was decommissioned and repurposed as a visitor attraction, controversially in Leith. Why not the Clyde where she was built, I will never understand. I held a family interest in Britannia as she was built by John Browns where my grandfather and father both worked and my Dad had served his engineering apprenticeship on board Britannia during her sea trials. Not long after she opened, I was invited on board for a corporate doo which included a show around. It was an extraordinary tour and you really came away with a rich flavor of what life would have been like on board as one of the family, a guest or a member of the crew. But what stood out more than anything for me were the two small, separate single cabins. One for the Queen, one for Prince Phillip. “What on earth is that all about”, I pondered aloud “why do you suppose they have separate bedrooms?” The question has remained unanswered until today. Obviously, when the Queen was on her three-hour watch and then went to wake up Prince Philip to take over, separate bedrooms were a practical convenience.

*I know of two people who were born and brought up in Partick. The first is Billy Connolly, no further introduction required. The second is my good friend Mark. Both will be proud as punch of my seemingly disparaging remarks on Partick and take them as intended, flattering characteristics of a fabulous corner of Glasgow.

Follow our journey live on NO FORGEIN LAND: https://www.noforeignland.com/boat/broadsword?sid=5279125994471424&tc=1648840771590