Of Foreign Build (28 page)

Day three
–
We went to the bank early to avoid the heat and queues. We could pay by cash or visa. Paying by visa meant they took the fee and simply swiped the card for the buffer (the buffer being an amount to cover damages you may cause to the locks) but, didn’t actually take the buffer unless you caused damage. Paying by cash meant you paid the buffer upfront and had to wait many weeks for reimbursement. After paying all this, we reached the end of the yellow brick road, allowing us to call the “wizard” after 6 pm each day to try to acquire the elusive and much sought after “go through” date.

Satisfied and a little smug that we had already organised our line-handlers in the form of family, we were a little deflated to find out we needed yet another person. My dad and Colin had flown in from the UK and Australia respectively after harassing us for a year to ensure their place on board for the great event.

Squished on board with three large men, I was a little thrown to hear I had another person to cater for. Four line-handlers were required, plus the helmsman. Finding helping hands could become tricky. In an ideal world, you line-handled for a boat and they returned the favour. However, the words ‘ideal’ and ‘boats’ just don’t go in the same sentence. It fell down when the first boat reached the Pacific, and the relatively safe city of Balboa and the crew shied at the thought of returning to crime riddled Colon to return the line-handling favour.

Desirable and not so desirable backpackers milled around looking for a free ride through (although some wanted to be paid!). Taxi drivers with dollars ringing in their eyes would spiel a story how pilots had been known to leave a boat if backpackers were part of the crew. What they did not realise was that we were all backpackers of a sorts, living on our wits, just travelling with our home afloat, instead of on our backs. Employing the taxi drivers was an option, which at fifty-five American dollars per day each was exactly what they were trying to achieve. We had seen these guys in action. Even though they caused no major problems, their attention span was that of a bored gnat. The day before our departure we found Michael, a backpacker. A great find for us: he was helpful, friendly, ready to muck in, and all around good company.

You had to feed your line-handlers for the duration, give them a bed for the night (if required), and the fare back to wherever you departed from, which was usually Colon. Most cruisers asked line-handlers to bring their own bedding (where possible) to cut down on the deluge of laundry after the event.

We learned that food forethought, preparation, and paper plates would save our sanity. With six hungry crewmembers on board, timing was of the essence. Once our pilot arrived, we fed him. Having a meal prepared that simply needed re-heating for the rest of the crew was imperative. They had to wait until we had completed the first three locks to be fed – I was line-handler, cook, and washer all rolled into one. Nibble items kept vocal and tummy grumbles at bay. Heading south, like us, most boats departed in the evening, providing a comfy day-and-a-half to complete the journey. Heading north, we heard that you had to complete the entire journey in one day. This was where parts of the speed battle slotted into place and the eight knot game could be won or lost.

Dad, Noel, and I encountered our first experience of locking through on board
Theta
with our friends Barry and Judy. It was far less stressful when it was not your boat, and it was also fun if you were lucky enough to like the people you line-handled for.

Right then, we could dispel the rumour that you had to be big, strong, and tough to line-handle! For me, on our boat, being the prime caterer and finding out how to balance constantly feeding the masses, while still being part of the line-handler team was crucial for my enjoyment. We were glad that we locked through with another boat first to reduce the stress of the unknown when on
Mariah
.

We needed 4 x 36 metre lines void of knots and fraying. The lines had to be thirty millimetres in diameter with a metre long, spliced loop at one end. You could hire these from the taxi drivers for fifteen American dollars each. Some boats were asked for a fifty dollar bond, and some were not. We obviously looked a bit dodgy and warily handed over the fifty dollar deposit. For fenders you hired tyres for three dollars each; five tyres for each side, for a ten to fifteen-metre boat, was ample. Hiring the ropes and fenders was a hassle free bargain. Once we reached Balboa, the ropes were collected from shore, the deposit returned, and the tyres were collected from your boat (for an extra one dollar per tyre).

We were offered four choices of how we wanted to lock through. We could choose three. These were our preference only; our pilot had the final say on the day. (1) Rafting up with one or two other boats and tying in the middle of the lock. (2) Going alone and tying to the side of the lock, against the wall. (3) Going alone in the middle and (4) Going alongside a tug. The least favourite was against the wall. When going up, the turbulence could spin our boat, causing damage to the timber against the concrete wall. But, it all depended on what boats were locking through with you.

Between line-handling on another boat, organising our line-handlers and equipment, and ferrying water, I felt as though I was running in four directions at once and wanted to haul up the white flag. Instead, I duly called the scheduler every other day, or when instructed. Almost everybody got bumped, we heard of only one boat bumped forward by a day (only after being bumped back). You could even get bumped on the day you were going. The minimum wait was a week; there were additional options to hand over cosmic amounts of cash to speed things up, but we were more likely to pluck stars from the sky.

The compound at Colon Marina had a café/restaurant. Cheap eats were available in an air-conditioned, fly-free seated area. Burgers became a daily way to survive, grabbing the most convenient, cheap, quick meal as we galloped through the compound on our next mission. The added benefit of a hit of sodium, carbs and salt helped keep us at full speed, ensuring we fulfilled the day’s projects. We gave no thought of hardening arteries and bulging fat tanks and the intolerable levels of adrenaline killing heart cells left right and centre – our laid back life had long gone over the horizon – youthful heart failure,
de rigueur
.

For ten days, we sailed along the stressful stream of organising our transit, preparing the team, and then we were finally on our way. We were told that between 5 pm and 6 pm the pilot would jump on board. We hauled up our anchor at 3 pm in preparation, and thank goodness we did. The tangle weave of our two anchor chains was incredible (we had left
Mariah
to lock through with
Theta
and had wanted the added insurance of two anchors out). It took us over two hours to sort out the mess and haul up both anchors. By then we were frustrated, tired, and irritable – and we hadn’t even started!

At 5 pm, our pilot jumped on board. Thoughtfully, he had already eaten, but managed to shove a few chocolate muffins down his throat. Heading south, we puttered for about three miles while I ensured the crew/line-handlers were “nibble-satisfied.” We then had to await clearance. The first three locks were in succession, and this was where the turbulence could become fierce as the water was let into the huge concrete bath. Our pilot instructed us to raft to a similar size boat and advised which boat supplied which lines. Once rafted, one boat became the main driver; the pilots provided precise and constant direction.

As we entered the first lock, we peered up at the men at the side, swinging ropes. They hurled these ropes at you with startling accuracy: one aft, one fore. On the end of the rope there was a ball of metal, called the monkey’s fist. If this hits you, it hurts – take it from me. We organised our line-handlers in teams, fore and aft. Once the line was on board, we came out of cover (from the monkey’s fist) and tied the ropes to the loop on our ship’s lines that were on board. We were then led into the lock like a dog on a lead. On nearing position, someone somewhere shouted something and this was the signal to feed our lines out, so that the linesmen onshore could loop our lines onto their bollards. Once our lines were affixed to their bollard, it was our job to tighten/release as required. As the first three locks are in quick succession, the shore based line-handlers kept the lines and simply led us through.

The paperwork clearly stated that if we were delayed through a fault of the canal officials, they would bear the costs. But, there was a shrewdly inserted clause stating that if you could not do the declared speeds (eight knots) and caused a delay, an additional four-hundred-and-forty dollars would be chargeable. This could have been a problem if we were heading north, having to complete the whole canal in one day. Fortunately, with the grace of two days heading south, we had no need to push our engine hard.

After the third lock, we put all our faith in our pilot and he guided us to the mooring buoys. The stretch of water was unmarked, making the last part a little scary in the dark. There were two large mooring buoys to tie to. The buoys were so huge you could stand on them to tie your lines. Several boats shared the buoys. By now we were all hot and sticky and heady with the excitement of being on top of a hill in Panama! The fresh water beckoned, and even though it was 9 pm we all donned cossies and dove into the cool, refreshing water. The surplus of fresh water was such a treat after constant, careful water management on board. The following morning, while sipping our steaming cups of tea, we watched the crew of a French boat enjoy a swim. As dawn grazed the sky a small boat with a large man holding an even a larger gun headed towards the swimmers.

‘I say,’ someone said in their best British accent, ‘they’re going to shoot the French!’ I couldn’t help but notice the crowds gathering. The gun stayed prone, but the warning was clear to us all: you must not swim. If you do it was at your own risk.

‘There are many crocodiles here,’ came the stern statement. This caused more than a few shudders on board
Mariah
.

As dawn gathered momentum, we were ready to leave. Our first mistake was to untie from the mooring in readiness for our pilot. Each member of our crew received a severe reprimand for releasing our lines just moments before the pilot stepped on board. This was not a good start. After our pilot had eaten a fully cooked breakfast, had a snooze, and admitted that he had not slept the previous night, we turned our dower, scowling faces to more cheerful, welcoming smiles. Atop of the hill, before our final three locks, we enjoyed thirty miles of puttering through glistening lakes enclosed within vivid fauna and well-marked channels. Smaller boats were guided through the Banana Cut, a slightly quicker route avoiding part of the larger channel that was for the bigger ships. The last three locks were easy, gently easing us down.

As we puttered into the last lock, the monkey fist dodging was over and the inviting Pacific Ocean glimmered below. Nostalgia and emotion mixed like bubbling wakes. It had been more than five years since we had glided through this great ocean.
Mariah
hummed along with the sense of impending adventure. We were on our last leg back to Australia. Urgently, we were snapped out of our reverie; the last lock had a powerful push of water coming through and lines had to be affixed promptly, so daydreaming and reminiscing had to wait.

Finally, the mighty doors of the last lock creaked open and freed the placid boats and fidgety crew into the channel. We collected a mooring. The adrenaline come-down after completing the locks left us weary and wanting just to tie up safely. We felt the need to stop, and consume inordinate amounts of alcohol, which we did the following day.

Chattering cruisers filled the bar. A heady mix of fatigue, relief, and tangible excitement stirred through the tables. Burgers and beer were too readily available: the crew on
Mariah
clean forgot the quantity of starch we had consumed pre-canal and craved more fuel to enable us to tell others of our canal crossing and patiently listen to their experience. Audible sighs and clinking of glasses welcomed the vivid sunset across the resting boats, swinging peacefully on moorings. We sat contentedly and wondered what the hell all the fuss and worry was about.

Farewells were upon us again too quickly, and my dad and Colin flew home, leaving us to tackle the next part of our voyage: the Pacific Ocean.

Positioned in the Pacific Ocean, eight hundred nautical miles south-west of Balboa, in Panama, the Galapagos islands were a bugger to get to with cross-currents and perpetual head winds. Previous circumnavigating friends extolled fascinating Galapagos stories, but neglected to warn us of the near impossible journey. Discussing the trip with present day sailing buddies, the odd tut and many side-wards glances were thrown in our direction when we vocalised our opinion of an arduous journey ahead.

‘It’s only fifteen knots of head winds,’ they said.

‘We’re going back to Panama!’ Noel announced over the radio on our third day out from Panama. Try as we might, we could only make way towards Hawaii or Colombia. I suggested we head straight to French Polynesia. I didn’t want to head back, besides the hurricane strength winds that were heading for Panama sort of put me off. After six hours of sailing nowhere and dozens of frustrating sail changes, we felt defeated and foolish.

‘How on earth do people get there; do we have any idea what we’re doing?’ exclaimed Noel through gritted teeth, while I took comfort in chocolate.

With one last-ditch attempt, we sailed due west during the day and motored due south during the lesser winds at night. Eventually, we gained miles in the right direction. Our cruising buddies had plenty to say about the arduous journey into fifteen knot winds, which is twenty knots apparent.

Approaching the anchorage at Wreck Bay (aka Bahia Baquerizo Moreno) on the southwest tip of Isla San Cristóbal, in Galapagos, a huge monolith sentry stood guard, seemingly vetting all those who pass with a fixed expression of warning to respect the protected, precious land. Our night time entrance was as smooth as silken water. The dazzling shore lights that blinded our approach shattered our visions of a two-hut town. In the blanched, moonless night, Wreck Bay looked like a thriving metropolis. But, as dawn grazed the sinister darkness, the Pacific gem was unveiled. The tranquil town was devoid of harassing sales men and offensive, blaring music. It was a neat size, easy to circumnavigate on our salt dried feet. Reasonably priced laundries, mechanics, hardware, DVD/video shops, and small, practically stocked supermarkets lined the clean, dry streets.

Checking in was expensive, but easy. The Immigration office came first, with an exchange of paperwork plus fifteen American dollars per person from our wallets to theirs; then we were free to stroll five minutes down the road to the marine office. Paperwork took a few minutes longer here. But, the wad of cash we extracted from our thinning wallet gave cause for wanting a cigarette (and I don’t smoke). A ten tonne boat could expect to pay about one-hundred-and-five dollars. The officials selected some boats to receive their zarpe (exit papers) when they checked in. Clearly, we looked a bit dodgy and they held ours until we graced them with our presence at a later date. Acquiring the zarpe was quick and painless.

The eight days bumping and grinding into head winds had left us feeling like we deserved a treat.
Mariah
and crew did not go to weather. Well, not without copious whinging. So, a big, fat burger to harden the arteries and coffee for topping up caffeine levels were high on our list of priorities. Indigestion became imminent on sight of our fifteen dollar bill. Our soggy, salt ridden brains finally twigged that we should have avoided the waterfront, touristy cafes and perused the back streets to sample local fare.

We stumbled upon many funky food huts, cafes, and restaurants that served the locals. Being simple folk we like a simple life and our favourite cafes and restaurants were those void of menus containing too many choices. A cool surrounding, a warm smile, and three courses, including fresh fruit drinks, all for two-to-three dollars each! Soup, fish with rice and salad, and fresh fruit dessert for a price we couldn’t buy a jar of vegemite for meant daily outings for eats. We justified our good life with rationalising statements of, ‘We’re saving our non-perishable foods for crossing the Pacific.’

Getting ashore was novel. Our dinghy stayed prone on deck. A wave, shout, or beep to cruising taxis that buzzed around the anchorage, and fifty cents (per person) later we could step ashore (one dollar per person after dark). It was not advisable to use your own dinghy; sea lions are incredibly nosey and love checking out toys that are in the shape of dinghies. Those cruisers who tied their dinghies off the back of their sterns soon hauled them back on deck. The sea lions selected a few dinghies to play in, some to sleep in, and others to use as a toilet! Either way you certainly knew if they had paid you a visit, their eau d’fish aroma was punchy enough to curl your nose hairs.

The anchorage offered plenty of room with good holding, but had way too many tourist boats. During the season we were there, the tourist quantity was heightened as, for a temporary measure, all international flights were landing about five boat lengths from our bow – good for business on Cristóbal, not so good for us. Endless square vessels crammed with splintering benches with pale tourist bottoms parked a-top and raced past, creating disturbing wakes. Our angry waving, indicating a reduction of speed, was met with wide grinning faces and gleeful waves.

Amid the calm, serene town an industrious New Zealander had joined forces with a beautiful local lass and created an enviable couple and a good business. As Tim’s first language was English, organising tailored tours was a breeze, especially for those of us who struggled with the language. Tim arranged an amazing tour, the part with the sea lions became the most magnificent event of our trip.

An adolescent laugh resonated through the smooth, grey rocks. As another bubble of giggles reached my throat and burst into the air, I realised the childish noise was coming from me.

Mimicking the sea lions, fins and arms aside, while staying still and quiet, allowed a brief trust to develop. Their sleek, glistening bodies glided slowly towards me until our noses almost touched. I stared into innocent, watery brown eyes; they stared back, deep into my eyes, which were wide and snorkel distorted. A timeless moment: the world stopped, and I became one with nature. I slowed my breathing. The liquid chocolate eyes did not reveal what was coming. Suddenly, my smooth, sneaky friend blew a burst of bubbles right into my startled face and darted off, no doubt doing a sea lion snigger.

We played this game for hours. Hypothermia started threatening my bones, but I was too distracted, tickling another slippery friend under his chin. My fingers tingled with the touch of bristly whiskers and skin that had a soft firmness, like a baby’s thigh. Throughout the six years of sailing from Sydney, the sea lions at Galapagos was our most thrilling experience. Turtles, sharks, and vivid coral fish flowed to and fro in the currents, while we pointed and stared. Rough skinned iguanas sunbathed alongside a carpet of sea lions on the pristine beach; the languid lions belched loudly and chased us away when we wandered too close.

We were stocked up for the Pacific Ocean crossing, we only needed to pick up fresh item. We couldn’t help ourselves, though, when we visited the supermarket and mysteriously tinned food appeared in our basket. Echoes of advice reverberated around my salt sticky head. ‘Canned food goes so quickly, and it’s a long way…’

‘Oh, well, better get some more, just in case.’

In remote locations, it was a good idea to check the sell by dates – if the dust and cobwebs didn’t give the game away, the date would. The trick to gaining the freshest fruit and vegetables available was to make a show of squeezing, smelling, and pulling faces at the products that were in need of Viagra, the odd shake of the head helped and before long the real fresh stuff would magically appear from behind the counter.

With
Mariah
almost ready to go, we did some exploring. Allow me to take you back in time to two hundred years ago. Imagine tough, stout, hairy whalers gliding into a deserted bay on their hard working vessels; imagine them rowing ashore, firmly clutching their scrawled notes in order to play postman as the stark arid landscape, the eerie mist-clad volcano, and dozens of large, inquisitive turtles welcomed them into the peaceful, uninhabited bay.

On shore, a medium sized barrel mounted on wooden struts still stands today. The whalers left letters here for their loved ones in the hope that another passing boat would one day collect the mail and send it on. Present day, this tradition was upheld by voyaging sailboats.

We arrived at Post Office Island (aka Isla Santa Maria) at Bahia Del Correo on the northwest tip at sun-down and planned an early explore. At dawn the following day, armed with water, fruit, and sun-block, we stepped ashore, ready for the walk to the “mail room.” Ten strides around the corner and we were face to face with the archaic communication post, which sat in modern times. The upright barrel contained plastic bags with efficiently sorted Europe/America/rest of world post cards, all begging to be collected and mailed. Rocks, split timber, and leaves garnished the mailbox with a flourish of boat names, dates, and goodwill notes. It felt like we were partaking in a piece of history that was cloaked in human kindness. Noel and I placed our respective postcards in the barrel (one to the UK and one to Australia); we selected to mail cards to Poland and Japan. It was a great sailing tradition that allowed us to touch base and unite us with our forebears and the readings of seafarers of our youth.

But there was the snag and it was a hum-dooie. Cruisers like us, who boldly put ourselves alongside the long gone whalers, were not allowed to stop here! Only organised tours, that came expressly to see the mailbox, were permitted. During our visit we were simply lucky, most sailboats met the dour warden who turfed them out. This was irony at its best.

The third and final island we visited was moonlike Isla Isabella. The small Bay (Puerto Villamil) on the south-east corner was crowded and littered with nasty shallows. The harsh lava rock and stark surrounds were home to tubby penguins and boobies with the brightest blue feet, adding a splash of colour to the deep brown and black moonlike rock.

This was our last stop before plunging into the great Pacific Ocean with three thousand miles of a lonely expanse of water, sky, and clouds. Where after two days I’d crave a roast chicken dinner, and Noel would feel desperate to hug a tree. Memories of the unique Galapagos experience would carry us along to our next adventure.