Departed Panama, Thursday Oct 18th via Portobelo by 40 ft sail ship bound for Cartagena, Colombia. Stopped for 2 days and 3 nights in "the swimming pool", a pristine 15 ft deep reef between a bunch of the San Blas Islands in the North East coast of Panama. This region of 360+ atolls scattered along the Panamanian coastline, referred to as Kuna Yala, politically semi-autonomous and populated by the Kuna indians, and the unequivocable most beautiful part of Panama. Having visited all other provinces of Panama, I´m inclined to think I saved the best for last. Unfortunately, we didn´t get to interact much with the Kunas. They pulled up beside our boat in their dugout canoes trying to sell us artisanry (mostly molas), and charge us for anchoring. The second shortest people in the world (next to the Pygmies) with the highest percentage of albinism, they´re perhaps the most interesting group of people in Panama, and famous throughout Panama for being shrewd businesspeople. The remainder of the stowaways were backpackers from the US, UK, and Sweden, and Lane and I had to bite our tongues to stop talking endlessly and esoterically about Panama.
During the two days of swimming and snorkeling, the Captain speared several species of fish including a barracuda and a grouper, the consumption of which brought to us a sense of novelty and delicacy, and to the Captain not much more excitement than sustainance. While snorkeling, Lane and I swam through a dark 70 foot underwater cave with enough clearance for one person at a time and the shadows of large fish zipping back and forth in front of our faces.
The next morning, we switched ships to New Morning, a ship captained by a 76 year old bearded, Jewish man from Manhattan named Shell with his 18 year old cat, Dylan. Shell was glad to have us aboard, as raising sails and night-long vigils behind the helm tend to wear on septuagenarians, although Shell managed well. Not to be outdone in saltiness by the previous captain, Shell colorfully barked at us, and Lane and I responded with copious "Arrr"´s as we battened down the hatches, hoisted the halyards, climbed the main mast, and made endless jokes about plundering booty. Shell had been in the Korean War and at the original Woodstock, and told interesting stories as he ridiculed Lane and I for, despite both having engineering degrees, knowing nothing about engines. Silly Shell. We don´t have to know about engines, we just have to drive the trains. Using Shell´s underwater breathing aparatus, we took turns scuba diving under his boat to scrape the barnacles off the hull, each pinching off the hose while the other was underwater, resulting in brief gasping for air, frantic exhalation of bubbles, and the threatening pumping of fists.
We pulled 2 hour shifts through the nights and days, taking pictures of dolphins off the bow and developing a raunchy funk after 6 days at sea with no apparent respect for the use of soap or deodorant. Miraculously, neither Shell nor his cat died on the trip, which seemed veritably possible. I doubt Colombian Immigration would have responded well to the New Morning splitting through the center of their dock at 6 knots. After 6 days at sea, we arrived safely in Cartagena and zig-zagged through the colonial streets, trying to find our hostel, a bar of soap, and our land legs.
During the two days of swimming and snorkeling, the Captain speared several species of fish including a barracuda and a grouper, the consumption of which brought to us a sense of novelty and delicacy, and to the Captain not much more excitement than sustainance. While snorkeling, Lane and I swam through a dark 70 foot underwater cave with enough clearance for one person at a time and the shadows of large fish zipping back and forth in front of our faces.
The next morning, we switched ships to New Morning, a ship captained by a 76 year old bearded, Jewish man from Manhattan named Shell with his 18 year old cat, Dylan. Shell was glad to have us aboard, as raising sails and night-long vigils behind the helm tend to wear on septuagenarians, although Shell managed well. Not to be outdone in saltiness by the previous captain, Shell colorfully barked at us, and Lane and I responded with copious "Arrr"´s as we battened down the hatches, hoisted the halyards, climbed the main mast, and made endless jokes about plundering booty. Shell had been in the Korean War and at the original Woodstock, and told interesting stories as he ridiculed Lane and I for, despite both having engineering degrees, knowing nothing about engines. Silly Shell. We don´t have to know about engines, we just have to drive the trains. Using Shell´s underwater breathing aparatus, we took turns scuba diving under his boat to scrape the barnacles off the hull, each pinching off the hose while the other was underwater, resulting in brief gasping for air, frantic exhalation of bubbles, and the threatening pumping of fists.
We pulled 2 hour shifts through the nights and days, taking pictures of dolphins off the bow and developing a raunchy funk after 6 days at sea with no apparent respect for the use of soap or deodorant. Miraculously, neither Shell nor his cat died on the trip, which seemed veritably possible. I doubt Colombian Immigration would have responded well to the New Morning splitting through the center of their dock at 6 knots. After 6 days at sea, we arrived safely in Cartagena and zig-zagged through the colonial streets, trying to find our hostel, a bar of soap, and our land legs.
