Through the Canal and on to Bocas

To Bocas del Toro

The Atlantic welcomed us warmly. After the canal transit, and a night at SBM marina [with showers! a bar! a pool! electricity! wifi!] outside of Colon [which even the Colonese people tell us is doodoo] we finished our get-ready-to-go chores and left.

Almost immediately we had all sails set – full main, jib, staysail – and were sailing pretty sweetly along at 6k in 9k of breeze. gentle seas, no big swells, pleasant temp. It was gorgeous – the most idyllic sail. I napped on deck a while, feeling the perfect motion of the boat through the water; listening to the water bubble and hiss; and thought of how much I love this life; and how perhaps I need to date only sailors ;-o

The night – not so pleasant. When I came on watch storms loomed ahead, illuminating the sky with lightning, and threatening with the distant rumble of thunder. In theory the breeze should have been pushing the squalls away from us, but instead we collided in the night. Clouds overtook the starry sky [although I did see one shooting star] ... I smelled rain, faintly, and shut the hatches, waiting for the storm to hit –  hoping I might skirt through.

But at the end of my 3-hour watch it was looking gnarly: it would have been cheesy to abandon Paul, so I stayed up. The snippets of clouds we had been dodging amassed into one, big, Australia-shaped (and sized?) storm – a huge pink splotch on the radar. And no matter how far or fast, or in what direction we went, it hovered over us like our own personal weather system. I felt like Pigpen, with his scribble of storm overhead. Bolts of lightning flashed more frequently- and close; so brilliant (and random) it was absolutely blinding: so much so, that after about ½ an hour, I felt a headache coming on and put on my sunglasses! The rain came; lightly at first, then the deluge; pummeling the cockpit where we huddled under the dodger. Finally we decided to steer perpendicular to the storm (and our course) and turned to port, hoping it wouldn’t continue following us! As we got to the edge of the storm it subsided, some. Still it continued to sprinkle, and lightning flashed all around – but the rumbles of thunder faded.

I went to bed around 230am ... I slept soundly – chilled even, when the rain finally subsided enough for the hatches to be opened, and I groggily groped for a pareo.

I awoke around 7am to the best possible scenario: the engine lulled and sun beamed in the hatch overhead; so I jumped presuming we were near our anchorage – but it was even better! Pamela had a fish on the line – and what a fish! A huge silvery angry fish, with gaping jaws and sharp, sharp teeth. She brought him in hand over hand as we wondered how to land him ... but with a sudden “CHOMP!” he was gone – taking the cedar plug with him. Damn!

Now we are at the anchorage – Isla Escudo de Veraguas – famed island of snorkeling reefs, white booby birds, 3-toed sloths. We anchored off the sw shore, quickly went in. This ends up being one of the most amazing islands I’ve ever been to – and I’ve seen plenty. Even cheap ($3) local lobsters – we each got two!

More later. Too much to enjoy here.

---

Bears, Burning pigs, and other wild-life

We had a most interesting dinner tonight, inviting Oskar the Spanish scientist who is studying the coexistence (or not) of indigenous and non-native plants in the wild hills of the Santa Ynez, to join us for chicken, ratatouille, and salad (served European-style, post-dinner). The rambling halls of the ranch were chilly, but warmed nicely as this charming (and handsome) young Madrilenian spoke of his work (in near perfect English) and we lay persons tried to comprehend his postdoctoral efforts.

Susan and I are celebrities of sorts here, having seen a bear on our early morning walk – an exceedingly large black bear (actually deep brown & shaggy, but black bear species) ambling through the valley. The workers and volunteers at the reserve are flabbergasted and in fact quite jealous: more than one said, ‘I can’t believe I’ve been here x-many years and have never seen a bear and you see one the first day.”

But we did, and as we finished dinner Eric, our house-mate and maintenance man, came home and joined us, and we found out he’d seen the same bear the prior weekend. Impressively huge and lumbering, the bear has been coming increasingly close to the house. Because he can. He is absolutely HUGE, with an acorn-stuffed belly that brushes the ground as he strolls across the valley.

A bigger concern is mountain lions and Eric said he’d seen two green eyes gleaming at him in the pre-dawn hours yesterday. And the pigs. Yes, feral pigs that terrorize the reserve in packs. It’s illegal to fire a gun on site so hunting is forbidden, but they can glean the passel (learn what you call various groups of critters here) with bow & arrow. A couple of 250-lb angry pigs tearing up the turf in your direction can be mighty scary though, Eric confided, and during his last encounter his arrow only grazed its mark. With nowhere to flee (up a tree being the escape of choice when surly swine are charging) he was relieved when they retreated (telling us his alternative was to do a jumping jack over the pig if it continued, which had me – fairly clumsy – fantasizing about landing on a bristling bristly hog, backwards, like a mutton buster ...). Our conversation led to other methods of culling pigs, which is how we conjured up the image of tasering one of the feral creatures, and potentially having a burning pig scurry through the dry chaparral, trail blazing (most literally) -- the first annual ‘burning pig festival’ and probably setting all of Santa Ynez on fire.

So goes our thought process. And we’d only had a wee sip of gin.

Now it’s pitch black; just our few bedroom lights burning. With its antique build and drafty windows the house is cold: I’d planned to shower but ... may just crawl into my sleeping bag, pull the extra blanket over my head, and fall asleep ‘til the coyotes start scampering and howling outside.

Not your typical mother-daughter outing

Yesterday was a layday ... it seems to work out better when we girls plan. We went to the zoo (very tired and dodgy, with pocked walkways and itty bitty cages. they house native rescue animals for the most part: we were taken by a three-legged bear, and a couple of raccoons who tumbled in a kiddie pool, while a porcupine watched enviously from another cage), did a little shopping and then embarked on a mother-daughter triathlon: Coco won in all three events – horseshoes, ping pong, and swimming.

 

Today resumed with an exciting zipline excursion. Coco – surprisingly – was quite nervous. Right off the bat the guys singled her out:  calling her Pinky (for her pink zebra print shirt) and also point out that she, being so short, would be on tippy toes all day; as they clip you on and off the cables. I’ll admit even I (a three-time zipliner) had a racing heart and case of the willies, but all told it was exciting and a nice feather to have in your cap.

 

We threatened to go kayaking but were too lazy ... instead we hung at the hotel, swam, and I captured the ping pong title after a lengthy (really lengthy) game. Then we walked to Murray’s Saloon in the village. We couldn’t discern where to go, and Murray’s had good YELP reviews, so we strolled the dark and empty streets to the pub. It was really noisy and raw; we grabbed menus from the bartender and took a seat in the corner, and for a while, debated leaving ... but the bartender (Jenny) was friendly; the reviews had been good; and they had Delirium Tremens on tap. ‘Glad we stayed. Within about 20 minutes the vibe improved: Jenny stayed on top of the tables despite the busy bar; the karaoke singers began (some great, some truly tragic – like the guy flatly singing Donna Summer’s “LET’S DANCE” ... ) and the food – especially the $10 seared ahi with grilled veggies - was outrageously good. We chatted with some locals until finally, reluctantly, we left. Tomorrow is a busy day: checking out early and heading toRedlands where we’re going to shoot some clays, then go to Newport Beach and enjoy a duffy ride with friends. Maybe not your typical mother-daughter outing, but a good one for us. 

 

Bedtime now, over & out!   

Road Trip!

Our Coco-cation was delayed by six hours and several hundred $ however finally, at 5:38PM, we pulled onto the freeway; Coco ceremoniously put in the Official Road Trip CD (first selection: Icona Pop’s song I LOVE IT -  “...I crashed my car into the bridge. I watched, I let it burn ...”  ominous choice?)  and we were underway. We and our four spanking new tires and alignment (I went in for an oil change – prudent I thought, before a road trip – and was advised I urgently needed new tires and alignment. Is this because I’m a woman? Blond? Both?), drove many smooth hours on broad, overly populated freeways until we finally climbed the 330N, and just as the setting sun was painting the sky candy-colored blue and pink, with a plump, very howling-worthy moon rising, and the LA basin fading into a blue-gray mist, we arrived at Big Bear Lake.

At a late hour we dined on El Pollo Loco and brownies, and sipped pink wine as we dangled our polished toes in the hot tub, letting the altitude help us along. Here at 6,800 ft the rosé is a wee bit more potent (even our bags of potato chips are voluminous) and we are now chilling and looking forward to our coming adventures.

“Half of the time we’re gone but we don’t know where, we don’t know where.”

Simon & Garfunkel’s “Only Living Boy is New York” is playing softly on the stereo. We’re reaching under the small kite, in a pleasant 12k breeze, making sweet time beneath a bluebird sky. Sated with full bellies, delighting in the magnificent weather, mellow, lost in our private thoughts and memories.

 “Half of the time we’re gone but we don’t know where, we don’t know where ...”

Don’t think I don’t think of you out here on this ocean, my ocean, that you trespassed last spring. Traversing my water. Doing my thing. Why? What did you hope to accomplish? Pissing on my playground? As if I need your scent to remind me.

But now I have reclaimed it. Recorded her sunrises, and sets; counted the stars, fished her seas. The Pacific is mine again.

Don’t think I don’t think of you, as I cross this latitude. You were here once. Once.

Now gone.

Glam life

Here I am doing the shower dance again. Sort of a rain dance ... but instead of boundless precipitation from the sky, it’s begging for a shower: with steamy hot water and decent pressure; typically in the sterile, tiled confines of a marina or yacht club locker room which is either a) unheated in the frosty winter or b) dank and steamy in a tropical summer clime or even c) both of the above; done naked, jiggling alongside a vinyl shower curtain of questionable cleanliness; and right about the time you realize you forget shampoo. (But not to worry, I dug up some dish soap). Nothing is worse than standing naked in a locker room, staring at a spigot of cold water gurgling from the showerhead or needle-fine shards of water stingily misting out, when what you need is a really good, hot soaking.

 

Today’s gig was busy but a fun one: about five hours on the water, preceded and followed by several-many hours downloading, editing and FTP’ing pix; sending specific pix of specific teams to specific media; taking more pix of other competitors – in this case with JJ Fetter, the Olympic medalist who came to give a fun and sometimes irreverent talk on “Path to the Podium”  (“telephone-pole sized masts” and “Finn sailors are only good for helping take a boat off the roof of your van”) plus all the other work I am supposed to be doing at this time.

 

My duties went on and on, until one of the guys at the club chased me out of the back office to my boat (mi casa for the week, a very nice Tartan 35 which is super-roomy as far as camping out on someone’s boat goes) with a bribe of two plastic cups of wine.  I worked on deck as the sun painted Newport Harbor angelic colors, then dragged my work (and two cups of wine) below. It was then I decided a blistering potent shower was due, before it got too dark and I’d have to grope my way back onto the boat. And it was lovely. Steaming hot from the get-go, good water pressure, and yes I even found some sort of soap to use.

 

Now, after a long and head-banging-inducing teleconf and now I’m going to bed, and will climb into my sleeping bag in the forepeak of the boat, with the companionway and a few other hatches open which keeps it cool, but airy  – still shy of allllll my work, stories, deadlines, press releases, photo edits. Oh but how glamorous it is!

 

 

Still fighting the same damned (sea) monster

I don’t know when the ocean seeped into my blood.

When the salt became my oxygen.

How the shrill of seagulls became my morning aubade; the slapping of halyards my soothing lullaby.

My spirit lifts at the rush of the surf. The spray fills me with desire.

Earth is a stranger. Land holds me no charms ... but a few points to navigate by, and then I go on.

I am a woman mis-cast. In the grip of a (sea) monster.

The siren has sung. Conventional life cast upon the rocks.

All else seemly is surrendered – sacrificed – for the whisper of the sea.

When did the sunset become my Cinemax? The nomadic moon, my beacon?

 

FLASHBACK Dec. 29, 2002

I went out back to dump the trash and heard the waves banging so furiously against the beach I had to go down and see. I put on a heavy jacket. The worst of the wind was blocked by the high berm built to keep the sea and houses from meeting, but when I climbed clumsily to the top of the rock-strewn sand dune. the wind whipped my ears. For a moment I was envious of the only other person I saw, standing a few yards away in a big hooded parka.

The ocean called.

Enormous swells barreled toward the beach, curling high and majestic, tauntingly. They crested prematurely in the shallows, filling the air with a briny vapor and spreading a frothy lawn at the foot of the berm.

The wind drove hard from the west, where the sea ended in a crisp, black swipe, and a jumble of lavender clouds teased of exotic places in the distance.

My ears hurt from the blustery cold. I could hear it accelerate with each gust, pitching up and up in a frenzy.

The ocean called.

Oh how I want to get back to sea -- but me? Broken*, broke.

I stumbled along the top of the berm to the lifeguard shack, and went home.

 

* this was just a year after I’d been Humpty-Dumptied and put back together, and had just learned how to walk again.