Tokimata's Travels

Vessel Name: Tokimata
Vessel Make/Model: Ganley S130 steel cutter
Hailing Port: Coromandel, New Zealand
Crew: Peter, Rachel, Danny and Tom Garden
06 September 2023 | Bahia Nonda
07 August 2023
30 June 2023
07 June 2023
03 October 2022 | Santa Marta, Colombia
23 September 2022
18 September 2022 | Curaçao
11 September 2022
30 August 2022 | Grenada
13 August 2022 | St Lucia
21 December 2019
26 November 2019
19 November 2019
10 November 2019
24 October 2019
18 September 2019
Recent Blog Posts
06 September 2023 | Bahia Nonda

Panama Pacific Coast

It’s now well over a month since we left Panama City. La Brisas the free anchorage on the long causeway joining three islands, was free but not the greatest pace to stay, with poor holding and many disintegrating boats, but this amazing backdrop of skyscrapers behind. These free places where yachts [...]

07 August 2023

Panama City

We fuelled up on 20th July 2023 and filled with water, ready for the passage through the Panama Canal. We were to leave around 2 pm next day, staying overnight in Gatun lake with our local line-handlers, and should be through by 3 pm on the following day.

21 July 2023

Rio Chagres and Portabelo on the Caribbean coast of Panama.

We left the San Blas islands on July 10 2023, after a last visit to Ivin, the wonderful chef at Hollandais Cays. He gave a few more image files for his recipe book and we bought his terrific coconut cake one last time. At 11.30 we upped anchor and were off on our way back east, the transit through the [...]

13 July 2023

The islands of San Blas

On Friday 23rd June at last we headed across the busy canal entrance from Shelter Bay marina and into the Caribbean sea. We were sailing to the San Blas islands, Kuna Yala to the inhabitants, hundreds of small islands and coastal villages that are still administered by the indigenous owners of the land. [...]

30 June 2023

The jungles of Panama

Grinding rust on the hull of Tokimata eventually gave way to grinding rust on the decks, but this was made much easier by hiring energetic boatyard workers. Eventually this progressed to painting, using two part polyurethane over the various anti-rust treatments and primers they had applied. However [...]

07 June 2023

Two weeks in Panama

We arrived in Panama City Tuesday 23rd May from Manchester, with our usual heavy luggage: this time a Starlink system was the bulk of it along with other boat essentials. After travel via Amsterdam we arrived at last to see our taxi-driver holding a “Mr Peter” sign and were off for the hour and a [...]

Panama Pacific Coast

06 September 2023 | Bahia Nonda
Rachel Garden
It’s now well over a month since we left Panama City. La Brisas the free anchorage on the long causeway joining three islands, was free but not the greatest pace to stay, with poor holding and many disintegrating boats, but this amazing backdrop of skyscrapers behind. These free places where yachts can anchor seem to me like fly paper, luring yachts then keeping them there far longer than they ever planned, and clearly many did never leave.

En route to shore we called on a very lived-in aluminium yacht with a foldable dinghy like ours. The friendly couple on Shogun had been there more than a year! We remarked on their dinghy and they pointed out another folded on their bow: they had two, one an American porta-bote like ours the other from Hamburg called a “banana boat”, I wonder who invented them first? We told them we were going ashore to find a ladder as I found it hard to get back on board after a swim. They looked at each other, nodded, then delved in a box on deck and gave me a 3 step metal ladder, just the job! Nice people, lots of stuff!

We left La Brisas after a week then set out for the Pacific coast. First the northern part of Las Perlas islands, about 40 miles south of Panama City, bypassing the southern islands had that have security issues. This was a bit like the Waiheke of Panama City, posh houses and resorts within a ferry ride, pretty but not our cup of tea. Anchoring was not well sheltered with strong currents and huge tides. Indeed we used our Lifesling here for the first time ever. Rach is cautious on her swims and has a line with float in first to check how strong the current is and to provide a line to grab if needed. Pete saw the float move away, poorly knotted, and simply jumped in to get it, finding the current far stronger than he thought. Rach was not only deaf but ear plugged up, and slow to see he needed help, so he shouted very loud and I finally threw out the Lifesling, just as a kindly local boatie nearby came to rescue him. He made it to the 38m long Lifesling line first, but not a good situation and a dent in crew confidence of the skipper! Possibly vice versa too!!

The huge tides made excursions ashore difficult. Having so recently talked up our dinghy with a fellow enthusiast (“Aren’t they terrific? Indestructable!”) we very nearly lost Portia at Contadora Island. Pete tied her to a robust stair rail on shore at the high tide line with a bowline and long painter, beside another tender. A few hours later when we returned the bowline was undone (?) and she was filled with water thrashing on the rocks, our paddles and other items spread around, the keel almost off, a seat damaged and floating too. It took ages to sort in the surf, the tide now up and the boat so heavy with sand, but eventually we did, paddling out as the outboard was deluged. The same kindly boatie towed us back, probably dining out since then on his need to rescue an incompetent elderly crew!

A huge storm hit us in the night with thunder, lightning and winds pressing us against the sea. We left next morning for Vista Mar marina, to check out whether we could leave our boat here till next year. The marina is not pretty or inviting though the people there are kind. A concrete man-made place jutting out into the sea with large apartment blocks on shore, a posh golf resort, and a sad lack of trees. But we had boat chores to do and there are very few options on the Pacific coast for having one’s boat pulled out on the hard. Here there is no travel lift but huge expanses of concrete being laid and a new ramp being constructed for a new trailer. We met our friends from Shogun here too, they’d finally left the fly-paper La Brisas and here we both were in another fly-paper place, which had captured other cruisers for 2 or 3 years. While here, with their help, we realised we were about to overstay our 3 month time limit for Panama and so took a flight to Costa Rica to renew the tourist visa on the way back. This gave us a chance to visit that lovely family who had hosted Sally for AFS so long ago. Wonderful people and so good to see them all again. Our Shogun friends, a bit younger than us, took a 20 hour bus journey for a brief stay at a border town. Since returning from Costa Rica we have made arrangements to leave Tokimata at Vista Mar, and have 21st September as our haul-out date, on the 23rd we fly to the UK.

We are now 2 weeks into sailing further west on the pacific coast and getting to love it more and more, especially as we leave the built up areas, which strangely have huge skyscrapers even in small settlements. We anchored off Farallon Island not far down the coast from Vista Mar just so glad to have got away, behind an island covered in guano and masses of frigate birds wheeling in the sky above. There was a complex wave motion making Tokimata’s stern continually slap against the sea. Next morning we got a fright when Pete turned the engine on to leave and it made a ghastly sound, a horrible metallic graunch. “Oh no! water has been forced up the exhaust to the engine!” Pete recognised cylinder issues, grabbing his head “This could be massive engine damage! – the dreaded hydraulicing”. Oh dear, have we really let that happen, are we going to limp back to the Vista Mar fly-paper? Half an hour later after careful reading of Nigel Calder (the boaters bible) he drained the water lift muffler and flicked the starter switch very briefly a dozen times slowly rotating the engine bit by bit through 2 full turns to force the water out gently and thankfully it only seemed to be in 1 or 2 or the 4 cylinders. The metallic noise suddenly ceased and the engine sprang into life. “Nigel says short kicks on the starter motor to rotate the engine twice empties the water if just one or two cylinders are affected.” She ran perfectly after that. Bless Nigel and his “Boat mechanical bible”.

We motor-sailed on in light winds, rewarded as we have been every day by whales in the distance, long black backs on the surface, big blows of spray, and occasionally breaching and slapping their tails. Pete caught a Spanish mackerel which fed us for a week. Our next anchorage was Iguana Island where in early evening two adult whales and a baby played not far from the boat. The game was apparently “Slap the flipper”: a big whale pushed up on it’s back raised a flipper and smacked it down on the surface “Whack”. Not far away a little flipper poked up, waggled about in the air a bit then flopped down with a “Smack”. The game went on and on, sometimes one side after the other with a lot of surging water in between, sometimes a small whale tummy in side view. Now and then a tail instead of a flipper, and really there is nothing more lovely than a small whale tail answering the great thump of a big one. What wonderful fellow-beings these are! How can the Icelanders start whaling again!?

This is the rainy season in Panama but like so many other places the weather this year is unusual. They’ve had far less rain than usual, it’s caused havoc with the canal, but there have also been violent torrential storms. When underway we watch them on the radar and try to flee, but got caught in one a few days ago. The sailing was good, a 15 knot breeze from behind, all sails up and Pete even cogitating trying the big cruising chute for the first time this sail. Within a minute the wind changed, the storm turned and attacked us, and with dark skies, huge rain lashing us and big winds we were suddenly in a different world. Life jackets and lines had to be found immediately and I was on deck, the wind at 30 knots thrashing genoa lines all around as I was pulling down the main sail clipped onto the mast as it pitched from side to side, Pete at the helm. We then reduced to a scrap of genoa. Half an hour later it was done with us and had moved on. Lightening was all around but thankfully didn’t find us.

We’ve moved on slowly down the coast, anchoring behind famous surf beaches with the roar of surf in the distance, and a line of surf visible along the coast – not places to land! We then ventured around 10 miles up a river to Punto Mutis a strange little village on the edge of a fast flowing brown river. Here we at last saw another yacht, Alexis of Juneau. We met the skipper next day as we both headed to the village at low tide, a single hander. I think perhaps he was caught in fly-paper here, he said he’d been here a month! On shore we took a bus ride to Santiago, the second city of Panama – large and boisterous on a Saturday, a big white squat cathedral in the centre. As usual in the Caribbean, roads take centre stage and pedestrians have to do what they can at the edges, dealing with broken concrete, mud and speeding cars. Here there were also saddle shops and a Panama version of the cowboy hat as well as leather cowboy boots and white frills for the ladies – I think we’re in Caribbean cowboy country here. But as always the people are friendly and a little curious about such obvious strangers as us, in shorts and caps and sunburn… The bus turned out to be an hour each way, absolutely full and only $1.50 each per trip, a bargain and obviously very heavily used, winding down country lanes past all the Saint-named villages and little catholic shrines.

Returning to Punto Mutis we met Max, a lovely English speaking local running a local restaurant called “Pacific View”, who introduced himself on the street after seeing us wandering the tiny place and was keen to help. How lovely on such a hot day to sip beer in his riverside café, eventually having a meal as well. He was on his phone constantly trying to solve a mystery for us: how to get permission to visit the Coiba National Park. We heard yachtie rumours that this was eye wateringly expensive now, US$60 per night for a yacht our size to anchor as well as $20 per person per month, yet the fee had been only $10 not long ago. And not only that, there was no obvious way to buy a permit since their website only explained that any tour with a third party included payment for the permit. Max however had a friend in charge of the ocean reserve who eventually confirmed the cost and sent a link to make a bank transfer. We may in fact sail first to the reserve headquarters since we’re now not far away.

We left next day just before high tide in the morning: I found the ceaseless current difficult to take, a pause of less than an hour at slack water geared up almost at once until a raging torrent of brown water with frequent rubbish swept by again. After an hour the current was whisking us along at over 8 knots as we carefully followed our saved GPS track to avoid all the hidden sand bars. In spite of helpful Max and the jungle hanging in the water, with howlers once more in evidence, we were happy to be out and away. During those two days up the river however it seemed enormous storms had lashed the coast by Vista Mar eroding the beach badly and causing massive surge in the marina, so it had provided refuge, as well as such an interesting view of the cowboy country.

From there we’ve moved on to the most enchanting bay of deep green sea, countless jumping fish and jungle covered slopes. Here is Bahia Honda and this kind of fly-paper we love. In the distance a small town and school poke out on stilts from a headland. Nearer are houses of locals who have twice visited us: they came first offering fruit and we promised to come over with the boat next day, but it’s so lovely here we stayed put and they came out to us again in early evening. Edwin and his wife, with her elderly father Domingo brought oranges and papaya (the oranges in Panama are sweet but green), and enormous grapefruit, all on a beautiful plain wooden platter made by Domingo that we bought as well. We declined turtle shell jewellery (“No, we cannot buy, they’ll put us in prison in New Zealand it is not allowed!”) but may ask to buy a paddle tomorrow…

Here it is heavenly and calm, a view of wonderful jungle clads hills with the small town lights at night and a few smaller pinpricks of house lights around this huge bay at night, reminiscent to us of Whangaroa in New Zealand, though without quite such a narrow entrance. Instead the coast is fringed with rocky islands and the wide inviting entrance opens out to a far wider bay beyond. Here is no fly-paper but a paradise, we really could stay here for years.

Panama City

07 August 2023
Rachel Garden
We fuelled up on 20th July 2023 and filled with water, ready for the passage through the Panama Canal. We were to leave around 2 pm next day, staying overnight in Gatun lake with our local line-handlers, and should be through by 3 pm on the following day.

Using experienced local line-handlers is something we highly recommend. A chatty woman in the swimming pool at Shelter Bay had asked if she could come with us. Four line-handlers are required in addition to the skipper so with me and Phil on board we needed two more. But although we agreed at the time that she could come further reflection made it seem not such a great idea. We saw as she exited the pool she was large and possibly unfit and further talking showed her also in-experienced “I can learn to tie a bowline!”. And since her taxi fare back would pay for one experienced hand it made no sense to just hire one. So over night we changed our mind, and as I explained to her next day we decided from our previous experience that expertise was best. Next day the big fenders were delivered four for each side, and four heavy lines. Two expert line-handlers Mario and Santiago arrived not long before we left and proved good company and hugely competent.

Our passage through the canal was in two stages. First were the three locks on the Caribbean end. Two pilots joined us at the start which is not usual, but one was a trainee. We rafted to the kiwi boat, a process managed by all pilots and the lines-men and compared to our earlier experience all was trouble free. Mario and Santiago were young, sociable - on their phones constantly – and were very relaxed. But when needed they were all attention. Mario was in his 12th year of line handling. Santiago was a student studying to be a nurse and only worked weekends. They got on well and made a sport of being very nonchalant right up to the point they were needed: when the shore handlers blew a whistle to say the lock filling had begun, or a pilot shouted some direction, they left their phones, jumped up and focused completely on the task. With 2 boats only 2 line-handlers were required so Phil and I were spared much activity. But on the other kiwi boat the handlers constantly messed up – tangled lines, slow reactions and a pilot shouting at them constantly. Mario and Santiago were relaxed and did everything required, appreciated by the pilots as well as us.

We moored in Gatun lake at an enormous mooring buoy and the pilots left. Looking after line-handlers and pilots is an important obligation of a yacht in transit who undertakes to feed and provide endless cold water to all, as well as one hot meal. I had cooked up vegetables and mince (argh!) into a pre-prepared stew and now cooked rice as well to feed our crew – one forgets how much young men eat! Phil baked biscuits the day before which were much appreciated too. After this, on a stifling hot night we all settled down, Mario and Santiago in the saloon, though they moved on deck to be cooler in the night. They were throwing buckets of water over each other to wash on the big mooring buoy when we got up, as swimming in the lake is not allowed.

New pilots joined us around 8 am, once more there were two of them as one was a trainee, and Pete served bacon butties to all but me for breakfast (Argh! again from a vegetarian!). Ricardo the experienced pilot asked to have Eduardo the trainee at the helm and off we went. It was hot! They asked for shade as we set off and thankfully we had the big shade-cloth made by Ella on board. Mario and Santiago settled under it on deck with their phones for hours, while Pete and Phil chatted with pilots in the cockpit. Come midday Phil served hamburgers for the line handlers, I served mince and rice to the pilots, before we prepared for the final canal locks. And this time all went well in spite of our worries having seeing the turbulence last time. Again our handlers did well, ropes very carefully managed while those on the rafted boat were constantly told off. But there were no big dramas and soon we thankfully parted ways. The pilots were collected by their big pilot boat and the fenders, lines and line-handlers by our agent soon as well. The three of us on Tokimata then made our way to the so-called Balboa “yacht club”, a few bouncy moorings off a pontoon on the edge of the canal.

Phil was due to leave to fly back to NZ in two days, so next day we called a water taxi to our mooring, booked in for another night, and took a taxi in to Panama City to see the sights. This large city requires care from travellers with several areas widely advertised as “no go”. We headed to the old city and saw a huge Unesco project is underway developing this. Pretty winding streets of two storied buildings, cobbles and verandahs as well as a few older ruins and old churches abound. To get there the taxi drove through several densely populated areas packed with people and ruins of a similar but crumbling type. At the entrance to the old town a huge banner said “No to gentrification!” so perhaps people had been shifted to allow this Unesco re-build. But it seemed good to have these lovely but decaying buildings saved and though it had many tourist shops selling Panama hats, it was interesting and had lovely artisan shops as well.

We went to a wonderful Mola Museum in this quarter, which had very good reviews. And indeed this was marvellous! A beautiful display of how molas have are made, I took many photos I hope to reproduce as a small reminder book. Molas arose from a history of body painting and the museum included exquisite examples of their craft. They embraced the changes from geometrical and mythical designs to ones with animals, religious themes and even showed one of Spider Man. The thoughtful information panels and the focus on woman’s art was truly wonderful to see. Presumably the Kuna government funds this museum as it is free of charge, and it was extraordinarily well done - a liberating and respectful celebration of the culture and individuals who make the art. Indeed the Kuna government does monitor and regulate what can be sold as a mola, and it is quite odd to see tote bags for example that are decorated by molas of the highest quality. All around the old city there were lots of Mola stalls, as well as general “souvenir stalls” selling them and Embera wicker work as well. And these sold good work, not a degraded kind of imitation. And it became fun to spot the lovely small fine-boned Kuna people in a throng of stall holders, indeed in any crowd of people here. Prices are generally established and though cheap for the amount of work involved, they were the same prices here as in the San Blas. And everywhere the standard was high.

Phil left on 24th July at midday so Pete and I then moved Tokimata from the busy channel at Balboa, with the ceaseless procession of enormous boats into the canal. We went around the long causeway that joins three small islands to the anchorage Las Brisas. Holding here is notoriously patchy and when we first put down the anchor we were immediately swept away and had to raise it again and move to a better place. The anchorage is free but is not secure and certainly not beautiful, apart from the amazing backdrop of the city’s huge high-rises. But like small rural anchorages too, slowly decaying boats are all around: recently abandoned yachts with shredded genoa flapping free, often a Pelican as Captain on the rails; listing hulls covered with black sea-life growths and stains sinking sideways in the sea; and finally masts and spreaders also discoloured, poking above the surface, the shadow of a hull below.

In the following days Pete and I had work to do - that double edged Starlink sword meant we had many campsite chores. We both had writing to get done as well. But we took trips on shore including to a huge “American mall” Allbrook recommended to us by another yacht that turned out to be a cavernous soulless place. Local shops and restaurants were better, for this long causeway which used to house the America military now is a popular place for locals to unwind. We also went to the great Biodiversity museum housed in an highly coloured building nearby. Panama was of course the land corridor between North and South America when it rose up from the sea, and this museum was a splendid tribute its history, with details of all sorts of animals including a gigantic land-based sloth, much larger than any other animal then or now.

But the greatest delight on shore was the small Smithsonian nature reserve very close to our anchorage. The day we went it was temporarily closed because of a storm warning. We scoffed slightly when turned away as the darkening sky seemed far away but in fact there was soon an incredible deluge, water pouring from the sky and lightning flashing with thunder too. After an hour it was all over so we hurried back. Although our visit was short because of this, the small area was utterly interesting.

At the entrance I said we were particularly keen to meet a sloth and was told none are in captivity but several live near here, apparently they are to be found all over the city in small woodlands. The entrance man talked on his radio to staff and as Pete and I walked around the reserve several kind young people rushed over to tell where sloths were last seen. Finally someone called to us “One is here, quick come!” Beside the turtle tanks a light brown rough-haired long-limbed fellow was stretched between low branches, winding his two big toe-nails around a branch and climbing head down straight to the shore. What a treat! He seemed utterly undisturbed by the humans admiring him, a calm glance in our direction was all, then purposeful climbing, not fast but not extremely slow, and he went down to the sand. He was a little unkempt and feral looking after the heavy rain, and being a “two toed sloth” lacks the “eye mask” of their three toed cousins, according to our helpful guide.

Smithsonian labs abound in Panama, perhaps from an effort by the USA to study the environment as they developed the canal. A big Smithsonian institute on an island in Gatun lake for example studies jungle animals. But this small reserve in the city is the only one open to the public and seems aimed at schools. Small displays on very specific topics are manned by young students who really know their stuff. We saw tiny frogs an inch or so long, some amazingly coloured, some shiny brown, all apparently thriving in enclosures that are carefully designed. Some were on trees growing in the building. Other displays had replica bones that can be handled, and there were also microscopes with slides set up to see. Outside tanks housed fresh water turtles and several sea aquariums housed reef fish and a moray eel. Outside these aquariums a huge map showed the Panama City harbour on which were printed the meandering tracks of individual whales whose paths had been recorded, alongside the passages of the huge boats of the canal. Man looking after the aquariums also told us where the ocean Smithsonian laboratories are, where the best Pacific snorkelling is, and also and told us that Las Perlas, the Pearl islands south of Panama City lie on a humpback route where at present whales are plentiful.

We have now moved on to the Las Perlas islands: security concerns means only the north is recommended, as two violent armed yacht boardings have taken place this year in the south. We have now been in the north for several days, working and writing and snorkelling, and we have indeed seen humpback whales every day!


Rio Chagres and Portabelo on the Caribbean coast of Panama.

21 July 2023
Rachel Garden
We left the San Blas islands on July 10 2023, after a last visit to Ivin, the wonderful chef at Hollandais Cays. He gave a few more image files for his recipe book and we bought his terrific coconut cake one last time. At 11.30 we upped anchor and were off on our way back east, the transit through the canal now 11 days away. Winds for once were favourable and we sailed briskly out beyond the reefs. The winds were so unusually good we considered sailing all night and even direct to Bocas del Toro near the Costa Rican border. But as we passed the last of San Blas, near Chichime where we had tangled with the Italian skipper at night, the sky grew suddenly dark and the wind whipped up and turned directly on the nose. Soon our passage grew choppy and unpleasant and we were glad finally at 10 pm to anchor in the dark off Isla Grande, our torch showing white foam on a reef nearby.

I woke at 3 am for an online meeting and at first all seemed well, me and the camera rocking up and down together, so all seemed calm, and strange to see a meeting in the UK from our dark saloon. But wind and rain set in and after an hour or so the internet connection failed, so I gave up and went back to bed. In the morning all was bright, we saw other yachts in the distance and that reef very close. As we headed out again to the ocean we were glad we had not sailed all night as the wind and rain had brought tangles of wood and branches, even whole trees, into our path. These were hard enough to see in daylight, often just below the surface and would have been impossible to avoid in the dark. The wind was light and against us once more, so we motored gently in fine weather at last, me on the bow watching carefully as Pete and Phil continued the never ending boat jobs. A broken pipe was found the problem with our water maker, but changing fuel filters and fuel lines did not cure the ongoing issue of an engine limited to medium revs.

The zone of enormous ships at the entrance to the canal loomed up soon, and all attention turned to picking our way through these gigantic boats as well as the columns moving relentlessly to and from the entrance. They are huge, not far apart, and could not stop, so Pete had to judge when Tokimata could speed ahead and when we must hold back from these huge lumbering high-rises in the sea. We passed so close behind one that our bow crashed down thumping in the wake, and we worried for a moment about those weak glassed patches… but all was well and she rose up again strong as always. Eventually we got across the wide canal entrance to the peaceful cliffs beyond.

We headed for Rio Chagres just 6 miles away, a large river with a dangerous reef-strewn entrance that lies below Fort Lorenzo high up on a hill. Called by Columbus “Crocodile river” the Spaniards later named it to honour an indigenous chief who lived there. Beyond the difficult entrance the river becomes deep (10 to 15m) and wide (150 too 300m) and suitable for anchoring, with pristine jungle on either side. Vast trees rise up on the banks and howler monkeys and bird calls echo through the landscape. We had a magical night beyond the entrance in calm, perfect conditions for another 3 am online meeting. This time the connection was good in calm conditions and it was light by the time Pete and I got to sleep.

Fort Lorenzo was built in 1595 to protect this important waterway, for the river ran deep and far inland, almost to the Pacific Coast. The river in those days was 194 km long, but is now about 15, having being dammed in 1910 to create Gatun lake, part of the Panama Canal.

So in the past this was a key transport route for Spanish wealth taken from southern colonies (The “Spanish Main”) to Spain, and so attracted pirates who lay in wait for them. Many English pirates, including Francis Drake, attacked the fort. Henry Morgan the famous Welsh pirate took the fort by land in 1671 after landing some men up the coast who attacked the fort from the landward side. When his fleet came in his sailors however were so excited to see their flag above the fort that they celebrated before they were safely inside the reef. According to a near contemporary account “they spent more time at the barrel than at the leadline” and 4 of his 15 ships were lost on the reef at the entrance, including the Flag ship… although most of their supplies and arms were eventually saved many men were drowned.

We went ashore to admire the fort, a Unesco Heritage site well looked after. Soft stone ruins with canons and displays and lovely views from this height down the river and up the coast. Afterwards we moved Tokimata further up the river, then launched Portia (our dinghy) to explore tributaries, slightly wary of what lurked below. We met but didn’t see the crocodiles - up one small tributary we brushed the edge of a tree hanging into the water and suddenly there was a terrific splash, a flash of scales?, a silver side of something sinking down beneath us into the dark water. And next morning from the cockpit in first light, I saw a large fish flung aloft, not the smooth parabola of something fleeing a pursuer, but a higher, agitated throw. Surely only a crocodile… but again just a sinking shape and occasional bubble to see.

The land on either side of the river is protected national park with huge trees and wildlife.
Howler monkeys move around and their deep calls echo all about. One morning, this time late at around 8 am I heard their morning chorus: one howler voice booms out alone, another answers then a swell of a crowd all howling, a whole community conversing loudly then slowly reducing again to individual voices and brief silence, before the same thing repeats again: a single call, then another and soon a cacophony, a swelling chorus that gently subsides before starting up again. For 45 minutes this continued until it seemed enough, the morning conversation was over, and they presumably moved away. We took Tokimata up to the dam on the river the day before we left, and walked about a mile up the road until we could get a view across the lake and to the locks. From the dinghy coming back we saw a family of howlers basking above us: one had its tail firmly gripping, curled around a small branch while he stretched out on a larger one, all four legs simply dangling down. It is incredible that such small animals can make such a booming, enormous noise.

After 3 days in this wonderful place, an all-time favourite anchorage, we decided not to thrash against the winds to Boca and instead head back the other way to Portabela, once the richest Spanish port of all, the major clearance place of Spanish plunder via a land route from Panama City so a pirates haunt as well. Francis Drake the English pirate died here and was buried at sea nearby in a lead coffin.. Anchoring in heavy rain and choppy seas, brown from silt washing out of a large shallow river, we noted the other occupied yachts had their tenders locked on board, a sign of dubious security. There were many unoccupied yachts as well were in various stages of decay. A particularly sad steel yacht was badly rusted and on a tilt, this had sunk by the time we left, joining around 8 dead or half dead yachts.

Next day we headed in to see the small coastal town, once so important with three forts protecting it. Since those days the town has become more ethnically African, since when eventually slaves were freed the Spaniards left and the slaves as well as the indigenous people remained. Today it is a centre of a “Congo festival” when the “Black Christ” of the local church is taken out and days of dance and partying ensue. The buildings are amazing vibrant colours and the usual huge buses on the tiny streets, covered with flashing lights and bling, make it a rather lovely place. Near the dodgy boat slip full of rubbish and decaying boats, where we left the dinghy, we found a barber doing a fine job with a stylish young man’s afro hair. He took such trouble and the boy left looking like a king! I pointed out Pete to him and he smilingly accepted him as the next customer. He laughed and started a very close shave of the back of Pete’s head so I gestured that at the front we wanted some length there – and this cheerful person who found us quite entertaining actually did a wonderful job, taking just as much trouble as on the earlier young man. We were all chuffed with each other, a great start to the next explore!

We stayed a couple of days here, time to see past the mud and rubbish and broken roads, finding very fine art from another indigenous group, the Embera. These people have a tradition of beautiful weaving with fibre. In the one posh shop in this little town, “Casa Congo” are amazing fibre life size masks of birds and animals: huge toucans, monkey faces, even a crocodile. They also had African inspired paintings with small amounts of beads and mirror mosaic as well, some incredibly lovely. Later we found Kuna and Embera stalls behind the “Black Christ” church.

A huge storm the second night we anchored here had apocalyptic winds that flattened us against the sea and whipped up enormous chop. Lightning lit up the dark night sky around 3 am for several hours, and we felt Tokimata struggle against the chain. Next morning we found we’d dragged our anchor getting closer to some wrecks. Lifting the anchor to move it we found some cable stretched across and finally freed it, hoping we had not wiped out someone’s electricity supply…

Soon it was time to head back to the Canal and we are now back at Shelter Bay. We leave today for the first 3 locks of the Canal, then spend the night in Gatun Lake before exiting the canal tomorrow. We’ve hired two local line handlers to help, who will stay with us overnight, we’ve not met them yet. Tomorrow evening should find us on the Pacific coast of Panama.

The islands of San Blas

13 July 2023
Rachel Garden
On Friday 23rd June at last we headed across the busy canal entrance from Shelter Bay marina and into the Caribbean sea. We were sailing to the San Blas islands, Kuna Yala to the inhabitants, hundreds of small islands and coastal villages that are still administered by the indigenous owners of the land. Survivors of many attempts at colonisation, they retain control of their lands, having fought off invaders, but vote in Panama elections too. As a lovely Kuna man said to us: “First there were pirates, now there are tourists, there will always be Kuna here!”

Our sea legs took time to adjust after so long ashore, and both Pete and Phill slept for much of our first sail. Phil lasted longest, and slept after putting out a fishing line and so caught a wahoo while asleep! But by 5 pm all were up and ready as we anchored among many other yachts at Linton Bay. Many boat jobs still awaited us, the most pressing our tender. We unfolded Portia (our porta-boat) on deck, pleased to see she is still sound. The outboard needed dismantling and after clearing gunk from the carburettor and unblocking the sea water cooling all was good – except Pete mixed the fuel at 25:1 instead of 50:1 resulting in a smoky stuttering engine, not so good!

A huge thunderstorm raged that night, low it seemed from the deafening thunder and streaks of lightning. In the morning all was calm, but Portia was gone – panic stations! Phil then spied her floating just below the surface of the sea behind the boat. She had filled with the rain in the storm. What a relief! We left, then passed a small marina fuel dock open on a Sunday. Pete kayaked in and bought petrol to dilute the fuel so one boat problem solved, and we had a functioning tender.

In light winds we reached Chichime Cays at the start of the San Blas islands and anchored in heavy rain among a dozen yachts behind a reef. In front a small island and gigantic wreck, an old steel freighter on its side on the reef in front, dominating the view. Beside us was a solid aluminium sloop we’d met at Shelter Bay, we’d noticed a Rocna anchor even larger than ours. In fact Phil had been on board after answering a call for a doctor, and checking a cut finger of their daughter. In the night the winds blew up and we were woken with a crazy duck like klaxon noise by her skipper - our boats dancing in the chop had swung together. By the time I was on deck Pete In heavy rain was letting out more anchor chain, 10 more metres from the 25 I had put out the night before. Pete yelled to the Italian skipper “How much have you got out?!” but he wouldn’t say though it was clearly a huge amount, simply shouting back “I need much chain, my rudder is 3m!” He was moving in a huge arc in quite a tight anchorage taking more than his fair share of space. We met him later in better circumstances but it was hard not to think of his as “Mr 3m Rudder!”

Early next day we picked our way in sun through several reefs to Limon Cays, a beautiful anchorage fringed by reefs. Being difficult to get to there was only one other boat -French, with 3 people and 2 gigantic dogs aboard. On shore a simple Kuna Resort: small wooden buildings on a sandy beach with a high open building on a deck with a restaurant beside. There are many in Kuna Yala, always simple and suited to their surroundings. Since land is not sold to outsiders there no ugly lavish developments are here.

Our first snorkel on a beautiful reef among big corals with clouds of coloured reef fish, was lovely. But getting there showed a sad secret of the San Blas: there are vast volumes here of awful plastic waste, in places completely overwhelms small islands. Currents are easterly so the problem got worse as we travelled more. What looks enchanting from a distance, a fringe of white sand lined with coconut palms is often ghastly close up, drifts of plastic debris of all kinds, countless plastic bottles, shoes, boat rubbish jammed among plants and stones. Later even snorkelling on the reef involved swimming in a sea of rubbish.

At Limon cays we met our first of many local boats which ply the yachts off shore. First were several offering crayfish and crabs. Only Kuna can spearfish here, and though visitors can snorkel no scuba diving is allowed. The locals therefore sell their wares to yachts. None on Tokimata enjoy crays or crabs so we would gesture clearly and say “No, we don’t eat that”. One time a larger fibreglass boat suddenly appeared while I was on deck, three young men in high spirits offering me a very short line as they went by. Intent on seeing what was for sale I didn’t notice at first no engine noise, and that one of two large outboards on the stern had no top. Then I noticed strange gestures, one man sliding his finger across his throat and looking menacing, another making strange curly patterns with a hand. Then suddenly I realise, these were not threats but descriptions of their dead engines. Just too late I missed the offered painter and they slid by in the current. “What” I yelled, “what is wrong”. Phil was now on board. We watched as they glided onto a sandy spit a small distance away and suddenly heard “Screwdriver!”. We got it at last – they needed help. Phil whizzed out with 4 screwdrivers and Pete’s message “Bring those back afterwards!”. Soon I watched the Kuna huddled over their big outboards and the roar of the engine, then Phil safely back, with the screwdrivers… “they were a bit reluctant to return them”, he said.

The most welcome boats sell “molas”, fabric art justly famous in these parts. These are
panels of applique: different coloured fabrics sewn by very fine stitches to create colourful, graphic representations and patterns, often with much embroidery as well. Traditionally these are abstracts or images of fabulous animals, though “tourist molas” are lovely too and rather different, applique images of jungle or sea scenes, brightly coloured animals, fish and birds reminiscent of Pacific fabric works. Traditional molas are the front and back panels of a Kuna woman’s blouse, and these are coloured, and abstract. The women wear scarves over their heads, a gold ring in their nose, a mola blouse and simple length of fabric wrapped around them as a skirt. But the legs below the knees have long leg panels of tiny coloured beads, sparkling tubes tied behind the leg, intricate coloured beadwork that sparkles in the sun. They wear bare feet and are often vivid heavy makeup, some light brown powder spread over the face and very rouged cheeks perfect the look. The women are small dark with fine expressive faces, really beautiful.

Our first mola visitor was a modest dugout with a young couple and two children whose mother showed her wares. Phil and I chose several lovely examples of her work and they looked as pleased as us as they paddled away. But two days later Swift Butterfly, a big fibreglass canoe with outboard engine brought Vanencio to us and an amazing art collections. Two huge plastic bins were full of the most wonderful molas. Vanencio took them out, one panel at a time as he stood in the canoe - each panel is made up of several molas stitched roughly together, a practical way to show this art especially when standing in a canoe. We watched this marvellous show and anything we particularly admired was put carefully to one side. When nearly a hundred small panels were displayed - what a feast of art! - this pile was brought on board Tokimata, cold water was served, and we feasted all over again.

Among the treasures showed was a proudly “culture piece” an image of a woman in traditional dress. I took a photo of the artist holding up this work, with another fine mola still attached below. He quoted a price of US$80, higher than other works, and I passed it by. Venancio was a skilled salesperson: when asked a price you might be told “$50 for an American” with 5 fingers held up, “but only $40 for you!” as the 5 became 4 fingers. Another favourite line, “$40 for that one but if you buy this one only $30 each.” Haggling did not seem appropriate for us to engage in with such wonderful art for sale. As Phil and I spent up large we were handed a printed card, reading Venancio Restrepo, Master mola maker, Isla Maquina, Kuna Yala, Panama. Maquina is famous for its mola makers and not far away.

Hollandaise Cays was our next stop, a beautiful reef-ringed set of small islands, with a restaurant, a very modest building with a deck. Ivin was the chef (he pronounces it Irvin, with slightly rolled r) the cook and owner and a most engaging man. Trained in French Polynesia after working throughout the Caribbean, this was his new venture, his own place on family land. The food proved a miracle of finely balanced taste, far more sophisticated that anything we had had yet tasted in Panama. Not only talented at cooking, Ivin turned out a wonderful friend, proud of his Kuna heritage, very positive and optimistic. Everyone is his friend, even an American who came the night before and “unfortunately only talks of Jesus” spoken with slight disapproval. “Religion” declared Ivin is “in here”, striking his heart, “We should not tell people what religion they should have”. At our first meal with him Ivin offered us “past life regressions therapy, I do it free!” but we declined. He told of having rescued a visiting French surgeon from bad depression: “Everyone is good! We have so many lives! If something bad happens, someone comes and shoots me dead, well there will be another life!” I got the feeling his lives were all as Kuna though. Thinking of the now regretted “culture piece” (How could I let that go?) I asked if he knew Venancio “Of course, just yesterday Venancio was here!”. Then: “Why do people think it wrong to be gay, what does it matter to them? If you are a Kuna parent with 6 sons, of course one will be gay”.

He told us sadly that a yachtie at anchor had an infected leg and might have to find hospital treatment. It seemed typical of this lovely man that he was so worried about this, and so delighted that Phil was a doctor who could help. Phil saw the German yachtie twice and to his and Ivin’s great relief decided that the course of antibiotics that had just been started was working, the man was recovering well, no need for hospitals.

Amazed by his fine food we talked much with Ivin and found his keen desire to have a book of his recipes in English. We suggested our Spanish speaking daughters Kit and Sally might help with translation and our third daughter Emily with layout and imagine Ivin’s delight when we told him they were happy to oblige! He was entranced “Will they really? What an opportunity!” So a Garden daughter project has begun for a very special man!

Kuna towns were our next destinations, these are densely packed on islands very close to shore. Houses are crammed together and around the islands corrugated iron outhouses stand above the water, no incentive to swim! We visited Nargana-Corazon, one town on two islands joined by a bridge, the largest Kuna town. Here we found friendly people and huge amounts of rubbish in the brackish water near a big river mouth.

A few days later we visited another town Azucar on one smaller island. Here we were visited at once by Apio, no English but this was no hindrance to a practiced operator: soon we had arranged a restaurant meal on shore, and a walk to a waterfall next day. The meal was the usual fried whole fish on a bed of rice, but arriving at the simple restaurant we found Apio with enormous speakers blasting out music very loud. He seemed very proud of the speakers, polishing them lovingly as we ate our meal, thankfully the sound now turned down. Drinks were on sale, we bought a beer each from him and apparently that meant paying for his as well. Later a carefully written bill for $6 was presented, which since we’d now paid for beer and meal seemed strange. But eventually this turned out to be a charge for the 3 of us to look around the town. Two small boys, part of a larger group watching us were called and took us on a tour of this very small island town, all looking very tidy. It occurred to us the loud music on arrival was to alert the residents that strangers were arriving and as we walked with out two small guides it seemed hard to judge who was most on display, the Kuna residents or us. A few houses displayed a red flag which is the universal signal that they don’t want to see foreigners or have photos taken.

The waterfall walk next day started early with a twenty minute trip up a river with Apio in his boat, a wiry Kuna man on the prow. We then walked on with this man as our guide, a dark lean man in gumboots, with no English unfortunately but a lovely smile. For one and a half hours we walked first along well-made tracks among gardens and dense vegetation, fording many rivers, then up smaller slippery tracks to the scenic waterfall. A sophisticated system of water pipes and tanks was evident, taking fresh water to the town and to villages and beaches along the shore. The final scramble up to the waterfall very reminiscent of our walks to our bush water supply at the farm. We even saw a tree fern up there!

Once back on board about midday we needed to get off, wanting to see Ivin one last time before leaving San Blas. As we raised the anchor a couple more touts for the waterfall walk cam alongside in their dugout canoes: “No we’ve already done it thank you!”. “I will do it cheaper!” And they spoke English too. But of course we had already been up there and needed to get away.

A week after leaving Ivin we were back. We had meanwhile met Swift Butterfly again – I saw the boat and waved and we had another art binge as all the molas were taken out to find the “culture piece” I showed in the photograph. It had not been sold, and is now mine… In the week since leaving Ivin had made a start on building a roof over his simple restaurant and even a table in the water in front, his “pool table” and a hammock for guests to be served while in the water. He was delighted that the files he had given us, copied to our computer were now in Kitty and Sally’s hands, his great English book project was begun!

The jungles of Panama

30 June 2023
Rachel Garden
Grinding rust on the hull of Tokimata eventually gave way to grinding rust on the decks, but this was made much easier by hiring energetic boatyard workers. Eventually this progressed to painting, using two part polyurethane over the various anti-rust treatments and primers they had applied. However just then the prolonged spell of dry weather gave way to torrential downpours, great for the canal but not so good for painting. The boatyard helpers had to leave for other work and our travel lift appointment was set back to Tuesday June 20th, after Phil’s arrival. But Pete and I did manage to get sporadic bursts of painting dry between downpours and by the time Phil arrived on June 17th the end was in sight. With Phil’s help we were ready on Tuesday for the enormous trailer that parked under Tokimata and slowly changed the land supports to trailer ones, then she was lifted into the water at last! What a lovely ship she was again, her clean low hull lines supporting white decks sparkling in the sun.

A few more days were needed to put up the sails, check systems and the engine. First we celebrated by taking the guided tour into the jungle Pete and I had promised ourselves as we listened to the howler monkeys and screeching birds and other strange noises beside the yard. We asked a local how to find the guide: “He’s a retired professor and looks just like a professor! You can’t miss him!” and he imitated a slow upright, dignified walk. Sure enough I found just such a person at one end of the marina, you really could not miss him, and arranged to meet up with him that afternoon.

In stifling heat, dressed as required in long sleeves and trousers, we met - he looked a little sadly around the 3 of us for more, obviously things had been quiet recently. But soon he launched into a very interesting talk. First indicting all around us with his stick saying “All of this is man-made. See how flat it is! Nothing in Panama is naturally flat”. The canal construction apparently meant huge quantities of material were moved to fill vast areas nearby, including this. Shelter Bay itself was apparently not natural but was carved out of the coast to give shelter then later turned into the marina. The land around was indeed all flat, created by fill. Here was an American base during both world wars also housing engineers and other professionals working on the Canal. The building where we met our guide had been a cinema in the time of the Americans, obvious once he pointed it out, an old ticket booth now used to sell vegetables, a “candy shop” and huge cavernous inside...

It was a very hot walk in our long sleeves and trousers down an overgrown road into the jungle beside the boatyard. We reached a large derelict building that had once been a church, the roof timbers falling and festoons of termite nests the only decoration. Our guide scraped the dark shiny surface of a nest near us, a big pear shaped glossy dark ball, revealing a mass of tiny agitated termites. “They are not like ants, they have no protection on their bodies so they cannot walk outside – like jelly with legs.” Sure enough looking carefully we could see next to the nest stretched a long thread of tunnel, built just like the nest, stretching like a rope out of the nest into the trees. In fact there were termite nests all around, on the old church, by the path and any swinging high up in the trees. And everywhere too, with careful looking, you could see these narrow covered tunnels winding about like tiny sticks along the tree branches, way up into the trees: “They have to make these passages, they can’t move outside”. The small scrape he had made on the nest he said would be closed up again and repaired by next day.

We talked of the other animals here and he showed us pictures: a little racoon like animal like a large dark cat that I had seen from the boat, with tail going straight up. Howler monkeys we had heard but not seen were quite small, a little larger than cats, but with such unbelievably powerful noises. And little white faced capuchins were also very common and had peered at us on the boat. Our guide also mentioned sloths, saying in the primal jungle nearby there were very many, but not so common here. It was now June 21st, Tui’s birthday, our lovely granddaughter who adores sloths, so we were keen to celebrate by seeing one. But our guide said they are rare here and always hard to see: they move so slowly they can look just like termite nests, arms around a branch swaying up in the trees. He did say he had relocated 5 sloths to this area, one from a boat in the marina! What a treat that would have been.

The area of our walk was far from pristine jungle, though a few kilometres away he said we could see the original primeval forest. Here was land disturbed by man, and he showed us many invasive weeds: elephant grass brought from Kenya to stabilise the canal banks that grew far faster here than there and towered over our path, 4 or 5 metres high. This has a pampas -like flower though without the huge understorey base of pampas in NZ, just huge high grass strands towering overhead. So-called “royal palms” were another invasive, tall smooth trunks much thicker and higher than a coconut palm dominating some areas. A few banana trees, and lime trees had been planted at the edge of this jungle and some wild mangoes with small fruits could be seen but the soil lacked nutrition and was full of weeds. A huge mahogany tree rose up as an exception, apparently protected now, and “Panama trees” rather like a flame trees and common throughout the country also rose high above.

As we walked further, leaf cutter ants dominated our paths: at first hard to spot but soon we saw them everywhere as they filed along highways over dirt, up branches, over little cliffs, files of ants about 6 abreast each holding up a flag, a piece of leaf, way above their heads in a constant busy stream. The first is a shock and then you realise they are all around your large clumsy feet, busy highways filled with ants rushing purposefully home. Ant nests are underground or in raised domes like termite nests, or waving in the air suspended among trees, thousands and millions of ants must live there…

Human debris appeared at intervals including very solid metal cages which our guide said had been part of a zoo for the Americans living here. He noted they were far too small for the local animals they kept, and it was horrible to think that monkeys and others might have been captured and put in there. Further on he took us to an old American system of underground bunkers with motar emplacement circles outside and huge rails in long dark corridors designed to move armaments. From here they could lob shells into the canal entrance if the Germans invaded during WW1 or the Japanese came through in WW2. All part of a defensive structure stretching out into the jungle and into the hillside. We walked along dark corridors inside the hill, finding huddles of bats in broken light sockets, among rubbish, graffiti and a complex huge web of passages that allowed soldiers to flee, or lock out adversaries or get to their guns.

How lovely to be outside in the sun again! We walked on and on into the trees beyond the base to see large communities of monkeys swinging around above us, chattering, playing, a mixture of capuchins and howler monkeys who took little notice of us. Now and then the amazingly loud howler monkey noise boomed out, the primeval monster jungle noise, hard to reconcile with the small howlers.

Now and then concrete steps appeared next to the path as we walked back towards the marina and civilisation. These were all that remained apparently of streets of posh “officers housing” that once was there in “Upper Sherman” which had been built higher than the rest of the area with extra spoil. Our guide spoke warmly of the Americans, and sadly of life since they had left. Pete asked how much of the country they controlled and he answered “Supposedly only 5 miles either side of the canal, but they did so much for us, they gave us so much more and my father said they had bases as far away as Bocas del Torro nearly 100 miles away”. He said particularly in the last two years, post-Covid, there had been a great decline in safety with terrible violence and destruction in Colon in particular. The Pacific coast he said was better, but once Colon too had been “such a lovely city”. “Look at it now he said: flat, all man made, subject to flooding and so recently so lovely but now….”

We had taken the bus a few times to Colon and the marina provides the free bus they say partly to ensure safety in the town. It takes people usually just to one centre with a big American supermarket and some chandlers in just one part of town. This day I asked the driver if I could find somewhere to post a letter. We annoyingly had been told we must send a contract to our lawyer with a “wet” signature to finalise the purchase of a house near the campsite. I tried to object knowing it would not be easy to “post” anything in Colon but was told I had no choice. The bus driver told me no post office could be trusted but he could take me near to another business which would be more reliable.

So on this trip I stayed on the bus while Pete and Phil got off and soon just one other passenger and I were on a 6 lane highway, truly “desolation row”. A huge stadium several blocks long was an enormous mess of burned out steel and twisted metal sheets. Blasted shops lined either side of a highway with no pedestrians. Eventually the driver stopped and pointed to a destroyed shopping mall set back from the road and said “See there -only go to this one shop with the red door, do not hail a taxi on the main road.” Another passenger shouted “Be careful” and helpfully “The taxi ride is $1.50 to get back”. They looked sorrowfully as if I would never be seen again then drove away.

On the roadside I walked where he had indicated, through the wreckage of a recent development now a scene of apocalyptic war: masses of broken glass, twisted steel, plastic advertisements broken on the pavement, about 20 gutted shop frontages, and no-one walking anywhere. I picked my way to the only standing shop “with red door” and entering was met with great surprise by a man at a counter talking to a friend. “A customer??!” he seemed to be saying with a stream of Spanish. I felt like an apparition from another world. But they all seemed friendly, in this little oasis of normality, so I felt safe at least. An older sad man appeared from the back who spoke English and though “post” was not possible clearly this was a courier agency… A younger man with bright pink hair appeared and what with his broken English, my phone and a letter already addressed, he understood what I needed. Much pressing of calculator keys resulted in $107 US dollars being quoted for DHL. I was aghast but finally accepted. I needed to get out of here …

Next it seemed it was all off as I had no passport. No of course I said I would not carry one here! “But they require one!” I said it was impossible and was leaving when after some discussion they hit on the happy idea that one of them would be the sender, not me. He had ID and eventually we finished our transaction, all done with tracking numbers, Pete’s phone as contact, money exchanging hands. Kind people. “Only taxi! Do not go to the main road!” they warned me on my way out to the blasted shopping centre. There was no taxi to be seen so I tried to take a photo of this amazing awful place, and immediately one appeared at great speed and nearly ran me down. I showed on my phone the destination to catch the bus and off we went in the wrong direction.. he drove wildly one hand on the wheel the other grabbing chips out of a bag. At least I could track his path on google maps and realised he had to go the wrong way on the horrible highway to turn in the right direction and indeed we were soon there. I gave him $1.50 as the bus passenger had told me and he sped off. I was so very very glad to get out of there!

The jungle guides remarks were now all too understandable. Probably just 2 years ago this was a smart and busy place, indeed the courier was near to the huge “freeport” in Colon where luxury goods are sold without tax, perhaps the reason this one shop still stood. But the scale of destruction still so raw and obvious, explained this local professor’s distress.

And yet in such a dangerous and damaged place the fact was that the people I actually dealt with there were good to me. The surprised man at the counter, the old sad man who was his boss, and the young man with bright pink hair were all actually concerned, intelligent and caring and rather lovely people…

Next afternoon Tokimata and her crew prepared to leave. Pete booked a visit to the fuel dock on the way out, however we found this was suddenly closed: apparently there had been some spillage so authorities had closed them down. A ferocious thunderstorm that night made us grateful not to have left yet, and we fuelled up next morning instead and left. At last we were away from the human jungles and into the Caribbean ocean, keen to see all that the San Blas Islands (Kuna Yala to the people who live there) have to offer.

We are now in this wonderful place. Their fabric art “molas” are famous, as is their indigenous way of life: though part of Panama they are indigenously run, no foreign ownership of land allowed or even intermarrying. They run simple resorts which are low impact and lovely on their coconut fringed islands. There is a matrilineal society with a tradition of marvellous art, an appreciation of gay and transvestite men, and a way of life that seems well organised and fair. We had already glimpsed their art at the marina, since 2 Kuna women ran a stall in the old cinema. Ah, we are having a grand time in such a lovely place and I’ll write about that another time.

Two weeks in Panama

07 June 2023
Peter Garden
We arrived in Panama City Tuesday 23rd May from Manchester, with our usual heavy luggage: this time a Starlink system was the bulk of it along with other boat essentials. After travel via Amsterdam we arrived at last to see our taxi-driver holding a “Mr Peter” sign and were off for the hour and a half drive to Shelter Bay. Muggy and hot, Pete texted the marina at once to check they had arranged us access to our boat as it was 8pm – he had had to remind them to move Tokimata to the working area before we came and sure enough they did needed reminding we needed the key to get in and a ladder for access. Tired out and vaguely depressed at the rust outside we settled down to sleep on board.

Following days saw us working in the heat, clearing out the sail locker, removing the ply lining so Pete could continue the horrible job begun last year: of grinding out rust in the hull from within, removing metal bits and dust so water could escape behind the insulation. As before grinding sometimes went through with bright light shining inside. Pete glassed over holes and weak spots then painted with primer. As we’re staying on board each night it required a big clean up of walls and floors so we could sleep in our forward cabin. Insulation eventually got put back, lining replaced, walls cleaned again and eventually the sail locker was done and the same job started in our berth, plywood taken out, rust exposed then ground and cleaned and painted and glassed, and finally all put back again.

In such oppressive heat nothing is easy, a shower at the end of day makes it bearable with a swim in the pool and peaceful drink outside the restaurant each evening proved essential.

Tokimata’s windows were also badly rusted. We had taken replacements from the UK to the Caribbean last year, and the scale of this task was formidable. Pete consulted with workers in the yard and after a trial job on two windows, agreed to have them help. Thank goodness! Pete has overseen the work and two weeks later Tokimata is looking much better: deck rust hacked away, then ground and primed, with the worst bits filled and even glassed as well. Half the windows are fully installed, the others nearly ready. Finally after heaps of work and heaps of cleaning Tokimata feels like a ship with attitude again - we love our boat once more.

Preparing for our own eventual passage through the canal we spent the first Saturday here as “line handlers” on another yacht, Fulmar, whose crew Lilian and Franco we had met last year in Santa Marta. At 4.30 am we joined them on board with a Danish friend of theirs who turned out to know our friends and fellow arctic sailors Kim and Kirsten. Canal authorities require 4 line-handlers on each yacht in addition to the skipper and since it helps to know what is involved volunteering seemed sensible.

The day became slowly extremely hot and the canal transit went not quite according to plan. It was arranged that two catamarans be rafted either side of Fulmar as this was the heaviest boat. But Franco had met one skipper, hired by young Canadian “bitcoin” millionaires who knew very little, and the UK skipper he thoroughly disliked. Franco predicted the UK skipper would try to become the middle boat so as not to handle lines, and so indeed it proved. The owners looked like children, teenagers playing roles of playboy and trophy girlfriend and did indeed seem completely unable to do anything useful on their large posh boat. In spite of early arrangements the large cat was put centre with a small cat and Fulmar on either side.

Three locks start the canal and there are three more at the end, 21 miles or so away. Once the yachts were rafted together side by side we travelled into the first lock behind a large container ship. Canal staff throw heavy monkey-fists down from the 12m high walls quite violent heavy blows as they land somewhere near each corner of the rafted boats. Line-handlers on board must seize these, tie them to the heavy long lines already on board provided by Canal authorities and they are then pulled back by land-based staff. Nervous skippers gesture wildly at their solar panels to deflect these alarming monkey-bombs and the whole process is quite violent. When successfully pulled back the heavy lines are secured on deck while the shore staff walk along the side of the canal as the yachts position behind the container ship. Each yacht has a local pilot on board who shouts, gestures or communicates by radio. Our pilot was Hans, not a German as Franco had hoped, very much a local who spoke only English and Spanish.

Once inside the lock, canal staff secure the heavy lines on each corner of the rafted yachts to big bollards on shore. On-board line-handlers run them through a cleat and watch to pull in the lines as water levels rise. But as the gates closed on the first lock and water swirled about it, on board the yachts there was a frenzy of selfies and excited talking into phones - recording it all seemed far more important than attending to the event in hand. The silly teenage millionaires swooned together into their phones, while their two hired line-handlers looked bored without any lines to handle, and their UK skipper theatrically spoke into his phone in a serious voice presumably to record some new self-advertisement for his CV. His pilot however took his measure, shouted at him and since his engine and steering were needed to control all 3 yachts kept him under close control.

After passing through the first three locks the heavy lines were thrown back to the boats with monkey fist lines detached and the line-handlers pulled them back on board. We then un-rafted and each yacht motored separately the 20 or so miles down the canal. Huge container ships loomed along jungle fringed lakes, while enormous clouds gathered overhead in the oppressive, sweltering heat. Two other yachts passed us after apparently spending the night in the lake, which is one way of transiting. Pilot Hans got worried as “our” container ship and yachts passed by, urging Lilian to go faster. But she and Franco were on a budget and she was not to be persuaded: the rules say yachts must go at least 5 knots and that was the speed she kept to, saving fuel and dollars. She pointed out they were exactly on the printed schedule and Hans accepted defeat. So we sweltered, motored slowly on and watched the fellow travelling boats disappear.

At last we reached the final three locks and as Franco had suspected the two cats were already rafted together in the lock ahead of the container ship which was also in the lock. Hans argued on the radio then reported we had permission to join them there. Huge tug boats pushed the huge container ship against the wall to let us pass with crew leaning over the rails waving and urging us on. But the radio exploded again and Hans' voice was raised: apparently a tug boat captain objected, the lock master capitulated and suddenly we were doing a u-turn mid lock and going back out through the gates. Not a happy Hans!

Hans was furious “I shall report this! We at the Panama canal have rules!” But we left and the gates closed behind us, clearly the lock master is king. And just then the heavens opened with the most torrential rain as thunder crashed and lightning lit up the clouds. Sheltering on board Lilian alone stood in the rain steering us around in circles, while Franco brought her a jacket and eventually a change of dress. The rain brought a sudden drop in temperature which was a great relief. After less than half an hour the storm passed, we still circled outside the lock and now had the two yachts who had spent the night in the canal for company. Franco knew both boats: one a small cat skippered by a young French couple also “on a budget” who turned out to have inexperienced and argumentative local line-handlers, not provided by a regular agent, much to the disgust of Franco. The other was an aluminium monohull with a French flag but newly purchased by a British skipper Miles and his German wife and 3 adults on board to help as well as a young child. After more than an hour or so a new huge ship emerged up the canal behind us, the three yachts were rafted with Fulmar now in the centre, and we entered the first of the last set of locks as light began to dim. We line handlers on Fulmar were able to relax, though Lilian had the task of powering us all ahead.

All was well until the final lock, notoriously difficult because of turbulence from Pacific tides outside and a strong current flowing out through the leaking lock gates. We could see the turbulence as we moved to the end of this last lock in front of the big ship, swirling waters and we pitched about as Lilian steered in. The monohull alongside usually reversed as she powered ahead to keep us straight but this time Miles apparently failed to do this, perhaps because of swirling currents. The small cat line handlers had been on their phones, arguing together and showing off, and in this last lock and gathering dark perhaps all were a bit frazzled and distracted. For in a moment the boats slewed around to one side, pushing the Brits to the wall. Hans, our pilot, then called out but it seemed the stern line-handler on the small cat had lost control, their line stretched line at full length across the lock and had been tangled by the cleat. Miles we had discovered was normally rude (he had shouted at Pete for no reason “Pull on the line don’t just f***ing look at it!”) and now suddenly yelled abuse at his wife and we saw for a moment her leg stretched through wires and lines in a futile effort to push the boat from the wall: incredibly ill-judged and could easily have been severed, with no hope of fending off all 3 boats in such a current. A wiser adult on the boat managed to place a fender between boat and wall, and all was well.

But in this moment tension became extreme: Hans berating the local line handlers as being offhand and incompetent; Miles’s wife had disappeared and he now shouted abuse at large then at the young French skipper “For F**s sake use your winch handle, what do you think it is for!” I told him it seemed to small for the heavy lines, I’d seen him try and fail to use the winch. Indeed the boat cleats were also too small for such big lines, no doubt part of the problem. Franco by now was exploding with rage at the line handlers and the false economy of hiring them: “Useless useless men, why are they being paid, what a waste of money!!!”, while Lilian tried to to calm him and all the while the young girl on Miles’ boat was sobbing, comforted by her mother who turned their backs to Miles.

Dark enveloped us fast as we finally left that last lock and motored in black night across the busy Pacific harbour to the place where Fulmar’s agent had arranged for them to stay. Pete, Benny and I were exhausted as we finally got an uber back to Shelter Bay, the driver muttering “too far” in his little uncomfortable car as we rattled and shook on the rough road for an hour and a half home.

Next day it was back to work as usual. Then slowly we came aware of such a sad kiwi tragedy that had taken place here. We heard kiwi voices at a boat near ours and talked to two NZ women under a yacht which turned out to be their brother’s. He had arrived at the marina in March then suffered catastrophic injuries in the pool. After passage from the Caribbean he and 3 crew had anchored outside the marina then came in to celebrate and while others were in the pool the brother had dived in, hit a step then the bottom and lay unnoticed there for 6 minutes before a crew member tripped over him as she got out. They pulled him out, performed CPR and an ambulance took him to Colon hospital nearby. His neck was broken and was soon transferred to Panama City hospital. His sisters Donna and Alaina had come out from NZ to visit the permitted 3 times a week, and were now arranging the sale of his boat, though clearly they knew nothing about sailing or boats. Two young kiwis were trying to buy it (“they’re from Wellington, with rich parents!” hissed Alaina) and offered the very lowest the sisters would allow but subject to survey, then lowered their offer again. These poor women sold it far too cheap = US$96k, knowing their brother would be appalled (he had paid US$180k a year ago), but what could they do? $100k was quoted for their brother to fly LA to Auckland with ICU staff to attend, and his insurance covered just $30k. Getting him to LA, then to Christchurch from Auckland were also costs on top.

Such a sad and dreadful tale: the brother’s adventures ending in a swimming pool! His sisters bearing such a heavy load. I’m not sure we want to meet the Wellington pair who have bought it for a song, eye contact would be difficult. And what a lesson about sailing and about life, how we can be felled so unexpectedly.

Tokimata at least continues to improve, all windows out, half in and half ready to go in. The cockpit floor up and rust on deck and on the hull multi-primed. We need welding in the stern behind the wheel near the boarding platform, but it may be glassed for now as we run out of time and its always “tomorrow” that the welder is coming.

We long to be in the water and look forward to Phil joining us in just 10 days then we’re off to the San Blas islands.

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