Just a few short weeks after moving aboard Mara Noka, having yet barely learned how to handle him, we set out on one of the most difficult trips for a novice sailor I can imagine: beating into the wind for nearly 500 miles, from Colombia to Hispaniola.
The order of the stories in Part II are as follows:
Follow the links above, or scroll all the way to the bottom of this page to read from the beginning.
My second night at sea was spent much like the first―waking every hour to look around, and almost every hour having to climb out onto the deck to close a hatch that had been blown open by the never-ending pounding into the choppy Caribbean sea. Though conditions hadn’t calmed, they seemed steadier. Or maybe I was just beginning to get used to it. Mara Noka managed to avoid the steepest waves, steering herself magically, however once in awhile I would feel the forward part of the boat go into a freefall for a fraction of a second, and it was always followed by a loud crash and a shuddering which reverberated through the beams until they reached my own bones. It felt as though Mara Noka and I were becoming less boat and captain, and more one single entity out in the vastness of the open sea, fighting for the same thing―to at some point drop anchor in much calmer waters than these.
Yet he could not go back, because there is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea. ―Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim
I went downstairs in an attempt to make something to eat. I fried an egg, cut some cheese, put it all on top of a slice of pumpernickel bread and sat down on my kitchen bench to eat, for outside the chance of getting splashed in the face by saltwater was far too great. The stuffy, warm air inside the galley made me lightheaded. I stuck my head out of the hatch for a breath of fresh air, and felt immediately better. But the relief didn’t last long, as a wave splashed against the side of the boat, and sent spray straight towards me. I ducked below. I felt overwhelmed by my reality. “Why me?” I sobbed. The question came not from the feeling of punishment, but rather from the dawning realization that my life would never be the same. There would be no giving up now. If I would be able to finish out these remaining 300 miles in one piece, there would be nothing in this world I couldn’t do―so do it I must.
Though frozen below the companionway, lost in my thoughts, my brain continued to pick up the sounds of the boat. The wind whistled in the forestay, the water bubbled and rushed along the outside of the hulls and pounded on the bows. The sounds were much more vivid as they bounced around the inside of the hull. I became more present again once I noticed the sound of heavy water sloshing about. It came from inside. (The bilges inside each hull are comprised of five sections: forward, forward bulk, middle, aft bulk, and aft. And each section is divided into two sections, port and starboard. So to clear water entirely from the bilges, one would have to pump in ten different spots; twenty for both hulls, not counting foremost and aft compartments.) I checked the aft bilges: empty on one side, almost half full on the other. Seemed reasonable. Middle: half full on both sides. I had pumped last halfway between Cartagena and Barranquilla, so this was possible. Then I went forward: full, full, FULL. As soon as I lifted the board, the rocking of the boat made water lap over the edge. “Fuck,” I said out loud and fumbled for something to bail with. I made due with a plastic bowl for some time, dumping the water into the sink, but quickly realized this would take far too long. I found a large plastic jar, the kind that holds peanuts, and brought down a bucket from above. As I sat down and began to bail―one scoop into the sink, one into the bucket (because the sink couldn’t drain quickly enough)―I noticed water streaming in from above. The metal bracket and pin holding the beam to the deck was pulling on a small portion of the deck, which by now was very mushy with rot as it flexed up and down. I paused for a moment, and a memory came to me that made me chuckle and take a deep breath. I had been told once before departing that if I were to ever go down into the boat and find water above the floorboards, NOT to panic. Most likely the situation wouldn’t be so serious, and I’d be able to find the cause before anything happened. I was relieved the water was coming from above and not from below. Besides, the leak wasn’t so bad, the most water came through when a wave hit at an odd angle.
I sat for over half an hour bailing and dumping buckets out upstairs. Once it was empty I could still hear the sound of water inside, coming from the front. “What in the…” I crawled into the forward bunk, over the bilge I had just been bailing, past my containers filled with food, to the small porthole which opened into the foremost compartment, the same I had been storing my sails in and had previously filled up with water. I stuck my arm through the porthole, and my hand was immediately submerged in water. I grumbled in annoyance because I knew what this meant. It was time to get wet. I went upstairs to assess the weather. The sky was cloudy and the wind was loud. Though the sun was up somewhere in the sky, everything which wasn’t damp, was wet. Ontong Java was off to my port, maybe 4 miles away. I decided I would maneuver to close the gap between us some, but only after bailing out the front of the boat. I turned the wheel into the wind, and Mara Noka slowed down significantly. The waves no longer pounded the bows with such frequency. I went forward with no pants on and my button up sun shirt, because I knew I wouldn’t be dry for long. I opened the hatch, and found a crystal clear swimming pool. I climbed inside and was in awe for a moment. There was so much water.
It took me quite some time to empty all the water, and when I was finished, exhaustion rushed over me. My arms felt like jello from lifting a 10 liter bucket full of water a countless number of times out of the hatch and dumping them out. I climbed out and closed the hatch behind me, walked back to the cockpit and turned the wheel back to its original position, and then just a little more. Mara Noka picked up speed immediately, and the ferocity of the present conditions returned.
I chased down Ontong Java for nearly an hour, until I decided we were close enough again and then went to rest. I slept for a couple of hours off and on, and by the time sunset came around I went down into the galley to check for water. Aft and middle bilges were the same, but the forward bilge was full again. Not about to overflow, but definitely full. It surprised me, being that no more than three hours had passed since I had emptied it nearly dry. I got to work bailing, and soon it was empty again. I became aware that I would have to be doing this for the rest of the voyage. I crawled through the forward bunk and stuck my arm through the porthole as I had done earlier. There was water, but just some. It wouldn’t require my attention until the morning. I ate some bread and cheese and a tomato and went back to bed. Another night spent in the same fashion, but by then I was becoming accustomed to my new sleeping routine. It didn’t bother me so much. Around midnight I went on deck, spotted Ontong Java’s deck light some distance aways, and went down to bail the once more full forward bilge. Before sunrise I did the same.
After steering for some time to get closer to Ontong Java the next morning, I hove-to and went forward to bail the front compartment, which had filled again overnight. Later on I was on the radio with Hans, complaining about the situation on board Mara Noka. “Quit yapping” was his favorite thing to say. “Go tie down the front hatch now! We’re three days out and you haven’t thought to do that yet?! Use your brains,” was what I heard over the radio. It wasn’t at all pleasurable to listen to, but it was all true. “Don’t you have a staple gun? Find a way to cover that leak.” I don’t remember what I replied, but it must’ve sounded like something a child would say when you ask them to do an obvious chore and they don’t want to. We both abandoned the radio. I found a blue tarp, fit it over the opening of the forward hatch, and laid the hatch cover on top, tying it all down. When it came to my problem downstairs, I managed to make matters worse. While fiddling with the rot where the leak was, I noticed the bolt fitting to the metal bracket had sheared, so I pulled it out. Along with it came a chunk of plywood, and I could see clear into the sky. A wave hit and water gushed in like a waterfall. I scrambled to the other hull, got the gaffer tape and the staple gun from the tool cabinet, and went back above to cover the hole. I put several layers of tape across that part of the deck and stapled it down around the hole. I checked inside and from what I could tell, the leak had stopped. I bailed what remained in the bilge, and then I slept some more.
After one of my hour long rests, I came on deck to find the forward compartment hatch open AGAIN, and the blue tarp floating inside. Another round of shooting into the wind, bailing, and closing the hatch. But this time I stapled the tarp on to the rim of the entrance. “That should do it,” I pleaded more than hoped. But of course, it didn’t. The bilge and the forward compartment were still filling with water, though much more slowly. Water was coming in some other way. I could hardly face it all… I had no real understanding of what I was doing, much less what the boat was doing. But at least it seemed manageable, and we wouldn’t be out here forever. “Right…?” I questioned myself.
Sometime during that night, as I was maneuvering to approach Ontong Java, I made an accidental jibe, and then another. The boom swung to the other side viciously, and a couple of seconds later back again with even more force. BOOM. Crrrrrrrrrrrt. Along with the loud bang, the sharp sound of tearing filled my ears. The mainsail tore at the bottom bolt rope, along a length of about three feet. I brought the boat into the wind and let down some mainsail so I could reef and not have to worry about the tear for the night. It was my first time reefing, and it was a stressful, strenuous experience. Adrenaline pumped through me, and my emotions see-sawed between wanting to anywhere but there and feeling more alive than I ever had.
Mara Noka moved angrily through the choppy sea. My boat and I were still getting acquainted, but I could tell this was not the kind of sailing he liked. Some waves would completely engulf my windward bow as I came upon them, and others would just splash between the hulls and spurt through the deck planking with such vengeance that not one inch of deck space was left dry. I hid away in my doghouse pretending the world around me didn’t exist. Pretending I was dry and stable. Pretending I hadn’t just put myself on an old wooden boat headed out into hundreds of miles of open sea. I had crackers and mangoes to keep me company as my stomach churned, and my mind was eased slightly by the reassurance Hans had given me that conditions should calm once we were about 100 miles out.
Ontong Java moved gracefully through the water, her thick stems powering through the waves. Due to our angles, Mara Noka pointing higher, by sunset we had drifted apart considerably. “Fall off and come more towards me,” Hans said over the radio. I sat in my cockpit—a funny looking wooden box with a sunstroked wheel which has a line leading to the tillers wrapped around its pin—and turned it an inch towards starboard. Hans had taught me that I need only make fractional changes to the wheel, and the boat would obey diligently. Mara Noka veered off from his more comfortable, slightly stalling, upwind position and immediately picked up speed. The feeling of the increase in speed and the waves coming more on the beam was disconcerting, but after 15 minutes like this, Ontong Java was much closer. I kept on for another 15 minutes. When it came to gear, I was completely unprepared for the harsher elements of sailing. I had no warm clothes save for one thermal shirt, and my rain jacket cost $1 at the Chinese store in Panama. It was warm enough to not wear any pants, and it made the whole thing easier not having to change in and out of wet clothes. I never realized how uncomfortable wind and sea spray could be, and I cursed every harsh drop of water that shot on to my legs. It was hard for me to judge distance in the dead of night, but at some point I could see the outline of Ontong Java’s magnificent crab claw sail illuminated by the LED bulbs hanging inside a peanut butter jar halfway up the mast. Close enough. I turned the wheel back to its original position and clambered back into the dog house, timing my movements with that of the boats so as to not knock my head straight through the roof.
Hans was interchanging watches with his crew, Marius, every three hours. Knowing they were awake and mostly alert just a couple of miles away gave me the freedom to sleep for almost one whole hour before the alarm on my phone would chime. Every time it did I looked through the window of the doghouse which pointed towards the bow, and then poked my head out of the doghouse entrance to be able to scan my stern. Every other time I woke up, I noticed a hatch cover on either bow slightly ajar. I’d climb out, shuffle to the front in a slightly crouched position, and close the hatch. The wind blew at a strength I had never experienced at sea, and most areas of the boat resembled a children’s play fountain, the ones spurting water from the ground with varying force. On one of these trips to the bow, I discovered my trampoline net coming undone. “I can’t face it, I’ll take care of it once the sun comes up,” I thought, and as encouragement to procrastination I added, “besides, by tomorrow we will have done 100 miles, and things should calm down.”
After another one-hour round of sleep I awoke to a pink sky. The sun would rise soon. I climbed out of the doghouse and scanned the horizon for Ontong Java. Last I had seen the bright deck light, it was merely a speck on the black horizon. Like a lone low-hanging star on a cloudy night. I saw them nowhere. I had a look around Mara Noka to analyze how we had fared our first night out in the turbulence of the Caribbean Sea. Disaster. I saw disaster everywhere. My trampoline had suffered such a beating that it came unlashed from all points except the foremost beam, and its tattered remains dragged through the uneven waters at our current speed of 5.5 knots. That was hardly the worst of it. The splashboard on my windward bow had disappeared in the night, and having nothing to prevent the waves from swamping the deck, one of the hatch covers I had spent all night closing now laid a few feet away from the compartment it covered. In turn, the compartment was full of water. I had been storing some wood at my windward bow, it was all gone. My heavy inflatable dinghy was hanging halfway over the side of the boat. “Disaster, disaster,” my mind stuttered. I was angry at myself. I had avoided work the night prior, and now I had more than I knew how to handle. My body didn’t move, but my thoughts wouldn’t stop, “I could have secured the trampoline, and fastened the hatch covers. A little late for pre-emptive strategies don’t you think?”
After a few seconds I got my limbs to move, and put myself to work. I pointed the boat as high as it would go, slowing my speed down by half, and scrambled to the front. Somehow, with some effort, I managed to bring the dinghy back on board. I situated it behind the mast, in the middle of the deck, where I could be sure it would stay. I then climbed into the starboard bow with a bucket and began to bail the near 200 liters which filled the compartment, where for some reason I had chosen to store my sails. I brought the heaviest things on deck—water pouring out of sail bags like a bad dream—and placed them under the dinghy. Finally it was time to face my biggest obstacle, removing the trampoline and getting it on deck safely. I scooted myself to the very front of the boat with a knife and began cutting all of the ties that attached the trampoline to the forebeam. The further they got out of reach, the more I inched myself onto the forebeam itself. Soon I was straddling the beam, toes dragging in the water, breaking the peak of every wave. After finding safety on the port bow, I held on tightly to the heavy plastic dragging through the water, and cut the final tie. “Don’t let go,” I commanded and complied. Once I climbed back on the deck, near the mast, I started hauling in the trampoline. Somehow I managed. It was not in the best shape, but it was mostly intact. I rolled it up, securing it with a couple of reef knots, and set it under the dinghy with the rest of the evidence of the day’s disaster.
I scanned the horizon again, and this time I could spot a tiny black sail on the horizon, and it seemed to be getting closer. By midday, Hans came through over the radio, “Cheesecake, cheesecake, do you copy?” I heard the call as I was laying in my bed either half asleep or in the middle of smoking a spliff―either way, ignoring the world around me. “Hi sweet pea,” he came back after I answered, “we’ve been fishing all morning, would you like some lunch?” At present, the wind was blowing somewhere around 15 knots, and gusting a bit higher. We were both still sailing at a fairly quick pace, beating into the wind. “But how?” I questioned. “I’m going to sail up to your stern and I’ll toss it across.” Sounded daring, but daring was the story of my life as of late, so why not? About an hour later, Ontong Java reached my side. With Marius at the tiller, Hans stood at midship, in a swift motion the boats came close enough that Hans was able to chuck a plastic bag filled with goodies across. It slipped through my hands and landed on deck. I waved at them, smiling, as they veered away. I opened the bag and inside I found a couple of books, and two Tupperwares. One ceviche, and one sashimi with Hans’s special ginger soy sauce. 5 stars. I felt so lucky.
“Cheesecake cheesecake,” the radio called. “Thank you so much for the food, my love. It’s giving me life. Thank you,” I replied, ignoring any radio formalities for we were in the middle of the sea. “Can you tell me what on earth happened to your boat?” Hans came back sternly. “Don’t even ask…” It was embarrassing to have such an incredible seaman as my mentor, my teacher, and still my bad habits of being lazy and choosing not act quickly enough shined brighter than any of my accomplishments.
At dawn, over a week after arriving in the bay of Cartagena, it was finally time to leave again. I woke up around 5am, and in the dark, still half asleep, I began prepping the boat for departure. Hans rowed over from Ontong Java to help me pull up the anchor, which came up easily, and then he gave me a quick kiss before hoping back in the dinghy and rowing back to his boat. I put my engine in forward and began steaming out of the anchorage. After clearing all of the boats, but not yet the statue of the Virgin Mary which sits in the channel, the engine coughed to a halt. I hopped down into the engine hold and pulled and pulled at the rope start. Although I knew I wasn’t in any immediate danger due to an almost non-existent current, I was still extremely relieved once the engine roared back to life and I was able to get some forward drive away from the statue. I brought up my mainsail while still inside the calm of the port even though the sea breeze had not yet started. By the time we reached the breakwaters leading out in to the Caribbean Sea, the sun was just peeking behind the skyscrapers of Cartagena. “Here we go…” I thought to myself.
I kept my engine in forward at 3 knots for two more hours. Though it struggled, the day’s breeze made an effort to show itself during that time. By 9am it became steady enough that I could cut the engine and pull out my foresails. As the day progressed, the wind got stronger. I had been aboard Mara Noka as sole captain for about a month at this point; through each of the days spent sailing in the previous weeks, the experience and knowledge I gained had been invaluable. However, I was not yet very confident in my sailing abilities, so the increasing wind-speeds still put me on edge.
I spent most of my time lying in bed praying nothing too crazy would happen, eating soda crackers and fruit, and the occasional spoonful of Nutella. Every hour or so it was time to make a tack, as we were still trying to get farther east before bearing north towards Hispaniola. By the end of the day, my hands were sore from pulling on the lines at each tack, my belly empty from lack of any real food, and my body exhausted from the sun and wind of a late Caribbean spring.
“Muesli, muesli, do you copy?” I called to Ontong Java over the radio. “This is Muesli, over.” I had seen a nice bay coming up in less than ten miles, and I figured it would be a nice place to rest for the evening. I definitely needed it. “My chart does not show any bay for another 15 miles, so that’s where we’ll go,” Hans’s voice came over the radio speaker as if he was right next to me. I checked the electronic chart on my phone, which I figured was up to date, and saw no other protected area after the bay coming up and until Barranquilla. “I don’t know what you see, but there’s nowhere else to stop,” I pleaded. “Well if you’re so sure, then you stop. I’m carrying on,” he said in his overpowering tone of voice. “I will,” I came back.
It took a few more hours before we were close enough to the bay I had seen on the chart to be able to see it with the binoculars. I saw marker buoys. This had to be it. As if reading my mind, Hans hailed me again on the radio, “We’re stopping here for tonight.” No mention about how I had been right, so I let the ‘I told you so’ burning on my tongue fizzle out. By dusk we were anchored in a well protected bay, behind a sandbar. I paddled over to Ontong Java for supper, and to have a look at his chart for this other anchorage he swore existed. When I arrived and took the yellowing paper into my hands, I noticed the coastline between where we were and Barranquilla was completely different than what I had on my electronic chart. Where we were anchored now did not exist on that paper, and sure enough some 5 miles ahead there promised to be some protection. But there wasn’t, because the chart was dated 1975 and the strong current flowing from the Rio Magdalena had certainly been shifting the ground constantly over the past 30 years. The sandbank we were now sitting behind could very well only be a couple of years old, and who knows how many more years it would last. Regardless, I was happy to be in flat water again, to have a nice shower, and to rub my raw hands with lotion.
As quickly as the sun set, the next day it rose, and so did our anchors. The morning was calm, with only a slight breeze, but as if being on a strict schedule, the trade winds were howling by 10am—and man was it rough. After a few hours of beating, I could see in the distance that the water changed color in a seemingly straight line. From deep blue to a murky green. “This must be caused by the outflow of the Rio Magdalena,” I thought. As I approached the convergence of the two-toned waters, my suspicions were validated by first some sticks and branches, then eventually full blown logs floating by. Around 2pm, I heard a “cheesecake, cheesecake, do you copy?” call. “Let’s just continue on today, huh?” Hans asked. “To Haiti, you mean?!” I practically screamed over the radio, “no fucking way.” “Toughen up, the wind is perfect,” he said. By then we were far enough up the Colombian coast to feel the beginnings of the ever-present fury of funneling tradewinds. I felt sick to my stomach, but maybe I was just nervous about the prospect of heading out into over 400 miles of open sea for the first time. I mean, after all, what did I know? “We are less that 15 miles from Barranquilla, maybe we should stop for the night and see what the weather is like tomorrow? It’s fucking rough,” I said, in the pleading tone of voice I’d become poorly accustomed to using. Water sprayed viciously over the whole deck every time I hit a wave at an odd angle. There was fear floating in my head and pulsing through my veins, but it was a different fear than I had ever experienced before. It was one of complete uncertainty, yet full of hope, faith, and trust. Almost as if I was sailing on the palms of god itself. I didn’t know what could go wrong, so there was nothing realistic for me to imagine, worry about, or even prepare for. Though the whole time I felt the odd sense of fear, and hoped that nothing would go amiss. Regardless, I still did not want to begin my first real crossing on this note.
After another couple of hours, I tried my luck again. This time Hans agreed that it was excessively rough and we should make a tack into Barranquilla. “YES, thank you,” I rejoiced to myself. Four hours later, again at dusk, I dropped anchor on the outside of the entrance to Rio Magdalena, next to Ontong Java who had arrived first. And there we sat, but not just for the night. A heavy low pressure system was passing through the Caribbean and for the following three days the wind howled at a constant 28 knots, with some gusts making it nearly impossible to walk forward on deck. I was so happy to not be out at sea. Adrenaline and anxiety about the upcoming trip somehow made the days fly by—or maybe the wind did that. Either way, one morning it was calm enough, around 15 knots, and it was time to go. We’d come this far, there wasn’t any other choice besides drifting back to Panama, and there is nothing that scares me more than showing back up somewhere I had made such a drama of leaving. I can barely remember that morning, pulling up anchor, or sail, or what the first waves felt like as I sailed out into the Caribbean Sea. I don’t remember if I was seasick immediately, or if I had made myself any food. It was all just too surreal… or rather, too real. As real as it gets. “Good luck,” I wished myself.
The sail to the San Blas was mostly uneventful, and the time we spent there was the same. It took us two days and one night to reach Chichime, and it was my first sail alone. Ontong Java arrived first, and I followed just behind. We anchored in our special spot, at a depth of less than five feet. This archipelago is where I met Hans, two years prior. It was nice to be back.
For the next two weeks we sailed through the turquoise waters, stopping at our favorite coconut covered islands. Though each were short, those two weeks consisted of my second time sailing alone, and my third, and my fourth, and my fifth, etc… I was getting further acquainted with the workings of my boat, and practice in the art of singlehanded sailing.
We were on our way out of the San Blas, pointing direction Colombia, when just a couple of hours before sunset, the weather seemed to be deteriorating. We made a detour, and our last stop was the tiny island called Diablo, on top of which sat a cramped little village. My nerves hit. Colombia… Colombia had always seemed so far away to me. Yet there I was on my last night at anchor in Panama, telling myself Colombia was just over the horizon. I didn’t make it on land to visit the over populated, favela-like huts and trash filled streets where short, sombre Kuna people lingered; instead I stayed inside my head going over all the things that I now knew, and the things I still didn’t, trying to calm myself.
The next morning we were off, due East with 145 miles to go. As we left the protection of the islands for the most tucked away corner of the Caribbean Sea, the swell became more pronounced, and Mara Noka followed each crest and trough with one hull and then the other. I quickly became seasick. My galley felt even more cramped and hot than usual, yet somehow I managed to boil a pot of water without fainting. I felt terrible. I added an MSG-filled packet of chicken noodle soup to the water and dug through my food stores looking for soda crackers. Ten minutes must have passed, but it felt like ages. Eventually I scrambled back upstairs, managed to eat, called Ontong Java on the radio to inform Hans of how I was doing, and then climbed into my doghouse (sleeping quarters above deck) and immediately passed out.
That day and the following were filled with the same: fighting seasickness, trying to make food, and constantly receiving commands from Ontong Java to either “fall off” or “go higher.” Rest was fleeting.
After a calm night, I awoke on the third morning with the the sun peaking over the horizon. The wind started to swing and come from behind, which meant I had to steer. As I sat in my cockpit, I was close enough to make out the details of the approaching island, circular of about one mile wide, covered in green. Houses and hotels set above low-lying cliffs, and different styles of pangas lined the available shoreline. Being a few miles behind Ontong Java, I watched her magnificent black crab-claw sail zoom behind the lee of the island. I followed along, slowly, behind. I had made it to Colombia. As I rounded the lee, a panga sped away from land and gunned it straight for me. Two young men came up to my side, as I was still sailing in, and shouted at me, “estás todo bien?” “Si claro, gracias,” I responded. They asked me if I needed anything: water, fuel, food. I told them sleep. They went on their way, and I proceeded to drop anchor. My aim was bad, and I shot into the wind too early. I began to drift backwards quickly. There were fishing boats and a rocky outcrop behind me, and I didn’t think I’d have time to start my engine so I went to the front, unraveled the chain, and let my 30kg Bruce plunge into the water. Hans shouted at me from some distance aways and told me to come closer. I was exhausted and couldn’t fathom lifting the anchor again. I stayed.
I found Fuerte to be beautiful, and though a very miniaturized version, the flora and landscape reminded me of where I come from in Brazil. The land was divided up into plots, separated by barbed wire fencing. Some plots had cows, some cane sugar, and some filled with mango trees. I could tell the people found it interesting that we were there, as the island does not get visited by yachts frequently, yet they were very stoic and carried on with whatever work they were doing, only pausing to glance up and greet us with a drawn-out “buenas.”
One day during our stay, while using WiFi at a local guesthouse to check the weather, we noticed a huge black rain cloud approaching. I had left my boat open, and it was several hundred yards away. I noticed a panga getting ready to depart, and ran down the beach. I hailed them back and asked if they could give me a ride to the boat. The driver agreed and I hopped in. Thunder boomed over our heads, and just thirty seconds after leaving, the driver pulled the boat onto the next beach. “Sorry, but we have to wait out the rain before we keep going. Too dangerous,” he said in Spanish. “But I have to get there before the rain!” I implored, but no was the answer. I hopped out of the panga, and ran down the beach towards where Ontong Java’s dinghy was perched up against a wall. It started raining. I dragged the dinghy into the water, jumped in, and rowed. It rained, and I rowed, and it rained. Once I finally made it to the boat, I closed all of my hatches and portholes, and climbed downstairs to dry off. As soon as I closed the hatch over my head, it seemed, the rain stopped. Of course. Later, I rowed back to the guesthouse under the sun and bright blue skies, and it was as if I had imagined it all. We remained at anchor for most of the week and enjoyed every moment, but we needed to keep moving. It was already June, we had to make it to Bahamas, and Hans still wanted to cross the Atlantic that year. So, after gathering a couple boxes of mangoes, we departed.
We were making our way to Cartagena, but the Colombian coast, like the Panamanian, is not the easiest to sail―currents, choppy seas, and either too much wind or not enough impede progress. The morning we left Fuerte we had a nice breeze, but it did not last long. By lunch time the seas were flat and my sails flapped back and forth fighting to fill up with wind. Ontong Java motored closer, and Hans jumped into the water on his surfboard and paddled over, leaving his crew, the carpenter Marius, on board. The small amount of wind there was, was coming from behind. He helped me set up a sheet-to-tiller self-steering system, which made absolutely no sense to me and told me to try to fly my spinnaker, a light-weight balloon sail―two more things added to the list of many which I had not done before. After fighting my usual heart palpitations, nervous nausea, and sweaty hands, I set up the sail on deck, attached the sheets and pulled on the halyard. The white, red, and blue sail flew up the mast, and filled with air. Hans helped me adjust it before hopping back into the water, and paddling back to his boat.
For the rest of the afternoon Mara Noka glided downwind, and I lay on deck pulling at the self steering string to keep course because I did not know how to adjust it. By sunset I was approaching land. The golden hues reflected off the shallow water, of less than 100 feet, and turned the blue water a turquoise color. It was time to take the spinnaker down… but as with most things in my life at this time, I had no clue what I was doing. I was told to let the foot fly and then drop the halyard, so that’s what I did. But when the sail came loose and collapsed back onto itself, it got caught on some bolts which we sticking too far out of my front roller furler. I knew that I should go untangle it before I made anymore moves, and I should do it quickly. But I panicked and let the halyard fall even more. Crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. The spinnaker came closer. Not because it came loose, but because there was now a four foot long tear in the delicate fabric. One and done―a spinnaker is very difficult and costly to repair, so I knew it would be awhile before I would be able to get that done, and until then, it would be out of use.
We stayed a night in Tintinpan and tacked our way to Islas del Rosario the next day for another nights’ rest there. That left us one more passage to Cartagena―a short one, with only 12 miles to the entrance of the port. The wind was fluky, and for much of the time we motored. Despite the grey skies, hoards of power yachts passed us on either side. I deduced they must be heading out of Cartagena for a day on the islands which we had just left. They ranged from 20 to 50 feet, all blasting reggaeton at the highest possible volume, with voluptuous Colombian gals at the bow in tight bikinis, sipping on Aguilas or aguardiente. The number of boats we passed was truly impressive―it must have been more than 200 by the time we reached the entrance to the port of Cartagena.
As we entered the breakwaters, the wind had ceased completely. It was late afternoon, there was still not a ray of sun poking through the clouds, and some of the boats we had passed earlier in the day were now returning. After coming from the natural isolation of the Caribbean coast of Panama, and most of Colombia leading up to Cartagena, the cityscape of skyscrapers, condominiums, and odd modern architecture which now surrounded me was almost shocking. The mere size of the Bay of Cartagena was intimidating; being close to 6 miles from the entrance to the anchorage. It took me over an hour to reach the bundle of boats which were lying at anchor. Ontong Java had arrived first, as per usual. I motored up to his side and Hans tossed me a line so I could tie up. Being alongside was short-lived; we had not anchored far enough away from the loading docks of the port, and as soon as the first tug boat zoomed by, a wake resembling those I experienced in the Panamanian port of Colon came for our sides. Waves and catamarans rafted do not go well together. We decided we would separate, Hans pointed out a spot in the multitude of boats where I should drop anchor, and I went. Nightfall came shortly after, and I went to sleep that night in my home at the center of one of the busiest ports in the Caribbean.