It's only the beginning...

I saw the fucker coming, and he was coming fast. I looked around the deck to make sure nothing could fall overboard, and braced myself. The tug boat flew by us at a good distance away, causing the wakes heading for our beam to increase in size exponentially before they rolled underneath us. Now remember, Mara Noka has two hulls, so each wake has to pass under one hull and then the other when coming from the side. Things flew everywhere regardless of my earlier efforts, and I literally had to hold on to something to keep from being thrown about as we rocked from side to side violently. Not even being out at sea the night prior was as bad as this. I began to cry in frustration and thoughts like: “I don’t want to be here,” “I should’ve kept going,” “No, Kiana, you should’ve just not done any of this at all. Who are you to think you can handle something like this? You don’t know what you’re doing, you’re making a mess out of everything, and you’re hurting people you love!” were going through my head. Luckily for me, however, I knew the culprit to my desperation and dramatization—exhaustion. I went down into my cabin and collapsed on my bunk. “At least these damn tug boats will rock me to sleep…” I thought as I dozed off.

We were anchored next to one of the loading docks of the Panama Canal, and the tug boats rushing past, in and out of the breakwaters, were a constant. When I woke up the following morning, all I wanted to do was get to work so we could get out of there, and make the 25 mile stretch to Puerto Lindo. But at that point I practically had no forestay, believed my boat would split up into two separate hulls and a deck, none of which would be attached to each other, and had absolutely no idea where to even begin on reparations. I scolded myself for acting so surprised at how much knowledge I lacked. My only salvation would come from harvesting the know-how and workmanship of the friend I had aboard as crew, for he’d surely know what to do! Right?! We assessed problems, and began to figure out how much work, time, and money it would all require. He made a list of tools and things, we hopped in the dinghy, and I dropped him off on shore so he could make his way into the city of Colon to do some shopping. We were going to need 3-inch stainless-steel screws, and plenty of them, pieces to get my Black & Decker drill working again, and lots of string, among other not-so-important things.

Over the next few days we worked on repairing the front roller furler and attempted to figure out a solution to the loose brackets holding the boat together. Though we were making progress on the boat, the relationship with my friend was moving in the opposite direction. During our time spent anchored in Colon, I began to notice that it was possible that I was not the only one aboard this old boat lacking knowledge. The man I had called upon to help me sail from Bocas del Toro to Florida, had most impressively sailed a tiny flying proa he had built, from Mexico all the way to Panama over the span of fifteen months. This feat proved to me that this man had a sense of adventure, much endurance, and was determined. I did not realize, however, that these traits did not add up to equal expertise or experience in old plywood catamarans... or sailing them for that matter. I remembered what Hans had shared with me when I had expressed to him my desire to acquire my own boat, while still living aboard Ontong Java, “Men love attention, and what better attention than a pretty girl who needs help fiddling with things… and, no one loves fiddling more than someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing.” And here I was, sitting in the port of Colon fiddling, because neither of us knew what we were really doing. That was now obvious to me, though clearer yet was my realization that I was going to need Hans’ help above anyone else’s if I was going to sail this boat to where I wanted it to go.

I checked the weather, and it all looked shitty. Wind on the nose every day for at least a week. But there was no way anyone was going to get me to stay there for another week, so at dinner time one night I brought up the thoughts that had been going through my mind. “I won’t go out there in this weather. Not with the boat in the state it’s in,” my friend said to me. That was sensible, and he was right in his own regards. My argument wasn’t so sensible or convincing— “Puerto Lindo is only 25 miles away, Hans might be leaving any day now, and I refuse to spend another week living in this place—” but I was of the mind now that it didn’t necessarily have to be. I was the captain after all…

Two mornings later we hoisted sails and tacked through the multitude of ships at anchor awaiting transport to the docks. One thing I really admired about my friend was that he had an aversion to using engines (even my tiny 9.9hp outboard), so I was able to witness right away the ease in which my boat takes to moving in and out of anchorages solely under sail. Though we could have motored out of the breakwaters in 10 minutes or less, the hour and a half spent on the waveless water, tacking to avoid the wind-shade of those giants, and setting up the wind vane was a treat… and completely deceiving in telling what lay on the outside of the breakwaters. As soon we met the rocks at the entrance, Mara Noka’s bow surged up, and just as quickly, came crashing back down into the trough of two waves. I swear I heard “I told you so…” coming somewhere from the deck.

That whole day and night was mayhem. The wind was only blowing about 15 knots the whole time, but as a newbie on a boat whose whole rig was loose (I didn’t know that at the time) and beams were banging on to the decks beneath my feet, those 15 knots felt like hurricane force winds. Being that it was my idea to set back out to sea on a broken boat, I did not feel so comfortable designating my friend with a watch. For this reason, I stayed awake most of the night, only taking quick catnaps, so that I would be awake in case anything happened. We were lucky enough on that leg of the trip, and drifted into Puerto Lindo early in the morning without consequence. WE MADE IT, finally. After dropping anchor, we took a few minutes to inspect the boat. And then I realized just how lucky we had been. The forestay was hanging on by a thread, ready to bust at any moment. Lucky, lucky, lucky…

Isla Linton anchorage early in the morning.

I woke up sometime that afternoon. It was drizzling outside, and I could see Ontong Java anchored in the distance. My heart was leaping out of my chest. It was in this bay that I saw Mara Noka for the first time, and there I was aboard him, my new home, revering my old one. It was surreal… “No, this is real. You have to go say hello…” I came back to the present. I told my friend that I was going to go over there, and that I wanted to go alone. We put the outboard on the dinghy, and I was off. I felt like a jerk as I zoomed across the bay towards Ontong Java. Hans greeted my coldly, making me feel as if I was not only interrupting his lunch, but also his life. Which was fair enough. Our time separated had accumulated much quicker than either of us had expected it would, and then all of a sudden there we were again. Together, but in a completely different light. We spent some time talking about life, about Mara Noka, and about our individual plans. I went home that evening excited about where I had been, how far I had come, and for where I was going.

The next morning we lifted anchor and shifted Mara Noka further into the sea of boats, closer to Ontong Java. Now it was someone else’s turn to say hello… My friend jumped into the dinghy after the anchor was set and hastily set off to visit our neighbor. I had a feeling this wasn’t going to go well… I went downstairs to make breakfast, and just minutes later I could hear shouting in the anchorage. Great. I went upstairs and saw the two men in confrontation aboard Ontong Java. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I was so embarrassed. Seconds dragged their heels as they went by, and after what seemed like ages, my friend comes back in the dinghy and stomps aboard. “What the fuck was that?! Who do you think you are to embarrass me like that?” I spouted without thinking twice. “This is bullshit, I am not going to stand for this… If you want me to stay, we are not working with him. You have to show me loyalty, or else I’m leaving,” he shouted. “Leave then, because this is bullshit,” I shouted back, not really thinking it would have much effect. He went downstairs, and minutes later his suitcase flew up on deck. Oh shit. “Take me, let’s go.” Without a word I hopped in the dinghy, started the engine, and we sped through the anchorage. When we arrived to the dock he hopped out as quickly as possible to leave me with a, “I can’t believe you did me like that, you are a bad person.” I can’t recall if it came out of my mouth but “this is better” was definitely all that was in my head. After a quick and unsatisfying goodbye, I went back to my floating home. Alone for the first time. Relief rushed over me at the realization that I was rid of the drama and uncomfortable feeling that came from sharing space with someone I didn’t click with, though the sentiment was accompanied by fear of another realization. I was now alone and I didn’t want to ever go through that again. It was silly of me to think I could handle it in the first place, the sharing space with someone on a boat. I needed to do this by myself, but I also needed help. I needed advice. And the best person to lead me in the right direction was just a couple hundred yards away, probably pissed that I just crashed back into his life. So I baked a bread, made some lunch, and putsed over to Ontong Java with my offerings of peace…