Captain's Blog #5
I registered our arrival in the canal zone with the canal authorities in advance. As one would assume, the canal is a terrorist target, so there is some post 9/11 screening that must occur.
Apparently, the port captain’s office and quarantine have a close relationship at said marina. After being taken for the $100 inspection fee, it was demanded that I pay an additional $75 to get the boat fumigated.
But, as they knew, “no hay el power.” I couldn’t say no.
Eventually, I convinced them that we didn’t need to be fumigated, and that fumigation could hurt the dogs. “Por favor, por los perros.”
It worked. Kind of. I only had to pay $60 for a fumigation certificate – and we were not fumigated. They actually complimented me on my Spanish.
I had a few choice words for them en Espanol, but I was smart enough to bite my tongue. Thankfully so – after looking over the signed quarantine form, I realized just how bad they could have made it for us – dogs, standing water in the bilge, meat from Costa Rica, etc. – we were in violation of numerous standards, though I’ve never seen a boat that could comply with all of them – including cruise ships.
After all of this, I realized I was in over my head. I had now cleared in and out of four countries, and just clearing in to Panama was costing me . . . .much more than it should. I thought to myself, “if I’m getting taken just clearing in, what’s going to happen with the canal transit, where I have to deal with multiple government agencies and leave a $1000 deposit?”
It was time to hire an agent.
When transiting the canal, an agent is good for 2 things: they can speed the process up, and you don’t have to leave a deposit. The deposit is a big deal – though it is apparently possible to have it wired back to your bank account, this involves you giving out your bank account information, something that made my financial advisor (and therefore me) very nervous. Otherwise, you have to wait anywhere from 2 weeks to a month on the other side and collect your money at the port captain’s office in Colon.
Unlike Panama City, Colon is very dangerous. The saying is, “if you’ve been in Colon a week, you’ve been mugged once. If you’ve been in Colon two weeks, you’ve been mugged twice.” I didn’t want to spend any more time in Colon than was necessary.
I called the first agent, who I had contacted a month earlier but had decided not to use because I thought I could do it myself. She wasn’t taking any more clients for the month of June. “Good luck,” she told me.
So I called a second, Erik. He was available, and came to the boat the same day.
Bearing bad news. Apparently, the average time for a transit was nine days, not the four I had read about. But he would handle everything – for $200 less than the other agent requested.
The next day, the admeasurer arrived. What’s an admeasurer? Basically, he measures the length of your boat to determine how much you have to pay.
Our admeasurer was what can only be described as a “character”. A gringo who had lived in Panama since . . . I’d say since the Canal opened, but probably more like 1960. Funny, cool guy. He measured the boat (apparently we aren’t 42 feet, we’re 48 – don’t tell the marinas!),
After admeasurement, you get your transit date. Just as the agent had predicted, ours was 9 days later. But he told us to be ready – a spot would probably open up sooner.
And he was right. The next day, he told us our transit date had been moved from Friday to Tuesday. “Perfect,” I thought.
Panama City was the first real “city” we’d seen since . . . I’d say Puerto Vallarta, but really, since San Diego. And a good friend of mine, Rebeca, lived there, and was proud to show us her beautiful city. We went to the old town, out salsa dancing, to the best meal of the trip, etc.
Erik called me again on Friday. He had a new transit date for us – Sunday.
I thought about it, and made the wrong call. I told him we wouldn’t be ready, that we would stick with the Tuesday date.
Well, as I was finishing the paperwork on Monday, I got a call from Erik. Our transit had been pushed back. To Friday. Maybe.
What difference does 4 days make? Well, to start, every day costs $60 in slip fees + Jeff’s beer. So every day costs around $100. Also, I already had our international zarpe (sailing papers) and they expired in 2 days. We would be technically “illegal” after that.
But more importantly, a weather window, the likes of which neither Jeff nor I had seen in the past 8 months, was opening for the passage from Colon, Panama, to Aruba.
This passage is considered one of the five most treacherous on earth.
And that’s if you’re going with the seas. We would be going against them – “going the wrong way,” as I’ve now heard numerous times. I knew this at the start of the trip, and planned accordingly – I read the pilot charts (guides of historical sea conditions) and knew that we wanted, needed, to do this passage in May. That’s why I kept moving our departure date up – to avoid having to do the Colon-Aruba passage in June.
So we sat there, in Panama City, watching the weather window.
But it didn’t close. It was still perfect when we left on Friday.
Friday the 13th of course. And, for those who don’t know, it’s bad luck to start a passage on a Friday anyway.
So Friday started . . . just like everything seemed to start in Panama. We were told to be ready for a 7:15 start time. The line handlers (you need 4 linehandlers, so we hired 3 and made Jeff work
some) arrived at 6 AM, when we were informed our transit time had been pushed back to 9:15. We were also told that the canal authorities scheduled us to transit in two days instead of the normal one – because “everyone lies when they say their boat can do 8 knots.”
Henrietta II can do 8 knots. She burns a lot of diesel, but she can do it, with RPMs to spare. I protested, and Erik said that it’s up to the transit advisor – tell him, and he’ll let you try.
We got to our meeting point to receive our transit advisor (basically, a pilot who doesn’t actually do anything), and waited. He showed up around 10 AM. Still, he said we could do it in one day – if we can actually do 8 knots.
The Miraflores locks went great. At first we though we were going to be able to tie up next to a tour boat (the best possible situation), but a sportfisher jumped in front of us and took our place. Don’t get me started on sportfishers.
However, we’d go center channel, the second best option. And we got to listen to the tour boat describe what we were doing and how much more difficult it was.
The next set of locks, however, were not so simple.
As we approached, we noticed that the ship ahead of us wasn’t moving.
We jogged in place . . . for 2 hours. At one point, we were getting close to another boat, so I used the bow thruster to push us off. I hadn’t used the bow thruster control at the lower helm before. It had been installed backwards – port was actually starboard, and starboard port. Fortunately, that’s something you figure out quickly – when you’re about to ram another boat.
When we were finally able to clear the locks, I realized why we had to wait two hours. A container ship headed west was tied up at the end of the lock – making it virtually impossible for the eastbound tanker ahead of us to clear it.
By the time we cleared, it was 1 PM. The last downlock for handlines (small boats) was at 2:30. And it was 18 miles to the next lock. There was no way we could make it – we would have to spend the night in Gatun Lake. With three very hungry linehandlers.
We fed them rum. It was quiet interesting.
The next morning , the new transit advisor arrived early, so waking up was a bit abrupt. Not that I am complaining – I could see the Atlantic from where we were, and was eager to get there.
Downlocking was easy. Think if it like a bathtub – when you fill it
(uplocking) the water is turbulent, but when you pull the drain plug, the surface stays calm.
We made it down. After dropping off the transit advisor, I hailed Cristobal Port Control to request permission to cross the channel and proceed to the marina. No response. I hailed from a different radio.
Still no response. Then one of the linehandlers pointed out the time.
It was noon. They were at lunch.
Yes, the Cristobal Port Control, essentially air traffic control for one of the busiest ports in the world, all took lunch at the same time. Only in Panama . . .
Eventually, everyone finished lunch, and we got clearance to go to the marina.
The main reason we stopped was to provision – we needed to stock up for the next two legs, particularly with beer, as it costs twice as much in Colombia and four times as much in Aruba. This marina operated a free shuttle to a safe area of colon that had an impressive grocery store. Unfortunately, it didn’t operate on Sundays. We would have to stay an extra night before pushing off to Colombia.
After provisioning on Monday, I checked out at the marina, buying fuel on the way out. Diesel would be cheaper in Colombia, but it is mixed with biodiesel, which isn’t good for old marine engines.
We cast off our lines and headed to the fuel barge. On approach, I shifted in to reverse to slow us down. It wouldn’t shift. I tried forward. Nothing. For a second the thrusters didn’t work, but they came back on line, thankfully. However, there was little I could do – I tried to steer back out towards the marina, but didn’t have enough speed.
Jeff checked to see if it was a broken shifter cable and he could put in gear by hand. No luck. The transmission was shot.
As we got closer and closer to shore, I began to panic. “Jeff, what do we do?”
In the calmest voice I’ve ever heard, he simply said, “we run aground.”
And he was right. There was nothing else we could do. We ran aground.
From ground, we were able to use lines and the thrusters to get us around to the marina. I asked about a transmission guy and was told there guy was really busy.
So I started researching what we could do ourselves. I contacted Kadey- Krogen, the boat manufacturer, to find out what model transmission it was (the tag was obscured). They told me it was a 10-18 with a 3:1 gear ratio. I called American Diesel, who referred me to Transmission Marine. They had a drop-in replacement for the 10-18 and could ship the next day. Perfect – we’d be out of there in 4 days tops.
The next morning, while Jeff was removing the busted transmission, he found the tag. The model was actually a 10-13-03 – or so we thought (more on that later). And no, you can’t just drop one in for the other. I called Transmission marine - they didn’t have a drop-in replacement for the 10-13, but he had all the parts to rebuild it.
Time to find a transmission specialist.
I asked our agent, Erik, who said he could send someone, though I’d have to be persistent about calling him. I called Rebeca to see if she knew anyone, and she did.
Well, Erik’s person was supposed to show up around 9 the next morning.
I called him at 10 – no answer. 11 – no answer. 12 – no answer. He finally showed up at 2, and I just told him to leave. I wasn’t comfortable putting a $5000 part in the hands of someone who shows up
5 hours late and doesn’t answer his phone. If this was how it was going to begin, how would it end?
Rebeca’s person showed up the next day. He took out the transmission, took it apart, and showed me what was wrong – pretty much everything.
He said he might be able to find parts or a replacement in Panama City – he would look today and tomorrow.
The next day he called me – he had found the parts, and it was only going to be $1200, far less than the drop in replacement.
Then he called back – the parts didn’t work. He could get me one with a 2:1 gear ratio, but that would spin the prop right off the boat.
Time to order parts from the US. Our mechanic didn’t speak English, so this was pretty much up to me. And I didn’t know what we needed. After many confusing phone calls, I finally got him a copy of the exploded view diagram and just told him to circle what he needed. I faxed it off to Transmission Marine, and waited. One part had to be special ordered, but everything else could be shipped next day. Unfortunately, this was on a Friday, so next day meant Monday.
I started thinking, “what if this doesn’t work?” I needed a plan b, so I searched for other marine transmission shops. And I found one that had a drop-in replacement for the 10-13-03 at a fraction of the cost of parts. To be safe, I confirmed that this one had the 3:1 gear ratio.
It wasn’t. the 10-13-03, despite the numbers, has a 2:1 gear ratio. I had the 10-13-08. The tag was so mangled that the 8 looked like a 3.
They didn’t have a drop-in replacement for the 10-13-08, and, even worse, I had ordered the wrong parts that were due to arrive that day.
I called Transmission Marine, and, fortunately, only one gear was different. They had the gear in stock and could ship that day. Of course, this would mean another 4 days until we got it and would be able to leave.
We finally got the part, the guy installed it, and we were ready to go. Next up, fuel dock, then Santa Marta, Columbia.
Unfortunately, when I switched the boat off of shore power and on to battery power, I forgot to turn off the air conditioning. This overloaded the inverter, which then stopped working. “I don’t care,” I said, “we’ll just run the generator the rest of the way. We are leaving Panama today.”
Then I noticed the massive catamaran at the fuel dock. And the ominous looking rain cloud that was rapidly approaching.
Soon it started raining. Then it was pouring. And rather than leave the fuel dock, the catamaran crew decided to try to wait out the storm. This was at 1:45 – the fuel dock closes at 2. I got on the radio, trying to hail the dock and ask if the cat was planning on leaving. To my surprise, I got the cat itself. I explained the situation, and they finally left.
By the time we got to the barge, the storm was at it’s peak. And, unfortunately, our deck fuel fills are at the lowest point on the decks, so water was actually going over them. Obviously, you don’t want water in your fuel. So we created a barrier using towels and rain gear, and it worked. 200 gallons later, we were off. After a month in Panama, we were finally able to leave.
The trip to Santa Marta was uneventful – no pirates, no problems.
Just being out of Panama was a victory in itself, but the crystal clear Caribbean waters made it even better. I finally caught a tuna, a small, but delicious, tuna. I caught two more probably, but they bit off my lures.
Santa Marta was great, though mostly because it wasn’t Panama. It was also my first time on South American soil – quite surprising considering that I lived 17 miles from Venezuela for 3 years, and have been to Europe, Asia, and Africa in the past 5.
Having read the message boards, I contacted an agent in advance (you need an agent to clear in and out of every port in Colombia).
Apparently, most are incompetent, but this guy, Edgar Romero, knew the system.
And he did. We arrived on a Saturday, and Monday was a holiday weekend. According to the marina, we would not be able to clear in to Colombia until Tuesday – or clear out, for that matter.
Edgar somehow had us cleared in by Sunday – Saturday actually, but he didn’t return our passports until Sunday morning.
He also brought a document in Spanish that looked like a zarpe to me – it listed the boat, the crew, the arrival and departure dates, everything. I thought we had everything to leave . . . though it was surprising that he hadn’t collected any fees . . .
A quick check of the weather on Monday brought bad news. Basically, we had to leave, and had to leave today. I informed the marina, and we got prepared for departure.
Then I started thinking that I better be sure about the zarpe – not having one would incur huge fines down the road, either in Aruba or if we were boarded by the Colombian Navy. I asked someone. I had the entry paperwork, and still needed a zarpe. And the port captain’s office was closed for the holiday.
I called Edgar, and, much to my surprise, he said he could probably get a zarpe. And he somehow did. I’m not sure if he had a special deal with the port captain, or if it was fake, but I didn’t care – we had a weather window, and it was time to go.
The passage to Aruba was almost surreal. We hit a very favorable current, moving us at 8.3 knots while only burning a gallon an hour.
But more than this, we were on our last leg – in 30 hours, we would be in Aruba.
Crossing the entrance to the Golfo de Venezuela was interesting. On the other side of the gulf is Lake Maracaibo, Venezuela’s oil-rich lake. Tankers are constantly coming in and out, taking crude to be refined in numerous locations, including Aruba.
Around 3 AM, Sam woke me up. One tanker was getting closer, and she was concerned we were on a collision course. We could see her lights, but they didn’t make sense – a single red light and multiple white lights that appeared to indicate the port side. Usually a red light is to port, green to starboard, so you can tell what direction the boat is moving in. So the lighting seemed to indicate we were perpendicular to the tanker, heading towards the aft of the tanker. We altered course to account for this, in hopes of passing to the ship’s stern.
This red light, however, was not directional. It was on the bridge.
The ship had no directional colored lights. By the time I realized this, it was less than a half mile away, bearing down on us at a very fast pace.
Needless to say, we were able to avoid a collision, but it was tense for a few minutes. The shadow of the massive bow was a frightening sight at night, especially as it got closer and closer.
Seeing Aruba at daybreak was unbelievable. First the high-rise hotels, then Hooiberg, then the whole island seemed to rise out of the sea.
But we weren’t there yet.
Unlike every other port we had visited, Aruba only clears boats in and out of the island’s smaller harbor, Barcadera. There, officials board and inspect the boat and your paperwork – you cannot dock at the marina until you have first cleared.
About a mile offshore, the Coast Guard came out to inspect us. In 4700 nautical miles of traveling, this was the first time we had been boarded at sea – one mile from our final destination. They checked our papers, then gave us permission to proceed to Barcadera.
Barcadera is a tricky harbor. Obstacles are not clearly marked, and charts are out of date. Apparently there is a shoal between the smooth end of the dock (where we were told to tie up) and the main channel. I know this because we hit it.
30 feet from the dock, I watched the depth gauge rapidly drop, then go to zero. Then the boat stopped. I put it in full reverse – nothing.
Fortunately, the thrusters seemed to be turning the boat, so, nervously, I thrusted around until we headed back out, put her in forward, and pushed her off.
Having seen our botched first attempt to approach the dock, someone moved a boat at the other end, creating just enough room for us to squeeze in.
We cleared customs and immigration. Total cost: $0. They took my speargun (apparently they are illegal on Aruba), but I get it back when I leave.
On to Renaissance Marina. I called to announce our arrival and check on the type of slip we would have – we would be med mooring with a buoy, just like in Acapulco. This time it went much smoother, however, with the only difficulty being that our lines weren’t ready. Not my problem.
I remember fifteen years ago, when I first visited Aruba, looking at this very marina, the yachts and mega-yachts, and thinking, “this has to be the best place to live in the world.”
And it is. We have access to two pools, three beaches (two on a private island). We are in the middle of downtown, stumbling distance from movie theaters, casinos, restaurants, and grocery stores. Friends stop by for dinner or a drink – one is on his way as I write this.
It’s home. Finally.
Am I glad we did, glad we took this trip against the advice of . . .
everyone? Yes. There’s a certain satisfaction in successfully doing what we’re told we can’t, especially when told it’s because of our ability.
Will Henrietta II be crossing the Atlantic next season? No. Well, maybe, but if she does she’s going on the back of a much larger boat.
I’ve proven what I needed to prove to myself, but the expense doesn’t justify long voyages if you can’t stop to enjoy it. Three weeks at sea, never getting more than four hours of sleep in a row, doesn’t sound at all appealing to me.
Monty and Mazie concur.
More to follow . . .
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