There are certain milestones in every sailor's life. Your first boat, your first gale, rounding the horns, circling the globe. I've reached a few landmarks in my brief stint at sea, but compared to most cruisers I'm still a babe in the woods. I did, however, recently notch a highlight that ranks high on the list of lifetime achievements-- I crossed Panama.
After hearing for months about how slow and inflexible Canal bureaucracy can be (many boats hire agents to handle paperwork and preparations), my experience in Panama is refreshingly straightforward. Our first morning in Colon, a few hours after calling the Canal office, a man visits Gypsy to take measurements and fill out paperwork. Documents in hand, I walk to a nearby bank to pay the fee (for boats under 50 feet it's $500 to transit, with an $800 deposit). When the VISA card clears, the bank manager gives me a phone number for the scheduling office, and tells me I need to choose a day. Choose a day? I was expecting to wait days, possibly weeks, before they let me through. But sure enough, when I call the office and request a slot day after tomorrow the friendly attendant tells me I'm good to go.
The following day is a mad dash to make Gypsy ready for the Canal. The transit requires four 125-foot lines to negotiate the locks, four "line-handlers," and ample bumpers to protect the boat in transit (I signed a release accepting all responsibility for damage short of "gross human negligence"). As luck would have it, my friends on Hoptoad agree to join me as line handlers if I return the favor during their transit. They also have the four lines, carted around the world for the Canal, which they loan for our passage. The last detail is collecting plastic-wrapped car tires-- the bumper of choice for yachts crossing the canal. I scavenge ten from cruisers who have transited, and lash them to Gypsy's deck. By nightfall she looks like a white-trash cocktail barge, but she is secure for passage.
I'm told that our 'pilot advisor' will board between 4:30 and 5:00 AM the following morning. Advisors are also required for transit-- and provided as part of the fee. They do not steer the boat (for liability reasons), but are on board to 'recommend' a route and coordinate with Canal headquarters. It is well past 6:00 when the shuttle approaches and we finally meet Camilo, the narcoleptic control freak. He advises us that we can't leave until 7:00, then steps below and falls into a sleep-like trance in the salon. As excited (and caffinated) as we all are, we can't help but pump him with questions. Camilo makes a gamely effort to respond, cracking his eyelids and gathering his thoughts, but the answers tend to trail off into incoherent babble and after a few sentences he's asleep again. Despite my plea, he won't accept coffee.
At 7:00, Camilo comes to life. We pick the anchor, and motor towards Gatun Locks. Oh, how quickly we would covet the quiet indifference of a sleeping advisor. Camilo's guidance, for the rest of the day, is constant and hyper-specific. Instead of saying, "motor slowly to the locks and wait for the doors to open," or, "continue between the red and green buoys," he directs me as if I am blindfolded: "go a little to port… a little more… a little starboard… slower…a little port… neutral…" After another long wait outside the locks, Camilo micro-managing my every move, the massive steel gates silently open and we enter the vast chamber.
The Panama Canal is one of the great engineering feats of all time. It took over 40 from conception to completion, and the design is absolutely brilliant. It is a perpetual motion machine-- supplying its own energy and resources. By damning a river, the builders created Gatun Lake, the largest man-made lake on the planet. The lake, 85 feet above sea level, provides water necessary for raising or lowering ships on either coast through a series of locks (each transit requires 52 million gallons of fresh water!). Generators on the damn provide electricity for opening the lock gates, regulating water flow, and pulling ships through the chambers (with locomotives). Each lock (there are six total) is 1,000 feet long and 110 feet wide. Each gate is 65 feet wide, seven feet thick and up to 82 feet tall (weighing 745 tons). When you first encounter the grand scale of the locks, you can't help but feel like a Lilliputian aboard a toy boat.
Inside the chamber, we tie alongside a tugboat, behind a huge container ship. Before we've even cleated our lines, the gates close and we slowly rise with the water. When the chamber is full, the 700-foot container ship parked directly in front of us kicks into gear to enter the next lock. The last thing I remember before the prop wash is Margie from Hoptoad saying, "I don't understand why everyone makes such a big deal about the Canal-- this is a piece of cake." Then our world is turned upside down. Instantly, it's as if we've been dropped in the Colorado River at flood stage. Water, waves and swirling riptides pummel Gypsy. Despite being secured by four heavy lines, we are jerked from the tug, then slammed back, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. Okay, got it-- BIG DEAL.
Tying up in the next chamber the crew is visibly shaken. We double up tires against the tug, and stuff every spare bumper in the gap between. We are prepared for the worst, and when the lock has filled and the ship kicks into gear, we manage the ensuing chaos. The tug is fended, the bumpers adjusted, and the turbulence subsides without any further damage. We nail the third lock without incident, and motor gratefully into Gatun Lake.
From Gatun Locks, it is 31 miles to Pedro Miguel Lock on the Pacific side. Camilo checks his watch, and assures us that we'll make it through the Canal in one day if we maintain speed across the Lake. We take a shortcut, called Banana Cut, and as we leave the shipping lanes the rain comes crashing down in buckets. Everyone scuttles below to stay dry except for me an Camilo, who, even soaking wet, never falters with the ceaseless directives, "a little port… a little more… a little starboard… port…"
Eventually the rain lets up, the sun comes out, everyone returns topside to watch ship traffic and enjoy the scenery. Camilo, thankfully, dozes again-- and we all enjoy the brief respite. It takes about three hours to reach Gamboa, a town where boats requiring two days transit stop for the night. As we approach, Camilo talks in Spanish with Canal traffic control on the radio. Sadly, he says, we need to anchor for the night. Given the fact that there are still five hours of daylight, and he's told us repeatedly that we're ahead of schedule, we suspect foul play. Camilo, we're convinced, wants to cut his day short and get home for more sleep. Despite our protests, he insists we have no choice. He directs me into the anchorage, and finally I tell him to stop-- anchoring Gypsy is something I can handle without his constant banter.
We have a pleasant stopover in Gamboa, and at 10:30 the next morning our new advisor is shuttled aboard Gypsy. Victor is a welcome change from Camilo, he insists we get started immediately, but once under way he says, "stay in the channel," and doesn't offer another directive until we reach Pedro Miguel. The seven-mile stretch prior to the locks is the infamous Gaillard Cut-- which required the most intensive excavation during the construction of the Canal. After leaving Gatun Lake, the channel narrows and banks rise in steep terraces on either side. They gain altitude until we reach Culebra Cut, the Continental Divide, passing Gold Hill (662 feet) to port and Contractor's Hill to starboard. The Canal is at its narrowest here, and large ships cannot pass. As we round a bend, Pedro Miguel lock appears in the distance.
The Canal was an engineering triumph, but the political maneuvering necessary for its construction is also impressive. The French made the first attempt, driven by the flamboyant persona of Ferdinand de Lesseps (who oversaw Suez, and insisted Panama be a sea-level canal). His company squandered $287,000,000 and lost almost 20,000 lives in the 1880's before collapsing in defeat.
The United States government had considered a canal for decades, but it took an equally audacious individual, Theodore Roosevelt, to ultimately ensure its success. Shortly after assuming the presidency, Roosevelt made construction of a canal on the isthmus a national priority (though he and others originally saw in Nicaragua a desired route). Through nefarious, behind-the-scenes diplomacy, the United States supported a bloodless Panamanian Independence coupe, which ensured favorable canal terms (the Colombian government was understandably reluctant to grant American autonomy). Roosevelt went on to steam-roll Canal funding through Congress, personally select the project directors, and later visit Panama during the height of its construction. During one of the most celebrated moments of President Roosevelt's visit, he climbed aboard a 95-ton steam shovel at Pedro Miguel in the pouring rain and sat at the controls.
Locking down to the Pacific is far less nerve-wracking than reaching Gatun. Pleasure boats tie in front of ships, so there is no risk of prop wash and the views are unobstructed. After six months on the Caribbean, my heart lifts with my first sight of the Pacific. We tie alone, first on the side of the lock and later in the center-- finally making use of our 125-foot lines. We lower through one lock to Miraflores Lake, motor one mile to Miraflores Locks, then drop through the final two locks and spill out onto the Pacific.
So there you have it-- the Panama Canal-- a major milestone in our journey. Having completed the transit, then done it again with Hoptoad, I consider myself lucky-- a little bolder, a little wiser, and with only minor damage to Gypsy (a cracked teak rail). Anchored now off Panama City, collecting charts and supplies for the 3,000-mile trip north, I can't help but reflect on what we've accomplished. Clearly, the Canal signifies a transition, from Atlantic to Pacific, but it is also a halfway point in my travels and a turning point-- in terms of both orientation and mindset. I'm heading north, and I have admittedly mixed feelings about it. When I started out, I missed my previous life desperately-- friends, family, work, and the convenience of life ashore. But the closer I get to that old life, the more apprehensive I am about returning to it. I've become a cruiser, and it will take time to shake that mindset. But I'm excited too-- for the first time my objective is in sight. I have crossed the Panama Canal, and now anything is possible.
< < back to gypsy log
November 18 - A Man, a Plan, a Canal, Panama
