When I meet people, non-boaters, in the bars and restaurants where I land, they are unabashedly astonished by my story: "You're sailing-- alone-- to California?!" It's as if I told them I was flying to the moon. They are incredulous-- inquisitive-- ultimately, in awe. The acclaim is unexpected, but not unappreciated. I guess I'm too close to my life to consider it anything but ordinary-- particularly with new friends, sailor types, who have achieved so much more. Sailing to California-- it's like driving to Wisconsin compared to circumnavigation or hurricane survival. But I enjoy the conversation-- explaining to these folks what it's like boiling pasta during a blow, or crossing the Canal. And their esteem bolsters my conviction that this adventure-- the lost year -- is somehow justified.
Despite their effusive interest, there is a question they always ask: "Don't you get lonely?" Sure, I get lonely. All the time. But I was lonely living in New York City, too-- sharing the subway with eight million other lost souls. The loneliness I experience on Gypsy seems healthy in comparison. It prompts me to pick up a book, or go for a dive, or motor ashore to seek more people wowed by my novel life. It's a productive kind of lonely.
And, truth be told, I'm not so alone. There's a safety net within the cruising community-- one I've only recently tapped-- which provides me with constant companionship. Whether via radio or anchorage interaction, there are always new friends within easy reach. On my recent passage from Panama City to Costa Rica, a seven-day run with regular stops along the coast, I saw only one other sailboat. But I never felt isolated.
My cruising routine is well established. I wake at around 6:00 AM, and listen to the BBC or NPR's 'Morning Edition' with my coffee. It may sound strange, but just about everywhere I've traveled, one or the other of these stations is broadcast on the sideband radio. Starting the day with Bob Edwards makes the world seem just a little smaller. Caffinated, I'll pick the anchor and get Gypsy under way. At 7:00, I call Hoptoad and/or Margarita on the sideband-- if we're not in the same anchorage, we touch base to say hello and exchange info.
At 7:30, the Panama Net begins on another sideband frequency. This is an informal network for the cruising community in and around Panama-- a chance for boats to share whereabouts, exchange information, and request assistance. The Net is moderated each morning by a volunteer who acts as "net control," coordinating traffic. It begins with a call for medical or emergency traffic (rarely an issue), and then requests check-ins from boats under way. When I'm travelling, I'll break in at some point with "Gypsy," and when acknowledged say something like, "Good morning net, this is sailing vessel Gypsy, under way between Bahia Honda and Islas Secas in southern Panama-- currently 15 miles west of Punta Ventana. The sky is clear, winds 12 knots out of the northwest with a two-foot swell. No traffic." "Traffic," is communication with other boats-- if I had traffic, I would talk with whomever I'm trying to reach (assuming they are listening).
After check-ins, there's a weather report from Doug, a former airline pilot who was anchored next to me off Panama City. He gets extensive weather information through his sideband fax each morning, and summarizes it in a comprehensive outlook. Then come SQI's-- queries and information. And finally, boats not travelling check in from anchorages throughout the Pacific and Caribbean coasts-- from as far away as Colombia.
At 8:00, there is another Net-- the Pan-Pacific Net-- that I recently started listening to. The format is the same as the Panama Net, with many of the same moderators and Doug with weather, but it covers strictly the Pacific side, from the Galapagos to Mexico. This is the community that will accompany me most of the way back to the States.
The day's communications out of the way, I turn my attention to Gypsy. On the Pacific side, at least thus far, the wind is less dependable but the fishing has improved by an order of magnitude. My first day out of Panama, Thanksgiving, I catch four tuna and a mackerel before noon. The tuna are everywhere, and we sail from one school to the next, the water literally boiling with three to five pound bonito. Determined to have fresh dorado for Thanksgiving dinner, I release the tuna and tie on a bigger lure.
Late in the day, we're joined by a pod of porpoises-- frolicking in Gypsy's bow wake. Standing on the bowsprit, watching them, I hear a strange noise. Finally, I walk towards the cockpit-- what is that noise? The fishing rod! I run to the cockpit and grab the rod. The fish has been stripping out line, and there isn't much left on the reel. Slowly, I start cranking it in. It is dead weight, and I assume I've hooked a log. Way out behind the boat, a huge green fish jumps high in the air. It jumps again, iridescent in the sun, and suddenly it dawns on me that it is on my line-- Dorado! I fight that fish for a good 20 minutes. The porpoises have stopped as well, and they mill around Gypsy, watching me sweat and shout. The fish finally shakes free, no dorado for dinner, but back under way the porpoises assume their position at the bow and I realize things could be worse.
The following day I let out the lure and my first strike is not unlike hooking a Trident submarine heading the opposite direction. In the time it takes me to shout an expletive, the fish has peeled off 100 yards. Before I can get the rod out of the holder it has broken my 80-pound-test wire leader and snatched my brand-new lure as well. At least there's the bittersweet satisfaction of knowing I picked the right one.
Later in the day, a storm rolls in from the west, and winds increase to 30 knots. On the Caribbean side, I never sailed in strong winds. Too scary. I'd pull in the canvas and plow along with the motor. But I bought a yankee, a smaller jib, in Cartegena, which is supposed to make heavy winds more accommodating. Sure enough, once I manage to stow the main sail we set off at a brisk clip through six-foot seas with just the yankee and mizzen (the small aft sail). Gypsy heels over, but doesn't tip precariously with wind gusts (which is what happened with the genoa). The winds increase to 35, and still we careen through the waves, Gypsy plunging ahead like a galloping thoroughbred. It takes a while before I'm convinced we won't get knocked down, but eventually I sit back and enjoy the ride. Hey-- I'm sailing.
The southern coast of Panama from the Canal to Costa Rica is characterized by lush islands and secluded bays that meander into slow turbid rivers. It is a distinct change from the palm trees and white sands of the Caribbean-- the jungle here is almost impenetrable, yet cascading streams and waterfalls are a common feature. The Jurassic Park movies were filmed on Isla Cocos, further off the coast, and though I've yet to spot a raptor the wild and primordial nature of this region bespeaks a land that time forgot. Through a variable days of wind and calm I wander along the coast and amid the islands-- hiking, snorkeling and exploring. I reached the southernmost point of my journey, about seven degrees latitude, and now I head north to California.
Although, if you'll allow me to digress, my heading is not what it seems. After transiting the Canal, I had the charts out, planning my trip "north" when I realized that I was still only 80 degrees west in longitude. Consulting the world atlas, I was amazed to discover that this puts me parallel, on the global grid, with Cleveland, Ohio. I need to continue over 2,000 miles west before I reach the California coast, whereas there are only about 1,500 miles north to San Diego. (This is not unlike the realization that, due to a trick of geography, you are traveling west to east through the Panama Canal to reach the Pacific.) Nevertheless, I hope you'll indulge me if I continue to describe my voyage north-- somehow it strikes me as the more fitting objective.
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December 10 - A Cruiser's Life
