Panamania

The lush, rugged coast of Panama etched a mounting presence onto our horizon like a scalpel perforating the ocean and mist. A sight almost for sore eyes, we were now beside our first official port of call and the convergence of two great continents. With a coastline long enough to occupy my full field of vision, Panama would be my last encounter with any kind of mainland until my parting of company with the ship in November. As we drew nearer the canal zone, rain began to fall heavily like daggers and enshrouded us in an almost opaque fog of falling water. The vast scale of the canal transit operation was instead muffled into a grave yard like assemblage of ships in their hundreds all anchored in waiting and each appearing to us individually like ghostly silhouettes in the rain nearby and vanishing as we passed only moments later. As we arrived at our anchorage in the small ships holding area near the town of Colon, the cloak of mist lifted and enabled us to take in the industrial magnitude and folly that was the Panama Ship Canal.

Colon, as the name most helpfully implies, is the asshole of Panama. This is not purely because it finds itself at the end of a rather intricate system of canals and passage ways spewing out water born floaters all hours of the day. Gracing its shores and streets is not wholly unlikely to involve a relatively sudden encounter with a switchblade and an immediate and unanticipated tap on one’s personal resources. One would be well advised to avoid walking around this charming city at night and even alone during the day. Safe in the knowledge of our lack of safety, it was concluded that we would not go ashore to the city while awaiting transit of the canal, although the sanctuary of a cold beer at a yacht club across the bay from the city was eventually granted.

Meanwhile, we would engage ourselves in preparations for canal transit. Contrary to somewhat simplistic expectations, it really wasn’t the case that we would purely rock up at the entrance, take a number and wait our turn to go through. For starters, any fixtures or objects lying outboard of the ship would need to be brought inboard so that nothing extended beyond the hull. This would ensure that debris and damage would be minimised in the unlikely event of a skirmish with the sides of the canal but would also prevent any obstruction to lines being attached to the ship. Given furthermore that we would be inspected by the authorities and watched live on webcam passing through the canal by friends and loved ones, quick fire touching up and buffing of the ships installations would also be required – known endearingly as “monkey shining” given the lack of proper stripping, rust busting and surface preparation prior to these touch ups.

All hands worked solidly together for two days as we waited for our delayed transit date. It turned out that these were a little more flexible than I initially considered, and not only from our side. The ship’s boats were hauled inboard onto the hatch and galley house respectively and duly lashed down to ensure they didn’t go walkabouts in the swell. All other outward reaching fixtures were loosened, turned, dragged and hauled into the ship. A squadron armed with enough white paint to blandly decorate the living rooms of an average street was simultaneously set upon the ship’s hull to quickly and systematically cover up all rusty patches, much like one might sweep all the dust under a rug when sidled without the time to remove it properly. I won’t crap on too much about how hot and humid the days were. All I will say is that all day, every day we sweated more water out of our little fingers than I once thought possible out of one’s entire body. Anti-perspirant, while futile in preventing sweat, did at least eradicate the ensuing odours and I have been regularly tempted to wander through the ship with a can removing said odours from shipmates on a monkey shining mission of my very own.

Alas BO, sweat and no showers are all part of the woodwork. It is, after all, what they did in the olden days. And to be fair, monkey shiningesque personal hygiene is something I have adapted to reasonably well thus far on the voyage. My own, quite literally, dirty little secret is that I went for three weeks without a shower on the passage from Lunenburg. I would often wear the same pair of underpants several days at a time. I know. You probably didn’t need to know that. I guess you might want to put that sandwich down for a second. I would often shower twice a day back in London but water on the ship is sparse and frequent showering is very much frowned upon and in any case pointless. Keeping clean is like standing outside trying to keep the ground dry during a rain storm armed with nothing more than a scrap of kitchen towel. The ground really ain’t gonna stay dry for long. Stepping out the shower, I already found myself dowsed in a thick layer of sweat, and dirt and grime from ship’s work would be sure to cover me from head to toe once again only moments later on my next watch. At sea, I found, the best policy was to wash as need be, and deodorise. Armed with my trusty anti perspirant and a bottle of Febreeze, I would be sure to remain beautifully smelling and at least superficially clean. These days, salt water power showers using the fire hose on deck ensure that everyone gets a wash without waiting too long. So I’m not in any hurry to wait quite as long as three weeks again now we are in warmer climes.

No sooner were we prepared to leave than it was our turn to continue our voyage to the Pacific across Panama’s famed internal waterway. To this day the canal remains, only a few years off its one hundredth birthday, a marvel of engineering of which the Panamanians are staunchly proud. However, design and construction of the canal was orchestrated by American hands and continued to be operated by them until 1999. In the ten years since operations were transferred to the locals, Panama has done a great job in maintaining and running the canal and plans are well underway for its extension and expansion to roughly twice current capacity within the next five years.

Buoyed by their success with the Suez Canal, a doomed attempt by the French to dig a single sea level trench through Panama in the 1880s was later surpassed by the Americans who, achieving success, opened today’s bustling waterway two years early in 1914. Rather than continuing to invest vast amounts of time and money in digging a single level canal as the French had done, the Americans instead championed the idea of using locks supplied by a large system of artificial lakes. The lakes were created using dams and are roughly 30m above sea level. Three locks at the entrance of the canal are used to raise transiting vessels to the interior raised lake. The vessels then continue across the lake and reach a canal before the descending locks at the other side. The American endeavour was, however, not without its controversies. Over 5,000 men died during construction of the engineering feat, and after a done deal for the land in Panama was revoked by the Colombian government, direct military intervention by the USA led to the creation of a Panamanian breakaway state and with it the availability of the land the Americans needed so badly to construct their prized new seaway. This inevitably caused some friction with their counterparts in Bogota which was only remedied with the passing of a substantially large cheque some years later.

On the day of the transit, all hands awoke and mustered before first light. Although I was excited about the upcoming crossing, I hadn’t yet realised just how interesting and stimulating the forthcoming day would be. The Panama Ship Canal is unique in that control of the vessel is ceded from the Captain to a pilot throughout the passage and handlers also board the ship to attach thick supporting lines to the sides of the vessel at both the fore and aft. These lines in turn are attached to four trains running alongside the ship as it enters the canal and locks. These trains do not pull the ship along the canal, but instead provide lateral support to prevent a craft veering or listing beyond its required path. The engines on all transiting vessels run as normal and the ship is driven forward and steered through the canal by its crew.

At 5am, the ship was boarded by the pilot and line handling crew and as the sun poked its nose over the horizon we sailed towards the first lock with another larger cargo ship ahead of us. This larger vessel would keep us company throughout the trip. The whole operation ran like clockwork and I suddenly felt as if we were entering some kind of gargantuan log flume. I couldn’t help but smile as I tried to imagine the world’s largest water slide just around the corner down which tankers would fly with a tidal wave splash into the Pacific Ocean.

The handlers attached the metallic lines to the bits at the fore and aft of the ship which were duly tightened onto our accompanying trains. The completion of every key step in the process was marked by the ding dong of a bell. Immediately after, the next phase would begin. The trains ticked alongside as we steadily edged ever closer into the first lock. The enormous watertight doors closed smartly behind us and within seconds the water gushed into the lock raising the two ships steadily in minutes. Two more locks followed speedily but without haste. As all this went on, line handlers and canal workers gawped at the Picton, seemingly a tall ship diamond in the usual mundane rough of cargo vessels. Cameras flashed and snapped and the uniqueness of the transit was only intensified for us by the fact that we were also special to those who worked there.

During the trip through the three locks to the artificial lake, most crew were restricted to standing by amidships and away from the thick lines, the tension of which visibly constricted the metal bits to which they were attached on board. The line handlers couldn’t stress enough the dangers of being too close to these lines in the unlikely event that they or the bit were to rupture. Two years prior, a Panamanian had lost both his legs in one fell swoop as a line snapped and sliced straight through him like a hot knife through butter. And only two weeks before our transit date, another line handler lost three fingers on one hand in a similar ill-fated event. I took a long stare at my own limbs, and loving each and every one of them in equal measure, I stepped back to the safe zone and allowed only those mad enough to stand next to the pulsating lines.

Shortly after breakfast, we had made it through the last of the three locks and suddenly we were motoring across a lush freshwater lake within thick jungle. The presence of large industrial sailing vessels against this rainforest backdrop was an intriguing contrast. As we picked up speed and headed through the system of lakes, a power shower was announced. This was the first and only fresh water power shower we would have on the entire voyage, given this would be our only passage outside of the ocean and so all on board rushed to savour a shower that would not leave the token sodium chloride residue. The line handlers from the first locks were picked up and left us with the pilot to make our way to the other side and the locks down to the Pacific.

Enjoying the sunshine, we ate a spot of lunch and motored through the jungle waving to people as we passed. Before long, the second set of line handlers were boarding the ship and we were entering the first descending lock. Once more like clockwork the lines were attached to the trains which ticked alongside us. The lock gates closed and with a ding of a bell the lock steadily emptied out lowering us down a tier. Two more locks and barely eight hours since we had started our day, we had cleared the 48 mile passage and sailing beneath the Bridge of the Americas, we took in our first view of the high rise dominated skyline of Panama City. Beyond, lay the boundless swells of the Pacific, our home for the next six months. The Captain walked through the ship to individually welcome the crew to the world’s vastest ocean. The moment for me marked the end of the opening chapter of our voyage. The Atlantic and Caribbean were now behind us, and ahead lay a new South Pacific world for us to discover.

After waiting imposingly at a marina to the west of Panama City for a broken down fishing boat to clear off and free up our berth, the Picton eventually put in on Isla Flamenco, an island joined to the Panamanian mainland by a paved causeway. Looking at some of the yachts pulled in, I could tell we were on the wealthier side of town. That evening, 12-4 had the watch, and so we stayed aboard tending to the ship while the other watches took to painting Panama City red, quite valiantly given they had been awake since 3.30am that morning. Taking the deck for my hour of night dock watch between 1 and 2am, I accumulated enough gossip keeping a watchful eye on drunken amorous shipmates stumbling back on deck to sell my story to the tabloids and buy a yacht of my very own. Something, quite evidently, was in the Panamanian air.

Panama City is larger and more developed than I had given it credit for. Its skyline throngs with newly built skyscrapers filled with condos for North America and Europe’s cash rich elderly. With its amiable tax laws, tropical climate, respectable cost of living and faint smell of urine, it’s no real surprise that Panama’s capital now aspires to become the world’s largest retirement home. Beneath the glimmering tower blocks, however, poverty and grime is evident amongst the local populace on the streets. As I took a taxi into the city, a driver informed us that the areas we were passing were no go zones even to many locals. Some blocks had had free electricity for months as even local utility firms refused to visit certain quarters to check meters.

As we all needed provisions for the upcoming weeks at sea, our first priority, sadly, was shopping. Expecting a quaint Panamanian market or small parade of local stores, our taxi driver instead excitedly took us to the city’s Albrook Mall. This was quite possibly the largest shopping mall I had ever come across and the thought of spending the afternoon in there hunting down what I needed through endless retail shite made me sick up ever so slightly in my own mouth. I couldn’t help but feel that shopping malls summed up just about everything that was wrong in the world. In my lifetime, I feared, the world would become nothing more than one big retail park starved of diversity and culture and we would all do nothing but get morbidly obese and spend our days waddling around these malls buying overpriced shit on credit that we didn’t need. Panama had certainly caught onto the Western disease.

Lasting roughly an hour in the mall, all I had managed to do was wander around aimlessly finding everything but what I wanted. Evidently feeling light headed from the need to have something to show for the previous wasted hour, I proceeded to spunk way too much cash up the wall unnecessarily on a somewhat mediocre Panama hat. Feeling like a well and truly shafted tourist, I soon realised that someone had to pay for the mammoth air conditioning bill this place must rack up. Somewhat paradoxically, salvation from the globalised madness was taken in a McDonalds lunch comprising two burgers. Even I have my weakness. Morbid obesity and a life sentence of mind numbing meanderings through shopping malls may be my fate after all.

Heading back into the city, I decided to treat myself to a serious dose of modern conveniences. Such luxuries were sparse at sea, and although I was trying to avoid extravagant splurges, it had been almost two months without any kind of personal space and so a night to myself at a hotel didn’t seem totally contemptible. It really wasn’t. Sitting in my underpants with the air con roaring while stuffing my face with chips in front of some trashy movie on the one-eyed god, I wouldn’t have been completely misplaced in thinking that the tedium of the shopping mall had finally finished me off and I now found myself gorging out in heaven. I took two showers one after another simply because I could. All plans to go out that night were postponed as I joyfully got back in touch with the small things in life wearing little else than a self-satisfied smile.

Sadly my Spanish skills are, at best, limited and of what I do know, my useful vocabulary is dwarfed by the number of foul words and rude phrases taught to me by Spanish acquaintances I have accumulated over the years. Encounters with the locals therefore usually involved a nonchalant shrug after my asking if they spoke English before I engaged in a bizarre game of charades where, almost never, my counterpart came close to understanding what I was trying to communicate. That morning at the hotel, the maid at breakfast spoke Spanish to me painstakingly slowly and pronouncedly as if I were something between a petulant toddler refusing to be civil and an imbecile with severe learning difficulties. Somewhat memorably, I hobbled together what ended up being a reply in perfect Spanish (if only to spite her) before smiling smugly as she went off to fetch me my coffee with milk and sugar. Although I didn’t really learn much more Spanish during my time in Panama, I became a lot more apt at using the six words that I do know.

In the days that followed, I came to know Panama City quite well. The old town, known as Casco Viejo, is a World Heritage site and has all the allure and old world Hispanic charm you might expect in Old Havana. It truly is a stunning part of town. The ruins of the first settlement in Panama City were also paid a visit. The city was originally built east of the old town and after it was destroyed during pillaging in the 16th century, reconstruction amounting to today’s old town simply took place a few miles down the road. The remnants of the original settlement remain to this day as they were within the city limits of the modern metropolis and make for a great leisurely afternoon stroll.

Also within the city limits is Parque Metropolitana, a tended section of rainforest open to the public with a selection of trails to follow. At times, you do feel somewhat like being in the jungle – similar to the way that by standing on one leg, putting your fingers in your ears, closing one eye and squinting, you might feel as if you had escaped to the English countryside on a wander through Hyde Park in London. A variety of frogs, reptiles and insects were on show as was a host of tropical plant life. As we excitedly headed toward the park’s self-labelled “lagoon” wondering what exotic creatures of the deep may lie in waiting for us, we were a little disappointed to realise that the overegged pond we came across wouldn’t have looked too out of place in the back yard of my old house in South London. Particularly given the number of beer bottles surrounding it ornamentally.

But my encounters with the local wildlife weren’t to end there. Little did I know, but I would actually soon suffer the wrath of an angered and notorious Central American beast. Two days later, in a great example of the curse of being in the wrong place at the wrong time (for both myself and said beast), I inadvertently squashed a wasp into the side of my head while attempting to scratch an itch during lunch. The sting wasn’t nearly as painful as I anticipated but nonetheless joins a growing line of insect incidents I have racked up in the course of my life including the time a wasp lay in waiting underneath my bedsheets to sting me on my inside thigh as I tenderly settled down for the night, and the time I squished a bumblebee into my buttock by sitting on it.

Not wanting to disappoint you, I did spend some of my time in Panama enjoying the local ale. I am a sailor after all. The World Cup kicked off shortly after my arrival there, and a few days after watching an excruciatingly annoying England-USA draw, I found myself in the company of a whole swathe of Brazilians in a local bar for their winning match against North Korea (of all countries). Not quite Panamanian, but I definitely felt like I was in Latin America. Although I couldn’t understand the commentators, the animation and excitement within their voice at every minor and major event in the match was pure entertainment in its own right.

On the Saturday night before I was due back on the ship for dock watch the following morning, I decided to go out for a few quiet drinks and dinner. After a shipmate from another watch who was off the following day asked if he could swap his shift with me, I agreed and under the pretext that I would now be off the following day, I proceeded to raise the drinking stakes just a little tiny bit. We ended up staggering onto a purpose built random strip of bars and clubs around midnight which formed a curious complex of drinking establishments in an apparently residential area outside the city centre. I would never have guessed in a million years that it existed. After having mingled, drunk and danced with locals and visitors mostly from Latin America, I stumbled back to the ship around 4am and slept where I fell on deck.

The following morning (i.e. two hours later) at 6am, I awoke with the hangover of the century. Initially relieved at the fact I was now off watch and could go back to sleep, my swap partner was also laying in bed with equally severe alcohol induced poisoning and now rescinded his generous offer via his refusal to peel himself from his bunk to muster with the other 12-4ers at 8 o’clock. Unknown to me at this point, the possibility to swap had not received official sanctioning, and so pursuing the whole thing was futile. I had no choice but to retake my place. Inside I felt horrific, my grip on reality teetering over a knife edge, and parts of the ensuing day proved to be about as much fun as being in a car accident. By lunchtime, the burden of existence had started to become almost tolerable and I was relieved to have been granted the menial task all afternoon of scraping, sanding and varnishing the inside door face of the forward head (toilet). The booze had long perspired out of my pores by then, no doubt leaving me with the faint aroma of an alcoholic tramp. The hallowed five o’clock hour was frustratingly nowhere to be seen all day no matter how frequently I checked my watch. And when it eventually got there, the nagging cries of the eternal hangover had ceased in the final twist of a crude punishment inflicted upon me by nature and circumstance. My only solitude was the newly varnished door which gleaned before me with a shine founded on blood, sweat and tears. Every day as I sat down to do my business, I could admire my work, remembering that just like enduring the meaningless babble of a brainless bimbo or the tortuous slicing of a plastic surgeon, sometimes, with pain comes beauty.

In accordance with hitherto growing hearsay and gossip, on the day of our departure from Panama, the watch groups were reshuffled. All of the 4-8 watch were split between the other two watches, all but two from the 8-12 watch were reassigned and all but one from my watch, the 12-4, were moved away. The one remaining opening member of the 12-4 watch carried forward into the next session was, of course, me. It was like being in a parallel dimension staying on the same watch, doing exactly the same things, but with a completely different set of shipmates for company. Although I was pleased to stay on 12-4 given my love of the night watch, I couldn’t help but feel a little saddened that all my old watchmates were moving on to other watches to try something different and learn something new. 12-4 is notorious for having less sail handling as, owing to the idiosyncrasies of wind and light, major sail handling normally takes place outside of these hours. After hearing certain professional crew members moan about having to mould ex 12-4ers into decent sail handlers, part of me was concerned that I would be the lone 12-4 dud when it came to the fast paced setting of sails in the future as all those around me gained the benefit of experience while I was kept behind. But I am not overly worried. I still have plenty of time before I leave in November to stand other watches as we will be reshuffling about once a month from now on.

The saying goes that ports rot ships and men and it’s not far from the truth. Back at sea, I scrambled to revise what I had learnt as if some kind of vacuum cleaner had sucked the knowledge straight out of my mind. Repetition would bring it back. I went over lines and sail scenarios until I felt informed once again. “Fake” sail setting in my head would be an activity I engaged myself in almost constantly to compensate for my lacking experience on watch.

As we left Panama, the new swell of the Pacific etched its presence into our days. Its swell felt different to that of the other waters we had crossed. These waves had travelled uninterrupted for thousands of miles. Land disappeared from the horizon and the next major milestone of the trip started to occupy the minds of those on board. We were roughly five hundred miles north of the equator. Crossing this imaginary line by ship for the first time is an initiation of thrills and punishment for many a sailor. Those who have done it before, known as Shellbacks, inflict their wrath and force repentance on those who have not yet crossed, known as Pollywogs. We were entering the realm of the Kingdom of Neptune. Our fate was not yet known, but maggot filled food slops were already being accumulated and many of us, including the girls, would be offered the chance to shave our heads or accept a fate much worse. Our sentence would be cast in the Court of Neptune, on or about the line, by Neptune himself and only through serving this sentence could we be sure of entry into the hallowed fraternity of the Shellback.

As the week passed, increasing taunts from the Shellbacks (accounting for less than a third of the ship’s crew) were tossed at the Pollywogs including disconcerting messages written on the ship’s mirrors and daily reminders of our foul Pollywog stench. The Shellbacks adorned themselves with surgical face masks out of their increasing concern at the hygiene of Pollywogs. Neptune, liking to keep up to date with the latest technologies, corresponded initially by email with the Picton Castle to convey heartfelt greetings to the Shellbacks and unfettered repulsion at the Pollywogs. A few days later, a mysterious sand filled bag made of canvas became hooked on one of the fishing lines. The curious package was finally opened to reveal a message from the deep. The text read:

“Be ye warned. His holiness, King Neptune is detecting an abhorrent number of wretched, unworthy, vile, disgusting Pollywogs approaching his Kingdom without the slightest morsel of respect or repentance. Beware ye Pollywogs for Judgement Day soon cometh. Repent your lubberly sins at once.”

It was official. Our date with Neptune (and his maggoty food slops) awaited.


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Bad wind

The time for beaching and boozing was upon us already. After two weeks of seeing nothing but each other’s ugly mugs, the sky and the deep blue sea, the sudden apparition of a tropical island less than a mile away was a surreal and enticing prospect. We salivated at the thought of a cold beer and fresh fruit and tried hard not to orgasm at our impending refamiliarisation with that little marvel known as air conditioning. As the ship pulled in, we gawped at the sandy shore of Road Bay, our home for the next three days.

Within minutes of anchoring, the voyage’s first ever swim call was made. A swim call is, as it sounds, the all clear from the powers that be to jump ship and take a soak in the ocean. I excitedly await the first call to do this in the doldrums while underway and miles from anywhere at sea. The crew stripped down to their swim pants and abandoned ship as quickly as if gun toting pirates had started firing shots on board. As I savoured my first refreshing encounter with the water I had observed longingly for weeks, I suddenly thought back to the bay in Lunenburg. Any meeting with the waters there could only end promptly in hypothermia and death. We had come quite a distance. We climbed back aboard taking in our new surroundings and waved to local fisherman scrambling to get our attention as they motored out to sea. After loosing sail to allow it to dry in the lunchtime sun, our watch was given the first afternoon off to explore the island leaving another watch to stay behind and take care of the ship.

At a paltry thirty five square miles, Anguilla is so compact, it could quite easily be folded up and fitted into the boot of an average hatchback. Out of respect for its inhabitants, however, we decided to leave it where it was and explore on site. Having once been part of the British Empire way back in the day, it was originally wrapped up with Saint Kitts and Nevis to be granted independence. However, after getting a little sick and tired of being pushed around by its larger and more populated neighbours, the island staged a miniature counter revolution leading to a return to the UK as an overseas territory. After weeks of travelling, I couldn’t help but smirk at the fact that, technically speaking, I was already back in Britain. The island holds dear the fact that it remains relatively unscathed by tourism in comparison to most of its nearby peers. The reduction in flight numbers enforced by the government make it more of a haven for wealthy yachties than package holidaymakers. Most of the vendors in Sandy Ground were therefore pleased by the sudden arrival of the Picton Castle economic stimulus package in the form of fifty cash rich sailors ready to let their hair down with all the trimmings in port.

For its small size, Anguilla has more to offer than you might think. There are more beaches and beautiful stretches of serene coastline than you can wave a Caribbean rhythm stick at and enough booze, diversions and good times to fill a short visit to the brim. Ours was no exception. Our first afternoon on the island was spent constructively. Within five minutes of disembarking, we were at a beach bar with a beer in hand watching the locals sail around the bay. The beer tasted so good, I was forced to have several more. After an interlude for some dinner, I returned to the beach for more beer and after asking a couple of my fellow watchmates in the water whether they were skinny dipping, being met only with silhouettes of dangly bits, I felt it only fair to join in. After getting the last skiff back to the ship, I stumbled into my bunk and fell asleep – blissfully unaware owing to my drunken stupor of the obscene temperatures surrounding me, hot enough to roast a Christmas turkey.

The following day, we were on watch. This meant we would stay on board all day and participate in ship’s work before standing an anchor watch overnight. Thankfully, I was dangling off the ship’s headrig for most of the day and so was treated to a cool sea breeze in the otherwise stinking heat. Charged with the task of rustbusting for the first time, I was equipped with a mallet and proceeded to hammer the shit out of a metal panel that had corroded so heavily, no-one could ever have guessed what once lay underneath. To begin with, I applied myself to the task in hand admirably but I lost interest in direct proportion to the layers of skin I lost from my index and middle fingers that trickled off my hand from my strong grip on the mallet as readily as the sweat oozing along with it from my pores.

But we were rewarded for our efforts during the day with two swim calls to cool off and wipe away the sweat. We also dusted off the ship’s rope swing from the headrig and had a blast swinging into the ocean from a moderate height. One of my shipmates kicked things off by inadvertently belly flopping from the rope swing so loudly, the clapping noise of the impact echoed off the cliffs surrounding the island shortly before a communal wincing sound by everyone who witnessed it did the same. Saddened by missing my opportunity to have filmed the whole event and earned some cash by submitting it as a home video howler, I was also slightly perturbed by the scope for becoming a painfully loud human percussion instrument should my own rope swing attempt go just as horribly wrong. Luckily I held on long enough to jump acceptably into the water.

That night, unimpressed with the oven cum sauna we had to sleep in on the ship down below, I set up a bed on deck under the stars only to wake a few hours later under raindrops. Sleeping down below had become almost intolerable and although we were becoming more used to the heat of the Tropics, the stagnant unventilated air of the Bro Cave induced epic sweating fits amongst all occupants. Levels of discomfort increased while in port as the breeze while underway would at least give a modicum of respite to the soaring temperatures and humidity. I had no other choice in port but to sleep on deck.

The following day, we were able to return to the island leaving another watch to occupy themselves with the ship. Following a leisurely breakfast on the beach, we hired a car to broaden our horizons a little more. After purchasing some necessary provisions, we went to Shoal Bay where I tested out some snorkelling equipment I had purchased earlier that morning. Someone had told me that Shoal Bay regularly appeared in a certain travel publication’s top ten of the world’s most beautiful beaches. I could see why. The sand was so white, my embarrassingly pale torso felt camouflaged as I changed into my swimsuit, and the ocean so clean and transparent, anyone choosing to pee in it would surely be shadowed by an unmistakable and slightly awkward waist clinging golden cloud, much like the kid at your local pool with an overactive bladder. It was at this point, I looked around and realised that I was surrounded by couples. This beach was to honeymooners what horse crap is to bluebottles. All of a sudden, without having a pining spouse to ogle at my side, I felt exposed to the disapproving glances of those who did as I donned my outfit of fluorescent yellow snorkelling gear. As I tried vainly to put on my fins, the rubber snapped like a kinky whip and I spectacularly fell over in the sand as the forces involved in the tussle evened out. The newly wedded couples surrounding me in sun loungers took a moment from their pink cocktails and loving gawks and peered down their noses at the loveless idiot now stumbling into the ocean with a broken neon flipper dangling haphazardly from his foot.

What I’d failed to notice while purchasing my snorkelling gear was that it came in different sizes. In the heat of the moment, I grabbed the first set on the shelf in the store and now found myself trying to fit something to my foot that was four sizes too small. In the ensuing battle to attach the blasted things, I inadvertently split one open, but somehow managed to put on the other one without breaking it. Like a ring a few sizes too small that you knew you shouldn’t have tried to ram onto your middle finger, I wondered if this flipper would be attached to my foot for the rest of my life. I ventured deeper into the water with a sensation that my feet had been crushed into a couple of matchboxes. Just as I was in up to my shoulders, I noticed I had already lost my snorkel which had become detached from my mask. I returned to the beach to see where I had dropped it. Eventually, I found it in the sea. It didn’t float. Reattaching it to my mask, I soon realised I would have had more success keeping water out of my airway with a snorkel made from toilet tissue. Admitting defeat, and accepting the fact I had epicly wasted my money on a shoddy product that wasn’t even my size, I returned to the pub to find a more constructive use for what remained inside my wallet. Although my heart felt as crushed as my feet, solitude was found in several stiff rum punches safe in the knowledge I would have plenty of opportunities to snorkel again later on in the voyage. Little did I know at this point that my next chance would come so soon.

On our final day in Anguilla, I ventured into the capital, The Valley. With a population just shy of 2,000 people, it is the island’s metropolitan epicentre. Given the surprising absence of an underground railway or bus network we were forced to hitch hike to get around. Anguilla is probably the easiest place on earth to get a lift. Sticking my thumb out on the road, the first car pulled up and took us where we needed to go even agreeing to stop off and wait while we picked up a smoothie on the way. Now that’s what I call service. In town, we observed the island’s major architectural masterpiece – a post office, and treated ourselves to some local street food and ice cream.

Back on the beach, the Picton crew were working together to make a sail for an acquaintance of the Captain whom we would meet in Panama. The measurements and some initial sewing using a beast of a machine was made with everyone chipping in to hold the sail in place and run it through the device (literally five people either side running it along). A race against time was underway to have it ready in time for our departure a little later that day.

We picked up anchor and set sail again Thursday afternoon. We were well within the latitudes for easterly trade winds by now, but owing to an ongoing freak low pressure system hanging over Bermuda, said winds had actually gone into reverse and so were not conducive in getting us to Panama. We had no choice but to motor ahead with the sails unset in the coming days in the hope that a change in wind patterns back to normality would shortly be forthcoming.

That day, I noticed an increasing number of insect bites on my leg. The sweet sensation of scratching them to buggery came at a cost. Beastly puss and blood filled volcanoes rose on an otherwise unblemished canvas of white skin. Armageddon loomed on the horizon of my ankle. On previous excursions to the Tropics, I prided myself on my natural invisibility to the local blood sucking beasties. It seemed that they were now making up for lost time with a vengeance. I counted more than fifty bites on one leg alone. I had become an impromptu hub airport for the little bastards with every one of them leaving their mark on me as they stopped to refuel. I couldn’t help but admire the opportunism of one of them who had managed to bite me directly on the rear end. The only time my backside had been on show was during the previously mentioned skinny dipping session when I, as part of an agreement with several other shipmates, ran starkers onto the beach and back into the water baring all for a total of no more than five seconds. Within these five seconds, it seemed, one had swooped in and blood sucked my left buttock. At least now back at sea, I was safe.

After a couple of days, I managed to get back into the swing of standing night watches. Although I needn’t have bothered. The weather was still not cooperating. Since arriving in the Tropics, we had been blighted by squall after squall and the consistently wet and warm weather reminded me of an average summer back in London. More importantly, those faithful trade winds that would carry us to Panama were taking a long unscheduled holiday somewhere else. We would have to do the same until they came back. Having motored east a fair few miles, we found ourselves not too far away from a small island in the Netherlands Antilles called Bonaire. Here we would put in and, again, wait a while for the winds to change. The crew grinned from ear to ear at the second unscheduled stop we would put in at before our first official port of call. I was about to unexpectedly visit yet another island I’d never heard of hitherto. Sweet serendipity.

Before arriving on Bonaire, we stood a final night watch. An opportunity arose to go aloft in the dark. It was a beautifully still moonlit night and I felt the moment was right for me to make an attempt to reach the top yard – known as the royal. The royal is about 35m off the deck. It is the trickiest yard to reach and not only because it is the most elevated. The rigging used to climb the mast simply runs out before you reach the royal yard and you find yourself grabbing whatever you can grasp to haul yourself up onto the footropes.

Not realising an hour prior that I would be going aloft, I had plied myself with four or five strong coffees to wake my sorry ass up after a couple of hours’ slumber before midnight had left me with roughly a kilo of sleep crystallising inside my eyelids. Standing at the foot of the ratlines contemplating my first ascent to the highest point on the ship at the dead of night, my heart started to pound in my chest with a caffeinated vigour. In spite of my coffee induced anxiety, I reached the top without a hitch thanks to a little guidance from a shipmate, Meredith, on the intricacies of hauling oneself up to the royal yard. The footrope seemed to hang amply beneath the yard which took me by surprise after my previous unavoidable contortions on the topgallant yard on my ascent the week prior. Although I was shaking ever so slightly under a cocktail of adrenalin and caffeine, I marvelled at the breath taking view of the millpond still ocean under the moonlight. The silence and atmosphere was almost eerie and I felt so high up I could all but make out the curvature of the earth toward the horizon. This truly was a special place to be, and the most special of times to be there.

The following morning, land was once again visible off the port bow and before we knew it, a pilot ship was guiding us into Kralendijk harbour. Our watch would remain on ship that day and so we broke into ship’s work that afternoon as the other watches left to explore our latest stopover. I inherited the unenviable task of scraping the varnish off the ship’s pinrails as the mercury rose into the mid thirties. Humidity persisted in equal measure. After sweating it out all afternoon, the results of the hard work almost made it all worth it. That afternoon I also spent an hour aloft climbing the rigging and stowing every sail. After making it to the highest yards the previous night, and saying shortly afterwards I was in no hurry to head back up there again, I found myself high above the decks once more only hours later and ever so slightly loving the rush. Pulling a loose line mistaking it for a tight one and almost falling backwards off the yard did make my heart skip a good few beats and acted as a gentle reminder of my mortality. Care and heed would be duly paid.

The following morning, our watch was set loose onto the island. Bonaire is much larger than Anguilla, and the island is, technically speaking, an autonomous region of The Netherlands. The Dutch influence is unmistakable with a steady influx of new residents from Holland being able to relocate to the island seemingly without restriction. In spite of this, the population of the island remains remarkably low. Papiamentu is widely spoken amongst the island’s non Dutch descendent residents but English is actually the most universal language of all. In diving circles, Bonaire is renowned as one of the best scuba spots on the planet. Its entire coastal perimeter is awash with coral, tropical fish and plant life.

Our first activity that morning was to come face to face with Bonaire’s greatest natural assets. Although I had dived in confined water before, this would be my first dive in the ocean and there really was no better place for an orientation with the underwater world. Ecstatic to have an opportunity to put my camera and underwater housing to the test, I took a plethora of photos of everything I could see. The sensation of being underwater amongst the abundance of unique marine life was magnificent. Sadly an inability to equalise extensively enough prevented me from diving as deep as those who were with me, but the beauty of Bonaire is that this didn’t really matter. The diving site was accessible only metres from the beach and in shallow waters. Knowing the island was famous for parrot fish, I wanted to see at least one before I left only to encounter countless numbers of them amongst the hundreds of other fish. I would later learn that parrot fish are born male only to turn female later in life. A curious idiosyncrasy of nature indeed.

We left the dive site with a feeling of being on top of the world. Wondering how we could continue such an amazing day, we stumbled across a scooter rental shop. Initially I was a little hesitant about hiring a scooter for the day, but crumbling under peer pressure I decided to give it a go. As we all gingerly mounted our vehicles, Niko decided to be one of the first to ride off. Completely misjudging the critical acceleration required to pull away, Niko gave it far too much welly and made it three metres into the middle of the road before falling off the scooter in the way a four year old boy falls off his bike trying to ride it for the first time without stabilisers. The slapstick nature of the accelerator roaring, the scooter moving forward a few footsteps and Niko falling off almost immediately drew me into hysterics but a guilty sense of concern for his wellbeing curbed the laughter. Unknown to us at this point, Niko had sprained his ankle. Slightly embarrassed at the time, he guarded the pain and discomfort and somewhat ironically the scooter which caused his injury would also regrant him his mobility for the day.

Pulling away en masse, we left the capital and proceeded to explore the island on two wheels. Less than five minutes into the excursion, the straw hat I thought was reasonably well attached to my head blew off and dramatically flew back down the street whence I came requiring an emergency stop. Shortly afterwards my journey was once again ground to a screaming halt as a rogue donkey ran out in the road directly in front of me. Donkey and I came out of the encounter thankfully unscathed although both moderately shaken. In spite of these setbacks, I actually got into the swing of scooter riding more readily than I expected and another shipmate and I pulled ahead to give the engines a little testing. Mine got up to 60mph, before I swiftly applied the brakes realising my own mortal limitations and a growing fear that the whole thing would disintegrate beneath my fragile loins.

We eventually arrived at Bonaire’s national park famed for the fact that it is, somewhat bizarrely, full of flamingos. Sadly we had barely arrived at the park before one of our shipmate’s scooters broke down beyond repair. We would need to return to town to send out reinforcements. Stopping along the way to marvel at the intriguing pink flamingos skimming their beaks curiously across the water, we eventually made it back to Kralendijk to learn that another shipmate had raised the alarm and a rescue was underway. Within the hour, we were all back together in one piece ready to hit the bars.

Proof that days of the week become irrelevant on this ship was aplenty that evening. Being a Monday night, most people anticipated that the evening wouldn’t develop into anything too debaucherous. But at 3am, a group of around twenty of us were still going strong and after being kicked out of the bars at closing time, we decided to take a little night time swim before bed. As I edged ever closer to the water, I noticed a load of shipmates already in there naked. Egging us on to join them, I immediately dropped my kecks and dived in. Behind me remained some more cautious Picton revellers, but with a little coaxing all twenty or so of us were in the sea in our birthday suits in no time at all. Cackling and bobbing up and down, we engaged in a game of Marco Polo before a round or two of naked chicken fights. This, for me at least, was a first. After getting dressed, a few of us stayed up on the dock to chat and used some line to do communal skipping tricks until the sun poked its nose over the horizon reminding us of the need to recharge our batteries.

The following day we continued our exploration of the island by motoring in the opposite direction towards the island’s salt flats. A major source of industrial wealth for Bonaire, I was amazed at the scale of the operation given the island’s limited size. All of a sudden, the randomness of this whole place struck me. A small Caribbean island, encircled almost completely by some of the world’s finest dive sites, comprising a huge national park dedicated to flamingos, some equally large industrial salt flats and a population of Papiamentu speaking slave descendants amongst a burgeoning number of sun seeking migrants from Holland. You really couldn’t make this shit up.

After a slight detour, we eventually made it to a mangrove centre on the island where we signed up for a kayaking tour. The tour included exploring various tunnels cut out within the mangroves along with some snorkelling amongst the roots which are a haven for adolescent aquatic life seeking sanctuary from the dangers of the open ocean. The experience was amazing and I was happy to have finally been successful in both diving and snorkelling given my misfortune in Anguilla. The track leading to the mangrove centre was a couple of miles off the main road and was about as off road as it gets. Niko and Nadia, my shipmates accompanying me for the day, had rented themselves some all terrain quad bikes whereas I was still lumbered with my scooter. We had not reckoned on the need to go off road thinking the mangroves would be accessible from sealed tarmac streets. We were wrong. Niko and Nadia grinned broadly as they put pedal to the metal in the terrain their weapons of choice were designed for. I endeavoured my hardest not to crash the damned scooter I was lumbered with as it gyrated and vibrated over the mud tracks like a washing machine on a spin cycle. Thankfully, Niko was good enough to let me have full rip through the mud on his ATV for a mile or so. I could see why he was smiling so much as he rode it.

Before we knew it, we were once again heading back to sea. Leaving Bonaire, we sailed off the hook as locals both on land and in boats scrambled to wave and see us off. The feeling of pride and humility beneath the sails whilst leaving an eagerly watchful port really does raise the hairs on the back of your neck. For the first time, we had a steady wind blowing on our stern toward Panama. The easterly trades had finally returned.

Back on night watch early on Saturday, I took to the helm on what I thought would be an average night. The trade winds had picked up and were gusting to a force six with a reasonable 2-3m swell. The helm was a pain in the ass to control requiring several full turns continually each way to maintain our desired heading. Forty five minutes into my hour long session, a large gust of wind blew the ship off course to the left very quickly. In a moment of madness to respond promptly to being driven to one side, I accidentally turned the wheel to the left to compensate. I should have turned it to the right. All of a sudden the ship veered off very quickly to the left to the tune of about 30 degrees in a matter of seconds. Realising my mistake with a helping hand from the mate, I attempted to turn the wheel back to the right to bring her back on course, but in typical style, the helm jammed and refused to turn for a good few seconds allowing the ship to veer even further from our intended heading. Suddenly as the vessel turned into the wind, she started rocking and pitching frantically, throwing crap on the deck all over the show. The sails started to flap around as the wind missed hitting them directly under the unintentional new course I had set. For a couple of minutes, chaos ensued as the ship appeared to be whipped up into its own miniature storm. Suddenly as we brought her back on course, the madness ceased and all returned to normal. I breathed a short sigh of relief for what I thought was a minor averted mishap that took place at the dead of night while all were sleeping.

Sadly all down below was not well. In practically every sleeping quarter, something heavy was left unlashed and had fallen quite noisily in the folly. This woke almost everyone up. Even the Captain strayed from his compartment to deck asking what the hell was going on. Waking up in the midst of this unexpected storm, many shipmates were freaked out. In the Bro Cave, a full crate of sewing materials crashed onto the sea chests below. In the main sleeping cabin, home to eighteen people, a heavy wooden bench fell with a great crack onto its side rudely awakening all hands sleeping in the entire compartment. And in the forward quarters, a female shipmate was shaken out of her slumber by a projectile diary whacking her square in the face.

As I lay in my bunk the following morning drifting in and out of consciousness, I overheard confused conversations over the event the night before each time from different people. Any hopes for this little misfortune to quietly pass unnoticed were well and truly dashed. I decided to peel myself from my bunk and face the music. Apologising to those affected (i.e. everyone), I provided the premise that I had personally decided to change course towards Colombia and merely wanted to wake everyone up to let them know. Most people giggled at my bad stroke of luck although many remained uninformed that I was the culprit. The Picton grapevine was not quite as efficient as I had given it credit for. Others gave an acknowledging smirk without me even opening my mouth. Many had also fallen off course as much as I had before. They had just not done so into strong winds hitting the ship at the stern. I chuckled with my watch mate and was reassured in that she felt I remained one of the strongest helmsmen on the watch, but frustratingly this little calamity of conspiring circumstances would leave an unfortunate, but nonetheless amusing, black mark against my helming reputation amongst everyone on board. How frustrating to monumentally fuck up something you normally excel at, and for everyone around you to recognise the former in the absence of the latter. But sometimes it’s better to look dumber than you really are, I figured, and beyond philosophical rationalisation, I couldn’t help but acknowledge that the whole thing really was rather funny.

The following day was our final one at sea before we were to once again reach land. It was also the day of the hotly awaited Caribbean Seamanship Derby. The event, to take place at 3pm, would pit the three watches against each other and test their new maritime and tall ship sailing skills refined over the course of the previous month at sea. In the days prior, the watches had been working on these skills, memorising terminology and perfecting sail handling knowledge unsure exactly what the tournament had in store.

That afternoon, all hands mustered amidships for the competition suitably attired. My watch (12-4) took on a black clad warrior outfit, 4-8 came along as stoned hippies and 8-12 decided to compete in sarongs. The presentation of the watches ensued with a short skit by each on the hatch. Our watch kicked things off with a dedicated warrior’s chant accrediting ourselves and mocking the opposition. Then, the 4-8 watch prepared their own version of the “Because I got high” song. The parody was hilarious and even had a verse dedicated to me and my steering: “My shit’s all over the place and I know why. Yeah yeah. Because Jimmy got high, because Jimmy got high, because Jimmy got high”. Finally, the 8-12 watch prepared a more theatrical but no less entertaining piece on cleaning the ship along the lines of bored and desperate housewives. Bribes, including cakes and alcohol, were offered to and were readily accepted by the judges. It was evident the competition was very tongue in cheek and off to a great start. I was excited.

After all the formalities of the opening ceremony, we got down to business. The first event was a test of both terminology and dexterity. Names of mostly obscure parts of the ship were called out by the judges and a representative from each watch had to make their way promptly to said part of the vessel and touch it. The first team member to get there won that round for the watch. Confusion and madness proceeded as even the most experienced of crew stumbled to remember where certain specialist items resided on board. Many people, including myself, also slipped over en route.

The tournament events that followed included a test to see how quickly and neatly each watch could coil ropes and tie knots. Having spent many night watches learning more intricate and complex hitches and bends, I actually struggled a little more with the simple ones set in the competition through not having practiced them. But we pulled through in the end and our watch performed valiantly overall. The subsequent test was for the entire watch to box a compass. This effectively means that each member of the watch must take it in turns to recite the thirty two points of the maritime compass. This is trickier than it seems, and overall performances by everyone on board highlighted the fact that, basically, we all sucked.

The next event was indeed the topic of the moment. Steering. Each of the three watches had to choose their best helmsman to spend five minutes steering the ship. Within these five minutes, the helmsman had to maintain course as best as possible, losing points if they fell off course more than five degrees and suspending the task completely if they fell off by more than ten degrees. The pressure of doing this was compounded by the fact that everybody on the ship, a total of fifty people, were gathering round the helmsman and compass and watching them in anticipation.

8-12 watch were the first to put their expert helmsman, Dan, forward. Dan kept it steady, and managed to remain within the five degree limit for a full minute and a half before straying. Dan proceeded to pull her back on course, however, and stayed within the ten degree limit to last the full five minutes. A great start to the round and the bar was definitely set. Next up was 4-8 watch’s finest envoy, Julie. Julie remained as cool as a cucumber throughout her attempt and stayed within the five degree limitation for the duration after judges concluded that a minor deviation just after the third minute mark was permissible. The bar had been raised by a true champ.

Finally it was 12-4’s turn. The mate of our watch made the decision to put me forward to steer as I normally was a strong helmsman. It was also my opportunity to redeem myself. Seeing Jimmy stepping up to the helm to steer, all the crew laughed heartily and clapped and cheered as I coyly put my hands in the air grinning bashfully and inadvertently working the crowd. The steering reject was in the mix. As the unmistakable underdog, I sensed I had the support of most people surrounding me, even those in opposing watches. I was, after all, the hapless helmsman that had awoken the entire ship in the middle of the night ejecting them and their personal belongings all over the show only 36 hours earlier.

Stopping to ask everyone whether they were safely strapped in to something, I stepped up to the wheel. Deep down, I was really feeling quite nervous. Would I royally fuck up my big moment even more monumentally this time round under the watchful eyes of all the crew, and send hoards of people flying into the ocean in the process? At least by eliminating the competition, I could win the event by default, I thought. Even my fellow shipmates on my own watch didn’t know what to expect, many still thinking I was a complete fuck up on the helm.

Following an order from the Captain, I grasped the wheel from Julie repeating the heading and took what seemed like an eternity to get the damned thing back on course before the attempt could even begin. We were off to a shaky start. The tension built even more. The wheel started to veer left quicker than I’d have liked, but with everyone waiting I called time to start the clock. Confidence was waning.

Within seconds of the clock starting, I felt the helm veering left and right jerkily and I immediately struggled to keep it within the limits required. A few massive swells sent the ship rocking. Suddenly I realised in my rush to stay focussed, I had misread the compass. I actually had twice the leeway of error as I initially thought. I breathed a sigh of relief. This wasn’t going to be so hard after all. As time ticked on, I held her steady, sometimes veering close to the edges, but bringing her back in comfortably every time. I couldn’t help but grin with excitement and towards the end, was already performing my own little victory dance before a warning from the Captain to tone down the commotion to avoid penalty points was heeded.

I made the full five minutes comfortably within the limitation gaining extra points for style and winning the event. As I jumped for joy in what seemed like the ending to a really cheesy movie, almost the entire ship congratulated me. The underdog had come through in style. I truly went from being a helming zero to a helming hero in five minutes flat. Phew. The oddity of the situation then struck me. After spending an entire day embarrassingly appeasing the rest of the ship for my horrific steering having terrorised and awoken everybody including the Captain, an opportunity then presents itself the next day for total redemption as I win a contest in front of all on board for best helmsman. Hilarious.

That night would potentially be our last night sea watch before Panama and the anticipated splitting and rotation of the watch groups. A couple of shipmates decided to mark the sad occasion by bringing up a set of glow sticks for some late night entertainment. Reassured that the liquid inside was non-toxic and would simply disappear as it faded, a few were split open and spread over our entire bodies leaving us with a Dalmatian like speckled glow. In the application process, more of the fluorescent spunk had actually ended up spattered over the ship leaving it with a mottled glow as if a fantastically amorous neon elephant had jumped aboard and mated with the installations. We quickly wiped away the remnants of the luminescent discharge from the ship in spite of their alluring incandescence. Dancing around on the quarter deck, we wished farewell to our final night watch in style under the stars. Tomorrow we would experience a new continent in Panama, and along with it, an incredible passage across the world’s most spectacular ship canal.

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