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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