Panama and the Outer Islands

Cat, keeping an eye on the approaching squall,
off Ensenada de Rosario, western Panama.

IT WAS A PRODIGIOUS LEAP. Even for a tuna. In the flash of an eye a fat silver bullet began its ascent over Anna's starboard bow, powering up and over the lifelines, soaring through the gap in the standing rigging, midships, and continuing its flight, between the slot that separates the staysail and the mainsail, onto and abaft the port side lower shroud, and finishing off with a desperate thrust to clear the top lifeline, the final hurdle. It failed to stick the landing as it brushed the top of the stainless lifeline on the descent, but reentered the ocean unharmed after a valiant arc of some twenty-seven feet - according to our graph-paper plot of the trajectory. The judges scored it a 9.7 for style and for courage. We took off two-tenths of a point for not landing on the side deck and then bouncing into the frying pan - in the galley, below. And one-tenth of a point for not becoming the largest flying fish that we'd ever caught without the use of a hand line.

Bottlenose dolphin swims alongside Anna.

We had just begun our overnighter, beneath the charcoal-gray thunderstorm sky of the late afternoon, to round the great Peninsula de Azuero - the massive body of land that projects out fifty miles from the Isthmus of Panama to the Pacific Ocean, and another fifty miles from Punta Mariato in the western sector of the Republic of Panama, to Punta Mala, the entrance to the Gulf of Panama on the eastern side of the peninsula. And within just a few minutes of sighting that wild tuna, the sky opened up, and a torrential rainfall had begun. Not to be outdone by some cowboy tuna. The rolling thunder and bright, strobing flashes of high cloud-to-cloud lightning began in earnest. Building under towering, dark cumulonimbus anvils. 

Clouds are always spectacular in Panama.

And the crack of the whip brought up the rear. Ear-splitting crackles of electrical potential - the soundwave shock that announced, with no ambiguity, that the lightning strikes were close at hand...flash, count the seconds to the sonic boom, divide by five, and that's how close the source of the lightning, in fact, is. We saw the blinding flash, counted to eight, heard the deafening boom and crackle, and knew that we were a sitting duck, miles and miles from anywhere remotely safe, a target that was 1.6 miles from enemy lines. You can't hide. You can't fool nature. 

Anchorage at Punta Matadero, (northeast side) Isla del Rey, Las Perlas.

But nature can be forgiving, and as the moonless night wore on, the lightning became less intense. As did the squall line and associated downpours - clusters of scattered, speckled light, clearly visible on our radar screen. Stars broke through the black-hole darkness of the sky and sea. And thirty degrees above the horizon the harmless stroboscopic flashing continued in the lower cloud layers, but the upper atmosphere was clear, brilliant, comforting, and reassuring.

Anna was en route to Archipielago de Las Perlas, a cluster of islands in the center of the Gulf of Panama. This was the logical route to Panama City, Panama. Not the shortest or most direct, but certainly the most practical: it was out of the busy shipping lanes leading to and from the Panama Canal; it was in a more favorable wind and current direction; and the predicted thunderstorms would taper off as we slowly moved toward the north and east. 

Anna negotiates the busy shipping lanes on the
 initial approach to the Panama Canal, off Punta Mala.

Shipping traffic-50 cargo ships-at Panama Canal west entrance appear
 on Anna's navigation computer as green targets on an AIS overlay.

Of course, the clear, warm waters and sandy seascape and protected anchorages scattered throughout the island chain would provide abundant opportunities for comfortable nights at anchor. And after some rolly nights in the open anchorages that we'd recently encountered, the prospect of a few tranquil nights was hard to pass up.

Prior to arriving at Rio Cacique, on the extreme south end of Isla del Rey, in Las Perlas, we took the time to explore the islands and estuaries of Western Panama. We had no expectations for this area of Central America. And so we were happily surprised when we arrived there and found the local people to be exceptionally friendly and helpful. And the landscape to be extraordinarily beautiful - lush, verdant mountain-jungles, and clean, crystal-clear waters in the outlying palm-fringed, sandy-beach islands. 

Anna, anchored at Bahia Cacique, Isla del Rey, Panama.

Endless deserted coastline in the offshore islands, western Panama.

A pristine, strikingly uninhabited stretch of tropical coast with a multitude of islands and islets where the only sounds we typically hear throughout the day, and most especially at dusk and dawn, are the wild calls of dominant howler monkeys and countless exotic birds alike. 

Birdlife at Bahia Cacique, Isla del Rey.

Reptiles roam Panama's island jungles.

Insect life off the jungle.

White egrets return for the night,at Ensenada de Rosario anchorage.
The surrounding trees are similarly, white-blossomed and hard
 to distinguish, at a distance, from egrets sitting in the branches.

And still, we encounter no other cruising vessels, only the occasional local fishing panga. We don't know if we are simply arriving at the places we come to in the off, off season (something we tend to do), or if there are simply fewer and fewer voyaging boats out there - in the world - these past couple of years, but whatever the reason, it suits us. 

We are currently in the transition month of May, in the Gulf of Panama, as far as weather is concerned. In this part of the world, there are two seasons. Dry, and wet. And within the wet season, apparently, there is pretty wet, and unbelievably pretty wet. And at night, there is almost always lightning. It's mostly of the diffused, cloud-to-cloud, or within a cloud type lightning. Eighty per cent of the time this is the type of lightning that occurs. Twenty per cent of the time the effects are more dramatic. Scary dramatic. For us, this occurs when lightning strikes, fork down to the sea. 

Afternoon downpour, Boca Chica, western Panama.

Usually, when this happens, a negative electrical charge, emanating from a massive, vertically lifted cloud base (when there is little resistance in the atmosphere that can restrict the flow of ions) makes contact with a positively-charged ground source - on land or at sea. If the conditions are right, these two forces - the negative charge in the cloud, and the positive charge on the ground, or at sea, meet, and when that happens, a massive build up of super-heated electrical energy is transferred from the cloud to the ground, and back up again to the cloud. That is, a bolt of lightning, which emanates from the cloud, connects with the grounding source (a metal tower, or tree, or mast on a boat, or extremely unlucky person) and makes the round trip at the speed of light. Since the speed of sound is slower than the speed of light, a sonic boom or crackle or sizzle will occur after the strike. Occasionally, the sound wave will be refracted off the cloud and into the atmosphere and will not be heard on the ground. This, in our experience, tends to happen when the lightning is of the cloud-to-cloud type. But not always. Lightning is enigmatic; an unpredictable black box of terror.

Sand flats, Bahia Damas, Isla Coiba.

The Gulf of Panama is lightning central at this time of year. By October, it reaches epic, dangerous proportions. And this is one reason - we think, a rather compelling reason to continue further south, toward the Equator. On Ecuador's west coast, lightning strikes and tropical storms and hurricanes are virtually unheard of during the wet season. 

Jungle, beach, and developing cumulus, Isla Coiba.

After having spent a couple of months exploring the outer islands and extensive coastline of Panama's remarkable waters, we look forward to visiting the Pacific west coasts of southeastern Panama, the northern half of Columbia's coastal waters, and Ecuador, where we hope to stay for a while. We look forward to a little traveling, over land, to some of South America's remote mountains and high desert. Possibly as far as Patagonia. Ecuador's protected Bahia de Caraguez, would make a safe South American base for Anna. 

Dolphin playing in Anna's bow wake.

But first we've decided to take on the job of trying to repair the worn rear seals on our venerable Perkins 4-108 diesel engine, which has been serving us very well, but leaking too much oil lately. We hope to pull the engine while moored off Panama City, replace the worn seals and gaskets and bearings, and then put it all back together again with the help of a very experienced diesel mechanic we recently met with, in Panama. We just ordered the factory-original parts for the Perkins engine from England, and hope to start the project next week.

Thunder clouds develop during the day and release
 their energy as lightning, throughout the night.

From our anchorage, at Las Brisas, Panama City, the skyline
 is colorful and modern and set against the dozens of workboats
 and cargo ships that transit the Canal...the spiral
skyscraper is called the F&F tower.

The Panama City skyline at night, from Las Brisas anchorage.

The rainy season has now begun, in Panama. And the winds and currents are now running counter to making progress toward Columbia and Ecuador. And as much as we don't want to be here for the serious lightning storms and torrential rains of late summer and fall, we are committed to taking care of the engine work. Our Perkins 4-108 diesel has treated us very well, and we must return the favor. Besides, in a few months, possibly as late as December, when the dry season has returned once again,  the weather will be more favorable for progress to South America. 

Under the protection of Anna's hard dodger.

By the numbers, on this voyage - since departing Seattle in August of 2011 - Anna has logged 6,179 nautical miles. Our moving average is 4.4 knots, and top speed - recorded recently, at the entrance channel to Boca Grande, Western Panama, was 15.0 knots, while surfing down 15-foot swells over a shallow, 17-feet of water below the keel. Top sustained wind speed, recorded at Bahia de Salinas, Costa Rica, was 50 knots, with higher gusting, and this lasted for ten days straight, while we were anchored out. Until we arrived in Panama, twenty-two months after departing Seattle, we saw approximately one inch of rainfall. Dry. 

Punta Matadero reef, 100 feet off of Anna's anchoarage.

In Panama we routinely see one-half inch of rain/per day, when it rains, and this isn't even the heavy rain month. As a matter of fact, we have stopped using our watermaker (desalinator) and rely on catching rainwater for our freshwater drinking and washing supply. 

Rain is imminent at verdant, Isla Coiba.

Raining buckets (literally). We catch rain for drinking water.

Anna's rain-catching system: rain gutter catches
 water and sends it to jerry can below.

Anna takes in 20 gallons/hr in a heavy rain with only
 two 5-gallon containers collecting drinking water, in the cockpit.

We catch about 20 gallons/per hour in a heavy downpour with only two rain gutters attached to our awning, which covers the cockpit area. A water hose runs from the gutter to two, five-gallon containers, which we then empty into a 100-gallon stainless water tank, amidships.

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The seascape and landscape of Panama, and the outer islands...

Isla Coiba: protected and unspoilt Bahia Damas.

A beach stroll on Isla Coiba's (western Panama) east side.

Unpopulated, palm-fringed islands abound,
 in both western and eastern Panama.

Rio de Ponuga, tributary, in a remote anchorage
 off Bahia de Montijo, western Panama.

Hut, alongside Bahia de Montijo's Rio San Pedro,
on the way to resupply at Puerto Mutis, western Panama.

Las Perlas Archipelago, Gulf of Panama:
  Anna rounds southeast side reefs, Isla del Rey.

Rio Cacique anchorage, Las Perlas; squall approaches.

Anna's anchorage at Ensenada de Rosario,
Isla Medidor, off western Panama  mainland.

Developing skies off Punta Mala, approaching Gulf of Panama.

Looking out toward Islas Secas at dusk, from Isla Cavada's north end.

Standing waves off reef at Isla Cavada's west side..

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Squalls regularly deliver lots of rain in Panama.
Cat, enjoying the clouds and relief from the hot, hot sun.

In our desolate anchorage, at Rio Cacique, southern Isla del Rey, five local fishermen dropped by in their panga. They live in Esmeralda, a small fishing village four miles away, to the southwest. They brought us a stalk of bananas, three giant avocados, and a stalk of sugar cane. One of the men cut and pared the cane in the panga, with a machete. The oldest fisherman had two teeth left, one on the bottom, left side and one on the top, right side. A rather useless mismatch. He was the one who handed us the sugar cane. His two-tooth smile was wide and bright and contagious. And he was as sweet as the cane.

Bartering for bananas, mangos and avocadoes, with the
 islanders, is a great way to  make friends in remote places.


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