Skeptical Devils

Off lush, calm, Isla Canas's inside northwest corner, a heavy
 downpour cools things down, and provides Anna with
 clean drinking water to keep the tanks topped off.

A SOLITARY SPIKE OF ELECTRICAL POTENTIAL pierced the sweeping green-gray sea - one click off Anna's starboard beam - the air sizzled and crackled for a full, unnerving, five seconds, the amount of time that pure, light energy commanded our full attention. The black thunderous sky to the immediate south scintillated, before blinding us with a powerful series of stroboscopic, white flashes. The tremendous aftershock of rolling thunder rattled Anna's rigging. We thought the accompanying compression wave of sheer terror would shatter our tough, tempered-glass portlights, in addition to our frazzled nerves until our attention was diverted by the heavy downpour to follow: a driving torrent, which flattened the crests of the wind waves; only the large southwest swells remained as the squall quickly ratcheted-up the light, following westerly breeze. And as the squall raced, counterclockwise out of the south-southeast, just ahead of Anna's starboard bow, the breeze backed and altered Anna's point of sail - from a deep broad reach to a tight close haul, in a mere matter of seconds. Windy conditions now prevailed and blew Anna along at up to 7.5 knots on her small, versatile, yankee headsail. In the heavier gusts Anna heeled over at up to thirty degrees; it lengthened her waterline and by doing so, effectively increased her speed through the water. And as the swells approached Anna's double-ended canoe stern, they lifted her up and then slid her down the trailing edge of the slope, providing a momentary, surging yaw of additional speed. The thunderstorm persisted for the better part of an hour as the truculent angle of the forceful downpour stung our faces and rolled off our Grundens slickers like small beads of hail in an ice storm.  

Rounding Isla San Telmo's rugged southwest corner, the breakers
are awash. The semi-submerged rocks, which are easiest to see and,
more important, avoid, are clearly visible at extreme low tide -
in this case, a minus two-foot tide. The diurnal tidal range
 in the Perlas archipelago is approximately 17 feet.

We were making our final approach to the south end of Isla del Rey, in the Perlas archipelago. To be more exact, we were closing on the rugged southern coast and headland of Punta Cocos, two nautical miles off, with a reef and a couple of partially submerged rocks to negotiate in poor visibility. And we were ripping along, trying to head up into the wind as high as possible to clear Punta Cocos. With the wind and seas whipped up, and a strong opposing current serving to further confuse the reflected waves off the point and, slow us down on our final approach, it would be a close shave. We prefer not to use the diesel engine in rough seas, and so we would either clear the headland and enter the protected waters in the lee of Punta Cocos or we would have to fall off - change course and head away from the dangers of the coastline - until the squall had blown itself out of Anna's little world. To complicate matters further, the intensity of the squall had generated a condition which might be described as a complete white-out - a so called white squall; neither the coastline nor Punta Cocos, which we were now closing on at one nautical mile, off the port bow, were visible any longer, except on our electronic charts...which revealed that shit creek wasn't far away. But as rapidly as an intense squall can come upon you it can also abruptly abate, leave you in its nasty wake, and restore visibility once again. And that is exactly what happened on our wild ride to Punta Cocos, as we safely rounded the headland and gateway to our next rolly anchorage, at Rio Cacique. Anna was closing the counterclockwise loop of the Perlas archipelago - in the midst of Panama's volatile rainy season.

The east side of Isla San Telmo takes the wrap-around southwest swell and
 transforms it into boomers, which send their spray high and wide. The
 southwest swell is larger during the rainy season (May to December).

Although the rainy season has its drawbacks - heavier swell, and unpredictable lightning storms being the worst of all - the advantages of the off season often offset the disadvantages. In the same way that travelling during the off season over land can be rewarding, so to is it rewarding by sea. During Panama's rainy season (May to December) the outer islands are all but deserted. With few exceptions, only the small, native population of islanders living in isolated fishing and farming villages are out and about. It's not unusual to be anchored out a few miles away from one of the small outposts and enjoy a friendly visit when one of the fishermen ventures out in his dugout canoe, across the chop and swells.

Waves are stirred up off the rocky point,  revealing
 their turquoise characteristic in the turmoil.

Regutiano, is one such example. He is a lithe, one-eyed, industrious fisherman. A villager we met on our prior visit to the small fishing community of Esmeralda, on the extreme southern end of Isla del Rey. He is a determined and fast paddler in his crude, ultra-narrow, self-styled six-foot dugout. Regutiano paddled out to see us shortly after we had arrived and anchored off Rio Cacique, a few miles across the southwest swells and chop from his sandy village. We could see that he was grinning from ear to ear as he paddled closer and closer to Anna. We had met him on our previous landing at Rio Cacique and very much enjoyed his upbeat, can-do disposition. This time he brought with him, in his tiny canoe which he had carved out of a section of tree trunk, a stalk of bananas, a basket of mangoes, and a bag of limes. We asked him if his village had any eggs and beer and bread and vegetables and fish that we could buy or trade for. He told us that he would return and let us know. Regutiano paddled back the few miles across the swells and then came back the next day with twenty bottles of Sobriana beer (our favorite Panamanian brew), a few slices of processed cheddar-cheese singles, a jama - a large root vegetable that tastes similar to a potato - and, a whole rockfish, which he kindly paddled over to the nearby beach to scale and fillet for us. There were no eggs or bread to be had. Apparently the bakers took their chickens on holiday for a while. We invited Regutiano aboard for some lemonade and talked for a while about the sea and about the weather. And he gave us his weather forecast for the next few days. And when we asked him how he came to his conclusions, that is, how he was certain that the seas would grow and the wind would increase, and how the weather would become stormy within three days time and then persist for three days, after which it would settle down once again for the following four days - and he was very precise about all this - he simply grew a wide smile and his left (only) eye twinkled...and he thought hard about what we asked him and then tapped his long brown finger on the side of his graying temple and said, intuitivo! Two days after we saw Regutiano we had an unusually strong lightning storm pass close by. It rained so hard that night that we collected thirty gallons of rainwater in less than an hour. 

Deserted, low, white, sandy beaches and black-rock reefs are scattered
throughout the archipelago. They are easiest to identify on a low tide.

Our computer weather models for the Gulf of Panama have yet to sort out with any accuracy or reliability where and when a severe weather event will occur. It's remarkable to think that a Cray super-computer could possibly ever be out of its depth, but when it comes to number crunching complex meteorological data, you'd have an equal chance of predicting where lightning will strike as you would the outcome of a game of Russian roulette. Real-time water-vapor and Doppler radar imagery will pinpoint the hot spots as they are developing - that's easy. The problem comes when weather systems don't track as predicted by sophisticated super-computer models; even short-term forecast models. So we tend to take the local weather forecasts with a grain of salt. The fact is, this time of year we simply expect some rain, a tad of sun, thunder, and terrorist lightning strikes, in abundance, sprinkled with an occasional squall and white out to spice things up a bit when we least expect it. And let's not forget the localized sea-state, which tends to heap up without respect for the official forecast, and may be said to be indifferent to our personal level of comfort while we swing on the hook, sideways to the swell. We here on Anna wouldn't be completely surprised to see snow in July, within the text of the Ocean Prediction Center's technical 'tropical' forecast discussion...but then again, I guess we're just a couple of skeptical devils.

Another advantage of the wet, off season is that the rains cool down the environment, and the extensive cloud cover shades us from the direct, blistering rays of the sun, while allowing us to collect fresh water from the downpours; it's much more effective than using a watermaker. We can wash clothes and gear and fill the water tanks, and watch the deck and topsides rinse themselves clean of saltwater. In addition, the strong northerly winds of the dry season are not present at this time of year, so gentler breezes prevail for the most part - with the exception of the sporadic squalls out of the southern sector. And of course the heavy rain and squalls and lightning keep the tourists at bay; the pristine anchorages and beaches and verdant island landscapes are pretty much deserted. All in all, the off season is our preference.

In our current anchorage, off the west side of Isla Canas, the waters are calm, enclosed and protected by surrounding shoals and an adjacent island across the narrow channel. Once again, there is no one here. A small waterfall, just off our bow, sends freshwater over the rocks at the head of the beach and generates an ambient background sound. We rowed over there yesterday and filled a bucket with fresh water. Between rainwater and flowing freshwater creeks, one of the necessities of life is easy to come by. Since it's rather quiet here, the sounds we hear are distinct. And they range from the bass sounds of rolling thunder to the squawks of high-flying parrots flapping their way furiously from tree top to tree top. There are also exotic, melodic bird calls that we haven't been able to identify yet. We can hear them, but they are well hidden in the lush surroundings. There is also a bird that sounds like a donkey. Once again, we haven't seen it yet but enjoy hearing its crude call, in the mix of other bird songs. The insects generate a building, ringing noise that abruptly stops at its peak and then repeats itself once again a few seconds later. Schools of fish will suddenly begin a rapid flapping at the surface of the water, darting in quick bursts from one rippled location to the next. The sound they make is similar to the sound of a heavy downpour. 

One thing we don't hear here, in eastern Panama, are the primitive sounds of howler monkeys. This is something we heard a lot of in the remote areas of western Panama. It is a sound we miss hearing. It is a sound that is more common in the primitive, tribal ecosystem of Darien, a body of rivers and jungle thirty-five nautical miles to the east of the Perlas archipelago. We understand that Darien has similarities to the Amazon (on a smaller scale). Regutiano told us that there are many boa snakes and a profusion of howler monkeys. His one, big eye lit up as he advised us that he saw a tiger eating a sea turtle on one of beaches there. To his relief, one of the things he likes about living in Islas Las Perlas is that there are no tigers to compete with when he makes his beach landings in the small dugout canoe. We hope to visit Darien at some point in the next few months. Maybe toward the tail end of the rainy season, when the fast river currents tend to slow down.

Other than the usual 'fixing' of things that seemingly never end on a boat, bobbing around at the intersection of no and where, we have discovered that one FM radio station, with a strong signal, broadcasting from somewhere in the Republic of Panama, puts out some interesting stuff over the airwaves. And this is very different than almost anywhere we've been for the past couple of years, where the last thing we wanted to listen to was intolerable commercial radio programming. This particular station broadcasts what they describe as Panamanian musica typica. And we've never heard anything quite like it before. There are various styles of musica typica, most of which are rhythmic, with either a hint of Caribbean or Afro-Cuban influence. There are variations on what sounds like yodeling, chanting, and even primal throat singing. Some of the music is trance-like - that is, a hypnotic, self-repeating drone of sorts. But of all the styles, the one which is perhaps most intriguing is where they inject into the rhythms and songs and chants what could only be described as a series of human howls or barks; something resembling a primal, rapid fire: 'aye aye aye aye aye aye aye..ow ow..aye aye..aye'...followed by additional yips or grunts. And while this bizarre cacophony is going on, in a seemingly endless loop, the DJ interjects an assortment of Latino laugh tracks. The laugh tracks, we suspect, provide a familiar background of loud, upbeat, light-heartedness, typical of much of Latin American culture. There's a lot of loud laughing, whistling and other playful sounds that are prevalent in daily life here; even in the traffic snarls of Panama City. As for the primal barking and howling, well...one trip to a jungle-island anchorage, where howler monkeys work themselves into a frenzy, would go a long way toward explaining how that might have been an influence in the music. A music that we strangely enough find compelling, compelling enough to want to go out of our way to hear more of - hopefully, live, one of the days. 

During the summer months (the wet season), humpback whales end their long
migration from Patagonia, Chile, at the Perlas archipelago. This is their
breeding grounds and they remain here until returning, once again,
to Chile, in the fall. We've spotted a lot of whales activity lately,
 including some serious tail slapping, Their slow-motion
 dives are always a remarkable site and treat for us.


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