Log 21: The Longest Day

QUICK UPDATE!

First, sorry it’s been awhile! Lots of good things on the horizon, but we are getting back in the saddle. second, if you are new to the blog, these “logs” are more like chapters than traditional blog posts. they’re longer but expand into the gritty details giving you a true view into our lives. Third, the spanish in this post does not have correct accents, but you don’t need to know spanish to understand the story, so no worries. And finally, there’s going to be some big changes to the log coming soon. Would you be interested in youtube videos? let us know in the comments below, and we hope you enjoy the story! Thank you!

Entering a foreign country by boat comes with a basket full of differences compared to traveling by plane. We finally made it to Bocas del Toro, Panamá, and while we carry the sweet pride and fulfillment of making it here under our own sails, we know the bitter challenges of checking in still need to be taken care of.

We wake up and crawl out from Belafonte’s belly and into the cockpit. Our yellow quarantine flag, hoisted up the mast, lightly flutters in the wind. We sip on terrible instant coffee; reminding us that real coffee is at the top of our grocery list for restocking provisions. But as right now, we aren’t allowed to take one step on land until we’ve been boarded and cleared by Customs. It’s Saturday and offices are closed, so we fear it might not be until Monday when they can come out to us. We stare at the colorful town of Bastimentos, so close, we could swim to shore and back no problem. Like a piece of meat dangling in front of a hungry hound.

Brendan goes to work on the engine, (if you didn’t read the last log, it completely died on us during our arrival). Around 8 am, we call the marina on the VHF radio to see if we can get checked in today, with a light reminder about our engine troubles (an important detail because this makes things increasingly difficult). The gentleman informs us that he is unable to reach the Customs officer, but he will keep trying and call us back on channel 68 once he receives more information. Adding that, in the meantime, let them know if we can get the engine running because Customs requests vessels checking in to be in the South Anchorage. An anchorage that would be incredibly more difficult to sail into than the one we’re currently in. Man, I hope this works out.

I begin tidying up the boat. I turn on the stereo to see if any local music channels come in. Wow, there’s a bunch! I love scanning through local radio stations while traveling. It’s a line into the community and can give you a feel for the area. We often couldn’t pick up any radio channels sailing through the more remote island of the Exumas, so this felt like a treat.

“Ok… I think I fixed it!” Brendan shouts from the engine room. He hops in the cockpit to give it a whirl… I stand in the galley peering up at him, fingers crossed. “Bizzzzzz…” the starter battery hums for a few seconds until Brendan presses the start button… “Va-va-va-Roooom!” The engine starts! “You did it babe!” I yell smiling over the rumbling sound. Turns out, the electric lift pump died, which is the mechanism that pulls the fuel up to the engine from the tank. Luckily, Brendan purchased a spare just days before we left the United States. We update the marina that we are ready to move when needed.

A couple hours later, we hear back from the marina. “Ok, they are going to come to your boat today… come to the South Anchorage and they will get to you when they return from where they currently are,” the man says. “Roger,” Brendan responds, “We will head there now and wait.” Reality strikes me that we’re about to have multiple government officials aboard Belafonte who have full power to deny us clearance into the country. And although we don’t have a reason for that outcome, I get back to cleaning, frantically. Brendan cranks up the anchor by hand and we slowly putt over to the South Anchorage, located just south of Isla Colón (the main island/town in the Bocas del Toro archipelago).

Pangas are a type of motorboat that is the main mode transportation here. Bocas del Toro (or simply said, Bocas) is like a “Water World,” so having a car when you live in a collection of small islands is not nearly as useful as having a boat. If you don’t own a panga, then you take a water taxi, which are also pangas, but you hop on and pay a small fee as you would a normal taxicab. As we head closer to the main island of Colón, I feel like we’re on an unmarked highway. Pangas zip and zoom around everywhere! The buzz of their motors surrounds us as the front of their boats smack the water, bouncing and cutting around Belafonte. Some get uncomfortably close too. Now I feel like we’re in a game of chicken.

We arrive at the jam-packed anchorage and drop the hook. About a half hour later, a government panga with three Customs Officers arrive while Brendan tidies up the lines on deck. “Buenas dias,” I hear him say. I then hear a man’s voice rapidly speaking Spanish in return. “Uh, uno momento, mi esposa habla mas Espanol que yo…Chanell, Customs is here!” I hop up top while Brendan helps tie Custom’s beaten-up panga to Belafonte. “Hola, como estan?” I greet them. “Bien…” then I get slammed by the rapid-fire Spanish. Damn, I think to myself, c’mon Babble lessons, where you at?! I understand enough Spanish to get the gist of things and I can certainly get around on my own, but I am nowhere near fluent, and with my pulsating anxiety from the situation, I can’t make everything out. I hear him say something about the weekend, the last location they were at, paperwork, the boat, and other bits, but it’s not flowing in my mind. My brain freezes up.

I say, “Lo siento senor, mi espanol es tambien mal, pero yo se un poco. Puedo probar pero possiblamente habla mas despacio, por favor?” The officer looks at me directly for the first time since everyone hopped aboard. He cracks a smile and says, “Ok, no worry. I speak in ingles, but, maybe not great, ok?” I smile back, “No no..” I respond, “Tu ingles es mas major que mi Espanol! Pero si, en ingles mejor por yo y mi esposo. Muchas gracias!” Agreeing to his suggestion, all five of us sit down in the cockpit together, and let me tell you, it was a tight squeeze.

This is where our story cuts out a bit. It is well-known and common knowledge here that Panamá is filled with corruption, from scammers in the streets up to government offices. We were warned of this before we arrived, but we have now experienced it firsthand. Now, knowing this, we didn’t get it as bad as many others we’ve met, and in a way, we sort of got off easy. The Customs officers were polite and patient with us, but I have no intention of stirring up more trouble than it’s worth. So, without exploiting the details, I’ll say there were no receipts, and it was not the highlight of our day. At least we were grateful to have expected it. “Bienvenidos a Panamá,” one of the officers say as he signs our clearance paperwork.

The next step is to take our paperwork immediately to Immigration to get truly legal. However, Scout, our inflatable dinghy, was still out of commission. Customs still needed a copy of our passports and zarpe, so, the officials agree to swing back by our boat in 15 minutes to pick us up and take us to their office, where we can then walk to the Immigration Office at the Airport. They leave to check-in another sailboat, and we take a minute to breathe.

When they return to pick us up, we hop aboard their panga and motor across the busy waterway to a weathered house, eye shot from Belafonte. As we float up to a cracked cement wall, an old man sits in a wooden chair on a small porch, quietly rocking back-and-forth. Three little kids crouch over the cement wall looking down into the water. They giggle amongst themselves as I hop out of the panga near the old man. “Hola,” I say to the man. He looks up and nods back with a faint smile, “Buenas,” he says slowly.

Everything seems to have a certain slow sway about it. The old man rocking in the weathered wooden chair, a tall coconut palm’s fronds swaying in the breeze, the little kid’s shiny black hair swinging with their movements, the submerged cement wall hosting algae and small feathery tubeworms that twirl in the light wake, and even we – not having touched land in over a week – sway, ever so subtly.

One of the Customs officers starts speaking to the children still crouched down peering into the water. One of the little boys looks up to talk. He is holding a bent aluminum can with fishing line and a hook attached. I smile, “suerte?” I ask them. They grin and giggle shyly, “No… hehehe.” I not only smile at the cute kids fishing, but also at fond memories popping into my head. I remember doing the same thing when I was younger. You wrap the fishing line around the slightly bent can and hold it sideways, like a reel. They had an actual tiny J-hook attached to theirs, but I remember we would use the can’s tab, twisting and bending it to make our own hook. I never actually caught a fish like that, but I remember having fun with it, and these kids certainly were as well. They laugh and the Customs officer laughs back with them. As we walk past the cement wall and into the road, the officer turns to us smiling and says, “this is a good neighborhood.”

It never crossed my mind otherwise, but I can understand his position and feelings to reiterate it to us strangers. There’s trash and muddy pothole puddles in the street, metal bars barricading most windows, and graffiti on some of the worn-down buildings. However, everyone is smiling. A chicken with three hatchlings waddle past us. I smell a hot grill and hear the faint sound of cumbia music in the distance. We pass a food window where a thin man wearing a shiny hold chain is leaning, talking up a woman with long tied back black hair behind the counter. It’s easy to see they’re flirting by their coy glances and body language. They are still laughing when the man turns around to say hello to the Customs officer. They fist bump, and although they are speaking so fast I can barely understand, they certainly seem to be friends. Maybe even showing off their own local connections.

The Customs office isn’t a far walk. When we arrive, they unlock the door and upon entry, it is just as scorching hot and humid as it is outside. The mood shifted, it was time to get going. Fifteen minutes later we are ready to go, and they direct us up the road towards the airport. “Gracias, chau!” Now, time for the immigration process.

Not all of these photos were from our Check-In day. (You can probably tell by Brendan holding a fan in the top photo haha! I wish I would’ve taken more photos in the moment! However, here are a few from the following day that can give you a feel for the downtown area in Isla Colon. Massive Strangler Figs line the central park, and Oliver’s is the fruit and vegetable stand where we buy our produce.

It’s less than a mile up the main “downtown” road to the airport. Our stomachs grumble as we pass up the array of restaurants and rush to the airport. Customs warned us not to stop anywhere before seeing Immigration first. When we arrive, it takes us a minute to figure out where to go and who to talk to, but we find the small immigration office across from the drug dog’s crate and sit with a lady to finish our paperwork.

The AC wasn’t working in the tiny airport, so sweat beaded from everyone’s brow. The Immigration Officer was so kind, trying to teach us Spanish words during the process, and other than a slight delay because the Wi-Fi kept dropping, everything went as planned. It was truly a relief. We give many thanks and dash out of the hot airport. We are legal! Sort of… We still need to go to the Port Authority on Monday to apply for our Cruiser’s Permit – a whole separate paperwork process – but for now, we just have to make it through today!

Because of course, we still have work to do. Ugh. After a quick bite to eat, we catch a water taxi back to the boat. We still need to move Belafonte into the marina and refuel our water and diesel tanks. Since we must go there anyways, we decided to spend a few days docked at the marina to take advantage of the warm showers and facilities after the long passage. Once again we lift the anchor and scoot around the corner to Bocas Marina.

I do not enjoy entering marinas. I’m still learning, and admittedly, still get a little “stage fright” during this process, because all eyes are on you. Keep in mind, boats don’t have breaks, (going in reverse is the “brakes.”)  Usually, a dock hand will meet you at the slip to help catch a line, which is very helpful, but they’re also sometimes accompanied by fellow boaters or marina bar flies who may or may not be yelling at you what to do. We all know this person, the backseat drivers of the world. Thankfully Brendan’s a pro, and “parallel parked” Belafonte perfectly up to the fuel dock. (Later we would find out that the entire bar was watching us from their stools, betting on how we would land. When we met these folks later, we received a 10/10 score from the drunken judges. An oddly proud moment).

The sun fell and the moon rose. After a long hot shower, friendly conversations with our boat neighbors, and a big burger from the marina’s convenient bar and grill, we finally crawled back into the belly of the beast and made ourselves comfortable. We snuggled into bed, sighing with relief that this long day had finally came to a close.

~ Day 92