Drunk and Dirty Passage

"Is that container ship bearing down on us? Holy God! She’s less than fifty feet away and closing! This can not be happening in the Panama-freakin' canal, can it? If that monster so much as touches us, we’re done. Captain, don’t just lay there--tell us what to do!".

It seemed like the improbable nightmare, and Nelson knew he needed to do something to save his precious "Renaissance", a mature Swedish-built sailboat, but what would make this frightening scenario better in the next five seconds, not worse? It seemed equally improbable that he had just entered this dream seemingly gone very awry less than sixty short minutes ago...

Imagine waiting for six steamy days, sweating in an inky anchoring field swatting mosquitoes and other airborne mystery pests, along with hundreds of other boats – itinerant sailboats, freighters of dubious provenance and countless private motor yachts ranging from crewed glossy to half-floundering shabby - waiting to enter the "Atlantic" side of the Panama Canal.

Tepid waters here reeked from several inches of greasy floating bunker oil and other dubious artifacts of countless freighters’ ballast water pumped overboard. The stuff that pools in this anchorage would surely send a toxicologist into a fit apoplectic horror.

Nelson had heard the stories. Some of the more notorious skippers would furtively evacuate hundreds or thousands of gallons of bile from the bowels of their foul ships during the darkest of night – that time equidistant between sunset and sunrise known as "la hora en la que incluso el diablo duerme" ("the hour during which even the devil sleeps"). Prying eyes would be dead asleep then. By sunrise, it would be impossible to ascertain the source. The wind and waves would have become unwilling allies.

So Nelson hired the mandatory Panamanian captain and two handlers. He was told that four total would be required, but since he and Margorie were both able-bodied, they only needed two more. They had dinghied ashore to the colorful port captain’s office to make these arrangements, paid their fees to a grumpy forty-something administrator named Rosa, and promptly motored back to "Renaissance" to wait for notification that they could proceed.

Finally, after nearly a week of wincing at the VHF marine radio almost constantly squawking at hundreds of vessels a day, Nelson finally heard the all-important call to proceed to the port captain’s dock to pick up his captain and crew. On their arrival, three tired-looking locals stood in a half-slump on the pier. The shortest appeared to be Captain Rudolfo. That’s what the papers said his name would be. He was, shall we say, rather under the weather, in rare form, and all that. He actually experienced no small difficulty boarding, even with the help of Perez and Oruzco, all the while declaring no help was necessary, and even unwelcomed. Apparently, they were also accustomed to handling their captain.

"Are you… OK?", Nelson reluctantly asked Captain Rudy at Margorie’s let-there-be-no-doubt urging.

"Si, si.", came the impatient but understanding reply. These gringos are such Boy Scouts, as the Americanos are so fond of saying. A quote from some Hollywood movie, he was sure. He liked Hollywood movies – the best in the world.

"OK, Captain, the ship is yours" came the reticent reply from Nelson, the owner, certainly not from the owner’s wife, who continued to harbor serious doubt at this local captain’s true proficiency. She went below to tend to her ravioli on the alcohol stove. In seconds, they were underway uneventfully, en route to the first lock in the canal.

Perez and Oruzco seemed capable enough as they moved around the deck like they were now truly in their element. Nelson would find himself grateful to have not only the extra hands, but the reassurance born of experience that all is "Está bien!" during what seemed like at least one bizarre event that would occur during the ensuing hours. Their reassurances were particularly comforting when it was necessary for "Renaissance" to raft alongside three other boats inside the first lock named "Gatun".

Captain Rudy observed the goings on from his mostly horizontal repose in the cockpit, silently exhibiting his best know-it-all and I-really-am-mostly-sober demeanor. Not having spoken a single word since boarding, he appeared to continue that trend during this particular event, and as it turned out, for the rest of the all night passage. So be it.

As the thousand foot long Gatun lock began to surge with the onslought of fifty-two million gallons of water, gravity fed from the nearby lake, it filled the lock in something just shy of eight minutes via culverts through which you could effortlessly drive a locomotive. It seemed inevitable that their tiny craft, even tied ever so securely, although immediately behind a huge container ship, were in dire peril. There they were… in a blender, set for puree.

As all the vessels surged to and fro at slightly different rates, their spider webs of mooring lines creaked and sputtered in protest. Had it not been for the assurances of their experienced handlers (of boat and captain, and of owners, it seemed!), Nelson most certainly would have panicked, and perhaps done something stupid, even dangerous. Margorie was panicking wildly, almost uncontrollably, but she was admirably keeping it to herself. Nobody knew except her.

Down below, tending to her late supper, Margorie knew that they were most certainly now being sunk by a giant sucking whirlpool. She only prayed that she’d be able to complete her prayers before her last living breath. The hapless ravioli in a primavera sauce continue to burn black while she stared blankly. Nelson would not learn of her inner panic until much later, when they were alone again. That was not to be a pleasant revelation for him, she vowed then and there.

With only two more turbulent locks at Pedro Miguel and Miraflores, and after only about ten hours of total elapsed time in the grasp of the canal, "Renaissance" popped out at the Pacific end at Panama City, just under fifty miles from where she had entered.

After uneventfully dropping off their captain and crew at their bus in Panama City waiting to ferry them back so they could do it all over again (they never did hear Captain Rudy utter a single syllable), Nelson wearily navigated his way clear of the the canal while Margorie caught a brief morning de-stressing catnap.

Nelson sought out a suitable anchorage nearby to make what would be a vain attempt to scrub the grimy hull sides clean again. The canal crud had creeped up to more than a foot above the waterline. After the Danforth anchor was firmly down, out came the stiff scrub brush head attached to his extendable boat hook handle. Leaning over the side long enough to force way too much blood to his brain, Nelson finally gave up just short of his next severe headache. Lots of effort, no joy. This tenacious brew would not let go. What was that stuff?

So after a relaxing afternoon and evening swinging at anchor, and a night of sleep to recalibrate their body clocks after having been underway and under stress the entire previous night, they made their way north up the coast to a marina in Puerta Vallarta.

Once there, again at Margorie’s urging, of course, Nelson felt compelled to have the boat pulled out of the water to clean the hull. Even then, it was a daunting task, but like so many jobs aboard ship, you do what needs doing, no matter how dirty or how difficult. After all, after safety comes cleanliness, especially after a dirty passage with a drunken captain!