We'll Call It Luck

So, shortly after finishing my post last night, I went down and had a few 50 cent beers in the bar below my hostel and made chit chat with some folks about my new set of travel plans. As it happened these two girls were also looking to head over to the Caribbean side in the morning, and to travel on to Colombia by sailboat. The difference is that they'd booked tickets on the old relic steam-engine that runs between Panama City and Colon, and would be sailing out on a foreign yacht, with one of the pre-paid package deals I mentioned before. I mentioned that I thought they were a touch expensive, and they agreed, but claimed that they were willing to pay for the peace of mind of not having to worry about safety, food, etc.

I also mentioned that I was hoping to sail on a foreign yacht as well, but as crew rather than as a passenger. They said that sounded interesting, and how is that going? Well, not so good, I said, and explained how I'd made the rounds a few days ago to ask around at yacht clubs and put up signs, and how I'd met the Swedes who'd been looking for weeks with no luck, and how I'd read in all the guidebooks how this kind of thing could be dangerous, and that your better off just taking a damn seat on a tourist yacht or flying over. They smiled at all that, and shook their heads and wished me good luck. I was beginning to realize I might need it more than I thought.

Anyway, it was the birthday of one of the owners of the hostel and things were getting pretty rowdy in the bar as the night wore on, and eventually I went back upstairs to sit and read a book of short stories by Hemingway I've been chewing on recently. It's excellent reading but maybe not the best stuff for someone planning a makeshift trip through an area of the world as dangerous as this. Anyone who's read him, especially any of his work influenced by his own adventurous life, will likely know what I mean. He gives you the hard facts, the robberies, attacks, injuries, deaths, and all the rest without candy-coating. And so, as I sat there, leafing through The Snows Of Kilimanjaro, a vivid account of one man's last thoughts, as he lay dying of gangrene on a cot in the African savanah, my own mind set to wandering a little.

Was I some kind of fool to be marching into this nasty part of the world in search of ocean passage? As the potential dangers awaiting me flitted about through my imagination, I walked into the book exchange area across from the kitchen and again picked up the recent edition of Lonely Planet Central America:

Colón has some upscale residential areas, but most of the city is a sad slum widely known for street crime. If you walk around, even in the middle of the day, well-meaning residents will inform you that you are in danger. Parts of the Darién Province, which borders Colombia, are extremely dangerous. Not only is it easy to get hopelessly lost, but parts of the province are used by guerillas from Colombia, the paramilitary chasing the guerillas, and narcotraffickers. Particularly treacherous is the area between Boca de Cupe and Colombia, which is the traditional path through the Darién Gap. Plying the waters of the Archipiélago de San Blás are numerous Colombian boats that run back and forth between the Zona Libre in Colón and Cartagena, Colombia. It has been well documented that some of these boats carry cocaine on their northbound voyages. If you decide to ride on one of these slow cargo boats, be forewarned that your crew may be trafficking drugs.

I put the book down and wandered out to the balcony to sit in the hopefully cool, but actually balmy night air. OK, so there are risks. I knew there would be. But but I still didn't want to give in and settle for some swanky tourist pleasure cruise with pit-stops to gawk at tribal islanders and fillet mignon every night (actually). I'll have my look around Colon in the morning, I thought, and if things are really as bad as they say, I guess I'll smarten up and fly. No sense tempting fate. I grabbed a glass of water and went to bed.

This morning I woke early, packed up my hammock, raincoat, and freshly-laundered clothes, and headed downstairs. There was no one around. I halved a grapefruit, poured a cup of coffee and made myself a peanut butter and jam sandwich. When I'd finished, I gave in my key at the front desk, and was on my way out the door when I realized I'd better make use of the free internet to check my email one last time. To my great surprise, I had one new message which read as follows:

joseph, looking for crew from balboa yacht club to salinas ecuador. anticipate leaving sunday 23 may. i am on yacht (TLC) tom corogin. if i am not in the yacht club restaurant take the panga to tlc.

I was dumbstruck. Here the Swedes had been moving through the yacht community for weeks actively looking for rides down South, and I walk into town and throw up a sign and get a hit two days later. I left my already packed luggage at reception and headed for the bus station. No more than twenty minutes later I was aboard the little yacht club panga headed over to a beautiful 30-foot sailboat emblazoned with the letters T.L.C.

I called out to Tom from the panga but no answer. Boat people are usually up early - it was only 8 o'clock or so by this time, but maybe he was napping, I thought. I decided to board and see. As I made my way on, a little grey-haired noggin emerged from the cabin and looked over at me through cool blue eyes and said, You must be Joseph. I told him I was, and apologized for boarding uninvited. It's alright, he said, I was just on the toilet. He smiled, extending a wiry sun-browned hand in my direction which I shook with a laugh.

We sat and talked for a time, and I came to learn a bit more about Tom, an older fellow from Ohio, and quite pleasant, presently in the midst of a lenghty sail trip round the world. It's been four years so far, but he's nearly through now, just making his way down to Cape Horn, the very last point of land as you round the southern tip of Chile. He's been mostly soloing so far, but had a bit of a fall recently and injured his knee. The doctor told him not to strain it for a week, but as he's got a friend to meet in Ecuador, he can't afford to wait until he fully heals up to set out. How soon could I leave, he asked. By this time I had pretty well sized up Tom and his boat well enough to know that I would be comfortable sailing with them - clean, orderly, good vibes all around - and I told him my bags were packed and ready to go as soon as need be.

I'd be a little diasppointed to sail right past Colombia, I said, but I couldn't exactly pass on a ride down to Ecuador. I'll provide everything, he said, referring to food, towels, bedding, and the like, but I can only pay you a little. I told him that sounded just fine to me, and we made plans to rendezvous later today.

So just like that, everything has changed. One moment you're on your way to scraggle along the Caribbean coast, next moment you're gearing up for a 5-day sail through the Pacific. Crazy place, Panama.

Anyway, as I won't be able to write again for a while, I thought I'd better make use of the remainder of this morning to write this post explaining things, and hopefully soothing any worried minds out there. I, for one, feel much better about this course of events than my prior "plan" of skirting the coast on the Carribean.

With any luck, I'll be able to drop a line later this month when I set foot on solid ground again.

Talk to you soon!