On the water

Stephen called, he was ready to take the behemoth out again. Why not? I gathered my gear and headed down to his house. The boat was truly banana republic worthy. The massive outboard had strained the transom so a plank had been mounted, some holes drilled, random twistings of ropes in Stephen's inimitable knot tying style. In the two years I've known Stephen he has never abused a rope in the same way twice. Up, around the pilot house, back down the other side, a come along holding the stern on. Yup, this is an adventure in the making. Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.

We headed out, half way to Almirante and he realized that he had left his boat box with cell phone and camera on the dock so we headed back with the stern still affixed.

A little hanging around and a guy named Julian was soliciting people for a trip to Portobello for $60. From there, across the country the first quarter of the trip is on a chicken bus, then an express bus. If all goes well one would be in Panama City in three or four hours. Later he told me he had an overnight trip to Bastimentos. Hell, $20 tour, food and a night's sleep on the water, why not?

I walked him to the other end of town, he was exhausted by the time we got there, not much more than a kilometer. I guess years on a sailboat is not the path to cardiovascular fitness. There was no fresh fish available but I secured four pounds of some unidentified white fish. Julian showed me his dinghy. My bathtub at the last house I owned was literally over twice the size of this craft. Ayaaah, a bag full of electronics on a rubber balloon with an outboard. A two mill trash bag served to provide a small measure of protection from very minor mishaps. Two hundred meters later we boarded his 50' sailing boat. Aboard was a guy in his mid twenties from Denver, a fiftyish economist from Central London, a British waif who hangs at the hostel and our British captain. All aboard were advanced divers or better.

We set sail to Bastimentos. Julian was intent to travel to Wizard beach, I suggested that Red Frog is much nicer. Despite all his charts and electronics he had no idea where it was. From about two miles away I pointed out the marina getting a little closer I indicated the cut in the Mangroves to get to the dock. Then I described the walk over the island. By this time it was after five. "We can't do this today, the last water taxis depart around six and you have a meter and half of draft, can't take this boat and that dinghy is, well, not up to the task."

So we sat and watched the sunset, shot the shit, cooked dinner (thank god we had the fish or dinner would have been nothing but a small salad and a couple of boiled eggs). Nick, the Coloradan retired to read a book about Mumbai, recalling his visit there last year. We spend a lot of time talking about craziness in our respective travels to Asia and then Julian put on "The Proposal" which had the most obvious plot line ever thrust upon the public.

When it was time to retire, Julian indicated that the pilot house was his turf and requested that I move into a berth in the galley. The beds were six feet long and narrower than the width of my shoulders. I grabbed a few cushions and assumed a spot on the foredeck. A clear starry night, a slight breeze, all was good until it started to drizzle.

I moved into the cabin, but slept fitfully. In the morning, Melissa needed to head out. I gave Julian directions and he took his dinghy over to the docks at Red Frog and retained a water taxi, one of Chuck's from JanPan. Twelve minutes later I was back in town. "Where is Walter?" "He is at Red Frog." Of course.

So now I sit here and watch the "sober captain" slap around his notebook, which is giving him trouble for some reason. "Can you fix it for me?" Sure, let me go home and jam an ice pick in my eye.