The discomforts provided by the inclement weather not withstanding, we were making good time toward Colon. Each hour we could tick off more miles. By Sunday evening we were out in the middle of the southern Caribbean, between Providencia and San Andreas Islands and Panama itself. "Just another day and a half," we reassured each other. We're going to make it.
Days 60 - 61: Drying Out
Monday the 30th of May was a glad day. The sun reappeared, disintegrating the clouds while it stripped the air of some of its burgeoning humidity. We peeled layers of sticky, salt encrusted clothing from our bodies. The fair wind dried our skins and our boat, leaving a white film over everything the sea had touched. Which amounted to almost everything on board.
During the morning the waves reduced from seething mountains down to rolling hills. We rode them astride our waterhorse, galloping through the low spray, all alone on the austere saltwater desert. For we had been alone in the great expanse quite a long time. Expecting to suddenly find ourselves in the midst of the Big Ships along some uncharted but well used oceanic highway, we kept a constant watch on the horizon. To our surprise we saw nothing but the horizon itself. As busy as the area is reputed to be, the ten mile radius around the Faith remained clear. I spent a lot of time thinking about the people I love and wishing they could be there with me. Such grandiose emptiness makes me yearn to fill the void with shared laughter and close company. Although Brian and Eric were with me, and we couldn't get more than 25 feet away from each other if we wanted to, I think we all feel that sweet tang of loneliness at times. I suppose it's one of the mystical qualities of seafaring.
The sunset lit the cresting surf, gowning it in radiant robes of red-gold motion. With the night came the return of the moisture. We weren't disheartened. We were so near the Panamanian shore we could smell it (not literally, we are grateful). And then, of course, the wind died. It was just before daylight, and a clinging haze descended in the absence of the breeze. Rain began to fall, the marble sized droplets chilling us to a shiver. For the first time since the Illinois River we were cold. That settled things – the engine came to life and we cruised onward in what we hoped was the right direction. The salt encrustation had migrated into the battery housings of the GPS units. They died valiant deaths, serving us to the last. Needless to say, we missed them.
Intrepidness in great store, we continued south and east, finally sighting the rising bluffs of the Panamanian shore. We did not sight Colon, however, for as we had suspected we were a bit off course. The last GPS reading had been a few degrees higher than the previous ones and may have been indicative of the death rattle of the machine. Or we read it wrong… Anyway, we soon realized that we were about ten miles south of the city – the giant loading cranes for the transiting container vessels were just visible through the fog. Faith tailed a container ship to the breakwater where first contact was made with the control station, Christobal Signal. We advised them that we had arrived and requested permission to go to the Panama City Yacht Club on the edge of Colon. The guides point out that sometimes the controllers won't let you go directly to the docks but make you wait out in Anchorage F on the fringe of the harbor until they can send immigration and the Port Captain to check you in. We very happily listened as they told us to proceed right to the club. Ahhhhh! DRY land and WARM food! The end of another chapter in the epic! I'm certain the blighted city of Colon, experiencing a civil upheaval and protests in the streets as we slid up to the dock, has rarely seemed so appealing to a hardy crew.