Panama - Colon

(We're back from Ibiza, and had a fab time.  Good company, excellent food, plenty of booze and sunshine.  October is definitely THE time to go to the Balearics. Time now for a rest!)

23 February 2004


We had been told by someone in Florida not to miss a group of islands north of Panama, but he couldn’t recall the name and we didn’t have a cruising guide for the area, so gave it no further thought. As a result, we rather tragically missed the San Blas Islands, which almost every other boat we met had visited and RAVED about. The women of the San Blas Islands are famous for their exquisite needlework – layer upon layer of fine fabric in brilliant colours appliquéd one over the other in intricate designs. They are called molars. Our friend Jocelyn had bought dozens and kindly allowed me to purchase a couple of hers which I made into cushions.

So, having missed the San Blas, our first port of call in Panama was Cacique on the north east coast, which we found quite by accident. There was a nice little marina run by some French people and almost all the cruisers were French or French speaking, so I could practice my rusty French in readiness for French Polynesia. We spent two days there, including my birthday, which I celebrated by washing a rather revolting bundle of laundry in my two big rubber buckets on the deck. Fighting off the wallow of self-pity, I reminded myself that there were many less exotic places to be doing laundry by hand. You would think, would you not, that all this hand laundry (you try hand wringing jeans, fleecy jackets and sheets, fergawd’s sake!), hauling anchor chains, tying up yachts, dragging the dinghy up and down beaches, climbing ladders, carrying shopping bags for MILES, hefting 20 litre jerry cans of water, etc. etc., that I would have developed arm muscles like Popeye? Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Not a chance. Bruises, blisters and calluses galore, but no muscles, not even little ones. Life is cruel.


Laundry wash and dried, we took a slow, peaceful sail round to the anchorage mis-named The Flats, at Colon. This was not a particularly nice anchorage, very windy and bumpy, but the holding was reasonable, fortunately, as we were there for more than four weeks.

The Queen Mary at the Flats anchorage, Colon

Check-in was inexpensive and relatively simple and straightforward, the officials polite and helpful. We had a sail that needed repairing and needed new batteries, so we took our time getting to know who was good at what. Things were pretty cheap in Panama (relatively speaking) and we did our big Pacific crossing shopping here. In particular, we were able to buy Mike’s pills, Warfarin, here. In more sophisticated countries this is only available at a highly elevated cost, with a prescription, after consultations with a doctor and one or more blood tests, and proved to be one of the more complicated challenges of our journey around the world. (Warfarin was relatively easy to get in the Bahamas but excessively expensive, and though prices were more reasonable in America the doctors had become quite neurotic dealing with Mike’s cavalier attitude to his condition.) In Panama, however, one could buy the generic brand (of most meds) in any amount over the counter, at a fraction of the cost. On the advice of a friend (who had a medical chest that would have snagged the interest of the Drug Enforcement folk) we also bought some antibiotics – they languish to this day in our medical box. They’re well past their ‘use by’ date but we hang on to them, just in case.


Colon wasn’t popular with most yachties, but I rather liked it. It was somewhat like a busy shantytown and not at all attractive though I suspect it may once have been. It has now fallen into almost total disrepair, but it had loads of atmosphere. The traffic was terrifying; potholed roads jammed with ancient cars, at least half of which seemed to be buses or taxis; no traffic lights or noticeable road markings. They drove like lunatics, honking their horns all the time, whether to warn someone of their presence, just to say ‘hello’ to a friend, or to attract the eye of a pretty girl, you never quite knew. The streets were a hustle and a bustle with pedestrians everywhere, small shops bulging out onto the pavements, fruit and vegetable vendors on the street corners. We were warned of muggings and told not to walk anywhere but to take taxis. I walked frequently in the town and was never mugged, nor did I ever feel threatened, though I admit I hugged my bag tightly. Even the locals told me off for walking alone. They were very friendly and only too willing to help; if you asked for directions they would walk you to your destination, but then they wanted to be paid, so you had to watch that one. The buses were painted all over in bright primary colours with cartoon-like figures and lettering, and we took a couple of rides in them to Panama City and back.

The Panama Canal is a phenomenal piece of engineering and everyone was deeply impressed by it. The actual transit was a tremendous experience though quite nerve wracking and there were one or two horror stories doing the rounds - things can go terribly wrong, and if they did, we knew it would be very expensive. The cost to transit was US$650 for yachts under 15 metres plus a deposit of another US$800 to cover any mishaps. We paid by credit card, which is the easiest way, and they just reimburse you the $800 provided nothing goes wrong. We heard that this $650 barely covers costs and that small yachts are a nuisance to the canal authorities. However, we were not made to feel like a nuisance and we, of course, felt that $650 was more than enough.

Having never transited the canal prior to the takeover from the Americans by the Panamanians, I can make no comparisons, but things appeared to run smoothly and the paperwork wasn’t overly cumbersome. Each boat had to have on board the skipper and four line handlers plus an advisor (provided by the canal authorities) who must be obeyed in all matters. One could hire professional line-handlers, but most yachts simply used other cruisers and everyone helped everyone else. You also had to have four good lines, 120 feet in length - you may not need them all, but you had to have them, and if you didn’t have your own, you could hire them. You needed adequate fenders to protect your boat, but that wasn’t regulated, it was in your own interests to have them; old car tyres, bound with tape, were available for a small fee. We booked and paid, they came and measured Forever and checked we were properly equipped, and we were given a certificate with our ship identification number - which is Forever’s forever. Ha.

To get some experience of the transit in advance, we went along as line-handling crew on the New Zealand boat Free Lance. They had a pleasant advisor and the crossing was uneventfully completed in one day. Our hosts, Neil, Lynnis and their son Sam, had champagne and beer on board and we started toasting a successful passage before we’d even got out of the last locks. On the other side, they bypassed the Balboa marina and went on to the Flamenco anchorage, where we all went out to dinner. There was no dinghy dock at Flamenco and we had to haul our friends’ dinghy, plus heavy 15 hp motor, up a rough slipway beyond the (very) high tide mark. After dinner, and a few more beers, we had to haul it back down again whereupon Mike slipped and landed on his bad knee. All sportsmen have a ‘bad knee’, don’t you know. It’s an old rugby injury.

At the time, of course, he felt no pain. We spent the night on Free Lance, slept well, and the next morning after a good breakfast we bade farewell to our hospitable new friends, and headed off to the bus station in Panama City. Well, it took us about four hours in the hot midday sun (mad dogs and Zimbabwean men!). Mike insisted the exercise would do us good – never mind the hangover - and ignored my plaintive pleas that we catch a taxi or a bus. Well, we got lost, of course, and had to ask directions from two young policemen on bicycles. They obligingly escorted us for about half a mile, then flagged down a passing bus and pushed us on, instructing the driver to take us to the main terminal – which he did at no charge! From there we caught the bus back to Colon which was comfortable and blessedly air-conditioned, but in Colon we had to face another long walk out to the Yacht Club. By this time Mike’s knee had begun to swell and next morning he was in considerable pain and couldn’t walk. Our own plans to leave Colon that week had to be shelved whilst he recovered. He refused to see a doctor and I’m sorry to say I wasn’t terribly sympathetic.

During this time kicking our heels and waiting for our own transit, we made friends with two South African boats - Des and Ali and their two boys Jared and Dillon on Alii Nui and Colin on Solvester whom we had originally met in Trinidad – and Ron and Suzanne on the American boat Tapasya. We would continue to meet up with them (and numerous others) throughout the Pacific trip.