Thus the lesson was learned: you can't get anything done in Balboa by being proactive. Rather, the custom of the town seems to be "Let Us Come To You." Relax. You've had a long day.
Days 68 � 71, June 7 � 10:
We passed the night clinging to our bunks. As everyone in the anchorage at Balboa would attest, the surf rolling in was the biggest they'd experienced, even those who'd been there for months. On the bigger boats (which is to say all of them) the rocking and swaying was cause for gripping some surface or other while walking about the decks or cabins. For the crew of Faith it was akin to napping in a barnstorming biplane. We'd pitch bow in the air, rolling from port to starboard until the gunwales dipped. Just making it from the cabin to the cockpit could be a harrowing experience. Not a few times did we save ourselves from sprawling headfirst onto the cockpit floor or right into the drink. Pouncing aboard the water taxis required split second timing and acute, catlike reflexes. Needless to say, there was a near miss almost every time. In order to sleep, one found one's self tucking arms and legs under the cushions, stuffing clothes and pillows between body and hull, fending off the occasional airborne book or piece of cutlery. So all in all it was very much like our Caribbean crossing, minus the constant saltwater baths. We slept like rocks.
The morning of Tuesday the 7th was greatly anticipated: the day had arrived when we could yank Faith from her watery cradle and affect a repair to her beleaguered rudder. I went off into town accompanied by Ray, or "Thumper," as Nedra had nicknamed him. Ray was a high-energy, constantly in motion, rapid talking, surfer-sailor from Long Island who'd taken me under his wing the night before. (A very big man, towering well over six feet, brawny and solid, he easily could have fit Faith's entire crew and some friends under that wing.) Ray was completely astonished at the feet we'd pulled off � especially cruising the Mississippi � and made it his job to see that I was well instructed and directed in the acquiring of the goods I'd need to make good the rudder repair. As we were scheduled for the haul-out at 3:30 (Island Time), I had most of the day to get into town, search out the necessary supplies, and return for the event. Most of the day is what I would need.
Ray took me to a corner about three blocks from the patio bar where a minivan pulled up. We hopped in and for a quarter were whisked the several miles into downtown Balboa, to the market Cinco de Mayo. During the course of our stay in Panama we'd been keeping up to date on the protests over social security reform raging all over the country but focused in the Panama City area. (Panama City is continuous with Balboa). We got of the "bus" and hiked a twisting route of several blocks to the market. Along the way we passed a city square lined with soldiers who'd set up a blockade, cordoning off the street (happily in the opposite direction we were traveling). We didn't see any beatings, thrown objects, or mobs such as were featured on the evening news, but then it was relatively early in the day.
The Cinco de Mayo market is not the typical picturesque fruit-and-sombrero-stand plaza you see in many other Central American cities. It is a winding boulevard with many side streets and alleyways offering everything from high-tech electronics, hair salons, groceries, music stores, eateries, movie houses, discotechs, banks, internet cafes, and appliance stores to homemade jewelry, coconut shell art, serapes, fresh juice stands, Kuna embroidery and baskets, and very pushy bag salespeople (they sell large, sturdy plastic bags for a dollar in case you're getting lots of varied small items and want to put it all in one place, and seem to take it as a personal affront if you don't need or want one....and, yes, you can also get fruit and sombreros there). Ray led me around at a rather fast pace, in the bouncing gait of his that had likely played a part in his nickname. We searched high and low for stainless steel screws (unfindable), a strip of aluminum for a brace (I did find that, but only by picking through a pile of discarded ceiling pieces on the floor of a section of supermarket under construction), and a solid piece of hardwood (not at the market but on the way back to BYC � Ray noticed a woodworker's shop and I jumped out of the cab, negotiated over a good chunk of mahogany, and leaped back in before the car had a chance to pull away from the stop sign onto the main highway). We had the grand fortune of being spotted by Erin and Nedra as they ate lunch at a little Chinese deli. They were waiting on Brian and Phil (the Captain of Taking Off) to return from an expedition in search of an electric cooler to augment the questionable refrigeration on board. Ray and I sat and talked with them for a bit before wandering off on our own quest. The birthday party was still on, the location still in question.
I was back at the non-existent Yacht Club by 2:00, enjoying a cool drink and some lunch on the patio. Afterwards I moseyed down to the haul-out facility, tracked down Ricardo and his gang of line handlers, and made sure everything was ready. It was. The haul-out consists of a pair of flat railroad cars made of steel girders with tall, sloping sides. They resemble the boat cradles you see at any marine storage yard. The two cars run on tracks that angle down into the water. At high tide (recall that the tides here average a difference of 18 feet) the tracks are completely submerged, allowing the car to be rolled into the ocean where a vessel can steer into the cradle, be tied securely on both sides, and subsequently hauled up onto the dry shore. We'd be using the smaller of the two cars.
Back aboard the Faith, Brian and Eric were awaiting my arrival. "It's all set," I cried as I caught the Faith's gunrail with the edge of my foot and narrowly avoided pitching into the corrugated seas, "they'll be ready in twenty minutes!"