Brian, Eric, Gregory, Whitney and I lounged in the cockpit, drinking in not just the fine distilment but the night � nay, the event � itself. There we were, the banks of Lake Gatun encircling us like a tiara at the crowning moment of our crossing. Hehe, successfully doing the impossible. Something I think we've gotten used to that still strikes us as a miracle every time. I guess all it takes is a little Faith.
I awoke the following morning to Brian's voice informing all that the advisors' launch was just then dropping off the Ummagumma's Canal Advisor and would be arriving shortly. I raised myself from the deck, pausing momentarily to shake out the kink in my neck from having used one of the bundled Canal Lines as a pillow. At least they had been good for something. Gregory, Whitney and Eric were blinking in the early sunlit morn, a bit shell-shocked by the sudden interruption of an otherwise placid night's rest. Two minutes later the launch was pulling up alongside Faith, our advisor making the not insubstantial jump down to our deck. "Are you ready?" he asked. "Yes!" we responded with just a bit less luster than when our first guide had arrived the night before. "Ok, then," he peered around, "follow the other boat." We got underway in as much time as it took Brian to release our mooring line and myself to start the engine. The Advisor introduced himself (only once, I'm afraid, so I forget his name), got comfortable, made a quick radio check with Ummagumma's master, and promptly went to sleep. It would be a forty mile run down a marked channel to the second set of locks where we'd once again raft with the other boat for our passage out of the Canal. In the meantime I had the responsibility of not getting us run over by the freighters traveling the opposite way � we didn't see another pleasure boat the entire time. The crew relaxed while we broke a mighty bow wave, roaring top speed (7 knots) across the softly rippling high-jungle lake. Gatun is beautiful. Having arrived in the dead of night we hadn't been able to pick out more than dim silhouettes the previous night but now! The morning mists were curling at waters edge where dense foliage rose directly from the inundated bank to climb skyward in a visual cacophony of verdant flora. Here and there in the luxuriant vegetation a few vivid pink petals or striking orange clusters accented the dense green. For the first time since leaving the rivers we had banks close on both sides for mile upon mile. Occasionally we could pick out a furry critter springing through the canopy. Fish leapt into the air to splash back down just at our bows and birds, pelicans, parrots, gulls, cormorants, as well as many I couldn't identify, chased them, sometimes disappearing into the depths in pursuit. Lofty white billows floated overhead, vaporous stragglers navigating their own currents in the firmament above. All morning we traversed the splendor at the top of Panama's midriff. The passing cargo ships lent an air of absurdity as they thundered by, like elephants window shopping along Chicago's Michigan Avenue.....which as I reflect on it now would be a pretty neat thing to see.... As it was, the container ships were a reminder that this paradisical little cruise was the very heart of the Panama Canal. Not really what one might expect, especially after having met the challenges of the Sanitary and Ship Canal and the Mississippi stretch between Baton Rogue and New Orleans. If anything I'd expected harsh and ugly channel walls, stripped and blasted hills, barren waters. The reality was a delightful surprise.
The morning blew on in a zephyr of alluring sights and sounds (assuming you could ignore the whine of the engine, which we'd long ago become quite accustomed to doing). A haze began to dim the brilliant solar radiance around 10:30, and by 11:00 the shoaling rack had overshadowed the azure dome. Dusky bellies distended paunchily down to the hilltops, sweating aqua pura as they heaved themselves over the narrow hurdle of the Panamanian Isthmus. In other words, it rained. Our Advisor, prudent soul that he was, absconded to the cabin to resume his interrupted nap. (It turned out he was suffering from a cold and was in fairly rough shape. Happily, he seemed content and comfortable aboard. The occasional clank or exclamation from above decks caused him little concern: "Everything all right?" he would ask when a particularly loud thumb or bang echoed in the confines below. "Just fine!" One of us would assure him, "just moving a pile of line," or, "just pulling one of the tires back on board.")
At last we got a call on the radio ordering us to come up alongside Ummagumma again and re-raft. Our Advisor roused himself, sticking his head out of the cabin long enough to advise me of the plan of attack, then retreated back to his shelter. He noticed our copy of "A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Famous Pirates," with which he occupied himself for the remainder of the transit.
Faith came up alongside her once again sistership, was made secure, and off drove our mini-flotilla into the first of our second set of locks. The Pacific side of the Canal is divided into a double lockage, unlike the Atlantic were all three are located one right after another. Apparently a natural fault line runs across the bedrock shortly after the first hydraulic chamber. The second and third are located a mile beyond. Lock one, Pedro Miguel, went smoothly. Our twin craft were alone in the great cement and steel halls. Monkey fists were hurled aboard, Canal Lines hauled off, cameras made ready, and the 70 foot drop accomplished in minutes. Remaining gartered together like an aquatic bondage exhibition the two proud hulls, Faith and Ummagumma, catamaraned the intervening mile to the Miraflores Locks. Here at the entrance to our last lockage we were forced to wait while a tanker cleared our desired chamber for almost a half hour....during which time the rain pelted down with such abandon that the emerald banks actually disappeared in the shimmering torrent. Finally we got the OK to proceed. Since we'd pulled up to a small dock occupied by several other vessels our departure was notable: Faith, on the outside, used her engine in reverse to swing the twin hulls out, which worked remarkably well. We peeled away from the narrow space with almost no visible effort. "Wow," said Surge giddily, "this is fantastic!" I agreed, shifted into forward and on we went to the last of the vaults. Open gates, in we go, watch out for flying monkey fists!, Lines off, and down another 70 feet � nearly there!!
From this lock we were walked directly into the last. The Miraflores Pacific-facing lock exists mostly to accommodate the Pacific tides. In our case the last plunge would be a mere 12 feet. The crews of both vessels watched the double-doors open in feverish anticipation. The successful exit through them would represent the culmination, the completion, the final stage of a Panama Canal transit. Water and sky peeked through the first miniscule crack as the lumbering steel portals swung to admit us into Pacific salt. The water around us swirled as the aquatic and marine met and dissolved into one another. There!!! Visible in the distance, the channel passing under the arching Bridge of the Americas and beyond it opening: Into The Legendary Pacific Ocean!!! We had done it!!!! Adios Canal de Panama!! Hola Pacifica!!!