Ummagumma had the same slot � we would go through together! Nice! "Oh, hey," Sergio called to me, "did you get your Zarpe?" "Zarpe?" I knew we'd need one when we checked out of country but now? "Uh, no, why?" "It's something everyone forgets," he informed me, "but it costs 35 dollars and you need it to cross." "Thanks!" but I had my doubts. I brought them to several post-transit comrades who creased their brows. "A Zarpe before transit? Somebody's taking them for a ride." I tried to tell this to Serge, but he was assured, for both of us, that his information was correct. So be it. The Zarpe became a running joke between Brian and me. "Well, that's everything," I'd say after completing some important project. "Did you get the Zarpe?" Brian would ask.
We bid Eric a fond farewell and he and Erin and the French boat headed out to Anchorage F to await their Canal Advisor and begin their transit. The 1st mate and I had a celebratory drink and greeted the newest arrivals, full of questions and in need reassuring advice, which we now had in spades. Don't go here, do go here, ask the cabbies, make sure you've done this, don't worry about that, have you met these guys?
Suddenly we were the experts � and it felt great to contribute to the society that had nurtured us through. Night came, and we felt ready for the first time.
Dawn came and we were still ready. Saturday was an easy day. We idled around, visiting our buddies, eating a delicious Chinese lunch, calling relatives and friends back home, and generally enjoying ourselves. I talked at length with an Irishman on a boat bound for Australia. A Russian journalist, who would become a close friend over the next couple of days, hired on as a line handler for our transit. He was traveling the world on a pittance, going from place to place and sending articles back to the mother country. Gregory had been chased by an elephant in India, hiked across Mongolia in the dead of winter, and a thousand other things. He was currently trying to find a boat ride to
Cartagena, Columbia, where he'd meet up with his girlfriend. In lieu of finding one he was up for a transit of the Canal. Why not? It might make a good story...
Then I played some pool (they have a free table in the back of the Yacht Club. Late in the afternoon Brian and I were waiting for a cab driver to show up when Eric and Jamie (another hired hand on the French boat came walking down the lane. "I got robbed," Eric stated stoically. "Jesus! Are you ok?" We asked. "Huh? Oh, I meant the French guy � he gave us ten bucks for the bus and sent us to shore." Eric had a right to complain. The going rate for line handlers is fifty dollars a day. We'd arranged with Gregory and Whitney to do the whole two days for fifty apiece, which pleased them and us. Eric wasn't expecting that, necessarily, but he deserved some reciprocation for his efforts. Well, ses la vis. At least his experience would be more valuable to us than most bills of small denomination....
Evening came and went, night fell with the daily rains, the darkness filling in the gaps between the droplets. One last day. We let the night escape as we dreamed of the penultimate experience awaiting�.
With the morning at hand we went through the usual routine with added zest. Tidy up the boat again, check the knots on the tires, move the crappy lines up to the bow so we could more easily trade them out�. speaking of which, where was Chino? I searched high and low to no avail. Humph. Oh well. Eric caught up on some much needed sleep. Meanwhile, Brian and I had an appointment to keep with the Whites, a family living on their boat at the harbor with whom we'd made friends. Warren and his wife Frankie and their sons, Whitney (and another whom we never did meet and sorry guys! I can't recall his name) had spent an evening aboard with us, explaining how they had been the discoverers of the Viscayena, Columbus's personal ship with which he had made the passage around Cabo Gracias A Dios and later had to scuttle and abandon near Colon. Warren showed me the map he'd made of the wreck and told of how he'd been certain from the first of its identity, later confirmed by some visiting archaeologists. The Whites also wanted to show us some "footprints" in a riverbed they thought might be prehistoric. Bri and I went out to the site but our findings were inconclusive. We couldn't distinguish the "prints" from the other pocked and water eaten basalt. It was wonderful to do a little roaming in the Panamanian jungle, though. The jungle is so swollen with life that you can't move without disturbing plant or animal, every footstep is softly padded with rotting vegetation rife with microbes recycling generations of foliage. Moisture pervades, thousands of flowers drinking in the life giving liquids, greens and tans and reds and yellows flourish in splendor in the canopy while oranges, browns, and purples dominate the boscage floor.
From forest primeval back to the iron and steel undergrowth of the city we went. The crew now did the last shopping run to stock up on perishables (perishables perish at a pernicious rate in the tropics � when you buy something immediately edible it�s a good idea to use it within 12 hours or less!). I went looking for someone to trade the lines for me. I found a driver who called Chino, then went off to find him. I never saw him again. Nor did I see Chino, or anyone else who could assist me in this matter. I did see Sergio. "You all ready?" he asked as he sped by on some errand or another, "got your Zarpe?" "Oh yeah," I replied, "we're ready...except for these damn lines. Well, we'll use them if we have to..." Sergio grimaced at the ugly cordage, "mmmph," quoth he.
The mates returned, laden with supplies. We stowed the booty and made the rounds to say goodbye, wish our friends luck and receive their benedictions. Then we gathered our stolid line handlers, checked the engine, and hove-to for the anchorage. Adios Colon!! Muchos Gracias!!