The first day back out to sea imposed a period of adjustment. Each of us had a serious case of land-hangover. The schedules we'd become used to, late nights, early mornings, siestas in the afternoon, were quickly dashed against the breakers of reality: we were sailing again. I took us out. The channel being what it was � the busiest shipping lane south of Baton Rogue � we elected not to raise sail until we were well clear of the gigantic freighters plowing through the confines of the bay. Once free, however, the engine was dispatched with and the rush of Faith's bow wave was our only acoustic accompaniment.
The silence of sailing is a fantastic introspective opportunity. While on tiller detail you have a stretch of four hours wherein your entire focus is on maintaining a compass course, reading the passage of the winds over the sailcloth, adjusting the sheets (the ropes that control the sails), and watching the weather on the horizon. So in essence there's little to occupy your time outside of your imagination. I often spend it replaying symphonies in my mind (Beethoven's 9th is a favorite of mine, so is Metallica's One) or composing this log. On this day all I could think of was how much I wanted to be with that girl. "Erin," I thought to myself. "Erin, Erin, Erin." Jesus, what had she done to me?
When Brian relieved me I slipped into my bunk hoping to loose the beautiful anguish of forlorn love in the sweet oblivion of sleep. Nothing doing. If anything it was worse. Now I had no recourse to distract me from my fantasies. Finally, I found a way to turn my mind back to the task at hand � "Golfito," I considered, "she might meet us in Golfito." Despite the relative impossibility of such a thing occurring I found an easing in my preoccupation. And just in time.
Saturday passed, slowly. We were becalmed half the day, the other half we fought a headwind that forced us to tack in any direction but the one we wanted. Remember that we were still trying to go south � the S shape of the Panamanian Isthmus places Pacific-bound vessels further south and east than where they started in Colon. Presuming you're desired course draws you eventually back toward the US you first have to sail south around the promontory jutting out toward South America. As we rounded it we reached our furthest south and east points on the journey. At longitude 79 we were well east of Florida. Our lowest latitude registered at 6 degrees, thirty-two minutes. It wasn't until Sunday that we were able to turn north for our Costa Rican destination. Here I should mention that Pacific sailing beats the hell out of Caribbean sailing. While the winds disagreed with our course there exists a current that runs north near the shore. The Pacific currents prevalent one hundred miles offshore sweep south, but the eddy we were riding carried us up the coast. Even becalmed we were making a knot and a half in the right direction. In addition, we weren't taking a wave over the bow every five minutes and the water that did soak us was from the frequent rains. This was tantamount to getting a shower about twice a day. We welcomed it heartily (as would anyone forced to endure the potent aroma of three sweaty males living in close quarters for an extended period!)
Sunday night Brian, on watch, and I, on tiller, were treated to a miracle of light. The whole run had been beset by thunderstorms, most of which we skirted between, around or below � though the occasional one would give us the ritual washing. The lightening was almost constant. Somewhere on the horizon a flash of purple, green, blue, red, orange or white was consistently, brilliantly, illuminating the sky. On the water the bioluminescence became as intense as we've experienced, each plunge of the bow would send a frothy wave of sparkling points whirling away. Looking down at the waters one could see at least five feet down judging by the starry orbs disturbed by our passage. Now, imagine a large sea creature � a dolphin, say � swimming in this enchanted effervescence.
We didn't have to.
Instead, we were treated to the rapturous gliding of a single, large dolphin swimming below our hull and soaring meteorically across our bow wake. Its outline was entirely visible, and it left a trail behind like the disintegrating tail of a waterborne comet. After a few minutes it swam away, torpedoing back to the endless black of the wide open ocean. When speech returned to us Brian said, "This gives me a whole new respect for the illustrators of Fantasia � I never thought that stuff was real!"
We're here to tell you it is. Believe in flights of fancy.
Eventually the shores of Panama became the shores of Costa Rica. We began to count the little yellow and black water snakes surfing amongst the litters of garbage washing out from the coast � it is unfortunate, ugly and sad but perhaps inevitable that wherever human occupation is more than two or three people on a beach trash builds up and gets tossed into rivers, lakes, oceans, forests, estuaries, ect.... But there they were, little three foot bags of potentially toxic venom writhing amidst the flotsam. I like snakes but I'm scared to death of the poisonous varieties. Honestly, we didn't know then and don't know now whether these guys are actually dangerous but why take a chance knowing that sea snakes in general are THE MOST VIRULENT on the planet? I've read that a milligram of venom from a coral snake is enough to kill 100,000 rats. So we were all glad the scuppers have metal grates over them.....even so I was picking my feet up off the deck and tucking them under my butt every time I gave a minute's thought to one of those suckers worming its way curiously up the drain to inspect the boat....
All this time Eric was taking a beating. Every day he'd assume command of the boat, relieving the person on the tiller, just as whatever wind we'd been using died. By the third day I was surprised that the air currents he generated cursing his foul luck didn't fill the sails. But we pressed onward despite the hardships of battling becalmment while surrounded by serpents and subjected to a steady stream of proselytic profanity. And then Golfo Dulce opened before us.
The Sweet Gulf, as its English translation names it, was indeed open before us but we could make no progress toward it. The wind didn't die; it packed up and left. Our final recourse was to fire the engine and run for port. Since we didn't know exactly how the entrance to Golfito was arranged we dropped anchor in the small bay several miles west of the town. Brian and I sat up as the first rays of the rising sun lit the gulf. Eric joined us on deck, we had breakfast, and cleaned up Faith for her grand entrance. We radioed the Banana Bay Marina as we made the approach and were answered in English. The channel would be well marked, the operator told us, look for the yellow buildings with the docks out front. And we were there.
Hola Costa Rica!!