Wiping the nervous sweat off our sun-beaten brows we passed unscathed. Landside, we could see the domed crests of slumbering volcanoes lining the ridge spiked shoreline. Miles added to miles until we were right on top of the waypoint we'd programmed into the GPS units. There lay the Island of Limon, guarding the passage to our destination. The only problem was that we couldn't identify the passage. It was like one of those booby trapped mazes in the Indiana Jones Trilogy. Choose unwisely, weigh the options a bit off scale, and reefy spears would puncture fiberglass skin, towering walls of water collapsing over our wretched, floundering vessel. The problem lay in the apparent absence of the sea buoy that should have marked the approach to the entrance, as Jim had described back in Golfito. We searched and searched, inching (literally) closer in to shore � we'd grown almost superstitiously cautious around reefs. We could make out a huge palapa, the thatched roofed, open air buildings that adorn these tropical shores, on the western beach but nothing else � Wait! There, below the palapa and unmistakably on the water bobbed a pair of buoys, and yes! one red, one green! We still moved slowly � this could be a shallow channel for the fishermen in their pangas that dotted the coastline. But soon it was unmistakable: a wide channel with the international markers set directly in front of the biggest palapa we'd ever seen. It was Eric who proudly manned the helm as we skirted down the inlet around the little isle into the hidden treasure of Nicaragua that is bahia Puesta del Sol, Setting of the Sun Harbor.
Safely at the harbor mouth and out of mortal danger for the time being, we must disclose an unhappy circumstance: one of our crew was lost at sea. Brian composed the eulogy, so let's have a moment of silence and listen:
It is our sad duty to report on the tragic loss at sea of our assistant helmsman Nigel the Nylon Navigator. Last seen hanging around a stern cleat during Pacific Panama rainstorm after sunset, Nigel's disappearance is likely attributed to an unfortunate slip(knot) on a dark, wet deck. While foul play is unlikely since Nigel was too short to get tied up in any intrigue, suicide has not been ruled out. After repeated lashings, Nigel may have started to unravel, and was certainly at the end of his rope. Although technically unable to jump ship, he may have chosen to slide off perhaps hoping to tie the knot with some sinewy sea snake, forgetting he couldn't swim.
Regardless of what caused Nigel to shuffle off his mortal coil, we are still bound to remember our hitch with him.
Although he was working aboard the boat for years, Nigel was a common hank employed in a variety of tasks. He was a sailor to the core, and came from a very long line. Rampant illness aboard prompted a battlefield promotion, and he was commissioned the Nylon Navigator. Relishing command, he even berated an Irish pennant for controlling sails while three sheets to the wind (although Nigel himself was known to tie one on now and again).
Nigel is survived by his immediate family, including his father's side the Halyards, his mother's the Sheets, and a ratty old uncle of indeterminate lineage (a dingy painter by trade).
A wake was held at sea. We had bonded with Nigel and he was always attached to the Faith. Adios Amigo! Via con Dios!