With the zippers cracking like whips, Anna got my heavy Gortex jacket over my naked back and shoulders. In the pockets, she’d stuffed a water bottle and a pile of now pulverized cookies. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I screamed over the wind.
“Just drink.” Anna held the bottle for me then shoved salty cookie crumbs in my mouth. When I was somewhat sated, she wedged herself onto the cockpit bench to my side and, wearing a diving mask to gaze into the pressure-washer like blast from behind, told me about the approach of waves. We developed a rhythm that got us through the storm alive.
Hours later, exhausted but relieved, I became aware, through the pain in my back and shoulders, that the storm had finally passed and we were still upright. By sunset we were back in good-ole gale force winds with monstrous seas. I was ready to collapse and Anna didn’t look much better. With the last of what strength we had left, we rigged a giant underwater parachute called a sea anchor. The idea was to stop the boat, point its nose into the blast, giving us a chance to rest and regroup. It didn’t work. The sea anchor tore to shreds and Shadow swung side-on to the blow.
I steered. My knees were shaking so badly I thought I would crumble. Anna wordlessly pulled the remains of the sea-anchor aboard then took the helm. I collapsed beside her in the cockpit and didn’t wake until morning.
THIRTY-SIX
The storm sucked thermal energy from the sea, converting it to huge wind and waves which never really subsided. Bit-by-bit the waves got smaller, choppier, the wind eased, became gusty, but never dropped below gale force. The sailing was hard and tensions were running high for the three weeks or so it took to reach Panama.
Threading our way through the West Indies, almost close enough to touch them, and being denied landing added insult to injury. I still didn’t know if Panama would allow us entry, neither did Tom. The official answer was “no,” but I was counting on a connection Tom promised to pull with the Panama Canal Authority. All I got from his email messages was that the wheels were in motion and that Gavin, already in Panama City, was laying the groundwork prior to our arrival in Colon.
Less than a hundred miles from the Caribbean coast of Panama, I received an encouraging email from Gavin. He was supposedly somewhere in Panama, writing to tell us to meet him at the Colon Yacht Club.
“That means they’ll let us in?” Anna asked.
“Damned if I know.” I sighed. “Guess we pays our money and we takes our chances.”
The big surprise at the Colon Yacht Club was seeing Sandy walking down the dock toward us a few paces behind Gavin. “Yeah, she came with me. Thought it’d be a good chance to explore some jungle.” He stopped himself, probably thinking he ought to greet us, then, “Good to see you finally, Jess.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard this is a good place for jungle, and it’s good to see you too, Gavin.” I threw him a line from the stern. “You have absolutely no idea! Let’s get this thing tied up first and then we’ll exchange pleasantries and chit-chat.”
Anna tossed a line to Sandy from the bow who watched Gavin for some idea of what to do with it.
The Colon Yacht Club was a collection of low white buildings with green trim the color of its perfectly manicured lawn. Apart from the floating scrap yard of decrepit boats, the place exuded the atmosphere of a 19th-century tropical plantation turned exclusive ex-pat country club. The tall chain-link perimeter fence made it clear we weren’t exactly in Colon.
Anna and I took our first steps off the boat in over a month. Saturated tropical rain clouds hung low over gently swaying palm trees. Beyond them to the east, a palisade of shipping containers provided a faded Cubist backdrop. A gravel drive, presumably a boat launch, emerged from the highly polluted water. It curved toward a small collection of concrete-block huts with heavily armed guards. Beyond the club’s gates, the road was obscured by thick tropical scrub. It was a quiet enclave carved from a city with the reputation for being one of the world’s most dangerous.
“Customs? Immigration?” I asked, strolling up the dock beside Gavin. Sandy and Anna walked ahead of us, awkwardly trying for small talk. Anna didn’t know it was Sandy she had been communicating with at first. I hoped she wouldn’t find out right then.
“That’s not my department. Pedro, Tom’s friend, is looking after it.” Gavin stopped and blocked my way with a sunburned forearm. “Sandy, grab us a table outside, okay?” He called up the dock. Then, to me, “Tom’s right, you know. You can’t go near the USA with her. God knows, I’ve tried. The foreign affairs lawyer said something about staying more than two hundred and fifty miles out.”
“What are they afraid we’ll do, start commercial fishing?” I already knew about this imposition, but being reminded of it pissed me off.
“More to the point, what does Anna know about all this?”
“I’m not hiding anything. She knows what she needs to — or wants to.” I thought for a moment. “Actually, I don’t know what you mean? She knows we have to stay away from USA.”
“Does she know why she’s doing this nutso cruise? Does she know there’s nobody waiting for her on the other side? Her testimony or whatever is worthless unless you can sell it to someone. Come to think of it, sis, I don’t know why either of you are doing this.”
“Just got here, Gav. Feet haven’t touched land since Las Palmas. Think we could leave this ’til later? Maybe without having-it-out in front of Anna and Sandy.”
Gavin accelerated along the dock in front of me, stopped, spun to face me, his back to the clubhouse. “Well, the point is you’re here, you’re alive and your boat seems to be in one piece. There’ve been hurricanes out there. It’s lucky you didn’t get into one.”
“Who says we didn’t?” Out of the corner of my eye, an almost imperceptible movement in the water distracted me. A sickly looking gray stingray drifted out from under the dock, maybe half a meter below the surface. “Oh wow, check this out.” I crouched down. The only sign the thing was still alive in the fetid water was a weak pulsing of its gill slits and the occasional twitch of a wingtip.
Gavin had something on his mind and he wasn’t going to let it go. His interest was not in the stingray. “Look, you’ve made it this far. Maybe it’s time to call it quits on the crazy boat adventure. Find another way home.”
“Like how? Anna’s not even legal here. She gets caught, she gets deported to Russia. Without the boat it’s game over, probably life-over for her. Besides, do you know how much I paid for that thing?” I stood up.
“As a matter of fact, I do. Your mail’s been piling up with more than a few envelopes stamped ‘final notice.’”
I said nothing.
He finally looked down to contemplate the stingray. It hadn’t moved more than a few inches. “You know you’ve maxed out your line of credit.”
“Yeah? Well, I had a few unforeseen expenses in Las Palmas.” I made for the clubhouse, anxious to sit in a chair that wasn’t trying to buck me.
Gavin blocked my way again. “It’s half a million dollars! Do you really think you’ll get that back?”
“Certainly not if I try to sell the boat here.” I gestured toward the live-aboard shanties and abandoned yachts. “This is the tropics. Look around. It’s where the dream dies. Hell of a lot harder to climb north, to get back home. They get here, are disillusioned, try to sell the boat they came in to someone else who dreams of sunny days and cruising bliss. Let’s just say this isn’t a seller’s market.”