Where the Wipeouts are Worth It [#37]

We’re not big on bucket lists. At least not the kind you create while you’re not-90 but don’t start checking off until you are-90.

If we were runners — which, for the record, unequivocally we are not — but if we were — we’d be sprinters.

(I mean, not real sprinters who train and go fast. Obviously.) 

Remember elementary school recess races? Back when all we had to do was hurl ourselves 30 yards across two four-square courts, just past the bent tetherball pole? Back when form didn’t count? Ya — we’d be those sprinters.

We’re terrible at delayed gratification and we downright suck at saving the good stuff for later.

The moment something makes it onto our would-be bucket list is the moment we attempt to make it happen. Immediately. No warm-ups. No stretching. (Zero commitment to form.) Just an expanse of cracked blacktop, some obstacles we didn’t notice in the way, and us — flailing our way across, around, and over it all.

Before the start whistle blows, we jump. Every damn time.

Admittedly, it’s not the kind of calculated or cautious approach to life that always results in safe passage to the finish line (or, for that matter, arrival at the finish line at all).

We’ve taken our fair share of diggers at the 10-yard line, pulled more than our quota of hammies before even making it past the hopscotchers.

But, with the stubborn and Gumby-like resilience ignorance of toddlers, after every crash and burn, we whine about it, wipe away the blood, pause for a snack, and then promptly do it the same way all over again. Rinse and repeat.

There’s a version of a botched quote, generally misattributed to Einstein, that goes something like this:

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe there shouldn’t be a little more space at the table reserved for this particular kind of crazy. Not just because I want to believe there’s a place for us (mostly me), but because sometimes, doing the same thing in the same way for the seventy-thousandth time lands you somewhere new.

And, as it turns out, once in a great while, that somewhere new is not face-down on the playground, but transiting the Panama Canal with your family aboard your own sailboat.

There have been moments in life that transcended my reality — moments that seemed far bigger than reasonable for me to physically or emotionally handle. Moments that stopped time.

Some were devastating. Some obscure. But others have been downright glorious.

For me, escorting Ruby Vi with my family from the Caribbean Sea across a continent and into the Pacific Ocean was one of them.

On December 18th, after sad goodbyes to our buddy boat and our friends at Shelter Bay and a frenetic series of last-minute boat fixes, we untied Ruby Vi from slip C13 and set out in search of the Pacific Ocean.

At the risk of boring you with too many details, I’ll start by saying this — taking our boat through the Panama Canal was every bit as jaw-dropping as I thought it would be.

Next, I'm gonna go ahead and give an abridged account of our transit, but if even the thought of that bores you to tears, you should definitely start scrolling down the page until you get to the video of the final lock gates opening and pick up again there. 

Ain't no one got time to be bored by a blog post...

With three friends aboard (as required extra Canal crew) and rafted beside our transit buddy boat, Wilderness, we tucked inside each of three lock chambers behind (on day 1) and in front of (on day 2) massive cargo ships that made our 50- and 55-foot catamarans look like my nephew’s bath toys.

As soon as we entered each chamber, under the direction of our onboard Canal advisor, hundred-foot dock lines led from Ruby Vi’s and Wilderness’ bow and stern cleats were secured by Canal workers to massive bollards at the top edge of the Canal wall. Within 60 seconds of being set, the lock doors closed and the process of raising a cargo ship and two toy boats above the sea began.

Three locks and 85 feet later, we found ourselves in Lake Gatún, where we were required to spend the night tied up to a massive mooring ball.

The next morning, new advisors boarded Ruby Vi and Wilderness, and together we motored 20-some miles across the lake to the final set of locks and the gateway to the Pacific.

A version of the same process then repeats itself three more times: raft to Wilderness, enter the chamber, send dock lines to Canal walls, giant cargo ship enters behind us, doors close, water rushes out, doors open.

Only this time, when the final set of lock doors opened, it meant we had crossed a continent. In a sailboat. Our sailboat.

And it. was. awesome.

In relative hind site, I now realize I may have missed the mark on "not boring you with details." Sorry about that. 

One bit of good news is that I'll never know if you just up and walk away from the rest of this post. Or skip ahead. Or commit that from now on you'll only ever just look at the photos. Words are for suckers.

The ball's in your court.

Our return “home” to the Pacific Ocean, has not disappointed.

After a quick two nights anchored in Panama City to refuel and regroup, we began our Panama exit strategy. First up was a stretch of 10 beautiful days exploring the white sandy beaches and picturesque sandbars of the Las Perlas islands. We spent our days in the water, beachcombing, and exploring low-tide-only islets.

On New Year’s Eve, Ruby Vi was underway: motor-sailing 150 nautical miles west overnight, around the sometimes-ruthless Punta Mala (though she was on her best behavior for us), to the deserted brown beaches and rocky shores of Ensenada Naranjo.

Along the way, we watched a blood moon the size of a planet rise out of the sea, staining the night sky a dusky purple glow and unrolling a magic carpet of rust-colored glitter that glimmered its way from horizon to horizon.

If I had a better camera, I'd show you.

We marveled as Sirius twinkled blue, green, white, and red with the fairytale luminosity of a hung-from-the-heavens disco ball — a celestial New Year’s Eve party.

But gifts from the sky aren’t the only ones we received from the Pacific.

She sent us dolphin races. (We lost.)

She also delivered 14 fish in 10 hours fishing — many of which lived to bite another lure while we ate our way back to available fridge space.

After two nights in Naranjo (and fish for every meal), following a tip from a friend and our cruising guide, our search for fuel led us up a river to a bizarre little anchorage in Puerto Mutis. Timing the tides to benefit from a favorable flood current, we arrived before dinner at this eerily quiet little fishing town on the final day of a nationwide lockdown to anchor and wait for diesel dawn.

But a breezeless night on a mangrove river meant a whole lotta sticky sweat, even more bugs, and absolutely zero sleep.

Mercifully, when we heard the now-familiar cacophony of howler monkeys just after dawn, we knew we’d almost survived.

After three dinghy trips to deliver twenty-three jerry cans of diesel and gas from the itty bitty fuel “dock” back to Rubes, we rode the final few hours of the morning’s ebb tide back down the river and along the coastline to the super-chill, surfer-vibey town of Santa Catalina:

A brief rendezvous with our Canal buddy, Wilderness, before they set off to new horizons. 

A walk through town and drinks by a pool. 

Good WiFi. 

Cheap and delicious veggies.

More perfect beaches. 

Even a newfound passion for Bear -- tiny speed-crab hunting -- which, despite an obvious lack of talent for, she has dedicated every shred of her current existence to pursuing. Relentlessly.

And now, as I type, John is finalizing paperwork for our departure from Panama and our arrival in Costa Rica, a mere two weeks away.

Even though we still have a few remaining patches of Panamanian Paradise we hope to explore before the bells rings on this particular sprint series, the finish line is near.

From easy friendships to baby sloths, a chocolate farm to an enchanted island, a jungle river to a big city, and two oceans in two days through one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World, Panama has been one hell of a playground.

And yet, more than a handful of times during the eight months we’ve spent here, I have exasperatedly referred to this country as insane — insane rules, insane political appointees, insane lockdowns…

But Panama has reminded us just how much we enjoy indulging in a slice of crazy cake once in a while.

After all, nothing fuels wind sprints like dessert.

Undoubtedly, there are more clumsy face-plants in our future, it’s a blacktop tax we willingly begrudgingly pay.

But if our next round of recess races proves anything like our last, as long as we have enough bandaids and snacks, those wipeouts are gonna be totally worth it.