When I started spearfishing it was by design, not chance.  I didn’t grow up near the ocean.  I’ve only lived near the ocean briefly.  I didn’t stumble into this sport… A love for the ocean turned into a love for exploring it, then exploring it with a speargun.

I spent a few years chasing big fish.  I didn’t have much time off and I wasn’t making much money in the military – so it was difficult.  But I managed to land respectable specimens of all of my dream fish.  It was akin to trophy hunting, and after spending several years diving that way – I learned how to be very selective of the animals that I harvested.

Down here, though, that’s all flipped on it’s head.   Down here, trophy hunting ends the same way every time:  disappointment.  Even if there were trophy fish in this area (and there aren’t) – it would be a challenge to make use of all of the meat.   So I’ve had to change my style quite a bit.  Now I’m spearfishing for dinner.

 

Spearfishing For Dinner

Most people who spearfish probably start with a love for eating fish.  I started with a love for spearfishing, the love of eating fish came afterwards;  a byproduct of spearfishing.  And never, ever did I actually spearfish for dinner.  Eating fish was a byproduct of my chosen sport.  When you’re spearfishing for trophies things are pretty different.

Trophy spearfishing on the reef is kicking around, keeping a keen eye out for large outlines of large fish usually in relatively deep water.  Or poking your head into big holes in deep reef.  Trophy hunting offshore is about finding the fish, and quickly determining the size and distance of them (very challenging in open water) so you can put the right shot on them.

Trophy hunting does not compare to spearfishing for dinner. Spearfishing for dinner, in a good area, is about finding the best size of the best tasting fish and then getting them into your boat.  The best tasting fish aren’t always game fish.  The best size of fish is usually not a trophy.  Rather than holding your shots for the largest fish, you’re pulling triggers on anything that makes good ceviche.  Parrotfish, Lionfish, Triggerfish, and small Snapper are the primary targets.  Grouper are hunted, but rarely taken – they’re crafty in these parts.

Spearfishing for Dinner

For me, it’s taken me 6 months of recovery and I still hold shots when I should pull triggers.  Almost everyone I spearfish with pulls more triggers and lands more fish.  I’m still trophy hunting, no matter how hard I try to spearfish for dinner…

It’s a massive relearning of every technique I’ve used thus far.  It’s also different equipment – better to use smaller and more maneuverable spearguns. Two bands is enough, and often overkill.  A 110 cm speargun is enough.  A 130 cm speargun is usually too much.  In holes in the reef, 80 cm is about right.  Thin shafts fly faster and you don’t need heavy shafts for smaller fish.

This kind of hunting can be alot of fun, though.  Smaller guns, faster reloading, more pulling of triggers.  All of that adds up to something really fun, when you get the hang of it.  Of course, we don’t get to post pictures of us with massive fish.  And we always stop after we have enough for a couple of meals.  There are a couple exceptions to the “enough for dinner” rule:  when we can share fish with friends, when we are spearfishing with locals, and when we can trade fish for other stuff (like alcohol or produce).  Providing fresh fish to others brings with it quite a bit of good will.  I enjoy that.

One of the interesting things about the “enough for dinner” rule is that if we shoot a big fish, or a bunch of small fish – we don’t get to spearfish the next day.  Or we eat fish three meals a day, so we can go and spearfish again.  Not a big problem, but it certainly makes you think about shooting those large-but-not-quite-trophy fish.  Those fish are tempting, but one of those and all the spearfishing is over for a bit.

The good news is that I have a dedicated freezer onboard.  It’s sole purpose is to keep meat frozen on long passages.  So, if I really do bump into a trophy fish (not a large-but-not-quite-trophy) – I can put it into the boat without feeling guilty.  It just means that we’ll be eating fish three times a day for a month, and freediving armed with cameras rather than spearguns.

There are worse punishments, me thinks.

Spearfishing for Dinner

Forward and Reverse

A pancake addiction. That is my battle this morning. It is serious, with 4-5 mornings a week being pancake mornings. Onward, though.

We’re making pretty steady progress on the refit. 4 more automatic bilge pumps are completely wired in. We have some really nice LED floodlights under my new solar panels (they make a huge difference). I have a beautiful new teak cockpit table. Plenty of engine-room work. There were some setbacks, but I’m pretty sure we’ll be underway within a couple weeks. Hopefully to Bocas Del Torro.

Forward and Reverse

In between the refit we’ve squeezed in some diving. We’ve scored big crabs, and some excellent eating fish. One crab was so large we couldn’t crack his claws any other way – so we used vice-grips.  Seriously.  I’m slowly recovering from trophy spearfishing. Recovery from trophy spearfishing involves learning to shoot smaller fish for dinner. It also involves actually looking for crabs, lobster, and octopus – rather than constantly scanning for the outlines of the larger gamefish (snapper, grouper, etc).

Crabs bigger than our pots

This dinner-spearfishing requires smaller guns, completely different techniques, and (hardest of all) it also means that I have to start pulling the trigger on fish that I wouldn’t have before.   But I’m getting used to it, and fish are regularly on the menu here on S/V NOMAD.  Speaking of the menu, I can safely say Honey is the best cook we’ve had onboard. The fish with caper/dill sauce the other night was epic, and only outdone by a traditional Pilipino pork dish last night. From an eating/drinking perspective, we’re remarkably spoiled.

The thing that has us grounded right now is completely my fault – I let someone else work on the boat. Someone else that has a long history of not doing things in a timely fashion. Another mechanic vs “mechanic” issue of sorts.

So here’s the story, I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learned.

 

Mechanic Madness

Let’s call this mechanic Gary. Gary is a decent human being. He’s also a decent mechanic. He’s a German, but has been living in Panama long enough that he’s adopted many of the Panamamian customs: being horribly late, rarely finishing things, preferring to talk rather than work (while charging you $40/hour). Gary is also the only shop in town, which helps him get away with being a shitty businessman.

But since Gary is a decent mechanic, I decided (3 months ago) to let him do some work when I went back to the States. The goal was to remove the time-related frustration associated with Gary’s work and have things progressing on the boat while I was Stateside.

I knew Gary wouldn’t do things correctly unless I wrote it down, negotiated the price, and was very clear about the due date. So I wrote a list of all 3 tasks. Then I put a set price on all of them. Then I assigned the date. Then I had him sign it, gave him a copy, and kept one for myself. Then I paid him ½ in advance. I thought this was foolproof. Even if he didn’t finish, I would have some work done when I returned and he seemed to understand the concept of a contract. Fool me once…

I returned from the States. Gary had done two of the three tasks. I advised him of the other task – but he said he was too busy to complete it before I was leaving for San Blas. This task was fairly straightforward but it required a tool I didn’t have and I was nervous about screwing up a fairly complex (and very expensive) part of my boat: the saildrive. Both saildrives were leaking a bit of oil – I just needed to switch out a seal.

Long story short: I went to San Blas, came back, and still couldn’t get Gary to fix stuff. I chased him around, then got busy with the refit. Three weeks ago I dropped by his house (naturally, neither his business phone nor his cell phone were working) and caught him. He came out, pulled one saildrive, gave me the seal, and I went into Panama City on another wild-goose-chase for boat parts. I located, purchased, and brought the seals back to Gary. Two weeks later he finally got around to installing them.

I thought that was it.

But we had a friend visit from Panama City, and we were going to take a little break and go sail to a nearby beach where we’d spend a couple of nights. We got the engines running, unclipped from the mooring (before we should have), and I noticed that my portside engine wasn’t operating correctly. F***.

We were quickly being blown into another yacht. I figured out that the saildrive was operating in reverse (when I pushed the throttle forward, it went into reverse and vice-versa).   With that bit of knowledge I was able to get us back to the mooring and safely moored.

Then we began cursing Gary. Then Oliver showed up and we did some troubleshooting. This effectively killed my planned mini-vacation, I wasn’t happy. I couldn’t get ahold of Gary. We tried the obvious fixes, but it became obvious the fix wasn’t obvious.

I am stuck. It is my fault. Gary is an imbecile.

Eventually I got cornered Gary. He said he couldn’t come out, he was too busy. He tried to send a minion. I told him no, that the fix wasn’t obvious. He needed to come and fix it himself. He said “Ok” but it will be a few hours. I said “No problem, but it needs to be today.” He said “Of course.”

That day Gary never showed, naturally. The next morning Gary’s minion shows up. I was sick of dealing with the situation (and a little hungover from a celebration the night before), and in a moment of weakness I let the minion onboard. The minion worked for a while, then told me he needed something back a Guido’s. Then he left. Naturally, he left all of my tools scattered about my boat and throughout my engine room.

When I went to collect my tools from the engine room, things got worse. Not only did the minion take a part of my saildrive with him, he also sheared off part of my engine control cable. Furious is an understatement.

I took the night to cool off, but went to visit Gary the next morning. Not home, at Panamarina. I went to Panamarina. I saw Gary, here’s how the conversation went:

Me: (calmly) “Hey Gary. Did Armando tell you what he did onboard my boat?”

Gary: (flippantly) “He said you guys broke some things, and that he couldn’t fix it.”  Implying it was my problem.  Implying he may or may not fix it.  Implying that he wasn’t worried about making things right.

Me: (opposite of calm)   “Armando is a f***ing liar. He broke the engine control cable, there were three people onboard when he did it. Where is that simpleton, I can’t wait to get my hands on him. I’m trying to remain patient, but this was supposed to be finished three months ago, and I have your signature on a piece of paper confirming that. You remember that? Do I need to get that contract? Months after it was supposed to be completed, you screwed it up. Then you didn’t come fix it. Then you sent that little shit Armando, after I told you not to. Then he broke my boat. Then he lied about it. You have one week. ONE WEEK.”

Gary: “One week for what?”

Me: “One week to fix this. You go buy the Teleflex cable, then you come and install it and fix my saildrive. ONE. WEEK.”

The first time I’ve actually lost my cool in Panama. Not my brightest moment, but dealing with the series of compounding failures, then the flippancy, then the lying – that would push any human being to the point of near-violence.

It’s kind of a sticky situation right now; he may very well decide to not come fix his mistake. I’ll let Gary have this Sunday to rest and relax, but starting Monday – every morning I’m going to be at his house reminding him. Every. Single. Morning.  The hope is that if I can annoy him 1/4 as much as he’s annoyed me, he’ll fix it.

I’d like to say the moral of the story is that I need to have better tools onboard and need to spend the time to do the repairs myself. Relying on other people to do these kinds of tasks isn’t working. But: some things, like this, require a specialized knowledge, or a special tool or two. And even guys with this specialized knowledge screw tasks up from time-to-time.  And contracts don’t always work.  Especially when you’re in a country where the legal system is a jumbled mess of nonsense.  Maybe the moral of the story is to never hire someone who you know is unreliable, regardless of the safeguards you think you have in place.  Even if they’re the only shop in town.

Back on the water, we’re continuing to chip away at tasks. We’re diving when we need fish. The anchorage is slowly filling up with familiar faces. The weather is cooler.   Even knowing the way boat-repairs go (3X as long, 5X as expensive) – I’m convinced we’ll be out of here soon.  Gary is the only real problem onboard right now, and he’s not even onboard – just his problems are.

Forward and Reverse

The First 6 Months

It’s been roughly 6 months since I left the US to live on a sailboat, spearfish, and sail around the world. Of those things, I can safely say that there’s been more of the first than the last two.   This is a kind of recollection, in the form of stream-of-consciousness.  So I’m missing things, and some things are remembered as they exist in my memory – which is, in every human, distorted.

Month 1

Tough, but the honeymoon phase. I was in a foreign country, without the ability to communicate, without knowing anybody, having dramatically changed my life. I was happy to call Panama home, but that was because I hadn’t tried to actually accomplish anything here yet. Much like the early stages of a romantic relationship – I only saw the positives of Panama: a slower pace of life, a lush landscape, a beautiful coastline.

Shortly afterward, though, the rainy season began in earnest.

I knew the rainy season wasn’t going to be fun here. I planned on that. But stuck inside a leaky boat when it’s pouring rain outside is no fun. It sucked. I spent the days and nights figuring out where I was going to sail to – so I could escape the monsoons. The water was too dirty to dive. Things were breaking all around me. My engines were starting by themselves. I was learning that when anybody in Panama gives you a price (if you’re a gringo)– they’re likely trying to rip you off. I was learning that the Panamanian sense of time is deeply and totally flawed. If they tell you they will be there tomorrow, it will be next week if you’re lucky.  “Manana-time” is very real, but “Panama time” is a remarkable thing – to the point it seems unreal.

Month 2

So much to learn. I was gaining some level of confidence onboard. I was reading quite a bit and had learned my way around the town (Puerto Lindo). I’d figured out how to do some sailing. I even headed to San Blas for a couple of weeks. Beautiful. It was at this point I was in love with the lifestyle.

I was ignorant of the upcoming challenges; you don’t know what you don’t know.

I was making friends and learning the way the local cruiser/sailors did things. I flipped a dingy in a very remote spot and managed to get things under control. I’d learned a bit about anchoring. I’d spent nights up on anchor watch in storms. I was learning the importance of cooking. I was learning the importance of coffee. I was learning how much time would really be spent working on the boat, as opposed to freediving and spearfishing. I was trying to learn to provision and ration water.  I was trying not to violate Rule Number Two onboard:  don’t drink too much.

It was also this point that I was beginning to really feel the separation from everything back home. Some personal relationships were eroding. I had nothing in common with friends from back home. It was becoming increasingly clear that when people said “I’ll visit” – it wasn’t said in earnest. Looking back, it’s perfectly predictable – making a radical change in one’s life will surely lead to radical changes in the people around you. I was beginning to grasp the concept that people would keep living their lives, and the most you could really expect is an occasion read of your website/blog. Maybe an email. That’s enough, though.

Month 3

Shit. This is tough. Things were breaking faster than I could learn how to fix them. I couldn’t find parts. I couldn’t find reliable help. I couldn’t do much of the work myself. Between the daily chores – cooking, cleaning, exercising, hauling water, writing, and a little bit of boat-maintenance, I couldn’t even squeeze in a dive.

Projects were piling up. I needed tons of gear that I didn’t have. I bought too much useless gear. I didn’t know how to use much of the gear that I had. Every major system onboard needed maintenance. All of the minor systems too. I didn’t know where all of these systems were. Spearfishing here sucked. It still sucks.   The locals were stealing from me. They’re still trying to steal from me.

I developed a painful and worrying infection on my finger. Nobody could fix it. Nobody could diagnose it. No drugs were working. The local doctors weren’t very helpful. I headed back to the States, where I learned how much I had changed and how little everyone else had. I came back to the boat, and felt like I’d been away far too long.

After reserving cabins, in the hope that people back home would come visit – I decided to recruit some help. I did.   Damo and Chels came. Both were a welcome addition and brought a ton of personality and different skillsets. I decided having crew is great. I also decided having crew in designated roles with designated skillsets is best.  I also realized that having more people onboard, cruising in remote locations is exponentially more difficult: you need much more water, you need much more food, your boat is much heavier, you have less peace and less space….

Still, I decided crew was worth it. I still believe that, though what I look for in crew is evolving quickly. What I now value in crew changes with the state of the boat, and with my personal evolution.

Month 4

Progress, slowly. Things were breaking but I was learning how to fix them.   My crew was pitching in to kick-off to San Blas. I was learning the lingo and could even teach a bit about sailing to the crew. Damo was passing on some skills. Chels was helping keep things organized and clean. I wasn’t as frustrated with Panama, but I was itching to get back out and do some sailing.

There was now a morning routine – coffee and reading for the first hour or so. There was also an evening routine – drinks and socialization with other cruisers. I was beginning to take ownership of the boat and boat maintenance. But the boat projects (the big ones) were continuing to pile up.

When I was stuck in the engine room one day, bleeding and sweating profusely – a friend called and told me something I’d almost forgotten. It’s still with me. He said, “Chill out. You’re there. You did it. You’re a young, healthy guy on a nice catamaran. You have few obligations.  You have no schedule. You have no boss. If it takes you a year to refit and understand your boat – no problem. Part of this is learning to enjoy the journey, and quit focusing on the destination.”

I would come to realize those words are really important. I would also see that the sailors around me understood this mindset. I would also see how many people, especially from the States, could benefit from this mindset. Even when I bring on crew – I feel like this is a mindset they slowly need to learn.

Month 5

It’s about the small things. I’m appreciating the sunsets. Even when I can’t dive, I realize how lucky I am to wake up and have this view. I’m not working for somebody else. I no longer feel like an indentured servant. I don’t stress about commutes. I don’t have to listen to the world’s problems. I have the greatest luxury of all:  simply not giving a shit. I spend my time the way I want. I’m around interesting people doing interesting things. I’m learning new things in new cultures. At the end of the day, I usually make a crisp drink. When I cook I usually do it with a glass of wine. At lunch sometimes I have a cold beer.

My largest concern is my ability to begin an extensive refit. At this point, I was perfectly comfortable taking the next two to three months to fix the boat. I wrote a list of major projects that covered two pages.  The projects covered every part of the boat, and there were a myriad of skills I needed to learn.

Then I started the refit. Everything is broken. I can’t find parts. I don’t know how to fix things. Jesus Christ, this is expensive.

It’s me on my lonesome again – so now I have to clean and cook, on top of a major refit. Ouch, this is going to be painful. I really just want to sail and dive – can I please, please get somewhere better than Isla Linton (Puerto Lindo)? No fish. Poor diving. No solid help. The locals are thieves. The women aren’t attractive. Few people can hold an intelligent conversation.  At least they sell beer here…

I take another gamble with some crew, starting to default to “yes” if someone brings a necessary skillset to the table. Josh comes onboard. Things start moving. We get along. He works hard. We eat and drink like kings. We are kings; we make our own rules,we make our own lists, we do whatever the Hell we want to do.   There is, outside of the refit, complete and utter freedom.   But we want to leave. So we work hard. And that brings it’s own stress and challenges.  Much of this comes through in my writing.

Month 6

Work, play. Josh and I are alternating between working really hard and playing. We’re not getting invited to as many social/cruiser events, we’re working too hard. But we’re making up our own social events, with new friends.  There’s an increase in estrogen onboard. It’s welcome. The truth (for me) about boat-life is that it’s better when there are bikinis hanging off my life lines, when there are meals cooked, and when the dishes are clean.

Boat projects are coming along: my battery bank is replaced, solar is wired in. We’ve polished both fuel tanks. A myriad of small projects are complete. The boat is better. Things are coming together at a rapid pace, and it’s finally starting to feel like I might, someday, get out of Puerto Lindo. Hell, maybe we’ll even find some decent spearfishing somewhere. Wasn’t that a big part of the reason I started this?

I recruit for cooking/cleaning help so that Josh and I can focus on the boat. The benefits of adding another crewmember outweigh the cons, right now.

Having someone onboard to focus on cooking/cleaning will help us focus on what we need to do. When we take off sailing, we can focus on sailing. When we’re able to dive, we can focus on diving.

I find help, she seems legit and more importantly – seems like she really wants to be part of the trip. And she doesn’t have a hard return-date. Done.

Things are coming together, but old (in cruising-time) cruising friends are leaving for new cruising grounds and we’re all feeling the itch to get under way. The itch turns to a burning sensation. I’m feeling a ton of self-induced pressure, and I’m sick of throwing money into the boat. We’re back into monsoon weather patterns, which thwarts our progress in a myriad of ways: we can’t work outside much, we don’t feel like working when it’s nasty out, everything stays wet/damp. The boat is a constantly evolving, soaking wet, construction zone.  F*** this rain.

Right Now

That brings us to the present. So, here are the questions that I’ve been asked many times in emails, in conversations, and by followers/readers:

• Nate, how do you feel about the decision?


• Any regrets?


• Would you do anything differently?


• Are you happy?

Here is the answer, without bullet points:

It was the right decision. I’ve learned more in the last 6 months than I’ve learned in the last 6 years. I’m challenged everyday. I’m learning quite a bit about myself, which, without the challenges I’ve faced here – I wouldn’t have.   I’ve lost 25 pounds. I’m healthy, active, intrigued. I know more about working with my hands than I ever have. I own my own time (think about how much of your day you really own).  I feel remarkably lucky to be able to say everything in the preceding paragraph.

There are some regrets. Not many though. If hindsight is always 20/20, I’m happy to say that my foresight wasn’t as foggy as I expected. Many of the decisions I made were the right ones. The ones that were wrong were necessary learning experiences, and based upon my inexperience. Hopefully those mistakes won’t be repeated. Most of the regrets are expected – ones that involve the natural loosening of relationships as you remove yourself from other people’s lives.  I don’t have any other regrets. Not one.

The grand concept is this: I would do some things differently. But that’s only because I already did them once this way. And there is no way to determine if another way would have yielded any better results.

In a perfect world:  I would spend more time writing and learning. I would work harder to remove much of the (self-induced) pressure.   I would have brought specialized crew on earlier. I would have learned more about boat maintenance (but without needing to learn it, I’m not sure I would have dedicated the time). I would have learned more about options trading.

Wrapping Up

It’s not all lollipops and rainbows, but it’s a good life.

The decisions I’ve made over the last year have yielded some incredible results. It’s amazing the difference a year can make. But for this kind of change you must put everything behind an idea, and all the chips on the table. You have to be willing to sacrifice. You have to be willing to lose relationships, alienate yourself, and to face really huge challenges.

That said, I now live on my sailing yacht in the Caribbean. Shortly, this sailing yacht will be remarkably seaworthy and comfortable.

Everyday I wake up with an awesome view.

I have good, new, interesting friends.

And real friends from home drop me a line every now and then.

Family is visiting for the Holidays.

I have a capable crew with dedicated roles onboard.  The crew is really happy to be here, thankful, and appreciative. We usually get along. We’re healthy. We’re usually happy. We’re learning. We’re meeting new people and getting into new (and usually quite harmless) trouble.

Most importantly, I’m no longer taking part in the hollow existence of middle-class America. Where you live to work. Where you give up your time for money. Then you give up your money for objects that are unnecessary. Then you realize you’ve given up all your time, and don’t have anything of real value to show for it.  Then you ponder.  Then you realize that the only thing you ever had was your time.  And that you may, indeed, have wasted a good portion of it. And no, busy-ness doesn’t qualify as well-used time.  Promise.

To quote these lines from Thoreau is almost cliché. But I can’t think of a better way to say it. Written over 150 years ago – the words are timeless.

The mass of men lead lives of quite desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.

To really grasp what he’s saying, it may be worth it to read the words several times.

I can safely say that I’ve avoided (or maybe postponed?) that fate. Somewhere between my previous adventures in combat, traveling, spearfishing, and this – I’ve managed to break the mold. It really wasn’t hard. Anyone can do it. It just takes a bit of courage and a lot of follow-through. Of course, you also have to be comfortable swimming against the current.  To swim against the current, though, one only needs to remember how thoroughly mediocre life in-the-current can be:  school, college, marriage, kids, house, work, retirement, death. Occasionally there will be something exciting in that existence.  Occasionally there will be something stimulating.  There will be death, and love, and loss.  You will make money, and you will lose money.  But it doesn’t change (my) truth:  that existence is mediocre, at best (those of you who have shared a drink with me will appreciate that phrase more than others).

I’m not sure how we are supposed to value our lives. I suppose that’s pretty personal. These last six months have, in my eyes, dramatically increased the value of my existence.

So – how were my first six months? Exactly how they were supposed to be.

The First 6 Months

More Refit

Chipping away.  We say it every day, and it’s true.  We’ve managed to install a couple of bilge pumps.  We’ve managed to get both engines and fuel systems operational.  Fixed a ton of minor things.  Wired in everything.  Got the watermaker running 100%.  But we haven’t done much diving.  And there hasn’t been any real adventure (besides going to Colon, which is always an adventure).  No sailing to speak of.

There were two more of those hectic work-sprints, where we worked until damn near midnight.  We’ve had two solidly philosophical nights with Oliver – quite times with beer and a nice sunset (funny there aren’t more of these philosopher/sailors around).  There was a trip to Panamarina for a much-needed break.  We had another friend visit from Panama City.  Some of our boat-neighbors left, which is always a small bummer. We tried night-diving but were completely rained out before we got any real diving in.

Night-Diving Prep

 

Then we headed into Colon.

I usually feel like being armed when you’re traveling is more trouble than it’s worth.  Not so in Colon.  I actually feel a bit naked without some means of defense there.  That’s not a place I like to feel naked in.  Josh agrees, so we pack a fair amount in the way of self-defense.  After all, we’re gringos with long blonde hair in a very dark, very poor city.  We stick out.  A full day of running around and dealing with less-than-helpful people, in a foreign language, in a city that looks more like a war-zone than a proper place to live left us exhausted and needing a few stiff drinks.  I’ve been to Baghdad and Caracas, during war (ish) times.  Colon isn’t quite at that level, but it’s getting close.

Colon’s Mainstreet

All that probably doesn’t sound like much.  But all of that is real.  The dream of sailing around the world comes with a unique set of “entry-fees.”  They’re not always monetary, but I will say that the bank account drains quickly during a refit.  These entry-fees are very rarely apparent on the surface.  So while you may be looking for more crazy adventures of us diving and landing monster fish and eating crazy amounts of sashimi – that may come.  But the first part of this is, in fact, one of those entry-fees.

All that said:  we did bring on our newest crew member:  Honey.  She’ll be hanging with us for a bit, I hope.  As of now, between the three of us we have the majority of the roles covered.  It ought to be a fun when we really get in the groove.  I’ll post some pictures at some point.  We stuck with tradition:  we drank and played cards for Honey’s first night aboard.  Nothing crazy, we were all in bed before midnight.

On another note, it’s continuing the monsoon thing here.  Meaning that it pours rain on us at least once a day.  That’s remarkably frustrating when you’re in the middle of a project and you have to pack up a bunch of wet tools and hurry inside.  It also makes a mess out of everything onboard.  Leave paper out?  Trashed.  Leave a hatch open?  Major mess.  Need to dry something?  It’ll be up there for a week before it gets enough sunshine to be dry.  Ditto on wet books.

I’m ready for the dry season.  So ready.

And, although there are still a ton of work we need to do – I’m starting to feel a bit more confident about getting under way in early December. We need to tighten up the engines, but after that – there’s not much left to do.  We’ve made startling amounts of progress, something Josh deserves some real credit for.

Anyways – don’t drop off the mailing list quite yet.  We’ll do some sailing soon, and undoubtedly get into some trouble.  Then I’ll write and you’ll smirk and think about how you would never do something like that.  And you’ll probably be right.

 

More Refit

Still Working

Still refitting. We’re making progress, but it’s the usual: refitting a boat, in a foreign country takes forever. We’ve figured out some issues with my watermaker, fixed my generator, and done some other things that help make our lives a little better and a little more comfortable. Some cruiser friends think I’m getting too comfortable here (that’s to you, Mike) – but the only way I can make it out there quicker is for them to sail back and help refit. That’s a pretty unlikely scenario, me thinks.

We had a couple of ½ days of work recently. First we were recovering from a work-sprint. Then we were recovering from a friend’s visit. Then Oliver came over and we drank beer and talked modern and ancient philosophy.  Then we just wanted to have a day when we didn’t feel pressured to do anything. With those days complete, though, we were ready to start ticking off the list. We want to get to Bocas Del Torro ASAP. And we have another crew member coming in on the 10^th. That’s super-quick.

Everyday we find we need new parts. Parts we’re not always sure where to get. Parts that could be described as “specialty.” I’ll be so damn glad when we get this refit done and sail out of Puerto Lindo. It’s past time.

Our departure for Bocas Del Torro also depends on me being able to get ahold of a bunch of new anchor chain and a 60lb Manson Supreme anchor. Good luck, right? With a (hopeful) launch date of December 1^st, it’s going to be tight trying to get that here and mounted onboard in time…

It can be tough trying to refit on a schedule. Every now and then I remember why I started this whole thing – and much of it was to remove other people’s demands of my time.   Something that’s often forgotten about bringing on crew, is that they come with expectations. They want to sail. They want to travel. Which is fair.   But, what comes before all else is my sanity. And then the completeness of the sailing vessel. And then, way, way down the line: the crew’s desires. With that in mind, we’ll leave when S/V NOMAD is ready. Not before then though.  I do hope that day is approaching.

On another note, I think we’re going to go night spearfishing tonight. That’s going to be fun.   The game here is to find a decent spot during daylight hours, then drag my dinghy, a battery, and my underwater LED light to said spot. Then post up on the edge of the light and shoot what gets mesmerized by the light. Not sure how it’s going to go, but I’d imagine it will make for a good story. Finger’s crossed.

 

 

Still Working

More Of The Same

I know what you’re thinking:  Nate, we’re sick of seeing the same damn sunset.  Me too.  I’m ready to move. But we can’t until we get the yacht tightened down.  So:  we’ve worked really hard.  It was 2 or 3 AM the other night when we eventually knocked off.  A long day.  A long night.  Moving diesel fuel around is one of the least fun things on the face of the planet. And it’s horrible for your health. I’m positive.

We needed to polish a couple of fuel tanks.  It’s a dirty, nasty job and you’re going to have to deal with me complaining about it.  It kills alot of brain cells.  I would hire someone, but then you can’t trust that it’s done correctly – so Josh and I did it all by our lonesome.  I can officially say that’s the worst job onboard.  Worse than fixing marine heads (toilets).  Worse than dealing with seasick passengers.  Worse than reefing a sail when I’m taking big waves over the bow.  Horrible.  I just read about a friend dealing with the worst weather imaginable on a yacht.  His ordeal might have been worse, but I’d say polishing fuel tanks is up there.

Moving diesel and polishing fuel tanks leaves you covered in diesel.  In addition your boat/condo is also covered in diesel.  That’s not fun.  As a matter of fact you often get pretty ill moving it around.  We were ill.  Josh fell overboard at one point, in the middle of the night.  That makes him the first crew member to fall overboard without being pushed.  I’ve been overboard, but only after Rob’s party, a shove by an Aussie, and a few too many alcoholic beverages.  Josh falling overboard was a sign that we were working too hard, Josh is very closely related to monkeys in his ability to climb and hang onto things… Over the course of a day we got the tasks complete.  Of course, I’d promised a bit of relaxation at the end of this little ordeal.  I felt ill and things seemed pretty dismal at times, but it was my boat and I signed up for this.  This wasn’t Josh’s boat, and he may or may not have signed up for this.  So I promised a bit of entertainment.

The next day I brought a couple of friends onboard.  I’d met a couple of young Panamanians, who decided that they’d come onboard.  I don’t hang with the locals, they only scope yachts to steal things from them.  But I will hang with the occasional semi-local from Panama City, if they can (minimally) speak broken English.  So they came, I picked them up, and we went exploring.  We visited a couple of beaches, I cooked, we came back, and they decided to have a dance-party onboard.  No problem, there are worse things than young Latino women dancing onboard.  Way worse – like polishing fuel tanks.  Here’s them trying to convince Josh that he could dance.  Nada.  We’re not built for this kind of dancing, but I feel confident saying I did asi-asi (so-so).

The Latino Dance Party

I wish I had more pictures, but I was cooking and they were dancing.  You can see my newest take on paella taking shape in the left-hand corner.  We had no time for picture-taking.

A bit of drinking commenced. Interesting to listen to the semi-locals complain about how lazy Panamanians are.  For some reason, when a semi-local complains about something, you feel like it’s more legitimate… I thought I was the only person who’d noticed.

Before you become judgmental:  I know what you’re thinking:  Nate, you’re a scoundrel.   But this kind of behavior has left me with a much better grasp of Espanol.  I can tell you, officially, if someone is cursing at me. That’s progress.  All of this was done in the name of science.  You’re welcome.

Back to the story:  the girls needed to get home, thankfully.  And we have plenty of work. So I dropped the girls off in the middle of a windstorm, and we got back to work when Josh woke up.  I’ve been up since 5AM.  I’m starting to realize that the captain gets the least sleep, the most work, and the least diving.  I wish someone had told me that before I started.

The work list is shrinking, and we’re slowly moving S/V NOMAD toward a real, reliable sailing vessel.  Naturally, it’s one step forward and two back in Panama.  I’ll also admit that it would be quicker in the States.  But then we wouldn’t have this view.  And at this point, who’s really worried about time?  Next stop:  Bocas del Torro.  I hope.

More Of The Same