Happy Holidays from The Nomad Trip

So.  This post is part catchup, well-wishing, and looking back.

Since my last post, we’ve done a ton of fishing, poker-playing, some Holiday celebrations and making of new friends from other places on the planet.  I’ve traveled and said goodbyes and said hellos and reconnected with people from my previous life in the ratrace.  I’ve shed a couple of anchors and found unexpected freedom (not without struggle).  My (awesome) crew has moved on to other adventures.  My (super-awesome) friends on Sundowner have moved on as well.  And my plans seem to be changing faster than I can make them.

 

More San Blas Shenanigans

The Swimming Pool is undoubtedly my favorite anchorage in San Blas;  I guess that is somewhat obvious to those of you that follow along.  Here we have a beautiful and protected anchorage with great holding and a stunning view every morning.  We have good-to-great fishing that is usually accessible.  We have peace and tranquility.  We have friends.  And sometimes we get a weak internet signal that allows us to communicate with the people that we need to communicate with.  We even managed to do some Amazon shopping for Christmas and book flights for our upcoming adventures.

The Swimming Pool

Hi

The Swimming Pool

We’ve been eating well.  Very well.  Dez cooks like a champ and Tate and I put as much fish on the table as we can eat (and more).  In fact, we are so successful so consistently that it’s become tradition for us to get fresh fish for our friends in the anchorage.  Often, before we even leave to go freedive/spearfish, we take fish orders.  Our friends on Meridian (heya Dom, tell the fam we miss y’all) went as far as to give us a fish-order which we promptly filled.  Other boats that anchor near us have stopped their attempts to fish altogether (now that they realize we are giving away fresh fish fillets, cleaned and bagged).  Our free fish ordering and delivery service is a running joke that we enjoy participating in.

Cleaning up the reef

Crabs and such

Spearfishing girls

San Blas Hogs

FISH!

Dez and Ana have become addicted to spearfishing, and as new addicts do – they have more of a drive to spearfish than I often do.  The days became somewhat predictable, in the best possible way.  I would stumble upstairs to fresh French-pressed Colombian coffee and a great breakfast.  We would listen to the net at 08:30.  Then around 10:00 Tate or Dani and I would decide who would play who in our morning chess ritual.  During this chess game we would discuss plans for the day, boat gear, and cooking ideas.  The plans for the day were based around how much fish we had, what the weather looked like, and how we felt.  Some days were diving days and others were cooking days and others were chilling days.

Kitchen boss

Thanksgiving

One thing I’ve always appreciated about this lifestyle is that under normal (whatever that means) circumstances we have the time to celebrate almost any occasion.  Thanksgiving was no exception, and even our foreign friends (who don’t celebrate Thanksgiving) came and celebrated their first Thanksgiving with us Americans.  We hosted Swiss and Brazilian and Spanish friends on NOMAD.  Tate showed us his gumbo skills (I learned about rue).  Dom showed us her cheesecake skills.  Dani showed us her bread skills.  Ana and Dez cooked too.  Then we all gorged on a feast on par with any 5 star restaurant (and with better company and views).

Cheesecake

Gumbo!

Int’l Thanksgiving

Real-life

My friends in this community, and myself, have taken to calling the inconveniences and interruptions from home (see legal, banking, travel, and family concerns) “real-life.”  The words “real-life” are muttered in a tone that conveys a bit of frustration, and we all know what the other is talking about.  But, over the last couple of weeks,  I’ve been thinking about that.  I’m not convinced that is “real-life.”  In fact, I’m convinced that the life I (and those lucky enough to be doing something similar) live is remarkably more “real.”  Legal, business, money, and other “back-home” concerns aren’t very real.  Those are the things that we must do, and those are the things that take away from “real-life.”  Interest rates and worries about paperwork and entanglements that we are unable to shed are anything but real. They’re constructs of society that are forced upon us, infringing upon our days and trying oh-so-hard to bring us back into the fold.  When we call that “real-life” – we’re doing everyone a disservice, as what our modern culture accepts as “real” is – in fact – the least real way of living that I have ever encountered.  If not immersed in the ratrace, one can’t help to look at it as some dystopian nightmare. It’s a facade that keeps us from seeing and living real life.

With all of that said, no matter how much one tries to distance themselves from these issues and concerns – they do pop up from time to time.  Crew leaves.  Friends move on.  Family makes requests.  Things break.  Relationships crumble.  Plans must be made.  And with that, our real-lives here (living well, having good conversations, eating well, drinking well, exploring and traveling, owning our time) are halted while we deal with the consequences of our societal constructs we (dangerously) label “real-life.”

There is very little real about it.  But it snuck up on us and suddenly things in our utopian lives were, again, changing.

 

Looking Back

At the end of a year we all look back.  It’s natural.  Inevitable.  It’s not a bad thing.

Langosta?

Kuna taking our fish heads

Looking back, it’s been a long road, though I’m remarkably close to the very place all of this started.  But physical proximity to the start of one’s journey can hardly be a metric.  The metrics should be growth and learning and time well-spent.    After all, if one is to indeed circumnavigate, one will end up back where one started – but with a host of experiences that cannot be bought, only earned.  And earn them we do.

Pipes and such

 

Two years ago I was a very different person.  Unhappy in my moments of honest reflection, with the realization that the life many expected me to lead would be hollow.  I couldn’t fix things. I’d never owned a boat.  I couldn’t cook nor did I appreciate food.  I took for granted many important relationships.  I was fat, stressed, and always planning my great escape.  Everyone owned my time.

On the surface I had an enviable position – I lived in a great city, I made good money, I was productively employed somewhere that gave me the illusion I was making an impact.  I had great friends, a strong relationship, an awesome dog and more vehicles than I could drive.  There were motorcycles and vacations and parties.  I was on sound financial footing (much moreso than now) and I didn’t need to rely on anyone else for any of that.

But. The great understanding is that the only thing that we truly posses is our time. And I didn’t really own that.

It’s hard for anyone who can really think to put too much value on these things modernity has put on a pedestal.  Are they important?  Sure.  And it’s often hard to be happy without food and shelter.  But I’m of the opinion that thinking men (and women) inevitably come to the same conclusion, if they are honest with themselves (that’s a big if):  the daily grind is mundane, and the art of getting by is mostly the art of distraction.  Busyness is mistaken for productivity.  What is called productivity is busyness.  The metric of a day well-spent is this mislabeled  “productivity.”  And if you just stay busy enough, if you can stay on the path to the white-picket fence – you may be lucky enough to survive a divorce and heart failure and the stress that comes with a grownup career and kids.

You may have a spawning event in which you bring forth more humans into a world that is unsustainably populated and unquestionably being vandalized by our species.  Stay the course, though, and you may get a chance to retire (if the stock market or Enron or a frivolous lawsuit or Bernie Madoff don’t wipe you out).  In which case your ego will likely be tied up in your job or your education, the cessation of which may kill you.  Of course, you’ll then have a mortgage or two and car notes and you’ll have to have made a fair amount of money to sustain that (or continue working until you drop dead).  You’ll be up to your eyeballs in commitment that sneaked in.  And if you manage to get free from those things – you’ll be at an age that makes enjoying your newfound freedom (?) difficult.

So.  Looking back – I’ve made choices that freed me from much of that.  I’ve had experiences that can’t be bought or recreated. My travel hasn’t been restricted to two weeks a year and I’ve strayed from the path more traveled.  My destinations aren’t resorts nor are they in The Lonely Planet.

Island-signage

Coke

Shopping runs

My mistress

What’s different now?  I’m a bigger and better person with a more satisfying life.  Cocktail party conversations aren’t limited to the mundane: interest rates, caring for newborns, workplace politics, or even geo-politics.  We have stories that involve real-life and real living.  We have real struggles.  And, most satisfying of all:  I built this house.  There were a million ways to live my life, a million choices, a million forks in the road.  Challenges that seemed insurmountable.  Knowledge that seemed unlearnable.  Conflicts that seemed unwinnable.   Steps that seemed too large to take.  Chasms too wide to cross. Risks that seemed too great.  Bills that seemed too large to pay and checks that seemed too large to cash. Relationships that have crumbled, mistakes that have cost me dearly.

Where I face challenges

With all of that, I’m here.

Here and present

Here’s me wishing you a truly New Year in which you take big leaps.  I hope you defy convention.  I hope you tell the nay-sayers where to shove it – not with wanna-be pipe dreams, but with actions.  I hope you think of your life as a tapestry and not a series of steps along a path that was predetermined by other’s expectations.  That in this New Year you decide your journey is too important to leave to fate.  That your time is too precious to give away, or even sell.

On this New Year – blaze your own trail.  It’s infinitely more rewarding than mediocrity, and the challenges you’ll face as you try to break free are merely tolls along the route that leads to a life that’s actually worth living.  Pay the tolls, take the leap, face all of the fears – and live.  

Buen Viaje

Happy New Year from a semi-notorious, self-proclaimed captain of an always-broken sailing vessel.

Happy Holidays from The Nomad Trip

The saildrive fight is still on.  It’s the seventh or eighth round and I’m not sure who will win.  It may end up a split decision. I’ve overcome bad businesses, crappy customer service, impossible connectivity, and strange personality differences.  If I can’t figure it out before I go home for Christmas, I’ll simply buy the part there and put it all back together after I return.  But I really hope it doesn’t come to this.

With all that said, we’re still having fun. 

New, Good Friends

We’ve become great friends with Sundowner.  When you’re cruising, you live with a much greater understanding of the temporary nature of things – and this leads to relationships which form and strengthen remarkably quickly.  Because, inevitably, one of you will sail away.  Our friendship with Sundowner has been no exception. 

It helps, of course, that Tate is a promising spear fisherman and than Dani is an all-around awesome chick.  It also helps that Tate drinks good scotch.  And that they are funny.  And that they are in their 30’s (at least 20 years younger than the average cruiser).  There has been much laughing, some dancing, much fishing, much diving, beach fires, and a fair amount of drinking.  All in all, it’s been great. 

It’s probably not much of a surprise that Tate and I did some great diving. 

At some point the wind and waves calmed down enough for us to “get outside” to the good fishing.  Tate knew a spot, I knew a couple of spots – and together we were in great shape to land quality fish. 

The outside reef in The Swimming Pool is accessed through cuts in the reef – some can be taken when the waves are 1 meter or less, some can be taken when the waves are up to 3 meters.  But ain’t nobody wants to go outside when the waves are stacking up to 3 meters.  So on our 1 meter day – we all went outside.

The girls have the spearfishing bug as well.  They’re sometimes more excited about spearfishing than I am.  All the gusto of a beginner in an adrenaline-filled sport.  Ana shot her first Dog Snapper the other day.  Impressive stuff, all around.

Fish and Other Stuff

On the day in question Dani stayed back with another of our friends on Meridian (hey Dom!) to do some snorkeling.  That left Ana, Dez, Tate, and myself on our voyage.  We made it outside the reef and then I tried to find the familiar landmarks that make up one of my favorite spots on the outside of the reef.  I found the landmark, but our first dive produced nothing but a couple of swim-by’s (Tarpon and Permit).  So I swam back to the dinghy, picked everyone up, and repositioned. 

On our next dive we found the spot. Huge caves in the bottom where Grouper and Dog Snapper hid and hunted.  Sharks too.  Lemon sharks and Blacktip sharks and Grey Reef sharks all competing for your fish.  But where there are sharks there are fish, so this is a good sign. 

On my first few dives I scored two large Dog Snapper.  The sharks were active, so I returned to the dinghy with the fish.  Restringing my speargun in the dinghy I heard Tate yell, “HELP!” – and when I looked over at him I saw his speargun floating next to him and I knew he’d speared a fish.  He had, and the fish was in the process of thoroughly kicking his ass.  Tate’s a big guy.  So as I jumped in and kicked towards him I was hoping his struggle involved a giant fish.

I was not disappointed.  When I saw the flash of the fish I knew immediately he’d shot a respectable Cubera Snapper.  And when I saw his shot placement I loaded my speargun and prepared to shoot the fish again.  Tate’s spear was precariously lodged just under the skin of this huge fish who was literally fighting for his life.  By the time I reached the fish and got my hands in it’s gills to secure it, Tate had mostly recovered and the fish was largely under control. 

We high five and Tate tried to tell me the story of the fish between gasps and between waves.  I was mostly concerned with landing the fish so I pulled it back to the boat and let Tate recover.  That’s when I noticed the second fish on Tate’s shooting line. 

The story goes like this:  Tate had shot a couple of nice Dog Snapper and on his way back to the dive spot (from putting the fish in the dinghy) he spotted a few nice Dog Snapper and then something larger in a cave.  He dove to the bottom, sat there, and threw a few handfuls of sand up into the water column.  Which is when the Cubera’s curiosity got the better of him.  The fish approached Tate, and as the fish turned to give Tate the shot – a smaller Dog Snapper got between Tate and the Cubera.  Tate took the shot and his spear passed through the Dog Snapper into the Cubera.  At which point the Cubera went apeshit.

The Cubera ducked back into the hole (as they do) and refused to come out.  This is a large fish, at home underwater and in caves.  Tate is less at home underwater and in caves.  Which is why Tate and the fish had such a disagreement about where they were going next. 

To make a long story slightly less long, Tate’s shooting line wouldn’t let him get back to the surface without dragging the fish out of the cave.  Which left him with two choices:  get the fish out of the cave so he could return to the surface to breathe, or let go of his gear and lose the fish and the gear.  Tate managed to wrestle the fish out of the cave, which is when he hit the surface and yelled for help.

Here, it would make sense for this story to end.  Alas, there was more in store for us. 

With the Cubera secured in the dinghy we all laughed and congratulated and back-slapped.  But I knew we were in a hot spot, at the right time, and that this kind of thing doesn’t happen very often.  So I apologized for not sticking around and then jumped back in and kicked toward a hole I hoped would hold a nice fish for me. 

I was kicking hard when I saw the tail.  I knew it was a grouper, but couldn’t see the body and had no idea how large it was.  Just a tail that vanished into a hole.  That, though, is enough to dramatically raise my heartbeat. 

You see – in all of the time I had been diving San Blas I still hadn’t shot a Black Grouper.  It wasn’t an issue of seeing them – I saw them.  It wasn’t an issue of freediving skill – I could get down to them.  It was an issue of their spookiness.  They bolt, I mean HAUL ASS, whenever they see a diver.  You can chase them.  You can follow them to a hole.  You can search the entire labyrinth of the cave they swim into – but you won’t get within range.  They’re incredibly difficult here. In the Bahamas they are relatively easy.  In Mexico they’re an achievable goal.  But the Kuna Indians have been hunting them religiously for hundreds (?) of years here.  The Black Grouper in San Blas are a savvy fish.  And, as of the moment in question, I needed this monkey (Black Grouper) off my back.  Back to the story…

So when I saw this tail, I figured out an approach to the cave that would leave me hidden. Then I dove.  And this time, rather than running away the Black Grouper poked his head back out of his hole.  Then he turned slightly sideways to begin his escape, but it was too late. 

My heart was pounding and in my head I was screaming:  No Way! No Way! I’ve got him!  I’ve got him! FINALLY A BLACK GROUPER!  Nervous and excited in a way that neither Tuna, Billfish, Snapper, Wahoo, nor any other gamefish makes me, at least at this point in my spearfishing. 

I squeezed the trigger.  When the spear hit him he rolled and twitched.  One second the lights were on and somebody was home and the next it was an empty house.  Lights out.  And then it started to dawn on me that finally, finally, after over a year and a half – I had a San Blas Black Grouper.  Jesus H. Christ.  So much work.

Line fishing?  You can catch three a day.  But we work for our fish. 

With my prize in my hand I called the dive and we all regrouped at the dinghy.  From zero fish to enough to feed the anchorage – in TWENTY MINUTES.  When it’s hot, it’s hot.  The kind of day that you work really hard for and get rarely.  Finally. 

To make this fish story more interesting, I’ll tell you that Tate shot this Black Grouper too.  You read that right.  Tate shot the fish before I did.  When I got the fish to Tate he pointed out a hole in the fish’s tail where Tate’s spear had been only a few minutes before my spear stoned him.  A crazy day. 

Back in the anchorage we made the rounds.  We showed off the fish (many of the cruisers here are spearfishermen) and took orders.  It’s a longstanding tradition on NOMAD – when we have a good day fishing we clean and bag fish and give it away in the anchorage.  That makes friends and brings people together.  We had Permit, Yellow Jack, Black Grouper, Dog Snapper, and Cubera Snapper.  A great day fishing. 

Back onboard we took pictures.  Enjoy.

Fish and Bikinis

Dinghy full-o-fish

Fish!

San Blas Trophies

Then we set about the fish-processing.  It takes a couple hours to correctly process this many fish.  Every boat in the anchorage wanted fresh fish and as we were cleaning the Kuna came by – so they got fish and took all of our fish heads.  Not a drop was wasted.

Fish and Other Stuff

Moving Around San Blas

After our first night in the Swimming Pool, Sundowner left.  We still had Gris-Gris, Runner, Hiatus, the Dragonboat, and a few other friends around.  Everybody is our friend as we feed the anchorage when we have a good day fishing.  

The Girls

It was a little windy, the surf was up – so we couldn’t “get outside” to the good fishing, but we needed our daily diving session.  So we did a small dive inside the reef. Then we explored BBQ Island and decided to let the Kuna cook lunch for us.

The beach

Days full of simple living and no schedules.  Nights spent watching fish, chatting, and enjoying good wine. 

Then it was time for Teena to get back.  So we picked up our anchor and sailed to the East Lemmons. It wasn’t much, but it was sailing – finally. When we arrived at the East Lemmons we dropped anchor and I noticed a familiar boat in the anchorage – a captain that I’d met and become friends with in Cartagena.  Andres. Teena made it clear she wanted to party, and with Andres and crew – there’s always a party. 

So then night began.  We partied and ate with Andres and his crew – the group consisting of almost twenty people.  The girls danced and Andres gave salsa lessons.  I drank and laughed and did my best to make jokes in Spanish.

Suddenly we were out of beer.  There was beer on an island about two miles away.  But it was midnight.  The good news is I had the latest charts on my iPad and with Andres holding the iPad up front – I was able to steer the dinghy through the black night and around the myriad reefs to relative safety and cold beer.  It was a first, and we made people happy.

Teena was out early the next morning – heading back to Mexico.  After she left I was back asleep.  Then it rained.  So I  read.  We all relaxed as it rained and filled our tanks.  The real downside of rain is that we get no solar to charge our batteries.  And with another two people on the boat, we use a ton of energy.  So we were out of energy.  Naturally, when I pull out my Honda generator, it doesn’t start.  As if I was looking to compound the issue, now the pullcord breaks.  Have to take it apart, the girls help, we fix it and get it running to recharge our batteries.  It takes a few seconds to type that, but it took us hours to get it done.

We decide to stay around the East Lemmons waiting on news about my saildrive parts.  Naturally it doesn’t come (I’ve come to believe the guy I’m sourcing parts from borders on mentally handicapped).  I decide to not rush.  I decide to not worry.  Worst case scenario I’m returning home for Christmas and can pick up the parts then.

More charter captains (and good friends) come and go.  By day three in the East Lemmons, we’ve met almost all of my charter/backpacker buddies from Cartagena.  It’s good to know people. 

During this period I’m losing my mind.  There is very little diving in this area.  It’s raining.  My boat is broken.  I’ve killed a few good books.  But Mike takes me to a spot he knows.  He shows me a Dog Snapper hole, tells me it’s at 50 feet – a fair freedive when you’re hunting Dog Snapper (the tactic is to locate them, feign disinterest, dive to the bottom, sit there until curiosity gets the better of them and they approach you, hoping that happens before you need to breathe). 

The spot is a few large coral heads that are in a channel and connect to a reef wall.  The spot turns out to start at 45 feet and then drops another thirty feet before it hits the ocean floor.  So.  That’s beginning to get into the depth that I want to have a safety watching me.  If I sit on the ocean floor and a Dog Snapper circles just out of range – I have the tendency to forget that I need to breathe.  I set a mental depth limit at 55 feet, which would serve as my “bottom limit” – unless there was a great fish just two more kicks down. 

At 55 feet, with no sun and 20 feet of visibility I perched behind a coral head.  Waiting.  Concentrating on relaxing my muscles.  A fish circles just out of visibility.  The contractions start.  I run out of air. 

The surface.  Breathing. 

On the surface, Mike asks if I found the spot (the visibility made it impossible to locate the spot from the surface).  I tell him yes.  He asks if there were Dog Snapper there.  I told him no.  He says – they may be deeper.  I reset my depth limit to 66 feet on my dive watch and make the dive. 

Naturally I was more than a few feet away from where I wanted to be when I finally made it into the gloom and found the coral head.  More oxygen wasted as I swam along the bottom toward the coral head.  Finally there I headed down bit further.  My depth alarm went off.  66 feet.  And here come the Dog Snapper. 

The school stayed on the edge of my vision.  A good-eating size Dog Snapper gives me a broadside shot.  I take the shot, hit him well, and he slips under the coral head.  At 70 feet.  Already most of the way there, I descend further and untangle the fish and bring us both to the surface.  A lot of work for an unexciting fish.  He didn’t even make it into a picture. 

But we ate ceviche that night. 

And I slept well. 

The next post here will have bikinis and fish.  Which is why you’re all here.  So stay tuned.

Moving Around San Blas

Where to begin. 

The issue is connectivity.  I can’t post regularly, we’re blowing through data, and the posts stack up.  2/3 of our electronics are acting funny.  The other third lacks enough antenna to receive signal here… So, bear with me.  Getting connected, right now, is frustrating stuff.  And one of my new things is avoiding frustrating stuff.  

Onwards. 

So much has happened.

Teena finally made it onboard.  She was the final crew addition, and with her onboard the only thing we needed to figure out was the saildrive issue.  Did we figure it out? Probably.  Did we fix it? No.  But we did pull it apart (including making a special tool – thanks Volvo Penta – to remove the offending part) and get our hands on the broken parts.  Mike is a remarkable human being, and incredibly generous with his knowledge and time.  That’s the moral of this story. 

What caused the failure?  No idea.  Not even the boat-fixing-stuff God Mike had an explanation that we believed was 100% correct.  The truth?  If we can’t isolate the cause – it matters very little.  The remaining issues: finding the part, getting a fair price for it, getting it to us, and then (finally) installing it.  Continue mission.

As far as locating the part:  I am aware of a mechanic that claims to have my Volvo Penta 120S saildrives in his shop near here.  If that’s the case, I may be able to get a good deal on the entire saildrive and simply poach the part I need – which would leave me with a ton of spare parts for the next (inevitable) saildrive oops. 

Cruising San Blas

So.  Then it was about limping to some other anchorage so that we could wait for my saildrive-parts info in a place that we all enjoyed.  Spearfishing the outer reef in The Swimming Pool was the entire reason I came back to San Blas – so that’s where we headed. 

To get out of the tricky anchorage we were in (Yansaladup) with only one engine could become catastrophic quickly.  So we strapped the dinghy to my starboard hull and used that to get us up to speed and maneuver.  It worked wonderfully.  We have it down to an art now.

Dez fishing

 

There was wind on the nose as we headed to The Swimming Pool.  This is par for the course onboard NOMAD – wherever we go, the wind decides to work against us.  So the going was slow.  We averaged about 4 knots, and when we arrived we put Ana back in the dinghy to help me maneuver around the shallow spots and patch reef at the entrance to The Swimming Pool. 

Dez catching fish

As we entered, we found The Swimming Pool full.  And since I like my space, we pulled far into a cut and dropped the anchor in a spot that most wouldn’t.  

Friends in The Swimming Pool

Having confidence in your charts and your ground tackle makes these maneuvers possible.    It was tricky and I wasn’t beyond setting an anchor alarm. 

Sundowner, who we’d come to know online but not yet in person, was in the anchorage with their friends.  Of the other boats anchored around, I knew a few.  I made the rounds and said my hello’s.  It’s nice to feel welcome, to feel a sense of returning to a familiar place with familiar people.  Especially when the people are as generous and giving as the cruising community. 

Naturally, Sundowner was leaving the following day so we wouldn’t get to spend too much time with them this time ‘round.  So we did what we always do – drink and dive and socialize and laugh and eat. 

The surf was pounding the barrier reef, so “getting outside” wasn’t a reality.  We stayed inside and poked around some interior caves.  There’s a swim-through that provides some excitement and can be quite challenging when there is current.  To get through the swim through you have to be able to swim underwater for at least 45 seconds, sometimes upwards of a minute.  Not a huge deal, but enough. 

In the caves I saw a massive Goliath Grouper – which are fair game here – but he evaded me and never showed himself again.  He was over 100 pounds and likely would have pushed 200 pounds.  Not a huge specimen for the Goliath’s – but I consider landing a fish like that an achievement.  And I would have shot him as we had enough boats anchored around us that none of the fish would have been wasted.  But, alas, he was savvy.  Then Ana and I dove some patch-reef inside the barrier reef, but inside a channel. 

No other fish showed, and with three crew (including a chef) that wanted fresh fish – I was forced into Plan B.  Plan B: shoot Ocean Triggerfish.  I can almost always find them, they are tasty and have a great texture.  The only issue with the Ocean Triggerfish is what a PITA they are to clean.  Their skin resembles armor and dulls any knife, without fail. 

Triggerfish in the dinghy – we retired for the evening and put on our drinking pants and our fish lights. 

Ana is always swimming

Shortly we were watching clouds of baitfish around the boat and a bit later the Barracuda, Tarpon, and turtles came in.  A wonderful substitute for TV.  The fish light gives us the excitement of seeing both the large and small ocean-creatures of the night.  All night we talked and joked and drank.  The night regularly pierced with cries of “Look at that!” and “There’s something else huge!” or “Come look, quick!” .  

The fish-TV programming was topnotch onboard NOMAD. 

Cruising San Blas

Sunrise.

French pressed Colombian coffee wafted through the boat and coaxed me out of bed.  The boat slowly rocking, the movement almost imperceptible.  The girls were up and whispering on the deck, I heard them giggling.  Up.  Coffee.

I did a check of everything as I drank coffee and wiped the sleep from my eyes.  Engine room.  Oil and coolant and belts all checked out.  Power.  We had plenty of energy.  Water.  We were eating through our water rather quickly.

No headache this morning.  I thanked God for that and then wondered what God I should be thanking for a hangover-free morning?   The night before included champagne, good whiskey, and cold beer – all before sunset.  This morning could have been worse.  

San Blas!!

I started the engines and put Ana and Des on the bow to help pull anchor.  We were under way in 10 minutes.  I hailed our neighbors on the VHF and wished them fair winds.  They responded warmly.  Then I heard their radio chatter switch to the nuts-and-bolts as their little cruising group prepared to pull anchor and head to Colombia.  Then we switched our VHF channel to 72, and it started to feel like I never left San Blas.  Maybe Colombia was just a hot dream.  It was time for the morning net – I put NOMAD on autopilot, left the girls in charge and went below to play with the SSB.  We checked in on the net and caught our friend’s positions in the islands.  I was officially back.  People welcomed us back.  It felt good.

No wind.  Motors on and chugging through the interior of the San Blas islands. Heat.  Blinding sunlight.  Rolling waves and the sunlight playing games as it broke and twisted and reflected back at us under the surface.  Fishing lines out.  Breakfast sizzling. The smell was outrageously good. Small talk as I talked through our options for the day. What island?  How far?  Stop for water?  Stop for fuel?  Somewhere to dive or somewhere to see friends or somewhere to resupply? 

BZZZZZZZ  … The fishing lines screaming brought everyone together and back to the present.  I slowed the boat.  We drug the fish to tire it out.  I slowed a little more and we began gaining line on him.  But he was fighting and wasn’t jumping – which made me believe it was a Tuna or Barracuda.  I hoped for Tuna.  I could taste the Tuna steaks.  After dragging our prey behind the boat for a few minutes we caught sight of him in the wake.  Shark.  On a trolling lure?  Yep.  Bummer.  Not a huge shark, but no matter the size – it was a species we didn’t want to eat, which had a mouthful of dangerous teeth, and all of this would likely end in me loosing yet another fishing lure.  I got the shark to the sugar scoops and then he went apeshit.  The girls snapped pictures.  Then he swam away with my leader and my lure:  the line had snapped in my hand.  Rookie mistake.  I knew better than to hold him out of the water by the fishing line.  Well… Onward.

Our shark

We needed to pick up another person in Western San Blas.  We decided to sail halfway there, then the remainder of the way the following morning.  I wanted to see some old friends – Mike and Laura on Gilana.  They were in their usual spot – Yansaladup.  It’s a tricky anchorage to get into, but it’s good practice for the girls – they need to be able to spot reef and direct me around it from the front of the boat.  Here’s some more geo-reference. 

San Blas!!

As we entered the West Lemmons we were hailed by Sundowner (their website here:  Sundowner Sails Again) who had been chatting with me online for a couple months.  It was a half-surprise to bump into them. I got distracted chatting with them on the radio and nosed up very close to a reef, but I recovered without incident. 

We found a great spot to drop the anchor.  As we were letting out our anchor and chain I noticed that my starboard engine had died.  I tried to put the engine back into neutral and the throttle lever was stuck.  It wouldn’t budge.  Problem.

The Buzzkill

I didn’t have time to mess with it then.  But when we got anchored and secured, I nervously checked the Teleflex cables.  The cables were fine.  It was the damned saildrive.  Big problem.  It was seized and when I checked for oil (the same check I’d done just a few hours before) I found none on the dipstick.  Major problem.  Blown seal.  F*&$k.  

I immediately started pulling the sail drive apart.  When I did I found bronze shavings.  Lots of shavings and no oil.  Major bummer. This was going to be expensive.  This was going to take time.  This was not cool.  This is boat life.  

The point of going to this anchorage was to visit a friend and have a happy reunion before leaving to pick up Teena the following morning.  All of that shattered by this most recent discovery.  When I did finally see Mike and Laura I was sweating profusely, covered in grime, and a little worried.  Mike noticed quickly and after the “Hello, it’s been so long” ’s were exchanged we quickly got down to troubleshooting.  Mike told me he’d come and have a look, but to keep taking it apart. 

Back onboard the girls were a little bummed to hear of our latest mechanical failure, but their feeling of “that’s inconvenient” pales in comparison to the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  This wasn’t going to be an easy fix.  And I had a guest coming. And I was stuck without any Internet access (to do research).  Water was being used at an alarming rate.  We did, though, have booze and good cheese.  If nothing else, we could attempt to drown our sorrows and eat away any lingering depression. 

That is a bit dramatic. 

The truth is that our passage was a success, we were anchored in a beautiful place near close friends and anything on this boat I was confident I could find a way to fix.  Almost anything.  Especially with Mike’s help (he’s a fix-stuff God).  Add to that the fact that I was being treated like a king by my new crew – and – well…  It can always be worse.  Always.

After a few hours of sweating and bleeding in the engine rooms Mike and I came to the conclusion this was a big project.  Nothing as simple as replacing a bolt.  We did find oil at the bottom of the drive, but it was clear that much had leaked out.  That means that my oil-seal  in the lower drive had blown out underway as no oil was in the engine rooms. 

I’ll post a picture of the offending part when I’m able – but it’s a sleeve that sits over the gears and serves to help select gears (Reverse – Neutral – Forward).  It’s toast.  Chewed up.  Destroyed.  We had no internet, but Mike found it was about $600 for the part – plus shipping.  And getting it out of the sail drive with the boat in the water wasn’t going to be easy.  We did find, though, that we could repair it without hauling the boat, a massive relief.  As long as this turns out to be the problem, I could be back in business within a month.  Until then, I’m a little crippled.

When all of this is over I will be well-versed in maneuvering tight (and reef-strewn) anchorages with a single engine.  

Because Mike and Laura are somewhat of a family, they helped organize getting Teena out to me in Yansaladup.  We had Mahi sushi and wine for dinner and slept well.

We would work things out mañana.

Mañana. 

San Blas!!

Across the Blue

Not a huge crossing.  Enough, though. We made it. 

Naturally, the wind was in our face the whole time.  It was 36 hours of pure two-engine motoring.  I tried everything.  We tacked and the wind would shift.  We changed course and the wind would die.  For 36 hours the wind was our sworn enemy. Not just unhelpful, but downright antagonistic. 

But we made it.  There were dolphins.  There was a bit of on-the-way work in the engine rooms. Mahi.  Sushi for dinner and hot coffee always in the French Press.  Epic sunrises to start our days and epic sunsets that marked the beginning of the night shifts.  

Dolphins!

Not too shabby…

I had to push the engines a little, just to keep us averaging 5 knots.  With the wind in our face and a bit of current working against us, it made forward progress seem impossible.The good news is that the engines kept their end of the bargain – except for a fuel-related issue (fungus in the damn fuel tanks again).  No issues to speak of, mechanically.  We also made enough energy to keep a second freezer cool, which allowed us to have ice, more meat, and ice-cold beer (for when we finally drop that anchor – it’s always a dry passage). 

The other Dolphin

Night motoring was easy.  No wind, no sailing, and nothing but long rolling swells.  Ana and I took shifts in the Captain’s Chair, I napped outside next to the cockpit.  Des kept us fed and happy and was nothing if not a pleasure to be around.  On passage we found that Des is our most serious fisherman, much moreso than me (or anybody else I’ve had onboard).  We drank lots of French-pressed Colombian coffee.  We trolled lines behind us and managed to pick up a Mahi, which we promptly made sushi out of.  Fresh sushi while on passage is a hell of a treat.  We had dolphins play up front and marveled at the deep blue of the ocean when the bottom is thousands of feet below you.  That color blue is impossible to recreate.  You can’t describe it.  And it’s impossible to counterfeit.

The Sushi Treat

Rolling Sushi Underway

With all of our attempts to use the wind only to have the wind pushing against us, we lost time.  So rather than sail all the way across San Blas on our passage – I decided to cut our passage time a little and come into the Eastern end of San Blas while we had good light.  The change in course cut our passage by 20 or so nautical miles.  This gave us the chance to explore Cayos Raton, catch a good night’s sleep, and give the engines a break. 

Coming in

Approaching Cayos Raton we were greeted by schools of Bonito that played and chased bait at our bow. The water was over a thousand feet deep until we were nearly on top of the island.  Then, suddenly, we were in a hundred feet of water.  Then we talked through our route into the reef-strewn San Blas islands so everyone was on the same page.  We went through our anchoring procedure in advance.

Then we decided that champagne was the only civilized way to celebrate the passage, and should be the last part of our anchoring procedure.  And, lucky for us, we had a bottle chilling in the freezer. 

When we came around the island, we saw a group of three other boats.  We had neighbors.  And it made the already small anchorage into a minuscule anchorage.  It was difficult to find a place to drop anchor without putting NOMAD in somebody’s face.  So we passed the marked anchorage and nosed into two or three holes – eventually finding a spot far away from the other yachts, and not close enough to the coral to be immediately dangerous. 

As we were nosing around, one of our neighbors greeted us in their dinghy.  A Canadian family.  Then their cruising buddy came up and said hi.  Then our neighbors left and we dropped anchor.  Before I even turned off our electronics – our neighbors were back.  They wanted info about Colombia, as they were headed to the place we were coming from.  I invited them for a beer later, but before the sun left us I needed to see Cayos Raton underwater.  From the charts, the underwater topography looked promising.   These charts are from Eric Bahaus, who produces the only charts for Panama.  His accuracy is impressive.  

Raton, charted

The girls tidied up and dropped the dinghy while I shut down all the systems and got our diving gear out.  Twenty minutes later we were snorkeling around massive coral heads and I was missing my first fish in San Blas.  After the girls had a chance to look around we met back at the dinghy and moved closer to the steep reef wall we had skirted on our way in.  I knew it was a promising spot as soon as I saw it.  The reef went from about 30 feet to about 100 feet in a steep dropoff, studded by large coral heads and pocked by caves perfect for hiding snapper.

I was lucky.  On the first dive I caught sight of a small Dog Snapper at 30 feet.  I dropped down from the surface and glided down the reef wall toward him.  At 40 feet he stopped running down the wall and turned sideways – still well out of range.  And so I sat on the reef wall and began systematically relaxing muscles, waiting for his curiosity to work in my favor.  Like clockwork, the fish turned and approached me. One pass out of range.  The next in range.  Thunk.   The fish was now doing circles below me as I pulled us both toward the surface.  I was already planning my ceviche when I hit the surface.  Do we have avacado?  What about peppers?  We really need more fresh cilantro. 

At the dinghy, Des was waiting on me.  Since she was inside, I didn’t just toss the fish/spear/speargun into the dinghy – opting instead to take the fish off of the spear first so that the mess of steel and fish spines didn’t injure anybody.  That led to me the snapper going apeshit and escaping under a coral head and me letting out a long string of obscenities as I watched my hope of fresh ceviche disappear with my fish under a coral head.  We searched, but a smaller snapper like that is nearly impossible to find in the spiderweb of caves in the coral.  

My penance for losing a wounded fish is the end of my spearfishing for the day.  This was no exception.

We went back to the mothership and I dropped the girls onboard as I went to check our anchor underwater.  The anchor was far from set, but it was holding.  We only had one night here and I had both engines to get me out of trouble should it come – so I decided we were OK and climbed back onboard to find our new Canadian and American neighbors onboard.  They greeted me with a cold beer and I dried off as we exchanged information, swapped boat-maintenance headaches, and told stories.  Good whiskey was poured over small globes of ice as we made small and large talk with people who would have been good friends if we all weren’t parting ways with the sunrise.

The champagne came back out.

All was right in the world.

Across the Blue

Hello.  I’m Nate.  I’m sailing around Colombia on a Lagoon 380.  I used to update this site frequently.  I would ask your forgiveness for the tardy update, but I’m not good at asking for that. 

A coon’s age.  That’s how long it’s been since my last update. 

Long Time, No Post

Why haven’t I been writing here?  The truth?  I was busy.  I was working on the boat.  I was enjoying Cartagena.  I was tired of writing the same thing over and over.  Everyday was boat work.  Except the days that weren’t boat work.  Those days were fun.  On those days Kenny would swing by and tell me that he had a horrible problem and needed my help  most urgently. I would drop everything and come to his aid. Kenny had too many bikini-clad Colombian women and no guys on his boat, and he needed me to come and party with them in Cholon.  I would comply on those good days that weren’t boatwork.

And Now…

That’s all changed.  As I write this the sun is setting and we’re floating tranquilly in a bay with aqua-blue water that ends where the jungle begins.  The bay is stunning now, after the rain.  The birds are calling loudly.  The beer is very cold.  The air is cool and fresh. Tomorrow we sail to another country.  We’re leaving the country where they call me Gringo Dorado, going to the country where they call me Oso Dorado.  I’ll answer to either.  Nicknames are fun.

We.  That’s right.  It’s no longer a one-man show.  I have a Brazilian Marine Biologist onboard.  She has an easy laugh and likes organizing things.  My boat is clean and organized and that makes me happy.  She swims more than anyone I’ve ever met.  She can wrestle a twisted anchor chain back onto the gypsy and doesn’t mind getting dirty.  Her name is Ana. 

There’s another girl onboard too.  She’s called Des (or Dez, maybe).  She’s from New York.  She’s a chef (SCORE!).  She likes wine as much as I do and we’ve had fun drinking too much of it.  She brought bagels and cream cheese and Boar’s Head ham to my boat and I can’t think of a better surprise.  She’s a gem.  Did I mention that she’s a chef?  Yeah.  We are eating well.  Every. Single. Meal.  Is.  Awesome.

Tomorrow our boat-family sails to Panama.  San Blas.  I want another shot at the Grouper there.  I want a few days of diving the outer reef at The Swimming Pool.  I want to sail and remind myself why I’ve been working in the Hellish heat of Cartagena for the last six months.  I want to have more of the good problems – too many fish, beers too early in the day, too many friends around, too much Rum the night before, too many reefs to dive.  Too much fun. 

We left Cartagena, likely my last time in that city, just a few hours ago.  I left nothing there, I took nothing with me.  Cartagena was a big part of my life.  Bigger than I expected.  It was so much fun.  It was so goddamn hot.  It was so loud.  It showed me some things about myself, some that I liked and some that I didn’t.  It made me happy to walk the streets.  I loved the Plaza at night, the women, the Aquadiente and the street food.  I loved our pizza place where they treated us like family. Cartagena made me curse the boat traffic. I detested the filthy water.  The lady that sold cheap (and delicious) lunch under the shade tree, outside of the marina, became something like my Colombian mother.  She made a special meal for me every day, in her personal tupperware and she labeled it “Gringo” – because there was only one gringo that ate there and it was this guy. 

We left Cartagena today and I was euphoric.  We left Cartagena today and it was sad.  I left two people that came to mean quite a bit to me.   They meant enough that it was impossible to tell them, but the words didn’t need to be spoken because the feeling was mutual and it was completely understood.  We left, they waved, they hugged, they wiped their eyes. I was so happy to leave. Euphoric.  I WAS FREE.

Just a Reminder

As if Poseidon himself were watching me leave, the sails were raised and immediately we were hit by a squall.  It came out of nowhere.  Suddenly we were caught in 25 knots of wind with full sails and the wind just kept getting stronger.  Sometimes it takes getting caught with your pants down to remind you that clothes have their purpose.  I got caught.  Consider me reminded.  There was an Oh-Shit moment, followed by some really fun sailing. I bled a little and some sails flapped too much and we hit 9 knots – despite having enough food to feed a small country, enough water to irrigate a small farm, enough booze to supply an aircraft carrier, and enough fuel to power a small country onboard. 

The Lost Time

What, pray tell, have I been up to?  Well. Shit…  Boatwork (so much that even typing that word turns my stomach).  My sister visited (randomly) and we sailed a bit and I was reminded how nice it is to have an intelligent and strong family.  I’m lucky, and that’s something I can’t deny.  I’ve been hanging out with Kenny, who has become a very close friend and who has been shockingly generous with his time and knowledge.  I’ve been hanging out with Fernando, who helps me on the boat and has also become a very close friend.  We spend time like most men do – complaining and joking about women, complaining and joking about how much bullshit you put up with when you buy a boat.  We eat together and laugh together and drink together.  I had a fling with a very talented singer at what might be the best bar in Cartagena.  I dove and fished and cooked and sweated and cursed and bled and lived. 

I lived fully in Cartagena and that is The Truth. But now that’s gone and tomorrow we cross an ocean and go to another country and place ourselves at the mercy of The Ocean, the only God that I continue to acknowledge. 

San Blas, it’s time to suit up.  Game time.  Two girls and one shaggy gringo are coming to rabble rouse.  We’ll be there soon. We’re planning many sushi dinners and many rum drinks.  We’ll see you soon San Blas.

Long Time, No Post