ISLA CEBACO

March 30, 2015 Kate MacBain

After rounding Punta Mala we spent a few nights on the Peninsula de Azuero and bumped into friends we’d met back in Escudo de Veraguas. Barney and his family were traveling the same route and schedule as us and we spent a couple nights in a calm bay on the southwestern side of Isla Cebaco together. Barney has sailed all over the world, his wife, Mel, is a fantastic cook, and their daughter, Faa, is a well-traveled and experienced dive instructor – way more mature and accomplished than I was at 18-years-old.

Mel and I were lamenting the lack of fresh herbs in Panama; we’d both been trying to grow some on board, neither of us with much success. She’d bought a bunch of what she thought were jalapeños but what turned out to be teeny sweet peppers so I gave her half the bag of habaneros I’d bought in Panama City. The next day she shouted over to me as I passed in the dinghy. “I have your peppers!” I was a bit confused. I told her they were hers to keep, I hadn’t lent them to her for the night. But she waved me over and tossed me a small jar. Homemade hot sauce! And Mel is from Thailand, so her hot sauce is proper hot. During our time in Cebaco she also gave us a recipe for Matt’s favorite Thai dish, three-flavor fish (which I promptly forgot because I was busy eating her spicy chicken with pineapple) and a packet of spices for Laab, or meat salad (ie: the best kind of salad). She also makes a mean fish cake, which I’ve since been trying to recreate on Tamata.

Besides the food and story swapping, there were two other constants during our time in Cebaco Bay: a steady northeasterly wind racing through the gap between hills, and a big, black barge moored in the southeast corner. The barge was seemingly there permanently, but surrounding it on smaller mooring balls was a pod of baby-blue-hulled, black-tinted-window motor boats that were kept immaculately clean when they weren’t buzzing in and out of the bay. I sort of just assumed it was a drug-running operation until I remembered that we were only 35 miles from Hannibal Bank, a legendary Central American fishing spot where the Pacific rises sharply from 1300 meters to just 17, attracting tuna, sailfish, marlin, wahoo and other pelagic fish.

This was Cebaco Bay Fishing Club, an understated fishing “lodge” where guests could fish all day and return to drink cold Balboas and grill their catch on a big barbecue on the barge’s deck in solitude, accompanied only by the roars of howler monkeys and the slapping of baitfish on the surface of the bay’s prairie flat water. No gourmet restaurant. No infinity pool. No masseuse. Just fishing and beer. (Which I realize is about as redundant as saying “just skiing and snow!”) Anyway, we learned that you could buy ice and diesel and that the hose leading from the nearby rocks on shore was transporting fresh water from the island’s natural spring for drinking, laundry, showers, and washing down the boat.

Jose, the manager, was a quiet guy with a shy smile. There were no guests at the time, so he showed us around the boat. He also loaded us up with ice and scheduled a time for us to come alongside and fill up with very expensive diesel. The covered deck was inviting and offered a few minutes of refuge from the wind. Apparently the Panamanian Aeronaval thought so, too. Eight of them arrived on their black speedboat in full camo the next day and spent the afternoon listening to music, napping in the hammock and playing dominos in the shade. Josh and Kim arrived on Kuhela that day, too, and the four of us enjoyed fresh fish for dinner each of our remaining nights there.

I know I keep talking about how great the places we visit are, but really, we had it pretty good in Cebaco Bay. If the surf hadn’t picked up at Santa Catalina over on the mainland, we likely would have stayed put. But it did. So we didn’t.

PANAMA'S PACIFIC COAST

March 29, 2015 Kate MacBain

The mountains are higher, the ocean is larger, and distances between destinations on the Pacific coast of Panama are greater. It seems like time goes by more quickly on this side, too; it’s hard to believe it’s been over a month since we crossed the canal. We’re only 100 miles from Bocas del Toro as the crow flies, but it often feels like a different country altogether. The landscape is more severe: dry, steep hillsides slope into deep blue ocean, breakers thundering where they meet; tidal range is huge - as much as six meters - and the appearance of the shoreline is altered every six hours as the incoming tide consumes everything within range and the outgoing tide sucks it all away. It’s harder to get fresh fruits and vegetables, though when we do the quality is superb. The beaches have that Pacific feel to them with the sun setting over the ocean, giving the trees an orange glow that contrasts against the black sand on the beach. We spend every night at anchor – there are no marinas – and getting ashore can be quite difficult – there are few docks – especially if the swell is up. We still find the occasional white sand beach and it’s still tropical. Just less ukulele and starfish tropical and more shark and crocodile and dark, cavernous tropical… if that makes sense.

We’ve worked our way up the coast from Panama City as far as Isla Parida, zig-zagging between mainland and island anchorages, and one of the most noticeable differences between the Caribbean Sea and the Pacific is the amount of marine life we've encountered. We’ve been diving a lot and the reefs are alive with big schools of jacks and tangs. White-tips reef sharks, cubera snapper, spotted eagles rays and manta rays skirt along beneath us. And though we haven’t spotted any yet there are whale sharks around. If the boat is moving, the fishing lines are out. Otherwise the spear gun serves the same purpose, so the freezer is packed full of snapper, dorado, mackerel and wahoo. The surfing hasn’t been bad, either. We even had a rare opportunity to anchor within paddling distance of a really nice left-hander one day, where glassy waves were breaking with no one but us there to ride them (“ride” is a loose term in my case…).

There have been downsides, too, which I'll get to. It's not all beer and skittles, in Matt's words.

Anyway, we've had very limited access to the Internet so I’m trying to catch up a bit before we head off for the Galapagos on Tuesday. If you’ve been checking the map, you’ll have noticed that the area in which we've spent most of our time is spotted with clumps of islands. They’re all beautiful and remote and have subtle differences and describing them all in detail would make a very long post, so instead I’ll just share a few highlights from the past month over the course of the next few days. I’ll start tomorrow with Isla Cebaco. In the meantime, here are a few photos of the Pacific coast of Panama.

PANAMA CANAL

March 7, 2015 Kate MacBain

Another day, another ocean... I'm writing from the Pacific side of Panama, having crossed the canal nearly two weeks ago, leaving the Caribbean behind and anxiously beginning the next leg of the trip. The canal transit took almost 24 hours in total, but I've condensed it into one quick minute here:

We waited for days to cross the canal. We put many hours and many hundreds of dollars into planning and obtaining the permits necessary to take a small, private vessel through the locks. We read up on the procedures and anticipated any number of problems we might run into. For the most part we felt we were well prepared. But when we did allow ourselves to consider the ways in which things could go catastrophically wrong our visions usually involved violent collisions - with freighters, the canal walls, giant crocodiles, etc. (Dave: You'll be relieved to know that canal regulations prohibit the use of sails while transiting, so thankfully getting stuck in irons wasn't a concern...)

For the most part, our worries were needless. The fact that the canal has operated 24 hours a day with only three closures for the past hundred years (once for flooding in 2010, once for landslides in 1915, and once during the US invasion to oust Noriega in 1989) is a testament to the incredibly smooth way in which the whole process is carried out. You do hear horror stories - sailboats being plowed down by car carriers while crew members hurl themselves overboard, for example - but considering how many boats transit every day, those type of incidents are quite rare. In the end the whole thing turned out to be a bit like Christmas: weeks of anticipation culminating in a few hours of excitement, some happy photos, and a mild hangover.

The process is essentially a series of arrivals and departures. There are three locks on either side of Gatun Lake. If you're traveling from Atlantic to Pacific like we were, you leave Colon to ascend the Gatun Locks, which are arranged three right in a row. You enter the first chamber, tie up, take up on the lines while you rise with the nearly 27 million gallons of water that are rushing in, move forward to the next chamber and repeat the process twice. The night is spent tied up to a mooring ball in Gatun Lake followed by an early morning start (if your adviser is on time) to travel approximately 30 miles across the lake (which the video skips over, unfortunately). On the Pacific side, the Pedro Miguel Lock is separated from the last two Miraflores Locks by less than a mile. The procedure for descending is, not shockingly, the reverse of ascending: tie up, let the line out as the water disappears beneath you, move forward, and repeat the process. Each chamber fills or empties in 9 minutes on average; from the time you leave the Flats anchorage to the time you're moored on Gatun Lake, less than three hours have passed. So besides the morning spent motoring from one side of the lake to the other, transiting the Panama Canal is a stop-start marathon. If you were to ask the Governator, he'd succinctly tell you that the water picks boats up and puts them down.

Of course behind the scenes there is a bit more to it than that. On your scheduled transit date, you prepare your lines and fenders according to guidelines and move to an anchorage called The Flats to wait for an assigned canal adviser to board. Each boat must have a canal adviser, as well as four capable line handlers and a captain. When your adviser boards, he maps out the configuration in which you'll be moving up the locks. Small boats often travel in rafts of two or three wide, or tied up to a large tug. We were informed that we'd be tying up to one side of a 64-ft catamaran with our friends' boat, Pau Hana, on the other. Once everything is understood, you pull the anchor and move toward the entrance to the first lock to tie up with whichever other boats you'll be locking with. From there you move as a unit and do not separate until you're free and clear of the last lock in the series.

After exiting the locks and unrafting, you proceed about a mile to one of the Gatun Lake mooring balls. The first two boats to arrive tie up directly to the ball, one on each side, and wait for later arriving boats to tie up to them. The advisers are picked up there and the next day’s advisers are supposed to arrive at 6am the next morning. This is the only time we had to wait idly; they didn’t show up until 730am. We weren’t bothered by it – the howler monkeys will wake you up anyway, and the lake is as nice a place as any to drink coffee and watch the sun rise.

It’s about four hours from there to the Pedro Miguel locks and your adviser will tell you your scheduled time and whether you need to speed up or can take it slow as you’re making your way across the lake. It can be a long, hot trip, but the scenery is fantastic and the fact that you're traversing a lake 85ft above sea level is not lost on you. You also get to witness the massive expansion project up close.

Passing through Culebra Cut is an equally impressive experience. It's hard to imagine steam shovels digging a laneway for ships through the middle of a mountain a century ago.

Martin and Lexi on Pau Hana, making the standard issue tire fenders look industrial-chic.

As you approach the Pedro Miguel lock you arrange into formation again (for us it was the same as the previous day, but it's not always the case). Before you know it you’re un-rafting, the adviser is looking for the pilot boat to pick him up, and some guys in a white launch are headed your way collect the lines and fenders.

Crossing under the Bridge of the Americas, we saw where the high tide mark had left snails and barnacles in its recession. Dozens of tankers sat an anchor, the lumpy island of Taboga a looming backdrop. Pelicans in the hundreds hovered and dove, cascading like bombs into the mess of sardine schools flickering on the surface. It took a minute, but it struck us that we were in a different ocean, a vast one, and one through which we'd be chasing the sinking sun each day. Having crossed the tiny isthmus that had seemed like such a barrier for so long, time suddenly seemed to be something else we'd need to chase.

A quick note on line handlers...

Because so many boats have only one or two people on board, as in our case, line handlers are in high demand. You have a couple of options: "professional" line handlers will cost you $125 per person; amateur line handlers are people with a personal interest in transiting the canal, and you're often only responsible for their one way transportation costs. Amateurs are not guaranteed to have experience, but professionals are not guaranteed to care. In typical fashion, we waited until the day before leaving to look for line handlers. There are notice boards at Shelter Bay Marina as well as an online database created by the people at Panama Line Handler. Typically, gathering any sort of useful information from a website created "by yachties for yachties" is like choosing a Michelin star restaurant based on Yelp reviews... but in this case the information was incredibly valuable, both for boat owners and volunteer line handlers.

Between the notice boards and the database we found three motivated, knowledgeable, and personable people to help us out. Calling them amateurs would be a discredit, though. All of them had extensive boating experience in general and had been through the canal as line handlers multiple times. Russell and Diane had been living in Panama City less than a year, but transiting the canal had quickly become something of a hobby for them, an opportunity to combine their many local passions. They told us they were just fascinated by the whole thing and we relied on their knowledge at every step of the way. Not only did they fill us in on what would be happening at each point, they also served as personal tour guides, pointing out parts of the canal with historical significance, highlighting current expansion projects and relating canal myths, facts, and stories throughout the day.

Our third line handler was Oliver, and he brought along his friend Ninfa. Their helpfulness and warm personalities were more than welcome on board. Oliver had recently started his own yacht agency and was highly professional, enthusiastic, and resourceful. He speaks Dutch, German, French, English and Spanish and is just as comfortable talking about canal logistics as he is describing places he's traveled to and surfed. It was really refreshing to be involved with someone in the yachting industry who was so sincere and thoughtful and he continued to be a huge help to us while we were in Panama City. Though he doesn't need it (his business is bound to succeed) we can't recommend him highly enough.

ESCUDO de VERAGUAS

February 22, 2015 Kate MacBain

We said goodbye to Bastimentos early on a Friday morning, spent the night in a beautiful, deep anchorage near Kusapin called Playa Raya, and set out the next morning for a place we'd been looking forward to visiting since we began planning for Panama back in Newport. With dying winds and diminishing swell we timed our arrival at the island of Escudo de Veraguas perfectly. There is no well-protected anchorage there, so although the island is only 12nm from the mainland spending time there can be rather uncomfortable. Even if there’s little or no swell, there is nowhere to hide from the wind. We learned that the first rolly night, but by midmorning the next day the sea was glassy and clear and the next three days were unbelievably perfect.

The island is awesome, in the true sense of the word. As we rounded each new bend the scenery seemed more and more unreal. We spent all day exploring the extensive barrier reefs, puttering through the many lagoons and inlets, spear fishing, snorkeling and searching for low hanging coconuts. The north side of the island was all Caribbean blue with white sand beaches tucked between lush green outcroppings and mangrove islands. The south side felt like something out of the reptile exhibit at the zoo – smooth rock walls dipping into deep teal water, tree trunks, vines and foliage rising from the tops of cliffs, creating a not-so-inviting entrance to the dark black jungle behind.

Escudo is the only remaining place in the world where the pygmy three-toed sloth lives. It’s hard to know exactly how many are left – counts have ranged between 40 and 100 – but the consensus is: dangerously few. I was hopeful that we’d spot one (though Matt was skeptical) so I spent the whole first day with my neck craned up, searching the canopy and high branches that hung over the water for any sign of fur. But there was more to be seen underwater and as the evening set in we enjoyed freshly speared fish and a full sky of stars overhead.

The next morning, we were cruising in the dinghy through some of the lagoons where we’d found orchids, bonefish, and tons of horseflies but no sloths. At one point, just after we’d shut the engine off the get over a shallow spot, I caught sight of something that didn’t look quite like the other branches of the red mangrove tree nearest us. We were totally shocked to be just feet away from a miniature sized sloth with three severe looking claws. His body was a self-supporting hammock and he seemed to have a smile on his face. We felt bad for waking him with the snapping of our lenses but he just opened his eyes slowly, checked us out, and went back to sleep. We went back the next day and found him in the same exact spot. I’ve been told (by a semi-reliable source) that even if a sloth drops its baby it won’t come down from the tree to rescue it. That could be one reason that they’re so extremely endangered; I can’t imagine that an island bound sloth has many predators.

We caught sight of white sails as we made our way back to the anchorage and raced over in the dinghy to greet our friends Josh, Kim and Thor. On our sail over from the mainland we’d snagged a huge wahoo, which I’d been marinating in a vinegary escabeche sauce for a couple days. We shared what was only a small portion of the fish but was tons for the five of us and we raved about how cool our time on the island had already been. Josh is the only person who might be more excited about spear fishing than Matt, and the two of them were frothing about getting in the water first thing the next morning.

That’s pretty much how our days went at Veraguas. We’d wake up, pack up the dinghy with fins, masks, snorkels, spear guns, lunch, cameras, and set out for the day. In the afternoon, we’d grab a beer and cruise along in the shadowy south side of the island until the sun started to set, then head back to the boat, cook up some fish, and pass out early, exhausted from the long day in the sun. I really don’t think we could have planned for better conditions. I also spent my birthday there, which happened to be the day I speared my first fish (first shot too!). We delayed leaving as long as we could, but needed to meet my brother and his girlfriend, who were flying into Panama City from Rhode Island. With them coming, we weren’t as bummed out about heading to Colon we might otherwise have been. But it wasn’t easy sailing away from Escudo de Veraguas, knowing we’d likely never get to see it like that again.

BASTIMENTOS

February 21, 2015 Kate MacBain

I tried to get this post out weeks ago when we left Bastimentos, but the Internet was struggling. Anyway, here are a few photos from Bastimentos. Since leaving there on the 5th we've had an amazing three weeks and have plenty to write about (coming soon!). Tomorrow we go through the canal so next time you hear from us it'll be from the Pacific!

We're off today, making our way toward Colon and the Panama Canal. The past six weeks have passed in waves of new sounds, sights, and flavors and we're excited to be moving on and keep the momentum going. Bastimentos is one of the few spots near Bocas Town where we wish we could have spent more time. The island is densely forested with miles of undeveloped beach on one side and mangrove lined shores on the other. In the small town at the northwest corner, called Old Bank, life is either buzzing or languid, like the tide, and the jungle's ongoing echoes resonate in the background. The most evident signs of any intrusive development are at Red Frog Marina and Resort. But the word resort is misleading and even there things are (for the most part) quiet as guests make the daily commute between beach and bungalow by golf cart and backpackers walk on puddley gravel paths to the beachfront shrimp taco stand.

Bahia Honda is a special place, not least because whenever we're there we have the anchorage to ourselves. The best food we've eaten in Panama has been prepared at La Loma Jungle Lodge, just up the hill but hidden beneath the canopy and out of sight from the water. La Loma was really our introduction to Bahia Honda and we've returned several times since our first visit... much more on that to come. We also spent a day at the community school with the local nonprofit Give and Surf - more on that soon, too. In the meantime, here are a few photos from the past couple weeks.

WOODROW

February 3, 2015 Kate MacBain

Before we installed our self-steering wind vane, the flashiest things on the boat were our brightly colored-coded reefing lines. Now we not only have a contemporary German kinetic sculpture attached to our transom but also a third form of steering – that’s in addition to hand steering and autopilot – and it's quickly become our favorite. Our Windpilot Pacific Plus self-steering system has so far more than proven its value.

When we set the angle on the wind vane (which we’ve named Woodrow; we’d already christened our car with the name Vince), we’re able to leave the helm unattended without worrying about adjusting the sails. Wind powered self-steering differs from electronic autopilot in that it does not steer according to compass course, but by sailing at a desired angle to the wind. So keeping a consistent angle to the wind and maintaining sail trim dictates your course heading; your course heading does not dictate the wind angle. It is also a completely organic form of power steering, drawing nothing from the battery bank. Another added benefit is that we have a backup rudder. Just in case… There are two main types of self-steering wind vanes: ARS and SPS, each of which has several different brands and designs to choose from. After a ton of research we finally decided on the WindPilot Pacific Plus, one of Peter Foerthman’s models. The Pacific Plus is an ARS (auxiliary rudder system) design. A smaller, secondary rudder that hangs off the transom is used to directly steer the boat while the main rudder is locked in position, rendering the wheel or tiller ineffective. (In contrast, SPS, or servo-pendulum system wind vanes use lines to actually pull on the steering mechanism, thereby maneuvering the main rudder directly.)

Installation was the highlight of the long list of winter projects we had to complete while the boat was hauled out, and we saved it for last. Woodrow was built in Germany, and arrived in a big wooden freight box at Logan Airport in the middle of winter. We mounted the lower bracket early in the spring while still on the hard in Rhode Island and the upper one once we got back in the water.

We’d been using the wind vane to steer all summer but it wasn’t until we left Florida en route for Panama that we got a chance to put him to the test in heavy weather. Things were going smoothly with pretty consistent 20+ knot winds through the Bahamas, but from the Windward Passage on until 70nm off the coast of Panama we were dealing with 12+ foot seas and line squall after line squall smacking us with 40-45kt bursts and blinding rain. We were hit with a particularly bad one in the middle of one night when Matt was on watch. We were running downwind with a triple reefed main and had just put away either the storm staysail or sliver of the jib that we’d had out. With just that fraction of the main powering us we were flying at 12 knots as we surfed 15ft seas. Blind past 50m and traveling way too fast, he knew he needed to heave to but the conditions were less than ideal for simply heading up into the wind. Plus it would have meant crawling back to the stern and disengaging the WindPilot – too much maneuvering considering the conditions.

All this time the vane had been working like a dream, and Matt decided to try something a bit unconventional and set the boat’s rudder against the WindPilot’s. He used the wheel to hand steer slightly off course. Because the angle on the WindPilot remained the same, the vane resisted and tried to bring us back on course. Gradually, with the rudders working against each other like this, the boat slowed from 12 knots to three. At that speed Matt could bring the boat head to wind gently without slamming into the walls of water that were coming at us. It was pretty amazing. What’s more, once we were head to wind Tamata sat perfectly hove to with the bow 30 degrees off the wind until the squall passed, at which point Matt returned the wheel to its original position, locked it in place, and sat back as the WindPilot brought the boat around to precisely the right course. We didn’t have to adjust it again until the wind shifted slightly to the east, three days later.

Woodrow. What a hunk. Before we’d taken him offshore we’d been admiring him for his strength and reliability, but now we really have something to brag about. As you can imagine, moving through this little weather system made sailing pretty uncomfortable for a few days – we lived in our foul weather gear, sleep came only intermittently, and cooking had devolved to adding hot water to whatever would absorb it – but we had total trust in the boat and our equipment. The next day as we were trying to eat lunch, Matt looked back at the vane working away and said, “Living like kings,” before chasing a handful of Doritos with a big bite of instant ramen. I had to agree.

Feeling panicky and lost when he’s not near, Matt now spends most of his time on the aft deck, within arm’s reach of Woodrow.

Here are a few short videos of the WindPilot in action (in much calmer conditions).

KUSAPIN

February 1, 2015 Kate MacBain

Sailing into Laguna de Bluefield makes you feel like you’re shedding skin, extra weight you didn't know you were carrying. Something that's established itself back in Bocas Town is washed away, and that invisible layer that separates you as tourist from whomever has something to offer no longer clings to you like the inescapable humidity. You pass the last dive and tour boats at the Zapatilla Islands and continue on into the dark water that lies flat between the steep, forested hills of the Kusapin peninsula. Thatched roof houses appear here and there and two or three small villages sit quietly along the shore as you move deeper into the bay.

Though Bluefield is only about 20nm from Bocas, it took us three days to get there. We spent one day at Red Frog Beach, eating shrimp tacos and drinking margaritas in the rain, and another wandering around a cacao farm on Bastimentos before leading the boat through a narrow, winding gap (aptly called “The Gap”) that cuts a path through Cayo Nancy and deposits you into a maze of mangrove patches, vibrant green egg-shaped masses strewn across a haze of glimmering aquamarine. We arrive around lunchtime on our third day when there are few people around. Two children paddle past in their dugout canoe, or cayuco, staring. Approaching slowly in case of unmarked shallow spots, our engine deafens us to the sounds of life in the jungle around us until we anchor at the end of Bluefield and signs of normalcy – birds calling, dogs barking, someone hammering, palm fronds clacking in the wind – drift out to us.

Anxious to get to the beach, we head into town. Town is a few houses, a sparsely stocked store, and an empty school. We pay the woman at the store the fee that allows us to visit the community and leave our dinghy tied at the dock ($3/person/day) and follow the paved path up the hill into the jungle. It feels worlds away from Bocas. Bananas hang in reach, butterflies float past, what I assume is breadfruit dangles high above, water trickles from some unseen source, and a floral scent comes and goes as we follow the rise and fall of the path. After a few minutes we can hear the surf, and not long after that we are facing the shore, turquoise waves breaking upon the golden sand. Some friends from Bocas who've arrived on their sailboat the day before greet us. They’re taking a break from surfing, playing with the little kids who’ve become part of their crew. The kids harass you for your photos, posing momentarily with contorted faces, barely staying still long enough to capture an image before grabbing the camera to get a look at the screen and see how silly they look. There are a few adults around, some stopping to chat, others continuing on with their work. Cows sink up to their knees in the mud and wander near the houses behind us. At first glance it’s your typical tropical paradise – a deserted beach on some remote shore in the Caribbean. But more than that it’s front yard to the people who live here. You don’t get the sense that there’s anything exotic about it like you do from those stock postcard photos of palm trees hanging over the water. You experience instead that lived-in feeling, something that, at least for me, is a reminder of home.

Apparently we missed better waves that morning. The rip tide is strong now and the swell is dying a bit. After a short surf session, we make our way back, the seven of us forming a miniature army: surfboards under arms, flip flops smacking our heels, food on our minds. I ask Manuel, who is from Brasil but has spent more time in Panama than anyone I know, about the breadfruit (I’ve never seen it before). He says yes, it’s breadfruit, and as if to prove it picks one the size of a small soccerball off the ground – “the first of the season!” – and takes it with him. He then becomes our impromptu naturalist. This one looks like banana or maybe plantain, but is not. This is yucca, that’s cassava. That strange looking whitish-green fruit we saw on the beach was noni. It’s good as an antioxidant and for healing cuts and scrapes. As we come to the top of the last hill, a boy is selling fresh bread, small rounds that are sometimes referred to as Johnny Cakes, though I’ve also seen them called Journey Cakes. Anyway, they’re not the cornmeal Johnny Cakes we have in Rhode Island, but instead dense, doughy, oversized rolls with the faint flavor of coconut. We buy four at $0.25 a piece and continue on to the dock below where our dinghies are waiting in dark, glassy water.

The next morning I sit alone on the beach while Matt spends a few hours surfing. He paddles into the waves as the rip current sucks him out and down the beach, then makes his way back to the rideable break. Whoever'd been there yesterday has gone, and just as he has the waves to himself, I have the beach to myself. Unfortunately it isn’t a great day for lying on a blanket reading. Light rain showers continue while sunny patches try to break through for most of the morning. The current has stirred up the shallow water into wavelets and chop so it’s not really worth taking photos either.

Instead I stand on the beach in my bikini in the rain, pacing a bit, hoping to see a sloth. A few people pass now and then. I begin to feel a bit odd standing there in next to nothing as they pass by on their way to work, school, wherever, trudging through the wet sand in the high tide mark, over rocks, and through mud in long jeans or knee-length skirts.

Unlike Bocas Town, no one speaks English here. The people are Ngobe Indians; they speak their own language and Spanish. As it happens, I know just enough Spanish to present myself as someone who appears to be an adult but is mentally on the same level as a 4th grader. One man stops to check out my camera. Because I can’t say much in response (“Si!”) the conversation trails off, as usual. But he’s still standing next to me, so I examine what he’s carrying. To my surprise, it’s a radio. I point, say “Es un radio!” and smile. I’m smiling because I can’t believe that this man is actually walking along the beach with a radio, allowing me to utilize one of a handful of phrases I’d learned from Rosetta Stone word for word. Then I realize how silly I must seem, stating the obvious, smiling, and quite clearly not comprehending whatever it is he’s saying in response. He eventually asks me where I’m from and when I tell him Estados Unidos, it all seems to make sense. He continues on his walk behind some sea grapes and disappears around the bend.

Evenings in the bay are still, except for the dozens of cayucos coming and going silently through the water. Some carry whole families, some a single man or woman, some just a couple of giggly children. In the morning people seem to be on their way someplace, but now, as the sun is setting, the pace of travel is leisurely. People fish, or stop to sell bread or pipas, green coconuts filled with water. We hack one open and empty nearly a liter into a jar, a $5.00 expense back home. One boy just comes to look, grabbing hold of the toe rail and inspecting the boat intensely. A man tells us he’ll bring breadfruit and lobster (“panfruta y langosta”) in the morning and is also selling crafts his wife makes, woven net bags made from colorful plastic. Two boys selling bread are persistent. We still have some left from the day before but it’s hard to say no to these two. The older one is all business, a quick talker, and the younger, shyer one can’t stop smiling. The older boy tells us it’s veinticinco, twenty-five cents, and when we take a minute to decide he says less timidly, “a quahtah”. We cave and buy two.

Our last day we spend walking. The town of Kusapin is about 2.5 miles and to my surprise the path is partially paved, probably an unfinished Peace Corps project. The rest is mud, dirt and rock interspersed with short lengths of narrow beach where I’m tempted to stop and set up camp for the day. Our shoes are unnecessary in the mud, where they only get stuck, so we go barefoot like everyone else. I stop where fresh water pools collect as they cross the path to wash the dried mud away, but Matt doesn’t bother. We pass old women in gum boots hauling bags of produce on their backs, children with sacs of fish swinging at their sides, a boy sporting a bright blue Barcelona jersey holding his father’s hand, groups of women with machetes, several dogs, an elderly couple, the woman carrying a live chicken tucked under one arm and a bag of vegetables in the other. Hardly anyone speaks to one another. Most people say hello as we pass, but some women say nothing. Often children continue to wave and call “Hola!” long after we’ve gone by. One girl calls out from a window, smiling broadly, “Hola gringo! Hola gringa!” The attention we attract is so unlike that in Bocas, where interactions are limited to people offering to take you to one beach or another for a fixed amount or selling you overpriced cheeseburgers and smoothies.

We reach Kusapin just before lunch. It’s larger than I expected, but sleepy (it is Saturday morning). It’s sunny and hot and we are sticky with sweat when we stop to take a rest and a drink of water. Though the houses and buildings are rudimentary, the town is clean and there is something cheery about it. A sign warns: Take care of the water. Life depends on it! At the one restaurant we’d been told was there a man and boy are preparing for the day’s lunch. Kids are hanging out, wandering around in pairs. You get the sense that people take pride in making their community an enjoyable place to live.

It’s hard not to compare this place to Bocas or Carenero. There, trash is left to pile up and rot and it seems like most people spend most of their time catering to tourists’ wants and needs instead of investing in their own. We are still outsiders here. It’s obvious. But our status as tourists or visitors doesn’t give way to the type of impenetrable “us-them” constructs it does in Bocas. Having grown up in a tourist town, I am familiar with that kind of separation. There’s certain level of contempt reserved for tourists. There are certain areas of the beach where only tourists go. There are restaurants that everyone knows only tourists eat at. The word itself becomes irritating and adopts a negative tone. But at the same time many people’s livelihoods depend on those tourists. And oftentimes from the tourists' perspectives their experiences seems authentic. It’s not like by coming to Kusapin we’ve escaped being tourists. Much of travel is a fluctuation between feeling part of and apart from what it is you’re experiencing. It’s just that Kusapin is a place where tourism hasn’t become, and hopefully won’t become, an industry.

After a massive lunch of pulpo guisado (octopus stew) with patacones (fried plantains) and rice and beans, I want to take a nap in the sun. But we have the walk back ahead of us. Fortunately what was inches deep mud has now dried into clay after just a couple hours of beating sun, and the way back is much easier going. On the way out of town, a young guy, maybe 18, says nothing as we greet him. Then suddenly he shouts “HEY American boys!!! How’s it GOING?!?” Either I’m looking especially haggard or he’s not the star of his English class. Whatever the case, I’d much rather be an American boy in Kusapin than whoever I am back in Bocas.

MARINA LIFE

January 15, 2015 Kate MacBain

I forgot to mention that we broke our steering cable two days before arriving in Panama, mostly because we’ve been sitting on the dock and its absence hasn’t been an issue. But there is a reason we havent taken the boat anywhere since weve been here, and it's not only because the swell has been so big. With Christmas and New Year’s thwarting our hopes of receiving replacement parts within a few days of arriving, our planned week in the marina stretched into three and we began to really miss being able to throw off the dock lines and go. Access to laundry, showers, and wifi makes life much more convenient, but being able to anchor where we like and having the freedom to move on a whim is part of the reason we live on a boat.

Marina Carenero sits in a corner of a small cove just across the water from the relative bustle of Bocas Town. It’s a mostly quiet place... until evening, when a repetitive and irritating mix of calypso and reggaeton starts up at the local club just around the bend. The weathered wooden building hangs over the water, its windowless facade decorated with playing cards and poker chips in an airbrush-style mural, highlighted by sweeping washes of color and a couple of faded palm trees. Substitute the cards and palm trees for an American flag and you’re in Lake Winnepesaukee. Sounds of drum and bass interspersed with accordion and airhorn don’t so much drift across the water as march toward any open hatches, where they remain, uninvited, sometimes until 6am. It’s a bit of a mystery, really; anytime we’ve driven past while the music is going the place is nearly empty. We can usually spot at least one guy sort of sway-dancing, beer in hand, but as far as I’m concerned one man a party does not make. (Unless it’s this one friend of mine - I'll call him "Ted" - standing in the living room drinking a Rainier, bouncing and singing along to old reggae on the record player after having spent the day out on the river casting for steelhead.)

Anyway, besides the neverending solo danceparty whose greatest hits play on repeat each night, the marina is quiet. It’s home to about 15 boats, 10 of which it's safe to say are there permanently. Boats seem respond to Panama’s sun and rain the same way their expat owners do: they age more quickly and become less likely to ever leave as time goes on. Staying on top of maintenance and keeping things clean in this climate is vital, but the atmosphere around Bocas Town make it an easy place to shirk responsibility, put off small jobs - "mañana..." - and blend into the backdrop of slow decay, claiming to be living the dream.

We’ve passed the time waiting for the new steering cable to arrive trying, and mostly failing, to dry out gear and laundry and air the boat out. We spread out the charts nightly, planning and replanning the next part of our trip and routing our passage through the Pacific. I’ve read every issue of Outside Magazine we have onboard, and can list their top rated "superfoods" both chromatically and chronologically by month of popularity. And when we run out of responsible things to do, we feed the wildlife and set off fireworks.

Today we're excited to be off to Cusapin for a few days. Check out the map to see where we are. In the meantime, here are a few scenes of life at Marina Carenero.

SILVERBACKS

January 7, 2015 Kate MacBain

The swell has been huge here. Depending on who you talk to, we're getting once-in-a-season or once-in-a-decade waves this week. Unfortunately for me that means a break from surfing, but I have been trying to get out and at least take a few photos. We went to check out one of the biggest and meanest waves around the other day to get a close up look at just how much water really moves there. I snapped a few photos. Apparently so did Kelly Slater. And even he passed it up for something less punishing.

Only difference: Kelly Slater has a few more followers than I do...

BOCAS DEL TORO

January 4, 2015 Kate MacBain

Bocas del Toro is a place of contrast and interruption. Almost every day the beating sun is temporarily eclipsed by sudden downpours, or the other way around. The soft sounds of wind, waves and the occasional bird are interrupted each morning by the blaring descent of incoming jets, only a couple hundred feet overhead, and by the criss-crossing of pangas (water taxis) throughout the day and well into the evening. Locals sell fruit and crafts in the afternoon heat while groups of backpackers in search of all day breakfast pass by. The vegetation is lush and the houses cheerfully painted, but waste and garbage congregate along the shoreline and pile up beneath the houses of the local villages. Children walk barefoot through the fetid mud and trash. Only a few hundred feet down the path, the grounds of rental houses and hostels are strewn with surfboards and lounge chairs, and barefoot girls in their bikinis lazily sip pina coladas and daquiris on the porches of waterfront restaurants.

We've been here nearly two weeks and we're beginning to be able to navigate our way through some of these contrasts and see Bocas through a more finely filtered lens. Though many of the restaurants on the waterfront in Bocas Town have nearly identical appearances and menus, we've learned which ones are worth stopping at (few) and which ones will disappoint (most). We don't try to make a run for it when there seems to be a break in the rain - looks can be deceiving. We buy bread from the shy little girl who brings it from her house behind the marina down to the dock every few days instead of the loaves that mysteriously last weeks on end from the grocery store. It's $1.50 for five big rolls here on the dock, and they're usually still warm. We pass on the vivaciousness of the crowd, where travelers meet and exchange stories and tips and phone numbers and questions ("How long have you been traveling?" "What's your destination?"), and seek rather the intimacy of more ordinary conversation, where questions are more mundane ("What is your dog's name?" "How did you break your wrist?"). Sometimes it's nice to just talk about the weather. To just be here.

I don't want to imply that we're somehow being exposed to some hidden side of Panama, or that the only authentic way to experience Bocas is to stay away from fellow travelers or do as the locals do. We're tourists, too, and we're only just beginning to distinguish between the things and places that add real value to our daily lives here and the things that we can happily do without. I recently read an article by a journalist who was traveling in Sao Paulo. He wrote:

"Tourists are immigrants who audit. We feel the dislocation yet bear none of the responsibility. We pick up a few words; we don't abandon our mother tongue. We come for the enticements but we don't stay for the test.
Our fleetingness deprives us of depth but rewards us with intensity." (Thomas Swick, "Faces in a Crowd")

We have no intention of becoming immigrants here, but I guess we're beginning to sacrifice some of the intensity we first experienced for a greater serving of depth.

PASSAGE TO PANAMA

December 26, 2014 Kate MacBain

If you've looked at the map, you'll have seen that we did indeed make it to Panama a few days ago and are not still battling our way through the Caribbean Sea. Apologies for not writing sooner. We've been busy... surfing, eating, and catching up on sleep. The trip down was not the easy one we'd anticipated.

We'd hoped to leave Charleston and sail straight for the Windward Passage, between Cuba and Haiti, but the wind wasn't in our favor so we continued south along the coast instead. We stopped in Florida, home of a 600-ton sand Christmas tree and some of the nation's most bizarre news stories, where we were able to catch up with a few friends who'd coincidentally flown in the same day. With north winds opposing the northbound Gulf Stream, conditions were less than ideal for crossing so we waited almost a week before we could continue east toward the Bahamas. On the upside, we actually got quite a bit done while we were stuck there. If there's anywhere you'd want to be stuck on Florida's Atlantic coast it's West Palm Beach, if only for the fantastic farmer's market they hold each Saturday. And a week is just about enough there. Any longer and we'd have traded the boat in for a condo on a golf course and bought each other Botox injections and teeth whitening for Christmas... Florida is a strange place.

Finally the weather was perfect for crossing the gulf stream and the forecast looked good for the next stretch, too, with the wind just aft of the beam almost the whole way to Panama. However, it ended up being a bit of a bumpy ride through the Northwest Providence Channel and around the northeast tip of Eleuthera. And suprisingly cool at night. The Bahamas are where I first did any sailing outside of Narragansett Bay, my first overnight passages, my first time living on a sailboat. Even though we didn't get very close to land at all it was all very familiar. The deep clear blue sea; the flying fish that occasionally fling themselves on deck; Exuma Sound feeling like a corridor, though you can't see anything but ocean, but know there are islands and cays on either side; the brilliantly lit and monstrously sized cruise ships passing one by one like gaudy gems on a conveyor belt; the millions of stars at night and those that race toward the horizon falling from the sky... These things aren't special to the Bahamas, but it's the first place I experienced them. It was sort of bittersweet to be able to experience them there again, but unable to stop and revisit the places I got to know 15 years ago.

By the third day, when we turned south and sailed between Cat Island and Long Island, the seas were calmer and smoother. We were finally able to get the boat a bit tidier and spend a bit of time in the galley. We crossed over Tartar Bank, hoping for a tuna or at least a mahi mahi but all we got was a barracuda. It didn't matter; we ended that day with proper showers, which had become a bit of a luxury at that point, and a fresh meal.

As we approached the Windward Passage, we knew the seas would build and the wind would become fluky. Even so, the weather report we'd downloaded showed only 5-10 knots going through the passage and 17 knots from the NE once through - perfect for a straight course to Bocas del Toro. But when I came on watch that night, just in sight of Cuba's easternmost point, it was to 12 foot swell and 25-30 knot winds. This continued for three days. The boat bounced along, surfing down waves, and heeling way over with the wind. We ate instant ramen and Doritos. We didn't sleep well. On the second day, in the lee of Haiti, the wind dropped right off as lightning storms passed overhead and freighters glided past, unfazed. Squalls began to roll through, and Matt spent his watch trying to avoid the worst of them but as they were line squalls there wasn't much he could do. By daylight, rain that flattened the surface of the sea fell and the wind continued to gust stronger and stronger, making the ocean look like a series of blue ridgelines, windswept and endless.

It got so bad later that night that we had to heave to while the squall passed overhead. The boat was going 12 knots at one point with a triple reefed main and only a teeny bit of jib out. Even with the jib furled we were still pushing 10 knots. Finally, unable to see past the end of the bow because of rain, Matt decided to stop the boat. Luckily, that was the worst of it.

In general it wasn't so bad - we were never too concerned - just uncomfortable and tiring for only two people. In a way we were quite lucky; the direction of the wind put us perfectly on course and the strength meant we were making really good time. We also got to know how the boat responded to rough weather (very well) and noted what we needed to improve. All good things to discover on a short passage before the Pacific Ocean crossing. It was also kind of cool to be so close to the water and so exposed to the wind and rain, though not necessarily enjoyable. On the big boats we used to work on, weather like this was still uncomfortable but you didn't really have to deal with the elements. It just meant you couldn't work on your tan or do Insanity workouts on the aft deck. On Tamata, we're feet from the waves, and walls of water rise up behind us, towering over the stern until the boat is pushed forward and races down the frontside. When it's gentle it's almost like a lull, the smooth, metered rising and falling predictable. When it's rough, the boat is jerked forward, pulled from one side to another, and the affronts seem to come from all directions. I remember crossing paths with a small sailboat of the coast of Gibraltar when we were taking a 120-ft sailboat across the Atlantic. We were still 100nm offshore and sailing downwind through some pretty large seas. The little boat was beating into it, climbing each wave's peak and crashing down the backside, rocking like one of those crazy horses on springs at the playground. I remember thinking how unpleasant it looked and feeling thankful that I was on such a large boat, and then, in the same moment, realized that that would be Tamata in the near future. Now that we're doing it, being on the big boat seems like a bit of a detached way to sail. For us, everything is immediate and our movements feel like an extension of the weather itself. I'm just thankful we were sailing downwind on this trip...

We were pretty exhausted by the 8th day, when the sun finally came out. The seas were still over 12 feet, but the winds were much more steady and the sailing smoother. Things continued to die down until we could finally see land. Without any breeze, we had to motor the last day, which was fine since we'd used so little fuel. As we approached Bocas del Toro the haze of brown-green land became more defined and more vividly green until we were close enough to hear reggae echoing out from a shack on a small bay and smell smoke from a nearby fire. We anchored the night off the point of Bastimentos and, after grilling a huge steak, finally caught up on sleep.

We've been here only four nights but the contrast is stark. Now we wake to the sounds of jungle birds calling, the buzz of water taxis zipping between islands, and the daily outbound morning flight passing low overhead. We've been eating tons of ceviche, enjoying simple, local meals, and lots of fresh fruit. Beer is cheap. The surf is good... As Matt says, it's a dog's life.

ISLANDS IN THE STREAM

December 13, 2014 Kate MacBain

We're heading across the Gulf Stream this morning to wind our way through the Bahamian islands en route to Bocas del Toro.

It'll take us ten days or so if we dont stop (we don't have plans to) and the weather looks good so well check in from Panama. Got our froth on!!!

CHARLESTON

December 10, 2014 Kate MacBain

In many ways, one week in Charleston is not enough. The city’s colorful buildings, shaded parks, and historical markers remind you that its importance to the American economy and culture dates back to Colonial times. Really getting to know Charleston would take months. There are the stately and bright private residences along The Battery, the old public market downtown with tourists shuffling between stalls, the College of Charleston and the Citadel, the USS Yorktown aircraft carrier parked in the marshes across the Cooper River at the end of the iconic Ravenel Bridge, and stoic Fort Sumter out near the harbor entrance in the distance. And yet a week as a visitor can be overwhelming. Everywhere you go you’re confronted with another attempt to reinforce – or redefine – what it is to be Southern. That confrontation is most immediate in Charleston’s famed food scene. From downhome to upscale everyone puts their own twist on classics like shrimp and grits and hushpuppies and everyone's trying to outdo everyone else, to be more southern, more real, more Charleston. It’s especially true of the bars and restaurants on one of Charleston’s hippest areas, upper King Street.

For instance, the bars “Proof” and “Prohibition” are both described as mildly Southern-themed places to get a drink. If you were to judge by their names and facades alone you may choose to visit one, not both, assuming them to be nearly identical. We went to both. At Proof, a dimly lit space with limited seating, bartenders mixed cocktails with names like Smoldering Manhattan, which, according to Garden & Gun magazine, “tastes intriguingly like an old library smells,” and served small bites like boiled peanut hummus. I opted instead for a glass of red wine, which tasted intriguingly like fruit, sugar, and alcohol, and a side of water, which may have been boiled at some point to remove any impurities, but I didn’t ask. I would have liked to try a more traditional southern snack of boiled peanuts, but mashing them into hummus seemed neither right nor appetizing. Our bartender was a tall, slim man wearing black pants and a white collared shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and sported a well manicured but not too tame mid-length beard complimented by a mostly short cropped head of hair. (I say mostly because there remained a slicked back tuft on top of his head, which must have been too hard to reach with a hand cranked, artisanal shaving tool.) I wondered why he spent so much time confiding in the mirror until I realized he was talking to a second bartender, a tall, slim man wearing the same clothes and hair as he was. Both men’s ensembles were brought together with suspenders in a subtly Southern way.

What to one man is a fashion accessory is to another a necessity. Over at Prohibition, the bartenders wore suspenders to literally hold their ensembles – jeans, plaid shirts, beer bellies – together. Men too old to be shooting tequila on a Saturday afternoon were yelling at their teams as college football games were broadcast over several TVs. Even if we hadn’t been a Yankee and a foreigner, it sill wouldn’t have been wise to ask to turn on the hockey game. While Proof played on the exclusivity of the speakeasy from America’s underground alcohol culture, Prohibition glorified its backwoods bootlegger.

Being a visitor in Charleston is like being at a Halloween party without a costume. Everyone is somebody - somebody Southern - except you. Our introduction to the more reserved side of Charleston society was at Hall’s Chophouse. Hall’s is the restaurant everyone told us is the best place to eat when someone else is paying. The owner personally greets everyone who walks through the door in what I assumed was an act to play up southern charm and hospitality, but was more likely a sincere effort to make diners feel welcome – treatment you rarely receive in New England restaurants of the same caliber. We were immediately introduced to a charismatic man who owned a well-known car dealership in town. Actually, to call him charismatic is a bit of an understatement and not quite accurate. He simply holds court. In the twenty minutes we spent talking to him he called an economics professor away from his table to ask what the hell an economics lab was if it didn’t have a supply of beakers and test tubes and rallied a preacher he called “the Reverend”, who happened to be walking by, into prayer for us and our trip, all while holding three separate conversations between our group. Eventually he excused himself, telling us that if he didn’t get going his wife would start the fight without him, and we were seated for dinner.

The only thing better than the company and entertainment at Hall's was the food. My dad’s friends from Newport who spend a lot of time in Charleston generously treated us to some of the best steak and Brussels sprouts I’ve ever had, as well as sharing some tips about routes, anchorages, and stopping points between South Carolina and the Bahamas. After dinner we met a man who had spent some time in Newport. He, too, offered his suggestions for eating in the city and we mentioned that we wanted to try the oysters at a place called Bowen’s Island outside of Charleston but didn’t have any way of getting there. He offered (insisted) to take us over the weekend so we exchanged numbers and it was settled.

The other thing about Charleston is everyone, including your cab driver, has an opinion on oysters. On the halfshell is typically how I prefer them, but on arriving in Charleston I was searching for the best place to get chargrilleds after my friend Ted turned me onto them last year. I read about oyster roasts, which I guess are the equivalent of our clambakes up north. And then learned about lightly steamed cluster oysters at a place out in the marshes of Bowen's Island and we made it our mission to get there.

In the city, the charm is decidedly Southern. Just outside, though, what you experience is a bit more raw. Cross one of the bridges that take you off the peninsula where Charleston sits and visit any of the shrimp docks or oyster houses along the inlets and creeks the wind their way through the marshes and you’ll understand what lowcountry means. One specific example is the woman we ran into on while walking around one of the seafood docks over in Mount Pleasant on Thanksgiving day. She was fishing in what must have been a foot of water, cigarette in mouth, beer in hand, and massive chocolate lab called Cookie by her side. She told me she was gonna get one, she knew there were flounder down there, she seen a big one. I told her all she needed was patience, and she agreed, I think, with a swig of beer. Unfortunately patience wasn’t all she needed… I use “fishing” as a loose term here; there wasn’t a lot of action involved. There was a rod, some line, a red and white plastic bobber. Other than that there was the beer drinking and the waiting. Around the corner the smoker was going, country music blasting, half a dozen pickup trucks parked outside. We also found a piece of chicken skin and a human tooth further down the dock. One huge guy gave us barely understandable directions to the nearest corner store to pick up some beers – I assumed at the time he meant for ourselves, sort of an invitation to join what I guess was a party? I realize now he’d likely run out of Bud heavy. I wanted to stay, but I’d actually made some traditional Thanksgiving food (suddenly so boring) so we had to leave. Also, I really don’t think we were welcome.

A broader and (for most people) more inviting representation of the Lowcountry is Bowen’s Island. We’d planned to meet our new friend Scott there to eat oysters while watching the sun set over the marshes. I was expecting a sort of Martha Stewart does Charleston oyster jubilee with twinkling lights and cheesy music playing but it was anything but. The building was raised on stilts, constructed with 2x4s, plywood and cinderblock and paneled on the west with glass windows. There was a sweaty guy steaming oysters in a tiny corner of the cavern-like basement where you had to go to pick up your order. Upstairs it was loud, crowded, warm, and lively. We waited in the stillness outside, our breath visible as the sun sank into the smoke hovering in the marshes.

The platter of oysters we ordered didn’t arrive arranged neatly on ice with lemon and horseradish but as a hunk of shell piled on shell atop a plastic school lunch tray, along with a handful of shucking knives and kitchen towels. One tray wasn’t enough. Two trays wasn’t really enough either so we got some peel and eat shrimp, something else you see all over the Carolinas. It was briny and messy and there was no attempt to be anything other than what it was. There were well-dressed families, guys in overalls who looked like they’d just stumbled over from a hog farm, hipsters, tourists, frat boys. That’s what makes Bowen’s Island such a cool place and unlike anywhere else in Charleston, where it seems like Southern has to mean something specific. Here was everything I thought of as Southern all in one place.

If there’s one stereotype about the South that’s true it’s that the people are more friendly than most places. We arrived in Charleston knowing nobody and left having visited some of the best places on our trip so far, thanks largely to the kindness of strangers.

AT SEA, RACING DOLPHINS

November 26, 2014 Kate MacBain

It's the third week of our trip and we've finally reached warmer water, though due to unseasonably cold temperatures down here not necessarily warmer weather. We're now in Charleston, South Carolina, doing as the locals do: overindulging in fresh seafood and hearty, obesity-inducing lowcountry cuisine.

While traveling on the Intracoastal Waterway was certainly an experience we won't forget, by the time we reached Beaufort, NC we were ready to break out the sails and get the boat moving the way it's meant to. The weather was perfect for continuing to Charleston offshore so we jumped at the chance, knowing that if we missed the opportunity we'd be stuck in Beaufort for another week. The beer selection at Backstreet Pub is good, but it's not that good.

Getting back out to the ocean after crawling down the narrow corridors of the ICW was like reaching an above treeline stretch on a long hike up a densely forested peak. Everything seemed to open up. The stars shone brighter, the sails filled with wind and pushed us along, and the ocean was alive. Seabirds swooped and hovered, eying the pink and purple lures popping in our wake and clumps of weed floated past here and there. On the second morning we hooked five little skipjack tuna within 15 minutes. But the most evident signs of life were the dozens and dozens of bottlenose dolphins who appeared alongside the boat as we sped along and cut through the swell.

Dolphins are always a welcome sight at sea, but the amount we saw on this past leg was unbelievable. A small group of them began playing at the bow just outside of Beaufort and almost every time we checked over the course of our 36 hour sail, day and night, there were at least a few of them hanging around. The phosphorescents glowed in their wakes as they surfed next to the boat at night. And there were so many of them. At one point they actually seemed to be swarming. I asked Matt how many he thought there were and he said he "reckoned there were a hundred" (ie, more than he could count). During the day you could stand at the bow and race along with them, just a foot or two above them as they darted around each other and glided back and forth beneath the spray. They seemed to be keenly aware of us and we were mesmerized by them.

These short overnight trips can be difficult - your body doesn't get into a routine and it's just short enough that it's hard not to think about getting there - but having the dolphins around was so cool. They kept us aware and comfortably tethered to the present moment.

Matt got some great footage and I threw together some of the best clips here. My apologies for the bad sound quality and quickly done, sub par editing. Will make improvements soon!

DISMAL SWAMP

November 21, 2014 Kate MacBain

We made it to North Carolina, where accents are strong and teeth are optional. We decided to take the boat down the canal between Norfolk and Elizabeth City instead of going out into Currituck Sound because the weather wasn't looking great. It ended up being a really cool trip. The leaves are all changing here and it's completely still and deep black on the river. It was pretty weird floating along in a sailboat, though.

Because we tied up after exiting the lock to explore the town of Deep Creek (which turned out to be a single strip mall with surprisingly good Japanese food), the boats ahead of us were long gone and we had the canal to ourselves. The whole surface of the water was a black mirror, flecked only with the yellow stars of fallen maple leaves. It was unreal.

I need to backtrack a bit, because I can't forget the lock master. To enter the canal we had to go through a small lock to be raised up to the canal's water level. The guy in charge wore aviators like the prison guard in Cool Hand Luke and took his job just as seriously, except instead of a pistol hanging from his belt he wore what appeared to be a child's size large lifejacket over his men's size large leather jacket and instead of two bloodhounds at the ready he had a 12-year-old mutt named U-Turn trailing at his heel. He told me, "His mama was fullblown pitbull, daddy was a pitbull-sharpei mix, and he was raised in a pin" (that's pen) " with two rabbits. And the male rabbit was the alpha outta the three. So..."

He was such a sweet guy, full of recommendations, helpful advice, and stories, and U-Turn was even sweeter. It was a funny place to have a chat but we'll remember it for a long time.

NEW YORK CITY

November 18, 2014 Matt

Getting to New York can be a hassle. But arriving in New York is never dull. Whether ascending into the glowing hustle of Grand Central from the train tracks below or staring down at what looks like a miniature city from an approaching flight, there's a sense of liveliness and continuity that radiates from the New York's constant state of motion. Arriving by boat early in the morning was an incomparable experience.

After sailing through the night, we finally caught view of the city just after sunrise. We made our way past the mansions on Long Island's western shore and Laguardia’s incoming airplanes, slid by Riker's Island and then through Hell's Gates and, suddenly, floating down the East River, we became part of the city we'd been looking at from afar.

My idea of sailing has always been heading out into open water, filling the sails with breeze and feeling the boat move in tune with the sea and wind. When we put the sails away and floated past the apartment buildings and avenues that line Manhattan’s East Side, I was reminded of something more fundamental about being on a boat. You’re at once completely integrated with the world, reliant on weather, geography, and much of the time other people, and at the same time set apart, bobbing around alone on your little vessel, not able to fully grasp what makes the environment surrounding you its own place. Once you’re anchored or ashore, that all changes. But while you’re moving along it’s a strange contrast. Nowhere was that more evident than in New York. We watched a busy city unfold before us from the quiet isolation of the boat. It was one of the cooler things we’ve done on Tamata.

The day we arrived was a bit grey, but the day we left was bright, crisp and clear. We spent nearly an hour just cruising up and down the Hudson taking photos. Like most representations, they don’t do the experience justice.

The boat sat a bit lower due to the amount of food we’d consumed. Over the course of four days we’d eaten Cuban once, Italian once, Korean twice, Japanese twice, pizza daily (oops!), a few bagels, a bit of tapas, way too much coffee and some street food. Oh, and I had an apple for good measure. Even with Matt sticking to his rule of No Museums with a Hangover, we still made it to the MoMA for a Matisse exhibit and spent a couple hours walking the Highline. (I’m not sure if impressive is the right word here...) We were able to catch up with a few good friends each night and met a couple more along the way. It ended with a fiery sunset off the coast of New Jersey followed by a really nice two day sail into Norfolk, VA. It was a perfect way to start our trip. Neither Matt nor I have ever had a bad time visiting New York, but this trip ranked among the best for both of us.

WE'RE OFF!

November 15, 2014 Kate MacBain

After many months of planning and multiple delayed departures, we're finally off the dock and underway! It was a strange feeling to be leaving Narragansett Bay knowing we wouldn't be returning (at least not on Tamata), and at the same time so exciting to have actually taken the first step in making the trip a reality. As my dad says, the hardest part of any trip is throwing the lines off the dock.

There's always a reason not to leave. It's pretty easy to convince yourself that a better opportunity might present itself, or that there are still loose ends to tie up before setting out, especially if a lot of planning is involved. Though Tuesday was a quiet, sunny day - a normal weekday for those around us - it felt charged and special to us. Knowing that this was the start of a 10,000+ mile journey that would span more than a year while motioning through the banality of last minute errands painted the morning in a strange light. My brother took a quick break from working in the metal shop to let our lines off and we glided out of NEB into Narragansett Bay. The Dock Express boat was anchored just outside the marina, loading boats to be carried down to the Caribbean, fishermen pulled their traps nearer to shore, and the birds worked the water against the backdrop of the red-orange wash of fall foliage. A normal day. And though we were in the midst of it all, it felt like we were separate from it in some way too...

First stop - NYC!