Ever since we cruised from Acapulco, Mexico, to Bay of Islands, New Zealand, in 1988 on Freelance, our 28-foot Bristol Channel Cutter, my wife, Harriet, and I longed to return to the South Pacific. In spring 2021, while going through a closet full of stuff in our condo, out slid a box of old paper charts from our voyage. A large chart of Bora Bora unfolded in my hands. The perfect circle of reef, the lagoon of dazzling blue, clouds streaming like cotton from the island’s volcanic peaks—the South Pacific had enchanted us again.

We sketched a plan: From our home port of New Bedford, Massachusetts, we’d head to Bermuda, then Puerto Rico, then the Panama Canal, the Galapagos, French Polynesia, the Cook Islands, the Kingdom of Tonga, and Fiji. We’d arrive in New Zealand a year later. It would be about 10,300 nautical miles, most of it ­downwind in the northeast and southeast trade winds. 

Ocean, our Dolphin 460 cat, had ­recently undergone an extensive refit and was up to the task. So, off we went.

Massachusetts to Bermuda 

Bermuda is an old friend for us. During the 13 years we operated our Caribbean child-literacy nonprofit, Hands Across the Sea, we called into the island 22 times. But getting to Bermuda from the US Eastern Seaboard in the fall is tricky. 

First, we looked for the tailwinds of a departing front to launch us off the continental shelf. Next, we looked for the Gulf Stream to quiet down. Finally, we looked for a favorable slant to get us into Bermuda after a three- to four-day hop.

Powerful autumn and early winter gales can be dangerous, so we checked and double-checked the forecasts (we find PredictWind helpful, and we rely on meteorologists at Commanders’ Weather to determine a weather window). We also had an old friend, Capt. Bill Truesdale, join us. Bill is a circumnavigator, and is cool, calm, and able to diagnose and fix anything. 

With breezy winds abaft the beam, we made great time on Day One. Ocean pushed through chunky, confused seas, flying a full main and the code zero. But after dinner, I felt seasick. Really seasick. Nine times over-the-rail seasick. Bill, who rarely gets seasick, felt similarly ill. He stood his watch, and Harriet held down the fort. 

In the morning, we decided we’d been pushing the boat too hard, sailing too fast for the sea state. Plus, I had started out the passage on four cups of coffee and not much breakfast; my stomach never had a chance. We knew all this was wrong, but we’d been away from passagemaking for a year and a half, and we’d forgotten. Lessons relearned: Ditch the coffee, eat enough noncombustible food to head off the stomach growlies, and take our foot off the gas until we get our sea legs.

The final two days into Bermuda were smooth and fast, pulled along by the code zero. 

Bermuda to Puerto Rico

Commanders’ Weather advised us that in a couple of days, a massive system would move south and overspread Bermuda, slamming shut the weather window to Puerto Rico. The choice was to leave the next day, or hunker down for weeks with uncertain prospects. We quickly wrapped up some engine maintenance, saw Bill off to the airport, and hoisted the main for Fajardo, Puerto Rico.

Harriet and I had both been looking forward to getting south, into the tropics and the soft, warm trade winds. It is certainly possible, however, that our hiatus from passagemaking had turned us into softies. Chunky seas bounced us. We slowed down Ocean enough to keep our stomachs calm, and to keep the off watch rested. Our sailhandling skills—reefing the main in the dark, rolling up the code zero before squalls—were a bit ragged, and we revisited our teamwork. We felt more tired than usual.

We’d been pushing the boat too hard, sailing too fast for the sea state. We’d been away from passagemaking for a year and a half. We’d forgotten.

On Day Five, the profile of Puerto Rico rose in the dawn light. We’d been there before only for connecting flights between the United States and British Virgin Islands, so everything about the island surprised us, mostly in a good way. Puerto Rico is larger than we realized, more developed (with malls that have US big-box stores and franchises), and uniformly welcoming to visitors. The shores are ringed with high-end marinas—we spent two nights at what’s now Safe Harbor Puerto Del Rey, the Caribbean’s largest marina—and the island has luxury housing developments, along with funky settlements behind barrier mangroves, and more. 

We spent 10 days exploring from the Spanish Virgin Islands to the sheltered south coast of the main island. Nature preserves have kept Puerto Rico’s cruising grounds in good shape, with lots of hidey-hole mangrove anchorages, plus some bioluminescent coves. On holidays, anchorages are crowded with raft-ups of local sport-fishing boats and personal watercraft.

Puerto Rico to Panama

Finally, an entire passage in the trade winds. The course from Boquerón, Puerto Rico, to the entry breakwater at Panama is nearly dead downwind, so we jibed to take advantage of shifts in wind direction and to avoid the near-permanent low-pressure system (possible winds to 35 knots with steep, ugly current-against-the-wind seas) that lurks off the northwest coast of Colombia. 

Our sail-carrying plan called for a single reef in the main, and Ocean’s 95 percent overlap jib (roller-reefable) and furling code zero (nonreefable) to suit the daily variation in wind strength. But just a couple of days out, we concluded that we’d idealized the trade winds just a wee bit. “I can’t recall seeing so many squalls like this,” Harriet said. “Maybe on the passage from Fernando de Noronha, in Brazil.” 

On Day Three, powerful squall clouds—to the south, west and north—triangulated on Ocean. Each announced itself with alarming gusts, and followed up with sheets of rain just short of a whiteout. We had little choice but to reef down or furl up. We’d peer out at the rain, then turn the ignition key and trundle along behind the squall in weak, ascending air and leftover chop. The squalls meant sailhandling work and slower progress—and nighttime squalls seemed worse in every way.

One evening, a prolonged 25-plus-knot blast sent us surfing down a steep sea at 18 knots. The autopilot steered blithely onward. (Ocean’s hull has lots of buoyancy forward, and a cat’s twin hulls are not prone to broaching, as a monohull might.) But the brief thrill ride through the darkness freaked us out. We double-reefed the main—we were happy averaging 8 to 9 knots—and concluded that we needed a better sail strategy for running deep in intensified trades. 

Later, we talked to a cat crew on the same passage who had used only a reefed jib. Their mainsail stayed in the lazy bag. We needed to keep reminding ourselves that, even though we are ex-racers, we were not in a race. We love fast ­passages, but quality off-watch rest for our ­doublehanded crew was the top priority.

When we pulled in the second reef, we disturbed a red-footed booby that had taken up residence on our solar panels; the bird squawked, moved to the tip of the port bow, tucked its beak into its wing, and continued sleeping. Later, we found a small black bird, maybe a petrel, snoozing on the dinghy davits. Later still, a flying fish flew into our dinghy. All of it seemed to say: “You are in the trade winds and you are a part of the trade winds, so pull up your socks. Enjoy.”

Some evenings, of course, were ­astoundingly beautiful, an impossible canopy of stars arcing across the horizon. “There’s the Southern Cross!” Harriet exclaimed, pointing out her favorite. 

Nearing Panama, the trade winds ­mellowed out: 15 knots, 20 in squalls, and far fewer of them. The seas grew smaller and kinder. These were more like the trades we remembered. 

By the time we jibed into the inbound lane of the ship-traffic separation scheme for the Panama Canal, I’d finished David McCullough’s 700-page The Path Between the Seas, so I was already in awe of the place. Unfortunately, we were stuck on the Caribbean side for three weeks because of issues with our mainsail batten pocket ends and steering cylinders (Ocean has hydraulic steering). We tied up in Shelter Bay Marina, at the Caribbean entrance to the canal, and the marina’s shipment wizard wrangled our repair materials for us. All the help we needed—a sailmaker and hydraulic guys—was on hand. 

After several weeks of work, Karen and Paul Prioleau, cruisers we’d met back in 1988, flew in to join us as line handlers for the canal transit. We also had a required Panama Canal Authority pilot and a specified line handler, who between them had more than 2,000 canal transits. So the 10-hour transit was easy. These 47 miles were a milestone and the gateway to a new life for Harriet, me, and Ocean. 

By the time 26 million gallons drained from the Miraflores locks, the final southbound lock, lowering us 27 feet to sea level, and we motored around the bend and under the final bridge, we saw a thin blue horizon waiting ahead: the Pacific. 

After 20 years of dinghy racing, the siren song of bluewater cruising called Tom Linskey, aka TL. In the ’80s, he built a 28-foot Bristol Channel Cutter in his ­backyard from a hull-and-deck kit, and sailed with his wife, Harriet, from Southern California to Mexico, French Polynesia, New Zealand, and Japan. Together, they’ve covered more than 50,000 doublehanded miles, most recently in their Dolphin 460 catamaran, Ocean.

The post Sailing From Massachusetts to Panama With Just Two Stops appeared first on Cruising World.

Wendy Mitman Clarke is a longtime sailor and author who spent four years sailing with her family aboard their Adams 45 Osprey. Their travels took them up and down the western Atlantic, starting in Chesapeake Bay and reaching as far as Panama and the Maritimes.

The post A Conversation with Wendy Mitman Clarke appeared first on Cruising World.

From Ocean to Ocean

Charter transits of the Panama Canal, including landfalls in the San Blas Islands in the Caribbean Sea and stops in the Pearl Islands in the Pacific Ocean, are offered by San Blas Sailing.

The crewed trips feature an 18-day itinerary. The first week includes stops in the San Blas archipelago. Next is a visit to the historic port city of Portobelo on the Panamanian mainland. Spanish colonial fortifications there are a protected UNESCO World Heritage site. The two-day transit of the Gatun, Pedro Miguel and Miraflores locks of the Panama Canal follow. After a stop in Panama City, the charter heads 40 nautical miles south to the Pearl Islands for wildlife viewing, fishing and beach combing.

Peak humpback whale-watching season is from June through October; rates vary according to season. The fleet for this excursion includes a 100-foot gullet; a 77-foot maxi; a Lagoon 440 and 500; a Fountaine Pajot Salinas 48 and Bahia 46; a Nautitech 40 and 43; a Feeling 446 and a Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 49. For details and explanation of costs, contact San Blas Sailing.

Sweepstakes Net Literacy Funds

The American Sailing Association (ASA) raised $41,379 in the fall 2018 Caribbean sweepstakes to benefit the Hands Across the Sea Caribbean literacy nonprofit organization . The ASA has helped raise some $180,000 for the group since becoming its partner seven years ago.

Sweepstake participants earned a chance to win the grand prize of a weeklong sailing charter in St. Vincent and the Grenadines, courtesy of Horizon Yacht Charters. Participants also could win a weeklong vacation at The Verandah Resort & Spa in Antigua or the St. James’s Club Morgan Bay Resort & Spa in Saint Lucia, courtesy of Elite Island Resorts.

Hands Across the Sea has raised funds to provide over 464,000 books to more than 400 schools and libraries in the Eastern Caribbean. Over 100,000 students have benefitted from the support of sailors and other donors. The charity has expanded its services to providing teacher professional development and student librarian training to Eastern Caribbean schools.

Sail, Learn in the Sea of Cortez

West Coast Multihulls has expanded its charter fleet based at Marina Puerto Escondido, Baja California Sur, Mexico.

Three sailing cats are now available: a Fontaine Pajot Saba 50, a Fontaine Pajot Helia 44 and a Leopard 43. Crewed and bareboat options exist for exploration of the anchorages and islands in the Golfo de California, popularly known as the Sea of Cortez. Puerto Escondido is 10 miles south of the nearest airport and has convenient connections.

Instruction through the curriculum of the American Sailing Association is also available at Baja and at the company’s base in San Diego. For details contact the company.

Powercat Added

Offshore Sailing and Power Cruising School has added a new Fountaine Pajot power catamaran MY 37 to its fleet at The Westin Cape Coral Resort in Cape Coral, Florida. The boat will be used to teach the school’s Fast Track to Power Catamaran Cruising course. Offshore also offers this same course aboard Moorings power catamarans in Tortola, British Virgin Islands. For details contact the school.

The post April 2019 Chartering Update appeared first on Cruising World.

It’s not easy finding four line handlers smart enough to catch a rope and dumb enough to get involved with a Panama Canal transit aboard Ganesh, our hard-used 43-foot ketch. Here’s the truth of it: The only common denominator among my friends is that they lack judgment. Thus, I coaxed aboard Handsome Henry, of London; the notorious Sailor Sandy Lord, of Vermont; and Greg and Liz Ann Mulvany, of Lagniappe, a Pacific Seacraft 37 from New Orleans.

This wasn’t our first transit. My wife, Carolyn, and I have used Neptune’s Stairs so often the Panama Canal Authority gives us frequent-flyer miles. And our last transit had been a piece of cake. We’d ­center-locked through, with two other vessels rafted alongside as potential fenders. No problem; their crews did all the linehandling while I gave Carolyn a pedicure.

Still, a Panama Canal transit requires four physically able onboard line handlers regardless of the ease of passage, so Carolyn and I had no choice but to beat the bushes for the unwary.

Once we had our pickup crew aboard, we moved into place on the Flats to await our adviser pilot — on April Fools’ Day no less, which seemed wholly appropriate.

Here is a little-known fact: The poorly paid hands working on the lock walls in the canal don’t have iPhones, Sony PlayStations or Microsoft Xboxes. Thus, they are entertainment deprived, so they spend a lot of time on target practice with their encased-steel monkey fists (outlawed in most places), and are said to be able to hit the eye of a fly in midflight.

The guys on the wall can be dangerous, in other words. Before entering the canal, Carolyn had covered every solar cell and breakable object on the deck of Ganesh with mattresses held down with duct tape, or cockpit cushions tied off with string. I would have gladly worn a football helmet had I had one aboard.

Our first pilot was Roy, a careful man intent on doing a good job. “My transom backs to port,” I told him, just to let him know I understood prop wash and other esoteric nautical tendencies.

“No problemo,” he said. “Tranquillo!“

There was a problemo, however. A decrepit tug boat by the name of Tito One kept getting too close to us as we were awaiting our first lock. The tug was covered in rust, flaking paint and thick grease, and carried a battle-scarred crew to match.

There is a swift current as you enter the three-stage Gatun ascending locks, but it is on your bow and thus can be used as a brake. I felt in perfect control as I maneuvered to be center-tied between two other boats.

“No,” said our adviser Roy. “We side-tie to the tug.”

My cakewalk transit suddenly turned into a grease-smeared, tire-marked nightmare. The problem wasn’t merely that I didn’t want my vessel to touch the filthy Tito One. A commercial tug has its own agenda. When it needed to go to assist the ship locking through, it went. I’d best be able to grapple or untie in an instant if I didn’t want to be damaged.

“Do not worry,” said Roy. “We’ll be portside to, so your transom will tuck in easy.”

By chance, it was Handsome Henry standing by on my aft port cleat. Once Sailor Sandy realized she’d have nothing to do on starboard, she rightly went to gently assist nervous Henry.

Since I had the strong lock current to use as a brake, I was able to approach the tug, kick my stern in by tapping reverse and hold Ganesh stationary alongside, which was a good thing because there was no one to take our lines. Finally, a crewman wandered over and Handsome Henry handed him his stern line. Then we cheered. “Good job, Henry!” I said.

“It was easier than I expected,” he replied, grinning.

Alas, the deckhand who took our stern line disappeared without taking our bow line or springs, so I had to hold Ganesh in place with my engine until our pilot, Roy, corralled another crewmember to assist.

“No problemo with a side-tie,” said Roy with a smile, and who certainly would not be around when Carolyn and I buffed out our once-white topsides.

Suddenly, the water exploded all around us as millions of gallons rushed into Gatun lock at the same instant. Picture a toy boat buffeted in a strong Jacuzzi.

We instantly began to surge on our lines, but didn’t have to tend them for the rapid rise of water level because that was the job for the crew on the tug. Only they weren’t doing it. They’d all disappeared into the engine room on break.

I had a moment of panic. The stern of the tug pulled away from the wall and then swung wider. Both vessels surged back hard. Now the tug was 90 degrees to the wall, loudly smashing its rusty bow plates into the concrete. Just a few more meters of slack in the lines as we rose, and Ganesh‘s bow would be ground off. We all started screaming in unison. A sheepish crewmember ambled on deck, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and begrudgingly took in enough scope to prevent our being crushed.

It had been close, and I’d felt powerless. I was now on full alert, amazed to have been so near to disaster. Ganesh is everything we own, and she is uninsured. It would not take much of an accident to force us to abort our circumnavigation.

That evening, we moored in placid Lake Gatun, right around where a penniless Paul Gauguin (the French painter, pre-fame) shoveled dirt as his Spanish friends died of malaria.

On the way into the final series of three locks (there are a total of six), I told him what I’d told Roy: “My transom walks to port in reverse.” He showed no signs he understood.

Ganesh has a full keel. I cannot back her straight under most conditions. This makes close-quarters work stressful.

Once in the lock on the downhill descending side (Pacific) of Lake Gatun, I realized the current was behind us now, and stronger. I got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. We were going too fast toward the south lock gates even though I was in neutral. I tapped Ganesh into reverse, but she started to slew. I jammed her back into neutral to realign, but we had too much forward momentum.

To confound things, we would be tied starboard-to this time.

This was going to be tricky. I had planned on having the experienced Sailor Sandy make the line toss to the other vessel, but at the last minute, Ivan had told me to put my strongest man to starboard, aft. I would have preferred not to, but did not want to ignore my adviser. Plus, I was struggling with the current. So I asked Sandy to change places with Handsome Henry. It was a mistake on my part.

Henry thought he could hand the line over as before, but as I gunned it in reverse to slow, thanks to the prop walk, he got farther and farther away from Tito One. Everyone started yelling at poor Henry, especially the impatient guy on the tug. Henry sort of pushed and shoved the coil of line away from himself and it plopped into the water right next to Ganesh‘s prop.

I am, perhaps, not the best skipper in the world, but I have spent a lifetime attempting not to make bad matters worse during an emergency.

“Sandy, help him keep it clear of my prop, OK?” I said as calmly as I could. And then, I did nothing.

This was very hard to do because we were still moving forward and Greg already had his bow line cleated off.

I did not shout. I did not make the newbie mistake of leaving my helm to help.

Sandy and Henry were asses and elbows as they desperately attempted to get the heavy hawser back aboard.

“Clear,” said Sandy, as I jammed Ganesh into full reverse, but a tad late as the bow line took up and my transom fully swung out.

“Slack, Greg,” I shouted forward and saw he understood what was needed. Greg was, all joking aside, magic on the foredeck.

He eased.

We were now sideways to the strong current in the lock, and I was just about to have my $4,000 Monitor windvane wiped off my transom by the east wall. I gave my Perkins M92B full power forward. The lock wall missed my Monitor by inches. But now my bow was lunging for the opposite side of the lock. It was clear to me that I was not going to have enough room to round up into the current before smashing hard into the gate. All I could do was buy time.

And I bought some, even though I was doomed.

Ivan, our adviser, suddenly came alive. He dashed forward and snatched the bow line from Greg. Then he yelled in Spanish for the tug crew to run it aft. Ivan moved as gracefully as a rotund ballerina as he trotted the heavy hawser aft at the same time. I suddenly realized he was more than an iPhone adorer, he was a sailor’s sailor who could think on his nimble feet.

Once Ivan had the long hawser aft on both Ganesh and the tug, he snubbed it off, and my bow straightened just before it rammed the lock door. Once straight, I was able to reverse with good effect, with Big Ivan grunting in the ensuing slack.

“You saved her,” I said to him in both admiration and appreciation.

“Only because you kept her off the wall long enough,” he replied.

We smiled at each other. I tipped my hat (well, my head scarf) to him.

“Well that deserves another Coke-with-ice for Ivan,” said Carolyn, and everyone laughed.

“Did I screw up?” asked Henry.

“Not at all,” I said. “The comedy of errors was entirely mine. Thank heavens for the fleet-footed Ivan.”

When things go sideways, there is only one person to blame on a boat, and that is its skipper.

We all gave Ivan three loud and hearty cheers as the lock gates opened and we were spit into the Pacific. Well, almost. As Ivan was taken off by a crew boat, I told my mates, “There is only one more challenge: We’re going to refuel in Balboa.”

This was not easy, because a crowd of land sharks descended upon us at the fuel dock, demanding all manner of imaginative fees, charges and mystical payments. At one point, a dock hustler physically grabbed Greg, and I had to wade into the crowd of greed-heads to mellow things out.

“Fatty, I am ready to cast off,” yelled Carolyn loudly from the bow. I could plainly hear the worry in her voice.

I didn’t rush to step back aboard. After all, I am a captain. I calmly and lovingly hugged Greg, Liz Ann, Sailor Sandy and Handsome Henry goodbye and said, “Thanks. You guys were great. I would sail with you anywhere, anytime.”

“It’s been, well, like a dream,” said Henry, and there was a catch in his throat.

His hug was strong.

Then I was back aboard Ganesh, ­gunning her away from the dock as Carolyn tidied up our tangle of grease-caked dock lines. We’d already cleared out in Colón. We were free.

“Ready to relax at sea for the next 45 days or so?” I asked Carolyn.

She smiled. “I’m all yours,” she said, and meant it.

Sometimes, after 48 years of bluewater sailing together, I have to be careful not to tear up around my best friend, my lover and my wife.

I glanced up at my masthead Windex. The wind was fair.

“Take the wheel,” I told her. “I’ll hoist the main.”

Cap’n Fatty and Carolyn are wrapping up three months in French Polynesia and setting sail for Tonga.

The post Transiting the Panama Canal appeared first on Cruising World.

I confess to having the wrong ­perspective when it comes to the city of Colón, Panama, at the ­Caribbean mouth of the Panama Canal. I see it as the last barrier, the last stand, if you will, of bureaucratic dirt dwellers ­attempting to prevent me from reaching the ­comparative paradise of the Pacific. I know that this is so geographically unfair. The port of Colón is more than a den of greedy thieves intent on robbing you with a ­fountain pen — or, so they say.

But my own personal prejudice is ­revealed in the first factoid I tell people about Colón: It is pronounced like the perfume but smells like the body part.

Oh, the stories I could tell about the old Panama Canal Yacht Club ­before the wharf rats stormed it ­into ­oblivion! The fly-speckled restaurant on ­premises sold a delicious and spicy “chicken special” (complete with tiny rib cage) that ­welcomed no inquiries as to ­ancestry. Where else but Colón does a ­shotgun-wielding security guard clear the street before allowing you to dash from your taxi to the cybercafe?

But every dark cloud has a silver ­lining. On one visit, we met a pugnacious ­German yachtsman who field-trained in martial arts each night by strapping on a fake Rolex and strolling into the no man’s land just outside the PCYC and taking on all comers. I ask you, where else but ­Panama offers a steady stream of young, eager live combatants willing to fight to the death daily? Where, indeed?

“And only four times have I lost a watch,” said the German warrior. “Only when someone pulled a gun or knife. You must come with me sometime, Fatty! The ghost of Bruce Lee would be proud!”

Yes, there were some interesting lounge lizards at the dilapidated PCYC. But that was 20 years ago, when the place had a certain Third World, tequila-­scented charm. It’s much worse now. Put it this way: In my watery world, the cowards choose Cape Horn rather than risk a night or two of slithering through the bureaucratic sewers of Colón. Nonetheless, we shoved off from St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands on our fourth circumnavigation with joyous hearts. Part of the bliss of being a sea gypsy is philosophical; you have to take the sweet with the bitter. We’d do a shakedown across the ­Caribbean, ­survive the greedy paper-pushers of Panama and be back in our beloved pearl-strewn Tuamotus in no time.

Alas, a persistent low-pressure zone just south of Santa Marta, Colombia, ­intensified and decided to have some fun at our expense. We’d just spent a year tooling around the benign Lesser ­Antilles, and it was time for an offshore reality check. Yes, we knew we were sailing ­into gale-force winds and an area of strong ­currents, but the low-pressure system was rudely in our way, and I’m a macho guy.

“How bad can it be?” I asked my wife, Carolyn, who looked stricken and ­replied, “That is always a stupid thing to say, ­Fatty. Always!”

It wasn’t the steady 36 knots of breeze that got us, or the gusts to 47; it was the weirdly jumbled current and ­confused seas. Oh, yes, and the cross swell too. It was like sailing through a wave-heaped storm cauldron with huge geysers of water clapping together into random ­mountainous wave trains.

Translation: It was rougher than I’d ­anticipated.

I have another confession to make: I’d just spent the past year shaking the ­money tree by giving cruising seminars, during which I was forced to listen to ­myself publicly proclaiming some small degree of intelligence coupled with a ­massive dose of bravery. And, well, it was impossible not to start to believe some of my sophomoric drivel! So, evidently, Mother Ocean and Neptune had a little meeting and decided to take De Fat Mon down a peg or two.

The first incident took place just ­after midnight, when the steering line that connects our Monitor windvane to our ­cockpit wheel broke. I was dozing au ­naturel in the aft cabin when we unexpectedly jibed, were caught aback, ­sharply heeled and started to round up. All this before I could say, “Where are my shorts?”

Normally, jibing our storm staysail isn’t too bad, but in these boisterous seas (think waves breaking astern and some coming aboard) it was somewhat exciting, believe me.

At once, I rushed on deck, ­pantsless, shoeless and brainless — evidently, the ­exact combo Ma Ocean and King Nep had hoped for. It was overcast. ­Numerous squalls were about. There was no moon, and the seas looked like dark, ­looming liquid mountains. Our intermittent ­compass light (the problem was hard to ­troubleshoot and fix because the bulb ­always worked in harbor) oriented me as to the vertical. I grabbed the helm, glanced at the Windex aloft and forced Ganesh‘s bow back down in the 30 to 40 knots of wind trying to round us up.

Sad to say, Carolyn, my partner offshore for 48 years, found this all amusing, especially my clothing disarray, so to speak. In the cockpit, there were snapping lines and a spinning self-steering clutch on the wheel, right at belt level.

She’s a bit of a feminist. “Ah,” she said with a smile from the companionway, “the advantages of an inboard rig! Watch the soft bits, honey.”

Then just when I had things back on course, our compass light strobed off. Then on. Then off.

“Damn it,” I hissed to her. “I haven’t been this disoriented since Studio 54.”

She sounded amazed. “Bits of the 1970s are starting to filter back into your ­consciousness?”

Gosh, she was in a playful mood!

I ­ignored her and instead ­concentrated on the blinking compass light while ­attempting to keep the careening ­surfboard of a boat on course.

“Loose connection,” I blurted out at one point. She knew that I’d replaced the compass light switch just before we left Great Cruz Bay.

“Perhaps the problem is in your ­brainstem,” she said, misunderstanding me completely.

In order to save money, we keep most of our electronics belowdecks to prevent water intrusion. In this case, I had to have Carolyn hand me the electric-powered ­autopilot head so I could connect its wires while steering with my hips amid the lumps and potholes. Occasionally, she’d shine her flashlight out at me, just to spice up the challenge.

“Give a man some modesty!” I bellowed.

“Must be scared,” she teased back as she tossed pieces of clothing my way.

Finally, I managed to dress, if ­wearing one shoe and inside-out sailing shorts qualifies as such.

“You are a fashionista,” she ­said, then added coyly, “Should I grab the ­camera for your many fans?”

“No time for posing,” I said hastily after the Robertson autopilot was engaged and tracking. “This SOB must fix the Monitor ASAP, OK?”

“L-O-L,” she replied.

It was a wild, storm-tossed night, and we both felt giddy. We came here for ­adventure, and we were getting it. What could be better?

Now, our Monitor windvane lives low on our boat’s generous transom. Re-­reeving the control line was difficult in a shipyard, and rather more so in 18-foot waves. Plus, I had to hang upside down, practically by my ankles. Occasionally, a tumbling sea boarded and made me wonder if that pain in my chest was my ribs breaking, my back straining or both.

Carolyn came out into the wave-dashed cockpit just in case she could help. I felt a surge of love. How lucky can one man be?

Finally, I managed to get the ­control line routed through the long stainless-­steel tube and out the turning block. Then I had to thread it through the ­rudder hole and secure it, with the wild gyrating ­rudder still mostly immersed in large seas.

“Ten,” I said aloud. “Ten.” Then a bit later, “10!”

“Meaning?” Carolyn asked from ­forward and above in the cockpit.

“Meaning I want to end this process with the same number of fingers I began it with!” I replied.

“You are such a wuss,” she chuckled.

Finally, I completed the task, crawled back into the cockpit, shut off the ­autopilot and engaged the Monitor. It held course.

I was too tired to do anything but ­collapse in Carolyn’s arms.

“My hero,” she said simply as she ­patted my head. We stayed that way for a long time. I was utterly content to remain within throbbing distance of her heart.

Bang! The Monitor’s other control line snapped.

This time I was quicker, and caught the wheel before we jibed.

“You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?” Carolyn asked.

“Well, a man can hope,” I said ­wearily as I crawled aft again. It turns out the problem wasn’t chafe so much as age and sun damage to the synthetic cordage. I guess hoping for two circs with the same steering lines is one too many.

A few days later, the wind was down to 25 knots and we were steering for a ­persistent smudge on the horizon. ­Carolyn, my Pactor babe, was twiddling the dials of her single-sideband radio. Her ham call sign is NP2MU, aka Miss ­Universe. There was an email from Herb McCormick at Cruising World. One of my fans (Andrew B) had messaged him to give us a heads up: There were riots in Colón.

“That smudge is tires, police cars and at least one major building downtown in flames,” Carolyn said.

I smiled. It was a test, just another ­cosmic trial. The gods were toying with us. Nothing new, really.

I shrugged, just as I’d seen Bogie do to Katharine Hepburn in the movie The ­African Queen.

“You ready for the pandemonium of civilization, Panamanian-style?” asked Carolyn.

I mimed rolling up my sleeves and ­taking the cheap wristwatch off my arm and putting it in my pocket, something that males born on the south side of ­Chicago are all-too familiar with doing.

“Let me at ’em,” I said confidently.

After an April transit of the Panama Canal, the Goodlanders pointed Ganesh’s bow straight at the Marquesas and French Polynesia.

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