Mother´s Day

Sunday was Mother’s Day.  We aren´t very good with holidays that don´t fall on the same date every year, so we discovered this by accident.  My mom casually mentioned it the day before; we promptly forgot.  Then we learned this fact again when we called Erik’s mom on Sunday.  (Nice save, Papillon!)  And, as I am also a mother (insert joke here), my family quickly rallied around me, made me delicious food, showered me with gifts, and otherwise spoiled me for the whole day.

Don’t be ridiculous.  Here on Papillon, we have Jobs To Do.  There is no time for coddling.  So Stylish made me a lovely book about our family, I got innumerable hugs and kisses from the girls, and I managed to carve out twenty minutes in the morning to read my book and eat corn chips and salsa.  And, as is traditional on Mother’s Day, we had an outing.  Not a go-for-a-picnic outing.  An oh-my-god-we-aren’t-going-to-see-a-store-for-six-months-what-do-we-still-need outing.  Which meant a trip to my least favorite place.

The mall.

I hate shopping.  It is boring, I’m bad at it, and spending money in an overly air-conditioned space with hundreds of other people makes me cranky.  If it isn’t a bookstore, I’m not interested, and even then I’d rather have Amazon deliver things to my house.  In fact, if I could get everything delivered – food, clothing, everything – I would. If I didn’t have to pick it out myself, that would be even better, but I think I would have to be a little further along the wealth curve to manage that.

Job one: a new computer.  I haven’t posted lately just because of the extra-poor internet here.  It is mainly because our Lenovo developed a fan error and decided not to boot any more.  As it turns out, this is a common ThinkPad problem.  At home, I would have taken the computer to be repaired, grouched at the three days it was gone, then taken my newly-repaired machine home, happy with the world.  Here, we fixed it ourselves as many times as we could, then Erik went to twenty-five computer shops and repair guys, only to find that Lenovo does not have a presence Panama.  So, no replacement fan.  Cue a cry for help to my dad and one of my brothers… because, of course, the fan-selling people want a credit card with a US billing address.  Ugh.  But a new fan is now winging its way to our shipping agent in Florida, who will get it to us a week from Wednesday as long as it arrives on their premises by this Wednesday.  And then we can install it ourselves.  Sadly, we now know the inside of the Lenovo pretty well, so we can do it.  Self reliance, people!

But if we are getting a new fan, why the new computer?  Plan B, friends, plan B.  Because do we all trust that the fan problem will forever and always be solved?  We do not.  Assuming we fix the Lenovo, the new Acer will be strictly for our navigation software.   Because not having to navigate the Pacific solely via paper charts and a sextant would be a plus, I think.

The most interesting part of buying the computer came after purchase.  We tried to leave the store, but were instead directed up the back stairs into a windowless room.  Apparently, one must endure a quality check before leaving.  So we waited and waited, then a young associated opened up the computer, turned it on, and made sure it booted.  He seemed a little bemused when we proceeded to try the speakers and the optical drive – I mean, we had the thing on anyway.  Why not check it thoroughly?  All was in place.  Now I just need to get used to this Spanish-style keyboard, which is almost but not exactly like the English model.  The question mark is in the wrong place, CTRL-A saves your document and I have to press the ALT GR key, whatever that is, to find @.  The hardships of life.

Okay, computer – check.  Next, walkie-talkies.  One of the key requirements to enjoying coral reef-infested Pacific islands is not running aground on said reefs.  So we are going to make some rat lines, and yours truly is going to have to climb up to and sit on the spreaders when we navigate in and out of these places.  (And yes, I’ll wear a harness and be very safe, I promise.)  Since my hearing is middling-to-poor, I get to send instructions via walkie-talkie.  I am already having cold sweats about leading us into a blind alley, the coral reaching out and punching holes in our hull, the zooxanthellae swarming Papillon and dragging us down to a watery grave.  Shiver. 

Clothes.  My dear spouse, whom I found wedged in a tiny closet yesterday as he tried to fish wires for the new solar panels, has achieved catastrophic failure on all of his work shorts and most of his shirts.  He was positively indecent.  We found a department store, I left him in the men’s section, and the girls and I went to find them new bathing suits.

Good points of Panamanian department stores: very cheap (clothes <$5 often), very big.  Bad point: totally disorganized.  Anything related to men or boys was fine, in that it was confined to a single geographic location.  Sure, racks were set out randomly: shirts here, shorts there, some socks, then more shirts.  But there was only one place to look.

Not so for girls and women.  Their clothing was sprinkled throughout the three levels of the store.  The only well-organized section was ladies’ intimates, and it was so big I nearly got lost.  I’ve never seen so many fancy-patterned underpants.  It took half an hour to locate the women’s bathing suits, and I never did find the girls’.  Very frustrating.

We stayed long enough at the mall, gathering flip-flops and other essentials, that we decided to eat.  Little did we realize that a full-blown Disney show was going on.  Aladdin, a generic prince and all of the princesses sang and danced, and cavorted about a stage in the middle of the food court.  Lights flashed, music boomed, and the crowd munched through their McDonald’s and KFC as Ariel shimmied in her shiny mermaid-tail spandex pants.  American culture at work.

Thoroughly exhausted, we stumbled home with our bags of New Stuff and fell into bed.  I know I have to go back for a last grocery run, and I never did find bathing suits for the girls, but I sincerely hope that is it.  When one of you creates an everything-you-need delivery system with minimal user involvement, you be sure to let me know.

Canal win!

The canal was a hoot!  We had a great time.  I'm glad to hear that many of you were able to watch us in real time.  My dad, as promised took many, many pictures, and has sent me a few to share with you.  I also took many, many pictures, but was still able to do my job as a linehandler.  And that, my friends, is multitasking.

Waiting for your canal date is a lot like waiting for Christmas when you are six years old.  Time moves unendurably slowly, and at some point you are convinced the big day is never going to arrive.  And then it does.  And then you are so excited and jumpy and full of sugar that you can hardly focus long enough to enjoy the experience.  But, since I'm a grown-up and all mature and stuff, I was able to calmly record my observations.  When I wasn't busy being excited and jumpy and full of sugar.

The day before, I cooked from lunch until midnight.  That is because we would have an extra five people aboard - an advisor, two linehandlers (friends of ours), and their two kids, ages 11 and 13.  I also knew there would be no time to cook anything complicated during the two-day transit, as I would be busy helping ensure our boat didn't crash into the walls of the locks.  Because crashing is bad seamanship, my friends.  Also, a quick path to divorce.

Anyway.  I made pancakes, chicken-lemon-feta pasta, Caesar salad, garlic bread, two chocolate cakes, and four pizzas ahead.  We did scrambled eggs in the morning, because they are quick, and I made a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread in the breadmaker, ready just as everyone awoke.  Mmm.  I'm not a great chef, but when I stick to my classics, everyone seems satisfied.

But what about the canal itself?  What happens is, during that interminable waiting time, your boat gets measured and you give many, many dollars to the canal authorities.  They decide how best to fit you in with other boats.  Then, on the day, you go to a staging area called The Flats at the time they tell you, and you wait.  Your advisor shows up.  And, surprise!  He has an apprentice with him.  You are glad you made so much food.  Then, the fun begins.

There was a freighter named Baltic Star in the lock with us.

Passing by to reach the first lock.

Please, let there be room for both of us.

We were rafted together with two other boats, a catamaran and another monohull.  The cat was in charge of driving, and we on either side were in charge of staying appropriately tied to the lock walls.

How it works is this.  Once you enter the first lock, a canal linehandler throws you a monkey's fist.  (No, not literally.  Gross.  It means a line with a big knot tied on the end.)  You tie this through the large bowline on the end of the line you have prepared on board, and he hauls your line up.  When you get to your designated spot, he throws your bowline over a bollard, and volia.  You are lied to the lock wall.  You tighten your line, cleat it off, the doors close and things get started.

Goodbye, Colon.

Too late to change your mind now.

As the water rushes into the lock, you need to keep taking up the slack on your line.  Only not too much, or your boat will get pulled into the wall.  Your counterpart, the linehandler on the wall, will give you helpful signals to guide you.  Unfortunately, all signals look like "talk to the hand" to my eyes.  Take up slack, don't take up any more, cleat that off, keep going - everything earned a raised hand.  The advisor beside me translated these gestures for me, and seemed genuinely puzzled that I didn't naturally understand what the man wanted.

They understood as much as I did.

On it went through three locks.  When we reached Gatun lake, we cut loose from the other two boats, and found a mooring for the night.

Early the next day, we were up for round two.  We had a long motor through Gatun lake to reach the Miraflores locks on the Pacific side.  It was very pretty country; it looked very much like Cootes Paradise (the tip of Lake Ontario), but with more palm trees.

This all seems so familiar...

The Miraflores locks were the same, but in reverse.  Gently letting the line out to keep a little, but not too much, tension, and again, to keep from banging into the walls.  We were rafted to just the catamaran on this leg.  My dad took these screen captures:

And my Uncle Tom sent me this:

And people claim technology never did anything good.

Before we knew it, we were there.  The Pacific!

Holy bananas, it's a whole new ocean.

We granted ourselves a day of rest, and now we are back in job mode.  After a last flurry of buying food and boat parts and whatever else we won't see again until New Zealand, we'll head for the Perlas.

But first, we get to do the canal again, this time as linehandlers for our friends.  Wish us luck on Round 2.

Moving On

Hello, my chickadees.  I'm tired.  I've been stowing groceries for the past eight hours.

But more on that in a moment.  First, the news.  Papillon is due to go through the Panama Canal on Tuesday.  Exciting!  And you, the ultra-web-connected, savvy people that you are, will want to watch all of this.  As it happens!

Care of my father, who is awesome at these things, here are your instructions:

Start here, at the marine traffic site

a.     This will show Papillon when it is underway, (when they turn on their AIS) that is, after it has left the marina

b.     If you start with the World map you need to click on the green rectangle that is over the Panama Canal

c.     You can then click on the map and drag the part you want to look at into the centre of your screen

d.     And you can click on the slider on the left hand side of the map to zoom in

e.     When you point to the icons on the water the boat names pop up

f.      You can check a box on the left that will show all boat names

Now you want to check the webcams 

a.       The tabs, from left to right show images from Pacific to Atlantic

                                                               i.    Miraflores Locks is by Panama City, looking south to the Pacific, this will be the last spot Papillon gets to in the Canal

                                                             ii.    Miraflores Hi-resolution looks north. Click on the magnifying glass icon for a bigger picture

                                                            iii.   Expansion Program is not applicable

                                                           iv.     Centennial Bridge is a point just north of Miraflores

                                                             v.      Gatun is at the Atlantic end, looking south (usually, any of these cameras can turn, but they do so only rarely)

                                                           vi.      Gatun Hi-resolution looks north and this should be our first view of Papillon

Prizes awarded for the best screenshots!  (But don't send them to me until I ask - no bandwidth.)  I expect we'll get started in the late afternoon on Tuesday.  We will go through the Gatun locks, anchor in Gatun lake for the night, then go on through the Miraflores locks on Wednesday morning.  Hours of delight await you, my fine friends!

Now, back to me and how I am feeling.  A little punchy, thanks for asking.  Our canal date suddenly changed from Friday to Tuesday as of last night.  This meant today was a flurry of major provisioning - and I mean, for 3-6 months, because provisioning once we leave this place will be a pain.

But!  Your correspondent is a woman of forethought and planning!  I already had my three-page Excel printout in my purse.  Ha ha!

I had some witty stories to tell and took some lovely pictures to illustrate my food-buying awesomeness and mad packing-stuff-away skills, but, alas, my camera has walked off.  I really hope I didn't accidentally stow it with the oatmeal.  Anyway.  That sort of took the air out my me.  Some highlights: four-figure grocery bill.  Four heaping carts of food.  Twenty-eight cans of red kidney beans.  Indy making snow angels in the drifts of grocery bags on the floor.  Stowing canned peaches and peanut butter under Erik's bunk.

There.  That's all I can do.  Tomorrow is clean up day, and then off we go!  I'll return when we have internet again.  Otherwise, it is back to the shortwave radio posts as we sail to the Galapagos.

In the meantime, here is a picture of Erik, who is rapidly morphing into the Incredible Hulk, as he prepares to do some welding for a friend.

Hulk need new belt!

That's Life

Some days, you attend a glamourous wedding in a fancy art galley.

Your correspondent and husband, appallingly clean and well-fed, circa 2007.

And some days, you hold up a heavy watermaker on your back while your spouse bolts it to the wall.

Living.  The.  Dream.

Toilet update #2 - Success! A Guest Post from The Captain

Billy Idol thinks it's a nice day for a new toilet.

We win!

The recapture of our toilet parts is a thrilling tale of line-waiting and document flashing.  A story so exciting that, for the first time here at Sailing Papillon, we have a guest post!  And from The Captain himself, no less.  Without further ado, enjoy Erik's gripping account of How I Rescued My Toilet from the Post Office.

Papillon has emerged victorious from our quest for the missing Lower Assembly Unit, aka pump thingy that makes the whole toilet work.  After having tracked down the toilet to the post office in Colon, and having been told in no uncertain terms that she was not to go to that part of town at any time of day, Amy merrily assigned the task of recovery to me.  Armed only with a mental map of the area provided by our trusty Panama cruising guide (the post office was shown next to a zone marked as “Slums – area to be avoided”), I borrowed a friend’s car and worked my way unscathed through the usual insanity of the Latin American driving experience.  I found an empty curbside near where I estimated the office to be and began wandering around asking people for directions.  Numerous iterations later, with much help from a couple of old ladies out shopping, I discovered the building.  It was a dirty cream pile tucked behind row of semi-permanent shanties and vehicles cramming the street and selling everything from sewing services, to semi-dressed beef carcasses, to cups of freshly pressed fruit juice.  This is indeed a rough part of town and gets rougher with every step closer to the port facility.  Rusted rebars and bits of stucco jut crazily out of the remains of cement balconies, dubious water trickles out of every gutter and alleyway, and an ad-libbed rat’s nest of electrical wiring makes stretching your hand above head height a potentially fatal experiment.

I was at first puzzled when I found the main entrance to the post office building closed by a rusted metal shutter.  Upon retracing my steps I found I had missed a crooked glass door (no handle) that was added as an afterthought  to a gash in the side of the building.  I surmise one of the beef-laden vans in the area crashed into the post office one day.  Once the rubble and mangled bodies were cleared away, the new hole in the wall was seen as an inspired addition to the overall architecture and was adopted as the new main entrance. 

Inside, all is Orwellian blue and beige.  The space was once a bright, traditional, early 20^th century administrative building filled with banks of die-cast post boxes overlooked by a row of service counters at the back.  Decades of great-power-inspired socioeconomic development transformed this into a jury-rigged and overpainted mess:  the service desks and post box banks are now topped by inexpertly welded steel mesh to prevent thievery, the floor is now a dull grey linoleum tile, all surfaces vertical and horizontal, apart from the beige steel mesh itself, are covered with a matte baby-blue paint scientifically designed to highlight grubby fingerprints and scuffs.  The process to recover a package is delightfully byzantine; plan at least 2 hours for the adventure.  

Step 1:  go to General Inquiries desk (cage, actually), show ID and chat with friendly, exceedingly Rubenesque lady inmate.  She will now slowly shuffle through various bits of paper.  After a process of trial and error finding a rough match between what is on your ID and the illegible scrawl on the badly photocopied package forms, you and she will jointly agree that this is probably the right item.  Proceed to Step 2. 

Step 2: proceed to payment cage, show ID and attempt to greet sullen, weathered and stick-insect-like lady inmate named Diana.  After fruitless attempt at civility, shove 25 cents through slot in cage along with form and idly observe Diana meticulously copy out every item on Form A onto a new Form B, then stamp Form B as proof of payment.  Interrupt observation to shoot Matchbox car back and forth across lobby floor to little boy who is hanging around firing cars at gringos while waiting in line with his mom.  Receive Forms A, B and another photocopied sheet explaining the rationale for the 25 cent fee from Diana.  Proceed to Step 3 while musing on the cost structure of the process thus far; 25 cents clearly won’t cover it. 

Step 3:  proceed to jumbled mass of plywood and chain link fencing that spans the entire end of the lobby by the old main entrance.  Ascertain that this is in fact the package receipt desk, whose construction renders the old main entrance unusable.   Stand in line for 30 minutes behind family with six book-sized packages to pick up from the package handler, Mr. David, who resides in the left hand side of the cage.  His counter is set about 3 feet back from, and 90 degrees to, the gap in the chain link through which you actually speak with the man – a more inconvenient arrangement for handing over packages and exchanging forms could scarcely be devised – certainly not OSHA-approved .    Settle back and enjoy the ensuing show as the family engages in a heated discussion of customs fees, frantic form filling (Form C plus a list of recipient info incl., ID numbers) while Mr. David cycles through multiple trips to the back to find packages.  Each package is sought individually in a room that must be at least a two minute walk away, for Mr. David disappears and reappears with this cadence throughout the entire transaction.    Chat with effusive, blindingly gold-toothed neighbour in line who has just moved back after 17 years in Miami  and is readapting with some difficulty to life in Colon (“just getting the hang of this whole Spanish gig again, man...”).  Prepare to step forward to the desk, but stop as you realize it is far, far from your turn yet.  The quiet, blue-shirted man in the Gilligan hat who you took to be the janitor hanging out in the right hand side of the cage turns out to be the senior customs officer, and is about to inspect all the packages that Mr. David just handed out of his little window.  Observe idly as he also fills out all the recipient information on Form D, for dutiful signature by the family in front of you.  Once the transaction has completed, finally step forward and proceed to Step 4.

Step 4:  Spend 15 seconds talking to Mr. David and be informed that you need your boat documentation to pick up packages.  You have of course left these in the car.  Proceed outside to Step 5.

Step 5:  Walk back to car, unlock it, hunt around and realize that you had the boat papers in your pocket the entire time.  Proceed back to post office, note it is 11:52 and muse that you’re likely about to hit lunch hour by now. 

Step 6: return to the line in front of the package receiving cage and make hopeful faces at the sullen passel of Argentines who were there behind you the entire time you stood waiting; will they let you back in out of sympathy and camaraderie as a fellow foreigner?  Evidently they will not  (happily, they also get the Round 1 smackdown/toss out later by Mr. David as you chuckle inwardly at cosmic balance).  In the meantime, watch your friendly former neighbour stoically enduring a friendly shakedown from the customs man to adjust the declared value of the package of clothing and household items sent down from Miami.  In time, step forward to re-greet Mr. David, who has fortunately not yet taken his lunch break.  Pass over ID and push the former inner operations consultant down deep as you watch poor Mr. David disappear on another lap to the distant package warehouse.  Fill out and sign multiple forms and mentally prepare for detailed and legalistic discussion with customs man about tax-exempt status of parts for yachts in transit.   Hand over packages to customs man and proceed to Step 7. 

Step 7:  See customs man lick his lips in anticipation of shakedown on marine parts with declared value of $1350.  Join him in his side of the cage as he whips out his box cutter and slits the first side of the package open.  Pause.  Starts slitting the second side while asking “So, these are boat parts, are they”.  “Yes, indeed.  They are parts for a broken toilet.  What an awful mess that was!”  The hand with the box cutter freezes midway through its second cut.  Box cutter is laid down carefully. “You’re in transit, then?  Ok, ok, I’m sure it’s all fine.  Just sign here and you’re free to go”.   Evidently, even hardened Panamanian customs officials shy away from the detailed perusal of the innards of other people’s toilets.  Funny, that.

Toilet update #1

I opened my email this morning to find this happy little item waiting for me.

Well, no kidding.

And in case you are wondering, the bus driver had no luck yesterday.  Erik is on his way there now; we'll see if he does any better.

The Case of the Missing Toilet

How do toilets get lost in the mail?

I have been asking myself that all morning.  I mean, they’re toilets.  They’re big.  And toilet-y.  Who is going to steal a marine toilet?  It isn’t as though you could take it home and hook it up.  It runs on 32 volts and seawater, for crying out loud.  They are utterly useless to anyone but us and a few shrimp boats.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

These are our toilets:

"Do Not Use"...

...because life would be too easy with functioning toilets and two kids.

Don’t let the pretty wooden box fool you.  Underneath is a tangle of joker valves, impellers and leaky pump parts that makes me want to kill somebody.  Poor Erik has spent many, many hours disassembling and reassembling this piece of equipment for good reasons (Hey!  Another impeller lost its blades!) and bad (Hey!  The girls flushed another beaded bracelet!).  Marine toilets – at least, the ones we have – are utterly unforgiving.  They are filled with fiddly pieces, places for things to get caught, and small bits that like to break off at odd moments.  I covet the simple hand-pump toilets my friends enjoy.  But when you buy a boat, you get what comes with it, and our thirty-year-old electric toilets are our cross to bear.

Long ago, back in Cartagena, Erik spent a delightful 13 hours disassembling the main head back to the motor.  In the interests of keeping his skull from exploding, we decided to invest in new parts.  So a new lower unit for the really bad one and a two spare rebuild kits were the order of the day.  “Send them to Panama!” everyone said.  “It is easy to send things there.  And you are a Yacht in Transit, so you don’t have to fuss with customs.  Easy!”

If there is one thing I’ve learned, it is that “easy” is the antithesis of “boat”.

We ordered our parts from the very helpful manufacturer in New Jersey.  They promised three to five days.  I quietly laughed into my sleeve.  But once ten days had passed, I thought I’d better start investigating.  The tracking number showed the box leaving the United States and then... nothing.  This is nothing new to me.  Packages often disappear online until delivery.

This morning, I took another look.  Hmm.  A new and unhelpful message, dated three days ago, awaited me: “Addressee requests own pick-up - Item being held, addressee being notified”. Well.  As I had given a clear delivery address and hadn’t been notified of anything, the first tendrils of concern coiled around my shoulders.  Where was my toilet?

I called my contact at the manufacturer, hoping for a little help, but he unfortunately wasn’t around.  Crumbs.  Next, it was back to the marina office, where the gentlemen at the desk are too polite to show their annoyance with my daily requests for toilet-containing packages.

Here’s your stupid spy camera!

 

Delighted with a chance to solve my toilet problems and get me out of their office, the men snatched the tracking form from my hands and started making calls.  It is interesting to watch someone else call Customer Service.  It makes me feel better that we all are subjected to hold, call-a-different-number and general telephone ping pong.  I feel less singled out.  The upshot of their calls was that everyone was at lunch.  At 11:15am.  But I should come back around one o’clock.  Maybe someone would be back.

At one o’clock precisely, I walked through the door, and was greeted with the news that my package was, indeed, at the post office.  Hooray!

“So, where is the post office?” I asked brightly.

Two heads shook at me.  “No.  You do not go to the post office.”  A muttered conversation, and out came the phone again.  “The bus driver will try to get your package.”

“The bus driver.”

“Yes.”

And now I wait, wondering why my toilet is being held hostage at the post office, wondering whether the bus driver will have any luck.  Is the post office here concerned with trifles like ID?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  If the bus driver strikes out, will I be allowed to go to the post office myself?  Again, maybe, maybe not.  But I tell you, friends, that I will get those toilet parts, even if I have to break out my black pajamas to do it.

The Papillon crew is going to go all ninja on your toilet-withholding selves!

Stylish Makes a Job List For Dad

Happy Easter!

So, did everyone participate in Easter activities today?  We did!

The girls did an egg hunt...

Indy is already in a sugar daze.

...and Erik and I cleaned out the aft fuel tank in preparation for welding!

Holiday?  What holiday?

I think the traditional activities are the best, don't you?