Crossing the Panama Canal
"We leap into dangerous waters. Lucky is she who, with the return of the wave, is landed higher than she was before." Romaine Brooks

By Jamie C. Welling - Sailing was something I never thought I’d do. I never even thought about it. Then I met Ron. He talked about it with so much passion I was afraid I had been missing out. When I was planning my trip to Australia he was selling all his earthly possessions to purchase a 47-foot sailboat he called, “Yemaya.” When he asked if I’d like to come aboard for a month…well, there was no way I’d say no.

A year later, I arrived in Panama. I saw Ron before he saw me. He had already been sailing for a year and looked the part of a ship captain. It was good to see my old friend and we shared whatever gossip from home had trickled down to our part of the world. The taxi dropped us off on the Pacific side of Panama. It was dark as we climbed into a small wooden motorboat. Ron gave directions in broken Spanish to the man steering us in the direction of my new home as we weaved in and out of sailboats—some looked like they’d been anchored for decades. When Yemaya came into view I took a deep breath and held it. Even in the dark she looked impressive. Her masts were down; she was swaying gently in the wind. The Bridge of the America’s, which connects North America to South America, stood proudly in the background.

Clumsily, I climbed onto the deck. I couldn’t see much and started tripping over ropes, not knowing what I could or couldn’t hold on to. Regaining balance, I followed Ron through the hatch and down the ladder to the gut of the boat. He explained the sleeping arrangements. Ron slept in the bow and Anne (our other crew member) and I slept in the back. My bed was a little cubbyhole about 25 inches wide and 6 feet long. My legs slid back into a little tunnel leaving my upper body exposed. I had a little window, a small fan, and a reading light. My luggage was pushed up on its side to allow access to my bed and the ladder leading to the upper deck. This was to be my personal space for the next thirty days. We didn’t talk much that night because we had to wake up early to pass through the Panama Canal.

By the time I awoke the rest of the crew was on deck. Every vessel that passes through the Canal has to have an appointed pilot and five crewmembers. Our crew consisted of Ron, Greg, Anne, Eric, and myself. Greg had flown in from California for the Panama Canal experience. Eric was a sailor friend of Ron’s. The easiest way to go through the canal is to be tied to a tugboat, but sometimes they are not available in which case the crew would have to hand line the boat through the locks. This is a difficult task, and I had anxiety thinking I’d be the one to drop the line. Fortunately, we were assigned a tugboat.

Roberto was our appointed pilot, an actual tugboat captain. He was a 32-year-old from Panama. He went to University in Brazil to become an engineer of water with the dream of becoming a tugboat captain. He has been all over the world including holding a job on a vessel in the Black Sea. He makes $80,000 a year and has a dog named, J-Lo.

We motored under the Bridge of the America’s and through the causeway to the Pacific entrance into the canal, the Miraflores Locks. We were the smallest vessel in our group. There were two other privately owned yachts and an 800-foot car carrier, which led us into the first lock. We successfully tied up along side our tugboat and the steel doors creaked as they closed behind us. The walls surrounding us were 15 meters thick at the base and 3 meters on the top. As the water rises 27 feet, the turbulence caused the water to swirl in small powerful whirlpools. If someone fell in they’d be taken straight to the bottom. We tied Eric’s dog to the center of the boat. He was getting nervous and we didn’t want to lose him in the whirlpools.

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