Passage notes: Islas Secas to Bahia Honda, Panama

Log book

• Port of departure: No Name Island, Islas Secas, Panama
• Departure date and time: Tuesday, February 4, 2014 at 9:30pm
• Port of arrival: Bahia Honda, Islas Secas, Panama
• Arrival date and time: Wednesday, February 5, 2014 at 5:00pm
• Total travel time: 19.5 hours
• Miles traveled: 45.6 nm
• Engine hours: 1216.6 begin – 1216.6 end – 0.0 hours
• Fuel consumption: 32.7 begin – 32.7 end – 0.0 gallons used
• Fuel economy: ∞ mpg
• Tides and currents: On Tuesday – low tide at ~2pm, high tide at ~8pm. On Wednesday, low tide at ~3pm, high tide at ~9pm. The current was assisting us as we entered Bahia Honda. *
• Weather: The week long forecast showed light but regular thermals, with winds from the E/SE in the early morning, W/SW during the late morning and afternoon, shifting to winds from the N/NE after sunset.

More firsts, more excitement. One could argue too much excitement.

We settled in for the evening with a heaping bowl of popcorn and a movie, calm conditions forecasted, not a worry in the world. About 45 minutes in to the movie, Serenity started to gently rock back and forth. Poking our heads out of the hatch, we noticed a gentle but building breeze and white caps were discernible in the distance, lit by a sliver of the silver moon. Under different circumstances this might not have been a big deal, but we were relatively close to a lee shore and we didn’t have the benefit of a motor if for some reason our anchor did not hold. All in all, the conditions were not terribly conducive for sleeping.

It didn’t take long for us to decide, definitively, to leave this anchorage and sail through the night to the next destination. Our luck did not need to be tested on this particular evening.

We’ve pulled up anchor under sail before, many times in fact, but never in conditions like these. The wind stiffened, blowing at 20 knots, pushing up seas that had us bucking. Adrenaline was pulsing through our veins.

I took the tiller, Jeff on the anchor. Full main up. Not enough power. Reefed main. Small jib up. Sails flying madly, the tiller swinging wildly. Get control. Tack to starboard, but not too far or too fast. Pull in what little slack you can on the anchor. Tie it off so you don’t lose progress. Anchor line, still taut, swings us to port. Change tack. Trim sails. You need power, but not too much power. Pull in the anchor rode. You’re not paying enough attention to your sail. You’re losing it, it’s in irons. No forward momentum. The wind, howling, pushes you back. You climb and plunge down stacked waves. Are you still holding position? Are you drifting closer to shore? Darkness is deceptive, everything looks dangerously close. The anchor, firm, resilient, unyielding, pulls you to starboard. Change tack, trim sails, mind the tiller. Each wave tries to wrench the tiller from your hands, at times it succeeds, knocks you down, refuses to relent. You vacillate between starboard and port, control and chaos, standing and falling, hope and dread. Gusts now to 25. Will it continue to build? When did the waves get this big? The wind, if not harnessed, becomes a meddlesome and retaliatory puppet master, willing your sails to attack you with abandon. The wind, on your nose, is aggressive, confrontational. As the sky breathes and whispers threats in your ear, as the waves roll under you, you gather yourself. Your legs, once gelatin, now concrete. Your hands, once quaking aspen, now redwood. The anchor, still holding, still taut, tugs you to starboard. “Tacking!” A smooth tack, sails are full, you’re in control. There is progress, slow progress, but progress nonetheless. “Looking good!” You swim from side to side, capturing the wind, moving forward on the anchor, until, “clink,” chain hits bow roller and the anchor no longer stands between you and the open ocean. Tack to starboard, trim sails, “let’s get the hell out of here.”

Jeff took first shift, and gentleman that he is, pulled an all-nighter, waking me just before a magnificent sunrise. The wind had died but one hour after we left the anchorage. We hobbled along in light winds at our back for much of the night. The sail configuration I inherited at sunrise was much more expansive than the sail area when I fell asleep. The wind I inherited couldn’t even keep our jib full. Eventually the E/SE winds filled in and were overcome by SW winds by late morning. We approached Bahia Honda in the late afternoon, with light winds at our back.

Kids on shore, jumped and hollered and whistled and yelled “hola” as loud as they could, followed by stifled giggles rippling across the water. A fishing panga putted past and a passenger bellowed “Welcome!” Before we could even put our anchor down, boats were coming out to greet us. Though the visitors were friendly and kind, the attention was a bit overwhelming, especially for sleep deprived Jeff. We dropped anchor in 35 feet, careful to avoid a pipeline that carries water from the mainland to the island. Children chirped on shore, splashing in the water, a group of woman erupted in fits of high pitched hysterics. This little island, far from sleepy, was abuzz with activity until the light slipped away, leaving its shores in total darkness except for the occasional flashlight. Its waters, calm and protected allowed us to slip easily into a deep dream state.