Jeff’s first go at a makeshift propeller – the fit was perfect, but the weight was unevenly distributed despite the lead he laid inside the epoxy.
Hello from the vortex! Western Panama that is. Imagine the San Juan Islands, only it’s 80-90 degrees instead of 70 with wind chill down to the 50’s, and the water is warm and clear. There is a proliferation of deserted islands and small communities within a daysail’s reach of each other, and the life aquatic is abundant. We are in no hurry to get to Panama City. We are in no hurry to get anywhere, really. This is convenient, because we once again lack locomotion.
When we finally sailed out of Boca Chica (after three weeks of rest and project work following the departure of our guests) to the nearby islands to meet our friends on El Vagabundo, we couldn’t help but notice a strong vibration beneath our feet as we motored out the channel. Harmony dove on the boat’s bottom to give it a scrape the next morning, and moments later she called up with the bad news: half of our folding propeller was missing.
There have been numerous schemes to try to rectify the situation while still continuing our island tour, including the fashioning of a new propeller blade out of fiberglass based on a mold of the remaining metal one. It looks right enough, but the weight differential is too high despite filling the glass blade with scrap lead and the vibration waggles the whole back of the boat. They can’t all be winners.
Next steps are to head back to Boca Chica and try to find our missing blade with help from a neighbor’s diving hookah, or to find and purchase a new prop. But that comes later. For now we are traveling like the Pardeys — without an engine. So far it’s working out pretty well and we are pleasantly ensconced in Bahia Honda with Vagabundo, on our way to Santa Catalina tomorrow to enjoy some surf.
We did have one exciting night out at the Islas Secas when a 20-knot norther was blowing while we were anchored on a lee shore. Seeing as we weren’t going to sleep much anyway, we opted to haul anchor and sail through the night. If you ever have opportunity to sail off your anchor upwind in 20 knots, don’t. We must have tacked 50 times, inching our way up our anchor line, and the constant ducking under the sweeping jib as I hauled in the slack was like some sadistic soul had combined a tug of war and a limbada. For her part, Harmony had to emulate the goddess Vishnu (she’s the one with the eight arms, right?) as she managed two halyards, two jib sheets, and the swinging tiller as if the cockpit was the most hectic kitchen in New York. But we made it out, and I am in the process of designing the merit badges to sew on our Sea Scout sashes.
Other than that, it’s been a gay olde time. I don’t like to use the word paradise, because I think it’s loaded with all kinds of traps, but instead I’ll settle for that old Vonnegut chestnut: If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.