Paradise, Hell, and a Boatload of Whoopsie-Doopsies

Location: Cartagena (pronounced cartahena), Colombia

(Apologies for the length of this post. It should really be two or three, but the wifi situation being what it is, it is now one.)

Guna Yala, the San Blas islands. Patches of sand studded with palm trees, surrounded by a sea as calm as the Saint Lawrence. Islands dotting the horizon to the east and west, protected by long spans of reefs in the north, overlooked by the hazy mountains of the mainland in the south. Anchorages of turquoise waters and white sand, patches of multicoloured reefs, pelicans skimming over the water, frigate birds gliding under the clouds. The roar of distant waves. The faint smell of salt. The absolute beauty of the place.

We arrived in San Blas after an 18-hour motor-sail. Jem and Anna had an absolute blast, and I was absolutely seasick. Pro-tip: don't eat ramen for lunch before departing for an overnight trip. The amount of vomit that one packet can produce is astounding. I hope that this won't be a trend for the oncoming sails. (The seasickness, not the ramen. I've already learned my lesson for that one.)

We arrived in the anchorage known as the Swimming Pool at daybreak. The entrance is narrow and surrounded by reefs, so Anna and I sat at the bows to watch for coral. The Swimming Pool is a large patch of calm water surrounded by small groups of islands and protected by an enormous arc of a reef. Right after anchoring and taking an urgently-required nap, we scraped off the various barnacles and kelp that had grown on the hulls during the boat's two-month confinement to Shelter Bay. After that, we went snorkeling around the various reefs in the middle of the anchorage. (In one such reef, I had a staring contest with a cuttlefish. The cuttlefish won.)

Other activities over the next two days included a dinghy joyride, a kayak paddle, and climbing the mast. This involved being hoisted up by the main halyard while sitting in a bosun's chair (think a thin metal folding chair, but replace the metal with fabric and straps), which, unlike a climbing harness, feels like you could slip out of it at any moment. The view was worth it though.

The Guna people who live on the islands like to come to cruising boats in their dugout canoes and sell various things . Right before leaving the Swimming Pool, we bought three lobsters for 25 USD and two beers.

When we arrived in Banedup (pronounced bahn-eh-doop), our second anchorage, a large dugout canoe containing at least a dozen family members arrived to sell us molas, which are small hand-sewn tapestries native to the region. Each mola takes a week to make, and there were nearly a hundred to choose from! I bought one with a pretty butterfly. I also played a vicious game of tag with two of the children who came onboard. (They loved the beanbag chair.)

Also in Banedup, we bought some snapper from two Guna in a sailboat. Given that dugout canoes don't have keels, it was amazing that the boat managed to stay upright.

Like the Swimming Pool, Banedup has beautiful reefs.

After two days in Banedup, we went to Chichime (an island, not an anchorage this time, pronounced chih-chih-may) and anchored just in view of the not-very-comforting sight of two boat wrecks on a neighbouring island's beach. Once anchored, I set about washing the pair of clothes that I had been wearing for several weeks. (Don't judge. They get aired out and from what I can tell, they don't smell.)

And that was the end of the good times. Tuesday morning, we set out for Santa Marta, Colombia. (Note how my current location is Cartagena and not Santa Marta. Consider it to be a foreshadowing of the events to come.) It was a beautiful day, I had popped a couple of seasickness pills, and we were excited to be sailing again. I was reading Godforsaken Sea by Derek Lundy, which tells the harrowing story of the Vendée Globe, which technically is a single-handed nonstop race around the world, but in reality is a single-handed nonstop suicide mission around Antarctica, in the Southern ocean, passing longitudinally through the Atlantic to get there and back. As I read, I was glad that I was in the lovely Caribbean and not in the latitudes whose nicknames include the adjectives "furious" and "screaming." Sure, we were going upwind and so it was a little bumpier than before, but it was nothing unusual. And then the sea began to build.

(I will take a brief educational moment to talk about how to cope with seasickness. I have found that the most efficient long-term method is to take liberal amounts of Gravol pills throughout the days. Unfortunately, they take an hour or two to kick in. In the meantime, strong ginger tea works wonders. If you drink it and it doesn't burn like vodka, it'll be too weak. If nothing works, lie in a fetal position on your back and get ready to run somewhere where you can safely hurl.)

The seas began to build, and so did the wind. What was predicted to be 10 kts (knots) climbed to 20 (~40 km/h). Bits of my baked potato flew around, and I resorted to eating it like a sandwich. (I discovered that this is in fact a very fun method of eating baked potato, and I plan on repeating it.) My night watch was a miserable affair. At 4am, Jem and I watched as a fishing vessel that we were trying to avoid began to turn towards us instead of away, and refused to make radio contact. (It sorted itself out in the end, but I was very much inclined to call them, as my dad would, "stupid, stupid incompetent jerks.") An hour later, I had the lovely experience of tacking in pitch black, and having to sort out everything, including winching the heavy sail in, by feel, while being seasick. (Tacking is switching the sail's sides while heading into wind. Gybing is doing the same but with the wind at your back. This is what we did on the St Vincent-Panama trip, a passage which, although we had similar winds, was considerably easier, as the waves were helpfully pushing us along instead of antagonistically slamming into us.)

Here's an excerpt from my log on Tuesday: "Went head-on into waves after [tacking]. Threw up, unfortunately right after having taken a Gravol. Stayed in bunk for awhile. Hatch leaks so most of bunk wet. 3-4m waves going over deck. [...] Currently covered in salt, sweat, and bits of disintegrated raincoat." (At this point, I was exhausted to the point of feverishness. My favourite pastime was lying down anywhere and staring at the ceiling.)

Wednesday, the winds had climbed up to 25 kts, and waves were breaking over the side of the boat, knocking everything everywhere. Jem was worried that a wave would flip the boat on its side, and, contrary to monohulls, catamarans aren't self-righting. So we started the motors and doused the sails. I managed to survive the adventure of climbing the bottom 3 meters of the mast to tie down the top of the mainsail. Sweating in layers of foul weather gear, I maneuvered my harness tether around various lines, climbed up the small, slick steps and while holding onto slippery wires sprayed by breaking waves, and spent an excruciatingly long time hanging on for dear life to a sail that kept jumping up and down, while trying to thread a line through to stop said jumping. My statistics: climbing 3m of mast in 10-ft waves and 25-kt winds. Statistics of skippers in the Southern ocean: climbing 80m of mast in 25-ft waves and 40-kt winds. I am never doing a Vendée Globe.

Side note about boat's the general ambiance: waves were slamming into the bridge deck (the bottom of the middle section between the keels) and causing both our stomachs and anything that wasn't tied down to jump around. This resulted in very little sleep and even less cooking. I managed to make a small pot of rice that fell off the burner only twice. The sinks were full of things that kept falling off the counters. Saltwater was somehow making its way into the living room and frustrating Jem to no end. At some point, our progress through the water was reduced to an infuriating 2 km/h. All of this to say that the following paragraph will be riddled with expletives.

Thursday was Jem's birthday. It was supposed to be a joyous occasion. It was not. At 2am, the starboard engine stopped working. (According to Anna who was on watch at the time, Jem's reaction was, "fuck, shit, shit, fuck.") To preserve the port engine, we unfurled part of the genoa, but too much was let out ("piss, shit") so we had to winch it back in, but couldn't get it properly trimmed ("fuck"). When it was light outside, we went to put some oil in the port engine but some of the oil spilled ("piss fucking shit") so part of the deck was slippery. I watched a beautiful sunrise while perched precariously on the port hull 30-kt winds, watching the enormous waves turn golden, hanging onto a handle behind me with my hand and preventing the engine hatch from slamming onto Jem's head with my foot, all the while remembering that I had seen a cockroach scuttle into my rain pants and it was probably still there ("esti").

At 9am we limped into Cartagena, which was the closest city available. We anchored, then took the best naps ever. Then we made brownies. It was, after all, Jem's birthday. The general mood was unfortunately dampened by the fact that neither port authorities nor marinas were answering our VHF radio calls, and if they were, it would be a "yes, of course I can help you" followed by hours of silence. Fortunately, the view wasn't too bad. Cartagena has mostly white skyscrapers, and from our anchorage, we could see the old city, with its colourful buildings and beautiful cathedrals.

Also, there seemed to be an awful lot (very loud) of party boats for a Thursday evening.

Friday there was still no luck with the VHF. This is not the first time that Jem has had agent-related problems in Cartagena. The last time he was here, he used a nice German gentleman called Manfred, who, the night before Jem was supposed to leave, promptly died, still being in posession of Jem's passports and papers. It took a couple of days to sort things out. This time, Jem used the satellite phone to email the Santa Marta marina in hopes that they could help. A couple of hours later, we were greeted with the blessed sight of a dinghy motoring up with an agent inside. In the following two days, we received covid tests, sim cards, and, finally, clearance papers, allowing us to dock at the Club Nautico marina. The fact that they had no electricity or wifi was a slight setback (especially since our sim cards had ceased to function after 5 minutes), but no matter. I would be able to shower soon, "soon" being after the water turned on (it was turned off between 12 and 2).

I've recently finished reading The Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific by J. Maarten Troost. It's the true story of a couple who moves to an atoll in the middle of the Pacific Nowhere. It's very funny and is guaranteed to your mind off seasickness and the fact you haven't washed in way too many days, should the occasion present itself. I highly recommend it.

Yesterday I discovered that our book bag had a hole in it, and some of the books had gotten soaked during the trip. The Sex Lives of Cannibals was spared such a fate, but a few are currently attempting to dry out under Colombian sun. (That white spot is the only dry part of the book.

Also yesterday, I saw something so heavenly that it rivaled the blue waters of Chichime: a supermarket that looked like IGA. So many types of lettuce! And bread! And chocolate! They even had cucumber that wasn't weirdly squishy to the touch! It felt like the best part of home: a surplus of food choice. Miraculously, the supermarket is also complete with wifi and a coffee shop. This is where I am sitting to upload this post.

The marina restaurant doesn't have wifi. What it does have, though, is excellent seafood pizza. With the exception of our recent nerve-wracking, plain-rice-riddled days at sea, we've been eating quite well. We've had homemade burgers, bruschetta, ragus, and burritos, amongst other things. That's another reason why I am never doing a Vendée Globe: they eat nothing but freeze-dried food.

That's all for now. We don't know the duration of our stay here. Might be a week, might be two. Hopefully, the internet situation will improve soon. Until then, cheers.

P.S. Before we left Shelter Bay, our Canadian neighbours aboard the boat Distant Shores interviewed Jem for their Youtube channel and/or tv show. That video isn't up yet, but they have some other cool stuff that can be found here.