Our Life Aquatic

The forecast for our upcoming passage, westbound, around the Azuero Peninsula of Panama was not ideal. But during the winter months, it never is. Winds blow strong and steady from the south, and ripping currents in the opposite direction can churn the ocean into chaos. Add frequent thunderstorms that build with frightening speed south of the peninsula, and you understand why our stomachs were in knots anticipating this 24-hour passage. It did not help that our friends had just made the journey two weeks before and called it the worst sailing experience of their lives.

So, you might ask, why were we even considering this passage? We were asking ourselves the same question. But the promise of rewards on the other side was just too great. As is often the case, the most spectacular places are those that are hardest to reach.  As the saying goes, “if it was easy, everybody would do it.”

We waited for the least awful weather window and we sailed away from Panama City. No tales of terror at sea were going to frighten away these two seasoned sailors. ¡Pura Vida! was ready, we had enough provisions for a month, and everything aboard was secured.

As best we could, and not knowing exactly how long the trip would take, we planned for a noon arrival. This would give us a few hours of daylight even if we were several hours early or delayed. Arriving in the dark in an unfamiliar, remote harbor is something to be avoided, if possible. But arriving in daylight meant we would be rounding the infamous Punta Mala – Bad Point – in darkness.

The city skyline had long disappeared behind us when the sun set and darkness quickly enveloped us. The specter of Punta Mala lay just a few miles ahead. In the distance, we could see the lights of dozens of freighters going to or coming from the Panama Canal. Somehow, this distant, silent company made us feel safer on the moonless, cloudy night.

As is our routine during rough weather and night passages, we were wearing life jackets and harnesses strapped to the boat. Finding a person at sea in the dark in rough waters is nearly impossible; even with modern technology like personal beacons and strobes. The best bet is to minimize the chance of going overboard in the first place.

As we rounded Punta Mala and pointed ¡Pura Vida! on a westerly heading, the wind shifted abruptly. We were prepared, and immediately tacked our sails. As expected, the point was making the seas bouncy, and winds erratic. Sailing without the motor on was impossible. Our engine allowed us to keep forward momentum while we repeatedly adjusted the sails to the varying wind conditions.

We were getting tossed around quite a bit, but not as bad as we had expected. Considering this was our first overnight passage in years, and our first sail in rough weather in close to two, we felt proud of our boat handling and preparation. Over land, not too distant, we could see storms when lightning would illuminate the clouds in an eerie glow.

Fortunately, the storms stayed over land during our entire trek along the southern coast of the Azuero Peninsula. Was it brilliant weather planning, dumb luck, or Poseidon taking pity on us? You decide. Regardless, the horizon behind us was starting to reveal the purple glow of morning twilight. The distant glimmer brightened our spirits. The night portion of our passage was over and we were several hours ahead of schedule.

By nine in the morning, our anchor was down on the eastern shore of Isla Coiba. Not another boat, house, or human in sight. Nature at its finest greeted us with howler monkeys screaming in the distance; pelicans, boobies, and frigates flying overhead; and fish swimming below us in crystal clear waters. We were exhausted and sleep-deprived, yet felt elated and fortunate to have the passage completed. In retrospect, perhaps all the build-up and horror stories made us better prepared. We could now look forward to several months of solitude and exploration in a pristine part of the world few get to know. The passage back across Punta Mala to Panama City was way in the future. No need to stress about that now.

Coiba National Park did not disappoint. The main island and those nearest are part of a protected land and marine habitat of 430,825 acres. Because of its importance to biodiversity and the Panamanian government’s efforts to protect it, Coiba National Park was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2005. The area is routinely patrolled by park rangers, environmental police, and the Panamanian Aeronaval military forces. They are friendly, extremely helpful, and dead serious about enforcement.

Between December and April, we meandered from island to island in the expansive Gulf of Chiriquí. Our loose itinerary involved finding islands with good anchorages and beautiful beaches to play, sailing into bays with nearby villages to re-supply, and staying at the Coiba National Park for days at a time to go diving. We dove in areas outside the park too, but the pristine and well-marked dive sites of Coiba were absolutely the best.

Surprisingly, few cruisers spend much time in this idyllic location. Most sailboats coming from the north are eager to get to Panama City. Those transiting the Panama Canal have tight weather windows to sail across the Pacific Ocean or north to Mexico. Their haste was our fortune, as we and our friends on s/v Kalani often found ourselves having beaches, entire islands, and dive sites completely to ourselves. We might see the occasional boat, but they would never stay long. On the weekends, we shared the most popular beaches with locals arriving by boat from the mainland, but by sunset, they always packed up and headed home. On rare occasions, a passing mega yacht, a National Geographic Cruise Ship, or a local fishing boat would drop anchor nearby. Most of the time, however, ¡Pura Vida! floated in bays all by herself.

The topography of the Gulf of Chiriquí was something new for us. Unlike the flat, sandy, palm-lined islands of the Panamanian Caribbean, these islands are tall, rocky, and almost completely covered by dense jungle. The volcanic rocks jutting from the water, and the unrelenting swell of the Pacific Ocean crashing against them created dramatic scenery. We had to bring our A-game to navigate safely, especially when entering narrow channels lined with jagged rocks. The natural beauty, ruggedness, and unspoiled nature of these isles took our breath away.

All this mind-blowing beauty was not without headaches. Many systems on ¡Pura Vida! broke down, some repeatedly. We would spend days diagnosing issues and spelunking in tight spaces to track down problems and fix them.  Our dinghy’s outboard motor was especially temperamental this season. For over two months, it would run fine for about a minute, then sputter and die. We ended up using our kayaks to go ashore almost exclusively. But, dammit, we need Lagniappe to dive and to re-supply, so we had to fix the motor. We tried everything the Suzuki service manual recommended, but nothing worked. We replaced injectors, coils, fuel filters, spark plugs…nothing fixed it. We narrowed the problem to fuel starvation, but the manual had a vague, yet ominous, notice that “disassembling the high pressure fuel pump can lead to troubles.”

Well, I took that as an invitation to do it. No book is going to tell me what I cannot do! What’s the worst that could happen? The motor was already not running. I did what every resourceful mechanic does when completely out of their depth, I watched a YouTube video. Armed with my minimal new wisdom learned from some kid on the internet, I bravely took apart the pump. Holy cow, there are a lot of tiny, fragile parts inside this thing! Each must be fitted exactly into place with zero tolerance for error. I think I understood then what “lead to troubles” might mean.

There I was, staring at a dozen minute metal and plastic parts on the workbench. I was expecting to find the smoking gun – a clogged inlet, a dirty valve, even some fuel goo. Nothing! Everything looked pristine. Frustrated at not finding the problem, I put everything back and re-sealed the pump. Only one way to find out if I did it right. After installing it back on the motor, I held my breath and hit the starter button. Vroom! I had somehow succeeded in putting the pump back together correctly.

Since I did not find any problems inside the pump, I figured the problem must be elsewhere. I did not even try to run the motor up to full speed to test it. I was out of ideas and contemplating how we would get the outboard to a mechanic on land from out here in the middle of nowhere.

“Why didn’t you test it?” Kimberly asked me. “Cause it’s not going to work,” I replied grumpily. “Just test it!” she insisted.

Having nothing better to do, I gave it a go. I ran the motor up to full speed and got lagniappe up on plane. I drove for thirty seconds waiting for it to sputter and quit at any time. She just kept going. Two minutes and still at full speed. Then five minutes. I was doing circles around ¡Pura Vida! smiling like a fool as Kimberly hooted with joy. I honestly have no idea what I did inside that pump, but it was working. Lagniappe was back. We figured it was just a matter of time before the pump quit again, so we order a new one. Fortunately, the old one worked almost perfectly until we could go to the nearest city to get the spare.

With Lagniappe running, we were ready to dive. As stunning as the topside is, you must go underwater to truly appreciate the majestic beauty of the Coiba area. We were ready! We had not gone diving in over two years, so we first selected a relatively shallow and easy dive where we could refresh our skills and test our gear. Our skills came back to us easily, but our dive gear showed its displeasure at having been stored for so long. After making repairs, replacing some parts with spares and fine-tuning others, we each had a set of Franken-gear ready to take the plunge. Because we were diving by ourselves in a very remote location, we made sure every piece of life-support equipment and the backups worked perfectly. Our gear did not look as attractive as it once had, but it was mechanically reliable.

Divers down! With the red and white dive flag hoisted aboard Lagniappe, we splashed into the crystalline blue. We immediately noticed how friendly all the fish were. Living in a protected park and not getting many human visitors made them curious about these neoprene-clad, bubble-blowing creatures in their midst. They would swim around us, enveloping us in their massive schools. Some would follow us throughout our dives. One sea turtle passed so close to us that she hit one of our cameras with a flipper.

We were experiencing their habitat without disturbing them. The only creatures that seemed shy were the whitetip reef sharks. We saw them on almost every single dive. They would let us get close, about five feet away, before swimming away. They usually circled back to check us out, but never getting too close.

We quickly developed a favorite dive site. Named Wahoo Rock, it is a pinnacle that juts out from the sea on the exposed side of a large island. We could leave ¡Pura Vida! anchored in a tranquil bay on the opposite side of the island and drive Lagniappe around to dive in just ten minutes. The underwater canyons, abundant marine life, and semi-predictable ocean currents appealed to us. But it was on our third dive there that Wahoo Rock became our favorite dive site of all time.

Whale shark!

We dove with cautious optimism that we might encounter one. We heard from a local boat captain that a whale shark had been spotted there a few days before. Unfortunately, our luck at seeing whale sharks was abysmal. Despite traveling to hotspots in the past during the best times of the year for observing them, the majestic creatures had always eluded us. We were expecting the same again.

Upon arriving at the site, a local dive boat was pulling away. The dive master had called off the dive because the current was too strong for her group of divers. After tying up to the mooring buoy, we checked the current and decided it was mild enough for us. Splash!

At a depth of about fifty feet, the water got ridiculously cold. There was a thermocline of about ten degrees and a thick layer of plankton. It looked like a giant, flat underwater cloud. The temperature difference was so pronounced that we could literally float in the warm water and stick our arm into the cold.

We were hanging out observing some fish when we saw a shadow and a massive dark area. In the distance, a whale shark was swimming gently by. It was easily thirty feet long. We both stayed frozen, almost not breathing, in awe of what we had just witnessed. As it disappeared into the dark blue of the Pacific Ocean, we squealed with joy and did a little underwater happy dance. Little did we know, that was just its first pass.

Bang! Bang! Bang! I heard Kimberly excitedly snapping her tank-banger signaling device to get my attention. I looked over to see it again. This time swimming right over her and directly toward me. Kimberly looked tiny next to the enormous fish. It was so close to her that she could have touched it if she extended her arm. I fumbled for my camera but was too excited to start recording until it was almost next to me. I froze in the water as it passed me just a foot away. We were all alone, having a close encounter with the largest fish in the ocean. It circled back once more, then vanished into the blue.

We kept diving Wahoo Rock, but never saw our giant friend again. But we made new friends, some that we saw repeatedly. A pair of large common octopuses live in the area. Although they are extremely shy, this pair would let us get right next to them without swimming away. One afternoon, we interrupted their post-lunch siesta, as they both sat still, surrounded by dozens of empty clam shells from their feast.

Between diving, being beach bums, and repairing broken boats, our season in the Gulf of Chiriquí came to an end way too quickly. We still had not seen our whale shark friend again, but it was time to go. This stunning, seldom visited corner of the Pacific Ocean stole our hearts and will forever be one of our favorite cruising grounds.

Our last stop in Coiba before starting our return trip to Panama City was at an old abandoned penal colony with a grim and tragic history. The more modern parts of the sprawling prison complex have been repurposed as a military outpost, but the older ruins echo the horrors of the past. Initially intended to house only the most violent criminals, the prison became a place to exile political prisoners, and even their young families, during Panama’s darkest days. Mass graves that included the bodies of children were found on site. Most of the areas beyond the main complex remain purposely abandoned to allow nature to reclaim them and restore balance to the otherwise pristine ecosystem of the island. We certainly left Coiba on a somber note.

We split our return sail eastward into three legs, each twelve hours or less. By April, the winds had shifted with the season, and were almost directly out of the north. This allowed us to use a couple of southern anchorages on the Azuero Peninsula that were untenable in December. Our only hardship would be near Punta Mala once again. After rounding the point, we needed to head north, directly into winds over twenty knots, and a ripping current of almost three knots. The trip was slow, as expected, but surprisingly pleasant. By the afternoon of day three we were anchored just off the coastline of mainland Panama, ready to ride the following morning’s high tide into our summer (storm season) marina.

This was a formative season for us. It rekindled our love of diving, reminded us that the best places are often hard to reach, and reinvigorated our desire to discover new areas. We are still not sure where we will take ¡Pura Vida! in winter 2025/2026, but we are determined to make it someplace new.