The Eastern Pacific - Pacific Crossing Notes: A Sailor's Guide to the Coconut Milk Run - page 209

Into the Wild Blue Yonder
So there we stood, on the diving board of the Pacific, taking a very deep breath. Namani
was laden down not only with food and water for this leg, but as much as she could pos-
sibly carry for the months to follow. She didn't so much sail away from Panama as waddle
like an over-fed guest from a Thanksgiving feast. To make things more interesting still, we
had our friend Bill on board, who would give us not only good company but also the luxury
of a three-person watch rotation for our maiden Pacific voyage. However, Bill absolutely
positively had to be in Santa Cruz for the start of a non-refundable Galapagos tour, giving
us a two-week window to make the 900 mile passage. Easy, right? We didn't dare hope,
knowing that any ocean-going venture is unpredictable.
Every passage has its defining challenge, be it weather, broken gear, or even crew harmony.
We had read many reports of uncomfortable windward beats into contrary currents on this
piece of ocean; other reports, meanwhile, were more focused on the problem of chafe over
this sometimes windless, trans-equatorial passage. As we watched the skyscrapers of
Panama City fade beyond the horizon, we wondered which challenge our voyage would
bring.
Spillover from Caribbean trade winds in late February gave us a rip-roaring start, with the
added thrill of a rollercoaster ride over the edge of the continent shelf: here, 200 foot
depths fall off into a 2,000 foot undersea precipice, a geography that manifests itself in
lumpy surface waters. We were all glad when the bumps evened out twenty-four hours
later, but not so glad to watch the winds flatten out with them. By the end of day three, we
had broken into the threes: three degrees north latitude, and a meager three knots of speed
made good in light air. By 6 p.m., we were chowing down on pasta and drifting along at a
mere two knots - in the right direction, we thankfully noted. By midnight, Namani was go-
ing nowhere but rolling everywhere. More correctly, we were tracing circles: the quarter
moon shone a teasing spotlight on our pathetic silhouette from all angles: first from star-
board, then around the bow, and whoops, there it was to port. I was rapidly running out of
synonyms for “lurch” as we rolled, floundered, and tottered along in the vicinity of 03°45
N, 081°17W.
And it was only downhill from there, at least in terms of speed. Our twenty-four hour run
over day three was a passable 108 miles; day two, a determined ninety-four; and day five, a
scanty sixty-eight miles made good. It was high time to test whether our new Parasailor
was worth the investment. This sail is a spinnaker-like, symmetric expanse of light fabric