Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
lining the horizon. Oriental rust buckets listing to port or starboard lowered the tone overall.
There were massive fishing boats - floating canning factories - which trawled long “walls
of death” nets behind them, scooping up any fish in their path and canning them on the
spot. At night these floating factories appeared as towns, ablaze with lights with their loom
visible for miles around. Our first experience, as I mentioned earlier, with one of these was
of great consternation and bewilderment. I was terrified that my navigation was at fault and
thought we would run aground any second. It's very frightening not knowing where you
are in the inky blackness of night at sea.
There were quite a lot of cruising yachts and motor launches of every description large and
small beetling along to the entrance as well. When we sailed into the bay, I radioed the port
authorities and was told to head for the Panama Yacht Club to the west of the bay. There
we found several boats anchored off at the club. We tied up at one of the visiting docks and
were soon told to anchor off in the anchorage a good mile away in what appeared to be the
proverbial swamps - the poor end of town if you will. It was quite an anticlimax after all
was said and sailed.
“Toffee-nosed yacht official. Probably never seen the inside of a dinghy before,” muttered
Gavin.
“Yeah, just look how far we have to row to go ashore; it's miles!” I protested.
Go ashore we did though, and a long time at the oars I spent on my turn there. We were re-
warded with a very full, noisy bar in full swing. The yacht club building was a huge, good-
looking building with a sweeping, low roof, a solid, brick structure, lots of varnished wood-
work, all modern conveniences and, most important, hot water showers. A hot shower
was one of life's major pleasures when in from a long spell at sea. The showers were coin-
operated, and we basked in the friendly steaming hot water.
Freshly scrubbed and wearing clean clothes, we sauntered over to the big, open, and very
noisy bar. Lots of sailors and their women sat about laughing and yakking away enjoying
their happy hour sun downers.
“This is more like it,” beamed Gavin. “Christ, just look at them all, lots of scarabankies.”
That was his nickname for girls.
“Wow, look at that girl on the left there at the mirror; that has to be the most beautiful girl
I have ever seen. She must cost some guy an arm and a leg to maintain,” I said staring with
my mouth open. It was painfully obvious what we had been missing while out at sea and
cruising around. “A rolling stone…”
Indeed, there were a lot of good-looking girls, sun tanned sailors, and, of course, the inev-
itable teak-reef sailors as well, members who rubbed shoulders with the real thing and got
