We took the panga down the coast of Isla San Cristobal, through the mangroves, and into Dolphin Bay. From there we navigated through the cut by the teak trees and all the way to the mainland where a mechanic lived in a house in the water, well not really IN the water, in the mangroves and ON the water, actually ON the water. It was a long ride from Bocas Town—about forty minutes—but, it was well rewarded with the elusive engine part we were looking for. Finally, the starter on the panga was fixed.
There was a tiny gas station next to the mechanic’s house, but we decided we not to fill up. Well, Lee decided not to fill up. He said we had enough gas to get home. Storm clouds were brewing and he wanted to try to beat the rain.
After backtracking out of the bay, we raced through the mangroves. Dark thunderheads spread across the sky.
Leaving the mangroves behind, we headed north and kept the island close on our left. The rain began and visibility plummeted. We figured we would be OK if we hugged the island until it ended. From there we should be able to see Bocas Town.
We were wrong.
The rain was coming in torrents and we couldn’t see Bocas. So we headed at a ten-degree angle and kept San Cristobal behind us and to the left. It was a short crossing and Bocas should come into view quickly, even in the heaviest rain. I felt confident with San Cristobal over my shoulder as a landmark. We would be fine.
The rain stung my face and the waves were high. The crossing was not exactly fun and the only thing I was really worried about was driving into the wind without much gas. The rough conditions would make for bad mileage.
After pounding along for five minutes, land came into view. My first reaction was relief, knowing that, if we did run out of gas, there would be someone around to give us a tow. But as we drew closer to what we assumed was Bocas Town, I quickly realized that the land did not look familiar at all.
About that time, I lost San Cristobal to the mist.
It is a very unsettling feeling to be staring at islands that look nothing like they should when you are almost out of gas and it’s raining really hard.
We drew a little closer to the islands. They were small and dotted the surface of the sea. Our gas was running dangerously low. (I’m talking fumes.) So, it seemed the only sensible thing to do was to shut off the engine and drift for a while until the rain cleared and visibility improved. The mountains of the main land would give us our bearings again, if only we could see them.
So we shut off the motor and drifted.
The boat didn't get any closer to or further away from the small islands. It drifted in a circle. Very strange behavior for a boat.
I took stock of our water supply and checked out our one small bag of peanuts. Not much, but enough to get us through until the weather cleared.
That was when Lee spotted the sailboat. It was anchored between two tiny islands.
There are a lot of deserted sailboats in the area. So, there was no guarantee anyone would be on board. But we opted to use a little more gas fumes and check it out.
We pulled alongside the 40ft craft and called.
I thought I heard a voice below deck.
Lee called again and we were greeted by a wiry, old sailor and his plump and happy wife.
Relief.
They even had gas, gas mixed with two-cycle oil, the kind we needed.
Almost a miracle
But the really weird part came when we asked where Bocas Town was and they pointed to a strip of land so far off in the distance we could hardly see it, even though the sky was finally clearing. Not only was it incredibly far away, it was in the complete wrong direction.
There is simply no way for me to explain how we got to where we were.
We know the area well. We had lived in Bocas for nearly two years and had explored everywhere with the panga. The place we found ourselves was a half-hour ride from Bocas in the opposite direction on a good day. Even if we could have somehow gotten turned around, which was impossible because we kept San Cristobal on our left the whole way, there was no way we had enough gas to get where to we were. Then there was the extra half-hour of lost time we would have added to our trip. And that through rough seas.
I have re-christened Bocas Del Toro, The Bocas Triangle.
We thanked our rescuers, added the gas to our tank, and sped home with the lifting rain.
We talked for hours that evening about what happened. Bocas Triangle, definitely.
PS,
The morning after our bizarre dis-and-re-appearance, I was approached in the street by a good friend and local, my favorite jungle man, William. He heard we got lost. He knew what was going on. He had it happen to him on several occasions.
William explained in his perfect Caribbean English that a bad pirate spirit stayed in the area when the big ships came and killed the Indians and stole the gold. He was talking about Christopher Columbus who was not the good guy we were taught he was but ransacked the islands and left a lot of blood on the ground.
“Take off your shirt,” William instructed. “The pirate spirit will lasso you. But, if you take off your shirt and turn it inside out and put it back on and then turn around three times, you will find your way back home.”
I used to think such advice was the remnant of children’s fairy tales. Now I am not so sure.
William also said his grandfather told him about a big ship that was fully lit and came to offer lost people help late in the evening. He warned us to never accept the help or they would take us very far away.
PPS,
The very next day we got a distress call from our friend, Stewart. It was late in the day. The sun was setting and black storm clouds had settled in. Lightening was blazing in the distance. Stewart was in his motor-less sailboat and the wind was uncooperative. He could not get home. Could we come in our panga and give him a tow?
Problem? He seemed very confused and could not really describe where he was.
We braved the storm and the thickening darkness, but we could not find him.
It was just too dangerous for us to continue looking for him, especially when he had no idea where he was. So, we headed back to our sailboat in the harbor and called Stewart to recommend he drop anchor and wait until morning. He was panicking. So, we set out again, but the night was so black we could not see a thing except when the lightening lit the sky. We decided it would be safer to find one of the local Indian boaters. They are better equipped than we in difficult conditions and might be able to find our friend. The local guy sped off just as heaven opened and the rain came down so hard I could not even keep my eyes open, much less see.
With the help of a few lights from nearby ships, we found our way safely back to our sailboat. An hour later Stewart’s boat was towed in.
In the morning the story we heard sounded awfully familiar. Stewart had been in one place one moment and far, far away the next.
Pirate spirits?
I don’t have a better explanation.