I have been in a lot of storms in my life. I have seen hurricanes and tornadoes and hail the size of golf balls and snow six feet deep. But I have never been so scared as I was that night.
We were living on our 60ft William Garden ketch. She was a beautiful old boat full of hand carved teak. We were anchored outside the marina on Isla Colon, Bocas Del Toro. It was a quiet bay where twenty-five ships or so were moored in a comfortable boating community. We made friends with other boaters and enjoyed the bond that living on the water can bring.
One evening, as the sun was going down, dark clouds gathered over the mountains on the mainland just a half-hour away.
“This one is going to be bad,” Lee commented as we tightened lines holding tarps over the hatches.
I didn’t think it looked different than any other on-coming storm and we didn’t have any weather info saying it would be particularly bad. In fact, I thought it might even blow over and we would see nothing at all.
We left a few windows open in the main cabin in order to catch the breeze and I went below decks to cook dinner and relax with a glass of wine. I recall making homemade spaghetti from ripe tomatoes purchased at the market earlier that day.
We filled our teal colored wine glasses, lit a candle, and watched the sun fade into a cloudy night. A few drops of rain dampened the deck. Our panga, tied securely to the side of our sailboat, rested peacefully.
It was about ten o’clock when the wind started to pick up. It came from the mainland and across the bay. Normally storms came from the sea and we, protected by the island, didn’t suffer the brunt of the waves and wind. This night was different. Rolling waves flung themselves toward shore, windswept and cresting. The panga began to buck like a young horse tied in its stall and ready to race. Lee went above deck to move the panga to the rear where it could have its head, but the winds were too strong to risk moving the little boat. I climbed the teak steps and peeked out into the night. The palms at the marina close by waved their arms in front of the bright marina light and cast frantic shadows across the shallows. Our mooring held. We had a safety anchor in case the line broke, but given the strength and direction of the wind, I was not convinced we'd be able to drop anchor and get it to catch before we hit shore if the unthinkable were to happen.
That was when Pretty came into view.
Pretty was the name of a 38ft sailboat anchored near us. She was a white sloop with wide, black stripes and was captained by a young Columbian who circumnavigated the world more than once. Often, when the winds changed direction and the boats all swung their bows into the breeze, we could see Pretty, floating there all pretty. But when she came into view on that stormy night, it was not with the changing of the wind, nor was she where she should be. She came careening toward us, her young captain at the helm trying desperately to steer her fiberglass hull away from us, her anchor dragging her sideways, like a bull in a china shop. We, on a fixed mooring and with no engine, were helpless to get out of her way.
Panama is below the hurricane belt and Bocas is considered a safe harbor for boats during the summer months. Crews from all over the world bring their ships to her calm waters. There are six marinas that I know of and you will find boats anchored in quiet coves by themselves or in small groups all throughout the thousand islands. I, like so many others, was under the false assumption that we would not be in any danger from storms. But wind is a funny thing. It does not need to be in the circular fashion of a hurricane to top eighty or ninety miles an hour. And though I do not know what the wind clocked that night, I did feel its merciless hand.
Pretty dragged by us, narrowly missing our bowsprit. She spun around, and for a few minutes, her anchor seemed to catch and hold. But it didn’t last long. Soon she was fighting the gale again and this time she was not so lucky. She slammed into a nearby ship, doing considerable damage to both boats.
And she was not the only ship to be in trouble.
Walden was gone.
Walden was moored right next to us. Her mooring had broken a few weeks earlier and been replaced with new, stronger lines. But they didn’t hold. I looked out into the night and there was no sign of her battered, white hull. I could not believe I had not seen her drift by. I must have been too captivated by Pretty's distress.
All told, ten sailboats went aground that night.
It was very close to the last night I spent on my boat.
I was badly shaken by the storm and gave up any thought of living on the water long term. Our William Garden was comfortable and roomy and, for a while, I had been under its spell. I dreamed of hosting friends and family on her spacious deck. But as a sailor friend once told me, "The sea doesn’t care about you." She will have her way and we are forever at her mercy.
I will always love the sea. I have salt water in my veins. But that night, I decided I needed to get my feet on solid ground.