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It was a dark and stormy night. (from the cliche-ridden yang-side.)
Yesterday morning we left Costa Rica and headed south around Punta Burica rounding it into Panama. Things were going well all day. In the afternoon we even had a consistent 8 knots of wind with flat seas to sail at about 4 knots more or less in the direction we wanted to go. We were pinching in toward land a bit but were still some miles off. Towards sunset, we started seeing towering cumulus (aka convection, aka thunderheads) off in the distance and were starting to watch the formations light up like lanterns. Very beautiful and majestic in the distance. Just at sunset Hope caught a yellow fin tuna. I had just gaff'd it and got it into the tail noose to bleed it when I looked at the instruments and saw that the depth was registering 24 feet.
Yikes.
Slash, slash, toss the fish in the tail noose off the back, then get to the wheel, slow WAY down, and make a U-turn. Head directly to 15 feet. Wrong way. Then to 43 (better), then back to the 20's. Well, OK, just head away from land. In the meantime, Hope checks the chartplotter. We're supposedly 4 miles from shore in 600+ feet of water. Radar confirms that we're 4 miles from shore roughly where the GPS says we're supposed to be in relationship to the land (Punta Burica). Except that in the general vicinity (not exactly where we are), there are little exclamation marks in triangles. They usually mean: "Area inadequately surveyed" and goes on to talk about what 'prudent mariners' should do. With a sea mount rising to 12 feet, I'd concur with the 'inadequately surveyed' notation. Days before, we'd encountered an unmarked sand bar rising to only 20 feet from 200+ feet at the mouth of Gulfo Dulce. The sun was overhead then so we could see the change in the water color and know where to steer. This time, the sun had set and we had no light to show us the extent of the formation. Well, we can't get out of the 20's no matter what direction we go and once the gauge registers just 12 feet of depth as I'm trying to find 'a way out'. So Hope takes the wheel and coasts to a stop. I go forward and drop the dinghy anchor over the side. With the depth sounder registering 24 feet I've got 40+ feet of small anchor, chain, and rode hanging over the side. Huh: touching nothing?
Yup. The depth sounder had lost its mind. We resume our course and the depth sounder happily registers the ups and downs of the bottom making changes in 1/10ths of a foot but staying between 20 and 30 feet. We finally see it blink which means that it can't find bottom (greater than 400 feet) ... then it then happily informs us that the bottom has just zoomed back up to 25 feet (19-35) for the next mile or so. While we were coping with all this, another fish got hooked accidentally. So we just let it drag until we finished the deep breathing and the adrenalin levels approached normal. Recovered and fillet'd the tuna and let the mackerel go. (Sushi tomorrow!)
But now the squalls and thunderheads had formed behind us and in front of us. Beautiful, starry skies overhead. Plus one dark area off to starboard. This is where dark is an understatement. Overhead, I can see 'black' in the areas between the stars. But the black of this cloud and in the monsoon-like downpour beneath it connecting to the water makes the black between the stars look sort of a medium-to-dark gray. I can see it where the two 'blacks' touch. Turn on the radar again, and yup (again), where that black hole in my universe is located is a solid blob of water a mile wide and many miles long. Fortunately, it and we traveled on roughly parallel courses in opposite directions so it never got closer than a half mile. (You can't outrun these things, they outrun you if you're lucky.) It had a cloud stretching for miles that crossed our path. I could see stars behind me and ahead of me underneath it, but overhead it might as well have been a rip in the space-time continuum for its depth of blackness. By the time we're clear of that, thunderheads are pretty much all around us at various distances.
Fortunately, it only turned out to be a very sloppy sea (translation: uncomfortable, hard to stand up even holding on but not dangerous) and we didn't have to pass under or near any of the thunderheads. I woke Hope up at midnight for her watch and they had settled down to a distance much further away (except for a last one ahead which died down before we got there). Hope says she got to watch (through the binoculars) vertical lightning strikes to the water. I missed those, but then she missed the lightning strike in San Carlos, Mexico a couple of years ago that hit the land about 100 yards from our mooring ball.
We're anchored now at Isla Partida in Gulfo Chiriqui, Panama (08.101167N, 082.367483W). Looks like the mainland is getting ready for another convection party tonight but we're anchored for anything. The depth sounder resumed normal operation as soon as it found a real depth less than 400 feet. The tuna is chilled and awaiting final trimming. All's well (even better than yesterday when we set out) as we settle down to naps and look forward to wonderful time here in the islands of Western Panama.
Happy trails!
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