Rock 'n' Roll (Chagres River, Panama)
We left Shelter Bay marina this afternoon, having spent 5 days tied to a dock - that’s enough landlubbing for us.
It’s nice to be back at anchor with the gentle rocking and all the familiar noises of the boat. Went to bed and slept soundly.
Well.. we did until 3am. That’s when the anchor alarm had us jumping from our bed. Sure enough, we’ve dragged. The wind has picked up to a howl and we spend an uncomfortable hour trying to reset the anchor into the margarine like clay/mud mixture below us. It’s not much fun.
It’s now 5am, we seem to be well set again, so might try and get some more shuteye before the sun comes up.
On the good news front - the bank emailed me overnight, they’re now willing to settle for a selfie with my passport next to my face to prove that I’m me, and avoid having our accounts frozen. Hope that’s the end to that sorry saga.
When we rise a few short hours later the wind is still at howl level, with white horses showing in the bay. We won’t stay there another night, so planned to head back to the lovely little town of Portobelo to wait for our canal transit (now scheduled for 25th Feb). With the blow continuing we instead decide to wait for a few hours until conditions calm down a bit. Portobelo lies to the East - in the direction of both the wind and swell so an uncomfortable sail awaits. At 10:30am we decide to head out of the relative safety of the bay behind the breakwater and try our luck heading East along the coast to Portobelo. Having wiggled our way back out past the anchored freighters, we realise that slamming into high seas for probably 6 plus hours is not how we want to spend the day. Instead we turn West and head towards the Chagres River - a quite jungle river wide enough to accommodate us, and only a few miles along the coast in the opposite direction with following seas. The sail there is quite lovely, with less than half of our genoa sail out, we whip along at a pleasing 6 knots.
The entrance to the Chagres river is fairly narrow and has some rocks to avoid. We cautiously approach, trusting and following the Navionics charts on the iPad.
Sadly, those charts didn’t match reality. As we nervously passed over a 4m deep area, a grinding, gut wrenching shudder goes through the boat as our 2.1m keel grounds onto rock which we now believe to be 1.2m beneath the surface.
The waves are still quite large at this stage and as they pound us, the jammed stuck boat is battered from side to side pivoting on the keel and throwing us, and everything inside violently one way then the other.
In nearly 5 years of sailing, this is the closest we’ve come to disaster - both ourselves and the boat in true peril.
A chaos of crashing debris, shouts, screams and tears reigned for what seemed like an eternity as we desperately tried to free ourselves by reversing as hard as we could as the boat continued to slam from side to side in the large waves. There’s the sound of jarring crashes coming from all around - both in and outside the boat. Chez, at the helm is getting the worst of it - the wheel being snatched from her hand and spinning uncontrollably as the rudder is whipped to and fro on the rock below. As she’d tried to hold the helm, her hand was burned at one point by the rapidly spinning wheel. I’m midships at that stage, close to being thrown overboard as the boat lurches one way then the other. The reversing isn’t working, so Chez instead tries to drive us forward, we do eventually break free. I dash below to see how much water we’re taking on as I’m sure the keel would have sustained sufficient damage to cause at the very least a leak, and more likely an inrushing gush. The floor is strewn with all of our belongings that weren’t tied down, and mud from a single plant pot that’s smashed below. I dig through this mess to get to the bilges. Expecting the worst, I’m surprised to see still dry keel bolts and bilges below me.
Once free from the rocky trap, we quickly drop anchor - both shaking from the adrenaline, Chez holding her badly burnt hand. We are in a terrible state, but probably not sinking. I dive below in my underpants to check the rudder - it’s damaged at the bottom and will likely need to come off to be repaired, but at least useable for now.
Stunned, we don’t know what to do - the river which we’ve just tried to enter was our plan B, and to get back to Shelter Bay in the East means slamming back into the 4/5m waves and swell for a few hours, something that neither we nor the boat are prepared to cope with just yet.
I’m not sure how long, probably only a few minutes, but a small row boat with an outboard motor and 4 guys and a dog approaches within shouting distance.
“Que pasa mi amigo?”
Still not quite fluent in Spanish, I shouted back:
“Lo siento, mi espanol no es bueno, Mi barco… er…” (sorry my Spanish isn’t good, my boat.. ) then point to the sea and repeatedly slam my fist into the palm of my other hand - thankfully they understand (and had actually seen us floundering on the rock 5 minutes beforehand). With concerned smiles and waves they signal for us to follow them into the river entrance - which we do. Their local knowledge guiding us through the narrow rocky entrance and into the calm tranquility of the wide river beyond.
Once we are safely in, I dig out some cold thankyou beers and signal for them to come close enough for me to throw them over - they’re gratefully received. I’ve miscounted and throw an extra one across: “Para tu perro” (for your dog) which raises a laugh. Once they see us safe, they depart, with us signalling our genuine heartfelt gratitude for the help. We then hug, and realise we’re shaking and crying - it was quite an ordeal. Chez’s hand is a mess - blistered and torn in the places where the leather of the wheel has whipped through her grip - lucky not to be broken.
We anchor a short way into the jungly river, both probably still in shock, I begin the process of clearing up, while Chez tries to keep her hand cold with bottles of water from the fridge in the absence of any available ice.
This little mishap, throws a fairly large spanner into our plans, but for now I’m just thankful that we are both alive, and the boat didn’t sink.
Not our best day by a long long shot.
Repairs and contingency plans can wait.
Let’s move on.
Woke the next morning surrounded by the sounds of the jungle: howler monkeys at dawn, all sorts of unidentifiable bird noises, a turtle popping it’s head up in the water and a beautiful full rainbow - somewhat ironically ending at the exact spot where we’d floundered the day before! There’s barely a ripple on the water, and the jungle is vibrantly green from the overnight rain.
There can’t be many better places to relax and slowly get over yesterday’s tribulations.
Mid morning a familiar catamaran comes up the river - it’s a guy and his kids who we’d met back in Grenada. We ask if he minds buddy boating with us back to Shelter Bay. There we can assess what the damage is, and what the damage ($) is going to be! He’s happy to help out - it’ll just provide us with some comfort to know another boat is around when we’re unsure of our own.
We make a plan to head out later in the afternoon, so with a couple of hours to spare, we head down the river for a few miles to enjoy the scenery and have some lunch - it’s all lovely.
Leaving the river with our catamaran tail we snake back out past the sea covered rocks and back out into deeper open water. Spend 3hrs slamming into it, uncomfortable, but the boat performed really well. Made it safe and sound back to our previous berth, tied up and relaxed - tomorrow is drop and inspect the rudder…
“If you ain’t run aground, you ain’t been around” (John, SV Ballyhoo.)
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