First Mate

Holy shit.

What a wild five days.

Let me start by saying that Im here in Colombia, and Im safe.

Tuesday morning, I was picked up in Panama city by a four-wheel drive vehicle. We drove over the river and through the woods to a motorized canoe, which took me to the San Blas Islands where Hernando and the Stella Luna were anchored.

When I arrived at the boat, Hernando introduced me to Frederick and Anna, a French couple that would be traveling with us to Colombia. Then, Hernando laid down a few basic ground rules, and he explained the itinerary.

As I was expecting, the plan was to spend three days in the San Blas Islands, and then two days of straight sailing on to Colombia.

The San Blas Islands were absolutely gorgeous, and those first three days were some of the most enjoyable days of my journey thus far. Throughout those three days, I was also able to get a good feel for El Capitain, Hernando.

Some of the words one might use to describe Hernando are "carefree," "fun-loving," and "entertaining."

Then again, depending on your experience with Hernando, one might also use the following term:

Sixty year-old, semi-crippled, mildly disgruntled, raging alcoholic.

Perhaps Im being a bit harsh, but Ill allow you to be the judge.

After our three days in the Islands, as we prepared to set sail for Colombia, Hernando sat us down and explained what our next two days at sea would be like.

In Spanish (Hernando doesnt speak a lick of English) he said, "I need the three of you to listen carefully for the next few minutes, because these next two days will be dangerous at times, and everyone will have important responsibility.

First off, it is imperative that once we sail past the Islands and into the open sea, you keep two hands on the boat at all times. The seas can get rough, and I prefer that no one falls in.

Translation: These next two days will be dangerous.

Second, the voyage will take between 40 and 48 hours, and it is absolutely impossible for one person to navigate the boat alone the entire way. Since this is the case, we will be switching off driving duties every two hours until we arrive.

Translation: You will all be expected to carry heavy responsibility.

Third, if I yell at times, it doesnt mean that Im angry, it just means that whatever Im asking you to do must be done immediately.

Translation: Tempers will flare.

And lastly, in the refrigerator, I have packed twelve beers for myself--six for one day and six for the next--and they are not to be touched."

Translation: I will be drunk the entire time.

I had half a mind to exit the boat at that very moment. But, other than the fact that Hernando already had my $400 dollars, there was once simple factor that kept me from pulling the trigger:

I figured that Hernando wanted to see his family in Colombia just as much as I wanted to sleep with a Colombian woman.

As faulty as this logic may have been, I came to the twisted conclusion that if the strength of our two desires were anywhere near equivalent, we would both still be breathing once we reached Colombia.

So off we went.

In the beginning of the voyage, things werent so bad.

I did, however, make it a point to ask a whole bunch of questions:

"How do you turn on the motor?"

"What is our starting location on the map?"

"How does the radio work?"

"What is the compass heading for where we are going?"

Basically, under the guise of insatiable curiousity, I hounded Hernando until I possessed what I thought was sufficient knowledge to navigate the boat to our destination should he have gone into liver failure mid-journey.

Since there were four of us on the boat, each person had two hours on and six hours off when it came to driving. It didnt sound so bad.

It wasnt until I found myself navigating a boat--at four in the morning, in the open sea, with no land in sight, waves crashing down around me, everyone else sleeping--in the pitch black, with nothing more to guide me than an illuminated compass, that it actually hit me.

What in the FUCK is going on?

When my shift was over, just after four A.M., I made my way into the cabin to awake the Frenchman for his driving duties.

He rolled over and peered at me through sleep-deprived eyes, and all I could say was, "Lo siento." Im sorry.

Frederick responded, "No, no. Es nor-mal."

I knew what he was trying to say was that I shouldnt feel bad to wake him up.

Even so, I couldnt help but to mutter, "No. No es FUCKING nor-mal."

I retired to my bed, which was nothing more than a sticky nylon pad covered by a thin sheet --which was completely drenched with sweat from my previous nights sleep--and made an attempt at some sort of rest.

The delicious hot meals we had been provided with for the first three days in the islands were replaced by corn flakes, saltines, and a delightful assortment of rotting, unrefrigerated fruits and vegetables.

Eventually, the smell of those rotting fruits and vegetables pervaded the entire cabin, making it nearly impossible for me to lay my head down without throwing up in my mouth.

During one of my driving shifts, there was a tremendous amount of lumber floating in the water. Instead of taking over, however, the captain just stood there, pointing at the wood and cursing in Spanish, as I deftly maneuvered the field of floating mines.

And that was the story of my life for nearly fifty hours.

Until we reached the bay in Cartagena, that is.

Thats where the real fun began.

Cartagena is a beautiful city on the northwestern coast of Colombia. As we navigated the boat around the final piece of land--rather, as I navigated the boat and the Captain rested off his hangover--and the city came into view, tears of joy began to roll down my sea-hardened face.

Then, it happened.

The wind completely stopped.

This was a minor problem, you see.

Why, you ask?

Well, heres a little analogy to help you understand:

Gas:Cars::_____:Sailboats

Need another one?

Electricity:Kitchen appliances::_____:Sailboats

Catch my drift?

We floated there for about fifteen minutes without moving an inch.

Finally, I spoke up.

"Why dont we try using the motor?" I asked.

There was a motor on the boat that we had used from time to time. Throughout the voyage, however, the captain had been reluctant to use it because, as he had made it a point to mention nearly half a dozen times, "This is a sailboat."

After nearly thirty windless minutes, though, Hernando finally caved in.

"Okay," he said.

He pushed the ignition.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch...

Nothing.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch...

Again, nothing.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch...

Fuck my life.

There we were, floating in the middle of the bay, no more than a few thousand meters from our final destination--sin viento, sin motor.

Without wind. Without motor.

Then came the clouds.

Then the lightning.

And then the rain.

Hard.

As the storm picked up, the wind was intermitent and sporadic.

Now, if you know as much about sailing as I now do, then you know that when the wind is not in your favor, it is often necessary to zig-zag your way to your desired destination. This involves a rapid changing of the sail from one side of the boat to the other.

For nearly three hours, in the pouring rain, the captain sat behind the wheel and barked out orders in Spanish.

"Release that rope! Tie this rope! Pull that one! Fast, fast, fast! Switch sides! Release that rope! Pull that one! Fast!"

I thought that my Spanish was fairly decent, but I must have been absent from class the day we went over nautical terms, because for the most part I had no idea was he was saying.

Then, he said something I did understand.

"Ay, el no sabe nada." He doesnt know anything.

I stopped what I was doing and turned around.

"El no sabe nada, eh?" I was ready to tear out what was left of his rotting liver.

The captain sighed and responded, "Tranquilo. Es un expresion." Calm down. Its an expression.

No. Im sorry.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

Thats an expression.

People in glass houses shoudnt throw stones.

Theres another one.

He doesnt know anything?

Thats pretty much just a blunt statement, if you ask me.

After nearly four hours in the rainy bay, the captain finally decided to call a friend of his who came out to tug us in.

Then, when we reached the dock, the captain looked up and said, "Entonces, quien quiere vodka?"

"Wait just a minute," I said. "We just spent fifty three hours on this boat, four of which were in the pouring rain. And now that were finally here, you expect us all to sit here and drink vodka?

Its nine o clock at night.

Im cold, Im wet, and Im tired.

Im fucking hungry.

I still need to find a place to sleep tonight, and I should really attempt to contact my family after five days at sea.

Vamanos."

Hernando wisely scratched vodka idea, and we exited the boat.

By the time I reached the hostel, I was literally shell shocked. It may have been the first time Ive ever experienced a bout of post-traumatic stress.

I made my way to my room--disheveled and defeated--with my head facing the floor.

"Is that Brandon?" I heard someone say.

I looked up to find Liz and Emily, the two delightful Welsh girls I met on the bus from Costa Rica to Panama, standing in the courtyard of the hostel.

After taking the best shower of my life, they fed me rum and listened to my ridculous tale.

Since sucking my thumb and being held by my mother wasnt an option at the moment, this was the next best thing.

What a fucking trip.