Perky's Eulogy

It is with heavy heart that I report Perky’s passing.  I didn’t go down like I had envisioned – just a puff of smoke at the start, the slow rumble and gentle mechanical tapping of an easy 1800 RPM fading off into the setting sun.  The real ending couldn’t have been further from the dream.

Diesel engines of this vintage are built wickedly heavy and like the rest of El Tiburon – solid as a brick shit house.  Properly maintained, they will give decades of reliable service, and only require three basic necessities – clean air, clean fuel and clean oil.  And even these simple demands are sometime negotiable for short periods of time - rarely causing permanent damage. 

So which part of the bargain did we fail to meet?  Oil.

And when I say oil, I’m not talking about dirty oil, low oil, old oil, or generic, no-name oil.  I’m talking about NO oil.

I know many of you are cringing while you read this, knowing the inevitable outcome.  But it’s true.  We ran her out of oil – totally bone dry.  She tried her best to keep turning over, but in the end, she couldn’t overcome her own internal friction, and ground to a definitive halt.

How it happened is pretty straightforward, and will hopefully serve as a cautionary tale to future boaters – or anyone else who happens to drive a car, run a lawn mower or any other device that’s powered by internal combustion.  We had just finished transiting the Panama Canal (with Vince and Marge!), arriving on the Atlantic side for the first time in the life of El Tiburon.  Getting ready to leave Panama for Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula would be a pretty routine operation.  Just another run to the supermercado for groceries, a topping of the tanks with diesel fuel and lastly, a routine oil change.  During oil changes, it’s standard practice to swap a new oil filter for the old one.  This is a very easy thing to do and takes just a few minutes.   Simply unscrew the old one from the engine block, and screw on a new one.  The oil filter makes a seal with the engine on a smoothed metal surface with a rubber gasket in between.  Each oil filter comes out of the box with a new gasket standing at the ready.  Unfortunately, when the old filter was removed and thrown away, the old gasket hung in place on the engine block like a stowaway.  Doesn’t sound too sinister, does it?

When the new filter was installed and screwed home, we now had not one, but TWO gaskets between the engine and the filter.  By now, most of you have figured out the rest of the story – it was leak city.   The oil pressure generated by the running engine pushed all the oil between those 2 gaskets, and right into the bilge.  Should this have happened to a car, the problem would gave been quite obvious, spilling oil all over the ground.  All mechanics know that the last thing you do after an oil change is to run the engine and look for any signs of leaks.  Engines do not like to lose their oil.

In Perky’s case, she lives under the cabin sole and does most of her work in the darkness of the bilge.  Unless someone takes the effort to lift the floorboards and aim a flashlight underneath the engine and peer into the dark confines of the bilge, a leak will go completely unnoticed.  Furthermore, it’s especially difficult to spot “new” oil in the black bilge of a chronic oil leaker like Perky.  As it turns out, it’s not just our Perky that leaks oil, but nearly every one of the thousands of vintage Perkins diesel engines running today.

Where Perky actually died, you already know from April's post.  I will tell you it was a hair raising experience.

Options regarding what to do with Perky, and El Tiburon ran the gamut from – replace the engine with a new one shipped from the States, find a locally rebuilt engine, or rebuild Perky here, in Panama.  The first two options seemed very expensive, and rebuilding Perky locally seemed out of the question once we started inquiring with our sailing neighbors in the marina.  It seemed that reliable, quality diesel boat mechanics in Panama were rare to mythological.  Of course, finding a good mechanic in Panama would not be too difficult, but finding one to leave the shop and come to your boat is another story altogether.  

After mulling over the choices, it occurred to us that we had yet another option for getting back to the States - sail El Tiburon back to the Florida without any engine at all!  How romantic we thought.  Sailing as they had done for centuries, without the use of internal combustion.  Just the stars above, a gentle breeze pushing us along and the warm tropical waters of the Caribbean.  After a check of the weather and some discussions with other sailors in the marina - our romantic vision imploded.  The reality would be more like 20-30+ knot winds, 12 foot waves coming from every direction and reefy lee shores trying their best to suck us to a watery grave.  Basically, it would be a suicide mission.  Or, as April’s father put it – “the next episode of ‘Jack Ass’!”

Just when we were about to give up hope for a local, reliable, timely and not prohibitively expensive solution, we stumbled onto Kenny Breazeale, and expat from Mississippi and self-proclaimed red neck who grew up building hot rod cars in the south.  Yes, we’re talking NASCAR country.  The land where parents are thoughtful enough to bless boys with two first names, or at the very least, put a ‘y’ at the end.  Kenny has rebuilt several marine diesel engines in Panama and knows the one machine shop in the country that would be up to the task.  And best of all, he doesn’t mind having us do all the work while he periodically checks in to see how we’re progressing.  This is the way Team Tiburon likes to roll with big projects – just the right amount of supervision to keep us on track and away from pitfalls.

Perky will live again!  Step #1 – get Perky off the boat and deliver her to the machine shop in Panama City.  Question #1 - how to move a 450 pound engine from the depths of the bilge, into the cabin, out the companionway, over the rail and onto the dock?

Since pictures say it much better, I’m going to send you now to a slideshow presentation.

All the best to you and stay tuned.  Team Tiburon will ride again!

Perky Strikes Back

We spent two days in Shelter Bay marina during which we prepared for our passage to Grand Cayman by provisioning the boat, analyzing weather patterns, and discussing our defense strategy should we be approached by pirates (of the Caribbean). The general consensus at the marina is that it is better to not have any firearms onboard, and to just give the intruders anything they ask for – with a smile on your face, if possible. Apparently it is not uncommon for men to approach your vessel in fishing pangas when miles and miles off shore, simply to ask for water or food. It would certainly be a tragedy to overreact with a weapon in such a case.

Armed with food, water, and a flare gun, we began our first endeavor into Caribbean waters with a stop at the fuel dock. The wind was blowing a nice 10 knots in the marina, so we knew the conditions were good for sailing, if less than ideal for pulling out of our slip. El Tiburon had been parked in the innermost slip, right next to the concrete wall of the marina’s maleçon. Extracting her from her slip meant backing up into the wind far enough so that her bow would clear the stern of our neighbor’s boat when we made a forward left turn, but not so far as to ram El Tiburon’s stern into the concrete wall behind us.

It was dicey, but with the help of many pairs of hands pushing off various parts of the boat, we managed to get her out without any serious damage. Over at the fuel dock, the adrenaline level sank back to normal while we filled our tanks and changed the fuel filter. We like to take good care of Perky (our Perkins 4.108) because she takes care of us, and because we blamed her for our power problem for so long when it was really the prop’s fault the whole time.

With everyone calm and ready to go, El Tiburon headed out into the channel and into the mouth of the Panama Canal. The wind picked up to 15-20 knots as we left Shelter Bay and we could see waves lapping at the hulls of the anchored tankers waiting to transit. We were pulling our fenders in when from the helm Luke called, “Guys, we have a problem.” Perky was losing power - fast. There was something seriously wrong.

Luke turned the engine off while Andrew and John ran to the bow to throw out the anchor. We weren’t out of the channel yet and with the wind still blowing as it was, our major concern was running aground. A palm tree lined white sand beach lay about a hundred yards to our starboard side, but a reef protruded about sixty yards out into the water in front of it.

The bottom of the channel is mud, so our anchor dragged a bit before it finally took hold – about thirty yards away from the reef. Once the anchor was secured the guys began to investigate our loss of power. The bilge was full of oil and the problem was not hard to figure out. There’d been an oil leak and the engine had at least partially seized. An engine does not recover from a seizure without professional help and a trip to the hospital.

The source of the leak was quickly determined. The fuel filter is shaped like a coffee can, with a gasket on the bottom end where it fits into the engine. When the old filter was removed, the gasket came off and stuck to the engine and then a new filter was attached on top of the old one. The two gaskets together didn’t form a seal, and all the oil went out into the bilge instead of into the engine. With no oil to lubricate the engine’s moving parts, friction increased and power decreased – quickly and dramatically.

If we were to continue with our trip as planned, our only hope was that the engine had only seized partially, and that by replacing the oil we might be able get it moving again. The engine was too hot to work on so we snacked on cheese and crackers in the cockpit and discussed the possibilities while we waited for it to cool down. A military boat came by to tell us we couldn’t anchor in the channel (duh!) but didn’t offer to help us move when we told them of our problem. We were just outside of the buoys, which meant we weren’t right out in the center of traffic, but close enough to get pounded by the wakes of the big boats that were passing through.

About an hour later the engine was cool enough to work on and we threw all our extra oil at it. We turned the starter and it made a terrible screeching noise, but the engine at least had some life left. The guys added some more oil to the air intake and turned the main house bank breaker over to the engine to give the starter some more cranking power. We tried the starter again. It still sounded like it was going to hack up a lung. Perky was in bad shape. We radioed the marina to call for a tow, but were told the tow guys were busy and we’d have to wait for help.

Just as the floorboards were about to go back down, Andrew ran up to the cockpit and said, “I’m just going to give it one last try.” Peering down the companionway, Andrew turned the key while John and Luke watched the engine from the galley. It chugged and heaved (“I think I can, I think I can!”) and sounded like it might break free. Our eyes flew open and locked with each other in a wide-eyed gaze of surprise and anticipation. Finally, the engine caught and Perky was humming again. Andrew let go of the key and threw his fists up in a triumphant V. Victory!

We let her run for a while to make sure she wasn’t going to die on us before we hauled the anchor. Perky sounded great and seemed to have made a full recovery. All our extra oil had been used in bringing her back to life and we knew we might need more during our passage, so we decided to go back to the marina to pick some up. Motoring back to the dock posed no problem and we were relieved that we’d be able to continue the trip as planned.

Twenty minutes later we were motoring back out into the channel when we lost power again, and in the exact same place. Again we threw out our anchor but this time it took longer to hold. We dragged closer and closer to the reef, while I pumped furiously at our inflatable dinghy and the guys got the outboard motor out of the lazarette. We radioed for help. There was no time for talking as we all rushed to take the necessary steps to ensure our boat didn’t get smashed on the reef.

El Tiburon stopped drifting about a boat length away from the waves breaking on the reef – much too close for comfort. Rick and Marsha from She Wolf heard our call for help on the radio and arrived in their dinghy just as we were getting ours into the water. With a bow line and a stern line, we tied the dinghies to either side of El Tiburon at midships. Instructions were yelled back and forth for immediacy and also in order to be heard over the wind. When both dinghies were secured, they revved their engines at the same time. Relief washed over us as the distance between El Tiburon and the reef increased. Slowly we moved back to the marina and to safety, and eased into the closest available slip under dinghy power alone.

Later inspection of the engine would prove that the damage was terminal. Holding a stethoscope against the oil pan revealed a loud rattling noise that indicated the bearings were toast, and the oil filter was full of sparkly little metal flakes (pieces that had been scraped off the engine parts during that terrible screeching noise). Perky would have to be rebuilt or replaced. We wouldn’t be going to Grand Cayman anytime soon.

Transiting the Panama Canal

At 5AM on February 14^th, everyone aboard El Tiburon was awake and excited. John’s parents, Vince and Margie, arrived with their luggage in tow, planning to get in a cab and make a flight home just as soon as we tied up on the Caribbean side of Panama. Our line-handler, Ricardo, arrived with his shoulders laden with yards and yards of rope for us to use during our transit. It was still dark out as we motored out of marina Flamenco and over to buoy #3 outside the entrance to the canal. We watched the sunrise and drank Pete’s coffee as we waited for our canal advisor to arrive. Soon a tugboat with a black rubber rim approached us and nuzzled up to our stern. Our canal advisor, Julio, hopped aboard and we headed over towards the Bridge of the Americas, which marks the entrance to the canal.

Vince at the helm passing under the Bridge of the Americas

Transiting the Panama Canal is serious business. One must follow all the requisite procedures and be punctual for all appointments in order to pass through, and no guarantees can be made about whether it will take you one day or two to get to the Caribbean. Big ships transiting the canal pay from $100,000 to $400,000 or more to transit, whereas it only costs a few thousand for a sailing yacht. As a result, getting sailboats through the canal is not top priority for the Canal Authority – tankers come first. As far as I know sailboats never go through the locks alone. They will usually go through with a big ship that is not quite as long as the length of each lock, so there is room for a sailboat to fit in there with it. Before we went through Miraflores locks we had to wait for our buddy ship to arrive and pass us, then we ducked into line behind it.

We had to wait here for our buddy ship

Slowly the tanker in front of us pulled into the narrow lock while a tugboat pushed on its stern to help it get in straight. It moved very slowly and nudged up close to the forward gate of the lock.

Once the tanker was secured with lines, the tugboat tied up to the side of the lock behind the tanker and waited for us.

We motored up to the tugboat and threw them our lines: a bow line, a stern line, and one amidships. Our port and starboard beams were heavy with big white fenders to protect our hull from damage. Once we were secured alongside the tugboat, an alarm sounded and the powerful steel gates behind us began to close.

Slowly the water level began to rise. In ten minutes the concrete walls had disappeared and we were level with the ground.

When the front gate opened, the tanker started its engine and began to move forward into the next lock.

This was the scariest part of transiting the canal. We were in a narrow concrete channel and caught in the prop wash of a huge ship. The tugboat threw back our lines and moved ahead, resuming the same position behind the tanker in the next lock. Somehow John managed to keep control of El Tiburon and we reached the tugboat safely. We repeated the process, this time in front of the observation building we had visited just a few days earlier.

We watched a ship pass through the canal from this observatory just a few days earlier

After the first few locks we motored through a narrow channel on our way towards Gatun Lake. Margie and I made lunch for the crew: pan-seared Dorado (we’d caught it on our way into Panama Bay), rice and steamed broccoli. We were trying to make good time while we motored, because we had to make our appointment to transit the Gatun locks on the other side of the lake. Our transit time had been calculated based on a speed of 5 1/2 knots so we were watching our knot meter and aiming for 6kts. But disappointingly, Julio got a call from the canal authority during lunch and they told us there was too much traffic coming from the Caribbean so they were going to close Gatun locks to northbound traffic until morning. We would have to spend the night in the lake. I went down below and made some chocolate chip cookies that I hoped would cheer everyone up.

Untouched jungle covered the islands and the shore surrounding us in Gatun lake, and a nice stiff wind rippled over the water. Another call from the canal authority was cause for some hope. If we could make it to Gatun locks by the time the last ship was ready to leave, then we could go through with them. We hoisted our sails flew across the water at 7 ½ - 8 knots, close to record speed for us. How nice it was to sail on a lake! There was no swell or chop to distract us from our objective, and our enthusiasm had been rekindled.

John at the helm sailing on Gatun lake

Ricardo and Julio monitoring our speed

As we approached the locks we were required to turn into the wind and our forward progress was seriously impeded. From a distance we watched our buddy ship approach the lock as we labored at four knots to catch up. We were encouraged to remember that it takes a long time to position such a large tanker in the narrow lock. Very slowly the ship moved forward into the necessary position and we got closer and closer. At about ten minutes away we were sure we would make it and were already rejoicing at the accomplishment of completing the canal in one day. But then Julio got another call. The lines on the tanker were secured and the gates were ready to close. We would not be able to go through with the tanker, even though we were only a few minutes away. The Panama Canal waits for no man.

This is how close we came to making it through the canal in one day

We made a 90 degree turn and headed for some mooring balls near the shore. A canal boat came to pick up Julio, but the rest of us weren’t allowed to leave the boat, except to jump into the water for a swim. However, even that was discouraged due to the presence of a large male crocodile known to hang out in those waters. John jumped in for a dip anyway.

We had roasted chicken with coleslaw and rice for dinner, then settled into our beds and went to sleep. A new advisor was delivered to us in the morning and we made it through Gatun lock without a hitch.

Going through Gatun locks and our first glimpse of the Caribbean

After exiting the canal we motored into Shelter Bay Marina, on the other side of the canal from Colon, to fill up our water tanks and rest for a few days before we would set sail for Grand Cayman.

Panama!

We crossed the Costa Rica/Panama border during daylight and we knew it because there was a very clear landmark: deforestation. The lush rainforest in Costa Rica ended abruptly at the Panama border, leaving no question about where we were. We kept sailing and arrived in Panama City during the night. The lights across the skyline suggested that Panama City was huge, stretching across the length the northern shore of the bay of Panama.

For some reason I was particularly awake that night so I told John to go back to sleep when he came to relieve me of my watch. I turned up my iPod and held my own private midnight dance party on deck, pausing in between songs to examine our surroundings with the binoculars and look for navigational beacons. I was scanning the horizon when I noticed that the lights of the city were clumped together in neat bundles, with distinct lines of black unlit skyline separating them. These lights weren’t those of Panama City, they were ships! Hundreds of ships gathered near the shore, waiting their turn to transit the canal.

A few hours later it was all hands on deck as we navigated through the shipping anchorage. Massive tankers with their decks lit up loomed above us like sleeping giants as we glided past them in the night. Over forty ships were crowded together on the screen of our AIS. Finally we slipped into the fuel dock at Isla Flamenco marina and went to bed around 3AM.

In the morning it became clear we were in the most developed country in Central America. This place was hustling and bustling. The marina was full of expensive powerboats, and workers were everywhere cleaning the boats, repairing them, or just lounging around on them blasting club music. In the daylight, the skyline of Panama City was impressive. It looked like Manhattan!

John’s parents, Vince and Margie, came down to visit and transit the canal with us. We met up with them at the coffee shop in the marina and Kitty and Margie fell in love. Later our day Tina, our agent, set us up with a driver to take us on a tour of the city. Our driver, Mario, took us to the Miraflores Lock in the Panama Canal so we could watch a ship going through.

Looking toward the Pacific from Miraflores Lock.

A ship coming south, from the Atlantic towards the Pacific.

Then we toured the French Quarter and saw the Palace of the President. It was a charming area of town, with interesting architecture that reminded me of the French Quarter in New Orleans.

To get to the French Quarter, however, we had to drive through the ghetto. It was quite dilapidated and seedy and apparently exceedingly dangerous. All taxi drivers we had while we were there told us to lock our doors and they drove like wildmen through the narrow streets, stopping for nothing and nobody. Mario, our driver, was a nice man who was a Seventh Day Adventist and told us all about what his life was like living in the ghetto. The drug dealers leave him alone because he is religious, and they call him “the pastor,” but he does his best to stay out of their business. His life depends on it.

Mario took his job as tour guide very seriously. He took us to his friend’s pizza restaurant for dinner. It was a family place with delicious Italian food and it was super cheap. Dinner for seven people came out to around $50. The only oddity about the place was that there was a security guard out front that we tipped as we left for ensuring us a safe dining experience.

Mario kept wanting to show us more and more of Panama City, even though it was getting later and later. He drove us around downtown, through the wealthy sections of town, and by the new Trump hotel whose architecture was inspired by sailboats. While the city skyline was impressive during the day, at night it was downright eerie. One would expect the buildings to be lit up like they are in US cities, but they were mostly dark. Some skyscrapers were completely unlit, indicating their vacancy, while others had lights on in only a small fraction of the rooms. When Mario insisted on finding us an ice cream shop even though we were nodding off in the car, we finally had to vehemently tell him to take us back to the marina as we were all exhausted.

We found ways to amuse ourselves while we waited for our canal transit date to be determined. One day I took a sojourn to Albrook mall and was blown away by its immensity. It was enormous! The biggest mall I’ve ever been in, bigger even the Mall of America in Minneapolis, I think. It was filled with people and everything was so cheap! After months of living on a boat in under-developed countries, the consumerism was an incredible culture shock. I spent about $20 and came home with a new boat wardrobe.

Finally we found out we’d be transiting the Panama Canal on February 14^th, Valentine’s Day.

El Golfo Dulce

Our next stop was Bahia Ballena, a beautiful bay with a little fishing community on the east-facing side of the Nicoya Peninsula. We spent two nights at anchor there, enjoying the internet access and blended fruit drinks at the yacht club. John took the long board out and caught a few waves, even though it's not an ideal surf spot. After two nights at anchor we headed south for Quepos, where we hoped to clear out of the country.

Bird-covered tuna boat off the coast of Costa Rica.

We got to Marina Pez Vela in Quepos around 8PM and although we’d tried calling them by phone earlier in the day, and again by VHF as we approached, nobody had answered the phone or the radio. Two security guards met us at the fuel dock and told us we may not be able to stay in the marina because we didn’t have a reservation, even though the place was mostly empty. Twenty minutes of deliberation and phone calls to superiors – spoken in both Spanish and English – concluded with the definitive verdict that we had to leave the marina. It was dark out and had started to rain. This was the first time we encountered a situation like this and we’ve come into a number of marinas during the night or after marina office hours. The marina manager, Perry, was extremely rude, unhelpful, and condescending. It was a miserable experience. That night we headed straight for the Osa peninsula planning to check out of Costa Rica in Golfito. After such inhospitality in Quepos, we didn’t feel they deserved any of our business.

It was just as well because our experience in Golfito was wonderful. The Osa peninsula is the most untouched part of Costa Rica. Everywhere you look, the dense and verdant rainforest cascades over the hills to meet the emerald waters of the Golfo Dulce. From the boat we could hear the roar of the jungle: a vibrant medley of cicadas, birds and howler monkeys.

Cabo Matapalo

Golfito itself is a slightly run-down town shaped like a green bean that lies along the northern shore of the Gulfo Dulce. The marina consisted of a funky wooden house built on stilts over the water and a tiny dock with room for one big boat and a few dinghies to tie up. We left El Tiburon at anchor and dinghied over to the “yacht club.”

Marina in Golfito

The owners had about five dogs that Kitty made fast friends with. They all seemed to get along well except for a miniature pincher with a spiked collar named Vinny, who would emit a low rumbling sound whenever Kitty got too close to him. The atmosphere at Land Sea Marina was relaxed and friendly. Cruisers could help themselves to a book and a beverage and settle into one of the padded chairs in the outdoor living/dining room of the club, maybe with a dog at their feet or on their lap. The exchange library and beverage cooler were regulated by the honor system, and the temperature under the thatched roof was always perfect.

One night there was a potluck dinner party in the yacht club, and all six dogs were running around sniffing and begging for scraps of fish taco and bacon wrapped figs. Just as one of the party guests was commenting on how well the dogs were getting along, Kitty and the big male boxer named Riley got into a tussle. There was a struggle with snarling and scuffling and I shouted commandingly for the dogs to stop. Kitty is a docile creature who I've never seen manifest a shred of aggression, so I was frightened about what might become of her in the grip of this unfamiliar muscular boxer.

Soon the brawl came to an abrupt halt. Kitty loomed calmly over the boxer with her paw placed rigidly on his cheek, pressing his head firmly to the floor. The dogs held their positions for a few seconds, as if waiting for an inaudible count of three to call the pin. Only then did Kitty release her hold on Riley. He scampered off to the other side of the deck, crawled up on the bench next to his owner and somehow managed to nestle all his bulk into her lap. I examined Kitty for damage but aside from some saliva on the ruff of fur around her neck, she was fine. I was so proud.

Don't mess with Kitty.

We stayed in Golfito for a few days, made a trip to some of the nearby surf spots and took care of our exit paperwork. With our zarpe in hand, we set sail for a four-day passage to Panama City, Panama.

Costa Rica

When we arrived at Ollie’s Point, in the remote Santa Rosa national park, there were a few other boats there with surfers in the water. After some deliberation we decided to anchor in the bay overnight and in the morning we had the surf break all to ourselves. I took the paddleboard ashore and walked the length of the deserted beach. It was extraordinary.

After the morning surf session we weighed anchor and sailed across the gulf of Papagayo for Marina Papagayo. As we approached the arid, sparsely settled gulf, a large three-masted ship was the most notable feature of the shore. At first we thought it was the Maltese Falcon, but as we got closer we saw that it was the Eos. The Eos belongs to Barry Diller and Diane Von Furstenberg and is the world’s largest private sailing yacht if you’re talking about length over all. The Maltese Falcon, owned by Tom Perkins, is the largest private sailing yacht if you don't include the bowsprit. The Eos was enormous and made the mega yacht behind it, the Utopia (one of America's largest motor yachts) look somewhat dinky.

The next day we drove up the steep and bumpy unpaved road to the Monteverde/Santa Elena cloud forest reserve. At Selvaturas we walked across the “tree top walkway,” a series of eight suspension bridges hanging high about the jungle floor. It was a rare cloudless day in the cloud forest, so the visibility was great although we didn’t see any rainforest creatures besides a few birds and insects. Later in the hummingbird garden we saw some tourists feeding a Coati, a raccoon-like creature with a pointy nose and long tail it used for balance. It was very pushy about getting its meal, and even began to root around in the tourist’s backpack looking for more goodies.

The best part was the butterfly garden, a large greenhouse filled with thousands of colorful butterflies fluttering all over and landing on our shoulders. All the chrysalises were collected and pinned up in a box. We watched as butterflies escaped their cocoons, then waited for their wrinkly wet wings to dry and flapped to speed up the process.

Later that night we saw some of the beautiful endemic rainforest frogs at the ranarium.

When we got back to the marina the clear water was filled with these crazy looking jellies:

They were stuck to each other in these long cords, but each little bulb was its own creature.

They were absolutely everywhere and causing trouble for the bigger boats because they were clogging up the intake valves on their air-conditioners. Mysteriously, the next day they were all gone.

We left Marina Papagayo and headed for the Osa peninsula, the most remote and untouched part of Costa Rica.

Nicaragua

The trip to Nicaragua was both scenic and eventful. The distant coast was littered with active volcanoes that could be seen smoking in the distance, and the beaches were lined with palm trees and interesting rock formations.

Smoking volcano

Cave near a surf break

And everyone rushed to the stern of the boat when we caught a new species on our fishing line. Every fish we’ve reeled in so far has been caught on one lure. A sparkly green faux squid has brought us Big Eye Tuna, Mahi Mahi, and Sailfish, as well as a Barracuda and countless Jacks. On our way to Nicaragua it caught us a bird! Like all the rest of El Tiburon’s victims, an unsuspecting sea bird was duped by our squid decoy, went in for a meal and came out with a mouth full of metal.

This poor bird had the hook caught right in the center of his upper mandible. As we reeled him in he got a gullet full of water and we thought for sure he’d be drowned, but the creature was alive and flapping when we got him on board. He was remarkably calm while the guys extracted the hook from his beak, and seemed to comprehend that we meant to help him. The bird was a little stunned, but appeared to make it through the operation with a high probability for a full recovery.

He sat in the water for awhile, then flew away.

We’d chosen marina Puesta del Sol as our entry point in Nicaragua. It lay in a secluded lagoon near Chinandega and housed only a handful of boats, two of which belonged to the marina’s owner. The marina had an infinity pool and a waterfront palapa café with luscious batidos (blended fruit drinks). But the best part was that there were two unoccupied surf breaks right at the mouth of the lagoon. It was probably the nicest place we’d stayed in so far, particularly because we had it practically all to ourselves.

The marina.

Palapa cafe.

The pool with El Tiburon in the background.

As lovely as Puesta del Sol was, one particularly unpleasant event happened there.

On our last night in Puesta del Sol, Kitty disappeared for about fifteen minutes. I ran all over the marina calling for her, clapping, and whistling, wondering why she would have ran off and where she could possibly have gone. No one was around, it was pitch black out, and the only light was from my headlamp. All of a sudden I heard something running towards me on the dock, badump badump badump badump, but my headlamp caught only its retinas as it barreled towards me. After a few seconds I realized it was my dog but she was covered in dirt and smelled like burnt fecal matter. What happened to her was a complete mystery, but it was obvious that she needed a bath. Andrew and John helped me give her a late night dock shower but the pungent odor refused to dissipate.

The security guard came by and told us she’d had a run in with a “zorro mion,” which means “spraying fox.” She didn’t smell like a skunk but she definitely smelled like she’d been sprayed by something. Kitty slept in the cockpit that night and was given another bath in the morning, but this time with vinegar and Dawn dish soap. She smelled terrible for at least a week afterwards.

We checked out of Nicaragua from the same marina and headed south across the Gulf of Fonseca (keeping an eye out for Honduran pirates) towards Costa Rica. Our destination was the remote Parque National Santa Rosa where the famous surf break Ollie's Point is accessible only by boat (or maybe by seaplane too, but not by car).