The Art of Stealing Your Own Boat, Conclusion: Pandemic Panama
Pandemic-era Panama is unknown territory, a brave new world. The entrance to Flamenco Marina doesn’t even look the same.
Eighteen months ago, when SV Hanalei received port clearance to Ecuador, there was no cruise ship terminal. Technically, there still isn’t, but it won’t be long. Half-constructed buildings have appeared at the marina entrance, an optimistic view of the industry’s future. Now a breakwater extension juts far into the Bay of Panama, as if to assure passengers of smooth sailing.
The problem with its planning is clear. Someone forgot to take into account Panama’s five-meter tidal range.
It’ll take more than a breakwater to reassure me that we’re safe, especially a breakwater that disappears at high tide.
Panama cruise ship terminal’s new breakwater…
… which disappears at high tide!
Looking Up
Once James has docklines and fenders ready, I radio for permission to enter.
“Do you have a reservation?” comes the reply.
“Yes.” Thank you, Stephan, ace home base support. “I’m clearing in from a foreign port.”
Immigration and the Panama Maritime Authority have satellite offices here, so it’s a short walk to clear in. If I can clear in.
A minute passes before he answers. “Do you have a negative COVID test from your last port?”
That’s not the question I’ve been dreading. Think fast. “From the U.S. They’re less than a week old and we’ve just spent five days at sea.” I try to be matter-of-fact, but it comes out needy. Please don’t reject us.
I imagine SV Hanalei sailing from port to port, refused entry like a freighter full of toxic waste or a cruise ship with COVID aboard. We will definitely need more food and water.
“Okay.”
Okay? Just like that? I get the impression he doesn’t care about the COVID test as long as I can tick the box. Things are looking up.
The dockmaster sends us to a finger pier and two masked dockhands dinghy across the fairway to catch our lines. From now on, masks and social distancing will be the rule. I’m already nostalgic about five maskless days on passage. James and I put ours on, too.
There’s not much time. The offices close at three and it’s already two. I scoop up our papers, leave James to tie up, and step away from the boat.
Twenty-foot pylons attest to Panama’s tidal range.
“Things are looking up.”
Perhaps I imagined the pelican looking down on a clumsy human.
I step away a little too fast. One slip later I’m on the dock, looking up at barnacle-encrusted twenty-foot pylons.
I blame my instability on mal de debarquement. That’s French for I don’t have my land legs yet.
What was a packed marina last year is about half-full now, mostly power boats in sport fishing charters. A new marina opened near the city last year. Most upscale yachts have moved but a few 80-foot Fatboyz stayed, guarding either side of a torn-up dock.
Flamenco Fatboyz sitting out the pandemic in style.
I slip two more times speedwalking to the ramp, which forms an acute angle to the office. I’ve filled my day’s quota of slippery slopes. I jettison my flip-flops to save my dignity, if hauling myself hand over handrail walking sideways counts as dignified.
The sport fishing charter fleet dominates here.
Flamenco Marina dock and ramp. Panama
Check-ins take place upstairs in a buff-colored building that has so far served as a port of entry. Downstairs, there’s an ATM, souvenir shop and a fancy restaurant. Despite pandemic adjustments like fever-detecting devices at its entry and scannable menus, the restaurant is nearly empty. Masked employees wave as I pass. I think they’re smiling.
No Papers? No Problem!
Business is slow up at Immigration. It’s hot. I’m hot. And we have a problem.
Two officials have had our passports for an hour. Something’s wrong with the computer and they can’t locate a supervisor.
I pass the time examining school pictures of somebody’s children, grinning broadly in the days before COVID. They’ve looked over our passports three times without a peep about our missing exit stamps. This confirms my belief that as long as you arrive legally, nobody cares how you left the last place. They cover their own posteriors, not some foreign civil servant’s.
A pleasant clerk suggests I come back after a long weekend. There’s no hurry, is there?
Actually, there is.
“As long as you arrive legally, nobody cares how you left the last place. ”
James has an early morning flight the next day. I know for sure that airport Immigration won’t give him an exit stamp unless his passport shows his entry. (See? I’m a responsible captain. Remember how I checked into Ecuador? How I managed to give the Customs agent the wrong paperwork AND an excuse to extort money?)
Everyone is understanding, even accommodating. Our passports are finally stamped.
Further complicating the situation, the Panama Maritime Authority, who has to clear us in, has already left for the day. A series of phone calls takes place, culminating in the official’s eventual appearance. He is not pleased to be called back to work.
I smile obsequiously, thank him for coming in. I don’t mean it. My brief stint as a criminal has hardened me.
“Registration?” He wants to make short work of this.
I hand over my boat papers like it’s a police stop. Step away from the boat.
Not so fast this time.
“Next port?”
I have barely considered what to do if Panama says no. Costa Rica? Mexico? Hawaii? Who knows which countries will be open?
I shrug. “Don’t know yet.”
He writes something without looking up. “Zarpe?”
Showtime
Showtime.
I shake my head with great feigned sadness. “Pandémia.”
He drops his forehead into his hands as if to say. Pandemic? My thirteen-year-old could do better.
No zarpe. I turn my hands up in a gesture of beseeching. What can I say? It’s touched all of us.
What if he informs Ecuador? Do they have extradition? I can’t be the first captain placed in an untenable position by the pandemic. Officials all over the world must be deciding entry policy on the fly, everyone making it up as we go.
The man looks heavenward and sighs. “If a policeman stops you….”
Here it comes. Tuning out now.
“…? No, you must produce the documents….”
His epic mansplain continues. It wonder if he’ll ask for money, then riff to checking into Panama almost two years ago. That cost hundreds of dollars, thanks to the old double-overtime-since-government-is-closed-because-the-Pope-is-visiting trick. What is with officials sticking it to visiting boats? It feels like punishment for being foreign, not knowing the law. I’m glad I reported the rogue Ecuadorean Customs agent. They have no right to make their own rules.
Pretty hypocritical, coming from someone who took the law into her own hands, right? I did leave illegally. I’ll own that behavior. Now I’ll see if there are consequences. In my defense, I don’t think I hurt anyone.
No one innocent, anyway.
What’s happening to the friendly global citizen I aspire to be? My cruising ethics bar has definitely lowered. Where last week it was Don’t get anyone in trouble, today it’s try not to be a worse asshole than you already are.
“…responsibility…”
Be respectful, Christine. You really aren’t above the law. But after a lifetime of entitlement, I have trouble believing my own words.
“…make an exception.…”
Wait, what’s that? An exception? I’m back.
He hands me a paper to sign in triplicate. As long as it’s not a confession, I’ll sign anything.
Stamp. Stamp. Done.
I thank him profusely, genuinely. I’ve gotten off with a lecture. All that remains is to check into the marina.
Flamenco is described as a high-end resort complex. Mostly it’s expensive, $2.00 per foot per night with no pandemic discounts. It’s secure though, and employees comply with pandémia rules: everyone wears masks. The office has position lines on the floor to demarcate social distance. Negative COVID tests results are required before check-in. If you arrive without one, it means a trip to a private clinic for a test.
A lot of money later, SV Hanalei is really, truly safe.
Right?
Panama welcome sign, Flamenco Marina.
Please don’t follow my example. There has to be an easier way.
Fair winds,
Christine
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Cruising in the Time of Covid-19. What does it mean to you?
