Four days before our own crossing, completely wide-eyed and excited for our educational trial-by-fire transit through the canals, Eric, Bryce and myself jumped aboard s/v Taopao around 12:30 in the afternoon for a two-day, one-night voyage through the Gatun and Pedro Miguel/Miraflores locks of the Panama Canal. Captain Bill Broyles was calm.

He motored Taopao out of Shelter Bay Marina to anchor behind a large yellow buoy to await the advisor’s arrival along with the two other boats who would be traveling through the canal with us. Eventually, just before entering the two sets of three locks, we’d all raft tightly together, advancing and stopping as one unit inside the locks.

In addition to our family of three volunteer line-handlers, Captain Bill hired a professional line handler to complete the required quartet. Santiago was a master at handling the lines having done it 63 prior times. With a calm demeanor and twinkle in his eye, he helped the three of us fasten the rented fenders into the best positions and arrange in unencumbered 4-foot long coils, the four hefty 150-foot, 7/8” rented blue polypropylene dock lines which he purposefully left unattached, stoppered by a 4-foot long bowline at one end. My eyebrows raised in surprise seeing such a large loop not imagining its use. I tried to tie-off the loose ends of the coils to the boat, but Santiago gently stopped me (our communication was hampered by the fact that he spoke a little English and I speak even less Spanish) and signaled to leave it unfastened; that it would be okay. I shrugged and followed his lead.

Two hours after hailing the authorities that Taopao was in requisite anchored position outside Shelter Bay, waiting as the wind increased in force – that wind having already dislodged the anchor of one of our buddy-boats from the seafloor, the advisors finally boarded the three pre-arranged sailboats. Our agent immediately directed Captain Bill to weigh anchor and motor toward the Gatun locks following our commercial ‘lock-buddy’ ship, aided rapidly forward by 25-knot tailwinds. As we passed beneath the massively tall bridge under construction, the advisor alerted us to prepare for rafting.

We watched as the fiberglass cutter from Australia rafted its starboard side up along the port side of the steel ketch from Iceland, the longest of the three monohulls. Once secure, we gently pulled our port side to the starboard side of the steel ketch, without much ado even with the heavy downwind impetus. I attribute this success to the veteran line handlers and advisors who were alert and skillful. Now rafted tightly together, the lead advisor in the middle boat communicated orders to all three captains: “More thrust to starboard, reverse hard, neutral!” etc. Between the wind, current, and prop surge from the forward ship and two large tugs with whom we’d share the next three locks, it was quite the rodeo keeping the three squirrely mono-hulls moving carefully forward as one raft. Yet, steadily, we made our way behind our very large lock-buddy ship, buffered by the two large tugs. As our raft moved into the lock, four dock handlers holding coils of long brown jute-like messenger lines with a heavy ball called a ‘monkey’s fist’ attached to the end, got in position, signaling their readiness for us line handlers to catch and attach.

As the starboard most vessel, we would have to catch the lock lines and eventually secure the starboard side of the raft. Santiago and I were in the starboard aft position, Eric and Bryce starboard forward. The lock line handlers use a special technique for throwing their messenger lines. You can see the large targets and overhead rails they use for practice.  Frustratingly, our forward lock handler had to throw his messenger line three times before the monkey fist arrived close enough for Bryce and Eric to catch (hmm – that dock handler didn’t play enough baseball when he was young!). Knowing that the aft attachments are the most important in stopping the forward motion of the raft against the strong aft winds, Captain Bill and I were relieved Santiago had secured it as the raft approached closer and closer to the tugboats. However, a loose bow could spell trouble for our port side sailboat buddy. Catching the third attempt, Eric quickly tied the messenger line with a bowline to the head of the heavy-duty dock line as Bryce rapidly fed it out. In short order, the lock handlers on the wall hooked the large blue polypropylene loops around gigantic bollards high above us. Eric and Bryce, Santiago and I, wasting no time, pulled-up the slack and secured our lines thus stabilizing the starboard side of the raft. Whew! That first time was mentally taxing since the three of us, Eric, Bryce and myself didn’t know what to expect. Even though Bill had volunteered a few days before, this was his first time as captain . . . never stress-free.

Shortly after, the massive hollow steel doors closed behind us. The surrounding lock waters began to rise requiring constant adjustment tightening the lines until the lock chamber was full and our raft reached its level. This exercise repeated two more times until we exited the last of the three elevating locks entering into Gatun Lake and unhooked from the other two boats. Already twilight, we zoomed over to the large plastic mooring, where we’d spend the night. It was fully dark by the time our three boats were settled down on moorings in Lake Gatun, one of the largest man-made bodies of water. The advisors on all three boats were soon after collected by a pilot boat. I heated up the pre-cooked dinner, served the meal and performed the galley clean-up. Exhausted, we all headed straight to bed in order to be perky for the next day’s adventures scheduled some time after 7 a.m. We would be required to motor full speed for 3 hours through Lake Gatun to the Pedro Miguel/Miraflores locks, re-raft with the other two monohulls, and instead of being brought up into the lake, we would be lowered into the Pacific. The Miraflores locks were reported by other sailors as the most difficult due to a strong surge and a venturi wind effect whistling through the canals.

The next day, following our crew’s sunrise breakfast, I prepared the advisor’s requisite hot egg breakfast for our second-day advisor, a different person from the day before. After jumping from the bow of the pilot boat which had taxied him to us and some quick introductions, we were off and motoring at a decent clip of 6 knots. In the lock chambers, instead of being in front of our raft as was the case coming up into the lake, our ‘lock-buddy’ ship would enter behind us. When getting ready to raft this time, instead of the three of us tying up in the channel as we’d done before, it was decided by the advisors that the most port boat of our raft would attach first to the wall just outside the lock, then the steel boat to him, and then us to the steel boat. This put the port boat in an unfavorable position, with a great possibility of being pushed into the cement wall. The heavy winds at our back turned this into an erratic operation. The middle steel boat approached its port neighbor too fast and the bows almost touched before the aft rafting lines were exchanged and secured. It was nerve-wracking to witness. Our turn also brought us in hot, even though Captain Bill was motoring in reverse. We came together with the sterns almost hitting. I quickly positioned myself to push us off the steel boat and fortunately two other line handlers were alert and stepped in – disaster was averted. As the excitement was occurring, I heard a few expletives shrieked behind me by the mentally stretched Captain Bill. Whew! That was close! Poor Captain Bill was drenched in perspiration!

With our raft secured and ‘lock-buddy’ ship approaching, the port boat cast off its wall lines. After much shouting and orders given, we entered the empty lock: Pedro Miguel. Once lowered to the next lock level, we exited without incident. The lead advisor skillfully guided our raft a few short miles to the Miraflores locks, the final two. Without another hitch, all three boats survived the 30-hour transit experience unscathed. Whoopee! It was a success.

Our volunteering adventure was not over. While we packed our day-bags and made sure not to leave anything behind, Bryce transferred our camera’s photo images to Captain Bill’s computer, a great souvenir for the gentle captain. Passing under the Bridge of the Americas in the dark, Eric, Bryce, and I along with Santiago, the 3 other line handlers from one of our partner boats, including all the rented dock lines and fenders from the two boats, were dispatched away by Balboa Yacht Club’s hired water taxi. The advisor remained on board, waiting for the pilot boat to fetch him. Once on the smaller wooden pedestrian dock and overpass, I soon realized I grabbed a bit too much gear along with my own backpack, not realizing how far I’d be carrying the load. Fortunately, most of my burdens were relieved by the other line handlers and I made it across the wharf and up to the top of the street without stumbling in the dim light. Once the rented gear was discharged behind a pick-up truck, Santiago directed us how to make our way back to Shelter Bay Marina by bus and taxi as per agreed with Captain Bill.

Getting home from the Balboa Yacht Club, having never done it before, was its own two-hour adventure. We eventually hailed a wonderful taxi to take us to the bus terminal. After a bit of a broken Spanish scramble in the terminal, we made our way to a local bus, leaving immediately for Colon. The driver motioned us aboard. With no empty seats, we exited the bus confused. However, while signaling us to re-enter, the driver handed us two cloth-covered buckets to serve as stools between the two rows of seats. Bryce sat on the floor.  With recorded Colombian salsa playing, we were off and running. An hour or so later, the bus dropped us three off at a stop where we could catch another taxi to Shelter Bay. We had been warned of the dangers of Colon, especially at night, especially for tourists, so we eagerly awaited the chance to hail a taxi. An older local woman, positioned herself ahead of us. Ten long minutes later, she hailed the first empty cab to pass by. She and the driver spoke, exchanging looks our way. She asked in English our destination and translated to the driver. She motioned us over to take this taxi, she’d catch the next one. We insisted she take it, as I guess she saw “target” written all over our faces. What a kind thing to do. After negotiating the price, we entered the almost working taxi, and were off…never mind that little of the car functioned. What was important was that the driver knew how to keep it running the 45 challenging minutes over windy, pot-holed, unlit, dirt roads. Feeling sorry for him, Eric paid him more than was agreed. We returned to Kandu tired but mentally prepared for our own future challenges.

By Leslie Dennis-Rigney with additions from Eric Rigney