A good landfall always puts a navigator in a fine humour.
THOMAS FLEMING DAY
Any landfall will do for me, after so much water.
CHARLES DICKENS
‘All’s well. The light on the shore on our port beam is clear and bright.’
‘Light? Can’t be! There’s no light on this coast of Tobago!’
It was 2300. I had come up to take over the watch from Peter and was still basking in the feel-good factor. This happy state of mind was suddenly shattered. He was right, there being no gainsaying the evidence before our eyes. Embedded in the blackness of the shoreline there was a flash of light every ten seconds; it had to be a lighthouse, an indisputable fact I had to accept, despite a last ditch, forlorn attempt to convince myself it was a bright light in someone’s bathroom, frequent users of the facilities raising and lowering the blind. The chart showed no light of any kind on the northwest facing coast of Tobago Island. I had been so confident earlier on in the day and now I had lost all that certainty. Peter wasn’t saying anything, and whether this was because he still had faith in his navigator, or was coming to terms with the revelation of the fact that that same navigator had feet of clay, was not clear. Up till this moment it had seemed that fortune had for us been certainly favouring the brave. During the afternoon, when we had been approaching the land, it had been obscured by sea mist, which had then lifted for half an hour to give us a glimpse of the top of Tobago, or what we thought was that island. Visibility had then reduced again, but we had seen what we wanted to see: land!
I reworked my sights and could find no error. A possibility perhaps was that the light had been installed after we had left Plymouth, or alternatively the chart was incorrect. However, to attribute a navigational uncertainty to a chart imperfection is not generally considered a good idea. We decided to play for time, reducing sail to the number 2 jib, and await daylight. Hopefully then the visible topography and land contours shown on the chart would confirm that what we thought was Tobago was in fact Tobago. A casting vote could be expected from the Pilot, with its general description of the coast and sketches of the land as seen from seaward. We had settled for going down the west-facing coast that night, this being the leeward side of the island, but this action was to add to our woes. As the log complains, we ‘ran into an area of much confused sea with short, breaking waves, caused no doubt by the strong currents, throwing the boat about in a most infuriating manner’.
It was, as I confided to my journal, ‘a thoughtful, uncomfortable and worried night’, but at daybreak the fears of the night vanished, it being evident we were undoubtedly off Tobago, the shape of the land fitting the chart contours and also agreeing with what the Pilot had to say. My sights had been correct after all. The sense of relief that flowed over me was palpable. Of course, amongst the first things I did on arrival in Port of Spain was to check on that ‘wretched light’, and sure enough it had only recently been installed. Suddenly all was well again with the world and we ‘had a grand sail down but looks like an early morning arrival at Port of Spain’.
There were some delightful, inviting-looking spots along the shoreline of Tobago, with very much a ring of Harry Belafonte about it all.
It was tempting to consider indulging ourselves, anchoring for a night or two of relaxation in a palm-fringed bay with a jungle backdrop. The island was not at that time suffering from being a tourist attraction but did have one or two claims to fame. One was that it had provided a background setting relating to Defoe’s great story, so much so that it was known widely as Robinson Crusoe’s Island, rather than its official name on maps and on our chart. Presumably Chile would have other views on the subject, they having changed the name of one of their islands also to that of the same gentleman. The other point of interest, attracting international attention, was that the island, whatever its name, had become a holiday retreat for Princess Margaret. To help her enjoy more fully her stay, there had been in attendance, it was reported, a young male companion, something which had not been overlooked by the media. We were disappointed not to have seen them as we sailed by close inshore.
Trinidad Island, lying off the north coast of Venezuela, is separated from the mainland of South America by the Gulf of Paria, in the northeastern corner of which is tucked Port of Spain, the capital. Guarding the northern entrance to the gulf is the imaginatively named Dragon’s Mouth, so called perhaps because within its jaws are several boldly outlined islands and rocks which could be construed as teeth. For us the dragon was sleeping as we ventured between its fangs, the wind dying and the sea calm in the dark of the night. Falling back on the engine we headed over the billiard table smoothness of the inky water in the direction of where we knew lay the town. No lights were to be seen and the land was invisible. It thus came as a shock to find suddenly, close under our bows, a large open boat containing several agitated men. Much shouting ensued as they scraped down our side to pass clear astern and be lost to view in the pitch black of the night, still positively registering their alarm. It had been a shared experience, not only with Peter and I joining in the chorus with our own contribution to the shouting, but possibly with common guilt over neither of us displaying any lights. It would seem in both cases that slavish adherence to the International Collision Regulations was not at the top of the agenda.
0500 Anchored in Port of Spain harbour in 2½ fathoms off the customs shed in company with a handful of trading schooners, all silent as graves.
Everywhere was totally still, this being broken only by the sound of our anchor cable rattling ou, the absolute silence of the night settling over us again. We sank into our bunks, comfortable with the thought we had put the Atlantic behind us. It felt good.
The long, deep sleep-in, which we had been looking forward to enjoying and which we felt we had earned, was to be short-lived. After what seemed only a matter of minutes under the covers we were rudely woken by a heavy bump alongside and a loud voice demanding our attention. ‘Tern II!’ The port authority had arrived. Selecting a spot for anchoring adjacent to the customs shed would appear to have been an error of judgement.
Our visitors wanted to know in some detail our movements to date and where we planned to go next. It was evident that wandering small-boat sailors were of some interest to the authorities, yachts arriving from overseas being so infrequent, particularly from across the Atlantic. ‘Last port of call?’ On being told this had been Las Palmas the next question was not unexpected. ‘May we see your clearance from there, please?’ They took some convincing that the port administration in the Canaries was not as tidy as their own, in that such details were not considered of any great moment. It was then pointed out that even if this were the case I should have known better. After delivering their stern admonition they were friendly and helpful. Included was a strong recommendation that on our way to the Canal Zone we went nowhere near Venezuela, keeping that coast, from the time we cleared Golfo de Paria, below the horizon at all times. Piracy was rampant, particularly directed at small craft, and we were regaled with disturbing accounts of boatloads of armed men intercepting boats along the coast, ransacking them and murdering the crews. No one would ever know what had happened to us, should this be our fate.
Shortly after this interlude there was another bump and customs were on board, we having scrambled up Flag Papa in the meantime. Their visit was short and to the point, leaving us free to do what we wished, having gathered from them that there was no security risk in leaving the boat lying unattended at anchor whilst we went ashore. This was after all, as they said stiffly, a British-administered port. The contrast with our last stopover experience was strikingly apparent.
On stepping ashore into the thronged streets we were immediately aware of the ethnic mix that made up the lifeblood of Port of Spain. We were also made forcibly aware of the overarching poverty. We could not move without a throng around us of louts and touts, all clamouring with loud voices for our attention and a share of the money which they assumed was in our pockets. Wherever we went our followers were there, waiting for us to emerge from each stop we made, whether it be at the bank for money and to collect our mail or the barber’s shop for a badly needed shearing. We stopped off for lunch, and when we came out the throng had not moved; if anything it had multiplied. We gave in, handing a two dollar US note to a very black and very muscular young man. It had an immediate effect. ‘Mah name, man, is Johnson and ah will take care of this trash.’ And he did, making it clear in language which they understood, but with which we had difficulty, that any money that could be expected from us was now in his pocket. The crowd melted away. To do Johnson credit he stayed with us until we went back to the dinghy to return on board. He demanded no more money and seemed happy just to keep us company with that enormous, white-toothed grin, maintaining constant chatter. In staying with us I think he knew what was coming. The dinghy was not where we had left it and was now a few yards along the jetty. With it was an individual, of West African origin, who indicated he had saved it from certain destruction. It had, he informed us in graphic detail, been on the verge of being crushed by an island trading vessel berthing alongside with no regard for our boat. However, its saviour had just in the nick of time moved it out of the way. He gave us the impression that a thank you on our part in the form of some cash would not be inappropriate. Johnson took care of the situation in a few seconds flat; then, patting us on the shoulder, he disappeared.
An integral feature of Trinidad’s history, and so evident in its mix of society today, is slavery. No one really knows the full extent of the Caribbean slave trade and how many West Africans were to fall victim to it. Estimates vary widely between 30 and 50 million over the centuries, dating from 1498 when Columbus claimed Trinidad for Spain, triggering the interest in the West Indies by the Europeans and the development of the vastly lucrative sugar plantations. The insatiable demand for low-cost, virtually no-cost, labour to work these plantations continued until the early 19th century when the introduction of sugar beet in Europe changed the scene entirely. The bottom falling out of plantation profitability saw the resultant fall off in demand for slave labour, the seeds being sown for a natural wind-down in the slave trade. Well-intentioned souls in Britain hastened the process, with the axe falling on slavery in 1838.
Commercial pressures being what they are, it is arguable that Wilberforce and the like would have faced almost impossible odds in winning their cause if profits from growing sugar had remained at their peak. The newly emancipated slaves left the plantations in droves, and their replacements, in the form of indentured labour, recruited from elsewhere, added to the racial mix. This had originated when Indian tribes migrated to the West Indies from South America, to be followed in turn by Spanish, French and finally British colonists after seizure of the island by Britain in 1797. Sir Walter Raleigh, that archetypal colonist, would have been delighted, it being 200 years since he had visited the island and laid waste to the Spanish colony. Over the intervening period Trinidad has become progressively more multicultural, bringing remarkable colour and richness to its existence, all brought about by change from a plantation-based economy to one dependent on oil and latterly tourism. The change has seen East Indians supplanting African labour, with Chinese workers arriving, to be followed by migrants from the Americas, Europe and elsewhere. This hotchpotch was all round us as we walked the crowded streets.
Music is at the centre of life in the Caribbean, and nowhere more so than in Trinidad. Here was invented in the slavery days a way of getting around slave owners’ attempts to inhibit discourse between slaves and hence the fostering of insurrection. The slaves were, however, allowed to sing, and so calypso came into being as a way of communicating amongst themselves through the lyrics. Originating on the island, it has spread and is now a feature of the region, its popularity fostered no doubt by the demand for entertainment by the increasing floods of tourists.
It is fashionable today to pour opprobrium on the European colonists, but it is worthy of note that they were not the first of the land-grabbing sinners. Over the centuries, prior to Columbus, successive tribes of American Indians arrived in the Caribbean to push out the incumbents. The last to arrive were the warlike Caribs, who gave their name to the region. It was then the turn of the Europeans.
During our stay, which was an enjoyable experience, the island was still under colonial rule, with British presence very evident, none more so than in the yacht club, a centre of social activity amongst the white community. We called on the secretary, who extended a warm welcome, but were ignored by the throng of members in the bar, dominated, it seemed to us, by screeching females, a phenomenon not altogether unknown in expatriate circles. We were, however, to be the recipients of a full measure of kindness and hospitality elsewhere in the community. John Hale, who together with his son represented the Heinz company in Trinidad, knew all about us and had been awaiting our arrival. Before leaving England I had, with some hesitation, approached Heinz with an outline of the plan to sail out to New Zealand, wondering if this would be of any value to them as a public relations exercise. Bearing in mind the size of such an operation and the calls it must have from hopefuls looking for sponsorship, somewhat to my surprise I received an almost immediate response to the effect that they certainly were interested. Their proposal was that they would donate a quantity of their special self-heating tins of a variety of soups, in return for which I would send them progress reports from our ports of call on our experiences. They would use these ongoing accounts in their house journal as a special feature.
I, of course, was happy about this arrangement, and a quite considerable consignment of these tins was delivered on board in Plymouth. The product was an interesting one. It had been developed during the war for use on those occasions when the ability to provide hot nourishment was difficult. Let into the top of the tin was a small heating element, set off by simply pulling a tab. Instant hot food in a boat in bad weather had to be a good idea and so it proved. I had duly sent off a report from the Canaries, which the Hales had read and so knew we were on our way.
Both the Hales went out of their way to look after us, helping to make life easy for us, particularly with stores purchasing. They lived well, and dining with the senior Hales was a special treat in their house overlooking the golf course, with a magnificent view down a long valley and out to sea. Sitting on the veranda in the cool of the evening, sipping a sundowner, was an experience we did not find hard to endure. Fortunately for us, the days of the British Raj were not yet over.
It was the younger Hale who introduced us to calypso. We were taken out for dinner to a large hotel to witness it being performed. It was folk music with its own special flavour of melody, humour, gossip and satirical, social commentary. The lyrics, the core of calypso, are largely improvised on the spot at each performance by the singer, the theme being topical or satirical, often bitingly so. Unbeknownst to us, one of our party had briefed the singer on our voyage, and somewhat to our embarrassment he, accompanied by a steel band, treated the hotel guests at large to a wildly inaccurate but colourful account of our exploits, fulsome praise of these fearless English sailors not being in short supply. Although our egos did not suffer from the attention, we were glad when it was over.
Traditionally, we were told, calypso has guitar backing, but dating from the last war the steel band has come to the fore, resulting perhaps from the number of discarded empty 40 gallon oil drums left lying around. The sound from these drums is solid rhythm, enough to fire up even the most phlegmatic of listeners. Victor Clark, who also visited Trinidad, gives an informed account of what a steel band is all about in his book On the Wind of a Dream.
‘The drums which provide this fascinating metallic music are 44 gallon oil drums, or rather half drums. A band will normally have drums of five different tones – first pan, second pan, trump pan, tenor boom and bass – the tone being obtained by cutting off the drum at different levels from the top. The flat end is then heated and sectioned by tapping indentations with a punch – any number from four in the case of the bass to a dozen or so on the first pan. These sections are then beaten out until each provides the requisite note when drummed with a stick. The only other instruments in the steel band are the maracas, which consist of a couple of calabashes with large dried seeds inside them, making a most effective rattle. It will, perhaps, be a 12-piece band in action, the players colourfully dressed in yellow shirts, red trousers and a blue sash, and carefully groomed with the hair grown long and brushed forward with an upward sweep in front – a coiffure, in fact, as original as the instruments played.’
The essentiality of music to the black races, and not least to African sailors, is highlighted by the deep-sea sailing ship narrator Basil Lubbock in his 1902 book Round the Horn before the Mast. ‘It was our forenoon watch on deck and we chantied the topsails up in fine form. The thing to hear is a nigger crew chantying. They sing most beautifully, with splendid minor and half notes; they cannot do the least bit of work without chantying.’
In the field of human endeavour, Trinidad, in addition to introducing such unique and quite fascinating features like calypso, ‘pan’ music and the steel band, has made a significant contribution to the gin-drinking world in the form of Angostura bitters. Port of Spain is home to this very special product, even though, as the label tells us, the name comes from a place called Angostura in Venezuela where it was first created. It has nothing to do with the widespread belief that it comes from crushed beetles but rather is gentian based. Bitters are, of course, the essential ingredient of the once ubiquitous pink gin, just a few drops turning an uninteresting glass of gin and water into something much more exciting. It is one of the tragedies of modern life that this beverage has been largely supplanted by the rather dull gin and tonic. In ‘my day’ in the navy the pink gin was the predominant drink, the bitters bottle occupying a central position on the shelf at the back of the wardroom bar. It used to be the practice on Christmas Day for the chief petty officers to be invited to the wardroom to partake of good cheer before their Christmas dinner. On one occasion a chief, on spying the bitters bottle, something new to him, asked to try it. Removing the cap, he poured himself a generous measure and sank it. After recovering he was heard to comment, ‘Cor! That’s why pigs is pigs,’ the term used with variable degrees of affection for officers. Angostura Ltd describes its product as an aromatic preparation with 44.7% alcohol by volume.
Our stay in Trinidad was drawing to a close: the need to press on to the west was now looming large in our minds. Our impressions of this outpost on the southern flank of the West Indies chain of islands were pleasurable, and the memory that was to remain with us was one of the colour, vibrancy and warmth of its people, with their broad grins and powerful music.
Tuesday 17 November 1145 Weighed anchor and got under way under jib and mainsail. Set all plain sail. In the afternoon saw our first waterspouts and very impressed. They were enormous and looked forbiddingly dangerous. Fortunately not appearing to be heading our way. If one had passed over us it would have been catastrophic.
1600 Cleared Gulf of Paria via Bocas Navios at the entrance. Moderate NE wind bringing up a choppy sea in the open water outside.
Set course NW ½ W for Islas Testigos. Streamed log. We are on our way.
The danger from waterspouts had receded and on this we congratulated ourselves. We had been witness to nature laying on a dramatic performance in the form of a tall, thin, rapidly twisting dark column of water reaching up, like a stalagmite, from an upwelling hump pulled from the surface of the sea. This had joined up with a fearsome, black cumulonimbus cloud hanging over it, the trunk of the spout swinging to and fro as it all advanced downwind, with the fallout of rain akin to the density of a plunging waterfall. Study of the phenomenon indicates that wind speeds inside the column of water can exceed 150 knots, far in excess of those of the usual hurricane. If a waterspout arrives on board, it would appear ‘neither craft nor crew would have much chance of surviving the experience’, according to an informed opinion on the subject.
The passage plan was simple and straightforward. Leave South America to port and keep it well out of sight. We had every intention of making it a straight run to the Canal Zone, but the first night at sea confirmed once again the old adage about harbours rotting ships and men. The last ten-day stopover, with every night and all night in our bunks, had softened us up such that now, with the land dropping away astern, we found ‘we had got out of our sea routine in a big way, with neither Peter nor I having any appetite, or will, to do anything serious in the cooking line’. A brief discussion ensued:
‘Ten days or so to Colón, but with Curaçao getting in the way halfway there. What do you think?’ ‘Good idea.’
In the event, we were to enjoy, in fact, the brief passage of four days, the log containing happy references to ‘under spinnaker in perfect weather’, and again the next day: ‘Wind SSE. Light. Delightful day’s sail with balloon foresail lifting her along’. What was also encouraging our feeling of well-being was the knowledge that the west-going current was helping us along to the tune of 20 or even 30 miles per day.
All too quickly came the evening, when we sighted on the starboard bow the easternmost island of the group of three islands that form what are known as the ABC Islands, consisting of Aruba, Bonaire and Curaçao in the Netherlands Antilles. Bonaire had little to offer, and after skirting its southern flank we enjoyed a quite magnificent run under spinnaker up the south-western coast of Curaçao to its capital, Willemstad. The entrance to the harbour constituted something of a problem, in that it had across it a road bridge floating on pontoons, the whole assembly being hauled out of the way to allow shipping to move in and out of the port. As we drew near we could see the boom was firmly in place, blocking our entrance, leaving us with the question of what had to be done to persuade someone to open it for us. The problem was solved by a freighter, MV Araby, which overhauled us and headed for the bridge. Our concern was that whoever was responsible for working the bridge would let Araby through and then close it again before we had time also to get through. It could safely be assumed no one would be too interested in opening the bridge, thereby disrupting traffic across it, to accommodate a solitary, small sailing craft. We could see ourselves left outside to endure another night at sea. We had been under easy sail in our approach to the bridge to give ourselves time to think, but now we set everything we had to catch up with Araby, she having slowed down whilst the bridge was being towed out of the way. Catch her we did, to our great relief, and went through the opening, tucked under her stern, to sweep into the inner harbour under full sail. This was an occasion when a powerful auxiliary engine would have been useful, our little contraption being of no use, as we needed to sail in excess of the best speed it could manage.
We planned to sail up further into Santa Anna Bay, where we thought we might be more secure from inquisitive/acquisitive fingers in more peaceful surroundings, but we had been spotted by the harbour authorities. Their launch caught up with us to haul Tern back and deposit us alongside the quay, which also did duty as a main thoroughfare, a mere stone’s throw from the town’s centre. We found we were opposite the harbourmaster’s impressive-looking building. Whether this was coincidental or by design was not evident. Small boats appearing in South American waters from nowhere were the focus of some attention by the authorities. The harbour authority’s representative was promptly on board, followed closely by customs and immigration. The trinity were very relaxed, asked a few questions, conducted a cursory check on our papers, had a chat and climbed back onto the quay. When we wanted to sail, ‘Just go,’ they said. The immigration man, however, did not seem in any great hurry to leave and kindly thought it could be useful to tell us something about Willemstad in general terms, but more specifically to inform us about the whorehouse, situated a little out of town but ‘not too far’, he hastened to reassure us. ‘Well worth a visit!’ he said, almost with an air of civic pride. The Dutch are more comfortable with accepting this useful, time-honoured activity in their midst than the British, the window displays in Amsterdam coming to mind.
Perhaps this is what the chantyman also had in mind as he tried to boost the flagging spirits of a tired crew as they ground round the capstan, leading them into flights of fancy with:
Mark well what I do say
In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid
The easy, informal attitude of the bureaucracy we experienced in Willemstad was so different to that we had gone through in our last port of call. It is something of a mystery as to why the British are such sticklers for following to the letter what any regulation demands. Every box on every page of every form must be ticked within a regime of inflexible discipline. Ever since we had left Plymouth we had noticed how at variance the British were with everyone else when it came to obeying the rules. The French were so easy-going in Brest, and the Spanish even more so in the Canaries. Admittedly it was a different story in Lisbon, but the circumstances of being under virtually a police state probably resulted in behaviour at variance with the natural inclinations of the Portuguese race. This contrast in national characteristics was so evident when comparing our departure from Port of Spain with that from Willemstad. In the former place, on the day of our departure we went through a time-consuming, tedious performance, strictly in accordance with the rule book. In the latter we just sailed off.
We found Willemstad an attractive little town, warmly presenting itself with the building fronts in lightly toned variegated colours facing the waterfront, all on full display from our berth. The scene would be described in guide books as possessing an ‘old-world charm’. Being alongside the waterfront, the Handelskade had its pluses and minuses. To meet our daily needs and replenish ship’s stores meant just a few paces into the shopping area, but by our proximity we were of some interest to the locals, whereby we attracted all too much attention from those strolling by. They were kindly disposed towards us, however, and it would have been churlish not to have responded to the steady flow of questions, eventhough the constant repetition became somewhat tedious. Amongst the strollers were two young men who gave the impression their mission in life was to make us feel welcome and, in achieving this, to provide what help they could. It appeared they had read about us in the Trinidad Guardian, the daily newspaper, which included the Netherlands Antilles in its circulation. ‘What could they do?’ Well, for a start we needed the spinnaker repairing. This was no problem to our new friends, Birt and Albert, who took it away with them on the spot to return it that evening, all neat and tidy, adamant there was nothing to pay. With the sail they brought a large container of ice, to us of more value than a bag of gold. Later in the evening they were back to take us out to dinner, and on the way introduced us to the management of a hotel to enjoy the rare luxury of a shower. How does one acknowledge such displays of kindness? To finish off the evening we invited them back on board for drinks, a somewhat protracted session, as it turned out, which included, as my journal recalls, ‘an exchange of presents’.
During the course of the day we had been moved off the quay to make room for a steamer and put alongside a fish barge lying ahead of us, fortunately it not being too apparent that this was its role in life. In command of this vessel was a happy-looking local who, with good cheer and chatter, took our lines and helped us secure. At 0600 next morning we were woken, but had some difficulty in coming to life out of deep slumber, a state which no doubt owed something to the night before. Our neighbour informed us there was a road water tanker alongside on the quay. ‘I stopped it for you, boss,’ he said, having assumed correctly we would need to top up our tanks. He refused our offer of some US dollars. He was his own man. It could well have been that his genealogy dated back to the start of commercial operations on the island in the mid 1600s when the Dutch set up a merchandise-trading centre. This functioned in conjunction with the establishment of the principal slave market for the Caribbean. Having no natural resources to fall back onto, the abolition of slavery dealt the economy a devastating blow, the region’s future looking bleak until the fortuitous discovery of oil in nearby Venezuela in the early 1900s. The establishment of an oil-refining industry saved the day for Curaçao. Over the period there has been one commercial enterprise which has brought a modest income to the island, the sticky liqueur of that name being produced over the centuries in a distillery in the outskirts of the capital. Made from the skins of small green oranges, it has been an imaginative utilisation of natural resources. We eschewed it, neither of us being fans of rather cloying drinks of this nature, but many no doubt are, including tourists making the mandatory visit to the distillery. In recent times, happily after the time of our visit, tourism has become another step in the evolutionary development of the group of islands, making big changes in particular to Willemstad and its rather special Handelskade. We were spared – although we did not know our good fortune then – the impact of that horror of the modern day, the cruise ship. We enjoyed the place the way it was. ‘Went for a stroll in the evening but it was only a temporary respite from the heat. The boat is hot and there is an all-pervading smell of oil fuel, but I haven’t regretted calling in here; it is a pleasant little place with pleasant people in it.’
Just before we were due to make our departure, the inseparables, Birt and Albert, appeared with a present of a US Navy Oceanographic Office wind and current chart, which confirmed our expectations of the difficulties that lay ahead. I had given the couple in return, as a memento, our Admiralty Routeing chart for November, which had largely served its purpose – adding to this my copy of that gem Clochemerle, a best-seller in its day and a plot which only the French could have dreamed up. Accompanying the chart from our friends was a thermos flask full of ice. This warm, helpful pair had added much to our stay.
24 November 1400 Slipped under jib and full mainsail. Cleared the harbour entrance whilst the bridge was open for a ship. Set course to pass south of Aruba Island.
Next stop would definitely be the Canal, and we disciplined ourselves not to indulge in any more unscheduled deviations off the straight and narrow. However, we were to find sailing conditions not as benign and enjoyable as the passage from Port of Spain. On that leg we had benefited to quite some degree from the favourable current carrying us along at up to 1½ knots. Now, however, as we turned down into the Gulf of Darien, leading to the Panamanian shores, we had the current reversing to a north-easterly direction, which put it against the wind, and furthermore was backing northward and freshening. The seas became short and so did our tempers. With the run of the sea no longer easy, life became somewhat tedious and uncomfortable, accompanied by the decks washing down, an existence that had gone out of our memory. ‘Water on the decks continuously and often in the cockpit, with steering very hard and difficult.’
With the coast of Columbia close aboard we were entering historic waters – Drake’s waters. Close on our port quarter lay Cartagena – just another prosaic, undistinguished port today handling petroleum products, not to mention drugs, but once central to the wealth, power and glory that was Spain in the 16th century. Here had been transhipped the treasure purloined from the civilisations in the western regions of South America and then brought across the isthmus of Panama by mule train. The fortified port of Cartagena had been at the hub of Spain’s transatlantic commerce, and being pivotal to the movement of silver and gold bullion and precious stones, it had been a lodestone attracting frenetic attention from Elizabeth’s licensed pirates, spearheaded by the likes of Sir John Hawkins and his protégé, the hyperactive Sir Francis Drake. Frustrated in his attempts to lay hands on what he considered a rightful share of all this wealth, badly needed to refill Elizabeth’s coffers and his own, Drake had gone so far as to sack the town and hold its elders to ransom. It was for us to speculate whether the present-day residents had much knowledge of its exotic and romantic past.
Gybing before a brisk ENE wind and bringing the lights of Cartagena astern, we laid off a course for Colón. Arriving off the Panamanian coast we were abreast the site of Nombre de Dios, the Caribbean terminus of the Spanish mule teams. In its role as a treasure transit location it was another irresistible attraction for Drake, and what was to be a fatal one. He and a swathe of his men contracted dysentery. Disaster, which had progressively become the dominant feature of his Caribbean adventures, was now finally to claim him. With little treasure in his holds to show for all his efforts, and consumed by bitter disappointment, he moved his ships along the coast to Puerto Bello, where the great navigator lost the will to live: ‘The dying admiral of a fleet filled with dying men.’ It was 1595. Dressed in his full armour, encased in a lead coffin, he was lowered into the waters of the bay, a league offshore, to the appropriate thunder of guns and roll of drums.
Monday 30 November 1600 Entered Colón harbour under jib and mainsail. Boarded by customs and port authorities.
1700 Came to anchor in 7½ fathoms off Cristobal oiling wharf.
We had seen the last of the Atlantic, enjoying to the full the rewarding achievement of one of our main objectives. Ahead lay the broad sweep of the Silver Sea – the Pacific – and thence through the South Seas to home, but before that we had facing us the challenge of negotiating the Canal.