The Journey Up and Down

We decided it was time to head back to the Caribbean side, where we started. We’d been sailing the Pacific side of Panama in our 1982 Morgan 462, and we felt the time had come for a new chapter. Three years ago we’d found this boat roasting in the sun on land, covered in mold and filled with junk. It had been sitting there for 8 years. We'd decided this was the boat for us and made it our home.

It’s hard to believe we made it through the canal the first time. After we got her in the water, we’d only done one 30-minute sea trial, and on that trial, the engine dumped all its oil, and diesel fuel came out of the exhaust. After a few tweaks, we felt like we could make it, so we audaciously went for it. That first canal transit is a story for another day.

Over the past three years, we’ve transformed this beautiful classic sailboat from non-functional to mostly functional. There are still some things that don’t work at all, and there are many things that don’t work well. For me, mentally managing the gratitude/frustration balance–appreciating what we do have above being consumed by the things we don’t–has been the most challenging part of the experience. Seeing the beauty and positives comes easily when you’re watching a sunset, but shifting my mind away from all the things that I know aren’t working when I know I need sleep, less so.

Despite weeks of preparation, what was supposed to be a relaxing month sailing before our canal transit turned out to be one of the most difficult stretches we’ve had on Galatea. We arrived at the Pacific side of the canal two days before our transit date thoroughly exhausted but excited for what was ahead. A chapter that would mean unfamiliar destinations, new people, a change in weather, and a fresh perspective–the exciting things that come with transition.

After changing our departure date twice, the canal authority informed us we would be heading into the canal at 4:00 am on a Tuesday. We were so fortunate to assemble a canal crew of my sister (you should check her out on IG at @MissLizDidIt), her husband, their two amazing children, and my longtime Panama friend Bill–they were all up for the challenge and didn’t flinch at a middle-of-the-night departure. With the children sleeping in the aft cabin, we left the dock at 3:30 am, headed to our rendezvous location to pick up our canal advisor, dropped the anchor, and waited. It was a calm evening and the expansive Panama City skyline kept us company as we watched colossal tankers silently enter the canal in the dark. That would be our last moment of calm for the next 16 hours.

After our canal advisor literally jumped aboard our boat at 5:00 am, he told us we were late and we needed to move quickly in order to make it in time to our planned lock. He urged me to push Galatea’s engine as hard as I could, as we had about 7 miles to get to the first set of locks. This is where the journey would get tough for me. I’d figured this was coming.

Our boat doesn’t motor quickly. There are multiple reasons for this. On top of being a big, heavy boat, there are several issues that remain unresolved, or ”suboptimal,” as the most knowledgeable sailing mentor that I will ever meet has told me. (2025 goal: If you do not have a boat coach, you should try to get one this year, even if you do not have a boat.) Among those issues are an engine that is not firing as efficiently as it should be, a propeller that may not be perfectly balanced, and probably 4-6 other problems that I have not yet discovered. I could do nothing about any of these things at 4:15 am while a Panama Canal advisor was telling me I needed to go faster, so I did two things: I decided to push the engine very hard (voluntary), and I allowed an expression of stress and subtle anguish to creep onto my face (involuntary). Despite this, the Galatea crew spirits remained high, and it wasn’t until a visual engine check revealed a thin wisp of exhaust smoke growing in the engine room that my concern began to spread.

Let’s unpack the struggle. First, whether you’re speaking literally or figuratively, no one likes smoke noticeably coming from their engine. One would prefer to at least hide those types of things so others don’t see the fractures in their armor. Smoke aside, a larger problem for me is that I often have trouble fixing my face. Usually, I am a positive, optimistic, and upbeat person. I laugh, I smile, and I try to comment on what we have working for us. But sometimes I can’t. Or I don’t. And then, I’m not at my best, and I know it. So sometime around 5:00 am, I mustered a thin smile and I think I said something like “Don’t worry you guys–It’s all going to be fine. Hey, look at the sunrise coming.” Better than nothing, but short of the best version of myself.

For me, this is always the steepest part of the climb. I want to be like others who, when things are difficult, are able to be the light for others. I want to make others laugh when my engine is smoking, but man, avoiding that spiral is tough. Overcoming this challenge has always eluded me–I spent years as a school principal and my teaching team got into the habit of telling me, “Mark, fix your face” when the day would get hectic and I would inevitably appear pained. I appreciated and needed this. Living on a sailboat, I find the challenge to be even harder when things don’t go well, but I’m grateful for the opportunities to work on it. It’s one of the areas in which I hope this journey will make me a better person.

Despite the steady engine smoke, we arrived at the Miraflores locks, proceeded to raft up to two other sailboats, and immediately headed into the lock. As we settled in behind an enormous ship, the doors boomed shut behind us. We’d made it by just a few minutes. It’s difficult to describe the exuberance that I felt when I brought the throttle back to neutral to give the engine a break, but that exhilaration was short-lived. As water began flooding the lock to raise the tanker and our raft of sailboats upwards, an unusual amount of smoke began pouring out of our aft exhaust. The lock doors were closed, the water was rising, and there is no turning off your engine in the Panama Canal. I frantically texted my boat coach and weakly forced another thin smile onto my face.

It can be oddly freeing when there is no longer anything you can do. The next 8 hours of motoring northwest through the canal forced me to come to terms with this. Several things unfolded over those hours: the exhaust smoke eventually thinned back to normal while the engine remained at a stable temperature, we fell far behind the other two sailboats and our advisor informed us we would be fined $1,200 if we missed the scheduled lock on the other end, the line handlers were spectacular, my wife Sarah made perhaps the best food ever consumed on Galatea, it rained, and the direct headwinds picked up to 20 knots on the nose. We motored on.

Five miles from the Gatun locks that take you back down the Pacific, we were dismayed to realize we would likely miss the scheduled lock for our raft by an hour. As we approached, our canal advisor’s radio sprang to life, and after some discussion, he informed us there had been an unexpected delay with one of the “mulas” (mules)--the trains that pull the tankers into the lock. The lock was on hold, and we eventually motored up to the other two boats that we’d started the day with as they waited. Slow and steady had at least tied the race. We rafted up again, dropped down from fresh Gatun Lake water into the Caribbean, and could not have been happier. As the winds picked up to 25 knots and a cloudy and choppy Caribbean greeted us, a bottle of champagne was popped. Galatea had made it. I helmed the last hour into Shelter Bay with similar thoughts to what were in my head on the final mile of a marathon I ran a few years back: ”I’m exhausted,” “This is exhilarating,” “Something really bad could still happen but I don’t think it will,” and “I cannot wait to get there.” We pulled into our slip at 7:00 pm as darkness fell, greeted by a welcoming committee of sailor friends from the last few years who had preceded us through the canal.

I’ve noticed a couple of things about new chapters. First, change provides refreshing opportunities to have another go at things that I didn’t handle as well as I could have the previous times around. But then, when I arrive at those opportunities, my attempt to navigate that challenge is often only marginally better than my previous efforts, if any better at all. This leads to a cycle of frustration, reflection, motivation, and the desire to start again. Perhaps this is what attracts me to adventure. Struggling outside of your comfort zone is a chance to level up, and new chapters provide fresh at-bats. I used to regard traveling and moving as a path to better understand the world by seeing and experiencing new things. While this remains true, I’ve found the deeper value to be in when the unfamiliar extends your horizon and provides you a chance to pick yourself up and try again to move inwardly.

On the Caribbean side, I know I will continue to make the mistakes I’ve made before. My thinly veiled grimace will be transparent. My face will need to be fixed. Things on the boat will break, and I won’t sleep well. But a smooth sea never made a strong sailor. Looking back on the 16-hour journey from the Pacific to the Caribbean, I’m so grateful to have shared the experience with a perfect crew of family and friends who were there to help guide Galatea through and lift me up along the way.

The northerly winds are blowing strong right now, foreboding the challenges ahead. I’m looking forward to them.