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Coast to Coast
Land, sea or sky? All are methods of passage between South America and Central America, but one rises (or should I say, floats) above the rest.

Travel by land is commonly perceived as the cheapest and easiest option. However, the narrow isthmus connecting Colombia to Panama, the Darien Gap, not only obstructs passage, it vehemently opposes it. Denying both roads and public transportation, the jalopies available for hire could barely pass a safety inspection, let alone an arduous off road inquisition. If the impervious swamps and bogs dont get you, chances are the guerilla militants or drug traffickers might. The second and most obvious alternative, air travel, is easy to arrange between major cities. But for about the same price, a third and more fulfilling alternate can be arranged by sea!

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Some may view the five days spent afloat better served elsewhere, such as in Colombias pre-eminent port city, Cartagena, or possibly, Panamas illustrious Canal, but what lies between the two are 378 of the most beautiful islands the world has to offer. Situated only 20 miles east of Panamas main land, the San Blas Islands Archipelago remains a covert collection of white sand, prolific coconut trees and unadulterated vistas. Home to the Kuna tribe, these inspiring natives have fought to retain ownership of their mighty archipelago since before Columbus sailed the ocean blue. The natives humbly maintain a primitive yet expedient culture despite the close proximity to Panamas industry laden shores. No high rises or umbrella drinks here folks. The extreme variability in departure times and limited vessel choices are the main deterrents for would-be passengers. Not to mention the stories of motors dying and boats drifting at sea for days. If, however, you arrive with the attitude that waiting is normal and you can accommodate a few days lag time, I promise, your ship will come in.

Welcome aboard Fritz the Cat, a 50-foot catamaran, complete with eccentric Austrian captain, Fritz, his maiden voyage deck hand Jose and 12 eager passengers. Life at sea could be a solitary existence but not for Fritz. Spending his retirement years chartering travelers across the capricious Caribbean seas, his days are anything but lonely, performing every task on board from captaining to cooking and most importantly, socializing. Hoist the Anchor!

Clink, clink, clink, the sound was exhilarating! Followed by a tight snap of the sail catching its first impregnating gust of wind meant we were ready for departure. Within no time, Cartagena's skyscrapers and busy shores disappeared behind the growing swell and the once gentle sea mist escalated into torrential starboard waves. The only escape from the watery cataclysm required an even more perilous move going below deck. It was here I learned firsthand the true meaning of the expression getting your sea legs. As if confined to a perpetual state of inebriation, each step forward was usually followed by two steps backward, rocking back and forth between the claustrophobic cabin walls. I have only one word: Dramamine and a lot of it. That is, unless you want to join in the port side oral acrobatic routine. Coinciding with gaining my sea legs was attaining my seamanship. We were not only passengers but deck hands on this cat. Let me tell you, steering a 50-foot catamaran through unpredictable ocean swells was no easy task. Grasping white knuckled to the monstrous wheel, my forearms shook with agony, struggling to keep her on a 260-degree heading. Just a little too much of a turn and you were headed back to Colombia, a feat I managed not once, but three times. Sleeping was the days final challenge. Jostled between the formidable swells, the elevated bunk presented more of a hazard than a safe haven. Slamming against the berth wall one minute, we would teeter helplessly on the edge of the bed the next. Then came the wet awakening from above. Sea breezes were not the only substance entering the cabin. Battening down the hatches meant sealing my

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one port hole to the outside world. The subsequent humidity and stuffiness completed the recipe for some maritime insomnia. Our second day at sea was no easier then the first, but thanks to Poseidon's good graces (and fast moving trade winds) just as the sun dipped below the horizon, the outline of an island replaced it. Land Ho! Surrounded by an ostensibly impenetrable coral reef, our sandy salvation summoned. Relying on years of seamanship for guidance and a few expensive boat toys Fritz skillfully steered through one of the invisible coral gaps, entering calm, sequestered waters. After only one brutal night below deck, the urgency for better sleeping arrangements was more than apparent. Though vying for a spot on one of two coveted catamaran trampolines, most passengers found themselves surprisingly content to sleep anywhere outside. Tucked in by a thick blanket of stars, we were dreaming even before falling asleep! The star dotted curtain slowly lifted and the day streamed forth to an anxiously awaiting crew. Still rubbing my eyes from the blissful nights sleep, a few disbelieving blinks followed before I could comprehend what lay before me. There we were, anchored between four tiny palm studded islands, layered on all sides by azure, sapphire and emerald. While my mind tried to fathom the inconceivable beauty, my body pursued validation. Plunging into the cool, crystalline waters was all the warrant my body and mind required. This was paradise!

With hundreds of islands to choose from, I spent the next three days exploring but a handful of these tiny terrains, often relishing entire islands solely by myself. The only spectacle capable of rivaling the beauty above was what lay below. With visibility well over 80 feet, the only thing clearer than the water was my compulsion to dive in. Snorkeling emerged (or should I say, submerged) as my favorite pastime. Suspended between one of natures greatest dichotomies, a maze of thriving coral masterpieces and abundant sea life existed to one side, while a few feet way, life fell away into the seas deep abyss.

I was lucky enough to spot some of natures most illusive creatures, as dozens of stingrays lined the ocean floor. Perfectly camouflaged from predators, their sword-like tails remained their only discernable feature. My prolonged sojourns were taken as more predatorial than observatory, and with a few big

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flaps they were off again. Precise undulations of their pancaked bodies enabled escape from not only me but the water altogether, breaking the watery plane with miraculous airborne acrobatics. It was hard to imagine interrupting this beautiful sea existence, that is, until Fritz handed me aquatic ammo: the lobster catcher. For those of you like me, who didnt know what a lobster catcher was, just imagine a retractable wire loop situated on the end of slender metal pole. Slipping the loop undetected around the preys slick body was surprisingly not the most difficult part, it was the battle that followed. Success, however, would be bittersweet. I returned victorious only to learn the seemingly once satanic crayfish who put up the fight of the century was nothing more than a baby. Remember, objects underwater always appear larger than they really are. Although I quite literally failed to bring anything to the table, other amateur hunters caught more than enough. A cornocopia of crayfish, snapper and even a giant eel offered as a welcoming from one of the local Kuna fisherman. Combined with Fritzs world-class culinary ability did I mention he was a 5-star chef going hungry was never a threat. Having enjoyed smooth sailing so far, undoubtedly meant our first tribulation was only a matter of time Panamaniam time that is. Operating on a time schedule all its own, Panamas Customs Office was closed upon our arrival, requiring us to anchor for one more night. It was this unanticipated night at sea that nearly became Fritz the Cats final day ever. We were awoken first by resonant scraping from below, then by the emphatic commands of our captain. "Alle manos on deck!" Spanish, Deutsch and English collided in a flurry of instructions. Disoriented by the blackness of night, we soon realized the anchor had dislodged from its initial hold. Where the anchor was now, and more so, where we were now, was anyones guess. I had a sinking feeling, reciprocated by the fear I saw in the eyes of many other rookie passengers. Coercing the anchor from its new hold, we eventually yanked it aboard, ripping free from the razor-sharp reef. After five days (well, actually six) at sea, the journey from Colombia to Panama came to full fruition, as did my transition from landlubber to seascalleywag. And, in the process, this neophyte sea-woman discovered not only the incredibly glorious paradises above the swell, but also a hint of those that existed below.

For more of "Reggie's Backpacking Chronicles" please visit her website: http://www.backpackerswanted.com

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