Around 2am on the morning of April 17, I went on deck to assist with our approach to Panama. Most important was watching for traffic, as I dare say I could spot upwards of 50 boats (in an ocean where you normally never see one).
As we got closer, anticipation rose…for me it was primarily about funneling into one of the most heavily trafficked areas in all the world’s oceans, but secondarily, it was about the fact that my flight home was at 2:00pm, requiring an airport arrival at noon.
At 4am, I took my scheduled turn on the helm, and we slowly inched towards land, oh so slowly. The sunrise was breathtaking as ever, and there we were amidst a sea of tankers, some just sitting, others steaming ahead.
At 6am, I was ordered to stay on the helm to drive us into port; it was around then that we passed primary channel markers. By 7am, we finally got ourselves situated at anchor at an outer anchorage to the harbour. The docks and inner anchorage were full, but we were advised that none of the offices open until 8am anyway. I had an hour to pack and sweat. There was no more water for a shower and no time for food. The plan was to be that Robb and I throw my gear into the dinghy and get all of my paperwork taken care of so I could then go straight to the airport.
By this point, I realized that yes, I was officially stressed, and I announced it to Jeff and Mota. That’s when Jeff came over and in his very Jeff way starts to tell me a story…
“I was in Morocco once and all kinds of things had gone wrong (“that’s another story for another day”), but I was desperately trying to get out of the country. I was down to my last Dirham, I was sick, I was missing connections, I was exhausted. Then, something popped into my head that said: Jeff, you’re in God’s Pocket. Now, this was particularly disconcerting to me as I am an atheist, but I decided it couldn’t hurt. So with each new stress that was added, I thought to myself, “you’re in God’s pocket.” Even when I realized that I had to pay a departure tax of 2000 Dirham ($20US) that I didn’t have, I thought to myself, “you’re in God’s pocket.” Well, I did make it out of Morocco that day, and ever since, that saying has stuck with me.
“So Jen, today, when you’re scrambling around and everything keeps going wrong, just keep telling yourself, “You’re in God’s Pocket”.”
Around 8am, off went Robb and I in the dinghy in search of Port Authority, Customs and Immigration. There were no signs, no obvious buildings, and not many people around. We started asking around and realized that earlier reports of English speakers around the harbours were wrong. No one spoke English, it was up to me to summon my Spanish and translate. Eventually we found the first office which was nothing more than a shack. The lady had questions about Robb’s paperwork, there was a lot of back and forth, a few phone calls made, photo copies made and more questions asked. All the while, the clock is ticking. I finally am able to make her mostly understand the situation. However, I’m trying my damndest to be charming and make friends (as this is the only way to operate in places like these). (“God’s pocket” I say to myself.)
Around 9am, we were finally finished with office #1, and a cab was called to take us to office #2. Again, office #2 was unmarked, but at least it was a building (with AC!). We ran up several flights of stairs and had to open several unmarked doors before finding the appropriate “official”. In this office, photo copies were painstakingly made on quite possibly the slowest copy machine ever of each of our passports. But whoops, she made them on legal instead of letter, so with scissors she trimmed each to the correct size. During this time, I start casually mentioning my need to get to the airport. She asks (all in Spanish) what time my flight is. I say I need to get to the airport at 12. Her eyes widen, she looks at her boss and back and me and says: “No es posible, posiblabamente manana” (it’s not possible, maybe tomorrow). I ask her how long it takes to get to the airport (cuz I still think I’m in the clear), she says: minimum of 2 hours. (“Oh noooo….God’s pocket”)
Once done with her, we sit down with boss man while he fills out a form writing about a letter every 20 seconds. He has trouble understanding, so in some cases I have to spell words for him in Spanish letters. He has many of the same questions lady #1 did, but I’m better able to answer them now. We finally finish up a few minutes before 10am, and he says I can go. (“God’s pocket”)
I race downstairs to find my cab driver and jump in the car, excited that we just might make it. He then informs me that there’s yet a 3rd office I have to go to. Are you sure? Yes, I’m very sure, it’s required. (He only spoke Spanish too). Well, now I’m thinking, oh ya, that other office that just so happens to be your buddy’s basement. But what could I do, he’d been helpful so far, so…well, I guess if he starts driving me into the ghetto I can always jump out of the car. Least I’ve got passport in hand, but backpack will be sacrificed. (“ooh man God’s pocket”.)
We drive through a very busy area of town and finally pull up to another building that looks official enough and we race up a few flights of stairs, and go into yet another office. Up at the window (again, all in Spanish), the lady informs me that I need my captain to provide the crew manifest. Well, robb was left back at office #2 cuz we were told I didn’t need him anymore. “I don’t have it, I say, and I can’t get it.” A conversation ensues between her and the cab driver and then we move on to issue #2: You need to provide a color photograph of yourself. WHAT?!? Here, here’s my passport, can’t you just make a copy? No, needs to be a color photo, on photo paper, and she holds up someone elses application as an example. (“God’s f%$@ing pocket”)
Cab driver says, don’t worry, you can get one across the street. So back down the stairs and across the street, we go into the Panamanian equivalent of a Kinko’s to find a line out the door. Cabby recognizes someone at the front of the line and starts chatting. Soon enough, I was whisked to the front and qued up for a photo. I paid the $, but then the lady got busy and wasn’t giving me my change. Cabby says he’ll wait for it and to go back to the office.
So race back across the street and up the stairs. Here’s my photo, here, am I OK now? Yes.
So ok, NOW we’re finally able to start for the airport. It’s 11am. I ask him how long it takes, he says, well, when there’s no traffic, it’s 2 hours. But yesterday I took someone and it took us 7, but then we got turned around about ½ way there cuz of some problem on the roads. Obviously, he didn’t make it. But not to worry (too much), he knows some fast ways we can try. (“God’s pocket”.)
So for the next 2 hours and change, I tried to settle myself. I pulled Spanish out of my arse and had a nice long conversation with Roberto. We talked about his family, my family, boys, jobs, traveling, smoking & drinking…you name it, it was a pretty impressive conversation. At one point I decided to tell him the God’s Pocket story. He said, here in panama we’d say “el protégé del dios” which means, the protection of God. Ok, might as well start saying it the local way. Along the way, we hit dead stop traffic a time or two, the truck in front of us at one point had a wheel AND axel come right off; Roberto artfully swerved around, and a few toll booths. Noon came and went. (“el protégé del dios”).
Around 1:00 I started seeing signs for the airport and by about 1:15 we pulled in. I hugged Roberto, told him how much I truly enjoyed our conversation, and that even though I didn’t really get to see much of Panama, I sure felt like I got to know it through my time with him. I gave him an extra $20 US on top of what he asked for. He sent blessings to me and my family.
In the airport, I could hear the announcements for my flight, but naturally there was a line to check in (“el protégé del dios”). Miraculously, I got to the counter and they still allowed me to check in, though she said I’d really have to hurry. So off to go through security. Well, wouldn’t ya know, some idiot decided to do something silly and all of a sudden we heard “BREEAACHH” and saw guards start running. So that pretty much halted security scan operations for another few minutes (God’s Pocket). Never found out what happened, I didn’t care, the belts were moving again.
So at this point, let’s see, it was 1:40 or so and my flight was boarding, of course in the farthest away gate. I ran through, stopping for a moment to buy a hot dog and a bottle of water to scarf during the remainder of my run. At the gate now, feeling better, ok, I’m going to make it.
Oh but crap, they need to go through everybody’s bags, item by item. This normally would’ve been fine except I had gotten the brilliant idea to shrink wrap my stinkiest clothes, all of which were wrapped in my off-white linen pants. So guess what, the little shrunk-wrapped brick looked like a brick of dirty cocaine. The lady got very suspicious and looked at me demanding to know what it was. I looked at her, with my sun burnt and exhausted face, trying to come up with the word for smell. I couldn’t so I said (in Spanish) “I’ve been on a boat for 7 days w/no shower. These are my clothes and they are very” and then I made the peee-yeeew sign with my hand. She dropped the thing like it was a snake and waved me on my way.
I collapsed in my seat at 1:57 and started tearing up out of all of the anxiety and stress that was trying to rush out of my body. I’d made it, but man, what a 12 hours that had been. Please oh please let me sit alone. Then a very handsome older pilot put his stuff down in my row. We started talking, and to make this part of my long story shorter, what could have been a horrible flight turned into the best flight ever. We talked nonstop and he kept the bloody mary’s full. We connected on multiple topics and I was able to offer him some comfort over the loss of his son last year by sharing a few of the things I learned from the experience of Brian’s death. By the end of the flight, we were both choked up, but thankful for the random gift of our paths crossing right then and there.
I got home to SF that night at around 1am. With the time differences, I’d been up for 26 hours, without a single stimulant. That day+, I wasn’t just in “God’s Pocket”, I was in “God’s Breast Pocket”. :-)
