Perpetual circumnavigation.
That sounded like an enviable business plan. The boat swinging at anchor in the
bay was an immaculately maintained 120 foot ketch. The captain and first mate,
man and wife, operated an exclusive cruise business with a small crew.
We’d heard
about her before. She continually circled the globe. Every couple of weeks she
tied up in a major port, disembarked passengers, and took aboard new ones
who had flown in to meet her. Then she’d set out for remote, exotic destinations
never visited by the regular cruise ships.
The vessel
could comfortably berth a dozen passengers. A dozen affluent passengers,
needless to say. And adventuresome too.
Her itinerary for
Central America included Bahia Honda, on the Pacific side of Panama, where
she and Maruba were both anchored.
Her current visit turned out to be well timed.
Seeing the real Central America
The village
at Bahia Honda (Deep Bay) was located on a small island, population 300-400.
The nearest
community with a store and post office was forty-five minutes by outboard down
the coast. The nearest modern city—one, for instance, with a hospital—was a
further two hour drive beyond that. The route was a dirt track through the
jungle, passable only during the dry season.
Domingo was our local guide at Bahia Honda. Shortly after we
dropped anchor he had paddled out in his dugout canoe (we called them hip
huggers). He introduced himself and lifted onto the deck a stem of coconuts. It
was the opening gift in the bartering that would follow during the coming weeks.
Domingo spoke no English. My Spanish consisted of fewer than a hundred
words, including half dozen verbs, present tense only. We got along fine together.
Domingo and I
had just dragged Maruba’s inflatable
dingy onto the beach at the village.
A boy, a dirty sling, and tears
A boy, about
eight, stood alone at the top of the sand. He was muffling sobs and wiping
tears. A narrow sling, improvised from a dirty rag, supported his left arm. He
told Domingo he had fallen from a tree that morning. The arm was broken.
Domingo said I should buy medicine for the boy. He led me to Bahia
Honda’s shopping center. The tienda was a six by twelve foot plywood shed. Bags of rice and cornmeal were stacked against the wall, as well as cases
of cervesa. The mostly bare shelves bore a few clusters of miscellaneous
canned foods.
The pharmacy department was a small shelf above the cash box. It held a
single bottle of aspirin, half empty. Domingo asked for four pills. Apparently a
few aspirin and a dirty sling were the local treatment for a broken arm.
After handing
the boy the aspirin, I looked out at the big white sailing vessel anchored in
the bay. With the upscale cruise clientele they marketed to, they had to have
some provision aboard for medical emergencies.
Domingo
and I headed out in the dingy, full throttle. When we arrived at the
ship’s boarding ladder passengers were already gathering at the rail, their curiosity
stirred by our approach.
“Good morning.
I’m from the ketch anchored on the other side of the bay. Do you have a doctor
aboard? There’s a little boy in the village who fell out of a tree and broke
his arm."
The captain of
the cruise ship turned to the bystanders. “Who wants to go ashore with me?”
“Give me a
minute. I’ll get my bag,” one said. “Me too,” another said. “Don’t leave
without me,” a third said as he disappeared down a hatch.
Soon the captain and five passengers had scrambled
down the ladder into the ship’s big inflatable and were speeding toward the village,
wake flying.
The captain’s
wife, looking down from the rail, explained. “Our guests on this trip include
three doctors, a surgical nurse, and an emergency medical technician. One of the
doctors is an orthopedic surgeon.”
I’ve wondered
what that hurt, frightened little Panamanian boy thought when he saw six determined
gringos bearing down on him.
NEXT POST:
TBD
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