Sex Lessons from the Mola Ladies

During several visits on Maruba to Panama’s San Blas Islands in the early ‘90s, we acquired a small collection of molas . . . and learned some interesting facts of life.

Mola making­­—and mola wearing—are deep traditions among the women of the indigenous Kuna (or Guna) people of the San Blas Islands (now known as Guna Yala).

This is what a mola looks like:

Soap Opera on the Marine Party Line

The examiner signed a card and handed it to me. It was a Canadian Radio Operator’s Certificate—Marine. “Congratulations,” she said. “You passed the test. Now you can broadcast legally on all the marine frequencies.”

“What do you do if someone broadcasts on the marine channels without passing the test.”

“Nothing.”

Mom, Can We Borrow My Little Brother?

San José, Costa Rica, had inventive—sometimes even amiable—street criminals. Tican thieves and grafters were out to make a living, not hurt people. They took pride in their cleverness and skills, in their ability to spot an opportunity and profit from it.

One day when Wally and Anita Madill were visiting from Calgary, Barbara and I were showing them around downtown San José. Congestion on the crowded sidewalk had squeezed the four of us into a single file, setting us up for a skilled team of pickpockets.

Six Gringos in a Dingy, to the Rescue

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.

Cat Overboard!

Barbara . . .  Cat overboard!

Barbara’s head pops up from the hatch. She looks around anxiously.

Which one?

Black Cat.

Figures.

We have a rescue procedure planned. We’re not sure it will work.

A Panamanian Taxi Driver with Good Brakes

We knew Carlos for 20 minutes. We remember him well.

We had tied Maruba to a mooring at the Panama Canal Yacht Club the day before. When we walked through the club house the next morning and stepped out the front door, a car sped across the parking lot and screeched to a stop. “Buenas dias. My name is Carlos. Where do you want to go?”

Four more cars waited on the other side of the lot, their drivers lounging together in the shade of a huge tree. They scowled at us.

A Pair of Smugglers Caught in the Act

 “Do you have any fruits or vegetables aboard?” The young woman was wearing the uniform of a Canadian customs officer. 

Oh oh. That was a question I hadn’t anticipated. It was also a question Barbara and I didn’t want to answer.