Do you like Dags?

The North Island, with the Santana in the foreground.  There  be ghosts aboard that ship, Mateys, as we will here in another post.  Wooooooooooooo!!

Si', me gusta Dags.  The morning conjecture onboard is full of Dag references, as Jacko and Mattias turn out to be huge Guy Ritchie fans.  The three of us spend a good bit of time spouting lines to the movie Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels" utterly confusing the Deutsch contingency.  This only spurs Mattias on as he goes into his "Why the German did not understand the concept of a Fish-in-a-barrel" schtick.  "I have zee feesh, vhy vould I need zee barrel?  Does the barrel make the feesh better? Do vee cook the feesh zee barrel?"  You had to be there I guess.

Brekkie on the Corto II, heavy leaden skies, air so wet you can squeeze water out of it and no skipper to be seen.  What does one do?  In these times, the only thing to do is take a page from Mattais' book and "embrace the saltiness."  So, I throw myself overboard, plunging into a delicious sea, cool only in comparison to the oven of the day.  And once in the sea, what then?  Why, a short commute to the island for walkies.  Shoes have been abandoned as they have no place on a sailboat.  "No shoes, no worries" says Mattais.  So no worries, except pehaps the coconuts.  In a breeze, and there is almost always a breeze here, the coconuts drop from the palms with a randomness and synchopated regularity that is a bit disconcerting.  In my short time here, I have been told that the leading cause of death amongst the Kuna is being bopped on the head by a falling coconut.  Food for thought when on walkies through the palm grove.  And the whole island is palm grove.  The plam roots are the only thing holding these tiny toothbrush head islands in one place.

We lounge in paradise, swim in paradise, laugh and giggle.  I have started a betting pool for when and if the skipper will show up today.  There is a sense that we should be moving, but no real reason to say why.  Is the next island better than this one?  

After lunch, the motor launch shows up but Sebastian does not.  There is a confab between the Kuna boatmen and ToTe.  Maintaining his happy face, ToTe relates to us that the skipper is one his way, maybe, from Panama City, or perhaps Colon'.  This is the last launch of the day, normally, but El Capitan is chartering another boat so as to arrive later today, Or maybe not.  Meanwhile, perhaps we should go snorkeling.  So I do.  Just as I reach the first island, I start hearing weird sounds through my snorkel.  Voices and then my name and.... its the zodiac with the Boyos and ToTe.  They are chaing me down to take me to a better spot.

I tumble into the zodiac and ToTe pilots us out past the reef to the site of a sunken sailboat.  There is a very macabre tale to go with the wreck, but that post is yet unwritten and unknown to us.  Backsplashing into the sea, we find ourselves hovering ten meters above the hull of a large sailboat which was perhaps fifty feet long at one time.  The hulk is sitting on its keel, the house long stripped by the sea and anything useful stripped by the local sailors.

I split off from the wreck and cruise the reef wall, gliding over parrot fish, gobies, wrasse, tiny jewel-llke cow fish and countless other species that I have no name for.  On and on in an endless parade of colour and motion,  We snorkel until it is time to give the Girls a turn.  ToTe drops us back at the Corto II and heads back out with the beauties aboard the zodiac.  

It is back to lounging.  Just as Mattias and I are discussing revisions to the betting pool, a motorlaunch pulls alongside and out pops a diminutive figure, none other than the illustrious Sebastian.  Jacko is in the cabin looking up at me and laughing in disbelief as I tell him the skipper is coming aboard.  He has that "Why would you be fucking with a Brother like that" look until he pokes his head out of the cabin to find El Capitan climbing over the side.  Hallelujah!

The Girls return, ToTe is happy, we are happy, but Sebastian is not happy.  There is no pero.  Despite his very serious efforts, all was for naught.  We get the entire pero tale directly from Sebastian, soon to be Sea Bass courtesy of the Aussies.  It is a sad tale indeed.  We also get the low down on our plans.  Lobster dinner on the beach tonight and then tomorrow off to another island where immigration will give us exit stamps on the passports.

Dinner is fantastic and much cerveza is consumed by the Boyos,  The rum comes out and tales fly.  It is late indeed when the last of the crew throws themselves down for another nights sleep in a sheen of salt sweat.   All is well, all is well, for tomorrow we weigh anchor.