Bolivia, Parte Uno

As the upcoming months are sure to be, once again, chockablock full of adventures, I thought it best to finish writing about the last major trip in 2013, in and around Bolivia….

As Ron always says, he hardly knew where El Salvador was, let alone wanting to hang out there for 7 months in 2012, and the same can be said about Bolivia.  We knew it to be linked to more than one story of coca plant production, and the exotic sounding Lake Titicaca, but yet again, our North American pre-conceived notions had it all wrong.  There is a wealth of adventure to be had in this high-altitude country, none of it drug related.  

Starting off in Copacabana, (a more modest version of the “other” one in Brazil), this was a hippie haven, yet complete with the nicest hotel we had stayed at in South America.  La Cupala, garnering rave reviews on Tripadvisor (our go-to source for lodging and restaurant recommendations) saw us kicking back and savoring the prior 6 weeks of traveling around Peru.  Not only were the accommodations remarkable and the views spectacular, but the food was also noteworthy – a unique blend of German, Bolivian, and North American.  The breakfast sandwiches were to die for. 

View from our back veranda, overlooking Lake Titicaca

The other best thing about Copacabana were the Pisco Sours.  Having worked our way around Peru and sampling our way from glass to glass, the restaurant on the corner of main street and the beach were the finest we had found.  We had several, just to be sure.  

 

But don’t let their neighbor fool you into thinking they make them just as good – they don’t.  We wanted to spread the wealth, but after the first disappointing offering, we switched 2 chairs over, and were rewarded with our tried and true favourite.  

We tried ALOT of these, to make sure they made them right each time!

 After the luxury stay, complete with fireplaces, verandas, full kitchens, and lots and lots of hot water, we were off to La Paz.  In light of the most recent ferry disasters, Bolivia has actually got it right.  The bus goes over on its own, while the people head over in a smaller boat.  Latin America has got the transportation thing figured out. 

Cracks me up.....we're at Lake Titicaca!

Can you imagine a ferry like this in North America?

If the bus goes down, the people won't be trapped inside!

The capitol city of La Paz….how can one describe chaos?  A monumental high valley effort of construction, poverty, ethnicity, altitude, Andean “south-americanness”.  We loved it. 

Andean Contruction Chaos

Hanging llama fetuses in “the witch’s market”….apparently they are good luck to be buried under your front door step.  We gave them a miss.     

No words....just no words

This festival was to celebrate the neighborhood’s anniversary.  Any excuse for a party and to drink beer. This view was from the window in our room.  We were treated to band practice on Thursday night, which BEGAN at midnight, then began again each day at 7pm, until 5am, until the last cat (or llama) was hung on Sunday.  To sleep, we drank as much as the locals. 

The liquor vendors lined the streets with cases of beer, and it became EVERYONE’S responsibility to try to finish them all off.  Bolivia’s way of toasting…..almost finish your glass of beer (usually in one glug) then fling the last sip onto the ground.  This is to appease and satiate Pachamama, Mother Earth.  I can live with that.   

The photo below was taken just before a street thief reached into my open fleece pocket and tried to make off with my camera lens cap.  With my captain standing by obliviously, I ran down the street, grabbed the guy, gave him a kick in the rear, got my lens cap back and went back to taking shots.  That’ll teach him….

Everyone sells beer

We found an excellent Mexican restaurant….

 

but the highlight……

Not since we had left Canada 4 years ago, had I seen it on a menu.  Found this in a tucked-in-a-corner British Pub.  Typical tho….they were out.  

Ron’s most-talked about Inca site we visited was Puma Punku and Tiwanaku, located an hour’s bus ride from Los Altos (the elevated suburb of La Paz and now home to the highest continuous cable car in the world, connecting the two cities).  If you’ve watched Ancient Aliens, they have some interesting theories, but suffice it to say that we saw some stuff there that was a tad unexplainable.  

Ancient hole cutter?

Bought a necklace with this Inca shape

FRAMED!

100 heads are better than one

Ancient blueprint or......head chopping zone?

Precision cutting

No explaining how they got them this precise

Weird.....

....just weird

and weirder

Dremel and router?

Whatever....another weird one

Boring!

I shall now hold the captain to greater precision

The next day was much anticipated.  We had done our due diligence and had visited (it seemed like) all of the bicycle tour companies that offered a trip down “THE WORLD’S MOST DANGEROUS ROAD”.  In true responsible style, for us, we decided on a company, not on the bikes, not on the safety gear, not on the guides or the price, but rather…..wait for it….on the design of their t-shirt.  Priorities, people, priorities. 

For anyone going to Bolivia, we consider this a “must-do”.  Starting at the top of the world – 15,000+ feet, you descend to 2500 ft. in several hours.  A few stops along the way for photo ops, lunch, beer, early dinner, and many opportunities to scare yourself silly are all part of the program.  Apparently, the Israelis seem to be the most prone to head over the edge.  Oh, and the guides too.  Lest you think there are NO risks, some 15 people have mistook a turn or two, ended up pitching over the side, and meeting their maker sooner than they anticipated.  All part of the fun.  

What a goof!

As you can see, it's COOOOOLLLLLDDDD!

Ready to go..

Still alive at the start

Surely the sign does not apply to us!

The way down..

Two way traffic....mmmm, not so much

Still not dead

We ROCK!

Pretty amazing lunch spot - notice the obligatory waterfall

At the bottom.....ahhhhh

While it WAS cold, it was also the WORST BEER EVER

Seriously?

The TEAM survives

I won’t bore you with tales of our visits to Sucre, or Potosi, but I will end the Bolivia segment with the highlight of the country for me.  Salar de Uyuni, the next posting…..

The best laid plans....

Plans?  Yes, we have many plans.  Plans to lose weight, plans to stop drinking so much, plans to start exercising more, plans to add stuff to the boat, plans to paint and play guitar more, plans to not spend so much money.  So many plans, so little initiative.  

Plans for where to head next….?  

Discussions are under way between captain and crew.  In one of the pockets of my suitcase, arriving from San Diego to Panama was a rather weighty tome.  Two pounds worth, to be exact - $140.09 on the visa card.  It is THE definitive cruising guide to Tierra del Fuego and Patagonia, Chile.  Actually, there were two of them there, the other copy for another boat that is also heading south to Chile.  

Ron really doesn’t want to put on foulies.  I think his time spent in BC has cured him of seeing any sort of weather that might cause him to shiver.  The icy blood tho that courses through my veins….another matter entirely.  I figure the frigid temps we experienced while in Bolivia were simply a precursor, and we should embrace our renewed acquaintance of all things brrrrrrrr.  

From what I can gather, it might be a bit more challenging to head further south by boat.  000 degrees, 35 minutes south is the furthest in that direction this boat has taken us.  But per a few blog posts ago, why be normal?  Why not just do the coconut run and call it good, heading to the Galapagos and then onwards towards the Marquesas, like everyone else?  Well mostly because we aren’t like everyone else, or at least we don’t think we are.  

Although I haven’t gotten Ron to sign off on the plan yet (my feminine wiles are still hard at work) he asked me again yesterday what “the plan” was going to be.  Here are my thoughts….

1. I reckon we’ll never get this way again with a sailboat.  No sense in not seeing everything there is to see. (Ron – yup, okay, I agree)
2. We have a boat, with its fully enclosed pilothouse, that is PERFECT for inclement weather – we should put her through the paces. (Ron – true enough, we’ve been sweating in 100 degree heat for 4 years now, it would be nice to just be cozy in there, for once)
3. I REALLY want to see Patagonia while I’m still ambulatory, and I really don’t fancy the costs and time it would take to fly or bus that far away from our home base of Bahia de Caraquez, Ecuador. (Ron – yes, because SAILING for 2000 extra miles doesn’t take any time!?!?!)
4. Because it’s there.  (Ron – well, yesssssss.)
5. We don’t have a schedule, and as such, we shouldn’t be in such a hurry to leave the western hemisphere.  “Hurry” of course in our world, has a different definition than what you see in a dictionary.  (Ron – but I’m in a hurry to see Easter Island)
6. Wouldn’t it be nice, for a change, to not sweat so much?  (Ron – you got me, there)
7. I miss the mountains, and can just picture us in the canals and islands around Puerto Montt.  (Ron – my mental picture is a bit fuzzier than yours!) 

       And so the discussion goes.  The one thing I AM clear on…..there will be times that it will absolutely be shitty.  The sailing will be tougher, the weather will be crappier, and the anchorages will be dicier.  I’ve told Ron tho, that if we DO decide to head south, that he MUST BE 100% ON BOARD, as I don’t want to ever hear the words ”I told you so.”

Me, I like to plan a lot.  I get tremendous satisfaction from putting together a traveling itinerary that works out.  I lie in bed at night, dreaming of future improvements to the boat.  The quantities of lists I’ve created in my lifetime are staggering.  Ron is happy to wake up in the morning, have a cup of coffee and figure out what he wants to have for breakfast, while I’ve got dinner planned, tomorrow’s activities sorted, and a grocery list for next month sketched out.   With my desire to head further south, not only do I need to come up with the plan for the next 6 months, but I also need to figure out when we’re headed to the Galapagos, when Ron will get to anchor next to the Moai heads on Easter Island, and when we have to apply for our long-term French Polynesia visa.  

Mmmm, maybe we should just head back north to Mexico……

All those in favour of being abnormal....stand up

I admit to having a severe case of itchy feet.  I’ve been this way all my life.   While many of my childhood friends still reside within the same community, I feel no angst in contemplating a change of venue.  A new province, a new state or country, a new house, a new neighborhood or job; for me, change is as necessary as breathing.  For many, deciding to move away from an established circle of friends and routine is anathema.  To leave behind family, and a house turned into a home, surrounded by cherished possessions to some is a foreign and inconceivable notion.  

For the last 4 years, Ron and I have moved from country to country, anchorage to anchorage, and have reveled in “the new”.  Ron is a bit more settled than I, and there have been times when the Captain and the Admiral have stood chest to chest to determine who had the right of way.  We both win, based on who wants to move or stay the most.  When I’ve seen a new view off the back of the poop deck every few weeks, to stick in one spot for more than a month is strange.  Which brings me to Panama…..

Here we still are.  We arrived here at the La Playita anchorage in the middle of January.  If someone had asked me where we’d be now, mid-April, I would have said that we would have made two or three trips out to the Perlas and back to Panama City.  Friends on other boats couldn’t get out of Panama fast enough, but strangely, we seem to have settled in here quite nicely.  We’ve been working on the boat (when don’t we?) but after the constant moving in 2013, it feels pretty great to stop and take a breath.  

Lest you think that I’ve been sedentary, I DID make a trip back to the states on a “parts run”, and ended up staying there for almost 5 weeks.  Two months ago, in a moment of sheer madness, (and there could have been some alcohol involved) one evening Ron and I bought a 5 acre parcel of land on ebay, sight unseen, in Puget Sound.  This trip to San Diego also included a trip north to Washington State to see just what we had done.  Located on Key Peninsula, across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, our little plot of land needs a bit of work, and by “bit” I mean that should we decide to keep this place and make it our own, our days of working on a sailboat will be interspersed with working to make a little plot of wilderness habitable. 

Neither Ron nor I are wedded to the idea of being a part of this sailing life forever; however we also know that to hang out in one spot for too long is also not what we are about.  The piece of land is a start to figure out just what we want to do when we are tired of this game.  Whether it be Washington based, sea-based, another little slice of heaven in some yet-to-be-discovered island or country, or a combination of two, or three, or more options, is up for discussion.  

From an early age, I never wanted to be normal.  When everyone in my “group” was smoking pot, I opted to be the only girl that didn’t.  When all my high school contemporaries were heading to the ball games, I was heading to a full time job.  When my friends were popping out babies left and right, my loins remained barren (thank GOD!!!!).  All those people that now consider becoming “alternative” with a tattoo, will not count me among the inked.   I’ve never regretted any of my choices, although some of them have given me a wrinkle or two.  To be ORDINARY just wasn’t something I was interested in.  I have only one life, and man, I mean to try to DO IT ALL! 

I've jumped ship

Have you ever noticed that when you decide to move, your new location seems to be WAY better than where you came from?  Everything is shiny, and waiting to be discovered.  Youth may have something to do with it.  I can remember "back in the day", when I had left the confining confines of my parents' house, and first unfurled my sails for Ketchum, Idaho.  It was, in my words, "the place where I will spend the rest of my life", as it seemed to fit me to a "t". Forward a few years, and a few men, and I once again found myself back in Canada, working amongst some of the greatest mountains on earth in Banff, Alberta.  Well, the descriptions defied logic - I was waxing my most eloquent. And then off I went to British Columbia, probably my most favourite place to date, to the pastoral setting of the Okanagan Valley.  "Why wouldn't all of Canada want to live here?", I cried.  And now the boat....

As any boater out there will tell you, this lifestyle comes complete with tremendous challenges, coupled with an abundance of soul-satisfying moments.  It provides you with a chance to live deeply, and figure out who you really are, because you are not constantly bombarded with "the real world" and it's infinite number of distractions.  Sometimes the realizations aren't so pleasant, but we all know that with any gain, there comes a certain amount of pain.  I'll take it.

However, every once in awhile, despite the old adage of "you can never go back", you CAN go back, but with new eyes, and a more mature heart.

I'm spending a few weeks here in San Diego, and have retraced my steps back to my folks' house in San Diego.  I spent a blissful 5 years here, back when I was a teenager, (as was the city).  It was a fantastic place to be stupid....really, really, stupid, as it still had a small town vibe back then.  The dubious decisions a teenaged blond long-haired surfer chick made did not have the dire consequences that perhaps could occur now.  I'm older, the long hair is gone, and the blond remains with the diligent efforts of hairdressers around the world.  I'm nowhere near as svelte as I used to be, and my fitness level has taken a beating, compliments of my lifestyle, and of seemingly not being able to say, "no, I've had enough wine, but thank you anyway." 

I'm here to buy the inevitable boat parts, which entails running around to many, many many stores, in many, many, many parts of the city.  San Diego is still great.  The weather, sublime.  The people, despite coming from all over the United States, soon settle in to the so. cal. life, adopting the cool attitude that prevails.  It's proximity to Mexico, despite what the crazy Republicans think, makes the eating here fabulous and enables the culture to remain a bit like it was back in the day when SD was still a part of Baja. 

I've discovered my love of San Diego again, and with the US in general. During my time back in Canada, it seemed to be quite fashionable to blast folks from the states, and yes, there are some attitudes that need a bit of adjusting (in my humble opinion).  But.....the customer service here is second to none.  The willingness of people to help is staggering.  After having spent the last 4 years traveling the entire Pacific Coast, primarily in latin america, the biggest joke is to hear, "no hay".  "No hay" has to be the single phrase we have heard the most.  Always followed by a very long silence.  Just "no hay".  ("no hay" means "don't have" in spanish).  It's not a language barrier that prevents the communication, it's just the seeming unwillingness to help that prevents people from uttering the second part of the sentence.  No hay, pero.........

Everything works here, everything is clean, and orderly, and the stuff you can buy.....good thing I don't have much money, as it would be gone.  The prices too, amazingly cheap.  Naysayers will say it's because of the labour costs in China, but right now, I'm in heaven.  The mail works, the shipping comes when it says, living is GOOOOOOOD here. 

This isn't to bash where we've been.  I've recently read that now that there is a new darling on the Hollywood scene, that the old "new" darling is getting blasted.  BOTH can be good, and BOTH can be appreciated for what they have to offer.  It's just that right now, I'm in Heaven, and "no hay", will be coming again soon enough. 

Bolivian Border Bungle

For this blog entry, I have only my words to describe the events taking us from Peru and into Bolivia, unfortunately (or perhaps, fortunately) no photos.  Besides, I’m not sure that pictures could adequately describe the series of events.  As any good storyteller knows, everyone wants to hear about adversity overcome, not the idyllic ho-hum tales that most people tell.  I’ll do my best here.

It was to be a fairly routine border crossing.  We jumped into a taxi to take us from our hostel in Puno to the bus terminal, where we caught the afternoon bus taking us to Copacabana, and planned to arrive in time for cocktail hour.  So far, so good.

The conductor on the bus, once we arrived at the Peru/Bolivian border in Yunguyo, was pretty straightforward in telling us he wanted no dicking around, and that we were all to get to Immigration, do our thing, and then back on the bus without any dawdling.  No problem, seňor, we aim to please.

Being a Canadian citizen, I get a pass in heading into Bolivia, but apparently the politics of the past, specifically those of George Bush, (the junior one) had pissed off Bolivia royally; specifically, requiring Bolivian citizens to have an expensive visa to head to the states.  Well, the childish tit-for-tat began, and now for US citizens to cross into Bolivia, they need to pay $135 US Dollars.  Not Bolivian bolivianos (the equivalent to $135) but actually $135 Dollars, from the United States of America.  Oh, and just to be clear, these can’t be just any dollars, they have to be perfect.  No, wait, they have to be Perfect.  Wrong again, they have to be…….PERFECT.   After 6 months in Panama, 1 month in Colombia, a month in Ecuador, and a month in Peru, (not to mention the previous 3 years in Mexico and Central America), perfect US dollars were in short supply.  

But I digress.

  

By now, after having talked ourselves blue pleading with the Immigration guy to accept our greenbacks and having him wave his finger at us, in the universal sign of “nope, not gonna happen”, to add insult to all this confounded injury, the bus started to pull away, AND THIS WITH ALL OF OUR LUGGAGE STILL ON BOARD.  A mad dash to get our stuff, back to the desk for more pleading, with the final realization that dusk was upon us, and cocktail hour had come and gone (greatest tragedy) and there we were.  Two old people, two sort of old people, forlorn with our bags, on the sidewalk.  A pitiful sight!

Right, I told myself, must do something.  So, back into the office I went. 

I looked at the Immigration guy and said that we needed to make a plan because otherwise I was leaving my parents, and my partner with him in his office, and I was jumping in a taxi to go to Copacabana by myself for a much needed Pisco Sour, because I could, you see, being Canadian and having the required stamp in my passport. 

He must have seen the crazed look in my eye and unbelievably gave us the nod, with the proviso that we return in the morning with the money. So there we were, the four of us, 2 old, 2 sort-of-old people, and we were now illegally in the country of Bolivia.  These sorts of things only happen in real life.  To add insult to injury, the taxi driver that was our replacement ride into Copacabana decided that the original $25 he had quoted actually was going to be $50, because he had detoured to an ATM (no luck) before dropping us off at our hostel.  After our time spent in Peru, and dealing with the surly cabbies there, Ron and I have adopted a more local attitude, giving tit-for-tat.  We walked away, not paying anything.  After 10 steps, I walked back to the driver, gave him the $25 dollars, and with him yelling and cursing, picked up my luggage, found my very large man, my by now closer to death parents, and stalked off into the night. 

The next morning, with the understanding upon us that we needed to get back to the border to get those stamps, off we headed to the ATM machine.  Guess what?  In Copacabana, Bolivia, there is no ATM that dispenses US dollars.  Joke was on us!!!  I reckoned that a field trip to the local Policia might be interesting to verify that we indeed needed to have US dollars to pay for the stamps, and after chatting with THE NICEST POLICEMAN AND WOMAN EVER, they sadly informed us that we were out of luck and needed to figure something out.  They couldn't help, oh, and besides, the banks were closed today and tomorrow (of course, it being Monday).  

We hightailed it back to the border, with me furiously thinking about how this was going to get solved.  With a mournful look in his eye, the Immigration guy tapped his watch when we walked in, pointing to the clock and waving his finger at us.  Because you see, the border changes time zones, and we were late by an hour.  Christ almighty, not looking good, right off the bat.  

I figured the only thing to do was to head back to Peru, and with the help of a helpful taxi driver we located an ATM machine that in fact DID dispense crisp US dollars.  I had a chat with the policeman at the border, informed him that I needed to make a run for it, and promising to be back within the hour, did I really need to check out of Bolivia and back into Peru?  Nope, first positive thing for the day!  Although I needed to withdraw upwards of $400 for 3 visas, I opted for the "better safe than sorry route", as who knew how many of them would come out "unperfect", and got $600.  Back to the border I went, waving at my buddy the Bolivian border copper, clutching my "hopefully" acceptable dollars, and revisited my super-good-buddy the Immigration guy.  We were friends by now, you see.  

He gave me the thumbs up, and away we went. 

Back to our land-based Adventures in Peru....

After Machu Picchu, we went to Arequipa, the White City, adjacent to the Colca Canyon and home to the Andean Condor (which we saw and Ron got “THE AWARD WINNING PHOTO”)

and a road that lead to ever-higher altitudes (if you can’t see it, that sign says 4,910 meters, which is 15,957.5 feet - GASP!)  Best high!!!! we’ve both ever had.  

 

Along the way we spotted the undomesticated vicuňa,

the “arrogant” llama,

 and the ever popular and loveable alpaca. 

Ron got to play with a new “toy” the folks brought with them.  Now we will always know where we are, and why we can’t breathe. 

Our first sighting of Lake Titicaca, heading into Puno.  

Peruvian Bulls to bring good luck to the casa.  We would have bought a set for the boat, but couldn’t figure out where we would mount them!

Returning to the ever popular and morbid theme of the trip, we visited Sillustani, yet another burial technique employed by the Inca. 

Ron wants me to make sure that his tomb is THIS BIG!

 

Traffic Signal, Uros Floating Islands style, Lake Titicaca, Peru.  

In this part of Peru, and into Bolivia, we found out that the feminine ideal of beauty was to be as wide as you are tall. 

Pretty creative with their version of the taxi….

 

While we were pretty amazed at how traditional (read primitive) these people were, there was evidence of very much being a part of the 21^st century.  Plastic bottles degrade a lot slower than reeds, and their buoyancy is renowned in the sailing community around the word.

and recognizing that at this altitude there is plenty of sun, panels were being used to charge everything from lights to television sets on the floating islands.  

Unfortunately, this place above all others in Peru, had thoroughly embraced the money grubbing attitude of “take the tourists for all you can get.”  A ride across the lake in one of the traditional rafts was going to cost $18 for the 5 minute ride, and when a little girl came up to us, unrequested and unsolicited, and proceeded to sing us a song, we were told to pay up.  This is a very interesting place, to be sure, but hang on to your wallets!  

Next stop, Bolivia!

We're UNMISSING

Yesterday was an interesting day.  Here in Panama, there is a SSB net called the Pan Pacific net that runs daily, keeping tabs on transiting yachts, and others that wish to stay connected.  We check in when we are underway, but are more sporadic and complacent when at anchor at our destination.  We therefore were somewhat startled when we heard our boat name mentioned in association with a Coast Guard alert having been issued, and then rescinded.  ?!?!?  Not knowing that anything was amiss (we looked at each other and asked if we were both okay) we jumped on the radio to inform the notifying boat that yes, all was well and we were calmly and happily having our morning coffee at Isla Espiritu Santo, Panama.   

Remember when you were a teenager and were blissfully charging around at night, getting into all sorts of mischief, but knowing that all was well and you were out living life?  Back then, the impeding loom of adulthood was crooking its boney finger at you, and you were eager to skip towards it with your increased freedom.  Meanwhile, back home your mum and dad were pacing the floor, surely knowing that a call from the hospital/police/friends’ parents was imminent.  

Just because you grow old, doesn’t mean that you grow up.  

Ron and I knew we were fine, but others didn’t.  We had left Ecuador on December 12^th, bound for Panama and the Las Perlas Islands.  We made record time, enjoying a blissful 3 days of solid sailing, before we had to turn the engine on to get into the Bay of Panama.  Dropping the hook at the southern end of the Las Perlas at Punto Cocos, we settled into enjoying the wonderful clear and clean waters of this island group after having been based in the murky river of the Rio Chone, outside of Bahia de Caraquez, Ecuador for the last 6 months.  Seven days flew by.  We heard on the radio that there were going to be a few boats rendezvousing 20 miles north, so up came the hook and we headed for Espiritu Santo.  

Making a long story not-so-short, a plan was hatched to head to the Rio Sambu, Darien, in the Gulfo de San Miguel, and spend the New Year’s holiday up at a village called La Chunga, which we did, along with 5 other boats.  Another week went by, and once we returned to our starting point of Espiritu Santo, we managed to whittle away another few days.  And then the CG alert…..

My folks are nearing their 80’s and I was not going to be responsible for a shortening of their remaining years on earth through worry.  Ron and I upped the hook, and headed north to Isla Contadora, where we knew there was internet.  Getting onto Skype, Facebook, and retrieving our emails was enlightening.  We got in touch, posted updates, and read worried words of concern from friends far and wide.  More than anything, I was grateful that people were worried about us, as it would have been horrifying if no one cared.  

A word about “the system”.  In true teenager style, Ron and I are complacent about emergency procedures.  A bit ostrich-like, I reckon that if I don’t think about and make contingency plans, nothing bad will happen.  Our ditchbag used to have water in it, but we drank it all.  It used to have granola bars, but they melted away in the heat and humidity and haven’t been replaced.  We have a mirror in there, obviously for me to do my hair and makeup while in the life raft.  I think there is a copy of our passports, but I’m not really sure.  Our life raft was certified……four years ago, not annually as is recommended. What we HAVE done tho, is to leave a description of the boat, the official call signs and numbers and a procedure for those on land on what to do in the event of an emergency (like not hearing from us for a while).  And “the system” came through.  My sister called the Coast Guard, an alert went out via a man in the Caribbean that monitors these things (thanks Glen Tuttle) and a message came to us via a sailboat that had heard of this alert.  It went through the channels, and based in our little hidden away anchorage in remote Panama, we got the message that we were missing in action, and you now know….”the rest of the story.”

There was an interesting, and a bit testy, exchange between a few people on my announcing on Facebook that we were unmissing.  There is a fine line between living our cruising lifestyles, and being responsible (and respectful) of the feelings of those people back home.  While we are out here, we KNOW that our sailboat will protect us, we try to make decisions that will not end in disaster, and we gratefully enjoy every moment that has us shunning our past “traditional” routines and responsibilities.  But ultimately we need to remember that just because we’ve made these choices, those we’ve left behind haven’t, and we need to be ever mindful of their feelings too.  Will we leave this lifestyle?  An emphatic and resounding no.  Will we attempt to prevent this from happening again? Of course.  The older I get, the more that communication continues to be the most important strategy for resolution of conflict, either in a lifestyle, a relationship, or a diplomatic alliance.  

To those of you that cared enough to care, we both thank you from the depths of our being.