Surrounded by jungle I wake on my boat to the sound of Howler monkeys

 and I’m scared. Not because I’m in Panama but because I am now 

committed to go through the canal into the Pacific. 

I have an agent, I have a date, it’s three weeks away.
Once I’m through the next stop will be the Marquesas, 

4000 miles away and about 6 weeks at sea. 

It will be the longest passage I’ve done on a boat of my own and it’s daunting.

How many gallons of water do I need to carry?

How much food, how many paper towels, how much diesel,

how much sunscreen?
My journey here started from Brooklyn New York (well Sydney Nova Scotia 

if you count the previous year.)
I left the boat up on the hard in Norfolk Virginia for a few months to wait 

out the Hurricane season then rounded Cape Hatteras, nicknamed the 

graveyard of the Atlantic for good reason, crossed the gulf stream off 

Beaufort North Carolina and sailed direct to San Salvador in the Bahamas 

tying up in a swell prone untenable marina, the only sailboat there during my 

two week stay.Joined by a friend with very little sailing experience I was

 lucky to have him for the next leg to Jamaica because I broke my hand 

when a wave washed me across the cockpit as we were sailing in the night

through the windward passage between Cuba and Haiti.
An accomplished race sailor came with me for the trip across the Caribbean 

to the San Blas Islands, home of the Guna Yala people (pronounced Kuna.)
The Guna Yala have managed to protect their unique culture and still travel

 inter island in and trade from dugout canoes.
Invited to several villages to celebrate their independence anniversary 

from Panama I got absolutely san blasted drunk on their down it in one go 

half a coconut bowl sized dark brown concoction of coffee, sugarcane, and 

wine and fell in a ditch trying to get into my dinghy. 

The next morning I had a huge black eye and a big cut down my shin.
It had been in fact my third blackout of that day. The first two were induced 

by a neck choke from my young Canadian friend Adam when we were comparing 

my martial art and his wrestling skills.
I’d met Adam in Jamaica where he’d sailed his 26 foot boat in to moor next 

to mine, the two smallest boats in the Marina.
We then buddy boated toward San Blas in sight of each other for about 

three of five days. We’d both been very apprehensive about

crossing the Caribbean. 

It can be kick ass with mountainous seas built by the strong trade winds 

and counter currents. As it turned out the trip was fast and exhilarating.
I started this piece by saying I’m scared about crossing the Pacific. 

Fair to say I was scared too about rounding Hatteras, crossing the Gulf stream, 

crossing the Caribbean and entering a strange harbor, especially at night.

They each have their horror stories.

I also have added anxiety when I untie the lines now because each mile is 

taking me further away from my family.

I’m scared a lot of the time when I’m sailing, worrying what might go wrong, 

what might break, what shortcoming might surface in my ability to cope.
That may be part of why I do it.
I’m afraid of being a coward.