Author: Igor

We didn’t linger in Obaldia—there wasn’t much to explore, and the place left us feeling a bit underwhelmed. So, we pressed on. Before sunset, we reached a stunning bay: calm, windless, and completely wave-free. It was the perfect anchorage for the night, especially after the previous evening, when rolling waves rocked us like an uneasy cradle. Let’s just say it wasn’t the coziest sleep.

There was one other yacht anchored nearby—a couple enjoying a quiet moment. He was from Uruguay, she from France. We exchanged warm conversation, though somehow forgot to ask each other’s names. It felt more like a shared pause in life’s voyage than a formal meet-and-greet.

That night was magical. The moon lit up the sea like silver, and the only sound was the distant roar of surf—reminding us that Caribbean swells never sleep, even if we could.

At sunrise, three locals paddled over in a traditional pirogue. Apparently, the bay wasn’t entirely free after all—anchorage came with a $10 fee. We only had a $20 bill, so they offered smoked fish, a bunch of bananas, and a generous pile of plantains as change. We sealed our little trade treaty with a can of beer each. Smiles all around. A peaceful exchange between sailors and the stewards of the sea.

After our morning coffee, we took the dinghy to explore. The place was fascinating: a few humble shelters perched right on the reef, built from palm thatch and sticks—some without walls, just hammocks swaying in the breeze. Not a soul in sight, only laundry fluttering on lines. It looked like a fishermen’s retreat, quietly waiting for their return.

The bay was lined with mangroves and coconut palms. Of course, we couldn’t resist topping up our supplies. We snagged a few coconuts—exactly what we needed. Our stash of nuts had run dry, and they cost a fortune in the villages. But with fresh coconuts and a bit of rum on board, we had all the ingredients for tropical happiness.

So, we feasted. Coconut cocktails, salty sea air, and the gentle rocking of the boat. Life at sea? Still sweet.

We reached the southern Caribbean border of Panama, anchoring in the remote border village of Puerto Obaldía. This was the only place in the country’s south where we could officially clear immigration and customs, so it was a necessary stop.

Every new country offers something unique to the travel experience—and having visited more than 20 countries on our voyage, we’ve seen quite a range—but after relatively prosperous Colombia, arriving in Obaldía felt like a stark contrast. The village greeted us with the gray despondency of an underdeveloped outpost: green-painted military barracks scattered among small, dilapidated homes, most belonging to fishermen.

A couple of tiny grocery stores carried little beyond bottled water and Coca-Cola. When we asked about cheese, we were shown processed slices wrapped in cellophane—the kind typically found in fast food burgers—sold individually as the only available cheese. Oatmeal? Dried fruits? Nuts? No sign of those. Fresh vegetables were nearly nonexistent; we managed to scavenge a single yellowing cucumber and a few tiny onions.

We were unprepared for such a limited food supply. In retrospect, we learned that anyone hoping to enjoy the nature of San Blas needs to arrive stocked with provisions. For now, we were experiencing the emotional mix of joy at finally reaching Panama and confusion at the reality of Panamanian village life.

If there was one familiar note, it was the bureaucracy. Immigration and customs officers—comfortably settled in air-conditioned rooms—mostly ignored us while glued to their smartphones. The port captain filled out no fewer than a dozen documents for us—by hand, in triplicate, using carbon copies. A third of them were just receipts for various fees. The forms were gigantic (A2-sized!) with tear-off stubs on both sides. The sheer volume of paper used was almost comical.

Visiting the military garrison was a memorable experience in itself. After reporting at the gate, I was escorted to a pier where a group of young soldiers sat inside a bunker-like post. The senior sergeant took my documents and spent half an hour meticulously copying them into a ledger—without any English on their part or Spanish on mine. I stood outside at the “reception desk,” which was essentially a machine gun slit in the concrete wall.

Eventually, we received clearance to remain in Panama.

As we walked along the beach, we found a few coconuts, which felt like a small victory. We loaded them aboard and set sail once again—this time heading north. It looks like 8°40′N was the southernmost point of our journey.
Well then… time to go north!