20,000 Miles South

by Helen Schreider

  “Don’t worry about our dog. She’s as gentle as a puppy.”

  “It’s not your dog I’m worried about. It’s my cat.”

  “We always keep Dinah on a leash. We won’t let her hurt your cat.”

  “But you don’t understand. I’m afraid my cat will hurt your dog.”

  I could not imagine even the most anti-dog cat going out of its way to attack one-hundred-pound Dinah, but we found out that this was no ordinary cat. The next day as we were taking Dinah for a walk we saw it—a battle-scarred, gray-striped tom with ragged ears and a super superiority complex. He clearly believed that he was a direct descendant of Leo the Lion. Lying on the hotel desk, he surveyed his domain with an expression that defied man or beast to usurp his place. Even Dinah was impressed and backed away. But that was not enough. Carefully the cat stretched, flexed his muscles, and unsheathed his claws, all with premeditated and leisurely assurance. With a yowl that would make a Zulu cringe, he leaped. The three of us stood frozen. The quick-thinking manager made an off-the-fence, one-handed catch and grabbed him by the tail. For the balance of our stay there we took no chances. Helen scouted ahead to make sure that the cat was not around, then Dinah and I sneaked out.

  Our room was a long narrow cell on the third floor, and from the balcony window—we always asked for a balcony room so Dinah could sun herself while we saw the town on foot—was a view of the old cathedral. Near the waterfront on a point of land jutting into the bay, the hotel was in one of the oldest sections of Panama, an area of odd-shaped blocks with wooden and tin-fronted buildings. Overhanging balconies seemed to provide the residents of the town with their main source of recreation, watching the activities of the street. A few blocks from the hotel was the palace of the President of Panama, a white stone building where tame egrets strutted around a fountain in the mother-of-pearl mosaic foyer. Crossroads of the world with the Panama Canal, the city had an international air: shops with names like Sun of India, Bazar Hindustani, Tahiti, and French Bazaar lined the main Avenida Central, displaying luxuries from almost any country one can name. One thing, however, was the same as in all Latin-American sheets, the snail’s pace of the pedestrians.

  When we called at the USIS office in Panama City we found that Mr. Casier and Mr. Rambo were expecting us. Mr. Hunsaker had written to them from San José. They asked what our plans were from Panama. On a large wall map I traced our proposed route. Between Panama and Colombia there is nothing but mountains and the impenetrable Darien jungle. Someday the Pan American Highway will run through there, but at that time not even a survey had been made. As in Costa Rica, we planned to bypass this last break in the highway by sea.

  “So far,” I said, “this is still only a theory and, as I learned in Costa Rica, my theories don’t work out too well. In the Pacific the eighteen-foot tide and the heavy surf caused most of our difficulty. That’s the main reason we have chosen the Caribbean with its foot-and-a-half tide to reach Colombia. Also it is the shortest route, some two hundred and fifty nautical miles. At Turbo, Colombia, there is a connecting road to the Pan American Highway. This time we plan to see the coast line first by plane. If there are protected coves not more than twenty miles apart, with luck we should be able to make it.”

  Mr. Casler shook his head. “That part of the Caribbean is some of the worst water in the world. It’s thick with coral reefs, the San Bias Indians are reputed to prohibit white men from spending a night on their islands, and storms come without warning. How about your jeep? How seaworthy is it?”

  “Well, right now it’s not seaworthy at all, after the beating it took on the railroad. But I can make it seaworthy again. I’m looking for a place where I can work on it. I have my own tools, and what spare parts I don’t have are standard jeep parts. I can get them at the Willys agency.”

  “Let me call a friend of mine,” Mr. Casler said. “He might be able to help.” He lifted the phone and asked for Albrook Air Force Base, public relations officer. “I have a couple of people in my office who are traveling the Pan American Highway the hard way—in an amphibious jeep. They are planning to take to the Caribbean in it to get to Colombia.”

  I could hear the “You’re kidding” across the room.

  “No, it’s the truth, but their jeep took an awful beating in Costa Rica. They have all their own stuff to do the job, but they need someplace to work on it. How about sticking them away in some corner of the vehicle maintenance shop on the base? Fine, let me know when you’ve found out.”

  Mr. Casler put down the phone. “He’s going to call me back.” Continuing, he said, “One of our jobs here is to disseminate information on Latin-American affairs, and the Pan American Highway could use a little publicity. Would you mind giving an interview to the English-language press?”

  Later that day we learned that permission had been granted to work on La Tortuga at the Air Force base, the first of many wonderful things that the armed forces did for us during our stay in Panama.

  The next day held several surprises. The first occurred in the afternoon when we were trying to sneak Dinah into the hotel past the sleeping cat. Waiting in the lobby was an old friend.

  “I almost dropped the paper when I picked it up this morning and saw you two staring from the front page. How about moving in with me while you’re in Panama?”

  It was Lee Slick, with whom I had worked in Alaska. An electrical engineer, a bachelor, and a jolly fellow with a keen sense of humor, he was now working for the Panama Canal Company. We thanked him for his generous offer, but declined.

  “We’ll be in Panama for quite a while,” I said, “and two extra people and a dog would be more than a crowd in a small apartment.”

  “That’s all right,” Lee grinned, “I like dogs. I’ll be down to move you in at six o’clock Monday morning.”

  And that was that.

  The second surprise came when we went up to our room. I saw a torn scrap of paper lying on the floor in the dark hall. I don’t even know why I picked it up. On it was scrawled, “snider admerl 5 auto,” and a telephone number. The Negro maid was nearby, and I asked her if she knew anything about it.

  “Wha, yes suh,” she said in her lilting Jamaican English. “Ah left thot note fo ya. Ah’m the ony one what speaks English heah, so Ah tuk tha message.”

  “Thank you, but who was it?” I inquired.

  “Oh, Ah don know, suh, but it wuz a ‘mercan gennulman.”

  When I called the number, I heard, “Commandant’s office. Captain Green speaking.”

  I was sure there was some mistake, but I gave my name and said that I had received a note with that telephone number.

  “Oh yes, Mr. Schreider, I’m glad you called. I have been trying to reach you all day. The commandant has invited you and Mrs. Schreider to a little party this afternoon. If you can make it, a car will pick you up at 5:00 P.M.”

  It was four-thirty then. The helpful maid dug up an ancient iron, and, using a wobbly round table for an ironing board, Helen frantically pressed her one party dress and my wrinkled suit. We were ready when a gray Pontiac with the two stars of a rear admiral stopped in front of the hotel. My shirt already sticking to my back, fresh collar wilting, my suit feeling like a fur parka in the 95 per cent relative humidity, I was uncomfortably set for a very formal evening. I was in for a surprise.

  As the car pulled into the circle drive of a royal-palm-ringed home in the Canal Zone, the sound of marimbas came from the open windows. At the door we were met by a tanned, vigorous Naval officer wearing white trousers and a white short-sleeved sport shirt with shoulder bars.

  “You must be Helen and Frank,” he smiled. “I’m Admiral Miles. Come in and take off that coat. We don’t stand on formality here.”

  That was our introduction to Rear Admiral Milton E. Miles, Commandant of the 15th Naval District, Canal Zone, Republic of Panama, an officer and a gentleman by much more than an act of Congress. We were led into a spacious living room, where a cocktail party was in progress in honor of the
officers of a Colombian destroyer. On the veranda the ship’s band was playing, flanked by the yellow, blue, and red Colombian flag, Old Glory, and another flag which I looked at twice before I believed it—a navy-blue, long, triangular pennant with three question marks, three exclamation points, and three asterisks, ???!!!***. At a convenient moment I asked Admiral Miles about it, but his eyes just twinkled, and all he would say was, “Oh, that’s my what-the-hell pennant.”

  At seven o’clock the party broke up, but the admiral’s aide asked us to stay. It was a starry night, and the fragrance of cape jasmine filled the air. While the other guests were departing, we looked at reminders of the admiral’s China tours of duty: subtle Chinese scrolls, tiny jade wine cups, ivory and crystal figures, and some signed netsukes. On the desk in the study was a miniature of a lovely lady, Mrs. Miles, who at the time was touring South America. After everyone had gone, Admiral Miles brought out a thick bundle of hydrographic charts.

  “I read in the paper this morning that you plan to navigate an amphibious jeep through the Caribbean to Colombia. I feel it is my duty to warn you that this is a very dangerous and unpredictable stretch of water.” He spread the charts on the floor and pointed out the hazards. From the book of Sailing Directions he read to us of the winds, currents, and stormy seasons. “After seeing these charts what do you think?”

  “Well,” I admitted, “it doesn’t look very encouraging.”

  “I suggest that you think about it tonight. Would you care to go to church with me at the Navy chapel tomorrow morning?”

  After Sunday services the next morning Admiral Miles invited us to his home, where he again brought out the charts. “What have you decided?”

  “Helen and I talked about it until late last night. We can’t turn back now. We have to give it a try.”

  He was very serious. “Officially I must advise you against this. But if you are determined to do it, I can’t stop you.” He smiled. “And so we want to help you all we can. Now let’s go over these charts again.”

  In the weeks that followed, while Helen caught up on long-overdue letters, I worked every day on the jeep. Its condition was even worse than I had imagined. In addition to new shock absorbers and three tires and tubes I installed a new clutch and three new rubber seals in the bottom of the hull. I overhauled the winch, transmission, carburetor and generator, and ground the valves. It took a welder a full day to repair the holes in the battered hull. For added security I bought and installed a 15-horsepower outboard motor for emergency power in case of failure of the main engine. The overhang, which had bothered me when we built the cab, provided a perfect mount for the outboard motor. By cutting a hole in the bottom of the overhang and inserting the stem of the motor through it, we had access to all controls from inside the jeep. With a piece of old inner tube I sealed around the motor stem so that water could not enter.

  At the end of three weeks La Tortuga was ready for her post-overhaul shakedown, and Admiral Miles was on hand to witness it. As we tested her in a bay near the entrance to the Canal, we were enthusiastic about her lively performance. Unloaded, she had almost a foot of freeboard, though admittedly her stern still drooped. We circled the bay and returned to the beach. Though I knew the admiral was a man of few words, I thought he would make at least some comment. Instead he just shook his head and walked away.

  We had arrived in the Canal Zone via the Pan American Highway along the Pacific side, and would leave via the Caribbean. This presented no problem since there is a fine concrete road across the Isthmus, some fifty miles. But it was suggested that since La Tortuga had been through everything else she really should go through the Canal too. We thought it was a fine idea. Accordingly, Captain Green put in a call to his friend, Captain Abe Lincoln, the Balboa port captain.

  “Hello, Abe,” he said. “I’ve got a jeep here that wants to go through the Canal.”…“No, I’m not pulling your leg.”…“Okay, I’ll send them right over.”

  Captain Green turned to us. “Captain Lincoln said that he wants to see any jeep that can go through the Canal. So go over and introduce him to La Tortuga.”

  Captain Lincoln, a stocky, genial Naval officer wearing a civilian white linen suit, was waiting for us when we drove into the parking lot of the port captain’s office. After one look at La Tortuga he laughed. “When do you want to make the transit?”

  Although we wanted to make a complete transit of the Panama Canal from the Pacific to the Caribbean, there were two factors which made this impossible in the opinion of the Canal authorities. One was the low speed of La Tortuga, which would tie up traffic. The other was the terrific turbulence that results when water floods the locks to raise ships from sea level on the Pacific side to the eighty-five-foot elevation of Gatun Lake, near the Caribbean, the highest part of the Canal. However, in going from Gatun Lake toward the Pacific there was no such turbulence. Consequently it was decided that we would make only a partial transit, and in the opposite direction from which we were heading.

  But it was all in fun and, tongue in cheek, the Canal authorities gave us the full treatment. Like a regular ship, La Tortuga was admeasured for her Panama Canal tonnage certificate and charged at the official rate of seventy-two cents per ton. After paying her tolls of $1.44 we received our ship’s papers and were introduced to our Canal pilot, Captain R. G. Rennie. Old-timers jested that this was the first time any ship was admeasured on dry land and then drove to the port captain’s office to pick up her pilot. Before we were permitted to continue, however, since our craft was not quite up to standard, we were required to sign a release from indemnity. It solemnly declared La Tortuga’s more obvious deficiencies: there were projections on the sides, there was no Plimsoll mark, chocks and bits were inadequate, vessel was probably overloaded and had excessive drag (the understatement of the year), and the first mate had no Coast Guard certificate.

  With Captain Rennie we drove to a steep bank near the entrance to the Gaillard Cut, where we slid into the water of the Canal. At 2:38 P.M., on May 11, 1955, with her flag flying, the M.S. La Tortuga steamed into the Pedro Miguel Locks, dwarfed by the tanker Cristobal. For lack of a bridge Captain Rennie sat on top.

  Since this was a historic crossing—the first commercial transit of an amphibious jeep—the Canal authorities had declared open house, and children were let out of school to witness the performance. For us $1.44 was a cheap price to pay for the experience of going through a project that cost almost 400 million dollars. We had already learned one thing in searching for a place to enter and leave the Canal. Contrary to our belief, it did not run east and west, but ran closer to north and south.

  Just before the end of the locks Captain Rennie gave the command, “Back full,” and we stopped at the huge chain and waited while the four-hundred-ton gates swung shut, and enough water to supply a city the size of Boston for one day roared out by gravity through eighteen-foot culverts. Feeling like a minnow in the ocean, we dropped with the water thirty-one feet in less than ten minutes to the level of Miraflores Lake. The heavy gates swung open, the chain clanked down, and the jeep chugged into the lake and around to the landing of the Pedro Miguel Boat Club. There Brigadier General J. S. Seybold, Governor of the Canal Zone, headed a welcoming committee. There was considerable merriment when Governor Seybold, after taking a look at the size of La Tortuga, said that we must have been overcharged, and offered to refund our tolls. Later that day we were made honorary members of two yacht clubs. But the thing that caused endless jokes was our Wrong-Way Corrigan act in going toward the Pacific. “If they don’t even know which way the Caribbean is, how do they hope to navigate two hundred and fifty miles of it?”

  The last part of that comment, the reference to navigating the Caribbean, was something that Helen and I were thinking about in a more serious vein. Still shaken by the experience in Costa Rica, we knew that charts alone provided no indication of actual conditions. An aerial survey seemed the only answer. In a low-flying airplane we checked the coast line, marking on
the charts what appeared to be possible places to go ashore for the night or in case of a storm. Jagged rocks and cliffs broke the dense jungle that grew to the sea, but worse was the barrier of ugly brown coral reef that lined the shore. The water, emerald green, speckled with silver, mottled with reef, and snowy with foam, was dotted for a hundred miles with the islands of the San Bias Indians. The plane swooped low over several of the islands, and there was a pandemonium of activity as the Indians ran from their thatched huts, their red headdresses like bright confetti on the white sand.

  From the flight it was obvious that we could count on no beach driving. The entire operation would have to be by sea, but, as bad as the coast line was, there appeared to be places where we could thread our way through the reefs to get to shore. In order to reduce our draft as much as possible we shipped home everything we could do without, extra clothes, portable radio and, sadly, most of our library. And everything we would not need for the next three weeks, including our two suitcases, we sent ahead to Bogotá, Colombia. Costa Rica had shown that our gas consumption at sea was greater than I had anticipated, but despite this, because of the great need to reduce our load, we decided not to carry any extra fuel in addition to the regular forty-six gallons and the six gallons in the outboard motor tank. For the rest of the estimated hundred gallons that we would need, we would have to rely on the small boats that plied the coast to trade with the Indians.

  After five weeks in the Canal Zone we were ready to leave. Lee Slick, our host, true gentleman that he is, said he was sorry to see us go. Our last Sunday we again attended church services in the base chapel, where Chaplain Cyril Best gave us a copy of the small Armed Forces Prayer Book. The chaplain, in his usual quiet way, smiled and said, “I’ve marked the Navy hymn. There might come a time when you would like to refer to it.”

  Before we left, Admiral Miles requested that we give a copy of our day-by-day itinerary to Captain Thorn, commanding officer of Coco Solo Naval Air Station, near Colón, on the Caribbean side of the Isthmus. “Since this next part of your journey is to be entirely by sea,” the admiral said, “we want to know where you plan to be at all times. The communications officer here will loan you a small two-way radio. In case of emergency or change of plans you can communicate with the practice patrol flights in the area. You can return the radio to the Naval mission when you reach Bogotá, Colombia.”