A man takes a small boat trip from Panama to Colombia, experiencing seasickness along the way. The captain, Henrik, is a weathered sailor who spends his days teaching and his nights drinking heavily. They stop at the San Blas Islands, where Henrik insults a local chief after drinking. One night during a storm, the drunk Henrik fails to help at the helm, forcing the man to steer through large waves alone. During a swim, the man panics upon seeing a fin in the water, but it turns out to be a playful dolphin. By the end of the trip as his seasickness worsens, they illegally enter Colombia at night to avoid authorities, with Henrik continuing to drink as

1. The grey slippery fins of a pod of dolphins sliced through neon green pools of
phosphorescence as I leaned over the edge of the small boat during a bout of sea
sickness. The captain, Henrik, fed me lumps of ginger and, slapping me on the
back, stated “You’ll get your sea legs soon.”
I was on my way from Panama to Colombia on a cramped vessel. The Caribbean
Sea was more inviting than the virtually impenetrable overland route through the
Darién Gap.
Henrik, a Swede in his 50s, had spent most of his life at sea. His leathery skin
was varnished from years exposed under the sun. Grey spikes sprouted from his
unshaven chin. He was a Scandinavian Jekyll and Hyde who lounged around
playing battleships and teaching me the ropes of sailing by day, and by night
transformed into an uncultivated drunk who imbibed potent tipples by the gallon.
His piercing blue bloodshot eyes stared unnervingly each evening as the horizon
swallowed the sun and I expected him to howl at any moment.
We wove our way through the San Blas Islands, hundreds of unspoilt mounds of
white sand and palm trees inhabited by Kuna, indigenous locals who fished and
paddled out to tempt us with their handmade jewellery of shells and coral. We
stopped off at one island and ate grilled fish, plantain and coconut but had to
make a retreat after an inebriated Henrik insulted the chief.
The following night I had to take the helm as Henrik, pickled in rum, failed to
emerge from his cabin. Waves the size of houses slammed into our skiff. One
threatened to envelop us as it crashed over the boat. Daytime brought calm.
We dropped anchor halfway. During a swim to a fleck of an island, I spotted a
fin protruding menacingly from the water nearby. I panicked and called out to
Henrik who raised a can of Balboa beer and smiled revealing his cracked yellow
teeth. My arms slapped and pulled at the water and my legs kicked for life. I soon
made land, cutting my feet on some coral. Over my shoulder my pursuer fled, a
playful dolphin.
Back on board Henrik rationed me to sips of water as my seasickness
deteriorated. He poured more hot sticky rum into his cracked highball glass and
challenged me to a game of battleships. The twinkling lights of Cartagena danced
on the horizon. Due to Henrik’s disdain for bureaucracy we entered Colombia
illegally under the cover of darkness. I never did find my sea legs.