On Isla Venado I stabbed myself in the foot during a shellfish collecting accident. Lots of blood. Blood on the rocks. Shellfish abandoned. We had to paddle about a mile back to the boat with my foot wrapped up tight in my t-shirt to control the flow. Sadly it wasn’t bad enough for the captain to issue vicodin and I had to make due with the usual rum ration (and lentil soup for dinner).
We’re now in Ensenada Muertos were I’ve been on coco detail. I’m usually too lazy and too afraid of heights to climb the trees so we mostly just collect ones that have fallen on the beach. Something usually gets to ’em before we do though. Not counting the ones obviously opened with a machete they have small holes torn in the top with all the milk and meat gone. I don’t think the hermit crabs are strong enough so it must be the monkeys. I’ve seen one with it’s hand in one of those little holes. Looking guilty. We don’t have a machete which makes it really hard for this monkey to get the goods. I’ve been using the emergency hack-a-hole-in-the-hull hatchet and the back end of a framing hammer. It’s a lot of work.
Oh yeah, too much coconut gives you the runs so take it easy.
It’s not all wounds and work, of course. Western Panama turns out to be what I had in mind when we left San Francisco. Gentle sailing among many gorgeous uninhabited islands. A tan and topless Cheyenne at the helm. Lush jungle, warm water and cool nights. Really uninhabited, I mean we haven’t seen anyone in 3 days.