While what remained of a rock lobster dinner was being picked through at a makeshift dinner table up the beach, I walked down to the water to rinse my hands.
The air was still, and the clear sky revealed an inordinate number of stars. As I waded in, I started to notice tiny flashes of neon chartreuse light in the water. With each movement, vibrant, irregular patterns sparkled and dissipated. What almost looked like underwater fireflies were bioluminescent dinoflagellates, glowing when agitated.
I’d seen them in other parts of Central America, but this was different. For a few short minutes, in a scene out of Life of Pi – minus, of course, any heartbreak or adversity – I had that mesmerizing natural phenomenon entirely to myself. Before I reluctantly returned to tell everyone else what I’d found, I took in the moment; and I’ll keep it with me for the rest of my life. Alone under the stars, I knelt down and watched little bursts of light materialize as I ran my hand through the warm Caribbean water.
The San Blas Islands lend their natural brilliance to moments like that – like the morning I woke up on the deck of our sailboat. Sipping a cup of coffee, I watched as the sun rose as languidly as I had. After a breakfast of fresh papaya, toast and orange juice, I stretched, strolled to the back of the boat, and dove headfirst into perfect aquamarine water. Such was life in San Blas.
The 378 islands that make up Las Islas San Blas are arranged just north of Panama’s Caribbean coast; and even though the rugged coastline looms on the horizon, island-hopping through the archipelago keeps one blissfully unaware of the rest of the world. All told, I set foot on eight of the islands – two percent of the archipelago’s remote, untamed wildness. But what I saw over just a few days of exploring that two percent was as much gorgeous biodiversity as I’ve seen in years spent elsewhere. Huge starfish lay bedded in pillowy white sand; dense mangroves hid lazing crocodiles; and every-color fish swam through intricate coral outgrowths. And, just like that personal light show I was treated to, I felt like I had it to myself (the sailboat itself was a different story entirely).
The majority of the islands in San Blas are undeveloped. The Kuna people, native to San Blas and the surrounding Kuna Yala province, are the only inhabitants of the islands. They have their own language, laws, and flag; and they may properly be credited for maintaining the islands’ pristine condition.
Thirteen of us, including captain and crew, made the crossing from Puerto Lindo, through the islands, and eventually to Cartagena, Colombia. We were from all over the world – Holland, Austria, Colombia, France, Canada, Australia, Ireland, and the US – sailing on a 45-foot cutter that probably still would’ve been uncomfortable had there been six fewer people aboard (which is why I found myself sleeping on the deck more nights than not). But the tight quarters helped facilitate the interesting multi-cultural exchange that’s bound to take place between so many people, from such different parts of the world. We had no choice but to bond – meaning they had no choice but to listen to me, the lone representative of the US, try obnoxiously to convince everyone on board that Austin, Texas is a paradise not unlike the one through which we were sailing.
Also, it’s easy to bond when you’re spending your days in places like Isla Perro Chico. If you google San Blas, the first picture you see will probably be of Isla Perro Chico. I like to think that if you google utopia, or paradise, or any other cliched descriptor, you’ll see a picture of Isla Perro Chico. We arrived in the morning, anchored in the channel, and hopped off the boat to explore. The coral proliferating in and around the reef (and the huge shipwreck that lay just off the island) made for unbelievable snorkeling. The afternoon we devoted to lounging in baby powder sand, and sipping Balboas in the sun. Little Dog Island may be bizarrely named, but it truly is a utopian paradise.
When the sun dipped back below the palms, the captains grilled freshly caught rock lobster (the Kuna sell enormous crab and lobster specimens out of dug-out canoes for the very reasonable price of $3 apiece. Toward the end of the trip I joked about how tired I was of lobster).
After dinner, a Kuna man brought out a guitar, and was nice enough to let me play while we all sat around the fire. The playlist was heavy on Texas singer-songwriters.
I think everyone experiences moments when the universe feels balanced. They’re borne by an ideal confluence of elements that, almost synergistically, surround and envelop you. They can feel at once brazenly simple, and exceedingly profound – like when I stood out on the deck of a sailboat at three in the morning, after 36 long hours crossing open sea, and finally caught a glimpse of the bright lights of Cartagena on the horizon. And they are the moments that, fleeting as they may be, will stay forever imprinted on your memory – like the time I stood alone in warm Caribbean water, completely at peace, and illuminated only by a star-filled night sky and the sparks of light at my feet.