2026 Sailing Trip - A Bag of Coins, A Smoky Haze, and an Ice Cream in Cobourg

This morning, all becomes clear…and not clear.

What becomes clear is the irritated eyes and sauna-like cedar smell yesterday was because of forest fire smoke blown in by the north winds. What becomes unclear is the air – today there is a thick smoky fog cutting visibility but casting a beautiful orange haze over the landscape. We push off the dock at 7 am and motorsail for two hours to the entrance of the Murray Canal – a 5 mile waterway that cuts through the west end of Prince Edward County and provides access to Presqu’ile Bay and Lake Ontario. We have transited this canal two or three times in the past, and while it is a beautiful and quiet little jaunt, there is a catch;  there are two swing bridges, first the Carrying Place bridge, then the Brighton Road bridge, and at the second one you are required to pay a toll of either $4.90, $5.35, or $6.25, depending which government website you Googled yourself into. How do you pay the toll, you ask? Not by e-transfer. Not by tap. And not by cheque. You pay the toll by dropping cash into a long-handled basket, held precariously over the water by a smiling summer student (previous dog catching experience an asset, but not strictly required). The first challenge is finding the money (try digging into the crevices of all wallets, purses, shopping bags, drawers, baskets, chart tables, cushions, and envelopes on board). The second is actually getting it into the basket as you pass by at four knots (this requires the precision of a teenage gamer or a champion cornholer).

In preparation for the exchange, I collect all coins on the boat and, miraculously, assemble a total of nearly seven bucks in a combination of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies cut across three currencies – Canadian, American, and Bahamian. I also found a Cuban peso and a battered Portuguese Escudo which I included as tokens of good will. There is not a single coin left on the boat and I am happy to be handing them over.

The first swing bridge lets us and another sailboat pass through. We continue on and are soon met by a large trimaran, taking up most of the width of the channel so we ease to the right and skim by the rocks on the shoreline, just keeping in the deep water. Shorly after that the sailboat ahead of us begins steering haphazardly and his speed is erratic. He waves at me to pass and as we do he tells us he is having engine issues and needs to turn back. As we approach the second swing bridge I get a call from the bridge operator on VHF channel 14.

“Sailing vessel approaching, what happened to your buddy? Over.”

“You mean that other sailboat? He’s not my buddy, but seems like a nice guy so I suppose we could develop a friendship in the future if I ever see him again. Over.”

“Right. And what did you do with your potential future buddy? Over.”

“Ah yes, he turned around and went back the other way when he realized he had to pay a $6.25 toll and had no cash money. Over.”

“The toll is actually $5.97, which is a 2.23 percent inflationary increase from last year. But you guys are both in luck. Well, maybe just you now, but anyway ever heard of the Canada Strong program? Over.”

“Yes sir, that’s where Mark Carney created a $25 billion dollar fund out of imaginary money created by his old buds at the Bank of Canada. Over.”

“You’ve been keeping on top of the news. Anyway, the fund is paying everybody’s tolls this year. Mark Carney’s henchwomen showed up here in May with a whole Brinks truck full of scrap pennies, nickels, and dimes and dumped them in a big pile over by the septic tank. Every time a boat passes through we grab $5.97 of currency shrapnel, roll it up, and send it back to Mark via a daily high priority courier bag that gets flown back to Ottawa by helicopter. So this is your lucky day my friend. Over.”

“Well that all sounds great, but what am I supposed to do with this plastic baggie of coins that took me 90 minutes to find and count? Over.”

“Program ends in October. Bring it back then and I’ll be happy to take that money bag. Have a pleasant journey. Swing bridge out.”

“SeaLight out.”

We clear through the channel and emerge in Presqu’ile Bay, my least favourite part of Lake Ontario. I don’t like it because it is shallow, tricky to navigate, the charts are wrong in a couple of key spots, it’s weedy, and the goddamn wind is always blowing like stink. Also, I don’t like the name. Too French. And that misplaced apostrophe really gets on my nerves.

Soon (but not soon enough) we are back on Lake Ontario and discover that yesterday’s heavy winds have flipped the lake, and the surface water which was a balmy 25 degrees just two days ago has plummeted to 13 degrees. Ana is crushed to learn this, but happy she at least got a couple of lake baths in. The combination of the cold water and breeze has us wearing sweaters and long pants to keep warm – a drastic climatic u-turn from yesterday’s sizzler.

We arrive in Cobourg at around 2:15 pm, making it a 7-hour sailing day. We slide easily into our slip, check in and pay for dockage at the main office, then walk the short distance to the main street. Cobourg is one of the best stops on Lake Ontario. The marina is excellent and well-maintained and they even allow anchoring in the protected harbour for the cheap assed sailboaters. Within two blocks of the marina is a marine store and an LCBO, the only two things you ever truly need on a boat trip, food being an optional third. King Street is busy and thriving, and this must be where everybody in Ontario comes for a haircut as we count no fewer than five barbershops, all of which specialize in fades, but god help you if you can’t grow a thick, luscious, hipster beard because you will never come out looking like the coiffed dudes in the pictures plastered over the windows. There are also at least half a dozen cafes and small restaurants, plus a classic joke shop called Lolly Gags, which I didn’t need to visit because I already have a electronic fart machine, sneezing power, dog vomit, snapping chewing gum, a rubber chicken, whoopee cushion, joy buzzer, exploding cigarettes, and the lapel flower that shoots water in the smeller’s face. I’m all set.

We find a pub, order a Harp lager for me and a Blue Moon for Ana, then watch the terribly boring first half of the England/Argentina World Cup game which ends up nil nil. We don’t particularly care who wins this one so we leave and walk around until we find an ice cream place then enjoy a cone as we watch the homeless folk socializing in the pretty park across the street, which is far more enjoyable than the soccer game.

We continue our walk along King Street. The smoky air has created a beautiful sepia reality filter, which makes the magnificent downtown Victoria Hall look even more magnificent. The visual effect has turned back time about 80 years and I feel like I should be wearing a top hat, trousers, and granddad skivvies.

Back at the boat we squander time while Ana awaits her 7 pm Newport Board meeting. When the meeting begins, I move out to the cockpit with a glass of wine and a book and remain there for a long, long time. There are many other transient boaters here, providing ample socialization opportunities, but I keep the canvas down and antisocial eyes on my book, relishing the solitude.

Ana emerges like a beautiful monarch from a boring cocoon and calls me back into the cabin where we eat chicken rice soup, watch Deep Water (airplane crash/shark movie – not bad), then retire.

2026 Sailing Trip - A Breezy Passage to Bay of Quinte Yacht Club

At 7:30am we pull anchor and head north on Picton Bay headed to either Belleville, Trenton, or an anchorage if neither of those places have available slips. The wind is from the south-west today and very strong, which gives us the opportunity to deploy the headsail for a couple of hours and feel like a sailing vessel again.

The vessel route through Prince Edward County is a little strange as you need to go north about 10 miles before getting back on a south-westerly track. There are also two bridges to pass under, and no matter how ample the clearance is, it always feels as if the bridge is going to knock our mast off. But they don’t.

We stop for a swim and morning bath at a protected anchorage then continue a few more hours to the town of Belleville and carefully pull into the guest dock of the Bay of Quinte Yacht Club, made difficult by the 27 knot wind blowing broadside. Fortunately there is another transient boater on the dock and he catches our lines. Once docked, we can feel the full strength of the sun as it is a steamy 36 degrees today.

We have never been here before and find a classic Canadian yacht club – dozens of small training sailing boats on buggies, a large grassy area full of geese and squirrels, a clubhouse with a classic bar, pool table, comfy chairs, showers, washrooms, and a laundry. The docks are a little ratty and the boats are nearly all sail and quite small.

Ana finds the number for a taxi company (no Uber here) and after a lengthy wait he arrives and takes us to a commercial plaza to pick up some pharmacy stuff, as well as a couple things from Dollarama. We visited Belleville once before by boat and didn’t find much of interest, neither do we this time. It takes nearly an hour and three taxi companies to finally find a ride back to the marina (is it any wonder Uber puts all these small town taxi companies out of business when they arrive?). The marina is sweltering but fortunately we’ve had the AC running so the interior of the boat is cool. We return just as the France/Spain World Cup game is starting so we go prone for 90 minutes plus stoppage time to enjoy that spectacle.

I make myself a G&T and open the companionway doors to the cockpit. It feels and smells exactly like a sauna, but I’m not sure where that strong cedar smell is coming from. Another strange thing – my eyes have been really irritated all day, even tearing up, and I’m not sure what’s causing it.

In any case, I sit in that sauna, enjoy my drink, rub my eyes, and just look around for a while, enjoying the heat and free time therapy.

Dinner. Show. Bed.

2026 Sailing Trip - Onwards to Picton

I am up at 5am rinsing the furry blanket of bugs off the boat and filling up the water tanks. Our time with the Holmes is sadly at an end, but as usual we leave here happy and exhausted. Good friends are hard to find.

At 6am Andrew waves us off from the dock and we are back on the lake, sailing west under a sunny sky and calm conditions. We pass Kingston and give a wave and a pelvic thrust to all those hard working folks driving into work.

After a few hours the wind kicks up – a strong westerly directly in our face, making sailing again unfeasible unless we want to spend 20 hours getting to Picton zig-zagging all over the channel. We do not, so we motor the entire 6.5 hours to Picton harbour and find a lovely anchorage on the west side of the bay, about a mile and a half from the town. Other than the massive concrete plant and freighter docked in front of it, a couple hundred metres from us, it is natural and pristine.

We anchor SeaLight in 20 feet of water then drop the dinghy and cruise into Picton. Upon arriving, we are shocked to discover they have a built a new municipal marina. It looks to have at least 75 slips and plenty of depth, plus everything is shiny and fresh. We speak with the dockmaster and he lets us tie up our dinghy for free for three hours.

Our primary mission when exploring a town on boat vacation is to find thrift stores. Perhaps more honestly, it is Ana’s mission, but I tag along and read old National Geographic magazines while she’s rooting through the rubbish. But this presented a problem in the first thrift store we found. And the problem was this: every piece of ratty furniture, from grandma’s fold up basement chairs, to the threadbare gold leaf chesterfields, to the wing back fabric chairs, still off-gassing decades of cigar smoke, each of these has a paper sign taped to it reading, PLEASE DO NOT SIT ON THE FURNITURE. FEEL FREE TO TRY ON THE UNDERWEAR OR TEST THE USED DEODORANT STICKS AND TOOTHBRUSHES, BUT DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE EVEN THINK OF SITTING ON THE FURNITURE. SIT ON THE FLOOR IF YOU LIKE…BUT NOT NEAR THE FURNITURE.

I am initially scared off and go to find a National Geographic. The one I grab has a feature article on Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine, that fills in a few gaps left from my previous research on this topic which was limited to the lyrics of the Boney M song. Halfway through the article I get really tired of standing, so I walk slowly towards the furniture section, whistling softly, then ease into a stiff wooden chair, well away from the fancy couches, and somewhat hidden from the staff. I hide there until Ana comes to collect me.

We wander Picton’s main street for a while, pop into a few shops, including the Giant Tiger where we score two amazing salads for 99 cents each, both expiring today, as well as some ingredients for a guacamole. Next, we find a fancy coffee shop, connected to a fancy bookstore. The coffee shop is cute and even has a quiet sitting area dedicated to Gord Downie and his reconciliation efforts. But sadly, the brewed coffee is served from a large self-serve dispenser that has not been refreshed for many hours, and it’s terrible. I opt for a bottled lemonade and the total bill is ten bucks. It confirms Ana’s theory that the reason why Tim Horton’s does so well is their coffee is drinkable and cheap despite the strip mall ambience, while fancy shops do offer a lovely space, but the coffee is always overpriced and rarely good…at least the brewed stuff.

The intense heat of the day is wearing us down so we walk back to the marina and dinghy to SeaLight, who has been waiting patiently for us and still floats alone in the anchorage. We relax in the cockpit for a while, then once the heat has subsided we take the dinghy to explore the shoreline. I shut down the motor and row for a while to get some exercise and see if we can sneak up on some wildlife. Sure enough, we come across a mama duck with eight little ducklings, all lined up perfectly on a log, watching us paddle by.

We finish the day with a large bowl of guacamole, tortilla chips, Mexican salad, a glass of wine then, for entertainment, a show on the laptop.

2026 Sailing Trip - Sunday Funday

It is really fun riding in fast boats. Amazing. Adrenalin pumping.

Andrew and Victoria recently bought a gorgeous 2022 Regal 33 and after a long morning coffee session on the deck followed by a kingly breakfast, we find ourselves screaming down the Bateau Channel at well over 50 kph.

“It’s a lot different riding in a vessel whose speed is measured in miles per hour instead of hours per mile,” I say to Andrew as I’m clutching our gear so it doesn’t fly off the boat. “Oh, and if you were thinking of stopping for gas, just want to let you know I forgot my wallet.”

“I knew you would.”

We arrive in the lee of Simcoe Island – located across the channel from the city of Kingston, and we find a lovely spot to anchor with 9 feet of water below us. There are maybe 15 other boats, here to enjoy Sunday Funday. And what a day it is – hot and clear with unseasonably warm lake water. Adrian and Sarah arrive shortly after us and we get the boats rafted together. Within seconds we are gathered with drinks and snacks and rapid fire conversation ensues. It is great to see them again.

We swim. We jump off the hardtop of Adrian’s boat. We hover in the water on oversized Costco floaties. It’s fricking amazing and I can’t imagine a Sunday Funday being any better…especially for those of us not going to work tomorrow.

Adrian is famous for buying and wearing white sunglasses that cost no more than about five bucks. He says he can’t be trusted with anything expensive. Andrew hands him a box, and in this box is a brand new pair of classy Ray Ban shades.

“Damn man, these are gorgeous,” Adrian says as he tries them on. “But I’m not good with nice sunglasses, you know that.”

“You’ll be fine. They’re yours - enjoy.”

Fifteen minutes later there is some commotion on Adrian and Sarah’s boat. Adrian has his back turned to use and is fiddling with something.

“What happened?” asks Victoria.

“Nothing…” says Adrian as he shifts his position to make sure none of us can see what he’s doing.

“He was making a move on me and he knocked the sunglasses off the table!” admits Sarah.

We could now see Adrian was trying to pop a ejected lens back into the frame.

“I told you I was bad with expensive sunglasses,” Adrian said, then manages to get the lens in, puts the shades on and flashes a prize winning smile. “See, all good!”

A while later there is some conversation between Andrew and Adrian on the status of his generator, followed by an exchange of insults. Adrian and Sarah too have recently purchased a different boat and some systems have required mending.

“There she goes!” Adrian says triumphantly as the generator fires up.

“It stinks,” says Andrew.

“You won’t be saying that when the hot dogs start sizzing on the electric grill. No, then you’ll be saying can I have a hot dog please,” says Adrian as he twirls his tongs. “Hey, do you guys want to guess what kind of meat is in these hot dogs? I made them myself at home.”

“Cat?” says Victoria.

“Please say pork or beef,” says Andrew.

“Nope, all wrong,” says Adrian. “These are made from manatee.”

“Manatee?” I ask, worried. “Manatee is my spirit animal…so I probably shouldn’t. But why not, I’m up for a manatee dog.”

“It’s real tough finding manatee meat. Unbelievably tough.”

“What’s taking so long on the hot dogs?” asks Andrew.

“I like to slow roast them.”

“That’s a good idea,” I say. “I like to do mine overnight in a flavoured brine solution. It can bring out a real menagerie of flavours.”

“We always sous vide our tube steaks,” says Victoria. “You can use a poorer cut of hot dog and they come out amazing.”

Well, the manatee dogs were delicious and hardly distinguishable from the pork or beef varieties, especially with all the ketchup, mustard, relish, and garlic sauce dumped over them.

Sunday Funday goes way too fast and shortly after 3 pm we untie the boats and are headed back to Holmes Mansion at full speed. Andrew and Victoria have invited the regular gang of neighbourhood friends for dinner, folks we have become good friends with over the years and over many visits.

Victoria and Andrew grill some burgers and assemble salads while I put together a mango/peach crumble from a recipe I found in a sailing memoir. Ana is deep in conversation with the guests, catching up on the many happenings since we’d last seen them. We enjoy an excellent meal together.

By the time the guests leave we have enough collective energy left to watch The Babadook – an Australian horror film from 2014. Over the past 12 years Andrew and I have considered it to be an outstanding horror movie. Ana has not. So we had to give it another showing to make a final determination.

It was excellent.

2026 Sailing Trip - A Morning Swim, Afternoon Cocktails, and Magical Evening at Holmes Mansion

At 2am Ana and I trade places – she cozies into the v-berth and I begin my shift in the cockpit. She has kindly left me a lovely, glass lake with not a breath of wind as SeaLight motors up the middle of Lake Ontario. For the next hours I watch for boats (just one freighter), contemplate life, drink decaffeinated hot beverages, and watch a movie on the laptop. It is the best possible kind of overnight passage – uneventful.

By 6am the north-east wind has picked up, blowing directly at us, and it powers up quickly to sustained levels around 20 knots – much stronger than forecast, but nothing SeaLight can’t handle. The waves build quickly to about a metre, which slows our progress as we crash into the big ones, stalling the boat. Ana joins me in the cockpit as it’s getting too bouncy in the v-berth and she naps a bit while I keep watch. Then she takes watch while I have myself a cockpit nap.

By late morning we have turned north past Prince Edward County and find calmer waters as the winds slacken. I’ve kept myself busy changing out water hoses in two of the heads while Ana’s kept watch, getting sweaty and gross in the process. It’s time for the morning lake bath so we cut the engine and glide to a stop then jump in the water for a very refreshing dip, shaking out the cobwebs and rinsing off the rig. But we don’t linger long as we have dinner plans and still many miles to go.

We reach Portsmouth marina in Kingston mid-afternoon and stop for a diesel fill. The trip across the lake with full motor and no sailing consumed 95 litres of fuel, which is nearly a gallon per hour, quite a bit higher than our usual average of .85 gallons per hour. I will have to keep an eye on that.

SeaLight pulls into the dock of Holmes Mansion at precisely 5pm, clocking a journey time of 26.5 hours from end to end of Lake Ontario. Our friends Andrew and Victoria are there to catch our lines. It is lovely to see them again, and after a quick swim off their dock we set up in loungers for a happy hour drink. We catch them up on our news, they catch us up on theirs, then we just talk about silly things and get so busy we make ourselves late for happy hour on the house deck! We hustle ourselves up to the house, mix up rum and cokes, then settle in on the comfy chairs and look down on the yard, beach, massive boathouse, concrete jetty dock, the expansive estate, and the million dollar view over the pristine Bateau Channel. The conversation turns to finance.

“You know, I’m doing pretty good, making decent money,” says Andrew as he spoons some beluga caviar on his bellini, then passes out some premium Dominican robusto cigars and snifters of French brandy. “But like, where the hell does it all go? I can’t figure it out.”

I look at Ana. She looks at me. We both look at Andrew. I then attempt a sage-like response.

“Mister Holmes. See that high class deck lounger you are sitting in? I want you to do a slow 360 degree rotation and have a good look around. Therein, you will find your answer.”

“Hmmmm, yes, I see what you mean. Anyway, more caviar?”

Out of nowhere (ahh...that's where Victoria has been.) comes a gourmet dinner of rib eye steak, salmon, asparagus, salads, and focaccia bread and we enjoy it slowly, very slowly as we continue our conversations, never finding cause to pause. We learn we have been invited for Sunday Funday tomorrow with their friends Adrian and Sarah, whom we also know, and most recently met up with them for dinner in Charleston, South Carolina during our trip last year. Then again with just Adrian a couple nights later for a real blinder, which took several days to recover from.

After dinner we make a bold move back out to the deck, but with the propane fireplace now activated, providing a mesmerizing show of insect incineration as the seductive flame draws them in and vaporizes them instantly. From his phone Andrew actives the forest lighting, boathouse lighting, and dock lighting and it is a scene of the utmost beauty, but is soon interrupted by the explosions of a US bombing campaign over Kingston. Upon further investigation we realize it is just neighbourhood folks setting off fireworks, but we’re so enclosed by trees and the Holmes Mansion that we can’t see any of the light explosions.

As the evening proceeds, whatever stamina we had left drains away and we call it a night. We walk back to SeaLight, happy to be here with our friends, happy to have the first and longest leg of the trip completed, and looking forward to a lengthy and restful sleep.

2026 Sailing Trip - A Trip Across the Lake

We reverse out of our slip at Newport Yacht Club at precisely 2:30pm on Friday, July 10, 2026. I motor SeaLight down the channel backwards until I reach the green marker buoy then turn sharply to swing the bow through 150 degrees of rotation and get us pointed towards the harbour exit.

Then, we are on Lake Ontario.

The thoughts that routinely circulate in a clockwise direction in my mind – work problems, things to fix in the house and yard, maintenance tasks on the vehicles, dinner planning, exercise planning, banking reconciliations, and that damn Extreme song that plays on infinite repeat in my brain like a busted jukebox - dissolve like instant coffee in boiling water, and I am left with contemplating only the present. The soothing hum of the diesel engine. The slight chop on the water. The warm breeze on my face. My smiling wife.

It is a nice day to be on the lake. It is a nice day to be alive.

Nearly five months have passed since I wrote for pleasure, a long gap for me. My morning writing ritual has been completely replaced by a new hobby – learning Portuguese. Ana and I will be returning to the Azores in October and I’ve decided it’s long past time to muscle in on that language and draw strings between the hundreds of words I have learned over the many years of being part of a Portuguese family. I want to be able to hold up a conversation with Ana’s crazy cousins, aunts, and uncles, as well as the few non-crazy ones. No, we won’t be talking politics or religion or medical procedures, but I do hope to be able to ask somebody to pass me another cupcake or direct me towards the nearest water closet.

We pass a few sailboats and powerboats near the coastline, and see a freighter or two in the distance, but the lake is quiet as we cut through the waters, heading at 85 degrees towards the far end of the lake. Ana puts on a bathing suit and takes a cockpit cushion and pillow and a book out to the front deck of the boat. I join her and we relax and read as the autopilot assumes steering duties.

“I don’t think we ever did this, even once, the entire time we sailed to the Bahamas,” Ana says as she leans over and kisses my cheek.”

“We did sit on the deck, but never with the cushions, and rarely so relaxed.”

“Why?”

“Too salty for cushions,” I reply. “And little time to relax when navigating new waters every day.”

“Well, this is lovely,” Ana says, then rolls onto her back to continue reading her steamy Heated Rivalry novel.

It is a nice day to be on the lake. It is a nice day to be alive.

By the time we’ve had dinner and cleaned up it is already 9:30pm and we’ve been tricked into thinking it much earlier because of the lengthy days. We are now into US waters and there are no longer any boats within sight. We watch half a show on the laptop in the cockpit then I head down for some sleep as Ana takes the first watch of the evening.

Our planned destination is Kingston, Ontario, still nearly 20 hours to the east.

Cartagena, Colombia - Saying Goodbye to the Tropics

Saturday had arrived and it was time to go home.

Our server at dinner last night told us the temperature rocketed up into the 40's in Cartagena in July. I simply found that impossible to believe. So this morning I had a look at the climate profile for this city and found that the daily highs and lows barely change throughout the year: daily highs between 31 and 32 and daily lows between 24 and 26. The only difference is there's some precipitation throughout the summer months and barely any the rest of the time. In fact, between December and March you can expect at most a day or two of rain. I suppose Canadian seasons have their charms, but consistently clear and hot days in a magical city was welcome in February.

This trip has been an eye-opener for Ana and I. We've realized our lived experience with Latin America is now over 25 years old, and based on our time in Colombia, it seems likely that many of the truths we hold about these places have changed, probably for the better. All the parts we loved about these countries were brightly reflected in Cartagena - the kind and gentle people, the music, the weather, the fun language, but above all the raw joy and unbridled enthusiasm for life, no matter what sort of life one has. The parts we did not like - the crime, the dirtiness, the chaotic streets, the unreliable power infrastructure and government systems - well, Cartagena leads us to believe those have improved. This trip has reignited our interest in Latin America and I expect we will make more visits to this part of the world soon.

Our trip home went perfectly - our airport transfer was on time, flight was on time, and Canadian immigration was quick, despite being pulled into secondary screening with the question "Why would you go to Colombia?"

What was our answer?

 "Why not? And you should go too."

Cartagena, Colombia - Cartagena Has Great Knockers

There’s no denying it – the knockers in Cartagena are spectacular.

When it comes to variety, shapeliness, size, and beauty, no other knockers compare to Cartagena knockers. There are knockers everywhere, practically everywhere you look, and it’s hard to take your eyes off them. Knockers here are displayed with pride and range greatly in size. The smaller ones are cute, shapely, and perfectly functional. The larger ones – and there are some very weighty and grand ones here in Cartagena – can be more difficult to manage but handling them is immensely pleasurable. Some knockers are so large you need to use both hands.

Knockers here vary in age. The newer ones are beautiful, almost sassy in their appearance, and are a pleasure to operate. Many of the older ones seem to have suffered a bit from either overuse or neglect and can be a little finicky, but remain majestic and impressive. I’ve noticed some knockers seem to have been rebuilt with different materials, and in some cases even made larger, providing a noticeably different look and feel. The owners of these seem to be consistently pleased with their knockers as they showcase them with pride. There’s no doubt there are many experts in Cartagena in knocker reconstruction.

I think some tourists come here specifically for the knockers. I saw one man on a busy street walking right up and touching all the knockers he saw, in some cases aggravating the owners. I didn’t touch any myself, but I took a lot of photos of them, and had Ana take some of me standing beside the most impressive knockers, smiling like a crazy man. I can’t wait to show all these knocker photos to my friends back home.

For our last full day in Cartagena we did much of the same – had a slow, leisurely breakfast at the hotel, walked over to Juan Valdez for a slow, leisurely coffee, retuned to the hotel for a slow, leisurely swim in the pool, then walked to the end of the peninsula to El Laguito beach and had a slow, leisurely lunch and drinks at the Punta Las Velas beachfront restaurant. The beach was full of people up to all sorts of tomfoolery. A young beach entrepreneur was hired by the family patron to rub what looked like cooking oil over the ladies. They really enjoyed it and he was quite daring in the application of the oil. An older man beneath a ratty blue beach umbrella whipped off his shorts and bent over to give us a great view of his dangling beauties, then fortunately put on some swimmers. A vallenato (accordion-driven Colombian folk music) band appeared out of nowhere and gave a private performance to a family a bit further up the beach. Little kids were running around, chasing each other. Vendors walked the beach with platters of freshly caught fish and when somebody bought one, they would rush it back to a hidden kitchen then reappear a while later with the whole cooked fish and sides on a foam plate. Lunchers would then toss the still-meaty fish heads from their meals to the troupes of seagulls who would attack it (and each other) until there was nothing left. It was a lot of fun.

Late in the afternoon we Uber’d into the city and visited the sloths again in Centenario Park. The smaller one was up in the trees, slowly ascending then descending, stopping periodically to munch on bunches of juicy leaves. We couldn’t spot the larger one.

It was Friday night in the city and the place was exploding with activity, even busier than when we were here Tuesday. We strolled the Getsemani neighbourhood, admiring the artwork, the beautiful people, flashy evening revelers, the incredible lighting, the scenes in peoples’ living rooms, doors wide open, diners in cool restaurants, drinkers in boutique lounges, a team of breakdancers who’d set up in the middle of an intersection, doing egg  beaters and headspins, popping and snapping, and who’d clear out momentarily when traffic built up too much and the blasting car horns became unbearable. We passed so many food carts, cooking up arepas, cheeseburgers, sausages, ham and cheese buns, and skewers of grilled meats. The smells were delicious, food mouthwatering, and the city’s sonic orchestra of music, conversations, laughter, motorcycle engines, and singing rang out, decorating the air.

Our dinner reservation was for 7 and we arrived right on time. The restaurant Sierpe was empty, but within an hour it was jammed. Our server was efficient and friendly and the food was incredible. We started with a shared crab dip, which was bright yellow, loaded with crab fibres, other seafood, and a thin veneer of faintly scorched cheese. I had a fish filet, which was ridden by snails, mollusks, onions, and shrimp, bathed in a yellow sauce creating a delectable slurry of flavour, and accompanied by coconut rice and mixed greens. Ana had the cutest mini crab sliders. At one point our server came by, pointed to Ana’s meal, smiling and blasted out a rapid set of unusual words -  Bob Esponja Pantalones Cuadrados. Ana and I looked at each other in pure confusion as we didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. But he didn’t give up. Instead he pulled out his phone, hammered in some words, then showed us an image of SpongBob Squarepants. Ana’s meal was crabby patties! And they were damn good.

Our plan to go partying in Getsemani and hit some of the fantastic bars we’d passed and voyage late into our final night was flummoxed by all the delicious food being processed internally and instead we sauntered back to the park and plopped down on a bench to absorb these last moments in the tropics.

Cartagena, Colombia - How to Spot A Colombian

It’s been a little tough figuring out who’s Colombian here and who’s a Latino tourist. The Colombians don’t have an easily distinguishable accent or a unique phrase they use like, for instance, the Dominicans who say “Como tu ta?” or the Costa Ricans who say “Pura vida!” or the Puerto Ricans who can “Que chevere!” or the Mexians who say “Que onda?” or the Cubans who say a bunch of stuff but you can barely understand any of it because they speak so fast and chop off half their words. Maybe there are some specific Colombian linguistic traits and we just haven’t been here long enough to identify them. But, in any case, I can only assume most of the vendors and workers we see are Colombian. Based on that, I have identified a few Colombian-specific traits, and not just with people, but with the way things look and are done around here.

First, they keep things clean. Every morning there’s an army of dudes in Slipknot jumpsuits with brooms sweeping shit up. You just never see that in other Latin American countries. The streets are dirty as hell and they don’t even notice it. Today we even saw a kid with a leaf blower in the Bolivar Plaza who was blowing leaves and food wrappers and dirt into the waiting dustbins of the Slipknot jumpsuit crew who scooped it up and put it into garbage bags. Oh, and speaking of that, there’s actual public garbage cans around to put your trash in. In most other Latino countries you just throw it on the ground or, preferably, in a stream or river that will wash it down to the nearest processing facility (I assume).

Second, they are really slow walkers. I don’t know how many times this trip we got stuck behind a few locals walking on the skinny sidewalk, blocking the whole thing, chatting to each other and moving at a sloth’s pace. A sick sloth. Some, even as slow as a fully dead sloth.

Third, and this applies to the dudes only, but they really like to pick their balls. They get right in there and swirl things around then pluck away at their jeans or jumpsuits or dress pants or whatever they are wearing and whatever social class they are in. I’ve got no problem at all with the occasional package adjustment, it’s just that here they do it right in the open, beside food carts, in line at the grocery store, at the medical clinic (might be a reason for it in that case), but really I guess they just like their junk lining up properly, or are just trying to remedy the incessant sack stick that’s so common in these viciously hot countries.

Lastly, the vendors here are fucking annoying. Every morning we step out of the hotel and the exact same lady asks us if we want to buy a tourist package to the Rosario Islands. Every day we politely say no. She takes a couple more swings at us then gives up. We walk twenty steps to the traffic light and there’s another guy there with the exact same laminated plastic sheet with island pics trying to sell us a tourist package to the Rosario Islands. We politely say no then cross the street, then there’s another person there who has the exact same laminated plastic sheet who tries to sell us a tourist package to the Rosario Islands. This goes on all day, everywhere we go, and it’s usually tourist packages to the Rosario Islands, but also city tours, packets of fresh fruit, bracelets, fridge magnets, cocaine, sunset cruises, watches, sunglasses, purses, restaurants specials. But you know what’s even worse than being harassed by street vendors all day? Being poor in an expensive city and trying to provide for your family.

In any case, Ana and I really feel comfortable here. We love the culture, the people, the food, the weather, the music. We’ve spent a lot of time in Latin America over the years, living in a number of Spanish speaking countries and visiting many others. Despite not speaking Spanish very often, it comes back incredibly fast for Ana (slower for me), but within a couple days we’re having pretty decent conversations with people. Of course, when Ana and I debrief after a particularly intense conversation with a local it usually turns out that I didn’t have a goddamn clue what was discussed, despite thinking I did. I blame it on my mono-lingual Saskatchewanese roots. Anyway, during this trip a renewed interest has been stirred in my soul and I feel like we could spend more time in this part of the world, despite previously thinking we’d seen enough of Latin America. We have not.

After a slow morning, our big goal was to find a great cup of coffee. The coffee in all the local cafés and restaurants has been bunk. Ana tried Starbucks yesterday and the coffee was rank there too. Remember the other day how I was picking on Juan Valdez and his dumb ass mule? Well, there is a chain of coffee shops here called Juan Valdez so we decided to give it a try. We went to one in the old city. The coffee was excellent. I had an Americano and Ana had a café latte. Of course, it cost about eleven bucks, but I suppose that’s what you have to pay for a decent cuppa, even in Colombia.

We walked the old city, up one street, down another, up a different one, back down another. We walked to the city wall, ascended a ramp, then walked the ramparts for a while, and along the way a young vendor latched onto us and began an unsolicited city tour, showing us Shakira’s house then a home of Pablo Escobar expropriated by the state then told us all about the cocaine situation in the country, then when we tried to vamos he whipped out his inventory of bracelets. I did the chivalrous thing and pushed Ana towards him while I went over to urgently inspect the rock wall. After identifying one bracelet she disliked the least, he demanded she buy it for 70,000 in lieu of paying for the free city tour. The faster she walked away, the faster the price dropped. Finally she gave him 15,000 to go away, so she got a bracelet for about five bucks which will make a fine gift for Stella.

Around this time, we came across Mr. Cigar - a cigar shop. Ana left me there with the shopkeeper/mansitter while she went shopping for half an hour. It was glorious. I smoked a local Colombian cigar and drank a Club Colombia beer, by myself, indoors, on a comfy couch, accompanied by a fine jazz playlist, surrounded by original artworks. This doesn’t normally happen to me on Thursdays in February.

We found our way back to Bolivar park and beneath the shade of the palms had a pre-planned fruit lunch which we had brought from our hotel room inventory – apples, plums, bananas, and a couple of granola bars. Next up was the free Museum of Gold, right across from the park, and it was total crap, but the AC was phenomenal so we stayed there for a bit.

By now we were sweaty, tired, and thinking of the hotel pool, but there was still time to buy a fake Rolex so I left Ana to do battle with a street vendor (strategically located directly across from the street from the real Rolex store) and I walked around for a while. I know from previous experience that it takes Ana exactly 27 minutes to try on enough watches to narrow it down to one or two, do some negotiating, decide on one, then have the vendor add or remove the required number of links. I also know from previous experience not to ask how many watches one needs (the answer is one, or none these days with a smartphone in every pocket), because that’s the wrong question to ask. The right question to ask is, “At that price, do you think you should pick up another one?”

As the end of our trip approaches, we’ve pretty much abandoned the long hot walk between our hotel in Bocagrande and the city centre in lieu of Uber rides that cost between three and five bucks. Of course, the cost isn’t the issue, it’s the exercise, but we’re doing plenty of walking once we get to the city so we’re okay with that.

The hotel pool had a real vibe going on today. There were many more people than usual and everybody was having a good time. We relaxed on the loungers, had cold beers, floated in the pool for a while, discussed the trip (and future trips), then eventually returned to the room to relax before going out for late dinner at a restaurant down the street. I had the most amazing seafood stew, with fresh mussels, clams, octopus, fish, shrimp, and other sea treats in the thick yellowy broth, while Ana had grilled chicken and we shared the accompanying green salad, coconut rice, and plantain. I hadn’t even seen a hot dog for several days so the culinary situation had improved significantly.

Cartagena, Colombia - Sloths, Monkeys, and Scary Tunnels

The urgent winds of yesterday had snuffed themselves out and today’s faint breeze did little to mask the inescapable heat. It was hot…damn hot. We’ve been averaging about 12 kilometres per day walking, but those kilometres today did not come easy.

After a leisurely breakfast we walked into the city centre and headed straight for the Centenario Park in search of animal life. The park was indeed open to the public today and it did not take us long to find a gaggle of tourists looking up into canopy. Two sloths creeped along the bamboo branches; one bigger, one smaller. We waited there for quite some time and surprisingly the smaller one made its way right down to the ground and nestled herself in the base of the bamboo, maybe having a poo? She didn’t seem too bothered by all the tourists taking photos of her, but then again it’s hard to tell with sloths as their faces don’t give much away and they don't seem capable of being in a nervous hurry. The larger one stayed high in the trees and at one point was hanging upside down while he scratched his head and armpits and fluffed up his hair. They certainly are beautiful creatures.

We found a couple of small monkeys in the park but were unable to spot any of the iguanas who also live there, but were probably high up in the trees. We remained there for some time enjoying the shade and reluctantly left to walk to our next destination – THE MALL – where Ana was hoping to pick up some new shorts.

Not being an enthusiastic mall rat, I instead opted for a comfy chair and sat pleasantly comatose while Ana browsed the stores. I was still very surprised at the scarcity of American and Canadian tourists, maybe because there is so little English spoken here, even from people in the tourism and service industries. I’ve been hearing English speakers maybe once per day. During our walk today we saw a skinny, older dude wearing a Chang beer singlet, tagged with a little Canadian pin. A couple of days ago in the Getsamani neighbourhood we saw a short, loud, middle-aged American dude with bulging biceps and skinny legs trailed by his partner, a Brazilian lady, heavily modified with facial leveling/plumping and these balloon butt implants that drew passing eyeballs like super magnets. We’ve seen a few backpackers, all speaking Spanish. Haven’t noticed a single German, Cloggie, Brit or Dane, which is highly unusual. It’s all Latinos here, and better for it.

Ana came away empty handed as she couldn’t find anything she liked and didn’t feel the need to spend a hundred bucks on clothes she didn’t love. She reported the clothing prices were astronomical, like jeans for $250 or basic t-shirts for $50. Fortunately, the food court places were reasonable and Ana picked up a Big Mac combo while I went for a Colombian bowl that had rice, guacamole, shreds of pork, tomatoes, beans, plantains and other unrecognizable additions. It was good.

We stepped out into the heat and walked a short distance to the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, a Spanish fort whose construction began in 1536 and was expanded over the following hundred years throughout constant attack and sieges by the British, French, and enterprising pirates. We nearly melted like Wicked Witches of the West as we climbed the steep hills to the top, exposed to the sun the entire way. Views from the castle were stunning but the biggest surprise were the tunnels. We entered in multiple spots through stairways which led to a network of deep underground tunnels. One in particular was fairly steep and maybe only five feet high and we continued down and down the claustrophobic tube until water started pooling on the ground then got a little freaked out as this was an ideal scene for a horror movie.

We called up an Uber and were soon back in the air conditioned bliss of our hotel room and didn’t leave for the rest of the night.

Cartagena, Colombia - Sweaty and Ready

Cartagena at night was an explosion of light, people, colour, and music. I was dumbstruck as I absorbed the Tuesday evening scene playing out around us – vendor food carts with the smell of charcoal grilled meats penetrating the air and drawing customers, a massive yacht full of tourists, with a helicopter on top for rides, palm tree trunks wound with thousands of brilliant lights in Centenario Park, teenage soldiers in camo carrying automatic weapons, standing near military trucks, trying to remain serious while swaying to the music, a stage in the distance with a band sweating through salsa tunes to a gyrating crowd, DJ spins and flashing lights bursting skyward from three rooftop clubs within the old city walls, thousands of people, young and old, tall and short, tourists and locals, a dizzying array of complexions, features, fashions, and Spanish accents, the faint smell of ocean air penetrated by lady perfumes, manly scents, and food smoke. Everything was going on. Everything was moving. Nothing was dormant. There was joy in the streets.

We met our new friends Surbhi and Jitu at a restaurant called Mexitixa, impossible to pronounce, but easy to find. It was Bife de Caballo for Ana and a Tomahawk Pork for me as we enjoyed a four piece band and two flashy dancers chucking down moves. It was lively and loud and we had to holler at our friends across the table. Post-dinner activities found us strolling through the Getsamani neighbourhood with its magical lighting and hordes of partygoers, artists, and revelers. We had drinks on a three-level rooftop with a salsa band in one corner, DJ in another, and recorded music blaring from another creating an indecipherable yet somehow enjoyable Colombian jambalaya of sound.

This is not what I expected for a Tuesday night.

Leading up to our evening escapades was a slow day. I went for a morning ocean swim on the far south end of the peninsula which was mostly blocked from the steady and strong 40 kph west winds whipping the hotel coastline into a foamy latte. The swim was brief and enjoyable, but at 7am there were already vendors pestering me during the walk – Mama Rosa the beach masseuse, food cart vendors, coffee vendors, old men offering sheets of authentic Cartagena fridge magnets, men and women trying to sell me a day trip to Isla Rosario for the hundredth time, taxis offering rides. An enterprising bunch trying to make their way in a difficult world.

We more fully explored our local area, wandering into residential neighbourhoods and one scruffy beach on the east side of the peninsula full of local dudes that set off Ana’s spidey senses so we turned around and retraced our steps. Ana visited shops, malls, and galleries but found nothing of interest besides respite from the heat, which was kept manageable by the strong winds. We found a rental car place and after a lovely chat with the owners booked a car for tomorrow for a solo trip to Playa Blanca, 90 minutes south of Cartagena. We had coffee at an Authentic Colombian Café which held great promise. I drink coffee rarely, saving such episodes for special places and moments when I can fully enjoy and indulge. Well, the Americano sucked. It was awful. We theorized that the good Columbian coffee beans were universally exported and Juan Valdez and his dumb ass donkey are national traitors.

With supplies from the grocery store we had a backpacker lunch in the room – tuna sandwich, local sweet plums, bananas. It was delicious. From here we visited the pool and discovered that the February sun only creeps into the lounger chair area around 3pm, but the powerful rays needs little time to make mincemeat of tender Canadian skin, so an hour of that was more than sufficient.

When it was time to leave for our dinner date we called up an Uber. Though we thoroughly enjoy walking, taxis and Ubers are very cheap here, and a 45 minute walk through late afternoon heat in our dining and dancing clothes seemed ill advised. Nevertheless, after traveling a quarter of the way there in crushing and confused traffic, which came to a complete standstill, we abandoned our driver and walked the rest of the way. We theorized that the International Conference on Agrarian Reform and Rural Development (ICAARD) which had brought thousands of delegates into Cartagena for a four day jamboree, was causing this psychotic mess of congestion, and we began to reconsider the next day’s plan for a car rental, which would force us to struggle through the city at both rush hours.

After 45 minutes, we arrived in the city centre, sweaty and ready.