After seven months of southward progress down the eastern coast of North America and across the Caribbean Sea, we have finally arrived at the Pacific Ocean.

We’re moored at the famous Balboa Yacht Club on the Pacific coast of Panama after transiting the Panama Canal and celebrating our most memorable Easter ever.

After arriving at the port of Cristobal, we set about preparing to transit the canal, along with about 50 other cruising yachts. New boats scurried in every day, hoping to get through before increased canal transit fees take effect in a few weeks.

After having the boat measured to determine our fee, which amounted to just under $500 U.S., and making various trips to government offices to do all the necessary paperwork, our two priorities were to enlist sufficient crew and to prepare the boat for the transit.

This latter task included scrounging up old car tires to protect our hull while going through the locks, and assembling four heavy 125-foot ropes with which to secure us.

As we, along with all the other boats, went through these rites of passage, it reminded me of the rituals boys in various cultures go through when preparing to become men. After a period of preparation, they are taken away from the rest of the tribe to go through a mysterious initiation. None of the other boys knows what is involved until he, in turn, is called away. Only then will he know what secrets the passage holds for him.

As we waited impatiently for our turn, we watched enviously each day as three or four other lucky boats were called away from the tribe (the boats at anchor) and adorned for their passage in special ceremonial garb (old car tires wrapped with green garbage bags and duct tape). Special priests (Panama Canal pilots) and assistants (line handlers) were summoned and then, after receiving a signal from the gods (a radio call from the harbourmaster) the boats disappeared into the early morning mists (smog), never to be seen again.

The most difficult task of our rites of preparation was trying to find the three additional line handlers to hold the lines securing the boat to the sides of the locks. For days, Herbert had scooted around from yacht to yacht trying to find volunteers for the job, to save us the $90 each it would cost to hire professional crew. He had no luck, however, as most of the boats had already made other plans.

Not many days before our planned departure, feeling rather desperate about his lack of crew, Herbert happened to run into a couple of British tourists who had come down from Panama City looking to sign on as line handlers. Herbert quickly grabbed them, competing heavily with a German boat which was trying to do the same. In the end, the couple agreed to line handle for both boats, and Herbert and the German captain agreed to each help the other with the transit as well.

With our crew lined up, our major logistical problems were solved. Or so we thought.

The German boat was scheduled to go through the canal on Good Friday, one day before us. Going through the 83 kilometres of canals and six locks that join the Atlantic with the Pacific usually takes one or two days, so Herbert managed to delay our departure so that he could crew with the German boat on Friday and Saturday and then return with three crew in time to do our transit on Sunday.

Early on Good Friday Herbert departed with the German boat. The children and I stayed behind, preparing the boat and the provisions necessary for the extra people we would have on board for a few days.

He returned only at 8 o’clock the night before our transit. I received his radio call just as I was putting the final touches on a huge chili dinner I was preparing for him and his three companions after their long bus ride from Panama City. Herbert, however, was quite alone. He had none of our needed line handlers with him. The German boat had not made it through the canal in two days and was stuck half way through, with all our line handlers still on board.

This meant that now, just 12 hours before we were scheduled to transit, we did not have the required crew. Even just to get back to us, Herbert had had to swim across the crocodile-infested anchorage at Gatun Lake and beg to switch places with a line handler on the next transiting boat. Rescheduling our transit was no longer an option; at this late hour, changing our date would have cost us more than $400.

Leaving the chili unserved, we hopped into the dinghy to pick up our panic-stricken captain at the dock and figure out how we would find line handlers on such short notice. Herbert had worked for five days to find us the ones we thought we had. What chance did we have of finding three new ones in the few hours that remained?

But by the time we reached the dock, Herbert had already signed up the first member of our replacement crew, a friendly Australian girl who was just returning from two days crewing for another boat. She was tired and needed to prepare her own boat for transit, but out of sympathy for our plight she agreed to drag herself over by 8 in the morning.

Next we waved down an approaching dinghy containing two young German sailors heading for the yacht club bar. We didn’t know them, but by the end of a rapid conversation in German, one of them, a handsome young man with a blond ponytail, also agreed to sign on. Two down, one to go.

Herbert had one more possibility in mind: a Canadian couple he had met a few days before. Off he zoomed in the darkness in our trusty dinghy Flipper, and when he returned at 9 p.m, he had signed up our final crew member, a former marine supply store owner from Victoria. Unbelievably, within less than an hour, we had managed to replace the missing crew it had taken us five days to assemble.

I slept well that night, but Herbert hardly caught a wink, his adrenaline still flowing after having worried all day about whether we would be able to find crew. And he still had one more thing about which to fret: I had fumbled the ball about getting clearance to leave port. When I had gone the day before to get the clearance paper, called a zarpe, officials at the yacht club had told me we didn’t need it. Figuring they knew what they were talking about, I had left it at that. But Herbert was sure it was required, and was up and away by 6 on Easter morning to find an official to give us the needed paperwork.

He was back within an hour, a pained look on his face. He had roused a grumpy official all right, but had forgotten to bring his wallet with him and was short the $1.50 fee. After another bike and dinghy ride forward and back, the zarpe was obtained and we were ready to go.

By 9 a.m. the Panama Canal pilot and our three yawning, newly enlisted crew had arrived and we were given permission to head for the first lock. We entered the giant, 300-metre-long chamber with four other vessels: a 200-metre-long freighter from China, a huge tugboat, and two other sailboats. Before entering the lock, the three of us were tied together side by side, forming a large, unwieldy raft. As we got used to manoeuvring tied up together it reminded me of being in a three-legged race.

As we ascended the 26 metres up the first three locks, the atmosphere aboard Northern Magic was festive. Because of our position on the outside of the raft of three boats, we only needed two line handlers, so I got relieved of that duty and ended up playing stewardess, running up and down the companionway ladder serving an endless series of refreshments to our crew, who were dripping sweat in the fierce Panamanian sun.

Meanwhile, at the salon table, our three boys happily painted Easter eggs, not finding it strange in the least to be doing this while progressing through one of the marvels of the modern world.

That night, our Panamanian pilot left us while we anchored at jungle-rimmed Gatun Lake, in the interior of the narrow isthmus of Panama. As we travelled along the freshwater lake we saw thatched huts on stilts used by Indian tribes. We didn’t see any of the indigenous crocodiles, but we did spot many black buzzards and a long-tailed howler monkey scavenging for food along the nearby shore. Since the crocs weren’t in evidence, we all jumped at the chance for a refreshing freshwater swim.

I will remember that night as one of the finest of our trip so far. Once the children were in bed, we adults talked by candlelight in the cool breezes of the cockpit until the early hours of the morning, the low words of our shared experiences and dreams blending in with the nearby sounds of the jungle: There was Amanda, the fun-loving former dolphin trainer whose favourite pastime is window shopping for men; Oliver, the quiet young German who was awaiting the arrival of his sweetheart; and Kaspar, our Canadian compatriot, soft-spoken and wise, who is finally heading home after six years sailing the world’s oceans.

Sometime in the magical darkness of that night - it must have been after we adults finally went to sleep - Northern Magic received one more visitor, a very special one. In fact, this might be the first time ever this particular visitor has been called upon to perform his duties in quite this way. But braving howler monkeys, crocodiles and buzzards, the Easter Bunny actually managed to find us halfway through the Panama Canal, making his nocturnal deliveries one day later than usual in consideration of our hectic preparations of the morning before.

Next morning we awoke to find little deposits of chocolate all over the boat, both inside and out, as well as baskets of goodies labelled with the names of all eight people on board. The Easter Bunny did his job well; even now, days later, the children are still uncovering Hershey’s Kisses hidden in various secret spots.

By the time our pilot boarded us to complete our transit, Northern Magic was awash in foil chocolate wrappers. We are fairly certain he is the first ship’s pilot in the history of the canal to be served painted Easter eggs for lunch by three happily hopping chocolate-smeared boys.

Our descent down the three last locks went smoothly, in tandem again with two other sailboats and a leviathan-sized ship or two. Finally the last gate opened and revealed to us the majestic beauty of the Pacific Ocean, azure blue and dotted with lovely green cone-shaped islands. Then we bade a fond farewell to our terrific crew, with promises to keep in touch as we all begin to make our way into the South Pacific.