The Panama Canal and the Problem of Freedom

The Panama Canal cruise came at an odd moment.

We had recently sold the schools and stepped fully into retirement. Looking back, it felt less like easing into a new season and more like sprinting into it. I expected the trip to feel celebratory — relaxing, fun, effortless. I assumed the port calls would be interesting simply because they were different, and that the structure of the ship would make rest easy in the way a recent stay in Wailea had.

It didn't work that way.

Early in the trip, we missed three port calls in a row — two because of a hurricane, the third because of port construction in Costa Rica. I hadn't realized how much I was anchoring my mood to those stops. Without them, I grew restless and irritable.

At that point, I didn't yet have shipboard routines. No clear rhythm for training, writing, or thinking. Too much time, not enough structure. Instead of feeling free, I felt oddly trapped — carried forward with very little agency.

When we did go ashore, the excursions blurred together. Long bus rides. Market stops where vendors pressed souvenirs into our hands. Pushy, repetitive, transactional. I appreciated the portions where we walked, but much of it felt hollow.

What lingered wasn't the sightseeing.

It was the meals.

In Guatemala, we were taken to a plant nursery where they served lunch. I remember a tostada topped with ground chicken, beans, beets, and cilantro. We usually dislike beets, but these were good. Simple. Balanced. Unshowy.

In Panama, we had ceviche at a fish market — served in a small paper cup with a small plastic spoon. Fresh. Bright. Honest. Later, a chicken soup followed by fish and rice at a restaurant I can no longer picture, but still remember by taste. We bought two bottles of their hot sauce to bring home.

Those meals felt like the places in a way the excursions didn't. They weren't impressive. They were sufficient. While they were coordinated for us, they reflected daily life rather than performance for visitors.

A recent stay in Wailea had been easy. Hana would later be restorative. Walking, swimming, hiking, early nights — those days expanded. On the ship, time felt segmented. Meals at set hours. Excursions with departure times. Freedom, but pre-arranged.

What I couldn't articulate then — but can now — was that I was mentally unprepared. I had expected freedom to carry me. Instead, I discovered that without intention, freedom decays.

The Panama Canal itself was remarkable. Few people ever transit it. I'm glad we did.

But the lasting value of that trip wasn't the crossing.

It was the realization that freedom alone isn't enough — and that learning how to live inside it would take more than time.