The sun was hot, yet the air of that ozone-rich quality for which
Panama is famous. For headgear we had caps; and did not wear
those, though barely a few puffy, snow-white clouds ventured out
into the vast chartless sky all the brilliant day through. Then
the river; who could describe this lower reach of the Chagres as
it curves its seven deep and placid miles from where Uncle Sam
releases it from custody, to the ocean. Its jungled banks were
without a break, for the one or two clusters of thatch and reed
huts along the way are but a part of the living vegetation. Now
and then we had glimpses across the tree-tops of brilliant green
jungle hills further inland, everywhere were huge splendid trees,
the stack-shaped mango, the soldier-erect palm heavy, yet
unburdened, with cocoanuts. Some fish resembling the porpoise rose
here and there, back and forth above the shadows winged snow-white
cranes so slender one wondered the sea breeze did not wreck them.
Above all the quiet and peace and contentment of a perfect
tropical day enfolded the landscape in a silence only occasionally
disturbed by the cry of a passing bird. Once a gasoline launch
deep-laden with Sunday-starched Americans, snorted by, bound
likewise to Fort Lorenzo at the river's mouth; and we lay back in
our soft, rumpled khaki and drowsily smiled our sympathy after
them.
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