Panama woke up on November 9, 2025, to a truth that many in the maritime sector preferred to keep hidden: an old, rusty tugboat sailing under an African flag purchased in a legal loophole was carrying not just cocaine, but also a documentary trail leading directly to the heart of Panama’s maritime elite.
The Oceanic Tug, intercepted in broad daylight in the Pacific, immediately became the stark symbol of a corruption that has been reported for years but rarely proven. This time, the sea returned evidence.
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A blow at sea that could not be ignored
At 2:00 p.m., the radars of the National Aeronaval Service (SENAN) detected the unusual behavior of the tugboat. The Oceanic Tug moved slowly without tactics, not making any attempt to evade authorities. It was escorted by four smaller boats that, according to intelligence reports, had previously made offshore shipments.
When tactical units boarded the vessel near San José Island in the Pearl Archipelago, they found no secret compartments or sophisticated underwater engineering. Instead, they discovered mountains of 579 packages of cocaine, over 13.5 tons of high-purity drugs stacked openly, almost defiantly.
The crew—ten men aged between 70 and 73, hailing from six different countries—offered no resistance. They surrendered resignedly, some in an evident state of exhaustion. Their lawyers later claimed they were recruited and forced under death threats, “forced recruits in the hands of organized crime.”
The director of SENAN, Luis de Gracia, called it “the largest historical seizure in Panama’s history”. And it was: over 200 million dollars worth of cocaine sourced from Clan del Golfo laboratories, destined for Mexico and the United States, on a route that has already intercepted 51,000 packages just in 2025.
But what truly shook the country was not the drugs. It was the name behind the ship.
The ship with a history: From the Shipyard to the Shadows
The Oceanic Tug was not a ghost ship. On the contrary, it had a transparent, traceable history formally linked to Pablo E. Torres Chong, a top maritime entrepreneur, a prominent member of the sector and beneficiary of strategic state concessions.
In 2022, the vessel was purchased by Dolphin Tugs Inc., a company founded in 2019 and presided over by Torres Chong. After a year, the vessel was sold — in a transaction with little documentation clarity — to Power H Holding Corporation and later transferred to Pacific Tug & Barge Operators. In 2024, the Panama Maritime Authority (AMP) authorized the cancellation of its registration, and the vessel reappeared under the Tanzanian flag, a flag known for its opacity in naval ownership matters.
The processes were supervised by the firm Maritime Lawyers Bureau, dissolved in August 2024, whose closure added an additional layer of legal murkiness to the case.
Torres Chong claims to have sold the tug “with all legal formalities” and denies any connection since March 2023. However, the timeline of the case, the intermediaries involved, the political context, and the history of state concessions under PRD governments feed a troubling hypothesis: the ship was not lost; it was protected.
The businessman with connections: Power, Fuel, and Privileges
Pablo E. Torres Chong is no ordinary businessman. With 24 years of maritime experience, he is the CEO of Stward Corp., a dominant player in the bunkering business for cruise ships at Amador Port, a multi-million dollar operation that, according to industry experts, has enjoyed an unusually expedited access to permits.
His family circle is also under scrutiny. He is the cousin of Ricardo Torres, a former PRD deputy, head of the parliamentary group, and an influential figure during the administration of former president Laurentino Cortizo. During that time, according to previous journalistic investigations, Torres Chong allegedly received benefits from the AMP through officials such as:
Noriel Araúz, former AMP administrator, considered a “trusted man”.
Gabriel Carrizo, former vice president.
Freddy Torres de Santiago, a significant political operator.
In 2021, attorney Helga Ceballos had already filed a criminal complaint against the AMP for corruption, directly naming Torres Chong in supposed administrative irregularities.
Among the controversial concessions are:
Occupation of Dock 8 at Balboa Shipyard in 2020.
Maritime Service License approved after a fuel spill.
Monopoly of bunkering for cruises at Amador, consolidated in 2024.
Former president Ricardo Martinelli publicly accused: “Pablo ‘The Tug’ Torres has always been a narco. We need to take away all concessions.”
Torres did not react with lawsuits. He simply denied everything.
It is worth noting that Torres has denied all accusations against him and states that the tugboat was sold to another company as the records show.
The Sudden Resignation and the Deafening Silence
On November 12, just three days after the seizure, Torres Chong submitted his resignation “for personal reasons” from the board of the Maritime Chamber of Panama (CMP). The resignation fell like a bucket of cold water in a sector already under media pressure.
The CMP responded by demanding a “transparent and objective investigation.”
But within the guild, there is distance: many argue that the resignation was a sign of weakness, while others say it was a preventive measure to avoid formal expulsion.
Outside the docks, suspicion is growing like a tide.
The Public Outrage: A Country Tired of Two Justices
As the media dissect the case, indignation on social media skyrockets. More than 100 daily posts on X (Twitter) mention the Oceanic Tug since the seizure. The general sentiment is one of exasperation:
“10 retirees in prison and the owner of the ship giving interviews? Panama has two justice systems: one for the poor and another for those in power.”
Memes quickly followed: “Tugboat for sale, almost new, only 13 tons of use.”
The popular narrative is clear: this case is not just a blow to drug trafficking but a symptom of a larger illness.
The Case Grows: Will There Be High-Level Involvements?
The Drug Prosecutor’s Office, led by Julio Villarreal, advances cautiously. So far, only the crew has been charged. But the investigative line points to three fronts:
The Colombian origin: laboratories of Clan del Golfo in Juradó.
The Panamanian route: Pacific corridors used since the Gulf of Chiriquí.
The logistical support: the ship’s history, its owners, and possible accomplices in the AMP.
The Public Ministry is evaluating audits of concessions granted to companies linked to Torres Chong. The maritime sector fears a domino effect that could compromise the Panamanian hub, vital for global trade.
Just five days after the operation, Panama faces an unavoidable question:
Will the State dare to investigate one of its own?
The Oceanic Tug sailed for years among paperwork, favors, operators, law firms, and foreign flags. This time, it could not sail anymore. What it carried on board was too big to hide, even in a country accustomed to bureaucratic opacity.
The case is no longer about cocaine.
It’s about a system that allowed an ordinary tugboat to become a highway for organized crime.
It’s about a country where the sea unites continents, but also washes away sins.
Panama stands at a historic crossroads: to allow the tide to carry away the truth… or to finally sink the ship of impunity once and for all.
The investigation is just beginning. And if one thing is clear, it’s that the waves of justice—if they finally arrive—will not spare anyone.