By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (40 page)

Eventually we got on board and it was just as busy there with people cramming the gangways and stairs, running up and down and shouting like mad things.

‘What are they running for?’ I asked no one in particular. ‘We’ve got at least a couple of hours until we leave.’

‘They’re running to get a seat,’ a voice said from behind me. ‘It was the same in Bali.’

I turned to find Anne smiling at me.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘We missed you.’

‘This place is mad, Charley. It’s like this all the time.’

Two nights and almost two full days of madness. ‘We booked a couple of cabins, didn’t we?’ I said hopefully.

She nodded. ‘You’re sharing with Mungo and it’s very, very hot.’

The four of us enjoyed a dinner of rice and chicken with a spicy jalapeno sauce. Maybe the fieriness got into the conversation somehow, I don’t know, but things got a little heated afterwards.

‘The boat is in Kupang,’ Russ said, biting into a slice of melon. ‘The Australian guy who skippers it is called Warwick and he goes back and forth all the time to trade. I’m still not convinced, but we don’t have any choice, there’s nothing and no one else. I think we’ll have to take it.’

‘We already know that,’ I said, a little irritated. ‘I’ve been saying we’ve got to take it from the moment we booked it.’

‘Yeah, but you haven’t seen it.’

‘But I
have
been told it’s seaworthy. In fact I was told exactly what you just said weeks ago.’

‘I know, but I’ve
seen
it.’

‘What exactly is the matter, Russ?’ We were staring at each other now.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You haven’t seen it.’

‘Well, you’ve only seen a photo of it.’

‘Look.’ He jerked a thumb at Anne and Mungo. ‘It’s my responsibility to ensure you all make it safe to Darwin. I’m just trying to make sure we have a seaworthy boat.’

‘Fine. But why are you getting so narky?’

‘I’m not. It’s you.’

It was a ridiculous argument, I know. I think underneath it all we were feeling a bit apprehensive about that last sea leg. Anyway, I found Russ on deck later and apologised.

When we docked in Flores about a hundred people got off but another three hundred got on. The stated maximum was nine hundred and ninety-eight and I counted roughly at least two thousand on board. I had a long chat with the captain: the ship had been listing to port all the way from Bima and he admitted that we were massively overloaded. But he didn’t sell tickets, he just skippered, and with a shrug of his shoulders he told me that it was holiday season and this was normal. He’d been doing the route for years now and never had an incident.

The ferry was so overcrowded it was actually hard to move around; people were crashed out in corridors, the stairwells, every inch of the deck, entire families camped out on rough sleeping mats with their luggage in cardboard boxes lying alongside them.

I didn’t see Russ all day: he had left his cabin at five a.m. and was nowhere to be found. It was at this point I discovered that he had decided to fly from Timor to Darwin instead of taking the boat. Our Indonesian guide wanted him to confirm the flights and when he couldn’t find him he asked me. It was a bit galling to find out that way, but I suppose it was Russ’s decision. Finally, we located him sleeping in a ‘crew only’ section of the deck: his cabin window wouldn’t open because sacks of potatoes had been piled up outside and the only air came from a vent surrounded by cockroaches.

I was adamant I was not going to fly no matter how bad the boat was. I wanted to stay true to the spirit of our original idea. Russ suggested the spirit had been broken anyway because I’d flown from Batam to Borneo then from Borneo to Bali, but I pointed out that I’d only done that because of our obligations to UNICEF. If we hadn’t had the vaccination programme I’d have found another way off Nikoi.

 

The ferry finally docked in Timor and I watched as the mania took over. Crowds of orange-clad workers waited impatiently for the gangplank to come down. As soon as it did a mass brawl ensued. People were clambering over each other, others were leaping from the sides, ducking under the ropes, falling off and trying again - it was like watching lemmings piling over a cliff. Sheer mayhem, and easily the most eye-popping boat trip I’d ever been on.

Once we made it ashore we met Warwick, the skipper of the boat that would take us to Darwin. He was about thirty-five with a shaven head and blue mirror-lens sunglasses. He was joined by an older guy called Tony who worked as first mate. Tony was talking as we approached and I picked up the words ‘fifty-knot winds’.

‘Fifty knots?’ I said in horror.

‘That’s what it can get up to,’ he said. ‘But it won’t be anything like that.’

‘It’ll be a rough crossing, though?’

‘Not rough, mate. A bit bumpy, maybe.’

The ferry captain had told me that if the sea was calm then the crossing to Darwin would be fine, but if it was rough we should stay at home, go inside and shut the door. But bumpy or rough there was no way I was backing out, though I did want to see the boat first just to be sure.

‘How long do you think it’ll take?’ I asked Warwick.

He made a face. ‘It ought to take four days but with the kind of weather we’ve been having you need to prepare for six, or even seven maybe.’

Six or seven, God, I’d been thinking four at the most. With a quick glance at Mungo I asked Warwick to show us the boat.

‘Mate,’ he said as we headed for the bay, ‘if it’s only going to be you and Mungo that’ll work, actually, because we’ve already got a couple of passengers on board. Cyclists. Andreas and Lena, a German and a Lithuanian. They sleep on deck most nights so it’ll be OK.’

Cutting through an alley between two harbour buildings we came to the bay where a variety of boats were moored. ‘There she is,’ Warwick said, ‘the wooden one, the
Oelin
.’

I looked where he was pointing. Without doubt she was the prettiest boat out there: a small
phinisi
with its high prow and the wheelhouse at the stern.

‘You built her?’

Warwick nodded. ‘Over in Kalimantan - me and my brother. We were told it ought to take three months but allowed a year. Anyway, five years later, there she was. People think she’s teak but she’s made from the local timber, Kalimantan ironwood.’

‘What do you think, Charley?’ Russ had come with us and was standing alongside me.

‘I think she looks terrific. I’m going to have a closer look, but we’d better say goodbye now because if she’s as sound as she looks I’ll just stay on board.’

‘OK. Take care then and I’ll see you in Darwin.’

I gave him a hug and said goodbye to Anne, who was also going to fly. After a couple of bad experiences on small boats then having to take the ferry all the way from Bali, she’d had her fill of the sea. So, it would just be Mungo and me for this last stretch. With two other passengers on board perhaps that was just as well.

We stowed our gear on Warwick’s little speedboat and got aboard. ‘Six days then, Warwick,’ I said.

‘I reckon. If we go straight across we’ll be smack into the wind all the way and it’ll be really tedious. We’re going to hug the coast for about half the time then scuttle across. It’s another ninety miles, but it’ll be more comfy.’

‘Comfy is fine with me. I hope you’ve got lots of seasickness pills aboard.’

‘We’ve got a few,’ he said. ‘Why, do you reckon you’ll need lots?’

‘No . . . I might lose a bit of weight along the way, but I can take it.’

The boat was fabulous, exactly the kind of thing we wanted. There was plenty of space, and I loved the fact it had been built using traditional techniques. Ironwood is really durable, it’s heavy, but that’s good in a wooden boat. Warwick said the
Oelin
could withstand pretty much anything.

The two passengers, Andreas a grey-haired German guy and his girlfriend Lena, showed us below. There was just one large cabin with six bunks so that ought to be cosy; the walls were panelled and there were plenty of books in the bookcase. The whole place had a warm, encouraging feeling. It might be a bit of a tight fit if the weather was bad, but Andreas and Lena reiterated that they liked to sleep on deck.

The boat was clearly well maintained and Warwick had all the necessary safety equipment. He had a full safety checklist, the dos and don’ts etc, and told me he’d been sailing one way or another since he was fourteen. He was skippering unofficially at fifteen and had his ticket by the time he was nineteen. He was very relaxed, a real easy-going Aussie, and he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. We’d heard word from Kupang that Warwick was the only guy around who would make the crossing at this time of year and I suppose you could take that one of two ways. I asked why it was so difficult and Tony explained that there was high pressure after high pressure in the south. That created the constant easterly winds that blew so violently up here.

Once aboard that was it: I’d made my decision and was sticking with it. Itching to get going, Mungo and I stood gazing at the grey stone buildings that dominated the shore. Warwick had taken our passports over to immigration and he was hoping we’d be away by four. So was I.

I could scent the end of the journey now, and like a horse I was bolting for home.

‘This is the last leg, Mungo,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘You’ll be the only one who made it all the way, do you realise that? Three set out but only one made it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean Russ went home and so did I.’

‘You were injured.’

‘I know, but whatever the reason, you’re the only one who made it all that way.’ He shook my hand. ‘I don’t want to tempt fate, buddy, but congratulations.’

The estimated time of departure came and went and still Warwick wasn’t back. At last he returned and explained that while things were moving, this was Indonesia, and we were some way off yet. ‘I reckon the paperwork will be done by about seven, but I think we should wait and leave first thing in the morning.’

‘The morning?’ First six or seven days and now the morning - I could feel my heart sinking all over again.

‘You see those bamboo rigs?’ He pointed up the bay to a whole string of sailing boats that were here and there. ‘They’re not lit at night and we don’t want to hit any. It’d be safer to wait till first light.’

He was right, of course, but I was still gutted.

‘Are you superstitious, Charley?’ he asked.

I showed him the half-dozen or so charms hanging from my wrist. ‘No, Warwick, I’m not superstitious at all.’

‘They say you should never set sail on a Friday anyway. It’s an unwritten rule of the fisherman. We’ll leave at first light tomorrow. Now, I don’t know about you, mate, but I’m ready for a cold beer.’

26

A Little Rough and Bumpy

It wasn’t just the beer, of course. Being sailors we broke out the rum, and at 57 per cent proof, we got absolutely hammered.

First light seemed to come around far too quickly and when I woke up I had to think long and hard about where I was. Then I remembered I was in Kupang and had at least six days at sea ahead of me. My head was pounding, my stomach felt like a washtub and we’d not even left the mooring. It would have been a good time to go home. But I couldn’t, so instead I crawled out of bed and stumbled on deck.

‘It’s your fault,’ I told Warwick, who was grinning at my self-induced misfortune.

‘I know, mate. That funnel in your mouth, that wasn’t fair, was it?’

I helped winch the tender on board: the little metal dinghy we’d used to get ashore last night after we’d worked out that the alcohol we’d consumed needed to be soaked up by some solids. That done, Warwick passed me the handle for the anchor winch which proceeded to shear off at the first turn. I stood there with it dangling uselessly in my hand. Warwick took it from me and with a grim shake of his head told me to assume the position.

He explained that Andreas and Lena were working their passage by doing the cooking and cleaning, which was great for us because it meant fewer chores and more leisure time. To begin with at least, I was all for that. Between them Warwick and Tony fixed the winch handle and we got the anchor up.

‘We lose the odd one now and again,’ Warwick told me. ‘It’s an occupational hazard and we carry spares in the hold. Cyclone anchors, Charley.’ He winked at me. ‘Just in case.’

Back in the wheelhouse he opened the flap in the windscreen to let some air through and showed me how to set up the autopilot on his laptop. With the waypoints already programmed, the course was logged. I stood back and watched as the old-fashioned ship’s wheel steered itself. It looked very strange, the wheel spinning first left then right then left again all by itself. Mungo and I decided it wasn’t the autopilot at all - there was a ghost on board. We named him Joe.

It was a crystal-clear morning and cruising along the northern coast of Timor we would be sheltered from the weather. After we hit the open sea we’d continue for about ninety miles then run south-east for Darwin.

‘It’s an easier ride,’ Warwick assured me again. ‘This way the wind is with us and we ride the waves a bit like a camel rides the sand dunes, you know what I mean?’

‘Sand dunes, sure,’ I said. ‘Did I ever tell you that I did the Dakar?’

‘You did, mate, yeah, last night. About three times.’

I was all for an easier crossing and this morning I couldn’t think of a better place to be than on this boat. It was lovely; the wooden hull painted a bright orange, the wheelhouse pink. Warwick said the colour scheme was his wife’s idea. It was extremely pretty and the Kalimantan ironwood gave it real character.

Mungo and I agreed that for all our arguments and flapping around, Warwick had turned out to be exactly the kind of skipper we needed. He knew these waters like the back of his hand and had spent twenty years fishing, first with his father then on his own boat. He had that uniquely Aussie wit and the first day and night were just wonderful. The company was great, the sea calm and with the grey hills of Timor on our right we were skipping along with barely a judder.