Of Foreign Build (11 page)

‘Sure,’ I squinted as I handed them over. He put them on and turned his back to me.

‘Excuse me, we are going now; could I have my sunnies back, please?’

‘No, I will keep these,’ he said, as a statement, with a severely serious face. I swallowed, glanced at the gun and the other eyes of the guards turning to watch the situation brewing. Noel had tactically moved away, and I literally witnessed his loyalty take flight.

‘No,’ I said as firmly as my shaking voice would let me, ‘they are my glasses and I need them.’ We both stood our ground, I held out my hand and after an interminable time, he took them off and handed them back. I shook for a few hours after berating Noel.

The local transport around town was via Tuktuks. Tuktuks were three-wheeled vehicles that were a cross between a car and motorbike. They had the stability of a unicycle and the equivalent safety of a doll’s pram on a motorway. The driver, who sat in the open, out front, on the single wheel, had total and complete disregard for anyone else and did not move his hand from the horn, or his eyes from anything but the road. In the back, we huddled on a bench under the shade, which was constructed entirely with rust. We viewed glimpses of fields, cattle, and petrified people mirroring our faces.

Too soon it was time to leave. We could stay longer, but the winds were blowing and our friends were leaving. The England Cricketers were coming over to play Sri Lanka in the stadium a short walking distance from our boat. However, we were only allowed to stay for a few weeks, and our visas were close to expiring. On 10 February 2001, we left Sri Lanka, bound for the Maldives.

‘Look darling I’ve brought you to the Maldives for Valentine’s Day!’

‘Yeah, right,’ I replied.

My Valentine’s gift hadn’t been Noel’s idea; it hadn’t even entered his brain. I had spent the previous night, on my watch, making Noel a Valentine’s card. Creativity on board was not all about making vegetables last longer. However, it wasn’t me who jolted Noel’s failing memory. As we approached the serene island in the Maldives, we called up our friends Ed and Dwayne, an American pair on board
Dream On
, to gain information on the anchorage.

‘By the way Noel,’ said Dwayne, ‘wish Jackie Happy Valentine’s day from us.’

‘You bugger!’ said Noel, ‘you got in first!’ Noel had totally forgotten. I then presented him with the card I had laboured over during the night, which made me feel rather superior and made Noel feel even worse. I then, rather stupidly, offered him a get-out clause.

‘Well you got me to the Maldives.’

It took but a second for Noel to turn the tables. ‘That’s right dear, look,’ Noel’s arm swept along the vista of pure golden sand, clear water, and palm trees that bent at exotic angles, ‘Happy Valentine’s day!’ To this day, Noel still claims that it took a lot of effort to arrive at the Maldives on Valentine’s Day in the year 2001 and that Dwayne had spoilt the surprise!

In the northwest Indian Ocean, Uligamu (or Uligan) is one of the inhabited islands in the Maldives. It was a good rest stop for cruisers between Thailand and the Red Sea.

Malé is the capital of the Maldives. Uligamu was further north and a more convenient stop for us. Tourists were not allowed here, and concessions for transient boats had been made. The government had a defined policy on tourism, which it stuck to. It had recognised the benefits of tourism and the income it generated, but it was also determined to preserve the local culture. Therefore, some Maldivian islands were open to tourists and some were not.

It was a privilege to be there. The streets were swept daily, and because they were merely sandy paths, shoes were oftentimes unnecessary. Chocolate skinned children played tag and were overjoyed when we joined in, their startling white teeth glowing beneath the sun. Crystal clear water buoyed our boats and beckoned us in for a swim. There was not a car insight, not an engine to be heard, a vivid contrast to Sri Lanka. The thrill of sailing into a bustling city of Sri Lanka was matched here, with the excitement of landing in paradise.

Uligamu was a small Muslim village and not long after anchoring we were boarded by local officers who cleared us in and briefed us on the dos and don’ts. We ventured into town in search of a shower and supplies. The town had one tiny shop, which stocked a few exorbitantly priced tins of food and some staples of rice and pasta. Eggs, bread, fruit and vegetables were what we were seeking. We were promised every day that bread would be, ‘Here tomorrow.’ It never did materialise, but that didn’t matter; the islanders made flat bread, which was different, but good.

At the back of the shop sat a freshwater well. This became the gathering place for the cruisers. There were about eight boats on anchor. We would sit cross-legged on the clean, grey sand with buckets and bowls and hand wash our laundry. Thereafter, we’d strip off into swimwear and shower. We knew most of the boats there, but some we only said ‘hi’ to. It still felt perfectly normal to wash our clothes together, then shower together, sharing the bucket. The shop owner was glad of our business and free use of the well was thrown in. Uligamu, a tiny slice of heaven within an atoll on a tiny land of paradise; no pollution, dirt, or crime existed here.

It was therefore a shock when we went snorkelling. The coral was dying. Expecting to see bright colours, vivid fish, and tangles of growth, we were disappointed with dull greys, few fish, and a stark landscape. I thought that there were pockets which still lived. Viewing the world from deck level was shocking; the cover of beauty this island offered hid the underlying fact of nature dying.

That first evening, beneath the flickering stars that crowded the magical night sky, we were invited on board
Dream On
, where Ed and Dwayne became our hosts and organised an impromptu party.

Couples from four boats crammed into the cockpit. We all contributed to the bar and kitchen. In Sri Lanka, Noel had bought some cigars, to try and cut down smoking cigarettes – there was some sort of theory there somewhere. So, with great amusement, we all started smoking these cigars – even the girls. As the still night wore on and the Thai marijuana appeared, our tongues loosened with our new friends. We then cooled off in the sparkling moonlit water. Dripping bodies, slurring tongues, and fantastic stories, all wrapped in the curling, pungent smoke of cigars made one of our best party nights. I was glad not to witness the hosts’ cockpit in the morning.

The next day, a refreshing swim sharpened all muzzy heads. Shampoo lathers in salt water (soap does not), and we rinsed most of the bubbles back into the sea; after a quick rinse with fresh water, we were ready to play tag with the kids on the beach and see if the bread had been delivered.

After five days, we said farewell to this a coral fringed isle, where the paths were lined with coral walls, ensuring just enough privacy for the occupants. Coconut palms swayed a farewell in the breeze. The azure water, looking just like the pictures in a travel brochure, carried us away. Paradise was finally found, only to be left behind.

We crossed the second half of the Indian Ocean in about nine days, arriving in Oman on 3 March 2001. As memory automatically deletes any horrible stuff, it remains only to be said that we either had fair winds or none at all, which of course suited us just fine. The radio Net, which we maintained twice a day with six other yachts en route with us, was a good break from routine and made the ocean seem not as empty or frightening.

All was well with the world until about two days out from Oman. Someone on the Net had heard a report that a yacht had been attacked by pirates. Automatic rifle fired through the rigging, knife at the wife’s throat, ransacked boat, but fortunately no casualties. Noel stepped on deck after hearing this report. There was a fishing boat on the horizon, which now took on sinister tones. Instead of the usual wave or quiet contemplation, they received the finger salute and the view of
Mariah’s
stern. Our poor Yanmar engine had to adjust itself to the owners’ request for full speed ahead. It took two hours to leave the fishing boat on the horizon. It felt like two days. We still had 400 miles to the area of attack, so we thought we’d better calm down and reduce the revs from the red line on the tachometer.

We continued our radio Nets and information was gathered on where the attacks had been occurring. We plotted the area on the chart. It was all happening off the coast of Yemen. From Oman we had to pass the coast of Yemen in order to reach the Red Sea. Cape Town was sounding like a good place by this stage. Nerves were fraught. A meeting was planned for us all for when we arrived in Salalah, Oman. In the meantime, we spent our solitary hours mentally designing grenade launchers, camouflage nets, and dummy infantry to stand on deck. Where was the Royal Navy when you really needed them?

The meeting was arranged to take place at the local ex-pats’ clubhouse and was to be chaired by one of the more apparently knowledgeable cruisers. He’s American and our friend, who goes by the name of George. George has served time as a marine, or so the whispers went. There were various ideas put forward, such as, ‘Can the French Navy form an escort?’ Apparently they were sympathetic to this ongoing problem, but they couldn’t help; all private vessels entered these waters at their own risk. There were, however, some radio distress frequencies we could use. These were for the US Navy, the French Navy, and the Yemen Maritime rescue services. However, none of these stations guaranteed a response and, if they did, it was unlikely that they could reach us in time to be of any assistance during an attack.

‘Bloody brilliant,’ we all murmured, ‘if the cavalry arrives, they can help sift through the wreckage!’ Those with guns on board had been discussing whether to open fire on sight or only if they had to. Most of the Yanks wanted to start firing as soon as they left port. Then, presumably, not to stop firing until they reached New York, and that was only to re-load.

The trouble with guns is that you need bloody good ones. The reports we’d received said that the pirates had automatics and approached the boats firing into the rigging. Do you open fire in return to save your radio and hidden American dollars? By this time, Noel was wondering where we could buy a Navy Bofur, find a place to mount the critter, and join the Yanks heading to New York. The pirates, we were informed, travelled in high-powered speedboats and carried radio monitoring equipment. Using this gear was apparently how they had located yachts that talk between themselves on VHF.

Personally, we thought that George, who can’t drink because he gets a bit mean under the influence, should have been given a carton of rum, armed with a few Uzi machine guns, and let loose. Our ideas weren’t appreciated, mainly because this chap had been known to be indiscriminate in his rages.

The final plan was for everyone to maintain close quarters to each other under sail, which was interesting as there were not two boats the same; we also agreed to maintain strict VHF silence and only use the HF radios (with too many frequencies to detect) on set contact frequencies that were not divulged to anyone else. Was this the great plan?

‘What happens if a boat is boarded?’ Noel asked. ‘Do we ram the culprits, if it’s a matter of someone’s life at stake?’

This was greeted with silence as everyone, including myself, pondered the reality of such a scene. Do we ram or observe? Or head for the horizon, blocking out the sounds of mayhem behind us? Noel and I privately thought we may stop to help the girls on
Carmen Miranda
, but a certain unnamed American could get it up the backside, for all we cared. He really was a prick and didn’t want us to join the convoy, as he thought we’d be too slow. (Fear, a forty horse power Yanmar, and the ability to put up every square inch of sail we possessed later proved him wrong). The meeting ended. I was stunned with real and imagined horrors. We adjourned to the bar.

‘I’ll have a triple whiskey and ice and my wife will have a large gin and tonic,’ said Noel, a glazed look in his eye.

‘That will cost you a pretty penny,’ said the guy next to me.

‘Mate,’ Noel responded, ‘sometimes money just doesn’t come into it. As a matter of fact, barman, just give me the bottle.’

Salalah was a hot, dry desert. Despite the turmoil of real life pirates, we tried to enjoy the stark lands, as we were certainly not planning a return trip. The town was about ten kilometres away from the anchorage. The best way to get into town was hitchhiking, which goes against everything I was taught by my parents. The locals were a helpful, friendly bunch and only after an hour or two of wilting in the excessive heat, with not a tree in sight, we were picked up. Usually, the guy that offered us a lift spoke little English, drove like a lunatic, and it took the whole four-minute ride to explain where we wanted to go. Words such as phone, spare parts, and, supermarket were not understood. However, we quickly learned that Pizza Hut, McDonalds, and all artery-hardening restaurants was a worldwide language and their location bound to be in the centre of town. We were dropped off outside Pizza Hut, which was rather convenient as we were starving and had been eating lentils, chickpeas, rice, and pasta for far too long.

In town, we were armed with the perpetual list, money, and determination to complete all of our tasks and a belly full of the yummiest pizza ever. By now, we’d been out of touch with family for some time. Many boats had Internet on board and satellite phones: a luxury we could not afford nor wanted. If we had a satellite phone, I knew my mum would have called at an inopportune time when we were changing sails or hauling in a large fish and she’d wonder why, when a phone rings on a small boat, it wasn’t answered. Her imagination would run riot, causing her even more sleepless nights. On board, we’d then have serious debates whether to spend five pounds per minute calling back to say all was okay, and our little watery sanctuary would be shattered. With modern day communications it was impossible to escape communications on land – at sea we could. To avoid world news, home news, and all other news was a sweet, peaceful gift that we enjoyed.

You would think buying a phone card and calling home a simple task anywhere in the world. Let me tell you, it is not. Firstly, the town was stretched out over five kilometres and was extraordinary in that all the jewellery shops were together, all the fabric shops together, and so on.

‘Where’s the phone card section?’ I asked through sweat and sand-caked lips, grimacing as another painful crack opened on my bottom lip.

After an hour of traipsing around in circles, wide-eyed and rubbernecking, all the shops suddenly shut down. It was remarkable, wherever we were in the world, we always just reached town to have lunch and watch all shops close down for a few hours.

We found solitude in a small café where the owner felt sorry for us, and we drank warm sodas. Miraculously, we spotted phone cards hanging on their wall. Finding a phone was the next obstacle. After a tour of smashed phones and empty phone-boxes, we found a phone that worked. Under the direct heat of the sun, in a heat-generating plastic box we inserted the card. Before we had a chance to dial, the phone whirred and beeped.

‘That sounds like it has just wiped our card,’ I said. Bless it, it had.

‘That’s it!’ Noel shouted and plonked himself on a concrete step beneath some rare shade. He shut his eyes, a good plan I thought, and joined him. A moment later our self-indulgent sulk was interrupted.

‘Hallo, are you okay?’ a local voice with good English asked.

‘Bloody go away,’ Noel murmured under his breath. The last thing we needed was someone asking for money. Being white, we stood out and looked to all like huge dollar signs walking down the street. However, this was no beggar, this was a knight in shining armour. I looked up and squinted into the sun, to see a brand new Lexus. Standing beside it was a young, striking man, handsome in his startling clean, white dishdasha (local tunic). He smiled.