Of Foreign Build (14 page)

Two hundred nautical miles from Safaga, twenty-five knot head winds struck the water and caused mountainous waves, punching
Mariah
clean on the nose. Anyone who has suffered sea-sickness knows that when it is at its worst, you feel like you are going to die. Just when you have thrown your last morsel from your aching stomach, mal de mer demands more. It can be complete agony and I have, in fact, forced food down my stomach to ease the pain of constant retching on an empty stomach.

We pound our way towards another secure anchorage, some ten nautical miles away. Usually ten nautical miles at five knots would take us two hours. However, we were moving at three knots. A huge wave picked us up and slammed us down; the following relentless wave slammed straight into the bow. This stopped us dead in the water. It took a few seconds to re-gain the momentum of movement. Then we moved at three knots for a few seconds until the next wave. Our GPS told us we had six hours to reach our haven. There was nothing we could do but hang on, ensure the boat was not coming apart, and wait. If there were a way to step off the boat, I would have welcomed it with open arms.

While bumping into seawater that was as solid as a brick wall, a seal on the water pump on the engine expired. The engine was at a full throttle, as we could not sail into the strong winds and certainly not the seas. Indeed, we would have been going backwards, if it were not for our saviour, the Yanmar. However, the seal perishing was a bit of a problem. The engine was cooled by fresh water, which, in turn, was cooled by salt water. Raw water (salt water) was constantly sucked in and pumped through a heat exchanger to cool the fresh water, and then the raw water was spat out the exhaust. With the revs so high, a lot of water was in circulation. The sad thing was that with the seal gone most of the water that was usually pumped out of the exhaust was pumping straight into the boat, our home! We had bilge pumps, but they were not at the very lowest part of the boat and not able to cope with the quantity of water. We did have a hand pump as well, but it meant one of us pumping continually from below decks. We were both needed in the cockpit to traverse through this particularly sticky stage of our journey. Every half-hour, we took turns going below and scooping up the water into a bucket, and then lifting the bucket into the cockpit to empty it overboard. It sounds easy unless you are struggling to stay on your feet on a three-dimensionally lurching machine, to say nothing of carefully timing the next spew.

It was all quite horrendous. I would manage to scoop up half a bucket of sloshing water, and then I’d have to dash outside to empty the bucket and my stomach. Then I’d retreat back down again and follow the same process until the bilge was cleared and my stomach was unbearably empty. The exhaustion was two-fold. First, we had to hang on for dear life, while controlling slopping water in bucket. Secondly, our mal de mer intensified, particularly by being down below, near the diesel engine, where it was hot and stuffy. The six hours into our haven felt like six weeks. We just had to carry on; there were no alternatives. There was just the two of us, the boat, the sea, the sky, and the nasty wind and waves.

With exhaustion nipping at our extremities, we finally, achingly, turned into the protected anchorage.

The stark transformation from muddled seas to flat water was extraordinary. The crash of waves was silenced.
Mariah
glided through the placid water that was protected by pale yellow sand dunes. The sea-sickness vanished instantly and we forgot the horrendous conditions outside. The winds continued to howl around our rigging, unrelenting, while we made repairs. For two days, more noodles and peas were forced down when hunger consumed me. It wasn’t a diet I’d recommend.

And so it went on.

Eventually, in April 2001, we bumped and ground our way into Egyptian waters and found another sheltered port. That was one positive thing about traversing the Red Sea, there were plenty of safe stops. As we entered this particular anchorage, we spotted a navy ship anchored in the middle of the bay. In the spirit of good manners, we headed towards them. As a foreign vessel, we had to ask permission to be there. Visas did not make any difference if they wanted you to leave. They asked us to tie up alongside them so they could check our passports and visas. With lots of undecipherable chatter, gesticulation, and dour faces, after an uncomfortable time, they indicated that we were allowed to go and anchor. But, they kept hold of our passports.

‘We hold these until you leave. When you want to leave, ask us for permission, and if everything is okay, we will allow you to leave and give you back your passports.’ This was said by man with a grave face; his uncompromising mouth wouldn’t know a joke if it jumped up and slapped him on the chops. He wore a starched uniform and was heavily armed. What do we do? We were told to never surrender our passports. We tentatively explained that our respective countries do not allow us to leave our passports with anyone else.

‘You are in Egypt,’ (
really?
), ‘this is my country. You do as I say, otherwise there are problems.’

Well, we really didn’t want any problems in this country, so we smiled politely, thanked them profusely, and toddled off to anchor while muttering unprintable words about our welcome into Egypt.

Once again we anchored. Surviving the Red Sea’s howling conditions was hard work and at times frightening, but getting through it and doing what had to be done was fortifying.

Anchoring had to be quick, clean, and precise, especially in strong winds. The protected water may be calm, but the wind was still howling against
Mariah
and causing her to swing erratically.

Much to our delight, a couple of hours later, a large catamaran puttered into the bay. These were our American friends, Chris and Roy, on board
Solmates
with their two English setters. After they completed the paperwork with the Navy, they anchored not too far away and called out, ‘Come on over!’

Launching our dinghy could be a bit of an effort, but over time, as with everything else, we were becoming quick and efficient. Our dinghy was a little timber boat, which sat upturned on deck and lashed down securely. We would untie it, roll it onto one side, attach a halyard to the pre-rigged bridle within the dinghy, and use a winch to lift the rope and therefore the dinghy. The main halyard was a rope that runs to the top of our mast that was used to haul the main sail up. It took the weight of our dinghy, and I winched while Noel guided the little boat over the railings. It was smooth and relatively easy.

Now, we were an Australian registered boat, visiting an American registered boat – you’d think this perfectly normal. However, between our two boats was Egyptian water and the Egyptian Navy, and they would do everything they could to remind us of this and their power over us. They watched us launch our dinghy, and suddenly they were upon us in their dinghy. Our freedom suddenly felt uncomfortably squished.

‘You cannot go to another boat unless we give you permission.’ The irritating Egyptian’s voice bounced over the water, coated in a thick glob of smart-arse power. He stared at us with what felt like a challenge. It took but a moment before Noel and I gathered our wits.

‘Please may we have permission to visit our friends, sir?’ I asked in my best British accent.

‘You can go only if your meeting is about your journey and the boat.’ The power-wielding maniac continued.

I didn’t think it was appropriate to announce our intentions of enjoying civilised company, with the distinct possibility of behaving most foolishly with copious amounts of alcohol running around our veins. Instead I said, ‘Of course, sir, it is related. They have a problem with their engine, and we need to discuss how to fix it and the best route to take from here.’ I valiantly tried to conceal the sarcasm that so desperately wanted to escape my lips. A nod fit for royalty was bestowed upon us, and we headed for our good friends, interesting company, good food, and alcohol.

And it was here that things declined rapidly, the main culprit being the rum and vodka, which were supposedly mixed with a less innocuous drink. I think Chris waved my glass of vodka at the tonic and hoped the fumes would catch in the glass. Soon raucous laughter interspersed with, ‘Sod the fake discussions,’ was heard bouncing around the water.

Day after day, we had all been punching into nasty weather, eating boring food, and coping with the company of our partners in confined spaces. Radio relieved the monotony of speaking to the same person each day, but humans need other humans, and we all enjoyed new company.

As the evening progressed, the Egyptians came over to ask why the meeting was going on so long. Like naughty children, we picked up the strategically placed charts and navigation tools and tried to act in a serious manner, toning down the raucous conversation and furrowing our brows in concentration.

‘You must return soon,’ we were instructed.

Just for something different, the winds continued to howl from the north and, again, we were thankful to be tucked in safely. On the radio we heard that boats had found shelter; the couple that didn’t had to hove to and sit it out. Hoving to, simply put, is just a technique to prevent a boat moving forward. It helped prevent the loss of any ground and could prevent damage to the vessel (and the occupants) if conditions were particularly bad, so it was a neat trick to learn.

So we learned, you have to sit and wait for “windows” that arrive every week or so in-between the howling gale force Nor’westerlys. This, I bet, sounds okay, lounging around on a yacht. Well, stick yourselves in a room, thirty feet long and eleven feet wide. Sprinkle over some sand, add more than a dash of salt (over everything in and out), takeaway all yummy foods, leaving just the basics of flour, baked beans and peas (all tinned!), and ration out the ever depleting water supply. Add to that constant creaking, scraping, and the banging of all equipment on deck. Add to that a view of sand, rock, more sand, more rock, and the odd camel. It could get a trifle tedious.

One day, at another anchorage, we asked
Solmates
for some flour to help boost our sad diet. Anchored about twenty metres away, we watched Roy kit up into his diving suit with air tanks. He plopped into the water, which though it wasn’t sporting any huge waves, had a number of wavelets that made swimming a challenge. Chris passed Roy a package, tightly wrapped in plastic – our flour. We thought they would launch their dinghy (easier to launch than ours as it sat on the back of the boat on davits and could be hauled up and down with blocks). Roy took the opportunity to check all our anchors, but first he delivered the flour. Our knight-in-shining-wetsuit swam towards us with a bag of flour above his head, wrapped securely in zip lock bags (the flour that is, not his head); it was a sight to behold. He checked our anchor and informed us that our chain was nicely wrapped around all the rocks that were at the bottom. Oh well, at least we weren’t going anywhere.

I spent a few hours rummaging around, cursing, and folding myself into compromising positions to view the back of the galley cupboards where all those boring foodstuffs lurk, all that gear you never fancy as it is too healthy and invariably tastes like cardboard. Using my special recipe (which means I am too embarrassed to reveal the ingredients), I cobbled together a batch of Samosas and Chapatis.

To pass a bit of time between staring at sand hills and the odd camel, while cursing the relentless wind, I had been writing out copies of crew lists for an easier entry in to ports. Meanwhile, Noel changed the oil and replaced the water pump seal.

At last, we felt as though we were making progress. We passed Sudan and only had about another three days until Safaga. Our excitement built at the prospect of visiting Cairo and Luxor and seeing the Pyramids at Giza and the Valley of the Kings.

Once again, we were on our way, and there were reports of good weather for a few days. We wanted to take advantage of this, but we were approaching Fury Bay, which reportedly had amazing snorkelling. Decisions, decisions: do we stop and enjoy one of the best places in the world to snorkel or pass it by and take advantage of the good weather? In the end, we stopped. We were definitely never sailing these waters again, so why miss this opportunity?

The water was extraordinarily clear; it felt like we were floating in air. The mountainous, lively coral scattered across the ocean’s floor like a giant marble set, left to grow their own vivid garden with vibrant fish flicking, frolicking. Stingrays glided past, the waving seaweeds swayed in rhythm. There was a cliff of coral dropping off into the deep blue, providing the stomach turning illusion that we were suspended over a cliff face. Fan corals waved us on, while the fish fought the strong current alongside. It was hard not to smile too much and allow the water into our plastic masks. The silence of snorkelling and free diving transported us to another world. It was hard to imagine that hunting exists within this tranquil atmosphere. I felt as though I could see for miles, but wondered what could glide up the vivid cliff face to eye me up for lunch.

Back on board, lack of drinking water was now the issue. This was far more serious. We were at yet another anchorage, waiting for calmer winds. Our view was like a stone quarry where sand filled the gaps. A couple of small timber huts dotted the beach; within the huts a few uniformed bodies sat, and we hoped they would be our salvation.

We launched our dinghy and slowly rowed ashore, wondering what our welcome would be. As we beached the dinghy and took steps on terra firma, I gathered up our trading gifts, and the armed guards approached and smiled. Through miming and gesticulating, the guards were happy to provide us with water. They also gave us some thick, rather strange looking, purple fruit juice. Our bodies absorbed the goodness in moments; peas and noodles did not contain the same sort of vitamins! In return, we gave them colourful magazines, full of Hollywood stars and gossip. We also presented them with some boiled sweets and a little koala toy. They were delighted by these gifts and excited to see the American women in their splendour. We were relieved and equally thrilled with our bounty of water.