Of Foreign Build (25 page)

The Mississippi was an exhilarating cruise. The clean sandy beaches, parks, and lush vegetation possessed an unexpected beauty. Along the way, we found some fabulous rest stops out of the channel, out of the current, and away from the commercial traffic. We were approaching the Ohio River turn-off and poignantly ended our trip along the Mississippi.

‘Hurricane Ivan is heading for Mobile, Alabama.’
The radio updated us on the relentless hurricanes that were only a few hundred miles away. Being inland, we felt safe from the awesome winds, however, when hurricanes move to a large expanse of land, the rain comes.

‘
I’m standing here near the Tennessee River, watching pleasure craft and yachts break free from their moorings and crash into bridges,’
gasped the commentator on the radio, fully in tune with my horror. The Tennessee runs into the Ohio, our next river. The Ohio was running at three to four knots current – against us. That meant our average speed would be a monotonous one to two knots. Luckily, there was a protected, pretty anchorage just before the raging river, near a town named Cairo. We sat there for a long week, waiting for the Ohio River to calm. We tackled jobs on the boat and took trips to the town every other day.

The outing to town was a marathon. We dinghied ashore, climbed a ten foot muddy bank, and trekked a mile across fields overgrown with a mesh of weeds. Mozzies were fearsome and waged a full-on war. We then climbed a levee bank, which was ideal rattle snake foliage, and ultimately reached a gravel road. We were now half way there. The rest of the journey was a bit easier and after dragging our push-bikes (and many sock burrs) thus far, we were able to enjoy a ride. Loaded on the outward journey with bags of rubbish and all our groceries homebound made for a somewhat challenging exercise.

With flood waters still rampaging down the Ohio River, we prepared for battle and turned into the thick brown, debris-ridden river. Our speed slowed to a laboured two knots speed over the ground, while we played dodgems with the floating trees. The Ohio River houses two locks, which raised us up higher, away from sea level. However, water levels were so high, we motored right over the top of the locks, walls and all! At the second lock, while going over the top of the huge superstructure, we stopped dead in the water. Our hardworking Yanmar was pushed to the red as an enormous tugboat, thrusting fifteen barges, crept up our rear. As the barge crawled nearer, we stared at the land that was not moving by, and the Yanmar started to scream, not much before I did. Suddenly, Noel had the bright idea of tacking. Weaving left to right, we broke through the current, and the shore started moving along again.

We continued on and motored for long days, trying to get through this laborious section with haste. When we reached Tennessee, we started going down-hill with the current flowing south, the same direction as us, into the Gulf of Mexico.

The Cumberland River was enchanting. Well, I am not sure if it was the magic of the place or the fact that we were reading Harry Potter at the time. That evening two hooting owls, perched on a tree across the narrow river, entertained us for hours with their mystical calls.

After the Cumberland and Tennessee River, we entered the last stretch of the system that would lead us south into Mobile, which was just east of New Orleans, into the Gulf of Mexico. The Ten-Tom Canal connects the Tennessee River with the Tombigbee River; this was our last fresh water canal. The locks appeared newer and quieter in the Tenn-Tom. The waterway was sparsely populated and we took delight in watching the majestic Blue Herons sit in the almost naked trees with the onset of winter.

The cold nipped at our extremities, a price we paid for completing this trip in winter, but the cloak of warmth from people of the Deep South warded off the chill. We lived through part of winter, in Demopolis, Alabama, experiencing the way of life at first hand, while we worked on
Mariah
in preparation for the Pacific Ocean.

Living within a community such as Demopolis, Alabama was what travelling was all about, not the latest tourist attraction, but the people, the culture, the feel of the place. The locals instantly accepted us, and their welcoming smiles were contagious. We easily slipped into their ways and their rhythmic accents. Listening to their voices was like pouring dark molasses from a warm drum, thick, rich, and leisurely. You could hear the melodic beat of country music beneath their day-to-day conversations. We knew their laid back attitude was absorbed deep into our hearts when we tentatively thought about making a decision tomorrow.

While working towards departure, and victualling the boat we had ducked into a rather plain looking cafe. Situated within a semi-industrial area, we were surprised at the cleanliness and comfortable surroundings. We were on the run, between picking up fuel filters and our last supermarket shop.

‘Two burgers and two glasses of milk, please.’ That’s all we wanted.

The burgers were nothing short of brilliant within a toasted bun that was full of fresh, crisp salad, too.

‘Thank you,’ we said to the waitress, when she collected our plates, ‘we just have to tell you, we are from Australia and that is one of the best hamburgers we have had since Australia!’

‘Well, sir, ma’am,’ the waitress smiled, ‘that is so very nice of you to say so.’

But, what we didn’t realise, was that our “waitress” was the owner. As we gathered our belongings to leave and pay at the counter near the door, the entire staff stood in a line. The owners, waitresses, chef and washer-up, all smiled at us.

‘We just want to say, it has been a pleasure to meet you and an honour to serve you today.’ The owner said sincerely.

Noel and I then walked down the line of employees while they shook our hands, and refused to take any money from us when we left! They were so thrilled to have foreign visitors that took the time to thank them for their food, they treated us like royalty. And, that just about sums up the Alabamian way!

We said our farewells to PJ, our dinghy, in Alabama. The kitchen cupboard sheets were slowly separating, and it was only fair he retired. We searched for a replacement without much luck. Until, rather despondently, we were strolling around the yard and called up to a guy standing on his boat, on the hard.

‘D’ya know anywhere we can buy a dinghy?’

‘You can have this one.’ And with that he tossed over the handrails a perfect, beautiful fibreglass dinghy, complete with brass row-locks, oars, and a neat little plaque.

‘I was about to throw it away,’ he said.

We named her Matilda, and she was destined to travel home with us.

During our river cruising we had felt that things weren’t quite right with our house in England. A tenant had left and the estate agents said they couldn’t find another. So, with winter becoming chilly and causing boat work to slow, and with a longing to see my family we decided to do some land travel in Europe.

We left
Mariah
on the hard in the marina in Demopolis, Alabama. Mum and Dad had offered to buy us our airfare back to the UK to see them for a few weeks. Organising the trip before Christmas was a rush, but with the boat in a safe and reasonable marina, at one hundred American dollars per month, we were happy to go. We could also visit our great friends, Den and ‘Tash, in the Netherlands.

‘We can’t wait to see you,’ ‘Tash and I had declared simultaneously.

They were about to become parents to twins! Their boat,
Frodo
, patiently waited for them in the USA.

Getting around America on land was only easy if you had a car. We researched public transport and found the only way to get to an international airport was via coach. Locals in the marina were horrified that we thought about travelling this way and quickly a cruiser offered us a lift to the airport via his home. It was a four-hour drive to his home near Nashville and a further hour’s drive to the airport. En route to his place, he told us of his time in a straight-jacket; we started to feel a little vulnerable cooped up in a van with a stranger who had officially been on the wrong side of sane at some point. The couple were hospitable, and a few days in the middle of the country was relaxing; however, the odd tic the guy produced and the unstable emotions, plus the gun, made us a little tense. The hour’s drive to the airport at 4:30 am wasn’t fun, and the hour long argument with his wife was disconcerting, and I shivered at my imaginings at his actions if we were not there. We knew we would return back to
Mariah
a different way. Being cut off, with strangers, in a remote location in a foreign country seemed a rather daft thing to do.

I loved being back home in the warm arms of my family. It was our first introduction to Sammy and Zino, our newest niece and nephew. The whole bunch were a joy. Dad surprised me by insuring me on his brand new Jaguar, so we could have some freedom.

Our house had been empty for over six months now, and we decided to go and check it out and surprise our estate agents. They
were
surprised. They had neglected to tell us about the fire that had engulfed the kitchen, the holes in the walls, the dirt, the stains, the damaged door and doorframes throughout the entire three-bedroom house, and the stripping of everything that wasn’t nailed down (and some things that were!). The vivid, deep pink paint that the last renter had used to try to cover the smoke damage hurt our eyes and didn’t work. We sacked our agents who, “couldn’t park on the yellow lines out front to do a proper bi-monthly look at the house,” ignoring the free car park fifty metres up the road. We received a little compensation from them after they stupidly made this admittance. Never had I seen such an unprofessional, shoddy business; I wished them everything they deserved.

Two months later, we had renovated the entire house –
again
. We had missed our flights back to the boat; it was now February and we had no money. Noel quickly got a carpentry job in Yorkshire, which was almost the coldest place to be in England in the coldest month of the year. I worked in an office, it was a good, temp, job, but it was in an office. We worked for a few weeks, but as our track record proved, we couldn’t stick to it. We had a deeply emotional meeting in a pub one Sunday.

‘This is not where I want to be,’ said Noel and I had agreed. Decisive action was what was needed and decisive, if not a bit odd, it was.

Two days later, we flew to Romania. Noel had been working with a few Romanians and had got on well with them. Romania was scheduled to transfer their currency into euros some years down the line. It had been a dream of ours to buy land in a country that hadn’t gone to the euro yet, but intended to. Soon we were following that plan, heading for a country we knew little of and was currently experiencing the worst winter in one hundred years.

We noticed the thick snow as we swooped around to land. We quickly got off the plane and stood in a grey building for a couple of moments about to step into another weird and wonderful adventure. We had arranged for a work mate’s father and family to meet us. We even had an apartment to stay in. What could go wrong?

I walked through the passport control and waited for Noel.

‘Is this your only passport?’ he was asked.

‘Yes,’ Noel replied.

‘Where is your visa?’

Oops.

Having UK residency was not enough; we had neglected to arrange a visa for Noel. Despite, begging, and pleading, they would not let Noel in.

‘You can stay,’ they said to me. But, I was not staying alone.

Within just fifteen minutes, we were put on a plane back to the UK via Holland.

We sat in first class, our distress clear.

‘We have a full bar, what would you like to drink?’ the steward with deeply sympathetic eyes asked.

‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ said Noel. But I had picked up the steward’s nuances within his question.

‘We have a
full
bar, sir, madam,’ he said again.

‘I’ll have your finest wine,’ I said and Noel looked at me. Our wine was normally from the budget section. I explained to Noel and it took a moment for it to sink in, but soon doubles of this that and the other were wafted down with a marvellous meal.

We had planned to spend just a couple of days in the Netherlands on our way back from Romania with Den and ‘Tash. Now we would be there early and have plenty of time.

With a frenzy of hurried phone calls, we suddenly found ourselves on the train from Amsterdam on our way to see our good buddies. Noel and I sat opposite each other on a chilly, grey, winters’ night, the sun just starting to disappear. Suit clad workers sat around us, and I looked at Noel and giggled; he giggled back. A station sign shot past, and we had no idea whether it was ours or not. Soon, filled with the despair and lost in the bizarre situation of the last few hours, we were in fits of giggles. It wasn’t just muffled snorts; it was breathtaking convulsions. We lost complete control. How could world travellers neglect to get a visa? We became hysterical. In these odd situations, we rarely argued or shouted at each other, we simply laughed. The people sitting around us covertly shuffled away, which made us laugh even harder.

It was pure delight to be together once again with Den and ‘Tash. We each had the same philosophy of life and each succumbed to land-life only for necessity, while we planned our return to our floating freedom. The chatter was flowing and the underlying feelings did not need words, we were all comfortable together.

We discovered the pleasures of other freedoms in Amsterdam and floated, carefree, around the structured city. To add to the excitement, Noel and I had organised to fly home to
Mariah
on 14 February. As we said our good-byes to Den and ‘Tash, my tears confirmed my dislike for farewells, as did ‘Tash’s. They were desperate to get back to their boat. They took comfort in the thought that they planned to bring up their children on board
Frodo
. This shocked a lot of people, but after sailing for almost seven years, the boat children we had met were level headed, un-materialistic, and happy. Besides, it was far safer moving along at walking pace, than one hundred kilometres per hour along our motorways.