Of Foreign Build (4 page)

Surely there is an ending to learning at some point
? I thought, foolishly. I found this highly daunting, but I had come this far and was determined to continue climbing the almost impossible heap of knowledge. It was fortunate that I could let Noel into my mind to take a look at my perspective. This provided him a semblance of understanding the tapestry of my life and how my thoughts led to the fears that I tried so hard to swallow.

By our fifth day at sea, we had settled into a comfortable routine and cast grateful glances at the sea, sky, and clouds to thank Mother Nature for being kind. At dawn on the ninth day, after leaving Darwin, Bali crept slowly over the horizon to meet us. We furled the sails and puttered across the smooth water, untouched by any breeze, into Benoa harbour. Unwrapping the gleeful smiles that were stuck on our faces, we looked like a couple of silly fools – we had sailed to another country.

As the land became clearer, we spotted a small speedboat heading straight for us. A brown, wrinkly man manically waved while trying to steer a straight line, I wondered what we’d done wrong. Impressively, he was hand delivering our mail. The day before leaving Darwin, we had organised our Indonesian visa (most people organise these a week or two before leaving). I had selected a date we would arrive in Bali. The sun-dried Balinesean postman had been looking out for us continually on the day I said we
may
reach their shores, and he promptly delivered our Indonesian visa before we stepped onshore. Mail and communications were a completely new ball game now; we had so much to learn. Giving our families the address for the harbour in Benoa, we thought they would have plenty of time to send on mail. They duly sent lots of updates, which did not reach Bali until a few weeks after we had left. Another sailboat carried our letters all the way to Thailand until they caught up with us. We soon learned that the Internet and phones would be our only communication from now on.

Benoa harbour was a colourful, esoteric feast for eyes. Awash with peeling paint, top-heavy fishing boats languidly wallowed side-to-side, curiously in dead calm waters. Armies of tiny, brown men scurried around the drunken blue and red decks. Large motors roared
b
oom, boom
, boo
m
as they cruised by with black smoke spiralling aft. Locals zoomed by closely, trying to peek inside our alien-looking yacht.

Anchored amidst the cavernous bay, the row to shore was about a kilometre; we had not purchased an outboard for our dinghy, so we relied on oars and our rowing ability. Fortunately, my ability had improved since Brisbane. While getting ready to leave Australia, we were both fed up with endlessly emptying our pockets of cash for gear for the boat. The outboard was a long way down the list and never materialised. Going cruising is all about learning when to stop writing more lists, getting to the end of your current list, and just going.

Now faced with the long row in a busy harbour, we understood our mistake. We became the locals’ entertainment whilst rowing across the busy, commercial harbour. We dodged charter, local, and fishing boats with nothing more than two oars, a torch, and plywood. People pointed while we wobbled up and down in huge wakes perched on our small timber dinghy (we had managed to swap our fibreglass dinghy for a lovely timber sailing-dinghy). David and Petrea, our friends on board
Dolphin Breeze
(an Australian couple whom we had met at Ashmore Reef), took pity on us and lent us their spare outboard with a warning of its temperament. Out of practice and with an amused Balinese audience, Noel started up the motor and we slammed, bumped, wriggled, and giggled out of the body of dinghies tied at the jetty. The small marina was chock full of other international sailors. But the borrowed motor soon showed its dislike for water and work. Inspired to own an outboard of our own and a more civilised way of getting ashore, we toured Bali for the best deal. Spending a whole day negotiating, drinking tea, and telling stories to the only place on the island that sold the motor we wanted, we finally became the proud owners of a little two horse power outboard.

Typhoid fever claimed two fellow cruisers as hosts. The couple had spent over eight hundred Australian dollars on jabs before leaving Australia, whereas we had injected no more than coffee. Our guardian angel must have been on his or her toes. Initially, I had envied Petrea and David.
Dolphin Breeze
was a beautiful fifty-foot sailing boat, and they were paid to take it around the world, the owner joining them at certain locations. An amazing job, I thought. However, when Petrea became ill, she cried, ‘I just want to go home.’ I realised then that Noel and I
were
at home;
Mariah II
was our home wherever we were. Suddenly, their attractive career had lost its sheen for me.

Benoa’s expensive marina was held together with string. The added attraction of rats and festering heat along the packed jetties left us dumbfounded as to why sailboats were vying for a space within the marina. On anchor, the fun didn’t stop.

THUD
, ‘What on earth was that?’ Noel called out.

I was already half-way out of the boat, ‘oh dear, a ship has just drifted into us.’

This made Noel spring-up from our bed.

‘It’s okay,’ I continued, ‘no harm done, it sounded worse than it was.’

In the dead of a peaceful night, a rather large, rusty tanker drifted into
Mariah
. The Balinese vessel had swung too close and had given us a noisy nudge. Apart from the fact it sounded like they were coming through our hull, we suffered no damage and like ants spotting a yummy snack, the crew frantically scurried into clearer water.

The next day, armed with cans of Cola and small toy koalas as a thank you gesture for moving away from us straight away, we puttered up to the long, elderly tanker.

‘Hello, hellooooo,’ we called out as we tried to hold on to the rusting ship. As we approached, the crew became nervous and avoided eye contact; their covert scurrying seemed a little odd. Eventually, a serious looking man leaned over the corroding decks towards us, clearly thinking we had come to complain. His white eyes pierced out from his sun-baked skin and thick, dark hair.

‘Hello, we’ve bought you some gifts,’ we unholstered big smiles. ‘Thanks so much for moving so quickly last night, we really appreciated it.’

Our friendly behaviour channelled around the battle-scarred boat, and the crew started to appear. Pure delight smothered their lined faces and toothless grins, and they all came out of hiding when we lifted aloft our small gifts. Their wide, bright smiles were priceless. Cola, it seemed, was a useful currency.

So much had happened in such a short time. New friends, cultures, and experiences were a daily event. All my life, blinkered in an office, I had never known this alternative world existed. I had broken away from the shackled drudgery of the norm. My second life had only just begun at twenty-seven. After a heart-breaking time in England, I began to see some truth in the saying, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ Later though, I would be surprised how those hard times in the UK would come back and devastate me all over again.

The watery way of life soon revealed itself as being extremely social. I was intrigued about why other people were sailing and not going to ‘work.’ ‘Work’ is where I previously believed everyone belonged.

Some people were following a dream, others were escaping or just didn’t know what else to do. We were all the same in the fact that we had taken a leap of faith and given up the home, car, and mortgage – the normal way of life and the regimented nine-to-five. In fact, I came to realise that making this change was a brave step, not a cop-out. My judgements and beliefs were starting to change. Landlubbers talked about breaking free from society, but when it actually comes to the crunch, it isn’t that simple. Friends at home said, ‘You are so lucky.’ I agreed that we were lucky to have our health and wits (mostly) about us. But we had
made
this decision. We had got up off our backsides and made this happen for us – it wasn’t a gift. And there were certainly compromises that came hand-in-hand with this life. No running hot water, constant shifts at sea, distance between friends and family, and sometimes terrifying moments where death seemed inevitable or even wished for. We were on a constant budget, because there was no income. We watched every single penny.

Ageism was something that raised its ugly head once or twice when Noel and I had met landlubbers in a pub.

‘You obviously married Noel for his money,’ someone once said to me. It didn’t help that in my late twenties I had looked about eighteen, but I was conscious of what other people thought. Noel is sixteen years older than me. I was, therefore, surprised that ageism didn’t exist in sailing folk. We would all get together with a vast range of cultures and ages, and there was never a barrier between us; we were kindred spirits with a desire for freedom and adventure. It was like a breath of fresh air.

In Bali, the days raced by with frequent trips into town. Just getting ashore was a project in itself. It was too far to return if we had forgotten an item.

Each time we went ashore at Benoa harbour we’d first check that we had all our necessary items: shoes, bag, money, laundry, water containers, shopping list, sun-cream, passport, ad infinitum. We’d balance all our gear and ourselves in the dinghy and find a space to sit. Next we’d play dodgems with all the other vessels (no ‘rules of the road’ exist in Bali). It was necessary to frantically bail-out the dinghy and keep a three-hundred-and-sixty degree look-out while holding aloft all possessions to keep them dry. When we reached the marina we’d tie up cursing those who tied their painter too short! Then to complete the trip ashore we’d traverse umpteen dinghies of varying stability to reach land.

There was never a dull moment.

‘Oh crap, I’ve forgotten my sandals.’ We had almost reached the jetty.

‘What do you want to do?’ Noel asked, clearly not happy about returning to the boat.

‘Oh, sod it,’ I grinned, ‘I’ll buy some sandals in town.’ I went into town shoeless and purchased a pair of cheap sandals. My feet were embarrassingly filthy by the time we reached the shops. Bare feet were not considered unusual in Indonesia, but with our western world of dressing, I felt partly naked without shoes.

Road travel in Bali was yet another challenge; in fact, it was a real battle of nerves. Viewing the traffic and behaviour, their road transport rules must read:

1. Don’t stop for
anything
.

2. Do not remove your hand from the horn –
ever
.

3. Precariously balance as many family members as possible on one scooter to terrify all the tourists.

Scooters were the locals’ choice for transport, and they thought nothing of loading up the entire family. Mum, Dad, three kids, and gran all piled together onto the machine! In town, skinny children washed in a filthy stream, while further up-stream a mother washed her family’s well-worn clothes; further along, a man used the stream as a toilet. We were not on a package holiday, shielded from the real life by a modern hotel. We witnessed how the locals really lived.

The two weeks in Bali were spent re-stocking (food, fuel, and water), hand-washing clothes, boat maintenance, officialdom (customs, immigration, police, marine officials including open baksheesh/bribery), making new friends, and some sightseeing. Folks at home imagined us sitting on the aft deck watching sunsets with our G&T (vodka for me still). This did happen on occasion, but most of our time was spent sourcing supplies, making repairs, and organising both
Mariah
and ourselves for the next leg. There was no car to hop into, just our own propulsion and the odd taxi. Sightseeing consisted of fighting off tactile locals who wanted to sell us their fake wares; this daily battle came to tarnish the beautiful mountains, lush green paddy fields, and clean air.

With many new friends and promises of a reunite in Thailand, we finally packed our last fresh items on board and hauled anchor.

At this time, computers didn’t figure hugely in our day-to-day travelling, I tapped away on our old laptop to keep a diary, but that was all. Little did I know that soon I would have a whole wealth of heart-stopping information I would want to record.

Grooming each morning to make myself appropriately respectful for the office used to be a way of life. In my sailing days, my well-worn tweezers had become as effective as chopsticks. But it didn’t really matter, my eyebrow shape morphed monthly. September I looked surprised, October continually perplexed. My fashion became fifteen-year-old Levi’s that were holding up quite well. My style was chameleonic after a DIY attack at the long, brown mop atop my head. The make-up I owned, at its third birthday, had congealed into a honey-like substance. I still used a dab of mascara, once every year or two. The bizarre thing was, I enjoyed this state of being. My friends who still did battle in the ‘real’ world thought I was quite odd, and they were probably right. But, I had found the liberty I craved. No longer did I have to speak the corporate speak and dress correctly. Those blinkers I had been wearing all my life were gone. My senses craved more and were not let down by the feast that was about to be bestowed upon them.

It was the little things that meant more, like good food, wine, and a good time with lots of laughs. Of course, I had these things before, but life on board was different. The laughing was hearty, the enjoyment complete; for the first time ever I was being me and not dressing-up myself or personality to fit in. Being free to go where the wind took me had restored my faith in the world.

Before freeing myself from land life, I had started to think that maybe I was actually living in hell. Not too long ago, I had walked through Hades, holding hands with someone who was to leave the torture, to go into a better world – not hell and not earth. This part of my life would haunt me for some years. Later in my watery world, as I learned to relax during the lonely night-time watches, the acute stab of loss would, again, twist in my gut.

As well as all the personal changes, natural changes, like weather, were a major factor in our agenda. There were the “trades” (the trade winds) that dictated all of our departures, the length of time at sea, and the quality of journey. As we headed north towards the equator, squalls became a main event. A thick, black cigar shaped cloud would spiral towards us, like an evil hand ready to give us a shove. Within the wink of an eye, a severe wind would blast down from the tumultuous cloud and slam down on us hard. Thick curtains of rain would surround us and make any sort of lookout impossible. During the day, we had time to reef down the sails in preparation. At night, bruised clouds carrying squalls sneaked up on us under the camouflage of dark. Without warning, the clouds would intensify, and we would be suddenly thrust out of control, speeding towards an unfamiliar coast at break-neck speed. This all added to the excitement of unknown waters. Indeed, we often experienced our best ever sail and our worst ever sail in a matter of a few hours.

I had read a theory somewhere that each human has the same number of heartbeats in a lifetime. It didn’t take long for me to realise that life on the water reduced my quota rapidly on a regular basis.

After leaving Bali and settling the boat to match conditions, Noel took a nap while I did the first watch-keeping shift.
Mariah
was clipping along, the water relatively flat. Mother Nature provided enough wind to propel us smoothly along. Tucked in the cockpit, I was contemplating such things like why men were gifted with a multi-directional tube to pee from. Every time I wanted to pee, I had to go below to the loo, which was fine most of the time. But in wet weather gear, the performance could take ten minutes. Trying to balance in a confined space, smashing soft bodily parts on thoughtlessly placed metal handles, could put me in a real pickle. Either way, trying to hang on, muscles taut to stop moving, yet relaxing those important ones in order to fulfil the need, became quite an interesting exercise. It’s a bit like trying to act cool on a roller coaster ride.

After trying, unsuccessfully, to invent an appendage to allow me to easily pee over the side, I settled down to the escape of a novel. I would try to read four pages before looking around the horizon, scanning for other traffic. Being a bit twitchy, if I read two pages before looking up, I felt quite proud of myself.

All was well with the world. There were no boats to worry about, and we were sailing smoothly along with everything under control. All of a sudden a violent gust of wind grabbed hold of our sails. Boats do funny things when there’s a blast of unexpected wind, and too much sail aloft, and they can dramatically veer toward the direction the wind is coming from. This is known as rounding up. On this particular occasion, it meant that
Mariah
headed, full pelt, straight for the land.

‘YIKES, I may need some help up here!’ The boat lurched and Noel jumped up.

‘I’ll get the boat back on track and ease the sheets, can you pull the main-sail down?’ Noel yelled. The noise of the wind pummelling the boat swallowed our words.

Noel manhandled the tiller (we had gadgets to steer the boat which freaked out, like us, when the wind became overpowering), he coaxed our ten tonne boat to point away from land. He eased the sheets while I hauled down the main sail, my fingers clawing the unforgiving fabric, my nails vainly hanging on to their anchor of skin.

As my toenails tried to dig into the tilting deck, I flicked time-wasting glances at the approaching land, then back to Noel to see if he was winning his battle. Carried on the wind, I am sure I heard Neptune giggling. Gasping with effort, inch-by-inch I lowered the sail. As the sail area decreased, Noel was able to resume a sensible course that avoided any hard stuff, such as land. It was all over in about three minutes, but seemed like a century of nausea. With mixed feelings of exhaustion and satisfaction, we settled back into our respective corners: Noel to snooze, while I read or invented useful appendages.

Our teamwork was becoming naturally automatic. With little communication, Noel took his position and I took mine. I knew which rope (“line” for the purists) did which job, where it should be, and how tight. I had morphed from the total ignorant novice to the start of a knowledgeable sailor. With still a lot to learn, I could finally see and put to good use what I had learned already. The first two years of living on board now seemed like a breeze, I quickly forgot the agony of ignorance. The boating way of living was a real tonic for my life weary soul. I couldn’t wait to reach email and telephones again to tell my friends all about my new life and how it was panning out. Unfortunately, I would be disappointed in their reactions.

About two days out of Bali, we anchored at an island named Kangean. The idea was to stay for one night, for a rest; we stayed for three. Leaping from one plan to another and altering schedules now felt normal. For a long time, I had hung onto to project plans and timelines. Now, I finally released these daft notions and embraced the gypsy life. There was only ourselves to please; so what if we stayed longer, who’s going to know? Who’s going to care? I found, with a sense of relief, that I didn’t.

Even though we had anchored next to a verdant, uninhabited island, we felt no desire to venture ashore. The foreshore with its thick coating of flora was not inviting. Instead, we took advantage of the crystal clear water that sparkled like diamonds and a completely private anchorage with not a soul to be seen. Was it time to romantically skinny dip? Well, not quite… armed with stiff brushes, plastic scrapers, snorkels, and cotton wool firmly pressed into our ears, we dived in. Our skin tightened and tingled, the refreshing surge of chill propelled us on to the job at hand – scraping the hull clean. This became an on-going job at every port where we weren’t anchored in soup. Tenacious, alien-like barnacles clung to the hull, “fouling” the normally smooth paint; ultimately, this reduced our speed. The tough, conical shells housed tiny crab-like sea creatures that seemed to live within goo not dissimilar to the slime used in the movie
Ghost Bu
sters
.

It was always good to see the under-water part of
Mariah
and check that nothing hideous was happening to the only barrier we had between endless depths and a dry living area. When possible, we dived in to check that the anchor hadn’t hooked onto a loose rock. Jumping in, I took a while to relax and slow the heartbeats that are amplified in water, through my body to my ears. As usual, my mind started playing the theme tune to
Jaws
. It’s funny that if you
know
the water you are swimming in, you become more relaxed. In unknown waters, you never know what creatures are lurking – as if creatures in another country would be any different from your home waters!

Clouting the barnacles with plastic scrapers is like throwing a punch with your arm in treacle, the water’s resistance makes it heavy work. As the barnacles lose the battle, thousands of tiny sea creatures stir in the water. Bigger sea creatures come and eat them, in turn bigger sea creatures arrive and eat those and so on until, well, one doesn’t like to think about it too hard. Holding our breath became an art form, and we walked a fine line between lucid and losing it. As my lungs were threatening to explode, I tried to reach a few more tenacious shells. My heart was now screaming in my ears. Flexing my feet hard, thirsty for air, I powered towards the surface and smashed my head on the hull. While rubbing my head and cursing, Noel popped up beside me and we took a companionable breather, deciding on what was left to do. The bright sun made us squint, our chests heaved with effort. Clinging together on to the boarding ladder with the water lapping around our pink shoulders, one of my cotton balls fell from my ear and floated off, bobbing in the ripples. I stared at the white, saturated blob and giggled furiously. I could not stop.

‘Out you get,’ said Noel, ‘You’ve had enough.’

Scraping the hull brings new meaning to having crabs. Climbing out of the cool water, we were covered in tiny, skittering critters; they made for the belly button and inside our swimwear. They did not hurt, but the thought …eughh. We swiped them off while trying not to scream and dance around like two-year-olds seeing their first boogieman.

Within our watery world on the sea’s horizon, we did not see many sailboats but they were out there doing the same thing that we were. At a rough guess, a couple of hundred boats must follow the seasons each year. Some people sail alone, what we call single-handers. Most are couples like us, but there are some families with one or several kids growing up on the water. The nicest kids we met on our travels were boat kids. My lack of maternal skills was never tested too hard around boat kids. My normal attitude to ankle-biters was that of taking pain killers – take two and keep away from children. With boat kids, the lack of materialistic luggage and ability to take on serious responsibilities seemed to create common sense, a lust for learning, and just damn nice kids. It’s an ideal place to learn. My own geographical knowledge had vastly improved. Experiencing new cultures and meeting different races had to be a good education. Sailing into diverse countries together meant you knew exactly where they were located.

As we munched through the miles, the HF radio was really starting to earn its keep. It’s a long-range radio and while in port with other cruisers, we would choose a frequency and time to speak whilst traversing the seas (ensuring we were on the same time zone). We soon latched on to these organised Scheds or Nets, which ran through a programme typically like:

‘Good morning, this is the Indian Ocean Net, this is Jackie and Noel on board sailing vessel Mariah II on (date).’

‘Firstly, are there any emergencies or priority calls?’
Thirty seconds of silence – hopefully.

‘Nothing heard, does anyone have weather d
etails they can share with the Net?’
With any luck, someone would know something, if not we would try to translate our Weatherfax.

‘Now, I’ll run through boat call.’
We had a list of boats that had already joined the net.

‘Frodo, Frodo, this is Mariah II, please come now with your report.’
Frodo
, and all yachts in turn, list their position, wind strength and speed, course, boat speed, barometer, weather for their location, and if all was well on board.

The Net controller runs through the entire list.

‘Are there any other boats who would like to join the
Net?’

‘Any news for the Net?’
This could be funny, informative, anything!

‘I’ll close the N
et now and open up this frequency for boat
-
to
-
boat traffic.’
Boats could then call buddies on other boats and pick another channel to go chat on.

These Nets served several purposes; most importantly, if someone went missing the Net Controller had their last known position. If there were problems, there maybe someone nearby to assist.

There were other positives to having a good radio and joining a Net. With a time set to chat to others, it broke up the day and gave us someone else to talk with other than each other. We heard stories of a sea-eagle catching fish, taking its kill to a particular boat and ripping its catch to shreds on the deck, the crew on board were all vegetarians. Vivid yarns of the head (toilet) breaking loose whilst in use were a welcomed, short reprieve from endless blue sky, blue water, and the odd cloud or bird scudding past. Best of all, when we arrived in a port, we had already spoken to some of the cruisers that had already anchored there. It was like opening a jar of coffee – instant friends.

Our first experience of the Net had a huge influence on our journey and thus created remarkable memories. We were en route to Batam (Indonesia, near Singapore) from Bali. After the official Net, we listened in to other cruisers chatting. This was a great way to glean useful information. We heard others talking about the fantastic time they were having in Borneo. Questions were asked, details absorbed, charts checked; we were now bound for Borneo.

Two days later, blessed with an easy trip of peaceful waters and a glorious full moon, we arrived into a huge bay some thirty miles away from the mouth of the river that housed Kumai, our destination. We anchored for the night in order to leave early the next day for the trip up the river. There was no wind and as the sun was quenched, we both turned in.