Our final day was a crazy rush of jobs. In addition to all those started on the Monday, we had to notify family that we were being moved on again. Tony had to get in touch with his wife to let her know that he would not be returning in three weeks but in five months at the earliest! She, in turn, had to notify his bosses. We also contacted the High Commission again to let them know what had happened and what we were now doing - under protest. They were still unable to shed any light on why we were being evicted. The selection process for permits appeared to be fairly random. An American boat was also being summarily kicked out, we learned. Yet there was a German yacht in harbour that had been allowed to stay for six months. The latter had a horrifying story to tell of a recent misfortune which made us happier about leaving in spite of all our efforts to be allowed to stay. Someone from the shore had swum out to the yacht and brutally raped the lady on board, who, at the time, had been on her own.
By six thirty we had completed all our tasks, but we were far too exhausted to set off that night. We decided to chance it and leave quietly in the morning.
First light on Wednesday, 17th December saw all of us on deck. We had fenders in and the anchor up and everything ready to go by half past five. We slipped out of the basin and past the Victoria light. All sail was raised and I went below to get the kettle on for a cup of coffee. Next thing I knew, a Navy patrol vessel cut across our bows and ordered us back into port. After working so hard to get rid of us, they now wanted us back? Unbelievable! I went below to turn off the boiling kettle. I was in such a state that I managed to tip the kettle full of boiling water all over my right hand - scalding it very badly indeed. Back we went, using full engine power - and valuable supplies of diesel - to go at the speed required by the gun-boat. We tied up alongside another boat which had also been turned back.
We were boarded by the same Lieutenant Commander who had given us such aggro on our arrival. He proceeded to rant and rave at David, yelling that we had no right to leave port without stopping for a security check. David let him get it all off his chest and then calmly told him that we had followed (to the letter) the printed directions we had been given by the Lieutenant Commander himself on our arrival. The officer continued to bluster for a while, but finally conceded that we had done all that was required of us according to the instructions on his sheet of paper. He went off muttering about the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing, and we were left wondering when, if ever, we would be free to leave. All our papers had once more been removed for scrutiny at some office in town and we, along with the crew of the other yacht, had to prepare ourselves for what might be a long wait. A while later the passports and ship's documents were returned. We were told once again to get out of the Seychelles immediately. No explanations. Certainly no apologies. We cast off our mooring lines without delay. But it was not until we had passed Frigate island and worked our way twelve miles beyond it that we felt we were able to breathe freely.
Almost as far back as I can remember, I have had a longing to visit those enchanting islands. My father was stationed there for part of the Second World War. I had built fantasies round the pictures in his album. All I can now say is that I have been there, seen nothing, and the Seychellois are welcome to it. Even had we not had the reception we did, there were so many rules and regulations limiting the movements of visitors and particularly the movement of sailing boats that we would not have been able to have done much exploring anyway.
In the flurry of activity which surrounded our exit, no thought was given to our departure ceremony. The 'dragon's tail' was cut unintentionally on that occasion when we almost lost a vital navigation chart overboard. Wielding a boat-hook each, Tony and I fished for the sheet of paper as David skilfully brought Tin Hau round onto the reciprocal course. Miraculously we were able to fish the page out of the water, and David continued the figure eight to put us back on course. The small chart turned out to have been inessential, it was merely a convenient copy of a bound-in page of the almanac! Did our goddess have a hand in pointing out our omission?
4. Towards the Chagos Archipelago
Our first few days out of Mahwere gloriously sunny with gentle breezes - a good chance to give Tony a crash course on the art of sailing. It wasn't long before we could leave him with a two hour night watch on his own. We saw Russian trawlers almost daily. We did wonder whether they were spying on us and reporting back to Victoria, that being the port from which they operated. We also passed a French fishing boat, the Drennec of Concarneau, which resulted in David and the French skipper screaming at each other in fits of delight on the VHF: 'Nous sommes voisins, nous sommes voisins' ('We are neighbours'). Somehow, in the depths of the Indian Ocean, France to us (and obviously England to the Breton) seemed like home.
Our progress on the one thousand mile passage to Salomon Atoll was consistent and steady. We were aided considerably by the half to two knot current. Lots of flying fish landed on the decks - enough each night for a light breakfast for the three of us.
It blew slightly harder on Christmas Eve - just as I had organised a fancy dress cocktail hour for us all. Steering was rather heavy especially with my severely burn-blistered hand - so Tony and David did mine for me. We put the clocks forward as we entered a new time zone. We had hoped for a unique twenty-three hour Christmas Day.
25th December got off to a good start with winds suitable for Number Seven to steer the boat. Tin Hau ghosted along under his control in the beautiful starlit night. Our wake was bright with phosphorescence as Jupiter and Mars slowly set together behind us.
At half past eight, Santa arrived with a sailor's tog-bag full of gifts. After opening all of these, we had a leisurely breakfast and then decided to send up a hoist of flags spelling out 'Merry Christmas' just in case we should see a vessel at sea. Within minutes of running them up the mast, a ship appeared on the starboard beam! As the wind continued to drop and the sea became calmer, we drew in all the sheets and set the sails amidships. We wanted to enjoy Christmas properly and in a relaxed manner. What better way than stationary, in mid-ocean, hundreds of miles from the nearest land?
In the evening we had our Christmas dinner out on deck as we watched the sun set. The feast consisted of a canned ham, glazed in beer with pineapple rings, cherries and cloves; roast potatoes and roast pumpkin for the fresh vegetables. This was followed by home-made plum pudding with tinned cream and lashings of brandy. I had managed in our last frantic shopping expedition to lay my hands on some crackers, so we also had two each of these, and beer or wine to drink with the meal. We had coffee with chocolates and liqueurs to finish. Simple fare really, but it made one of the most memorable celebrations ever.
The calm spell lasted right through Boxing Day and for half of the following day, which was probably a good thing as the log readings for this period contained items such as: 'Recovering from Christmas dinner. Where's T? and come to that, where's D?’
On the 29th we encountered our first heavy weather of the voyage; torrential rain and a sudden increase of wind strength to forty knots. David's log entry shows that he was helming. He found it impossible to hold Tin Hau. First he tacked accidentally, then gybed unintentionally several times. Tony and I were trying desperately to reef the sails. Eventually we got two panels down on the foresail and three off the main. Another note in the log reads: 'Now we know the main mast can take an accidental gybe with full sail up and thirty-five knots of wind'. Luckily the sails, battens and masts withstood this punishment. However the foremast tabernacle did not! The shackle on the starboard temporary stay broke and the doubler plate started to lift about three-quarters of an inch off the deck with every wave. One of the foremast dead-eyes went, so we had to set up a strop for that. The rain lashed down and we were hardly able to see what we were doing, but we managed to set up further temporary stays in time to save the mast. This weird weather lasted for a full five hours with winds anywhere between force two and seven.
Peros Banhos atoll (the first of the Chagos i
slands) was picked up on the
radar at 3 a.m. on the 30th at a distance of four miles off the starboard bow. We gybed from port to starboard tack and at dawn there was the excitement of land on the port beam. At ten minutes to six we passed Ile Fouquet (an islet in the Peros Banhos group), and at quarter past eight we sighted our destination, Salomon Atoll, fourteen miles dead ahead. By that time, the wind had dropped. We decided to get the engine going, determined to reach Salomon before dark.
At midday we took the log in as we approached the narrow entrance to the lagoon. It was reading seven hundred and fifty miles, which meant that the free ride given to us by the equatorial current had amounted to a most welcome two hundred and fifty miles over fourteen days. It took us till two o'clock to negotiate the hidden coral heads and weave our way across the lagoon to the anchorage at Ile Boddam. Three other yachts were at anchor in the lagoon. We dropped our hook two hundred metres off the beach near Shahla, an Australian flagged sloop.
5. Uninhabited Islands
The new year was ushered in by the crew of the four yachts anchored off Ile Boddam in the lagoon at Salomon Atoll. We built a roaring camp fire on the beach and let off a number of fireworks we had saved for just such an occasion. Everyone had a supply of bottles of one kind or another, and reef fish had been caught for cooking on the coals. David had his piano accordion to make music at midnight. We had not realised how very British Auld Lang Syne was until midnight arrived. Only the single-hander, Peter, aboard Shahla, knew what it was all about. The other two boats, Swiss registered Okeanos and Sarah la Noire had no idea what we were up to, nor, it turned out, did they usually celebrate New Year. In spite of that, we all had a good time and it was nice to have their company to make a party of it.
It took no time at all for us to settle into the new routine. Our first priority, as always, was to thoroughly explore our immediate neighbourhood. We were anchored over coral in about eight metres of crystal clear water. Each boat, on arrival, had to choose their spot carefully. Coral heads known mostly by the term 'bommies' rose up all over the lagoon. We each had to ensure that there were none in the vicinity of our anchor chain or, indeed, within the area through which our boat could possibly swing.
Boddam was the 'main' island of the atoll. Some twenty years previously it had been inhabited. There were three distinct beaches on the lagoon side of the island. Between two of these there were the remains of an old stone built jetty, overgrown with mangrove. Our usual landing place was just to the north of this jetty, where there was ready access to an inland path. Our first exploration covered the seaward side, which was very rough and rocky good for catching crabs and eels, but of little additional value in terms of survival. The lagoon beaches, aside from the beautiful coral sands, gave access to densely packed palm trees up to eighty feet in height. On our first wander along these beaches, Tony and I were convinced we had located chickens on the island. The yottie's grapevine had hinted that bantams had been seen at times. We distinctly heard clucking every time we passed along a certain stretch of shoreline. On closer investigation we discovered - somewhat to our disappointment - that the clucking was a warning signal being passed along the shore from burrow to burrow by a type of fiddler crab! So much for our hopes of finding a source of free-range eggs.
Back on the boat, it was obvious that we would have to make some changes to ensure our comfort during our stay on the atoll. The heat was intense and we needed to find a way of covering the decks in order to maintain a cooler temperature down below, as well as provide shade for outdoor activities. We had very little in the way of awning material. We had purchased some gardener's shade cloth in South Africa which, as it turned out, proved unbeatable for giving protection from the sun without cutting off the cooling breezes. This was now rigged in strategic places to give some relief. We also had the sail bags in which the sails had been shipped. Junk sails do not need bags as they are permanently bent on the mast. Once the bags were opened they gave quite a sizeable spread. Not terribly elegant, but we were not too concerned about looks. Comfort was the overriding concern.
Afternoon siestas became a necessity in that climate. Each of us went off by ourselves to enjoy the siesta in a different way. Tony's delight was to smear himself with oil and lie out in the full sun on the wheelhouse roof. He usually took up a poolside beanbag to lie on. David's favourite spot was the settee in the wheelhouse - dozing and reading - but always with the doors open to catch whatever cooling breeze there was. I also liked to read, preferably lying down. My own choice of location, however, was out on the deck where there were only hard surfaces on offer. It was not long, therefore, before we had collected two stout wooden poles from the shore and I had cobbled together a hammock to sling between the forward and main boom-gallows. The body of the hammock was made of long strips of webbing interwoven to form a mat. This proved so popular that later we had two canvas hammocks made, which were slung to port and starboard of the main mast when needed.
Siesta time was also the time when we had lines overboard in the hope of catching fish. None of us had ever really done any serious fishing before and it was absolutely vital that we learnt how, or else we would get heartily sick of corned beef. Peter was a willing instructor in the arts of 'Handline-over-the-side' and 'trolling-a-line-from-the dinghy' as well as underwater harpooning. We were well supplied with hooks and lines, and had a number of lures for trolling in the ocean. We had given little thought, though, to the more static forms of the art. We hadn't a clue what to use for bait. Left to myself I would probably have gone in search of winkle-type shells the sort of thing I had used to feed tiddlers when I was a child. Peter showed us what we needed and how to prepare the bait on the hook. He had found that live hermit crabs were the most successful and easiest form of bait to use. He brought us our first batch one evening and tipped them into one of our plastic deck buckets. That night we all lay awake getting used to the sound of these little creatures parading round and round the base of the bucket. I really hated the idea of using these dear little crabs as bait as they held an endless fascination for me. Their behaviour was so weird...
The hermit crab, for those who are not familiar with it, does not have a hard shell of its own. In order to protect its vulnerable soft body parts, it borrows or steals a shell from another creature. As the soft body grows, the hermit discards his small home for a bigger one. We saw hermits occupying snail shells, top shells, augers, mitres and harp shells but never did they occupy cowries. Occasionally they grew big enough to use coconut shells, and once we observed a hermit who had taken a fancy to a bright green shampoo bottle top. He really was a comical sight, scuttling along the sand with his salmon pink legs splayed out beneath his lime green house.
In order to use the hermit for bait, it had to be removed from its shell. If the crab was in a new shell, it was possible to remove him from the shell without breaking it. In most cases, though, it was necessary to crack the shell and remove it from the crab. For this purpose we kept a chopping board and hammer handy on the deck. We all tried our hand at fishing during our stay at Salomon, but eventually it became one of my jobs. Even if the others caught anything, it was always my lot to do the gutting and cleaning. From a raw beginner who sent loads of good flesh over the side with the bones and guts, I worked my way towards being a fairly competent fish filleter who could send completely flesh-free skeletons back to the deep.
Line fishing from the boat was moderately successful at first - we caught quite a few worthy fish from the port and starboard quarters in the early days. It did not last long; a five foot barracuda soon learned to lie in wait for our baited hooks to be dropped. He always knew when we were about to sink a line - he must have felt the vibrations of our hermit crab shelling exercise. After hauling up a number of tailless half-fish we gave up fishing from Tin Hau. From then on we had to rely on trolling from the dinghy or line fishing over one of the bommies some distance from the boat.
Barry the barracuda was a well known personality in the
cruising world. He was - we assumed - an elderly barracuda who had grown too old to hunt in the normal way. Or perhaps he was just too lazy. Whatever, he had certainly developed a skill for wresting catches away from other fishermen. He was an infernal nuisance when we were fishing, and was very intimidating to have around when you wanted to swim or had to get into the water for maintenance work. However we really came to feel that he meant us no harm, and we got used to having him around. Indeed, if none of us had seen him for a while we would feel concerned for his welfare. When we did manage to land fish without his noticing, it was possible to call him to the boat with a few taps of the hammer on the board, then to feed him the scraps. We have some delightful memories of him virtually standing on his tail waiting to be fed. It was not unknown for him to follow us if we went off in the dinghy, though he seemed to prefer his station in the cool shade of Tin Hau. We have a picture of him swimming alongside Peter. It was an unwritten yottie rule that Barry was not to be taken if he should ever be so foolish as to be caught. In fact this happened during our stay. Peter landed him one morning, took a quick snap of him, cut the line just short of his inch-long teeth, and deposited him back in the water. Within two days he had rid himself of the dangling steel tracer Peter had had to leave in his mouth.
We made a number of visits to the interior of Ile Boddam. We never took any great pleasure in these excursions as they were very uncomfortable. Nowhere in the world have I come across such an active mosquito population. The odd thing was they were very territorial - never straying beyond the vegetation line. The beach was perfectly clear of them and we never had a hint of them on the boats. Once we set foot into the long grass or the jungle, however, we would be eaten alive. There was no good time of the day to visit - they carried out twenty-four hour dive-bombing patrols. The only way we could keep our bodies reasonably itch-free was to smear them all over with foul smelling insect repellent or to wear plenty of protective clothing. As the reader can imagine, it wasn't exactly pleasant in the equatorial climate to have to dress for the Arctic.
Cutting the Dragon's Tail Page 17