Cutting the Dragon's Tail

by Lynda Chidell

  I discovered also that navigation in the narrow channel between the inshore reef and the offshore reef was not easy. Land was too far away and featureless to be of use for compass bearings. The echo sounder did not help either – the change from the deep water of the channel to the reef just below the surface was far too rapid. All we could do – besides dead reckoning – was to use our eyes, tacking just before each reef.

  So it continued all day. The tension of ‘reef spotting’ even got to the crew, underlined when coffee was made at one point with salt water instead of fresh. The wrong galley tap had been used!

  By quarter past five, just before dark, we had still not spied the entrance through the inshore reef to Marsa Darur. Standing on the pilothouse roof, I used the binoculars to scan the long reef to the north and to the south. The problem, with which we were to become familiar, was that we would often find ourselves in the difficult position of having to look directly towards the sun when trying to spot a reef. In the evenings the way in to a marsa or khor (the Arabic words for ‘anchorage’ and ‘inlet’ respectively) would be towards the west – and the setting sun. In the mornings the way out of the marsa or khor would be towards the east – and the rising sun. Either way we would be breaking the golden rule of navigation in reef country: never eyeball up to a reef against the sun.

  Underwater features are clearly visible when the sun is behind you, but almost impossible to spot – until really close – when the sun is ahead. In this respect, the eastern side of the Red Sea would have been much easier for coastal hopping between reef anchorages, but the east coast would have meant Saudi Arabia; and unfortunately Saudi Arabia was a no go zone for foreign yachts, at least in 1988.

  On this particular day darkness was approaching and we had still not found a break in the inshore reef. Panic was beginning to set in – I really did not know what we would do if we could not drop anchor. A whole night spent sailing backwards and forwards in the two to three mile wide zone between the two reefs – without being able to see either of them – was too nightmarish to contemplate.

  At the last minute, however, we saw a small fishing boat at anchor on the landward side of the inshore reef. We motored at top speed towards it; and, sure enough, there was a small gap in the reef through which we could squeeze. Gratefully, we dropped anchor in calm sheltered water five metres deep. The fishing boat departed five minutes later, leaving us all alone in the strangest of anchorages, a long way from the shoreline.

  Due to the strong adverse winds, we stayed in this anchorage for three days, during which time I used the sextant – and anything else I could think of – to try to work out where we were. Were we just to the north of Marsa Darur or just to the south of it? I never did find out!

  I also had time to work out – with the crew - some new routines on a Tin Hau without Lynda. We decided that the usual high standard of three meals a day was difficult to maintain, and changed this to two meals a day – brunch in mid-morning prepared and washed up by Martyn (grapefruit, muesli and delicious homebaked bread) and a hot supper in the evening (with pink blancmange for dessert) prepared and washed up by Darren. We had to be very careful with our water consumption, but found that this was no problem provided that we used salt water for most washing purposes. We managed to keep to a very steady fifteen litres (about three gallons) of fresh water per day (twenty strokes on the header tank pump).

  Day Five (12th February) brought a change in the weather and for a while we were actually able to turn the engine off and sail! We passed the first possible anchorage – Marsa Arus – at quarter to nine and the next one – Marsa Arakiya, with its army lookout post – at eleven o’clock. We decided to head for Marsa Salak, fourteen miles further on. The next anchorage beyond this would have been too far to reach before nightfall.

  By two o’clock we were starting to look for the beacon which was meant to be situated at the entrance to Marsa Salak, but we could not see it anywhere. Three fishermen in an open boat realised that we were having problems and they approached us at great speed, making signs that we should turn round and go southwards, back towards Port Sudan! They seemed to know what they were doing. So – reluctantly – I decided to follow them.

  One mile later they turned to starboard through a tiny gap in the reef. We followed cautiously, entering a deep channel thirty metres wide and fifty metres long. How could we anchor in this? The fishing boat had reached the western end of the channel and was turning ninety degrees to port. Still we followed, down an even narrower channel. Were we being trapped? One more ninety degree bend to

  starboard, however, and the channel shallowed and opened up into small pool. We could just make ourselves secure by using two anchors, one at the bow and one at the stern. Again, it felt really strange to be at anchor so far from the mainland in such an unusual setting, but it was snug and safe. We asked the fishermen on board for tea, and later helped them fix their outboard engine.

  The next day, we were off again at the crack of dawn and managed to win another fourteen useful miles to the north. This time there was a wide open anchorage available in the lee of the low lying Taila Islands. As there was plenty of swinging room and no coral on the seabed, we could let out a good length of chain and feel totally secure. The anchorage commanded a wide view of the southern entrance to an interesting inland sea, about twenty-five miles long, south of Ras Abu Shagara (‘ras’ means headland). We watched in envy as Lady Rosi tacked up from the south under sail alone, and disappeared from sight to the north.

  The whole of the next day – Valentine’s Day – was spent at anchor in fifteen to twenty-five knot winds from the north-west (veering as was normal in the afternoons to the north-east). The wind generator kept up a steady tune from treble to base; and the rigging shrieked. I remained in the pilothouse, with my charts and pilots, staring out of the windows at the views beyond. To the west of us, there was not a soul to be seen on the barren land. In the distance – about fifteen to twenty miles inland – there was a never ending line of mountainous peaks. Behind them, I knew, there stretched for 3,600 miles the biggest desert in the world – the Sahara. A mere 125 miles to the east-north-east of us, however, on the other side of the Red Sea, was the Saudi Arabian port of Jiddah – in whose design I had played a tiny part in 1974, when working for Sir William Halcrow and Partners in London. So frustratingly close – one day’s sail – but, as mentioned earlier, foreign yachts were believed not to be welcome.

  Only forty miles inland from Jiddah was Mecca, the holy city that Moslem people worldwide seek to visit at least once in their lifetime. Again – a really special place, so close but so far.

  By the following morning the wind was light and from the north-east. We were able to motor-sail for another ten miles northwards up the coast to the beautiful safe haven of Khor Inkeifal. While we were there, two rugged looking overland vehicles from Austria came over to investigate us. What really surprised us was that they had Satnav. I think they were even more surprised to learn that we had no Satnav. They disappeared as unexpectedly as they had arrived.

  We got up at twenty minutes past five in the morning for a quiet motor up the next section of the ‘inland sea’ between the mainland and the island of Mukawwar, following clear marker beacons all the way. By half past seven we were past the shallowest part of the channel (about seven metres in depth) and approaching the open sea. One look, however, at the white caps in the middle distance and the rougher looking water beyond, was enough. The next anchorage to the north was twenty-two miles away – we would have to turn round. I decided to sail back for two miles or so to the lovely anchorage we had noticed earlier in the lee of the tiny island of Mesharifa, merely a sand spit with a little grass on it.

  We had not been there long when we noticed a sail approaching us from the north. It was Lady Rosi again. What were they doing heading south? Before long, Roger, Siv and Rosita were on board Tin Hau and telling us how impossible it had been to make any headway against the nasty, steep waves (the usual st
ory for the Red Sea).

  We ended up spending five days at Mesharifa island, pottering around on the shore and doing various jobs on the boat. I was able to help the crew of Lady Rosi with a problem they had endured for five long months – no toilet! They had the same type of toilet as we did – the Lavac, which has a separate Henderson Mark V hand pump. We carried spares for just about every part which could go wrong; and one such part was exactly what they needed – the pump diaphragm and seal. Roger fitted it on Lady Rosi – and they were back in business, to their great relief.

  The crew of Lady Rosi in turn did us a great favour in trying to get a relayed ham radio message through to Lynda to say where we were and that we were okay; and the news came back to us that Lynda was safely in Chichester with my mother. We also learnt on the radio the sad news that BonaventureII had had major engine problems whilst approaching Port Sudan and that she might not be able to continue with the trip. Aquilla and Tola were apparently over two hundred miles ahead of us at Ras Banas, which was good to hear.

  On Sunday, 21st February, we were able to set off once more. The wind was not ideal in that it was from the north to north-west again. At least it was not too strong and the waves were less than four feet in height. We rounded Ras Abu Shagara successfully and spent an eventful day identifying reefs and wrecks as we motor-sailed amongst them, tacking to and fro on our way northwards. I decided to go as far as Khor Shinab, forty miles from Mesharifa island.

  By three o’clock in the afternoon we had reached the entrance to this narrow inlet. Martyn and Darren were stowing the sails and I was using Erni to bring Tin Hau slowly in towards the land. As was usual, I had perched myself half way up the starboard pilothouse ladder so that I was as high as possible to see the water colour ahead, but near enough to Erni and the engine controls if I wanted to alter course. The sun was exactly wrong – dead ahead of us. I was not unduly worried, as I could see the reef closing in on us on both sides of the channel. Suddenly, to my horror, we came to an abrupt standstill. I looked over the side of the boat and saw to my surprise that we were hard and fast on top of an uncharted ‘bommie’. I engaged reverse gear immediately but Tin Hau would not move – even at maximum throttle. We had a quick look round underwater and saw that the bommie was about fifteen metres in length and five metres in width, with very deep water all around. The main reef to leeward of us – the south-eastern side of the channel – was only thirty metres away; the windward reef was about the same distance to the north-west.

  Immediately, we launched Knot Often, picked up the bow anchor, and dropped it just clear of the bommie. Then we winched in the chain so that the anchor was hooked under the edge of the coral. This was to protect us, if the wind broke us free, from drifting on to the main reef to leeward. If that had happened, I do not think we would ever have been able to get Tin Hau off again. There would certainly have been no external help and I imagine Tin Hau would eventually have been a wreck. Not a pleasant thought!

  A brief look at the tide tables revealed that we would get no help from that quarter. In fact the tides – such as they were – could not have been worse. We would have to re-float Tin Hau as quickly as possible.

  I instructed Darren to get his mask and flippers on and report on what things looked like from underwater. This he duly did. Spluttering from below us, he described the bommie in detail. It appeared that the weakest looking piece of coral was that nearest to the bow an the starboard side. Darren said that, if I was to make a series of moves under power, it might be possible to break it.

  Following his instructions, I first manoeuvred Tin Hau gently astern (taking care not to damage the rudder); we were able to move slightly. Then, with full throttle and wheel hard to starboard, we battered the reef as hard as possible! Gently in reverse again, wheel to port. Full throttle forward. Kill that reef! So we continued again and again. Darren popped up every so often to make encouraging noises. The coral was suffering.

  Suddenly we were clear – thank goodness!

  Having pulled up the dangling anchor, Martyn joined Darren in Knot Often and the two of then rowed ahead of Tin Hau, scanning the seabed for more offending bommies. It was a relief to reach the calmer waters within the inlet.

  Once we had anchored, I dived down to inspect the hull. The only damage was some superficial scratching of the paintwork on the keel, which was about what I had expected. Still it was gratifying to have had an experience at long last that really justified our choice of steel as the construction material. Most fibreglass or wooden boats would not have stood up to that sort of treatment; but then I suppose most skippers do not place their boats on a reef!

  It took a triple vodka and orange each before the delayed shock wore off and we felt better!

  The next day we started early again at half past five (I would usually be up at four o’clock in all our Red Sea anchorages to sniff the wind and decide whether or not an early start was desirable). On this occasion, the wind behaved fairly typically. We were able to make good progress under power in smooth seas until nine o’clock when it started blowing at a strength of about force three from the north-north-west. For another hour or so it was still feasible to head straight into the wind and make progress under power alone. After that we had to hoist the main and mizzen, keep the engine on, and bear away to motor-sail on a new course forty-five degrees off the one we wanted. At this point I decided to head for a sheltered but deep anchorage called Marsa Wasi, which we reached at eleven o’clock, just as the wind was blowing up in earnest.

  We ended up staying two further days at Marsa Wasi, during which time the wind gusted force seven to eight in the afternoons. Our wind generator generated more power than I could dissipate in the freezer. At least we had plenty of ice to put in the sun-downers.

  On 25th February (the day of the week was no longer considered important), we managed eleven miles to reach the interesting anchorage of Marsa Gwilaib, another of those narrow creeks not visible until we were actually opposite the entrance. This one had a sand spit almost all of the way across the channel and various reefs and bommies to watch out for. Once inside, the remoteness and wildness was as beautiful as ever. Darren and Martyn continued to enjoy the exciting underwater world of the Red Sea, spending much time swimming and snorkelling amongst the coral reefs.

  A further ten miles were achieved the following day. We anchored in a bay with reef protection only, just south of Marsa Umbeila. At ten minutes past eleven the sleek French yacht U-Matalu motored by, slicing through the waves with no pitching whatsoever. We spoke to each other on the VHF. I learnt that U-Matalu had left Port Sudan sixteen days earlier, just after us, and had seen no other yachts. At three minutes past seven – from an anchorage just to the north – U-Matalu relayed the Jiddah forecast to us, which was for seventeen to twenty-one knot north-west winds with five to seven foot waves – in other words, a fairly typical Red Sea day.

  We saw U-Matalu in her anchorage at seven o’clock the following morning as we motored past, a mile or so out to sea. By now, although I had not yet met him, I knew the name of the skipper – Hippolyte. We had an exciting radio conversation with him on VHF channel six. He was able to speak on his long range amateur radio set to Dick and Bonnie of Windsong, who were well to the north of us at Ras Banas (in fact we could speak to them directly via U-Matalu’s two radio sets). Windsong had received a message from Freedom Hunter, anchored to the south of us, who in turn had received the message from a UK amateur radio operator named Bill, that Lynda’s medical tests were negative and that so far no operation was being proposed. Amazing how news travels, if it really has to, via the yottie grapevine!

  The rest of that day went reasonably well in that we were able to travel twenty-nine miles, round the exposed headland of Ras Hadarba, and onwards to the large sandy bottomed lagoon of Marsa Halaib, the best anchorage we had yet encountered in the Red Sea, which – amazingly – we had almost to ourselves. We anchored near to the entrance in the northern part of the lagoon, where there was shel
ter from the northerlies in the lee of the reef and island known as Gezirat Halaib. At the southern end of the lagoon, about two miles away, was a small settlement and army post with a high look-out tower. My twenty-two year-old Michelin map of north-east Africa showed that politically Halaib was in Egypt (although for administration purposes it was shown to be in the Sudan). All my other more recent books, charts and guides (including our Bible – The Red Sea and Indian Ocean Cruising Guide, written by Alan Lucas) showed that we were still in Sudan, and therefore there illegally, as we had officially left the country nearly three weeks earlier in Port Sudan, the only place where clearance formalities were possible.

  I say all this, because it was my intention to visit the army post the next day to see if I could purchase any diesel – and perhaps some fresh fruit or vegetables. I had been monitoring the diesel position day by day since Port Sudan and doing everything I could to conserve supplies. The current situation was that we had 588 of our original 770 litres of fuel remaining, of which perhaps 550 litres were usable (allowing for the outlet pipe positions, heeling of the boat and so on). Yet Hurghada, the nearest certain place where diesel could be bought, was still 340 miles away. Given that there were so few anchorages ahead of us where we could take shelter and wait during inclement weather, I felt that the fuel we still carried was not sufficient. The one hundred mile open sea crossing of Foul Bay lay immediately ahead.

  On the other hand, looking at it optimistically, it might be possible to use as little as three hundred litres of diesel, if the sea was mirror calm all the way to Hurghada; but how likely was this, on past performance? We would need a miracle!

  After weighing it all up, I decided to motor over to the army post the next morning to see whether they could help us. We anchored right opposite the settlement, launched Knot Often, and rowed ashore.