Cutting the Dragon's Tail

by Lynda Chidell

  The welcome was hostile in the extreme. Why had we been anchored at the northern end of the lagoon the previous night? Why had we not called at the army post straightaway? What were we doing in Sudan? Who were we? Our passports and ship’s papers were scrutinised.

  I was unable to get a word in edgeways for at least ten minutes, but things calmed down after a while. I explained how I had deliberately come to this army post because I needed help. Could I purchase any diesel? Could they please help us?

  Their attitude changed. They would help if they could, but unfortunately they had no food or diesel to spare. I could, however, go to Port Sudan by lorry (about two hundred miles) and pick up a forty-four gallon drum there. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘When is the next lorry?’

  ‘Not today,’ said one officer.

  ‘Not tomorrow,’ said another.

  ‘Possibly Wednesday.’

  So we prepared ourselves for a long wait, anchoring Tin Hau securely with several anchors. I spent the following day sitting on a stool outside the main building, chatting to Omer, chief of the army post and chief customs officer. Omer’s English was excellent and he welcomed the chance to practise using it. I learnt that one of the buildings near to us was the new customs control centre, which had been opened only the previous month. Things were changing in Halaib.

  On the next day, Sunday, 29th February – the ‘leap day’ that occurred only once every four years – the miracle started to take place. The wind blew gently from the south-west and then backed to the east. We had never seen this happen before. At half past eight in the morning I decided that we would abandon our plans of acquiring more diesel by road. We would instead gamble on the weather and set off across Foul Bay. I went ashore to tell Omer about our change of plans.

  By ten minutes past nine we were outside the entrance to Marsa Halaib. There was no wind, but quite a big swell. We set off northwards under power alone.

  For the whole morning the sea stayed smooth and we made good progress. There was a time in the afternoon when a breeze threatened to pick up. But by sunset it had died again. The sea became calmer and calmer. We rejoiced as we crossed more and more of the dreaded Foul Bay with no problems at all. We enjoyed a beautiful clear moonlit night – the temperature was a warm twenty-two degrees centigrade.

  At twenty minutes to four in the morning, the tiny island of Zabargad was spotted in the moonlight just off the starboard bow. By dawn, as we crossed the Tropic of Cancer, the island was abeam – I took a photograph of the sun rising right behind it. Our next excitement was to sight land on the port bow: this was

  mainland Egypt at last! We left the thirty-four metre high island of Mikauwa a few miles to port at quarter to ten. Ras Banas was only four miles distant when, for the first time in twenty-four hours, a head wind threatened. Just a puff, but was this a forerunner of stronger stuff to come?

  I decided to anchor in the lee of Ras Banas for a breather while we assessed what the wind would do next. Whatever it chose to do, we felt triumphant. The most difficult part of the Red Sea must surely be over.

  At two o’clock the breeze started to drop and we decided to carry on. Could there be still more of this miracle calm?

  As though they sensed our mood, a school of dolphins joined us, leaping and dancing all over the place. After nightfall, with Erni still steering, the wind changed to a very slight following breeze; for three and a half hours the engine was off and we sailed.

  Strangely, it had suddenly become very humid (one hundred per cent relative humidity). From this point onwards until Suez I maintained a graph showing (two or three times a day) barometric and hygrometric (humidity) readings, together with a score out of a hundred representing how easy or difficult it was to make progress to the north (see Figure 14). Zero meant that it was totally impossible to go anywhere; one hundred meant that it was possible to proceed reasonably quickly in the right direction under sail. Later, I used the graph, together with the current humidity reading (this seemed to be of greater significance than the barometric reading), to help me decide whether or not to leave an anchorage in an attempt to go northwards. There was precious little else to go on – I was receiving no weather reports or forecasts.

  We considered anchoring at the island of Wadi Gimal (latitude 24°39' north) at eight o’clock the next morning, but, after nosing around it for an hour or so, we decided to continue. The calm was too good to waste.

  On we went, with mainland Egypt about six miles to port (for once our radar was working – I think it liked the calm sea!) Mile after mile went by with little incident, although there was plenty of navigation to be done.

  At midnight the wind changed to its usual direction of north-north-west – dead on the nose. Only lightly at first, but the waves threatened to increase to a size we could not motor against. As there was a possible anchorage nearby – Marsa Wizr (latitude 25°47' north), open only to the east, I decided to stop. First we had to wait for dawn, maintaining position by tacking to and fro under sail alone. I managed to get a number of star fixes in the moonlight so as to pinpoint our position as well as possible. As soon as it was light we sailed closer to the land.

  We found, however, that the anchorage was not quite where I had hoped and we still had to motor for a couple of miles up the coast. At half past eight we eventually found Marsa Wizr, which was bleak and featureless, and we anchored with relief – I was very tired.

  The wind did increase in strength from the north-west during the morning, but at dusk it changed to the east. With hindsight, we should have gone then, as the wind remained easterly for much of the night – which was most uncomfortable for us at anchor, and a waste of a favourable wind direction for progressing to the north. How could I have known in advance how long it was going to remain favourable?

  As it was, we left at ten minutes past eleven the next morning, under power, and in moderating seas. We passed the Egyptian port of Quseir at twenty-five past four, glad not to be stopping there as it had a bad reputation amongst yotties. Port Safâga, forty-two miles further on, also had an appalling reputation – hopefully, we would get beyond it. However, at five minutes to eight that evening, still twenty-five miles short of our target, a vicious twenty-five knot blast of wind hit us from ahead. We had two choices - turn back towards Quseir or make for Port Safâga. I decided on the latter – I have always found it difficult to back-track.

  There followed one of those nights I would rather forget, as we motor-sailed against steeper and steeper seas, Darren was horribly seasick, but he kept up with all the sail changes and only retired when no further help was needed from him. We got there in the end, gratefully dropping anchor just inside Safâga Bay at 8.43 a.m.

  I had on board some useful ‘yottie notes’, compiled in 1985, which had a worrying little anecdote about a yacht, anchored just where we were, being arrested for failing to proceed to the commercial port. We were just too tired to go anywhere that afternoon. However, as no one had disturbed us, I resolved to leave for Hurghada (thirty-three miles away) as early as possible the next day, weather permitting.

  Luck was with us. There was little wind in the early hours of the morning of Sunday, 6th March; and the sea had subsided. We were away at quarter to five and made good progress under power all day. At about seven o’clock we were surprised to spot at anchor Svanhilde with two yachts rafted up alongside her. These turned out to be Klepel and another Windsong, a German one this time, not the American Windsong belonging to Dick and Bonnie. The three boats got going an hour later and followed in our wake.

  At ten o’clock we were even more surprised to spot Top Knot and Sundancer III in the distance off the starboard bow, also homing in on Hurghada. So, after having seen so few yachts during the twenty-eight days it had taken us to complete the five hundred or so miles from Port Sudan, we found ourselves entering Hurghada together with five other boats. It was a truly beautiful sight. Between us we represented Norway, Holland, Germany, Australia and Great Britain.

  9. Hurghada
to Suez

  Hurghada. Another exciting place. Different sounds. Different smells. I felt stimulated by the knowledge that there were so many new things to explore. Just the opposite to the hemmed-in feeling of being trapped in a rut and going nowhere, which occurs all too easily (with me at least) when living on land in one place for a long time.

  Having dropped anchor off the town at twenty minutes to one in twelve metres of water, we contemplated the change of landscape ashore. This was Egypt proper at long last. I savoured the moment, feeling both relieved and satisfied with our achievements since Port Sudan. What a shame that Lynda couldn’t have been with us to share the occasion, especially after all the work she had done to prepare Tin Hau for one of our most challenging voyages.

  Knot Often was launched and I rowed ashore, armed with the ship’s papers, ready to face officialdom once more. This time it was going to be slightly less lonesome. With me were the captains of Svanhilde, Klepel, Windsong, Top Knot and Sundancer III. It was more a case of poor officials. They would be out-numbered for once.

  All went well at first. Customs clearance was effected quickly, immediately followed by the harbour office. But there it stuck. The remainder was going to have to wait until the next morning. Being a Sunday was not the problem; Friday is the day of rest in the Moslem world. The trouble was that we were trying to enter Egypt during an afternoon. This was obviously not the normal thing to do.

  So back we went to our respective boats for the evening and night. I rowed over to speak to Ted and Barbara on Top Knot and then on to the beautiful Svanhilde. There I was in for a surprise. It was possible to use the ship’s radio equipment for a ‘patched’ telephone call (via Oslo) to Lynda. It was amazing to hear the phone ringing in Chichester, followed by Lynda’s voice. I learnt, however, that, even though there was no talk of an operation, there was still no way that she could yet return to Tin Hau. How I missed her, as did Tin Hau and her crew. Sadly, it seemed that we might have to manage without the mate all the way to Cyprus.

  The next morning (Monday, 8th March, 1988), the international yottie onslaught on Egyptian bureaucracy commenced at an early hour. A shared taxi was taken into the middle of town, where we went to government offices and met an Egyptian colonel. After protracted interviews we were all granted Egyptian visas at a cost of US $8 per person (although we had been unable to get Egyptian visas in Port Sudan, we had learnt that the cost of a visa granted there would have been US $30). At the bank we obtained our first Egyptian pounds (their pound is subdivided into 100 piastres), the rate being US $1 to Egyptian £2.23. Thus armed, we were able to revisit the customs office to hand over E £18 for the entry fee and we could pay E £10 to the doctor for his part in the clearance formalities. We learnt that a special permit was needed to anchor off the Sheraton Hotel, which was located at the end of a small headland a couple of miles from the harbour. Mooring there would cost E £10 per day, but reasonably priced diesel could apparently be arranged and it was a shallower, safer anchorage than the harbour, as well as a pleasant place to be. We all decided to acquire the necessary permits and enjoy a few days of rest beside the Sheraton.

  The final job to carry out in the town was that of food shopping. In this respect we were very pleasantly surprised. The market was full of the most delicious looking fruit and vegetables, grown in the fertile Nile basin one hundred miles inland. E£1 (about 30p) bought us a cauliflower, half a dozen tomatoes, two dozen bananas, five oranges and a whole lot of onions! We were overwhelmed to have such wonderful fresh provisions again and generally felt a bit culture shocked to be seeing tarred roads, bustling traffic and dignified old buildings. Tourists coming to Egypt by plane may have viewed Hurghada as a sleepy, dusty old Egyptian backwater. To us it was a modern twentieth century metropolis!

  At quarter to four we pulled up the anchor and sailed round to the Sheraton, anchoring in five metres of clear water beside Fam and Lady Rosi (the latter having been towed in to Hurghada by Freedom Hunter after engine problems). We marvelled at the sight of the ultra-modern hotel, all lit up in turquoise blue with the floodlit desert hills immediately behind. As the distant mountains merged with the darkening sky, we sipped our sun-downers and relaxed in this most beautiful of anchorages. We slept deeply right through the night without any disturbance.

  The next morning I went ashore to the hotel and started making arrangements for diesel (one hundred and forty litres remained of the seven hundred and seventy litres with which we had left Port Sudan). One meeting followed another, until eventually I was the only skipper still pursuing the trail. My patience paid off in the end and I found myself a somewhat bemused passenger on the hotel motor launch, bouncing out at great speed towards Tin Hau. We were in the middle of using the spare halyard to lift the first of two forty-four gallon (two hundred litre) drums full of diesel on to Tin Hau’s deck, when Ted of Top Knot, anchored nearby, started making frantic signs that I must turn on my radio. ‘Channel seventy-three,’ he shouted.

  I duly turned on the VHF. ‘How did you get the diesel?’ he spluttered. ‘How much are you paying?’ I was aware that he was not the only one awaiting my reply, but I told him to wait. I was content to proceed in the Egyptian way, where tea comes first and time moves at a civilised pace. Price negotiations could be concluded later.

  In the meantime I was getting to know Mustafa from the hotel – and his two assistants. I was impressed by their dignity and willingness to help. They insisted on personally organising the siphoning of the diesel into the main tanks. I was happy to use three-quarter inch hose, but they considered this too slow, preferring instead to use some spare one and a half inch toilet hose, even though this meant that they swallowed copious quantities of the foul tasting fuel. Although I knew that the price of diesel in oil-producing Egypt was low, I was still pleasantly surprised by the sum demanded – E£40 (equivalent to 3p per litre). I was happy to pay this without any bargaining. Also I gave a tip of E£10 to each of the helpers – all to Ted’s great annoyance when he found out later. He felt I was paying too much.

  The following few days saw the return of the strong north-westerlies. We lay safely to two anchors, whilst three of the other yachts dragged. Roama arrived in the anchorage, as did BonaventureII (following her engine problems, she had been towed by St Combs for four hundred miles). We learnt through Top Knot’s ham radio that St Combs’s arrival was imminent. News of the whereabouts of the rest of the fleet trickled through by the same route.

  As we were relatively close to the ancient tombs at Luxor, ten of us decided to leave our boats, hire a van and speed one hundred and seventy-five miles across the desert to see the world famous historical site. The opportunity was just too good to waste. What a disappointment it proved to be! There were thousands and thousands of tourists of every conceivable nationality. One guided tour after another was rushed through the Valley of the Kings, the Tombs of the Queens and into the well known burial chambers. Prices were astronomically inflated. We encountered aggressive, noisy behaviour such as we had not seen for years. It was beyond our comprehension that the tourists we watched regarded this as a holiday. The only proper way to have experienced Luxor would have been in solitude and in silence. We had obviously picked the wrong time. I, for one, was very happy to be returning to the boat, where the pace of life was slow and there was time to contemplate one’s surroundings in peace.

  On Saturday, 12th March, we pulled up the anchors and motored round to Hurghada town, in order to follow the official instructions of reporting to the authorities (again) for clearance to proceed northwards towards Suez (one hundred and eighty miles). With hindsight it was probably a mistake to have been so law abiding. Nothing much was achieved on the first day. On the second day, I thought that I had completed all the formalities, having paid the customs officer E£24 (which included E£20 for ‘overtime’). I had been given clearance papers and told that we were free to go. I had just finished stowing Knot Often in the davits when there was a loud shout from the shore.

&
nbsp; ‘Tinooo, Tinooo, Poleez, Poleez.’ I was needed ashore again. Urgently.

  I launched Knot Often and rowed to the quay. Awaiting me was an absolutely seething police officer, who was really angry that I had not been to see him earlier. He wanted E£51 payment for harbour dues – to cover the period whilst we had been dealing with the customs officer. If I chose to pay the following morning during normal office hours, this could be reduced to E £15 (US $7). I decided that the latter course was preferable, even though it meant more delay.

  Early the next morning (the third day of our official clearance from Hurghada town) we waved to four of the ‘Sheraton fleet’ sailing by on their way towards Suez. Knowing what had happened to us, they had chosen to forget about a second visit to the Hurghada authorities. We, unfortunately, were committed. I duly reported to the harbour office, as soon as it was open, and handed over E £15. We were free to go. However, by this time, five hours after dawn, the wind had got up and any progress in the right direction was clearly (in my eyes) impossible. I asked if I could wait until the sea was calmer, perhaps leaving at half past four the following morning. Although the harbour master was happy with this, the customs officer was not. We would have to enter Hurghada officially again and then go through the clearance process a second time. It was a catch-22 situation. Heads they win. Tails I lose. It could go on for ever (unless I resorted to bribing my way out of the difficulty, which I always refused to do on principle). I therefore decided against my better judgement to leave straightaway and anchor in the lee of a tiny island one and a half miles from the town. I had a large scale chart of this island and anchoring appeared possible although uncomfortable.

  Once again, I was forced into a dangerous position by marine officials who appeared not to understand the sea, let alone the limitations of a Chinese junk or its crew. Of the eight countries we had been to so far – South Africa, Mauritius, Seychelles, Chagos, Sri Lanka, South Yemen (Aden), Sudan and Egypt – only in Chagos and South Yemen had there been no problems. So few officials seem to understand the harm they do by not allowing small boat owners the freedom to pick their own times for departure from a port or country. Skippers and crews need time for physical and psychological rest before setting off on voyages of twelve hours or more. Boats need to be properly prepared and maintained. Financial – or indeed any other – pressure should not be brought to bear to force a yacht’s early departure.