Cutting the Dragon's Tail

by Lynda Chidell

  Anyway, depart we did. At first sight the chosen anchorage seemed satisfactory. We were sheltered from the rough sea the other side of the reef. I laid out a second anchor for safety. However, as the day turned to night, the wind was strengthening, rather than abating, as happened normally. A heavy swell started to turn the corner into our bay. Still no problem, if it wasn’t for one factor – coral heads. There were many more of these than shown on my chart. Slowly but surely our anchor chains started to foul on some of them, which meant that our effective chain lengths reduced from forty metres to thirty metres to twenty metres. At two o’clock in the morning one of the anti-snub ropes broke while Darren was carrying out an inspection. A length of rope whistled past his head, just missing it. By now, the violent jerks on the anchor windlass and the one remaining anti-snub rope were frightening. In the dark, there was nothing we could do. We just had to wait for dawn.

  In the daylight we could see the waves at last – they were about four to five feet in height. I considered returning to Hurghada town. However, this would have necessitated buoying and temporarily abandoning our main anchors; also it was now difficult to see the coral heads on the way out of the anchorage. So I decided to stay put. We did at least manage to shackle on a new anti-snub rope, which took the pressure off the windlass. To our dismay, we saw that the damage had already been done. One end of the main shaft had been bent, thus rendering the starboard side of the windlass unusable. This meant that all raising and lowering of the number two anchor would have to be done by hand until a repair could be effected in Cyprus. Not an easy task. Once again we cursed the Hurghada customs officer.

  On the following day, the wind had moderated to force four and was no longer blowing straight from the direction towards which we wanted to go. With a sigh of relief we weighed anchor and left Hurghada, bound for the island of Shaker and beyond.

  By lunchtime we had covered twenty-five miles and reached our intended destination, Endeavour Anchorage, a huge, nearly totally enclosed, anchorage – one of the best in the entire Red Sea – part of the small uninhabited island of Tawila (27°34' north, 33°47' east). Our only neighbour was a forty-five foot ferro-cement French sloop named Nomad. As is the norm in the yottie world, it was not long before we were making friends with the owners of the yacht, René and Chantal, and swapping stories. These two were amongst the most experienced sailors I had ever come across. They had lived for many years on Nomad. Sadly, although they were about to complete a circumnavigation, they explained they would not be stopping in their home country, France. The reason was that they could not afford to comply with France’s strict rules on expensive safety equipment such as annually serviced liferafts. France’s loss, not theirs. It was ironic that one of the safest yachts in existence should be deemed ‘unsafe’ by the French authorities.

  We were still enjoying the sun, sea and tranquillity at our anchorage the following afternoon when the wind dropped and started blowing very gently from the unusual easterly direction. This was most favourable for passage making northwards into the Gulf of Suez. As if on cue, St Combs and PF Flyer chose this moment to ghost past the entrance under full sail. I spoke to them on the VHF and, as a result, decided that the conditions were too advantageous to be ignored. Even though we were committing ourselves to a night passage, which would mean no turning back, the calm period (or better still the easterly breeze) only had to last to two in the morning for the next shelter to be reached safely. So, off we set once again, praying for a lucky spell.

  For the first two hours we made good progress under power as we entered the southern end of the Gulf of Suez. There were ships and oil rigs all over the place, some of the rigs with huge blazing gas flares. I had never seen anything like it.

  So far so good, but then the worst happened, just as darkness fell. The wind changed to north-north-west. At first a light breeze, then by nine o’clock it had reached force four. A moderate steep sea developed, against which we could no longer motor without help from the sails. We hoisted the main and mizzen, bore away forty-five degrees to starboard and started motor-sailing. Our semi-operational radar chose this moment to be really useful for the first time since Agalega! Not only was I able to pick out the nearby land, but I could also plot the movements of shipping and navigate by the position of the oil rigs. Some of the latter had Racon beacons, which were new to me. There were also a few abandoned and unlit oil rigs, which, without radar, we might have been in danger of hitting.

  The situation went from bad to worse. The wind strength increased to force six and the very steep seas had reached ten feet in height. What a place to be in the pitch dark in a Chinese junk! Would we be swept out of the Gulf of Suez back through the Straits of Gubal into the Red Sea again? Or could we make way to windward?

  At midnight the log reading was: ‘Struggling! Oil rigs, ships, headwind and big seas.’ At eight minutes past one: ‘Tack badly – snarl up. Broken main sheetlets. Reef to 3 panels. Sail setting horribly.’

  Some hours later, I think we were all feeling seasick; I was so cold my teeth were chattering violently; the engine was at full revs; and the sails were reefed as far as they would go. However, we were winning. We were making progress – at a rate of about one mile directly against the wind, and perhaps current, every hour. Tin Hau was pulling through her first real test of this nature. It appeared that an anchorage on the far (eastern) side of the Gulf of Suez on the Sinai peninsular was attainable.

  At half past seven in the morning we reached the shelter of Sheikh Riyah and dropped anchor. We just had time to register that there was another yacht there – the sleek French sloop U-Matalu with her enormous single mast – before collapsing on to our berths and falling asleep.

  Two hours later there was a loud sound of knocking on the hull. I staggered up on deck to find that we were being invited to tea. A crew member from U-Matalu had come over to deliver the invitation. He immediately understood that we needed sleep and changed the invitation to drinks that evening. He even offered to collect us to save us the bother of launching Knot Often. I thanked him and went down below again.

  All our energy had returned after our sleep and we were looking forward to a good evening out. The speed boat from U-Matalu arrived right on time. We raced over to the French yacht at a tremendous rate. The first surprise revealed itself as we approached. U-Matalu’s transom opened up, James Bond style, to reveal what they termed ‘le garage’. The speed boat was winched within and the stern closed silently.

  Inside, we took stock of our surroundings, which were luxurious in the extreme! Tin Hau seemed positively shabby in comparison. Hippolyte, the skipper, welcomed us on board and offered us a choice of drinks from the bar. After I’d had a few, I learnt that there was a ‘telephone’ on board. ‘Could I make a call to England?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said Hippolyte, picking up the headset. Within seconds I heard the dialling tone, and Lynda answered. Unbelievable – to us simple folk, that is! This time we had been patched through Paris.

  The next morning we were surprised to see U-Matalu’s anchor being lifted. Hippolyte had obviously decided to proceed towards Suez in spite of the continued headwind and rough seas. We watched as she rounded the headland and reached the white capped water beyond. Surprisingly no sails were raised. She continued onwards as though there was not a wave in existence. A very slight pitching motion commenced. Amazing! Tin Hau would really have been struggling.

  About five minutes later, however, we were equally surprised to see

  U–Matalu turn round. She was returning to Sheikh Riyah! Why? Hippolyte had the answer as he motored past. ‘The girls were having difficulty with the cooking,’ he said.

  We remained at the same anchorage for six days – after one false start in an effort to leave on the second day. There was plenty of time to talk, read and think.

  On 23rd March, the wind had moderated enough for us to be able to win another five miles up the coast to the town of Tor. In fact we went four miles beyond T
or before turning back, owing to a sudden change in the wind direction. Tor harbour was entered in the darkness of night.

  We reported to the authorities the following morning. They were utterly charming and couldn’t do enough for us. Many things were ‘not permitted’ – at least officially. But the army officer took the view that as long as he accompanied us everywhere there would be no problem. We were shown around the whole town and entertained royally.

  Unfortunately we couldn’t stay for long, as the wind changed again, this time favourably. We pulled up the anchor at quarter past six and were motoring north-westwards once more by half past six into a slight sea with very good visibility. Navigation was very easy owing to the radar set and the abundance of well lit oil rigs. It was like something from another world.

  All through the night – and throughout the next day – we motored at a good economical engine speed. Martyn produced his usual excellent brunch. Erni steered and life was easy.

  The only problem was that at this rate we would reach Suez in the middle of the night. So at three o’clock, as we approached the headland of Ras Sudr, we decided to drop anchor. We would thus enter Suez the next morning in daylight, refreshed and ready for anything that might be thrown our way.

  The night, however, was by no means the restful one we had been expecting, given the calm weather of the preceding twenty-four hours. Strong northerlies blew from sunset until midnight, creating four to five foot waves, even where we were anchored. We took turns keeping an anchor watch, glad not to have been out at sea trying to make progress.

  At 5.23 a.m. we started hauling in our full length of chain (seventy metres). The sea had calmed down as quickly as it had been whipped up. We set off for Suez, about twenty miles distant.

  By half past nine we were passing the first of a long line of anchored ships, awaiting their turn to pass through the canal. We listened on the VHF to a Chinese skipper being bawled out by an Egyptian pilot in broken English that even we could hardly understand. I wondered whether to call up the authorities on channel sixteen, but decided to continue as far as I could towards the canal before creating any disturbance.

  At ten minutes to ten the Prince of the Red Sea’s ‘brother’ came alongside us in a launch as we entered Suez Bay. He confirmed that we could proceed to Suez Yacht Club just inside the canal entrance. This was a convenient encounter, as we had already decided three months earlier in Sri Lanka that the self-proclaimed ‘Prince of the Red Sea’ would be our ‘agent’ to assist with the canal transit. The papers required for the two day, ninety nautical mile, transit are quite complex, and an agent – specifically this one – had been strongly recommended.

  The Prince’s brother left us and we continued under power, drawing closer and closer to the canal entrance. The variety of anchored shipping was fascinating – ocean liners, smart cruise ships, plenty of rusty old traders, oil and gas tankers of all shapes and sizes, car transporters, and numerous smaller local craft. There was activity all over the place. It felt good to be part of it all.

  Our happy daydreaming was brought to an abrupt standstill as two largish launches, each about the size of Tin Hau, broke away from the clutter of small craft and headed straight for us. Each one had about a dozen jabbering Egyptians on deck, all making signs that we should alter course to port and enter Port Ibrahim, the large commercial harbour at the entrance to the canal. They drew up each side of us and started turning to port themselves. A few of the deck hands started trying to board Tin Hau. No fenders had been put out. It looked as though we were about to lose some paint – and perhaps more.

  ‘Get hold of the boat-hooks,’ I shouted to Darren and Martyn. ‘Darren, take the port side. Martyn, take the starboard. Wallop any knuckles that come anywhere near to us.’

  Even though the helmsmen of the launches were shouting that they were Suez Canal officials, I was not going to allow our beautiful boat to be squeezed and damaged in this way. I increased our speed to over six knots and grabbed hold of the VHF transmitter.

  I called out on channel sixteen: ‘Prince of the Red Sea. Prince of the Red Sea. This is Tin Hau. Over.’

  No answer. I tried a second time. Darren and Martyn were doing what I had asked them to do – with great enthusiasm. Knowing what the normal procedure was for yachts transiting the canal, I was not going to be diverted into a commercial harbour, which would almost certainly have meant delays and extra costs.

  ‘Tin Hau. Tin Hau. This is the Prince of the Red Sea. Channel seventy-three,’ an American voice answered.

  I duly switched channels and found myself speaking to Alan of St Combs. He just happened to be in the Prince of the Red Sea’s office in Suez at the time! He advised me to proceed to the Yacht Club without delay and ignore any other instructions.

  I waved the microphone at the two launch skippers and tried to look menacing! It must have worked, for they peeled off and left us on our own.

  We reached the canal entrance, and fifteen minutes later dropped anchor opposite Suez Yacht Club near to four yachts from the Sri Lanka ‘fleet’ – St Combs, PF Flyer, Endurance II, and Roama. Glen from St Combs helped us secure a stern line to a buoy. A small boat drew up alongside. It was another of the Prince’s ‘brothers’, arriving to welcome us to Suez. He gave us some forms to fill in, explained the procedure for the canal transit, told us that we could use the showers and laundry facilities ashore for as long as we chose to stay – the daily mooring and yacht club charge was E£6 – and then to cap it all he had a present for all of us – a delicious assortment of Egyptian cakes.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he called as he drew away. We certainly felt welcome; and we were most impressed with the Prince’s efficiency (we never actually met the shadowy Prince himself). A fitting end to our forty-eight day, seven hundred mile passage from Port Sudan.

  10. Suez to Larnaca

  We stayed for nearly a week in Suez, a large and strategic town of about 370,000 people; and very enjoyable it was too. After the initial excitement of collecting our post and meeting up again with friends on the other yachts, we spent quite a bit of time wandering around the town looking for this and that. I remember the satisfaction of locating a genuine tin of WD40, after a two hour hunt which took me through a maze of back streets. This felt much more like the ‘real Egypt’ than Luxor, for example, where I had ended up viewing most local people with suspicion. Everywhere I went in Suez it was ‘Welcome, Welcome’.

  Diesel was arranged and taken on board. Knowing that we would shortly be leaving the land of cheap fuel, I bought numerous plastic jerrycans and filled these as well, storing them on deck.

  We learnt that about fifty to one hundred ships proceeded up and down the canal each day in distinct ‘convoys’ under the care of Egyptian pilots. A north-bound convoy would pass a south-bound convoy at one of the three lakes part way along the canal – Lake Timsah, Great Bitter Lake and Little Bitter Lake. The canal, which has no locks, was supervised by Ferdinand de Lessops and opened in 1869. After the 1967 Israeli-Arab war and the subsequent closure of the canal, it was cleared, widened and deepened to handle larger ships including tankers (unladen with oil) of up to 200,000 tons in size.

  A yacht intent on travelling northwards through the canal was required to set off in the dark well before the first convoy. It was compulsory to carry a pilot. The cost was a reasonable (or so I thought) US $140, plus tips.

  I arranged our departure date for Saturday, 2nd April. I was told that the pilot would board at twenty minutes to three in the morning and that I was to re-moor fore and aft between two designated buoys. This would enable a ‘quick getaway’. Only one other yacht would be sailing with us (or rather motoring with us, as it was forbidden to use sails) – the Swedish yacht Amat Berani II. We met the owner – Stephan (Bo Erik), and learnt that he had worked for many years as a marine engineer in Singapore. He had bought Amat Berani there and was taking her back to Sweden. She was a lovely fifty footer, constructed of Indonesian ironwood, with a centre cockpit, two m
asts and a brightly painted red hull. Interestingly, Stephan – probably the most experienced person in small marine diesel engines that I had ever met – admitted to being very nervous about how he would cope if his engine failed. It was a case of ‘the more you know, the more you fear’. I felt slightly less bad about my own fears of engine failure and maintenance.

  We were all ready to go at the appointed hour. It had taken a long time the previous day to clean the filthy harbour mud off our anchor and chain. Our first pilot – Ali – arrived at 2.35 a.m. and the canal transit began with Tin Hau leading the way and Amat Berani immediately astern.

  As bad luck would have it, there was a headwind, which increased in strength as the day went on. There was also an adverse current of two and a half knots to contend with at one stage. Ali kept pushing the throttle forward as far as it would go – he was not happy with our slow progress. We hugged the port bank, keeping in shallow water to port of the beacons marking the edge of the channel. Dawn came at twenty minutes past five and Ali started becoming fidgety – like a cat looking for somewhere to go. He walked all around the boat. We wondered what the problem was. Finally he climbed on to the aft cabin top and produced a small mat from his bag. As he laid this out on the deck, we realised what was coming next. It was time for morning prayers. We should have known that Ali – as a devout Moslem – would need somewhere with a bit of space where he could bow down to face Mecca. We were glad that there was enough room for him on Tin Hau.