Shooting Stars and Flying Fish: Swapping the boardroom for the seven seas

by Nancy Knudsen

  ‘Hello, I am Moatssm. There is a big problem you staying here.’

  A little play acting may be called for. ‘Problem?’ we chorus, looking horrified.

  ‘Yes, a problem. You cannot stay in this anchorage. Now, I am a dive instructor, I can help you dive, anything you want.’

  ‘Er, thanks. But there is a big wind coming. We really want to stay because of the big wind. You want to see our passports?’

  ‘Yes, passports, papers, yes.’ Now there are about six people on board, and they are all smiling. It’s very confusing. If we have to leave, why are they smiling? None of the soldiers speak English, so the dive instructor, whom we learn is just here to visit family, continues to translate. The soldiers write our details in a dirty child’s exercise book with ragged pages. We wait quietly.

  Finally, ‘So would you like to come to the shore to have tea?’

  ‘Tea? Now?’

  ‘Yes, now. Come now, for tea.’

  ‘Then there is no problem for us to stay?’

  He looks puzzled. ‘No, no problem. You are very welcome in Egypt, no problem.’

  We try to show no amazement at this extraordinary turnaround. We want to watch the anchor for a while, but they are all looking expectant. We jump off Blackwattle to join them on the long fishing boat, squatting comfortably on the piled-up fishing nets. We’re lucky the dive instructor is here to translate – is that what the soldiers wanted with the other cruisers? To offer them tea? The sun shines down hotly, the grubby fishermen grin their mute, gap-toothed offers of friendship. We grin back. Onshore we can see nothing but desert and one small mud hut. Sure enough, when we push up onto the shore, it’s the small hut we are led to.

  We are given herbal tea under a palm-leaf-thatched awning in front of the soldiers’ clay hut. They rush to get grubby cushions for the wooden benches they offer us, and the soldiers sit on old carpets on the sand. It’s hot and dry, the desert sand blindingly bright all around us. They laugh and talk, all translated by the diver/guide Moatssm. Soon we exchange presents – some tea seeds for us, and for the soldiers we have cigarettes, which Ted had thoughtfully shoved into his pocket. We are escorted back to the boat by Moatssm and start to restore the boat to ‘anchor’ mode.

  Ten minutes later, I hear, ‘Uh-oh!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s the fishing boat coming back with more military.’

  ‘Oh no. Maybe they’ve changed their minds.’

  I peer at the fishing boat and see a tall muscular gentleman in desert fatigues and high boots standing on the bow.

  ‘He looks a bit senior,’ says Ted.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ The officer has impeccable English, and he comes aboard with his hand out. ‘I am Major Maggot – Major Maggot Mohammed – and I am here to welcome you to Egypt.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Major – er – Maggot.’ Straight-faced.

  He stays to chat, drinking tea in our shady cockpit, telling us proudly of the coastal territory he commands, of his large family, and the history of the local desert. We manage to say his name every time without change of expression.

  We feel at home in Egypt already . . .

  8. Angel Gabriel and a Sting in the Tail

  Egypt and the Suez Canal to the Mediterranean

  Moving fast now, ever northwards, we reach more populated Egyptian waters. We start to see many dive boats in the distance, zipping across the flat sea, pausing, zipping on again, like mechanical white mice on a flat blue land. We stop for a few days in the new, half-finished Port Ghalib, which is planned to soon become an official port of entry to Egypt. Some cruisers have taken unofficial shelter against a wharf due to the kindness of those building a marina there, and we join them, enjoying the respite and their easy company for a while. Yet we’re impatient to leave. We’ve stretched out our stay in the Red Sea longer than most yachties. It’s not far to Hurghada, our first official port of entry, poised at the entrance to the Gulf of Suez, so if the northerly wind isn’t too strong, we can do it in one overnight sail.

  ———

  At dawn on Anzac Day, 2004, I am on early-morning watch. The seas are bumpy but Blackwattle rides the waves well. I have the engine going, to help us point higher, and I’m anticipating reaching Hurghada with growing excitement. Maybe they’ll have cappuccinos!

  I do the 7 am log, wake Ted, and return to the wheel to wait for him. His sleepy head appears in the companionway, and we chat about small things. But then he pauses mid-sentence, and I watch his eyes widen as he focuses on something behind me.

  There’s a very soft: ‘Oh shit.’

  A rush of adrenaline sends a nasty thrill through my arms and diaphragm. There must be something very wrong for Ted to speak so quietly! I turn, expecting to see a ship or yacht in trouble in the sea behind.

  There’s no other craft, but there’s something crazy-looking about the stern of the boat. It takes an interminable second to make sense of the scene.

  The davits – those trusty stainless-steel structures which hold up the dinghy and also act as a support for our many aerials, solar panels and wind generator – have collapsed in a tangle of twisted metal. The wind generator, normally so proud and tall, has fallen back towards the sea, and is bouncing violently with each heaving wave. The dinghy is swinging free, holding straps gone, held only by the lifting lines. The twisted mess is hanging by a thread, it seems, and is on the point of parting from the back of the boat and disappearing into the deep Red Sea.

  We say nothing. Ted gets on his harness slowly, never taking his eyes off the confused snarl of bouncing metal rods. I take the wheel again and slow the boat down to try to quieten the wildness of the bouncing.

  Ted clambers down to the stern.

  ‘We have to get the dinghy up onto the deck,’ he shouts against the wind.

  I am aghast at the seeming impossibility of it. The seas are short and choppy, about two metres. The deck is heaving now that I have slowed the boat, worse without much forward motion.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, getting my harness and gloves on.

  ‘Oh shit.’ There it is again, that quiet voice which is more alarming than his worst shouting.

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘The danbuoy – we’ve lost the danbuoy.’ I look astern and see our emergency ‘man overboard’ gear, a flash of orange floating far downwind, hidden sometimes by the waves. The strobe light is flashing.

  My response is immediate. ‘Forget it!’ I say. ‘Let’s look after this.’

  ‘No, f&%@ it! We’ll get it. Turn the boat around.’

  ‘God, Ted!’ but I do as he says and turn the boat, which increases both our motion and the exaggerated motion of the tangled web of stainless steel behind us.

  I understand his reasoning. Contact with the water has made the strobe flash; if a ship came across it, it could trigger a false emergency alarm.

  I aim Blackwattle for the danbuoy, Ted goes for the boat hook.

  It’s not so easy – there is a line tying two bits of the danbuoy together, and I am scared of wrapping it around the propeller. I aim for the orange flash in the water . . . Not too close, don’t run over it, but not so far away that he can’t get it . . . Think, Nancy, think . . . aim, Nancy, aim. Now or never.

  The sea tosses Blackwattle this way and that, sometimes putting her dangerously close to running down the danbuoy. Twice I swing by it and Ted reaches for it unsuccessfully, and each time I circle I am sweating more and hardly breathing due to panic. I can’t do it – he’ll never be able to get hold of it in this sea. On the third try, Ted claws up the danbuoy successfully with the boat hook. We flash each other a grin. Now we turn our attention to the broken mangle of shiny metal still slapping the dinghy into the waves. No word is spoken, but we know we must detach the dinghy from the mass of steel and get it onto the foredeck.

>   I try to let the boat lie a-hull by letting all the sails off, but the mainsheet catches and Blackwattle sails herself calmly at about one knot just off the wind. It works excellently for us. Ted drops the dinghy first into the water, dragging it and tying it to the side of the boat. It is half full of seawater. It’s normally very heavy for us to drag up at the best of times – how will we ever do it full of water? The boat is lunging with each wave, making it more difficult, but strength comes from somewhere for both of us. The weight is so great that the sectioned floor of the dinghy comes apart during the lift. However, she’s on the deck. We turn her over and secure her.

  Back at the stern of the boat, we now see that all that is stopping the davits and their load of electronic gear from disappearing into the Red Sea are the electrical cables themselves; the stainless-steel poles have completely snapped off. Ted ties lines to calm the bouncing, but the angles are wrong and the ugly yawing movement continues. As it bounces, the sharp edge of the broken davit pole presses against the cables. How long before they snap?

  We grab the charts. We are thirty nautical miles from the coast, where there is an anchorage called Ras Abu Soma, just north of Port Safaga, with a half-built marina. It’s worth a try, even though we aren’t officially checked into the country. Thirty miles – at five knots that’s at least six hours. Will it hold together long enough? We turn and head carefully for shore, hand-steering to try to smooth Blackwattle’s injured way. We are delighted to find that the GPS is still working, even though its aerial is bouncing like a mad pendulum off the stern.

  It is a long seven hours, motoring gingerly to reach the anchorage, but the sturdy electrical cables hold. They are tough, and we too are tougher now. We have witnessed so many problems on other boats that were solved in previously unimaginable ways. Two yachts have been attacked by pirates and had everything of value stolen from their boats, but they survived. We have ourselves survived Day 244. I remember from the last Red Sea Net radio ‘sched’ that a yacht has just been lost on a reef. By comparison, this is not serious. We will manage this. We will. Somehow.

  On arrival in the port we cannot raise anyone by VHF radio, so we dock without permission at the half-finished marina, and hug each other in relief. One solar panel is smashed beyond any hope of repair, the other is faithfully, amazingly, still putting in power. Looking around, the marina is just a shell – none of the buildings are finished, there’s no water or electricity, no human in sight, and beyond is desert to the horizon. We have no idea what to do next, so we put the kettle on and have a cup of tea.

  A cup of tea solves many ills. Soon Egyptian dive boats empty of tourists begin to arrive in ones and twos. The crews amble along the dock, curious but shy, to see this alien wounded craft. We don’t share a language, but after much pointing and shaking of heads, a beer and some cake are brought, a silent offering of sympathy or welcome, we are not sure which. In the meantime, they are talking in rapid Arabic. They are seamen all, and no words are necessary for them to understand our calamity.

  In our view, a miracle has allowed us to reach the shore, damaged but intact. Over the next two days, another miracle takes place. Three dive boat crews, led by a captain called Gabriel, ingeniously carve wooden splints, lift the davits back into place and splint them like a broken leg. We dub the captain ‘Angel Gabriel’, and explain to his crew by miming wings on his back, and praying to God.

  Once they understand they laugh uproariously. ‘Ah, Gabriel, Gabriel!’ They nod energetically and slap his back. When the time comes they refuse any payment, so we find presents of souvenirs and cigarettes, and they accept these diffidently.

  After smiles and hugs all round (I’d never seen Ted gleefully hugging a man before), we set off for Hurghada with our faith in human nature at an all-time high. It’s a day-sail, and by nightfall, after the check-in procedures at Hurghada, we are securely tied up in the glamorous Abu Tig Marina, an official port of entry at last!

  Arrival here is a high point for us, and not because of the elegant village that surrounds the marina with its soft luxuries which include a French bread shop, an array of coffeehouses, fine waterfront restaurants with candles and music, and boutiques and hair salons. No, it’s a high point because the Red Sea, with its contrary wind, coral reefs and war-torn countries, has been so kind to us. We’re through one of our greatest challenges, largely unscathed.

  I am sitting, towel wrapped over swimmers, at the Ocean Bar of the Abu Tig Marina. Salt water from my swim in the pool drips onto my feet and into the warm sand. The hot Egyptian sun does not reach in here, beneath the coconut-palm roof. I can see past my cold Stella beer to the pastel colours of the marina, its sprouting masts glistening and tinkling in the sunlight. The boutiques are doing a good trade this morning, full of German tourists from nearby hotels. On the other side is the buoyed marina entrance, leading to the haze of the horizon – always an alluring invitation to leave, to leave . . .

  So long away from ‘civilisation’, I am fascinated by the sights around me. Close beside us here at the bar is an Egyptian, dark shining skin, Gucci shirt, forking up a Caesar salad and speaking Arabic fast on a mobile phone. He’s a little overweight and he’s wheezing slightly. Brain fast, body slow. A pale German girl behind the bar is conducting conversations in English, German and Arabic according to need. A mother and pre-teen daughter are having an argument in rapid French about whether the daughter should swim again or not.

  Later, we’ll coast back around the marina on our bikes, probably stopping a few times to chat with fellow yachties, including the two Bills, who can be seen in the sunshine every day, busy in the construction of a new wooden dinghy for Saltair. There’s the French baguette to collect from the patisserie on the way, and maybe a stop at the internet cafe to check emails – Simon is busy working again, and cannot spare the time to visit. My connection with Kassandra and Simon is by email only, and it’s our vital link with the family. We have the sat phone, but calls are super expensive, and it’s to be used only in emergencies. I joke, ‘As long as that phone’s not ringing, I know my kids are okay.’ But truth lies behind the laughter, and I constantly check to make sure it’s plugged in and turned on.

  Tonight, we’ll probably eat at one of these outdoor restaurants with some local teachers we’ve met, or some yachties, or maybe both. We’ll drift home later in the warm night air having solved the world’s problems, and it starts all over again tomorrow. There’s a decadence to the rhythm of the days, and a hedonism floating like a cloud around us.

  We’ve discovered that Abu Tig Marina Village, designed by Italian architect Alfredo Freda, is only one of a pastel-shaded resort called El Gouna, an artificial tourist town built in the middle of raw Egyptian desert. It has its own power stations, water treatment plants, many international hotel chains, golf course, airport, hospital, school and shops, all catering to the European holidaymaker. In the marina itself there are four boutique hotels, a raft of restaurants, chic cafes, all-night bars, glamorous shops. After the primitive experiences of the last few months, its sheer luxury is a shock to the senses.

  It is not until our last moments before drifting off to sleep one night that I reflect on how far we’ve come.

  ‘Ted?’

  ‘Mmm . . .’

  ‘We’re almost to the Mediterranean.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Mediterranean. We’re only a couple of hundred miles from the Med.’

  ‘Geez, Nance, the boat’s broken in half and we’ve got to get up the Gulf of Suez and through the canal yet.’

  ‘Well, we’re nearly there.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Go to sleep, Nance, or I’ll thump you.’

  Our enquiries about repairing Blackwattle on arrival at Abu Tig were met with discouraging responses. Egypt does not have expertise in stainless steel, the nearest location being Israel. But to get there we must sail the Gulf of Suez next, reputedly the wor
st patch of water in the Red Sea, then across the southern Mediterranean. So Ted goes through the pain of repairing the davits using Egyptian skills, together with the expertise of a cruising yachtie who used to be a structural engineer. The result is stronger and better-constructed davits, though they’re ugly and roughly finished – tell someone who cares!

  In the meantime, we enjoy the modern facilities of Abu Tig, and the camaraderie of the other cruisers, all survivors of the Red Sea. Among them are labourers and musicians, doctors and university professors, carpenters, hoteliers and biochemists. Some are super rich, some can hardly afford a cup of coffee, some didn’t finish school, and others are world leaders in their professions. The thing that gives me the most pleasure is that we’ve all gone through the looking glass into a world where jealousy and competitiveness, status and position have been left behind, and a warm collaborative love seems to pervade. And together we enjoy this unexpected touch of luxury that Abu Tig offers.

  But Abu Tig is not Egypt. Just outside the huge artificial settlement, sand whistles across the desert, wild dogs roam and are shot by hunters. The nearby Egyptian towns are squalid and impoverished. Soon enough, the artificial pleasures of the marina begin to wear thin, and the proximity of the other boats begins to seem claustrophobic. I have begun to love the solitude, and resultant feeling of connection with the living world. On, on, it’s time to move on. Thinking of the Mediterranean, I find I have a small yearning to see a natural green tree, the lushness of vegetation.

  When the davits are finished we say our farewells to some of the cruisers we have shared such intense experiences with. We hug, a little too tightly, smile, but with a catch in the breath. It is a tradition for cruisers never to say ‘goodbye’, just ‘see you on the water’, because we all understand that our peripatetic lifestyles mean we may never see each other again – or maybe it could be next week.