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

by Nancy Knudsen

  Then it’s away into the exhilaration of the open seas. We’re sailing well together now. Hardly a word is spoken as we go about our tasks to gybe or adjust sails. Even decisions are often mute ones as there’s an obviousness to the wind and the sky that dictates the next move. After a couple of days the Gulf of Suez starts to narrow before us, and we have hazy mountains just visible through the salt mist on each side.

  Pressing northwards up the gulf, we begin to come across the weird shapes of hundreds of oil rigs. Some are like giant stick insects, frozen in position, others are more like dragons, breathing fire at the sky. None are pretty, function being all and form obviously nothing in this expensive grab for oil. Their multicoloured box-shaped bodies are splashes of red and yellow and pale blue, high in the air, and they balance on impossibly tall legs, arms splayed out as if calling for help, belching fire at the fingertips. Others are unlit dead bodies, cut off at the knees, black skeletons, left to rot and rust after their oil has run out. They have something miserably Orwellian about them, grotesque and threatening.

  Looking at the sea here, I can tell that something isn’t right. It’s a short choppy sea, and the swell is increasing. This swell is too high for the current wind and contrary to the forecast. Was it wrong again? Soon Blackwattle is rocking forwards like a toy boat in a bathtub. Our twenty tons of yacht is behaving like a plastic tugboat. One minute we are heading for the sky, the next minute plunging down into the sea.

  And now the wind begins to rise to match the seas. Yes, the forecast was wrong and it’s getting dark. It will be a radar night tonight. I start breathing shallowly, and feel the coursing of an adrenaline flow. We cross the shipping lane to try to find a lee shore. Ships are rocketing down the lane regularly, and we must judge our crossing accurately. We head for the tail of one ship and, motor pounding, race behind him across the three miles of the southbound lane to the other side, while the next ship bears down. We don’t breathe a lot in transit – if our motor fails we would not be confident of making it clear of the oncoming ship.

  Other boats have put into anchorages because of the rising weather, but we’re past one anchorage, and won’t get to the other before dark. We put a second reef in the main to reduce sail, and press on.

  As night falls like a dark cloak around us, the oil rigs become brightly flaring monsters. But it’s the unlit corpses we know are in the vicinity that are the danger. On my watch I prowl the cockpit, never ceasing my constant perusal of the inky waters, searching for black hulks. The wind is up to around twenty-five knots now, and with each wave Blackwattle seems to stop dead in her tracks. It’s hard work as we make very short tacks into and out of the shipping lane. We know there will be no unmarked oil rigs in the shipping lane, but cannot venture too far into the way of the ships. This waterway cares nothing for small yachts.

  In addition to the sweaty work of tacking, the autopilot can’t cope. Each time the boat is thwacked off course by a vertical wall of water, it struggles to get back on course, but before it succeeds, there’s another vertical wall of water and we are thrown off again. We have to hand-steer, so we’ll probably not get much sleep tonight. There are just too many simultaneous tasks – hand-steering, watching the chart, the radar and the real world for ships and oil rigs, which are more and more plentiful. Visibility is not good. It’s getting cold, and we each end up scurrying into lockers to find warmer and warmer gear.

  The wind continues to rise. First to thirty, thirty-five, then forty knots, and every third or fourth wave is cascading green water right over the top of the dodger. Thank heaven for the cockpit cover, or we’d be getting a face full of salt water with every wave. After each green wave the air is full of flying salt mist. The ‘clears’ – the see-through plastic that surround the cockpit and normally keep out rain – are not lowered, as we need to see out the side easily, so the water sprays, splashes and drips down into the cockpit drenching all surfaces. This is a bit of a shock – we’ve never had a wet cockpit before on this trip. With the motor roaring and all sails flying we’re still only making about three knots. The seas get worse. One must stand to steer, feet wide apart for stability, with a solid grip on the wheel. The boat makes a crazy rush at the heavens, and I’m seeing stars through the salty windscreen, there’s a millisecond pause at the top, a weightless feeling, then a plunge down and down until we spear into the wave ahead. But Blackwattle’s a beauty. She comes up every time, as smoothly as she’s meant to, obedient to the wheel, riding the rush of the waves like the good sea boat she is. My heart is in my mouth for only one reason. Should anything break . . . Should the motor stop . . . We keep each other going with cups of coffee and tea. Whoever is not steering dozes in the cockpit, but it’s hard to doze and balance at the same time, especially when the world is spraying salt water all over you. Anyway, our adrenaline is up, and neither of us feels tired.

  The night ends eventually without incident, and when day dawns, we find we are passing dozens of anchored ships, in lines, waiting for their turn to transit the great canal. There’s another sight we haven’t seen for fourteen months: it’s a grey miserable day, just like Sydney can produce. Dull clouds, a bleak daylight, nothing like the blue and white heavens we’ve had for so long. It’s a true sign that we’re nearly in the Med, and back to the possibility of cold nights and storms, of wintry days.

  So the Red Sea that we had thought we had survived unscathed had a sting in the tail for us after all.

  There’s no time to reflect on this ‘sting in the tail’. We’re here. The yachts we left Hurghada with are waiting in anchorages up and down the coast of the Gulf of Suez, and are not to arrive for many days yet. Suez is a flurry of activity, and the arrival process is something I never get used to. Arriving after a sea voyage, one wants to share a celebratory drink, tidy the boat, and then, only then, ready oneself for whatever the new shore is to bring. Even more so this morning, as neither of us has had any sleep. But no. We are directed immediately to the fuel wharf situated on a most dangerous-looking stone wall full of jutting rocks. Filling the tanks is a comedy of spilled diesel (because the nozzles have been designed for supertankers) and detergent everywhere, strange blokes tramping all over the deck, shouted negotiations about prices and quantities. Our agent – known as the son of ‘Prince of the Red Sea’ – arrives on the other side in a dinghy: ‘Hello, I’m the son of the Prince of the Red Sea, your agent for the Suez Canal crossing.’ Should one curtsy?

  There’s not room for many boats here, so the measuring process which determines our fee for transit will be fast. Ridiculously, we are charged according to the amount of cargo we can carry. We’re to go through the measuring process, sleep overnight, and transit the canal tomorrow. I am transfixed by the wonder of actually being here. First conceived of 3500 years ago (but to join the Nile, not the Med), the Suez Canal has had a tumultuous recent history. Ferdinand de Lesseps built it, President Nasser closed it, Israel attacked over it, Britain and France were humiliated because of it.

  After the morning’s northbound convoy has entered, we slower craft begin our transit in a tiny convoy of five yachts. Because of our relative slowness, we must stay overnight at a half-way point, Ismailia, then complete the passage on the second day. Each yacht in our group of five has a compulsory pilot, provided by the Canal Authority, to guide us along the canal.

  By ten fifteen we’re away. My excitement was for the idea of this passage, and it doesn’t last long – it’s nothing but a big ditch in the sand. To the west there’s the edge of the Nile Delta – palm trees and vegetation – and to the east the Sinai Desert – undulating sands of yellow, ochre and burnished red. Every hundred metres or so there are military posts on the western side, and lounging soldiers wave in a bored fashion as we pass. We also pass three ‘temporary’ military bridges. The Egyptians can deploy them, send traffic across and have the canal operational again in two hours.

  Our pilot is a quiet, well-dressed
man who joins us for tea, Cokes and lunch. I lay out the food buffet style, with quite an array of meats, fish and salads. He quizzes us about whether there is any pork present. We bring him magazines to read in case he’s bored and replacements for the failing batteries for his small radio. All day he seems pleasant, if reserved, until we arrive at the midpoint, Ismailia, on the shores of the Great Bitter Lake, at 6 pm. When we berth at the dock his job is finished, and he is to return to his post half-way back along the canal. We will have another pilot for the next leg to Port Said.

  On the advice of our Suez Canal agent, we offer a $10 tip (or baksheesh) and Ted also hands over three packets of cigarettes. Without any warning, the man becomes angry. He wants double.

  ‘You must pay for my taxi back to my base!’ he whines.

  ‘No,’ says Ted. ‘We were specifically told the company already pays that for you. We have paid everything for the transit, and this money is just to say thank you.’

  Harsh words follow on both sides until finally Ted, so understanding and conciliatory with everyone we’ve met on this trip, does his block.

  ‘Get off my boat or I’ll thump you,’ he says.

  I gape – is this Ted I am hearing?

  Thankfully the word ‘thump’ is not in this man’s vocabulary, as he continues complaining that we must pay for his taxi. Ted, no doubt worried that he will thump him, gets off Blackwattle himself and walks away down the dock.

  The pilot now tries to shake my hand, but I refuse, having already learned that this is the most awful insult in Egypt.

  ‘I am your friend,’ he says.

  ‘No, you are not my friend,’ I reply. ‘You give Egypt a bad name.’

  He is off the boat now, leaning towards me, his hand obstinately out. ‘Yes, I tell you, I am your friend.’ We do this several times, like a couple of children squabbling in the schoolyard – ‘No, you are not my friend.’ ‘Yes, I am your friend.’ ‘No, you are not.’ – until the funny side of the situation strikes me, and I have to stifle a giggle.

  He walks away, still calling over his shoulder, ‘Yes, I am your friend.’

  When we go biking through the town of Ismailia, we are so entranced that we decide to spend an extra day here. This is where it all started – the modern Suez Canal. There had been traces of canals found in the region dating back thousands of years, and Napoleon Bonaparte had the dream of constructing a canal that would join the Red Sea to the Mediterranean. But it was Ferdinand de Lesseps, a well-educated French diplomat, who was given the concession by his close friend Said Pasha, viceroy of Egypt, to form a company to construct a canal open to the ships of all nations. During the construction, Lesseps lived here in Ismailia, and his house is a prominent landmark. Reminders of this French past are evident in the town’s architecture, which is both grand and graceful.

  Ismailia is not a tourist resort, and hence lacks the usual supply of touts or jaded hospitality workers. We wander the markets, which are churning with people. Like the English, the locals seem to queue for everything. We find the longest queue and join it laughingly without knowing what we are queuing for. Soon our noses tell us: bread, hot off the coals. Our mouths are watering by the time it comes wrapped in brown paper, too hot to touch with the bare hand. As we continue to shop we are mobbed by locals wanting to help – there’s no English, so purchasing the fresh-from-the-farm vegetables is a comedy, with lots of goodwill on both sides.

  The next day, we find our pilot for the second half of the journey, Mohammed, very different from the first. He has a warmth and frankness in his eyes and is a delight to have on board. The day is full of interest – more incredible bridges, one resembling an oversized Anzac Bridge, looping high enough for any ship to sail underneath, another on a giant swivel. We see dolphins riding the waves behind the great ships, and Mohammed proves an excellent tour guide, as well as being a funny and warm-hearted companion. He manages to tell us great chunks of his family history to while away the long day. Port Said appears – a wide commercial harbour lined with dirty and decrepit buildings among a few modern skyscrapers, and crisscrossed by ships in all directions.

  So it’s the end of the wild and charming Red Sea. Goodbye, flying sand, goodbye, baksheesh, goodbye, warm underwater wonder world, coloured desert sands, ferocious seas and exquisite remoteness.

  Fourteen months ago, we let go the mooring lines of our former life, without knowing what the future would hold. So far we have become familiar only with unfamiliarity. I have seen a tolerance in Third World countries, a love for each other and the world, that I have never known. I have a curious reluctance to cross that dotted line which has us re-entering the ‘Western world’ of the Mediterranean. No doubt there will be English newspapers and radio broadcasts, and we will no longer be so far removed from the madnesses of the twenty-first century. There will be noise, tension, crowding, discord, pollution, the horrid polemic of nations and our politicians, as well as all those aspects of our previous life that I now find tedious. I fall asleep wishing just a little that we could turn around and go back down the lovely untamed Red Sea to the sweetness of our dear Indian Ocean.

  But there is more to be said on the subject of the Red Sea, and that relates to the other yachts with whom we travelled.

  There were no coastguards to call for help, no mechanics, no towing services, no spare-parts shops. The charts are highly inaccurate, the passages between coral outcrops dangerously narrow. The winds, when they come, are high and always in the wrong direction, and the waves are a short sharp chop which jolts and strains the boat incessantly. While the snorkelling and diving were breathtaking, and the desert scenes extraordinarily beautiful, many boats had engine problems, breakdowns, electrical problems, sail problems, needed parts, needed expertise. The rest of the yachties always assisted in astonishingly generous ways one rarely meets in everyday life. If a spare part couldn’t be located, then a jury rig was invented. The daily morning ‘sched’ and roll-call was a valuable lifeline to assistance – from towing to medical (from the few doctors and nurses on the various boats), from escaped dinghies to engineering and electrical; not to mention the weather and anchorage, customs and formality advice that the forward boats were able to offer to boats coming behind. The concern for the single-handers, in particular, who mostly had no HF radios, was always high. Without the Red Sea Net, it would have been a much tougher passage for almost everyone.

  For the record, I am documenting here the boats from a wide range of countries (US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Croatia, France, Britain, Germany, Switzerland and the Netherlands) that formed our large caring family. We shall remember the parties, the incidents, the jokes, the camaraderie, the characters and the cruising children, in particular, and be grateful, forever: Acrobat, Adriatica, Aplysia, Apollo, Axe Calibre, Batheda, Blue Dawn, Britt, Capritaur, Caspar, Checkmate, China Moon, Contessa, Danza, Destiny, Dune, Early Dart, Erasmus, Fancy Free, Fantasy I, Free Radical, Galateia, Honeymoon, Hurai, Idemo, Jubilation, Klondike, Karimba, Notre Dame, Libelle, Malik, Marionette IV, Marita Shan, Meander, Papagena, Papoose, Quest, Ranganui, Revision II, Saltair, Sea Raven, Silver Girl, Sliver, Solara, Summer Tale, Tarpin, Tehani Li, Trinity, Vahana, Virgo’s Child, Volovent, Voyager, Woodwind, Xenia.

  9. Away in a Manger

  Israel to Turkey

  It’s a listless grey day, our first day in the Med, an anticlimax after so much anticipation. The sky is white and smudged, and as we make our way out of Port Said channel the sea is a flat khaki expanse peppered with buoys and ships of all sizes. We motor until the wind picks up. Very soon the soothing sounds of the sea, a brightening of the sky and a veering of the wind has us running happily before a brisk breeze. After so long beating into contrary seas, what euphoria!

  Ahead are the Greek Islands, Sardinia, Sicily, Corsica . . . alluring names. But there’s a small voice speaking to me: How could it be as exhilarating as what we have had?

  An o
vernight sail puts us in the Ashkelon Marina in southern Israel, a pleasant place full of many foreign sailing boats. Five seriously armed and good-looking young men spend several hours examining our boat, diving under it, running a plastic explosives detector over every locker, and questioning us again and again – about friends, any parcels, where we have been, our reason for visiting Israel.

  They are polite, however, and one has the faintest of smiles when he says, ‘Stay away from the green buses. They’re the ones that blow up.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ I reply brightly, ‘but we’ll probably go exploring by car. Do you know anywhere I can rent a bomb?’

  There’s a silence as I realise what I have said, and I cough a little. I say, ‘Er – bomb – you know what I mean – car? Bomb? Bomb of a car?’

  It’s getting worse. Try again, Nancy. ‘I mean a wreck – you know, rent-a-wreck? Rent-a-bomb? It’s an expression we use in Australia – you don’t have the same expression here? You don’t rent bombs here? No, I guess you don’t – er, wouldn’t, no, well, er, ha ha – mmmm . . .’

  The local officials might be polite enough but don’t seem to have very well-developed senses of humour. After the constant affability of the Egyptians, even if it is insincere, we find a seriousness and urgency here. We’re in a country under virtual siege. ‘Time (and maybe life) is short, and costs money, so don’t waste it. I will be polite, but brief. Speak fast, friend.’ This is the body language of the modern Israeli. It’s a culture adjustment after the comparative languor of the Arab world.

  Ashkelon is a quite uninteresting small town, like an outer suburb of somewhere, a dormitory place populated mostly by Russian immigrants: puffy bodies, blonded hair, sloppy walking, bored expressions. We rent a car; everything is just an hour or two away – the Dead Sea, Bethlehem, Jerusalem. The names breathe history lessons, bible stories, romance . . .