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

by Nancy Knudsen

  ‘What?’ says Ted, reading.

  ‘Bird.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There – the tiny one,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ says Ted.

  Pause.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Dunno,’ Ted answers.

  ‘It looks like a robin.’

  ‘Look it up in the bird book.’

  ‘Okay.’ There’s a pause while I look it up. ‘Nup – it’s not in the bird book.’

  No answer.

  ‘It really does look just like a robin,’ I say.

  ‘They don’t have robins in the ocean,’ says Ted.

  ‘What else could it be, I wonder?’

  Ted puts down the book he is reading. ‘It must be in the bird book. You surely haven’t discovered a new species.’

  ‘Well don’t get agitated,’ I say. ‘I’m reading a bird book about robins anyway.’

  ‘I’m not getting agitated.’

  ‘You sound like you’re getting agitated about the robin,’ I say.

  ‘Shit, Nance, there aren’t any robins in the . . .’ starts Ted, then pauses. ‘That doesn’t look like the bird book – what are you reading?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a book called How to Tell a Robin From a Seagull,’ I say.

  ‘You’re putting me on!’ says Ted.

  ‘I would never do that,’ I say sweetly.

  ‘What does it say then?’

  ‘It says if you’re on a beach it’s a seagull.’

  ‘Hah! Well we’re certainly not on a beach.’

  ‘No, that’s right – so it must be a robin, don’t you think?’

  There’s a pause while Ted picks up his book. ‘I think the sooner you get onto dry land the better.’

  Twin wings flying twenty-four hours a day . . . here the sight of a flock of flying fish, sleek silver flashing in the early morning sunshine, over there a pair of small hunting birds, silhouetted against the sky, oblivious of their heart-aching beauty as they swoop and glide, cut and curve, just above the waves.

  This is the stuff of our world. Fifteen days since we have seen land, fourteen since we sighted another craft. The world of squares and blocks, the straight lines of roads and buildings, the blaring noises of traffic, the squalor of human existence, is barely a memory, so immersed are we in our present. All is moving and undulating, the sky and the sea – even the horizon is a mere illusion, a sloping away of the curve of the planet. A world of dreams, and of the harshest reality. Flying fish fly from a predator, and the hunting birds are on a traditional migratory route, and only the toughest will get there. But there’s no anger and no vengeance, no greed and no wanton violence – simply the stuff of being, without the smear of human intervention.

  ‘I love the sea, but the sea does not love me,’ Tim Winton said.

  The words play a tune in my mind as I watch the ceaseless swish and roll of the waves. A languorous swell pushes away to the north-west. Blackwattle lifts her skirts and tail cockily behind each great hill of water, allowing it to swoop under us. She leaps these waves jauntily, thrusting forward, flying with her twin wings into the sunshine or the darkness regardless – confident, exhilarated. But the sea is not my friend, nor my enemy, it simply is how it is, and commands our reverence.

  Yes, ours is a world of sunrises and sunsets, not as things of romance or special occasions – they are our daily bread, served twice a day in plentiful portions, in immense dramas that fill the whole world for a time. It is a world of stars and of some that fall, of rolling clouds bearing grey gifts of rain, and the sea that brings tiny sad gifts of flying fish in the mornings. Astonishingly beautiful, and so unaware of our presence.

  Inside, the boat is a womb of comfort – carpets, sofas, soft cushions, shining teak; the mess of charts on the table, the saloon bunk where we sleep in a constant rumple of bedclothes, the smells of coffee and warm bread and the faint tang of citrus. It’s quiet in here, with the music of the waves, ratcheting of the trailing generator, whine of the autopilot and hum of the wind generator hardly heard. Here we complete the hourly log, plan future routes, sleep, stuff around in the galley, clean and tidy, rest and read.

  In the cockpit, the halfway house, it smells of fresh salt wind and fresh blood from the dead flying fish, and sometimes of coming rain. We watch for shipping, sail the boat, meet for meals, read, converse and while away time watching the sea and sky in all their moods.

  On the deck, we gybe the boat, cast the poor little dead flying fish back to sea, or Ted goes up the mast – three times in the last four days, to fix the lazy jacks, first with a jury rig, then, when that didn’t last, the full replacement of the broken lines. There are only about six to eight days to go, depending on the wind. Already we are regretting their passing – I don’t really want to get there . . .

  After fourteen days, the bliss ends. The engine stops generating power to our batteries. After much examination and many expletives, we realise that we have neither the parts nor the expertise to affect a repair at sea.

  Our policy of redundancy is called on, in the form of Jane Fonda, the Honda emergency generator that had so far been having a free trip around the world. We called her Jane Fonda not only because it rhymed with Honda, but because she is red and hot, very shapely, and makes a frightful caterwauling of a noise when she gets going. Made to work for the first time, we discover that she is quite temperamental too. When the boat heels too far, she turns herself off.

  ‘I’m going to turn Jane Fonda on again,’ calls Ted mischievously as he attends to the task.

  She drinks a lot too (something I hadn’t known about Jane Fonda), and as the days pass we find we are running dangerously short of fuel.

  Serendipity is a wonderful thing. The tables have turned, as it is Jos and Mike with their kids Justine and Pippa on Mary Constance who are near enough to transfer fuel to us, happily in a less dangerous sea than the transfers in the Atlantic. As we negotiate gratefully on the VHF radio with Mary Constance, we are astonished to be called by our great friends from the Atlantic Ocean, Martin and Christa on Meitli, also now crossing the Pacific. ‘We heard the radio call and realised we aren’t far away – we can’t have you transferring fuel without us being at the party.’ They detour for half a day to be at the agreed waypoint. So, for the second time within a year, we three boats rendezvous in the middle of an ocean. My heart warms to the symbolism of this and the strong bonds that make this second rendezvous so special.

  But the problems with Jane Fonda are not over. Not only does she drink to excess, but being an indoors girl and highly charged, she does not like rain, so, in spite of her outrageous singing, we have to keep her under the dodger. This causes a further problem, as she breathes out hot carbon monoxide, half of which, in the following wind, is going down into the saloon.

  ‘It would provide a mystery and a half,’ grins Ted, ‘for two dead bodies to sail serenely across the Pacific – we’d probably miss all the islands and end up on the Great Barrier Reef.’

  ‘Yes I guess we’d be pretty . . . serene,’ I giggle. ‘More likely,’ I add, getting into the spirit, ‘when we didn’t answer radios or emails, someone would start searching in a few days and find us still sailing.’

  We grin, and think about that for a while.

  ‘Well,’ I muse, ‘it’d be a great story for my magazine.’

  ‘Some people,’ replies Ted, ‘will go to any length just to get a story.’

  ‘Well, that’s my job,’ I reply. ‘Getting good stories.’

  ‘Never mind,’ says Ted. ‘It’s time to gybe. The sailing is still great, so at this rate we’ll be there in three days.’

  He should never have spoken, because as we gybe the goose neck slider where the spinnaker pole attaches to the mast track cracks and the pole comes bouncing onto the deck, luckily m
issing Ted. Our redundancy luck has run out. We don’t have the part to fix it, so that’s the end of poling out, depriving us of the ability to go faster when the breeze is soft.

  ‘So,’ I muse, ‘our main GPS is kaput, the lazy jacks had to be replaced, our normal charging system is shot, the pole has a broken nose, and the Jane Fonda Honda, that caterwauling lush, is trying to kill us.’

  Ted is still studying the problem on the foredeck, and I call out to ask if he wants anything.

  His reply is to the point. ‘Yup, I want something,’ he says without missing a beat. ‘A farm – with a horse, a motorbike and a shady verandah.’

  Then the wind fails. We have four to six knots of wind, and without a pole, potter along at around two knots for several days, inching towards the Marquesas.

  At the eleventh hour, on the day we are to arrive into the Marquesas, our engine fails altogether. It won’t start, no matter what we do. I am despondent. Nuku Hiva, where we are headed, is a long anchorage with a narrow entrance, surrounded by high cliffs, the watery crater of an extinct volcano. This means that any wind will be blanketed. How on earth are we to reach the body of the crater and anchor without wind for our sails and without an engine?

  It is now, grumbling with irritation, that I realise the truth. It doesn’t arrive with a bang, with a slamming of doors and calling out, ‘I’m home!’ No, it steals in, like an alley cat through an open window in the night, tentative, one silent paw at a time.

  The grounding at Isabella Island was responsible! While Blackwattle herself held true, six bone-jarring hours of thumping has loosened wires, stretched lines, shaken the connected parts past their endurance. Once I make this discovery it all fits, instantly. I am shocked that it took me so long to realise.

  So I gather the crumbs of my cheerfulness – yes, my cheerfulness was starting to crumble – and I go on deck to find we are just inching towards Nuku Hiva at around one and a half knots. We will get there sometime tomorrow. The islands are in sight, but only because of their great volcanic height. They are still thirty miles away.

  As we announce our approach by VHF to the authorities at Nuku Hiva, Pete and Chris on Australian yacht Chatti, whom we first met in Gibraltar many months ago, radio us a welcome. We tell them about our general lack of propulsion, and ask about conditions in the anchorage.

  There is no hesitation. ‘We’re coming out in the dinghy to help you in,’ Pete tells us, ‘and there’s another boat here who will come to assist – Dimitri on Adagio has a fifteen-horsepower outboard, so he can tow you if necessary. Don’t worry – there’s plenty of room to anchor and we’ll be there beside you.’ Such beautiful words, music to our ears.

  22. Floating Coconuts

  French Polynesia

  After getting our anchor set and having an emotional reunion with Pete and Chris, we have time to look around. This is a tiny village – maybe only fifty houses, spread around a grassy esplanade lined with palm trees, with a couple of tiny wharves, and no large vessels. People, brightly dressed in sarongs, stroll casually around the shoreline. There’s a car here and there, and something that could be a shop buried in greenery. As we dinghy towards a tall rusty ladder at a rickety wharf there’s a smile on my face and a stone in my stomach. How, in this remote village, can we repair the engine, the alternators and the pole to continue our voyage?

  The Marquesas are volcanic islands, piercing the sky above with palm tree and rainforest. Everything seems gentle here – the way people sway as they walk, the soft breeze, even the rain. The mists seep around the tops of the high crags, nestling into the gorges, softening the skyline, and even the waves seem to lap the dark sandy shore lovingly. After rain the cliffs run with waterfalls in every direction, distant and noiseless. It’s very hard to stay worried about anything for long.

  The local internet cafe owner recommends someone called Philip, an engineer who could possibly do a repair on our motor.

  Ted telephones the number given.

  ‘Yes?’ It’s a cultured English voice.

  ‘I’m told you’re the diesel engineer on the island?’

  ‘No, not me, not on your life. But I used to drive a truck.’

  ‘Well maybe I have the wrong number.’

  ‘I don’t think so – I’m the closest thing you’re ever going to get to a diesel mechanic on this island.’

  ‘Oh, well then, er, that’s good. Would you be able to look at our engine?’

  ‘Yes, but I have to warn you, I can only work in the morning.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right – I understand if you have another job . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t have another job. In the afternoons, I drink a bottle of rum. I’m an alcoholic, you see, and I only last until lunchtime. I just work to get enough money to buy rum.’

  While the repair is proceeding every morning, we explore, enjoying ‘pig-in-the-ground’ with locals and some Polynesian dancing. We take some four-wheel drive trucks with other cruisers and set off across the tops of the mountain peaks, stopping to examine the undergrowth or marvel at the staggeringly beautiful views. The history of the Marquesas is a little horrifying, as we learn of the cannibalistic rites of the past, the sacrifices and the celebrations that accompanied them. We visit one of these sites, whose meaning and history still mystifies anthropoligists. We see the Great Banyan tree which was used for cannibalistic sacrifices. Under its roots is a very deep pit with sheer sides, too deep by far for any human to escape. Legend has it that the pit was used for holding until the celebration those humans who were meant to be sacrificed.

  The lifestyle of today’s locals is enhanced by an irony of history. When the white man came to the islands he brought a plethora of diseases – chicken pox, measles and the common cold, not to mention syphilis and herpes. These diseases decimated the vulnerable Polynesians, leaving islands full of fruit trees sufficient to feed a much larger populace. Today, if you go walking, the locals gladly give you armfuls of fruit and vegetables that would otherwise rot because they cannot eat them all. I think about the current problem of global overpopulation. Introducing unknown diseases is probably not the best solution, I decide.

  Our engine and alternators are repaired by our new friend Philip, the alcoholic ex-truck driver. He does, as promised, work every morning and disappears at lunchtime. With little in the way of tools, he has done a fine job of enabling us to sail to Papeete, where we can embark on repair of the GPS and all the other breakages.

  As we sail away from Nuku Hiva, we are conscious that we have now passed the halfway mark to Australia.

  We arrive into Papeete just in time for Heiva Nui, the annual festival celebrating Polynesian local sports, culture and crafts. This traditional festival is not only full of energy and artistry, it also shows the pride Tahitians take in their unique culture.

  We attend the games – the Tu’aro ma’ohi, where, owing to a revival in interest in the traditional sports, thousands turn up to watch stone-throwing, carrying-the-fruit-pole races, javelin, coconut-tree shinning and coconut-opening speed competitions. It’s a joyous day with much dancing and singing to accompany the sports.

  Yet it’s the final evening that turns out to be one of the greatest cultural highlights of all our cruising years. For weeks now, dance companies and singers from all the islands in French Polynesia have been competing. After the judging, the winners are given an evening to strut their stuff, and we are lucky enough to get some of the last tickets.

  In a gigantic outdoor auditorium on the foreshore we sit with thousands of others to watch the performances which are a cross between operas and musicals. The costumes are grand and startling and the casts of each performance run into the hundreds. We listen under the stars to glorious complex harmonies, and enjoy spectacles of dance – it would have been worth coming to Papeete just for this night alone.

  The time comes when our engine, our pole (repair
ed ingeniously by Pete from Chatti) and even our GPS are all working and we’re ready to move off once again, heading for another unfamiliar anchorage, another unknown destination. So long, Papeete, it’s been good to know ya.

  In the next few weeks we amble through the Society Islands, enjoying each island for a different reason. On Moorea we see our first moondog, those rare bright circular spots on a moon halo, on Bora Bora we swim with giant rays, and on Taha’a we are fascinated by the pearl farms – but the most joy comes from the people we meet.

  Captain Cook stopped here in the Polynesian Islands, and what a wonderful find it must have been – mostly easy passes through the reefs, towering tropical jungle, plenty of water and fruit trees, friendly people. The Polynesians really seem to love their water. They swim and gambol – the mothers by the shore, the children screaming and splashing, lovers strolling alone, noisy family groups socialising.

  But there’s one thing I really don’t like about sailing among the islands of Polynesia – the coconuts. They float around the lagoons and out to sea. It seems that everywhere you look you see another coconut. The problem is it’s just too hard to tell the difference between a coconut and the head of a dead body, and I am really tired of all the necessary double-checking.

  As we sail westwards, heading for the Cook Islands, it occurs to me that it may not be a coincidence that the lifelines on a yacht so closely resemble the ropes around a boxing ring. We’ve left the Society Islands, it’s thirty-three degrees in the shade and the wind has veered. We need to put the pole up.

  Skipper Ted goes to the mast to get ready, hot sun burning on his bare brown back making it glisten. I dive for the sheet and brace to loosen them. But in the corner of my eye I see the end of the slippery headsail sheet minus its figure-eight knot slipping towards the block. I scramble to catch the line before it reaches the block and goes out into the ocean.

  Just as I grab it (now bum-up, head-down along the side deck), I hear the first clang, ringing out like a church bell on a Sunday morning, and know instantly what that noise is – it’s the fragile pole clanging against the forestay track. I gasp, retrieved sheet in hand, and start backward-scrambling to the cockpit to stop it. It clangs again, swinging free, and I cringe.