by Jackie Parry
‘Deppy,’ our creatively named depth sounder, was a bit reluctant to work for his new owners, but after deciphering the varying flashing numbers, we thought we had enough water beneath us. Noel checked the rest of the anchor chain below decks and found it to be in one big knot. The next two hours was spent untwisting the heavy, rusting links.
Dusk approached and the sun started her descent behind the flat seas; the soft blues and gentle yellows that are unique to Australia tinged our tired faces. The red wine and satisfaction of a successful day’s sailing cloaked us comfortably. Although the bay was calm and flat, I noticed that I could still feel the boat move beneath me. I could suddenly see why boats were referred to as a living thing; in the water they are always moving, sometimes like soft breaths, hardly noticeable, but nonetheless there.
As darkness started to envelope us in our contained heaven, Noel asked, ‘Does Mariah feel funny to you?’
With my two months experience, I tried to grasp what he was talking about.
‘Erm, no not really,’ I replied, a little perplexed.
Noel checked the depth sounder and then jumped up and down on deck. He ran from one side of the deck to the other.
Odd behaviour, I thought, but let him get on with it; I was in the reliable company of a rather nice red.
With an embarrassed smile, tinged with a flicker of worry, he said, ‘We’re aground.’
I glanced back at the other boat that we had passed earlier that was sitting at an odd angle. Now, it was even further on its side, and I realised we had done exactly the same thing. ‘What happens now?’ I asked, the catch in my throat revealing my fear.
Noel explained that we would keep leaning over until the tide switched and rose back up.
Not too bad, I thought.
But Noel went on to say that, hopefully there wasn’t a large rock beneath us that could puncture the hull as Mariah’s ten tonnes leant over!
We calculated another two hours of leaning further and further over, before the tide switched back and started to straighten us up. I filled a bucket of water and put it on the deck, marking the water level and watched as it changed. It was like watching the white dot on the TV after it is turned off.
Mariah leant at an awkward angle. We waited patiently in our home that felt like a quirky fairground attraction with the floor leaning at a thirty-degree angle. At last, the water level on the bucket started to change direction and we felt ourselves being taken back upright. At midnight, the sand released us, and we re-anchored in deeper water. Neptune had not awakened to witness our mistake, leaving the water calm. Noel operated the electric anchor winch while I hovered at the end of our bed where the anchor chain bucket sat, and flaked out the chain to avoid more anchoring-knot problems next time. The chain came up cleanly and we moved forward about 200 metres, into slightly deeper waters and re-anchored.
That night we slept like the dead.
The following day I had clean forgotten everything. ‘I am never going to understand all of these ropes and what they do,’ I groaned in frustration, ‘and what’s worse, what they are all called!’
‘A sheet is a cotton thing you lie on!’ I said exasperated. ‘Oh no,’ I continued sarcastically, ‘it’s a rope with a specific purpose, just don’t ask me what!’
Who thought of all these esoteric names was what I wanted to know. However, it did start to sink in slowly. I still felt a little stupid, even with Noel’s understanding and patience in teaching a complete beginner. Some days were a real struggle. But I remember my elation on reading an email Noel had written to his brother: ‘Jack’s becoming quite the apprentice, changing filters and oil, soldering wires, helping me fit wander (the wind vane).’ It was this kind of support that kept me going.
We returned to our piling in the Brisbane River, and I started to embrace the simple way of self-sufficient life. Solar panels gave us power (with a little help from the engine). We purchased gas bottles every two to three months, we filled the water tanks via jerry cans, and sat on our little floating island away from the hassle of real life. We had no letterbox where small bits of paper with large numbers intruded into our sanctuary, sucking dry the bank account to allow landlubber luxuries. And yes, there was the odd G&T (vodka for me please) while witnessing spectacular sunsets. This was interspersed with visits out to Moreton Bay, where we would do anchor pirouettes while savouring quiet, shifting views as we would fine wine – life wasn’t too bad.
We travelled ashore via our dinghy, and it took a while to get used to rowing the darn thing, especially in a powerful current. We didn’t have an outboard to power us along in the little boat, so learning to control the dinghy was funnier than my hairstyle in the morning. No longer did I sweep up the car keys, turn on the engine, and drive several miles without thought. Now, I tentatively stepped down the side of the boat, trying to keep balanced on a perpetually moving eight-foot bit of fibreglass. In the current, it was like stepping onto a galloping horse. Sitting down as quickly as possible was the first trick I learned. Having the rowlocks and oars at the ready was the next, before releasing the painter. Next, I had to concentrate on my action: try too hard and the oars came out of their locks. Lastly, I had to remember to look behind: the boat maybe going forwards but I was sitting backwards.
The dinghy dock in the town was always chock-full. To tie up, we would part the sea of small boats to reach the dock, then unload our gear (rubbish, items that needed fixing, shoes, shower gear etc), tie up on a lengthy painter, and push the dinghy back out. It was here that I noticed a strange phenomenon: most cruisers tied their dinghy up strangle hold, that is, with about one foot length. It was senseless and rather infuriating when trying to get ashore. Courtesy dictates that a decent length of painter (a couple of metres) be used so everyone can easily push the dinghies aside in order to reach the jetty. Still, it added to the daily events for half the city occupants who were fascinated with the comings and goings of the sea gypsies.
One morning, I made my way ashore alone for a job interview (this strange phase did eventually dissipate). In a small bag, I carried my smart gear to dress suitably after a shower. While getting dressed, I realised I had forgotten my bra. This was not a good look under a white blouse, although it may have given me a better chance at getting the job. Short of time, I had to row against the strong current, about 200 metres back to Mariah.
With lack of skill, due to lack of practice, I couldn’t row away from the clutch of dinghies. The current kept me pinned to the other dinghies that were tied up, preventing my oars from getting a clean stroke. I was scared of pushing too far away from all the dinghies; I had visions of a rescue boat and news cameras coming to find me up the river and everyone seeing my face on the six o’clock news that night, all because of my lack of underwear! The crowds grew quickly, watching my ridiculous efforts with amusement. My face turned redder. Finally, a fellow cruiser took my painter and towed me out. He didn’t use an outboard (small dinghy engine), he was rowing too! There was tittering amongst the hordes, their voyeuristic expectations duly met. Utterly engulfed in livid embarrassment, I was determined to avoid a repeat performance of this little episode. (I actually got the temp job – it was a good job, but I promptly left when I realised employment wasn’t what I actually desired!)
Noel wasn’t at all taken aback by my job-hunting-then-leaving ideas and he never made me feel inadequate in my abilities. My faith in him was growing rapidly, and I admired his abilities. Each day he would repair, replace, and adjust something that was totally alien to me. I was fascinated in his capability in knowing what he was doing. But this fascination would quickly turn to boredom. I needed something to do; I needed my own challenge. I was learning to cook on a tiny stove, becoming creative with food, as there was no fridge on board. I started to read boating magazines, but my knowledge was still so poor, I could hardly understand the articles and soon went back to my faithful novels. The boat was tidy, laundry, letters, and paperwork all up to date. I couldn’t figure out what
to do with myself.
I was brave enough, however, to admit that my ignorance was not going to change much until we had put some miles under our belts. I was looking forward to moving, learning, and settling in to the watery way of life properly. I learned best by doing.
From Brisbane, we sailed south to a small town in northern NSW called Iluka. Currents, wind changes, and shallows make the Australian east coast a fickle, difficult stretch of water to traverse. It seems to enjoy taking boats between its teeth of wind and waves, tossing them relentlessly. I don’t remember sea-sickness or boredom, just the freedom and enjoyment of excitement and fear in setting sail.
Iluka sits on the northern side of the mouth of the Clarence River; the town of Yamba sits on the south side. Noel’s brother, Colin, and Colin’s wife, Brenda, lived there and gave us a hearty, warm welcome. It was a relief to be with family and have something familiar back in my life. They generously opened up their home to us and we relished the simple treats of a hot shower and comfy armchairs that didn’t move.
Mariah was anchored in a small, protected bay. We still lived aboard and rowed ashore each day and jumped on our pushies (bicycles) for half a mile to their house. Iluka is a small, easygoing town, and we enjoyed the friendliness of Colin’s golf club where most of the locals got together. Socialising with non-cruisers was a welcomed break. We completed many jobs on board, and my learning curve lost just a little of its steepness. We lifted Mariah out of the water for the second time in Iluka. The first time was when we purchased her and a surveyor had checked out her bottom. At that time, I had disappeared with the vendor’s wife to have a girly chat!
This time, I was in charge of anti-fouling the underwater part of Mariah’s bottom. I learned about preparing the surface for re-painting and claimed this job as my own. It was exhilarating to understand and be able to get on with a large, important job without supervision. Colin and Noel thought I was a little odd, as it is not a pleasant task. Mostly I was bent in half trying to reach the underside with paint that was highly toxic. The two brothers worked hard on the clever stuff; steering gear, propellers, and engines. But, if there had been a competition for the most inventive idea, I would have taken first prize. I had opened a tin of anti-foul paint. At that time, five litres of this noxious stuff cost about one-hundred-and-fifty Australian dollars. On top of the paint were a few drops of rainwater.
‘Uuhhm,’ and ‘arrrhhh,’ were all Colin and Noel could come up with as they stood over the paint tin.
Meanwhile, I’d been rummaging in the boat and I strode up behind them.
‘Step aside,’ I said with authority, holding a tampon aloft.
‘Arrhhh,’ and ‘uuhhm,’ was repeated by the two brothers.
‘There, that takes care of that,’ I grinned. I had gently placed the tampon on the offending water and it had sucked it all up, leaving the expensive paint untainted.
‘Arhh, uhhm, well done,’ said Noel, and everyone went back to work.
I realised then that perhaps a new perspective on board was a good thing.
Brenda played her part in this busy time. After a long day with the three of us working many hours so Mariah was out of the water for less time (the longer out the more we pay), we trudged back to Iluka Lodge and ate a delicious meal that Brenda had put together. All in all, the four of us made a good team. This was the first time I felt completely relaxed and happy with the direction of my life. Colin and Brenda played an enormous part in assisting me with fitting in and finding my place in this new watery world and warm, relaxed country.
My confidence was building, but in one fail swoop it could be knocked back to infancy. I was standing back to admire my paintwork on the undersides and a local came up and stood beside me; he was looking over Mariah. On her white hull were tyre marks from a fender used while tied to a wharf. The guy looked at me and said ‘I bet you were steering when that happened.’ Charming, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. Bugger off – was my second thought, which I may have said out loud! I went back to work with the hump. Sadly, it was often I would come up against these narrow-minded comments. I had to learn to take them with a grain of salt.
Although my days were starting to fill up with boat tasks and I finally forgot the idea of project plans, I still needed a challenge, something to stretch the grey matter.
I helped with the maintenance, but this wasn’t enough. Amid the mayhem of working on the boat, completing my UK and Australian tax returns (where mutterings of bazooking the whole UK government could be heard), I studied and achieved a diploma in travel writing and photography. It was a correspondence course with plenty of support from a tutor. During the course work, my first piece was published in a local paper. This gave me the motivation to build my knowledge and write more.
‘You’ll have plenty of material to write boat articles,’ commented Noel. This thought horrified me; I would never know enough to write about sailing and boats.
I mixed my studies with boat maintenance and just loved painting the v-berth (the bow end of the boat, where we slept). Tackling a job where the end result looked better than the beginning was so rewarding; I had never done anything like it before. The deep furrows working across my forehead were finally starting to relax.
The time came for us to leave Iluka. I had changed so much, finding that life was less of a struggle. However, Murphy and his law must have been lurking at this time and realised that I had not been challenged enough. He took his opportunity to test our fortitude to its limits on our trip from Coffs Harbour to Fiji. The excitement bubbled around my stomach like fizzy champagne. To think we could sail all the way to another country!
The journey would take about two-and-a-half weeks, but we both felt ready. By now, we had been working on Mariah for almost a year: getting to know her, replacing, and updating equipment. The trip south to Coffs Harbour was not a good start. A quick moving low pressure weather system crossed our path and I suffered my worst bout of sea-sickness; I couldn’t get out of bed. Noel sailed most of the way on his own, while I moaned and groaned from the bunk below, fervently praying for the relief of death. I questioned our lifestyle again, but I had become so attached to our new home that I resolved to buy heaps of sea-sick tablets and get on with it. But I didn’t know that this bout of sea-sickness was a walk in the park compared to what was about to happen.
5
The Storm
The organisation for the long trip to Fiji was incredible. How to stow food for two weeks without a fridge; how to survive without constantly being plugged into the mains? Dried and tinned foods were our staples: potatoes, onions, garlic, and cabbage kept a long time, if they were kept in a ventilated area and out of the sun. Meat was relinquished. As a hearty carnivore, this was hard in the beginning, but over the years I became so smart at food management that three to four weeks or more at sea was easily catered for with delicious concoctions of one-pot repasts.
The small space we lived in moved three dimensionally twenty-four hours a day. The land, trees, and shops were replaced with sea, birds, and sky. Then, like a switch, it all changed; a gale was brewing, the sea washed black and was kicked into a chop by the building wind. The gale gathered momentum and became a storm. It grasped us firmly in its tumultuous fist. It scattered the birds, turned the sky an angry black, and the sea frothy white. We had left Coffs Harbour with a four-day weather forecast that was excellent; it was on the fifth day that it turned on us. For five days, we were held in the jaws of the wind that was building to sixty knots, and five-metre seas. We were buffeted and tossed relentlessly. Keeping watch for other traffic was a waste of time, because the climbing walls of water hid any view. The force in which the waves smashed against Mariah was terrifying. Neptune was angry, his fist pummelled into her hull, as if trying to break through. I could hear the rumble of waves gathering their skirts, lifting higher, and rushing to meet Mariah’s hull. The enormous smash as the green water fought to break-in, caused Mariah to lurch, churn, and cork-screw. Meanwhile,
my stomach did the same. Cleaning teeth became a major exercise. Going to the toilet was a battle with layers of clothes, and sea-sickness. Which would win first? Peeing in a bucket in the open cockpit became a viable option, but it could become tricky with sliding feet. I could cook food, but then I’d reach my limit of being below decks. I couldn’t eat, and at times even water would not settle in my stomach. I realised how easy it was to become seriously dehydrated. Day after day and, night after night we rolled, bashed, and vomited. With nail splitting effort, we pulled down the mainsail and hauled up the strong storm sail, the veins in our hands swelled as if yelling out in effort. My hair escaped its elastic and whipped drenched strands against my red cheeks. It’s at the most inopportune times you think about a short hair cut. It was relentless. There were no breaks, just endless walls of water and Mariah dancing her way up and down, side to side. Everything in our home continually slid, bashed, clinked, and clunked.
Our navigation chart was folded in half to fit onto our navigation table. No matter how hard we tried, we could not sail past the crease in the chart! We reached one-third of the way to Fiji and were considering going north to Vanuatu.
‘This is Mariah II,’ Noel gasped on the HF radio as he tried to hang on and talk with other boats north of us, ‘we have fifty-five to sixty knot winds and are turning north to Vanuatu.’
Our radios worked very well and we received a response immediately.