by Jackie Parry
After trying, unsuccessfully, to invent an appendage to allow me to easily pee over the side, I settled down to the escape of a novel. I would try to read four pages before looking around the horizon, scanning for other traffic. Being a bit twitchy, if I read two pages before looking up, I felt quite proud of myself.
All was well with the world. There were no boats to worry about, and we were sailing smoothly along with everything under control. All of a sudden a violent gust of wind grabbed hold of our sails. Boats do funny things when there’s a blast of unexpected wind, and too much sail aloft, and they can dramatically veer toward the direction the wind is coming from. This is known as rounding up. On this particular occasion, it meant that Mariah headed, full pelt, straight for the land.
‘YIKES, I may need some help up here!’ The boat lurched and Noel jumped up.
‘I’ll get the boat back on track and ease the sheets, can you pull the main-sail down?’ Noel yelled. The noise of the wind pummelling the boat swallowed our words.
Noel manhandled the tiller (we had gadgets to steer the boat which freaked out, like us, when the wind became overpowering), he coaxed our ten tonne boat to point away from land. He eased the sheets while I hauled down the main sail, my fingers clawing the unforgiving fabric, my nails vainly hanging on to their anchor of skin.
As my toenails tried to dig into the tilting deck, I flicked time-wasting glances at the approaching land, then back to Noel to see if he was winning his battle. Carried on the wind, I am sure I heard Neptune giggling. Gasping with effort, inch-by-inch I lowered the sail. As the sail area decreased, Noel was able to resume a sensible course that avoided any hard stuff, such as land. It was all over in about three minutes, but seemed like a century of nausea. With mixed feelings of exhaustion and satisfaction, we settled back into our respective corners: Noel to snooze, while I read or invented useful appendages.
Our teamwork was becoming naturally automatic. With little communication, Noel took his position and I took mine. I knew which rope (“line” for the purists) did which job, where it should be, and how tight. I had morphed from the total ignorant novice to the start of a knowledgeable sailor. With still a lot to learn, I could finally see and put to good use what I had learned already. The first two years of living on board now seemed like a breeze, I quickly forgot the agony of ignorance. The boating way of living was a real tonic for my life weary soul. I couldn’t wait to reach email and telephones again to tell my friends all about my new life and how it was panning out. Unfortunately, I would be disappointed in their reactions.
About two days out of Bali, we anchored at an island named Kangean. The idea was to stay for one night, for a rest; we stayed for three. Leaping from one plan to another and altering schedules now felt normal. For a long time, I had hung onto to project plans and timelines. Now, I finally released these daft notions and embraced the gypsy life. There was only ourselves to please; so what if we stayed longer, who’s going to know? Who’s going to care? I found, with a sense of relief, that I didn’t.
Even though we had anchored next to a verdant, uninhabited island, we felt no desire to venture ashore. The foreshore with its thick coating of flora was not inviting. Instead, we took advantage of the crystal clear water that sparkled like diamonds and a completely private anchorage with not a soul to be seen. Was it time to romantically skinny dip? Well, not quite… armed with stiff brushes, plastic scrapers, snorkels, and cotton wool firmly pressed into our ears, we dived in. Our skin tightened and tingled, the refreshing surge of chill propelled us on to the job at hand – scraping the hull clean. This became an on-going job at every port where we weren’t anchored in soup. Tenacious, alien-like barnacles clung to the hull, “fouling” the normally smooth paint; ultimately, this reduced our speed. The tough, conical shells housed tiny crab-like sea creatures that seemed to live within goo not dissimilar to the slime used in the movie Ghost Busters.
It was always good to see the under-water part of Mariah and check that nothing hideous was happening to the only barrier we had between endless depths and a dry living area. When possible, we dived in to check that the anchor hadn’t hooked onto a loose rock. Jumping in, I took a while to relax and slow the heartbeats that are amplified in water, through my body to my ears. As usual, my mind started playing the theme tune to Jaws. It’s funny that if you know the water you are swimming in, you become more relaxed. In unknown waters, you never know what creatures are lurking – as if creatures in another country would be any different from your home waters!
Clouting the barnacles with plastic scrapers is like throwing a punch with your arm in treacle, the water’s resistance makes it heavy work. As the barnacles lose the battle, thousands of tiny sea creatures stir in the water. Bigger sea creatures come and eat them, in turn bigger sea creatures arrive and eat those and so on until, well, one doesn’t like to think about it too hard. Holding our breath became an art form, and we walked a fine line between lucid and losing it. As my lungs were threatening to explode, I tried to reach a few more tenacious shells. My heart was now screaming in my ears. Flexing my feet hard, thirsty for air, I powered towards the surface and smashed my head on the hull. While rubbing my head and cursing, Noel popped up beside me and we took a companionable breather, deciding on what was left to do. The bright sun made us squint, our chests heaved with effort. Clinging together on to the boarding ladder with the water lapping around our pink shoulders, one of my cotton balls fell from my ear and floated off, bobbing in the ripples. I stared at the white, saturated blob and giggled furiously. I could not stop.
‘Out you get,’ said Noel, ‘You’ve had enough.’
Scraping the hull brings new meaning to having crabs. Climbing out of the cool water, we were covered in tiny, skittering critters; they made for the belly button and inside our swimwear. They did not hurt, but the thought …eughh. We swiped them off while trying not to scream and dance around like two-year-olds seeing their first boogieman.
Within our watery world on the sea’s horizon, we did not see many sailboats but they were out there doing the same thing that we were. At a rough guess, a couple of hundred boats must follow the seasons each year. Some people sail alone, what we call single-handers. Most are couples like us, but there are some families with one or several kids growing up on the water. The nicest kids we met on our travels were boat kids. My lack of maternal skills was never tested too hard around boat kids. My normal attitude to ankle-biters was that of taking pain killers – take two and keep away from children. With boat kids, the lack of materialistic luggage and ability to take on serious responsibilities seemed to create common sense, a lust for learning, and just damn nice kids. It’s an ideal place to learn. My own geographical knowledge had vastly improved. Experiencing new cultures and meeting different races had to be a good education. Sailing into diverse countries together meant you knew exactly where they were located.
As we munched through the miles, the HF radio was really starting to earn its keep. It’s a long-range radio and while in port with other cruisers, we would choose a frequency and time to speak whilst traversing the seas (ensuring we were on the same time zone). We soon latched on to these organised Scheds or Nets, which ran through a programme typically like:
‘Good morning, this is the Indian Ocean Net, this is Jackie and Noel on board sailing vessel Mariah II on (date).’
‘Firstly, are there any emergencies or priority calls?’
Thirty seconds of silence – hopefully.
‘Nothing heard, does anyone have weather details they can share with the Net?’ With any luck, someone would know something, if not we would try to translate our Weatherfax.
‘Now, I’ll run through boat call.’ We had a list of boats that had already joined the net.
‘Frodo, Frodo, this is Mariah II, please come now with your report.’ Frodo, and all yachts in turn, list their position, wind strength and speed, course, boat speed, barometer, weather for their location, and if all was well on board.
The Net controller runs through the entire list.
‘Are there any other boats who would like to join the Net?’
‘Any news for the Net?’ This could be funny, informative, anything!
‘I’ll close the Net now and open up this frequency for boat-to-boat traffic.’ Boats could then call buddies on other boats and pick another channel to go chat on.
These Nets served several purposes; most importantly, if someone went missing the Net Controller had their last known position. If there were problems, there maybe someone nearby to assist.
There were other positives to having a good radio and joining a Net. With a time set to chat to others, it broke up the day and gave us someone else to talk with other than each other. We heard stories of a sea-eagle catching fish, taking its kill to a particular boat and ripping its catch to shreds on the deck, the crew on board were all vegetarians. Vivid yarns of the head (toilet) breaking loose whilst in use were a welcomed, short reprieve from endless blue sky, blue water, and the odd cloud or bird scudding past. Best of all, when we arrived in a port, we had already spoken to some of the cruisers that had already anchored there. It was like opening a jar of coffee – instant friends.
Our first experience of the Net had a huge influence on our journey and thus created remarkable memories. We were en route to Batam (Indonesia, near Singapore) from Bali. After the official Net, we listened in to other cruisers chatting. This was a great way to glean useful information. We heard others talking about the fantastic time they were having in Borneo. Questions were asked, details absorbed, charts checked; we were now bound for Borneo.
Two days later, blessed with an easy trip of peaceful waters and a glorious full moon, we arrived into a huge bay some thirty miles away from the mouth of the river that housed Kumai, our destination. We anchored for the night in order to leave early the next day for the trip up the river. There was no wind and as the sun was quenched, we both turned in.
Sleeping in calm waters sometimes felt like we were sleeping on land. The salty air and fresh breezes were a good bet for a deep sleep. Well rested, just before the sun broke over the horizon, we hauled anchor. The bay was as smooth as glass, not a breath of wind ruffled the surface. The tangy smell of the salt laden breeze was diluted by the fresh river water and moist foliage. Relying on our faithful Yanmar engine, by lunchtime we arrived at the mouth of the Kumai River. Usually we would have charts or Pilot books, but due to our unplanned diversion, we were ill equipped (or so we thought). Using our VHF radio (short range), we tried to call up another boat already anchored near the town of Kumai. Cindy and Faith, two American cruisers on board Carmen Miranda answered our call and relayed all the information we needed to wind our way up the river to the anchorage. Moving through the water dragging a one-and-a-half metre keel below us and running aground is severely dull and can be dangerous to crew and boat alike, so knowledge is imperative. The Kumai River was like puttering through beef soup.
‘Does anything live in here?’ I wondered aloud. The rainforest on our starboard was a stunning lush green; on our port was sand, palm trees, and grass huts. ‘Blimey we’re sailing into Borneo!’
Noel laughed at my British accent coming to the fore through my wonder.
Navigating up a river is quite different to traversing an ocean. To start, there are more things to hit. The traffic was thick with many small boats towing what seemed like mile-long lengths of naked trees that were barely visible above the water. There were leads (two markers at different heights; once aligned you are on the right course) to help. We both had to be alert to check our position and depth; we worked like a well-lubricated team and safely worked our way up the snaking, dirty river. Reaching the other boats that were already comfortably anchored, we slowed down to search for a space. Theoretically, on anchor, all boats should swing the same way, but you still have to leave enough room for different shaped boats that might react slightly different in a breeze or tidal stream. We agreed on a spot, and Noel deftly turned Mariah as I stepped up to the bow to organise the anchor ready for deploying.
As we did this, a catamaran came racing up from behind, turned in front of Mariah’s bow, and dropped his anchor in the spot we had chosen. Now, there is a certain anchoring-etiquette. Clearly, common courtesy dictates that we were there first, however, the space wasn’t that great, so we just shrugged our shoulders and puttered on down to the next available space. Later, as we relaxed, swinging on anchor amongst twelve or so other boats, we revelled in our self-satisfaction of anchoring properly and enjoyed watching the catamaran having to re-anchor – he was too close to other boats.
I had become the expert anchor person. Handling the heavy loads and forces of the equipment is a skill. Arranging the equipment for a smooth anchor became my forte.
As our minds relaxed, we tried to absorb the fascinating scenery and sounds of small thatched huts, jungle and concealed screeching from within. As we unwound, we remembered that we did in fact have Pilot details for the river stored on a floppy disk! We chinked our glasses and with big grins said, ‘Cheers.’
This was typical of us. It wasn’t that we were a bit forgetful, though we were, but we found humour in our foibles. Noel had shown me how to enjoy laughing at myself. Not having to perform expertly all the time, or wonder if I was viewed as stupid when I did something a bit daft was a blessed relief. It felt like a lead weight had been lifted. I felt lucky to have found someone so lacking in judgmental traits and seemed to love me more as I let myself just be me. At school I had been shy. I had thought that I was not very smart and this shredded any confidence I may have had. Given the freedom to be me, completely, revealed my clever side.
8
Playing with orangutans
There was so much to see at Kumai, such as Tanjung Puting, an orangutan rehabilitation centre. Dr Birute Galdikas had, for twenty years, been reintroducing orangutans to their natural habitat and rescuing them from captivity. The animals were taught how to live wild within the forest of Borneo. The Tanjung Puting National Park was one of the few protected tropical jungles. It was unique in its diversity of ecological zones: wetlands, lowlands, swamp forest, hardwood rain forest, and mature tropical heath. The park had been the site of the longest running studies of orangutan behaviour. The animals that were at the rehabilitation centre were confiscated pets destined for the lucrative black market. We were told that nowhere else on earth could we see so many orangutans in their natural habitat.
The humidity in Borneo was exhausting, but after a good night’s sleep, we ventured ashore. True to form, we left half of the relevant paperwork we needed to check-in back on the boat (passports, boat papers, crew lists). Although we were still in Indonesia, we had to check in and check out with the officials at each port. The pain could be taken out of the rigmarole if you hired an agent, but this was expensive. You could complete all the paperwork yourself by visiting all the authorities one-by-one. In this part of the world, in order to “smooth” the pathway-of-paperwork, the officials regularly asked for bribes. It was cheaper to deal with the bribes ourselves than to hire an agent.
Taking our first steps on Kalimantan, we were assailed with the usual sounds and smells of a developing country. The faint odour of sewage, dust, and spices mixed with the noise of umpteen motorbikes and mopeds, ridden with a serious absence of road rules.
The small town of Kumai was delightfully lacking in the normal tourist trade. The locals were exceedingly friendly, and foreigners were the centre of attention. Feeling a bit like Hollywood stars, by the time we reached the end of the dusty street our faces ached with smiles and greetings. The grubby, barefoot kids flashed white smiles at us and continuously shouted ‘Hallooo Meeeeses; Hallooo Meeester.’ There was no hassling from the street peddlers selling their fake trade and invading our space. In fact, despite the obvious lack of money, Kumai was rather pleasant. It seemed that the town had found its own structure. It was littered with small retail shops, a few tailors, a market, and other such small
establishments, where the locals generated their own income. The majority of Kumai was residential. The houses were mainly large sheds that were basic, unpainted, a bit dull and sad, but coloured by the remarkably bright, happy smiling locals. Instantly, we could sense that the locals were content with their lot in life.
The Indonesians were generally small in build, which made us feel cumbersome and clumsy. Many of the girls tried all sorts of tinctures and lotions to lighten their attractive dark skin. They all sported inordinately shiny, black hair. The women were slim and even though they were small, they mostly had model figures. We didn’t see many of the familiar pear-shapes prevalent in the first world. It’s here I found out a secret to the perfect bust: enormously padded bra’s (which are as attractive as two buckets and bailing twine). These industrial sized items were rife in South East Asia, but obesity here was not a problem; Asians eat rice like the Brits drink tea.
The town felt comfortable, like wearing your favourite jumper. Kumai’s main street had about four interconnecting side streets. Wandering around trying to find the officials’ office, we spotted what looked like an alfresco restaurant, with dancing and singing, all amid a brimming rainbow of colour. We should have been checking in, but we were ashore now and wanted some lunch. We meandered past, trying to covertly spy on the party.
Wafting from the stage, there was funky Arabian music played by a ragamuffin band sitting cross-legged, with homemade drums, violins, and guitars. On the other side of the stage were young men dressed in strangely plain, but beautiful, long Dish-Dashers (tunics), dancing and singing. Around the tables were the usual family members that gathered for a wedding. We were invited in. Well, not so much invited, but physically dragged in. I had worn a long sarong and a shirt with long sleeves in respect for the officials we would meet when checking in (some Indonesians are not used to seeing women’s bare legs and arms). Other cruisers passed by and were not invited in, because they were wearing shorts – Indonesians can find this offensive. At first, we were reluctant and I felt shy. We had been reading about the way of Indonesians, their culture and do’s and don’ts. I was terrified of making a huge faux pas. Taking a proffered plate, we were manhandled around the buffet, Mum and Dad ensuring that we sampled everything. It’s actually rude to turn down an invitation, or pretty much anything offered by an Indonesian, so we just went with the flow.