by Jackie Parry
By this time, we were fully acquainted with the area. To get into town, we needed a car. It was incredible to have a Tesco’s to shop in and hot showers to stand under for as long as I wanted. I used to take these things for granted. Now they were a real treat. Materialistic things are something I no longer craved; happiness, freedom, and the odd hot shower (and supermarket) was all I wanted.
The marina office arranged our car hire, laundry, and taxi. There were three restaurants: Yacht Club, Anchorage and Omar’s. A ten-minute stroll from the office led to the smart, clean Yacht Club with reasonable food and drink and showers. Next door was The Anchorage, a restaurant with calming ambiance and thatched hut roofs that teetered over the tables directly on the golden sand, a perfect view looking over the water. The Anchorage was slightly more relaxed and of better value than the Yacht Club. Omar’s was next door to The Anchorage and was our favourite. The ‘restaurant’ was a hut perched on a small jetty. The jetty floor boards had had a serious falling out with each other, so you could view the water beneath; household junk and weird and wonderful bits and pieces clung to the walls, acting as decor. They served meals with chilli, the type of stuff you could use to force confessions. But, Omar’s was the place to relax, you helped yourself to the fridge and opened your own bottles. The food was delicious, hot, and ridiculously cheap. So much so that we were nearly always querying the bill, as it seemed we were undercharged. However, with the language barrier between us, it often led to Omar believing we thought we were charged too much. Understandably so, because who in their right mind complains about a cheap meal? A dinner for four, including a couple of beers each cost around 300 baht, which was about three Australian dollars each! By the time we had gone shopping, paid for the food, and used our gas to cook it, it was probably cheaper to eat out. And so we did.
On the 21st, Mum and Dad arrived at the airport around 7 pm. They looked more than happy to be back on land after the plane ride. They were pale, but well. Mum was her usual emotional self, which of course, set me off. Noel and I had hired a rickety old car and we packed in the parents and luggage for the ten-minute drive back to the marina. My folks were seeing Mariah for the first time in the dark, they coped with the alien environment admirably.
We spent four good weeks with Mum and Dad, cramped within Mariah’s thirty-three feet, but everyone coped pretty well. With little space and hot sweaty weather, it made for a couple of sharp words, the main culprit being me. I have never been a patient person; fortunately Mum, Dad and Noel were quite accustomed to this and were forgiving. Mum and Dad spent a fair bit of time travelling Phuket Island in a hire car; at times when Noel and I had to work on the boat, my parents saw more of Thailand than we did. Everything had to be just right for our voyage on the Indian Ocean to Sri Lanka, because once we were on our way, we only had what we had.
At times, we roped Mum and Dad in to help, too. Mum and I hauled out our rusty anchor chain onto the jetty to unwind it, as swinging on anchor can cause the links to twist up. Noel and Dad took off in the car to source spare parts. My folks enjoyed this, as it gave them an insight to our lives. If the cruising world still felt new to me, it was a completely unknown lifestyle for Mum and Dad. They thought we were always on our own, when in reality we always had many friends around us, which helped set their minds at rest.
Amid the raucous fun, Christmas flew by. My birthday (the big thirty!) on Boxing Day was, presumably, going to be a quiet affair after a big day on the 25th. But in the true spirit of fun and an excuse to celebrate, a huge table of friends and family, lots of presents, good food, and music came together for one of my best birthdays ever.
Quirky creativity is synonymous with cruisers. I received all sorts of wonderful (and unexpected) gifts for my birthday. My favourite? A jar of salad cream. Away from regular supermarkets, finding treats we usually took for granted was sometimes impossible. A good brand of a favourite item made a wonderful present.
New Year’s Eve was a great deal of fun with a jetty party – all the cruisers tried to save money by avoiding the bar, having dinner before the party, and bringing along our own alcohol. Fancy dress was the order of the evening, with Hollywood as the theme. Noel went as Hannibal the Cannibal, only because he had a bike mask that looked identical to the one in the film; the rest was easy with his shirt sleeves stuffed and sewn around his back like a straight jacket. On reflection it wasn’t such a good idea, as he couldn’t pick up his drink or get to his mouth even if he could find a way to raise the alcohol to his lips. I was Suzi Quatro: leather pants, tie, dark eyebrows complete with a guitar. Mum and Dad were definitely the best. For one night only we had Dame Edna Everage and her altered ego Les Patterson together. Mum and I made some wild additions to a pair of glasses frames. We put bright orange and yellow bows on a black skirt and made a boa from tinsel, a perfect Dame Edna. Dad had yellow plastic teeth (made by Mum, who insisted on umpteen fittings whilst Dad and I were in the dinghy painting part of Mariah), a cushion up his jumper, brown sauce on a yellow tie, and greasy hair. None of us could look at him without becoming hysterical. It was bedlam on board. Four of us in a thirty-three foot yacht, trying to do make-up, hair, clothes, and each of us vying for a glimpse of ourselves in our one and only six-inch-by-four-inch mirror.
The fun theme carried through to the last week of my parents’ visit. We freed Mariah from her lines and put the Yanmar to good use. There was no wind, which was fine, as this meant no waves. Stunning scenery fit for a movie set, glided by. Anchoring near James Bond Island and caves, one by one we clambered into our tiny timber dinghy. A worried silence descended upon the little boat and its four occupants. With barely enough room to take a deep breath, Noel started the dinghy and with great precision steered us to the small beach near the caves. As our feet touched the sand, the chatter commenced while we swam and explored hidden parts of the caves, with not another soul to share it with. Our little dinghy was really made for two. With four on board it had sunk within inches of completely submerging; a slight tip and we all would have been swimming! Fortunately, the water was as still and smooth as ice. As we prepared to return to Mariah, Noel said, ‘I’ll take one at a time,’ which was met with much agreement and relief.
I had managed to spend some quality time with Mum and Dad separately and together. We found chatting easy and even restful, but it was my conversation with my mum that made me chuckle and Noel feel guilty.
‘Are these your knickers, or are they rags?’ Mum frowned.
‘Erm, well, I haven’t had time…’
Mum held up a rather threadbare pair of knickers, while we were sorting the laundry, and said, ‘Right, we’re going shopping.’ Later on she cornered Noel. ‘I’m not having my daughter go around the world with underwear like that, I’m taking her out to buy some more!’
Poor Noel tried to explain that he always encouraged me to spend money on myself. I just found too many other, important and fun things to do. I was quite adept at putting myself last, the boat was the most important item to keep up-to-date. From that point on, whenever my mum visited, or we went to the UK, Noel always asked, ‘Do you need new knickers?’
The time flew by, and soon we were back at the airport saying goodbye. Fortunately, the farewell was quick as we were late. (Long story about shopping and mixed up times). So, it was fairly painless, with no time for tears.
After spending 10,000 baht (about 420 Australian dollars) on supplies we were ready for the next leg.
12
Lightning storm at the Nicobars
Weather is fundamental to sailors. We used Weatherfax. Through our SSB (HF) radio (long range) at certain times of the day and night, we could dial up a frequency, link the laptop to the radio, and receive synoptic charts. Simple software that we downloaded from the Internet decoded the signal. Receiving free twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six, forty-eight and seventy-two hour weather reports, while on board and, in the middle of the ocean was simply marvellous. There were stations all over the world that transmitte
d these weather reports regularly, covering every inch of ocean.
Receiving Weatherfaxes was a daily task and was usually in direct association with my internal weather system. When we were tossed and buffeted, I felt beaten. As the weather improved, I shifted from thoughts of selling the boat to designing a new vegetable rack. Viewing the complete picture on synoptic charts, we were sometimes anxious, but always ready.
En route to Sri Lanka, we passed through The Nicobars. The Nicobars were a collection of reefs and islands approximately one day’s sail out of Thailand. Regular navigation was imperative at these times. Underwater islands agitated the waters, odd currents swirled and larger waves could be found traversing these peculiarities of the sea. The underwater terrain made barriers for the ocean to churn around and flow over. In the middle of this area, a lightning storm scratched the sky, bringing sheets of rain as thick as ice.
At midnight, my shift was coming to an end, just as the rain and lightning gathered full momentum. The pleasure of peeling off my wet weather gear and snuggling below in our warm, cosy, dry boat was short-lived. Just before I slipped into a warm-body-heated bunk, I looked out at Noel, double-checking that he was clipped on to the lifelines. We always wore our lifejackets and harness when in the cockpit or on deck. At that moment, the lightning cracked with an ear-splitting crescendo and the rain stepped up its onslaught. Noel sat in the cockpit, cloaked in full wet weather gear, arms folded, head down, plainly miserable. CRACK, another shot of lightning almost hit us.
‘Do you want me to stay up for a while?’
‘That’d be nice,’ Noel replied gratefully. Although I was desperate to sleep and hide from the storm’s onslaught, I knew I wouldn’t want to be left alone in these conditions.
We sat up together all night under the deluge of rain, huddling in a corner of the open cockpit with wet weather gear and Wellingtons our only protection. Thankfully, the wind did not kick up too much, but the walls of rain made a lookout pointless. Hanging tightly together, the lightning consistently cracked and crashed around Mariah, toying with us. The boat’s outline was seared onto our retinas beneath our closed eyelids. We witnessed the fingers of electricity strike the water an arm’s length away from where we sat.
A lightning strike would be devastating. We could navigate with our sextant, but that was not easy. We liked our GPS; it made life simple. During the storm, our radios and GPSs had been disconnected and placed in the oven – our temporary Faraday’s cage. Our electronic steering gear was in use. We’d just have to hope the lightning didn’t find our mast. We felt like sitting ducks, teasing Mother Nature by waving a tantalising finger, our mast, in the air.
In our little huddle of fear, we thought, well, we’re either going to wake up or we’re not! After a long night, as we peeled open our soggy eyes and tried to un-glue our bodies that had clung tightly together, we awoke to what felt like a movie set. Blue skies stretched into infinity, birds soared swiftly across the bow and the sea sparkled diamonds under the sun. Wrung-out with lack of sleep and hours of tense fear, we still managed to grin; we had survived!
It was necessary to reduce sail and slow down as we approached Sri Lanka. The winds had lifted their game and a favourable current had opted to give us a hand. That’s a real oddity about sailing: you can go too fast or too slow. Some harbours and ports need to be entered during the day. It is not always safe to enter in the dark, navigation lights and aids are often not kept up to date, or present at all! This mean, at times, that we had to try to speed up or slow down to ensure we reached the port in daylight.
Another peculiarity is that you can slow down in good winds and favourable currents, only to find that the current and winds turn against you and suddenly you need to speed up. In our case, after slowing down the wind had then died, so we had to run the motor. Two days out of Sri Lanka, our fuel was low. We were probably going to be okay, but didn’t want to take any risks; fortunately for us, we had caught up with our friends on Breakaway as they had been happy to travel around two knots and sail most of the way. Therefore, they had ample fuel. In the middle of the Indian Ocean we did a fuel/beer exchange. We manoeuvred Mariah alongside Breakaway, keeping about twenty feet apart to allow for the boats’ movements. Jamie threw over a rope, attached were two drums of fuel and some yummy homemade scones. We hauled in the line and attached half a dozen beers in a bag for them. Visiting islands meant trading at times; this was our first mid-ocean trade, though. Typically, after we took on this fuel, we sailed the rest of the way and were able to give them back their entire fuel supply in port!
The last few nights in to Sri Lanka were dark, the moon working her way up from a slither. I preferred full moon nights, but the dark nights held their own magic. The sequin-sewn carpet of black was breathtaking. Endless shooting stars helped me offload some of my wishes. Sighting satellites was easy. They’re like slow moving stars, a remarkable feat of human ingenuity that astounded me every time I thought about it.
During most trips, dolphins became part of our journey. At night, nearing Sri Lanka, we couldn’t see the dolphins themselves, but their outline in the green phosphorescence that ran off their backs and around their sides. So dark was the night and so bright the phosphorescence, that the dolphins appeared as shooting comets as they slipped through Mariah’s wake. The green, breathing torpedoes accompanied us for some time, relieving the monotony of the dark, lonely night.
While sailing, we usually slept in the single bunks in the saloon. This is the centre of the boat and therefore a bit more stable than either end. In feisty weather, single bunks are better. A lee-cloth is used, which creates a cot, so you can’t fall out. When it’s really calm we can sleep in the v-berth, which is a double bed at the forepeak.
I was about to climb into the v-berth for a snooze when my nose curled at a really strong fish smell. Flying fish have wings, which give them flight to escape a predator. With the v-berth hatch open, a flying fish had flown into our bed and died. Fortunately, it was still fresh and I was tired, so I just threw it out the hatch and plopped into bed. I briefly wondered how many people thought nothing of finding a dead fish in their bed.
Flying fish are incredible creatures. In the dead of night, all of a sudden you’d hear a thump, a brief pause then a rapid flap-flap-flap. Quite often the fishy smell would then assault your nostrils. I tried to find the source of the flap as soon as possible. I couldn’t bear the thought of a little fish fighting for breath. Noel would catch them, cook them, and eat them.
The strong olfactory confirmation that a flying fish had landed on the deck was in the good company of many other smells: the tangy brew of percolating coffee and the salty damp. Onions sizzling in the pan became a near daily event on board, meal creativity started here. Sun-dried canvas evoked memories of summer holidays in our youth; the damp cotton cockpit cushions, penetrated by salt, never quite dried. The contrasting whiff of exhaust encouraged sea-sickness, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread inspired hunger.
While travelling, we trolled a fishing line. This had been one hundred percent unsuccessful so far on the voyage, but apparently as we approached the Red Sea fishing became better. The countries there are so busy fighting each other they had no time for fishing.
We heard it was expensive to stop here, but we would never be sailing by again, plus we needed fuel. The northeast trade winds were supposed to be clipping us along by now, but there was no sign of them.
At 7:45 am we were sailing into Sri Lanka. It was cloudy and drizzling, just like good old English weather. The dawn was beginning to break and the peacefulness was calming. I sat on the bow of the boat, watching the land grow bigger. I could smell grass, one of my favourite smells. Land has a distinctly sweet and welcoming smell; Sri Lanka’s scent was strong, replacing the salt that had tickled our noses for the last nine days. I knew I was going to like it here. This was our first successful long ocean passage, and we were ecstatic.
At last, we were anchored safely in Gaulle harbour. Combating th
e heat and weariness after a journey, we organised all of the relevant paperwork to check in. This took a whole day. The police, marine police, customs, immigration, and health were all armed and all unsmiling. The boat was searched, although not too thoroughly, but it irritated me when they checked through personal letters, as if I’d hide a person in them. As usual, there was a fee for checking in plus taxes for this and that, which ran into hundreds of American dollars.
At this time, the Tamil Tigers were causing grief on the northern part of the island, which we were not permitted to visit. Due to the problems, every two hours throughout the night, bombs were let off in the anchorage. This was to prevent underwater attacks. We couldn’t help but jump when some sounded far too close for comfort. We did manage to sleep though; curled up in our v-berth with the satisfaction of arriving safely into a new port.
At times, it was hard to comprehend that we had sailed into another country. The absurdity of our popping in to different countries on a regular basis and meeting people from all over the world was condensed in this extract of a letter by Noel, to his brother Colin, in Australia:
I’m sitting on a Kiwi built yacht, Mariah II, with a Pommie wife, next door to our new friends (we met in Borneo) who are Irish, in a harbour of Sri-Lankans. Jack’s playing a learn-to-speak-French tape while doing the dishes and repeating all these avoirs and merci’s etc. I tell you it’s enough to make me feel a little strange and disorientated. But most of the time I’m maintaining a balance of these absurdities, and with the help of the GPS I know where I am at, even if I can’t remember how I got here.