Of Foreign Build

by Jackie Parry

  Eventually, the promised wind-change came, and we took off sailing pleasantly at over six knots. Thirty-three hours later, we made it to Falmouth, with not one problem and a fat-cheeked moon to light our way. Falmouth is the second largest natural harbour in the world after Sydney. The beauty of the English countryside and the rolling patchwork fields encompassing the harbour was breathtaking

  We could anchor here. Once Mariah was settled we went to town to sample the local brew. We felt intoxicated with boat stupor. The bar was swaying with us and only another pint seemed to help.

  After a rest, we provisioned for the next leg, destination Portugal; that meant crossing the notorious Bay of Biscay.

  But there, in Falmouth, we sat. It was nice, but winter was coming, and there was all that wine in little Spanish taverns just waiting for little ol’ us. We had conveniently forgotten the pain-in-the-arse factor of waiting for good weather. Fortunately, we hadn’t forgotten the pain-in-the-arse factor of sailing in bad weather. So we sat, figuring the electoral roll would have our names soon. Mushrooms started to sprout from behind our ears, and our speech was starting to drawl: ‘do yew liik or parschty then, Cornish parschty yew canna beat it mind’ and ‘Parschty und a pint, sets yew oop fa life it doz’.

  Yes, we sat for a while.

  I had two choices:

  (1) Apply safety in numbers theory (wake up Noel) and

  (2) Make like an ostrich.

  Crack, lightning split the night with fierce ferocity. The Bay of Biscay was living up to its tempestuous name.

  ‘Wake up,’ I called to Noel. Hearing reassuring mutters calmed me down. Company is comforting when on watch.

  Eventually, all was still and the lightning had moved off into the distance. In contrast to the angry weather, dolphins gracefully torpedoed alongside, a joyful sight that always generates a broad smile.

  Amid gentle breezes and clear skies, we arrived intact at Rias de Muros, España (just north of Portugal). We anchored in the bay of this small, untouched town. With little tourist trade, the locals did not speak any English. We dinghied ashore, aware that we would finally be able to improve our non-existent Spanish.

  Nearby shops made life easy to stock up. By using a series of signs we created, we communicated in a comical, clumsy way. The local butcher sold an array of meats. Unfortunately, Spanish for lamb did not exist in our vocabulary. Noel, the last person on Earth to be embarrassed, put his two index fingers on the top of his head, in the place of horns, pawed the ground and tried to make sheep noise. We didn’t want goat and the difference between goat and sheep evaded Noel’s hysterical miming. I think we ended up with beef that night, but to this day, I bet those giggling girls in the butcher’s shop remember, ‘That crazy Australian guy.’

  In the bay, other cruisers were enjoying the peaceful anchorage and with local beer that was cheaper than water, we thought we would stop for some time.

  Four days earlier, with heavy hearts, we had watched England recede. A sad farewell to friends, family and a beautiful, historic country; it was time to look forward, not back. We skipped down the Spanish coast, enjoying the small villages that were delightfully void of swarming tourists.

  In September, we arrived at the river entrance to Lisbon. We survived a week in the capital where we obtained our USA visas.

  There was thirty knots blowing outside as we sheltered behind the suburb of Caiscais, just a few kilometres from the heart of Lisbon. It was in Caiscais we experienced what it would be like to be a rubber band.

  The wind created inevitably large waves on the windward coast. This, we happily reasoned, was fine. We were snug and rather smug on the lee of the headland. To quote from Abdul the poor quality carpet salesman, ‘Nature, like my carpets, does not a vacuum like.’ Nor does she like smarty-pant yachties lying comfortably in their bunks. Put the two axioms together and the result thus created? A two-metre swell rounded the Cape, entered the bay, and rolled with great stealth and accuracy, seeking out its prey. Contact! A perfect hit, right smack up the backside of the peaceful, if somewhat apprehensive, yachting fraternity. All things nautical were propelled fifty metres forward. The lonely swell, having completed its task, continued on its merry way. Leaving the vessels side-on to the ever present thirty knots of wind. Momentarily, the crew below thought that this okay, as there was relief from the constant grinding noise from their over taxed ground tackle… until windy and thirty of his mates decided to shove all the boats back where they belong. This was all very well, and things proceeded along without complaint or hindrance from any of the principals involved.

  ‘It all seems so jolly peaceful,’ one crew member was heard to say. Peace reigned supreme – for about twenty seconds. Then there was emitted a lot of horrible stretching noises, timbers complaining, and a general feeling of mal de mer prevailed due to stomachs protesting their being lurched violently from their bunks. What followed was the symphony of snapping ropes, bending steel, and fraying tempers. After five hours of this cycle repeating itself every sixty seconds, we eventually saw the sense in weighing anchor during the dark and wee hours and seeking out the relative solace of the open sea. Sines was our next town, where peace reigned once again.

  In Portugal, I became an auntie again. Samantha Louise Lawrence arrived on 1 September. I was overjoyed, but a little sad. I ached to hold my new niece. Back on board, every blessed moving part seemed to have worn out while Mariah lay neglected at Shenley. Our motor for the dinghy would not start. Our anchor winch had retired. The camera had seized up. Noel had scraped his last vegemite and peanut butter jars and was becoming mutinous. (Portugal is void of these gastronomical delights.) Above all, I had my second grey hair.

  Portugal’s history, based on the cross, had become my crossroad. I was at a crux, pulled in every direction. I longed for the old world in England, to celebrate another generation, but I liked the new world and its excitement of voyaging to the Americas. Do we cross the Atlantic? Do we head home? We could see loved ones, make repairs, earn funds, and buy vegemite. Making decisions could be the hardest part.

  Incidentally, we liked Portugal. We explored old Porto, an optical feast famous for producing port. Its narrow streets hug a wide shimmering river that is Porto’s centre. Crammed with smug apartments and toppling slums, scrawny beggars wailed while blinkered, suited office workers clip clopped by. Cool stone arches crossed old cobbled streets. Drugs were openly available near respectable shops. Inside Franciscan chapels, wood-carved statues of beheaded martyrs and arrow pierced torsos of bloodied saints were on gruesome display. Visible bones laid in the catacombs, hence our excuse to inspect the winery and their cool, oak vat storage cellars. We were doing some serious thinking and hoping someone would find some vegemite, hankies, and hair-dye and send them our way.

  Do you remember the game show It’s a Knockout? We were the latest contestants.

  Game 1: locate supermarket with askew map.

  Game 2: guess which employee is truthful, ‘Yes, we close soon’, ‘No, we stay open.’

  Game 3: do not vomit when passing the butcher’s counter, which displayed skinned goat’s head complete with teeth, tongue, and bulging eyes.

  Game 4: traverse beach, taking on hideous gait to prevent burning feet, splitting bags, and sinking.

  Game 5: keep the shopping dry during dinghy crossing (impossible).

  Game 6: perform miracles by finding space for supplies on an already bulging boat.

  In the spirit of jocular games, we were great entertainment for the locals. Dressed for the evening, rowing ashore in a tatty little wooden boat, we managed to cock-up our beach landing with momentous brilliance. Simultaneously, we jumped out and the dinghy pinged up and away from us. I sat in the salty, sea. Noel lay down and chatted with the crabs two feet under. Through our tears of laugher, we noticed the beach dwellers were bent double watching us. Without further ado we wrung ourselves out and dripped our way to the bar.

  Sines, Portugal is fifty nautical miles south of Lisbon an
d became our hometown for a few weeks while a gale blew. We had made repairs and were fully provisioned. We now felt ready to venture onward.

  Scientifically choosing our next destination (eeny meeny miny moe), we headed for Morocco. From the corner of the Algarve (a place we didn’t wish to visit), at midnight we fired up our laptop, tuned into a weather frequency, and waited. A few minutes after midnight, a clear weather report came through on our screen. We fancied visiting Madeira, but the weather showed gale force winds over there. So, what about the Canaries? Well, winds were strong there, too. The only place that looked safe was south east of us. We studied our charts: ‘Casablanca it is,’ announced Noel.

  Safely in Casablanca, we soon learned that traversing the dilapidated jetty took SAS training. Thereafter, the four-kilometre walk through the lonesome industrial port felt ideal for an ambush.

  In town, vivid Bougainvillea tangled its way through the evil barbed wire. Mercedes and the Hilton mixed with hawkers of fake goods, peanut vendors, load bearers, beggars, dust, and chrome; it all created a nose-curling hum.

  Conversely, genial natives emerged in the vibrant nightlife, making the journey worthwhile. The harbour was incredibly sheltered, although anchoring between the shipwrecks was a little hard. Our end of the mighty port felt like the Mary Celeste. But we soon found a little man, in an even littler hut ready to ‘watch over’ our boat. He organised diesel and water for us, and for a few dollars a day enabled us to venture into town without coming home to a robbed boat.

  Traipsing through the port, the interior became more heavily guarded, and soon we were asked who we were and what on earth we were doing.

  Checking in was easy, officials in town stamped our passports and weren’t interested in seeing the boat or performing any further checks. Wandering through the port like lost souls did us a favour, as the guards would stop a worker in his or her car and demand they take us into town. We found this highly embarrassing, although useful – it was a long trek. The people in the car, it seemed, were told not to take money. Indeed, none of them would take our offers. They were unhappy to be inconvenienced, but did as they were told by the guards and took us into town. The return journey was easier, as the taxis were allowed in to take us right back to the boat.

  The next port south was Agadir, and it was incredibly touristy. We preferred exploring the locals’ domain and made our way to the markets. The Souk was a heaving sea of bodies flowing amidst the alluring and dangerous shores of the stallholders. Never had we seen such a collective frenzy. We bargained for camel skin gifts; it was a hard business. Vendors thrust leather goods, carved wood, exotic spices, and mysterious vegetables in our faces, while the throng drove us on. Our senses were relentlessly yanked and stirred. It was an experience all at once bewildering, intimidating, and exhilarating.

  Sucked dry of dirhams and battle weary, we plucked the traders off our sleeves and retreated. Hailing a cab, we cried, ‘McDonalds.’ Calming down, instead we made for the Kasbah (old fort). It was sparse, but the view was breathtaking. It gave us time and space to recover and enjoy the twinkling sequins of the city lights.

  Completing the trip, our friendly cab driver tried to fiddle the fare. We’d learned long ago to negotiate and agree to the fare prior to stepping in a taxi. It was with enormous relief we arrived back at Mariah, our home and sanctuary. However, she now smelt of pungent baked camel skin. Apparently the smell grows on you, but then so do spots.

  Eventually, we arrived in Puerto Naos in the Canary Islands. Safe harbours, good anchorages, and easy access to shore were our priorities. We had been lonely, because we’d been off the usual sailing routes. The cruisers we did meet were all going into the Mediterranean.

  Friends were made quickly and lost even quicker. But once we arrived in the Canary Islands, we were back with the bulk of world’s wanderers. One of the first friends we made was a Dutch couple, Dennis and Natasha, on the yacht Frodo. It was now February 2004.

  The Dutch are incredibly resourceful, and Den and ‘Tash were true professionals of their race. But, it took us a little while to figure out where they were from. As we anchored next to them, Den was on deck and gave us a friendly wave. We had just been sailing, which meant we craved beer, wine, food and rest.

  ‘Fancy a beer later?’ Noel shouted over to Den. He gave a big thumbs up sign and an even bigger grin.

  That’s the great thing about sailing: imagine pulling into a supermarket car park and calling over to a stranger, who is sitting in their car, and inviting them over for a drink; you’d be locked up, viewed as a lunatic. On a boat, however, this was considered perfectly normal.

  Not long after, Den and ‘Tash came puttering over.

  ‘Welcome aboard,’ we said in unison, ‘come on down and have a beer. They’re not cold though. We don’t have a fridge.’ Den just grinned a massive toothy grin and ‘Tash politely said thanks, she’d have a drop of wine.

  As I organised some biccies and dip in our galley, I looked at them both. With her blonde hair and fair skin, ‘Tash was obviously Dutch. However, Den had blond streaks, a deep tan, and an Australian accent.

  ‘So’, I said pointing at Tash, ‘You are obviously Dutch’ (the Dutch flag flapping on Frodo helped), ‘but where are you from? You sound Aussie,’ I said to Den’s enormous grin.

  They explained that they had done much land travel, and most of the time they spent working, living, and exploring Australia. This was where they had learned English, hence the accent.

  Quickly, we fell into a deep and rewarding friendship, and they would become an integral part of our lives for many years.

  I had always wanted to be taught how to make bread. ‘It’s easy,’ said ‘Tash one day, shrugging her shoulders (it turned out that to ‘Tash everything was easy!). ‘I’ll show you,’ she said.

  The following day, they puttered over, ‘Tash armed with bread making gear, Den armed with a spear gun. It’s here Noel is going to tell you of his adventures that day:

  Dennis is a professional fisherman and is generally good at all things aquatic and can swim like a dolphin. All of which makes him somewhat of a burden, when we are not sitting in the cockpit having a beer and being sensible.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said, one morning. ‘Let’s go spear fishing; there’s a spot just over there that ‘Tash and I found, ‘s not bad, what ya reckon?’

  What I reckoned was that a coffee and maybe a calm observance of the not yet completed sunrise would be a lot healthier. But you know how it is, one doesn’t want to appear too lazy and actually the sun had been up for hours. I was on my second coffee and a simple splash round the rocks seemed fairly reasonable. After all, I used to be quite good at it only thirty years ago. Heavens, where was that Scotch?

  “The Spot,” turned out to be a mile down wind of our anchorage. As we were in our dingy without the motor for the return journey, I was already beginning to have my doubts.

  ‘Ah well, yes, okay we’ll go on, just round the corner you say?’ Mutter, mutter, stroke, stroke, waves are getting bigger. ‘Where is it again? How ‘bout you bail, and I’ll keep rowing. Better still, you row, I’ll bail… What’s that?, we’re here,’ pant, pant, ‘jolly good, piece of cake. I’ll walk home.’

  We dragged the dinghy up the beach. I proceeded to sort my stuff out. Find flippers, snorkel, fit prescription sunglasses into goggles (so that I can at least see something), try to walk down beach with flippers and goggles on. Ignore laughing local brat’s gestures in my direction. I reckoned I would show this Dutch bastard. How do you hold this spear under water again? I think it’s better if I walk backwards.

  What’s this then? Dennis was coming back? He already had a fish! I was still practicing my snorkel breathing!

  Half an hour later, I’d speared a three-inch whale, while Den had added another three fish to the larder. He swam over.

  ‘Listen, there’s an octopus over here under a rock, if I go down and lift the rock, you can spear the critter.’ He then dove down fift
een feet and started heaving on this rock. I went down and started prodding. Ink came out from Octopus’s hidey hole. I swim back to the surface to breath. Aqualung man was still heaving on rock. I took a quick, frantic grasp and then dove back down to return to the fray.

  Where’s Den? He must have gone to the top for air, arhh well I’ll do the deed. Jab, jab, I couldn’t see the critter for all this ink, but I was prepared to put on a good show. Jab, jab, shit I need air, shall return after a few hours on oxygen. ‘Never give up,’ is the Parry motto.

  At the surface, I was met by the horse dentures of the grinning Dutchman.

  ‘Pass me some amphetamines and I’ll get the bludger. I’ve got him on the ropes. I reckon one more heroic dive and we’ll be eating like lords tonight.’ I shouted between gasps.

  ‘Before you do that,’ said Den, ‘can you get this off me? This thing’s giving me some gyp.’ The bastard lifted his hand to reveal the octopus wrapped round his arm with his tooth-like beak snapping at his arteries.

  I was stunned. Apparently, while I was on my first search for air, the quarry had bolted twenty metres to another rock with Den in hot pursuit. With no spear, he only had his hands to grab the beast, and then he returned to the surface to have a laugh watching me doing the jab, jab bit. You just can’t trust some people.

  We travelled through the islands of the Canaries and headed for the Cape Verdes. We started to get in the swing of on board life, which was a good job as the Atlantic Ocean was looming. I looked forward to a few weeks at sea, away from dreary constraints of land life.

  All was well until dusk, when we were three hundred nautical miles from the Verdes. THUD. ‘What on earth was that?’ In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean Mariah stopped dead in the water. A tingle of fear crept up our spines, the ocean around us bubbled crimson. Noel and I stared in disbelief. As the wind re-filled our sails, we slowly glided forward and watched as an enormous great whale turned to face us at our stern, his tail high in the air, flapping, agitated.