Of Foreign Build

by Jackie Parry

  Other cruisers began awaking and started up a loud racket. We watched as an American boat glided past us and up onto the rocks. We had joined in with the cacophony trying to arouse the drifting boat’s owners, but they couldn’t hear us from below their insulated decks. We all watched in horror, and as they went past us, Noel said, ‘I’ll switch on our engine, just in case.’ As he did so our anchor let go, and we started to drag towards the land, too.

  Other boats were in our destructive path, and Noel grappled against the large seas and howling wind to keep Mariah from clashing with other bucking vessels. Noel was doing a great job on the helm, so I jumped on deck to haul in the anchor. Kneeling down on one knee, with one hand grasping the stanchions, I pressed the anchor winch button with my heel and tried to feed in the chain. It felt like sitting atop a bucking bronco. I was terrified. It was pitch black; we smashed up and down in the waves, each one coating me in fine salt and skin tingling icy water. I could barely hold on.

  Gritting my teeth, I knew Noel was working hard with Mariah’s engine and the tiller to help me haul in the chain. As Mariah’s bow lifted, the chain became bar taut. As she theatrically plunged into the dip, the chain slackened and I hauled in as much chain as possible – breaking equipment now was not an option.

  The electronic winch was powerful, and I had remembered Noel’s lesson of, ‘We can fix the boat, but we can’t fix missing fingers,’ so, I kept my hands well clear of the moving parts. Gradually, painfully, the anchor came up. Noel had kept us in one spot so we didn’t latch on and haul up someone else’s anchor chain with ours. I had achieved my goal and was still in one piece, as was our equipment. We both concentrated on our own jobs while working together. Talking was pointless, as we were at either end of the boat, with the wind whipping any sound cleanly away. Once the anchor was clear, Noel turned Mariah’s bow into the mountainous swell and pushed the throttle down, asking the Yanmar to get us out of here. By now it was about 4 am, and as we bounced into deeper water, the waves reduced in rowdiness.

  All of a sudden, we were in a different world: the black sea mellowed, the moon shone to light a pathway, and the stars glowed serenely. Behind us, the shallow bay was a nightmare. A tangled boat sat on a reef, and the pumping seas continued to pummel the boats on anchor.

  Away from the shallow water that heightened the swell and the wind that bounced around the shore, the waves were moderate, and as dawn approached all was back to normal on Mariah. We headed an hour south towards Barbados’ capital and an alternative anchorage.

  Bridgetown anchorage was much better protected, but we had to anchor a fair way out to gain the depth we needed. However, the violent, swearing, ugly music that boomed out across the anchorage at full, distorted volume, made our boat vibrate each night. It was hideous. For a few days we alternated between different anchorages: when we were fed up with rolling we headed south, when we were fed up with the music we headed north.

  Soon the resourceful ‘Tash had sourced the cheapie shops and we obtained supplies, did some sight-seeing, and paid attention to our need to move. We decided to stay for New Year’s Eve and were safely anchored in soft, pulsating swells from the ocean, ready to welcome in a new year and new adventures. Little did we know that in just a few days’ time, Noel would be working in a brothel. This is where Noel joins us again to tell us the story.

  We’ve made it across the Atlantic to Barbados, arriving just in time to celebrate New Year’s Eve. Two weeks later, Den and I were still hard at it, every day, in a Bridgetown brothel. There wasn’t much privacy either, as we worked at the rear of the establishment, in an open shed, exposed to the derisive laughter and unasked for advice from the local Cajuns.

  ‘Hey mon! Wat cha doo-in?’

  ‘Well g’day. We’re makin’ a little dinghy.’

  ‘Oh, you makin’ a little boat for the big boat, dat’s good. Hey, mon, you gonna fiba glas dat ding?’

  This was the basic conversation, repeated on the hour with each new smiling face.

  As our cupboard-bred collection of materials begrudgingly transformed into an object of nautical symmetry, the laughter increased. What I looked upon as fine lines, the locals viewed as a receptacle for ice and cold beer. If only we would ‘…fiba glas dat ding, mon.’

  The head honcho of the establishment was accommodating and made us feel welcome. He seemed to run the joint at the command of the boss lady. Mr. Honcho stood at 190 cm (6 foot 3″ in the old money), had a solid build and had a flashy smile that should have been fronting a toothpaste advert. Dripping gold from his wrists, neck, ears, and even his mouth, I swear he was a walking dubloon. The glow from his jewellery made me squint, and when he started laughing, I slipped on the sunnies. The red bandana on his cannonball shaped head, the vivid shirt, and the baggy trousers, neatly rounded off the whole Pirates of Penzance performance.

  As he swaggered over, as if in a joint conspiracy, he whispered, ‘You don wanna laugh with dem Cajun’s, mon. All dey wanna do is steal yo’ tools, rape yaw wife, and den kill you!’

  As he was Cajun himself, I returned to work, wondering whether to laugh or take note.

  ‘We’re ‘aving a party this Sat’day,’ our host continued, ‘celebrating a return to work for dis joint, we’ve been closed a year since dat murder dat night. You guys be finished by den, wontcha?’

  At this point, I decided to take note.

  ‘No worries,’ I replied, gazing at our two made up frames and sheets of furniture grade ply. ‘We’ll be out of ‘ere Friday arvo.’

  Deciding to build a replacement for our smashed dinghy named Penguin Jack (PJ), sourcing materials and finding a building site took about a week. A week of bus rides complete with Bob Marley blasting through the speakers, pounding our ears. The driver danced in his seat, chatting with his mates while scattering pedestrians, all with his right foot firmly on the peddle. It took a week of relying on our good friends, Den and ‘Tash, to be our taxi to and from shore several times a day. It was ‘Tash who bravely asked the woman behind the three metre corrugated iron fence and barbed wire whether we could use the shed out back. Mrs. Barkly was most accommodating, letting us leave our tools locked in her hallway. Mrs. Barkly, as we soon found out, was the madam.

  For three days, we cut out frames, trying to bend Honduras Pine stringers into something resembling a boat frame. Honduras Pine looked like Radiata Pine without the knots; it had greater density, and therefore more weight. Its oily feel, I thought, indicated longevity and resistance to rot. What I failed to notice, until much later, was its natural abhorrence to being bent.

  On entering the yard one morning, I found one of the girls, all fifteen stone of her, sitting stark naked on a stool, all limbs akimbo as she was hosed down by another woman, similarly clad. Not knowing where to look, I thought I would stare at one of the stencilled signs indicating that no credit was given and that guns were forbidden. That’s nice, I thought.

  It was now Tuesday. Crossing the Atlantic only two weeks ago, I had images of coral sands, palm trees, scantily clad women, and Pina Coladas. The images proved correct, except that instead of a deckchair and a cool drink, I had a workbench and a screwdriver. Cruising reality was a hot tin roof and sawdust. Enjoying a new country this time, meant traipsing miles carrying or looking for supplies. It also meant that a shimmering crime-lord was custodian to all my worldly tools of trade. What went wrong?

  We almost stayed on board that night, as the swell was swallowing the concrete jetty each time that we tried to land. We were about to return for a rave up on Mariah II, i.e. a tinned meal and our favourite book, when our American friends, Roy and Chris from Solmates, suggested that we tie up to their dinghy.

  ‘It’s anchored off as well as tied, so it’ll be fine,’ they called. Their four metre, hard bottomed rigid inflatable boat appeared to be sitting as comfortably as Mariah out on anchor, so what could go wrong?

  ‘Successful cruising is a matter of continual awareness.’ This adage was not followed. Sitting at a b
each bar, boasting about crossing oceans to the only people who care to listen, other cruisers, was not awareness. With my back firmly placed to the worrying scene of two dinghies porpoising in their attempts to ride the increasing swell, I figured the Ostrich Theory would work. Could we not relax now, tonight of all nights? After all, we had just crossed the Atlantic. We deserved a break, didn’t we? The result answered that question.

  The concrete wharf ripped the large, sturdy RIB to shreds as if it was paper thin; its 15 horse-power outboard dragged what remained of the planing hull into the depths of swelling sands and coral sea. Our beloved servant from Aussie, PJ, was shattered; the remnants floated off in the moonlight.

  We stood on the jetty and with moist eyes wished each other an ironic ‘Happy New Year.’ We piled into our Dutch friends’ dinghy, headed for Solmates, and dutifully awaited midnight. We soberly repeated our ‘Happy New Years’ and ‘Goodnights.’ Then I remembered that PJ was gone. This began the first of many pleas of, ‘Give us a lift, mate?’

  Two weeks later, on the promised Friday arvo, we launched PJ II as the sun set. It had been a frantic, albeit interesting time. PJ II had been prime coated, but was barely dry. The next morning, our home, Mariah II, turned into a work-shop. So we could finish the dinghy.

  PJ II, built in Barbados, in a brothel, by an Aussie and a Dutchman, was unique. As we puttered along, people pointed, stared, and the odd snort of laughter could be heard. We heard children say, ‘I want one!’ I think it was the green fenders that were cunningly made from swimming floats that turned their eye.

  But, we had the last laugh. No one would steal PJ, he looked too ‘unique’. Each year many shiny, new dinghies were stolen in the Caribbean, which caused heartache and drama that we knew too well. With the glue holding, and the timber staying in one piece, PJ almost made it home to Australia.

  A new hard dinghy would have cost us at least one thousand Australian dollars, a new inflatable dinghy around two thousand Australian dollars, Penguin Jack II cost us two hundred dollars and a bouquet of flowers for Madam Barkly.

  Frodo and Mariah, were together day in day out. Never had we made such good friends; they were easy to be with and had no expectations. ‘Tash’s parents were visiting to spend some time with them on one of the Dutch islands, whereas we were heading north to Puerto Rico. A sad goodbye loomed before us.

  Roy and Chris, had become our good friends, too. They had helped us in Egypt by supplying and delivering flour; we had enjoyed many a social night on board their huge floating home. They owned two apartments in Puerto Rico, which needed some renovations. When they heard that Noel and I had renovated houses previously, we came to an agreement to renovate their apartments.

  Noel and I had to make a decision with the hurricane season looming. Were we going to go south to Trinidad or north to America? We had heard whispers about the inland waterways in America; we had both visited America some years back and wanted to see more. The work offer in Puerto Rico fitted in nicely with our plans, so north it was.

  To fulfil these needs and wants meant a tough farewell with Frodo. Den and ‘Tash came on board Mariah for the last time, and we anchored between the two main anchorages in Barbados to dive with the tourists. At midday each day, a tourist boat headed to a certain area and fed the giant turtles. We anchored nearby and joined in the excursion. Snorkelling amongst these graceful creatures in their silent world was spectacular. Den and the largest turtle had a face-off: the turtle sat inches from Den’s masked face and they stared into each other’s eyes. I nearly drowned from laughing. The turtle retreated, and then Den realised he had some turtle food on his shoulder (some weed). After swimming with these gentle giants, we headed to the rolly anchorage, where the wind had subdued and the roll had settled down, creating just a gentle rock.

  Den and ‘Tash were staying on Mariah for the night and were going to help us check out in the morning at the wharf, where they could jump off and walk back to Frodo. As the evening progressed, Noel and Den drank beer in the cockpit while ‘Tash and I sat below chatting amicably, both trying to ignore the approaching farewell. ‘Tash was a tough girl. She was strong, adaptable, and just got on with whatever needed doing. She’d straightened me out a few times. ‘Come on, girly,’ ‘Tash would say, ‘get on with it.’ I knew I was going to miss her terribly.

  My girlfriends in the UK were becoming just a memory. The four girls I was close to were all quite different, but all had been incredible friends to me, helping me in my most difficult times in my life before I had left for Australia. I sent emails, postcards, and letters, but I would only receive the odd email back. I was not there, so it was hard to be a part of their lives. At the time, I took this quite hard, but later I would understand. Life moves fast, it’s hard keeping in touch with those around you, let alone those farther afield. In England, I had seen my friends briefly, but I was so different and the comfortable, relaxed friendship had altered – I was now from a different world. They spoke of the latest car, phone, and computer. The most important thing to me was favourable weather and a safe anchorage. I had to remember it was I that had changed, not them, and I had to accept the fact that if I was not physically there, then the friendships would alter.

  Our final night with Frodo wore on, and the guys decided to go into town to get some more booze. ‘Tash and I were just happy chatting. We actually went to bed before they left, and once they went out, we got up for another cuppa and a chat. We were so relaxed together, even the silent pauses in conversation were comfortable. The guys came back, singing and giggling; it was great that Den and Noel got on so well, too.

  The following morning at dawn, I could hear someone clomping around on deck. I got up to find Den had had a swim and was sitting on the deck making noises in an attempt to wake everyone. He had only been to bed for a few hours and had had mountains of beer. This guy had the constitution of a bloody ox. In the cockpit sat the leftovers from the night before. The guys had run out of papers to roll up tobacco and had therefore tried to make a tobacco bong. Parts of the boat had been dismantled to make this thing! They were just like naughty children; they thought it was hysterical. ‘Tash and I laughed and rolled our eyes.

  Mid-morning, we puttered over to the dock to fill with water, diesel, and check out of Barbados. The process became frantic; other boats were there, we were tied alongside them, and soon after they wanted to leave. I took the paperwork into the office, while Noel filled the boat with diesel and water. Noel and I were both captains, so when it was easier (and acceptable) for me to check us in or out of a port, I did so.

  I sat down with the customs official, and he read through the papers. He looked up at me and grinned and said in the most patronising voice, ‘Arrrh, he’s let you be captain today, has he?’ I just glared at him. When I was faced with narrow-minded views, I didn’t trust my mouth with my thoughts. I bit my lip.

  Later I realised I should have said, ‘No, when we checked in, I had let him be the captain.’ A lot of people assumed the boat was Noel’s, and that I had seen a good thing and married him. But the boat was ours, we had purchased Mariah together and both worked just as hard on her. Over time, I learned to deal with this temerity and realised that people with these types of opinions had the problem, not me.

  Suddenly, we were ready to go and the boat that we were tied to was pressuring us to hurry. Den stepped off and waved farewell; he wasn’t a tactile person. That was just the way that he was. I thought ‘Tash would give me a quick hug and go, and I bit back my tears, as I thought she’d say ‘Don’t be soft, girlie.’ We hugged hard, and as we let go I looked into her face and saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. I held her again and let my emotions flow; she jumped off and waved farewell with Den. The silence on board was tangible; what was there to say?

  Barbados provided fond memories of swimming with giant turtles, graceful, fearless characters, which nipped unsuspecting toes, sunsets and balmy nights. It also provided not so fond memories of ear splitting music until f
our in the morning and evening strolls where shady characters offered ‘dessert’ to smoke after our chips.

  We had a calm two-day sail into St. Lucia and anchored at Rodney Bay. In the vivid green of St. Lucia, we felt sad. We had said a sad goodbye to our good friends. Itchy-feet syndrome meant constant goodbyes, as new friends followed different paths. Meanwhile, back home, nieces and nephews were growing up and my friends were moving on. Maybe there was a patch of land waiting for us, somewhere where we could be still. If only our damned feet would stop itching.

  We puttered our way north stopping at Dominica.

  Through time and nature doing its thing, a small island had joined to the landmass of Dominica. Shirley Fort was built in c1780 and occupied this “island”. The fort itself had been occupied until 1815, and then abandoned in 1856. Between the years of 1982 and 1992, it was renovated. The fort was built by the English to hold territory between the French terrain of Martinique and Guadeloupe.

  The rusty canons were littered around the maintained lawn; the big joke was that never a shot was fired in anger or war. Shirley Fort sat within gardens that resembled secret grounds: velvet lawns littered with artistic trees that were interwoven with vivid pink, red, green, and yellow leaves. The area was peaceful, calm. The silence pressed against our ears. We learned about cotton silk trees, which had half-inch, hardy thorns that covered the entire trunk like a carpet; surely a means for medieval torture. Teak trees were prevalent, with their straight trunks and big leaves. They were too young, though, and made us wonder if they would be allowed to mature before being slaughtered for humans to build their trinkets.

  The thirty-minute walk to the east of the hill had us zigzagging up and up, watching lizards scarper, iguanas stare, and the shells of black crabs line the walk. We reached the peak, and the air was sucked in as we gasped in wonder. The Southern Bay, where we were anchored, opened up to allow us to view the speck of Mariah, the carpet of vibrant green, the blue sky, and a pretty rainbow framed the picture. Why wasn’t this place overrun with tourists? It was perfect. There were no beaches to speak off and such a terrain that electricity and water wasn’t commonplace. In twenty years’ time, I thought, this island would look very different. This beauty could not be ignored. We were thankful we had found somewhere in the world that we had the opportunity to see before it was deluged with people and the twentieth century, and quite possibly, destruction.