by Jackie Parry
An adolescent laugh resonated through the smooth, grey rocks. As another bubble of giggles reached my throat and burst into the air, I realised the childish noise was coming from me.
Mimicking the sea lions, fins and arms aside, while staying still and quiet, allowed a brief trust to develop. Their sleek, glistening bodies glided slowly towards me until our noses almost touched. I stared into innocent, watery brown eyes; they stared back, deep into my eyes, which were wide and snorkel distorted. A timeless moment: the world stopped, and I became one with nature. I slowed my breathing. The liquid chocolate eyes did not reveal what was coming. Suddenly, my smooth, sneaky friend blew a burst of bubbles right into my startled face and darted off, no doubt doing a sea lion snigger.
We played this game for hours. Hypothermia started threatening my bones, but I was too distracted, tickling another slippery friend under his chin. My fingers tingled with the touch of bristly whiskers and skin that had a soft firmness, like a baby’s thigh. Throughout the six years of sailing from Sydney, the sea lions at Galapagos was our most thrilling experience. Turtles, sharks, and vivid coral fish flowed to and fro in the currents, while we pointed and stared. Rough skinned iguanas sunbathed alongside a carpet of sea lions on the pristine beach; the languid lions belched loudly and chased us away when we wandered too close.
We were stocked up for the Pacific Ocean crossing, we only needed to pick up fresh item. We couldn’t help ourselves, though, when we visited the supermarket and mysteriously tinned food appeared in our basket. Echoes of advice reverberated around my salt sticky head. ‘Canned food goes so quickly, and it’s a long way…’
‘Oh, well, better get some more, just in case.’
In remote locations, it was a good idea to check the sell by dates – if the dust and cobwebs didn’t give the game away, the date would. The trick to gaining the freshest fruit and vegetables available was to make a show of squeezing, smelling, and pulling faces at the products that were in need of Viagra, the odd shake of the head helped and before long the real fresh stuff would magically appear from behind the counter.
With Mariah almost ready to go, we did some exploring. Allow me to take you back in time to two hundred years ago. Imagine tough, stout, hairy whalers gliding into a deserted bay on their hard working vessels; imagine them rowing ashore, firmly clutching their scrawled notes in order to play postman as the stark arid landscape, the eerie mist-clad volcano, and dozens of large, inquisitive turtles welcomed them into the peaceful, uninhabited bay.
On shore, a medium sized barrel mounted on wooden struts still stands today. The whalers left letters here for their loved ones in the hope that another passing boat would one day collect the mail and send it on. Present day, this tradition was upheld by voyaging sailboats.
We arrived at Post Office Island (aka Isla Santa Maria) at Bahia Del Correo on the northwest tip at sun-down and planned an early explore. At dawn the following day, armed with water, fruit, and sun-block, we stepped ashore, ready for the walk to the “mail room.” Ten strides around the corner and we were face to face with the archaic communication post, which sat in modern times. The upright barrel contained plastic bags with efficiently sorted Europe/America/rest of world post cards, all begging to be collected and mailed. Rocks, split timber, and leaves garnished the mailbox with a flourish of boat names, dates, and goodwill notes. It felt like we were partaking in a piece of history that was cloaked in human kindness. Noel and I placed our respective postcards in the barrel (one to the UK and one to Australia); we selected to mail cards to Poland and Japan. It was a great sailing tradition that allowed us to touch base and unite us with our forebears and the readings of seafarers of our youth.
But there was the snag and it was a hum-dooie. Cruisers like us, who boldly put ourselves alongside the long gone whalers, were not allowed to stop here! Only organised tours, that came expressly to see the mailbox, were permitted. During our visit we were simply lucky, most sailboats met the dour warden who turfed them out. This was irony at its best.
The third and final island we visited was moonlike Isla Isabella. The small Bay (Puerto Villamil) on the south-east corner was crowded and littered with nasty shallows. The harsh lava rock and stark surrounds were home to tubby penguins and boobies with the brightest blue feet, adding a splash of colour to the deep brown and black moonlike rock.
This was our last stop before plunging into the great Pacific Ocean with three thousand miles of a lonely expanse of water, sky, and clouds. Where after two days I’d crave a roast chicken dinner, and Noel would feel desperate to hug a tree. Memories of the unique Galapagos experience would carry us along to our next adventure.
23
Swimming with a whale
It was June 2005 and Mariah was bulging at the seams; we had to select which cupboards to open, depending on which tack we were on. How she stayed afloat defied logic.
‘Mariah II is at 02° 16.400 south and 97° 38.300 west; all’s well on board, only 2,500 miles to go.’
We spoke daily to fellow cruisers along our lonely, watery passage. From Galapagos to French Polynesia (The Marquesas group of islands) we had 2,914 nautical miles to traverse. Trade winds were in full force, currents in our favour, and despite our full load, we were are scooting along nicely.
We left the magnificent Galapagos Islands within twenty-four hours of three other boats, all larger and faster than us. Twice daily, we talked to each other on the radio, swapping positions in case the unthinkable happened. Our adventurous Turkish friend, Alim, on board My Chance with his beautiful wife, Kian, invented a game to make the long journey a little more interesting.
‘From Galapagos to Fatu Hiva (our Marquesas island destination), guess how long it will take you and we will see who has the closest guess when we arrive,’ announced Alim one evening. Tactics and calculations were heard buzzing over the waves that night.
‘Mariah II chooses twenty days and six hours,’ we predicted, but the radio stayed silent. Our friends were a little concerned that our brains were finally completely salt incrusted. We had chosen the shortest time and we were the slowest boat!
‘We have chosen that time,’ I revealed, ‘as it means we arrive in time to celebrate our wedding anniversary.’ Now that re-confirmed our daftness to the rest of the fleet.
As the days swept by surprisingly fast, we were enjoying one of our best sails. Conditions were perfect for Mariah, and with our routine swiftly underway, we relished the solitude.
We were completely in tune with Mariah, so new sounds within our home were obvious. ‘Hasty Tasties’ (tin cans) wriggled loose and created a drum beat with a thriving echo, stopping sleep. But it was comforting to snuggle in a comfy bunk and listen to the occasional patter of rain on deck, the ocean rushing alongside the boat, and the creaking lines.
As we ate through the miles, accompanied with the orchestral music of sailing, each day the four boats in competition disclosed their ‘miles to go’ on the radio. It was not many days before it was noted that Mariah was doing the most miles per day!
Larger sails were dug out deep from our competitors’ lockers and, new sail rigs were set up, tried, and tested as the competition heated up. Astonishingly, Mariah continued to romp in the lead as she pushed through the ocean and spat it out behind in a white, hissing plume.
The broad shimmering band of the Pacific Ocean was saturated with rich blue, almost purple colour. Low, blue grey clouds gave way to fuzzy yellows along the horizon. The sun glided beneath the rim of the world each day, turning the sea into a thick, rich molten, reflecting the pattern from heaven. We were a minute particle upon the eternity of ocean and sky, that particle being our home and world. Birds scooped a flight path around the sails, catching air currents. We watched the moon rise lazily across the sky to her peak, lighting a silver path just for us; we marvelled in the waxing and then waning moon. Bright and bold Sirius became my neat shot of pre-dawn adrenaline, bolting me from day-dreaming as it curved across the black canvas.
The largest uninhabited section of the Pacific Ocean took us exactly three weeks to cross. Mariah’s prowess and what we had learned over our six years sailing held us all in good stead. We were a great team. Days were spent sitting comfortably at seven knots; so stable was Mariah that we could walk around the boat unassisted. This was our finest sail and our longest. Still, sighting the tall, green peaks of the Marquesas Islands was not only breathtaking, but a magnificent sight and a forest-green balm to our sea-blue tainted eyes.
We all arrived at different times. Alas, we missed our anniversary deadline, but only by one day. We were the first into port, but we didn’t win the competition. My Chance staked that claim. For us, we won a better accolade – we traversed the great Pacific Ocean in the quickest time. We left the New Zealanders numb, the Americans amazed, and My Chance delighted for us.
With good cheer, we approached our first anchorage, The Bay of Virgins at Fatu Hiva Island; the enormous green cliffs struck high, tall, and proud into the sky where clouds tore across their peaks. The verdant valley that opened in front of us was an ideal backdrop for snarling dinosaurs. The scenery was breathtaking, but the wind too strong, funnelling through the glorious valley to hit the boats at anchor and cause sleepless nights. In a torrent of a powerful katabatic land breeze (where the wind falls down huge cliffs, gathering momentum to hit us), we anchored at the Marquesas Islands. Eager to explore but too tired after twenty-one days at sea, we both tried to sleep. The elation of completing the mammoth trip was soon wearing off when we spent the next five nights awake, keeping anchor watch within relentless howling winds.
Tears filled my eyes, and a small gasp escaped from my down-turned lips. Noel turned to me, his face full of concern. As I trolled through the many email messages, I reached the news from home. The horror of the London bombings touched our hearts. For us, the news was a week old. We had been out of touch, but that did not lessen the pain, anger, and horror. The exciting news of London hosting the 2012 Olympics was marred. It all made up to an overwhelming dose of homesickness and a longing to be with my family and helping those in need.
My mum lightened the heavy news with amusing snippets about my nieces’ and nephews’ antics and how they were finding their way in this beautiful, scary world. We were heading to Australia, away from my immediate family.
Noel had been away from his family for a long time, so it was time to reacquaint ourselves with our antipodean folk. It was with surprised joy we received an email from Noel’s daughter, Mel.
‘I’m coming to see you,’ it said.
We were so excited; we had been encouraging her to visit for years.
Meanwhile, we arranged a place to meet. Once again we were planning a thousand mile trip, hoping the weather would allow us to arrive in time. Tahiti on 23 July was our rendezvous. Noel was looking forward to spending time with his daughter; I couldn’t wait to share our home with another woman and friend.
Before we prepared for the exciting visit at Tahiti, we explored the island of Nuku Hiva. Anchored in Daniel’s Bay, sweet scents idly drifted through the hatch into our cosy v-berth, where I was swaddled in comforting blankets listening to the rain plopping on deck. The rain disturbed the perfume of the land, and the short squall carried the sweeter smell into our watery home. It was a fresh, light scent that encouraged me to peel myself up and prepare for exploration. We left Mariah in her placid anchorage and headed off with cruising friends on a hike into the hills to seek out the third largest waterfall in the world.
A six-hour return trip left our limbs tired but our minds twirling with the harsh sting of cold fresh water and pummelled brains beneath the cascading waterfall. The velvet carpet of green surrounding the hidden paradise was worth the exhausting trek.
We convinced our weary limbs to haul anchor and leave that day, as we had to reach Pape’ete soon and before we did we wanted to explore the Tuamotu group of islands
As we sailed for five days through continual squalls, thoughts of plans for when we arrived back in Australia plagued our minds. We tried to stow the anxious feelings and made the effort to enjoy our trip, new places, faces, and our hard earned freedom. After all, none of us know what is lurking around the next corner during our own journey of life.
After many lengthy sails, a five-day trip was a breeze. We were well versed in the necessary preparation. We could both handle every aspect of the boat. I could reflect on how far I had come. When we purchased Mariah, I barely knew the front end of the boat from the back end of the boat. Now I could maintain the engine, navigate, haul and reef sails appropriately, use all the equipment on board, and handle the boat at sea and during tight manoeuvres. The daunting days of a new culture, husband, and nautical world were a long way behind me. Noel and I had become closer; we both acknowledged that during watches our lives were in each other’s hands, and this helped create an extremely deep trust. We had learned that we were following and striving for the same thing on board: safety, comfort, and a good life. If we made mistakes and upset that balance, we knew well enough that it was not on purpose – we weren’t sabotaging what we had. What we had was incredible: trust without limits, friendship without judgement, complete loyalty, and limitless love.
With all the ease of being seasoned sailors and travellers, we arrived at our next destination, which must have been one of the few places in the world where it was perfectly okay for men and woman of all ages to ogle wiggling, scantily clad bottoms!
The atoll named Ahe is on the northwest of the group of islands known as the Tuomotus. Ahe is a large lagoon where entering at the right time is imperative. We entered at exactly the wrong time. The entrance appeared calm and benign, but once committed to the passageway, the hidden whitecaps and tumultuous waves launched their attack. Mariah’s Yanmar was pushed to the red line and, wide-eyed, we powered our way through. The only damage being Mariah’s innards becoming invaded with sticky salt water and an adrenaline hit that was so hard it felt like running head first into a brick wall. With our racing hearts trying to calm, we puttered along towards the other boats and were mightily relieved to find a superb anchorage and small town just three boat lengths away.
We dragged our salty, damp bodies to shore that evening. We were tired after a lively, wet, and windy five day sail, but we wanted to experience the local festival. In the middle of the tiny town, a stage was set in the sandy streets and people gathered to watch the spectacle. Stunning, chocolate skinned girls clad in vivid sarongs, wiggled their hips at incredible speed to the rhythm of thumping drums and cheering praise.
The local dancing was punctuated with a little modern rock. The cool air, soft sand, and welcoming locals were all rich ingredients for a glorious night. Small children roamed freely, safe within the small community; a three-year-old girl captured Noel’s heart. He shared his kebab and received a toothy smile. The same girl snared my heart the following morning as we quietly encroached upon the locals’ Sunday morning church service. The majestic, proud women that sat behind us in their flowery Sunday best sang deep, beautiful harmonies that left us feeling enlightened and peaceful. The small neighbourhood accepted us into their community.
After four days of catching up with sleep, interspersed with fixing our worn anchor winch and attending to writing obligations, we set sail for Pape’ete in Tahiti. Noel’s daughter, Mel would meet us there in four days, but first we had a two-day sail to reach our next escapade.
Captain Cook, Bligh, Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island, and the Parry’s: what’s the common thread? Tahiti. In the 18th century, Cook was sent to Tahiti to study Venus, and Bligh had sailed into the striking shores. Robert Louis Stevenson’s father designed the lighthouse that proudly sits on Venus Point, while Mr. Stevenson junior wrote the inspiring stories of Treasure Island. The Parry’s? Well, the Parry’s circumnavigated the island in 2005.
We arrived into Pape’ete the same day as Mel arrived via air from Ayers Rock. We were nonchalant about the timing, only because we had not considered that
marvellous innovation of the date line. After negotiating low flying aircraft, we chose the most popular anchorage on the west side of the island, south of French Polynesia’s Capital. The sea was as clear as spring water and welcomed us into a plethora of tightly packed boats, all owners hoping they swung in unison. Supermarkets were just a short stroll away, and the dusty, dirty city just a twenty-minute, bone-shaking bus ride.
A little tired of conversations on amps, torques, and bronze brushes, I was excited at the prospect of another woman being on board. I planned to get in depth about clothes, hair, and, well, anything but boats. Noel and Mel had a lot of time to make-up; we were both looking forward to playing host to our long awaited guest.
It wasn’t until we were trawling through our emails that we came across a brief note from Mel.
‘I arrive on 21 July, not 22nd!’
Four hours later, damp, dishevelled sailors and the disturbing disorder of Mariah’s innards met Mel.
We’d been on board for over seven years; we now had the confidence to make our own obscure decisions and not follow the crowd.
‘Who, in their right mind, heads east across the Pacific at this latitude?’ Friends’ pitiful smiles sent us off, confirming that the crew on board Mariah was doing “their thing” again.
With triplicate sighs of relief, we hauled anchor and watched the maelstrom of Pape’ete disappear over the smoggy horizon. Whose idea it was to circumnavigate Tahiti depended on conditions. When we hit messy, restless seas it seemed to be my decision. When we cleared the agitated water and witnessed the exquisite, barely explored shores of the south east of the island, Noel claimed the kudos.
Tucked between Nui and Iti (big part of island and little part), Port Phaeton was a peaceful sanctuary. Weaving through vibrant, intimidating coral reefs, we were thankful of the meticulous buoy system that guided us safely through. Rewards of short, sharp mountains striking through clouds, excellent protection and good holding was offered in the roomy bay. Even the muddy water and skin nipping critters didn’t tarnish the cool swim I relished each day. The charming bay had a small marina with haul-out facilities and a safe dinghy landing at a locals’ house; he was happy for dinghies to tether in his garden. The compact, amiable town offered supermarkets, post office, Internet, and hardware stores. The extortionate prices of Pape’ete were toned down to simply exorbitant here. Silent noise stroked Mariah and caressed our ears in chorus with the pure breeze that lacked the city’s pungent vapour.