Of Foreign Build

by Jackie Parry

  Night watches had become easy. I enjoyed the cool nights and their clarity. I could see other vessels from a long way off, their navigation lights showing their course. But there were still tough nights. We kept watch for the lottery of squalls under the cover of darkness, sometimes watching as the lightning cut the atmosphere in two. As foreboding shadows crept nearer, I could feel the taut anticipation. At times, the clouds seemed to rub out the stars. When doing sail changes at night, the fake stability of the inverted cone of deck lights provided comfort. At dawn, where any horrors would vanish, the air would become so crisp, it felt as though it would shatter with words.

  Noel’s briny brain had forgotten that goats smell.

  ‘Can you kill the goat a few days earlier?’ Noel asked, while I couldn’t help but search the sun-dappled garden, hoping the goat was not in ear shot while we discussed its demise.

  For twenty-five New Zealand dollars Noel could have a fresh skin (goat skin, that is). He planned to dry it and replace the split skin that was currently on his homemade drum. The fact that our ten metre boat would stink like a fetid abattoir and that goat hair would plague us for eternity was nothing compared to the pink fit customs would have when we sailed back into Australia.

  We had made it to Aitutaki, which was described as one of the most heavenly places on Earth and considered one of the most magnificent lagoons in the world. It was comprised of a triangular shaped reef encircling a vivid clear lagoon where three volcanic islands rest within twelve coral atolls. Located directly 140 nautical miles north of Rarotonga (220 kilometres), Aitutaki is one of the southern Cook Islands visited little by sailors. Captain Bligh was the first European to discover Aitutaki in 1789 and locals hold him responsible for introducing the sweet pawpaw fruit that now grows in abundance.

  The tiny bay was as calm as being moored on concrete and as beautiful as a perfect pearl. However, puttering into the bay was not for the faint-hearted. A narrow channel, buoyed with sticks on one side only, was shallow and winding. Where the sticks were leaning at an angle, we had to decide whether they had been knocked over, or more usually, it indicated to give the twig a wider berth in the slender channel! If we had a deeper draft than one-and-a-half metres, we would carve our way through the sand. Certainly over one-point-eight metres would mean a probable grounding. Mercifully, the water was clear, which made my position on the bow a whole lot easier.

  The first morning within the secluded anchorage at Aitutaki, the angelic voice tickled my ears before my eyes peeled open. The soft baritone that was carried along the gentle breeze met and partnered with my intrigue and gave good reason for me to rise from my cosy pit, a challenging feat for me, most days. With a dishevelled sarong quickly wrapped around my body, I peered out from our cluttered cockpit. The angel stood on a deserted concrete peer, apparently working his smooth lungs just for us. Sadly, he spotted his mesmerised audience and my wing-less cherub strolled away and left the silent air still and my ears empty, yearning for more.

  Song entered our lives daily whilst in Aitutaki. Donning our finest wear, the usual grotty cruisers smartened up for the church service. Bursting lungs, boisterous harmony, and energised eurhythmics left us breathless and wanting to applaud the show-like performance.

  After our church attendance, the locals provided lunch. A little embarrassed to be guests of honour, we lingered outside the awaiting hall of food, enjoying the view.

  ‘Did you retrieve my dinghy?’ a gruff voice questioned one of our neighbouring friends, and they were perplexed.

  ‘That was me, sir,’ Noel jumped in, approaching the unsmiling local, not sure what to expect. The man thrust out his hand and Noel did all he could not to duck or jump back.

  ‘Let me shake your hand, sir,’ our new friend said. My dinghy is my livelihood, thank you so much. My son,’ (said scathingly), ‘did not tie the dinghy properly. I have something for you; which is your dinghy? I will leave you a gift.’

  Seeking us out and shaking Noel’s hand was enough thanks for us, and we carried on with our day, digging into a picnic type lunch with the locals who ensured that all visitors (all four couples on boats) were fed at least twice over before they indulged. About an hour later, as we returned to our dinghy, we found it brimming with pumpkins, several kinds of potatoes, enormous bunches of bananas, and healthy pawpaws. The booty was enjoyed by us all.

  Much enjoyment was to be had at every corner. Returning home one star spangled evening, six lightly intoxicated cruisers huddled in a dinghy and, inspired by the welcoming locals, we exercised our own vocal cords. We sang a peculiar ditty, replacing Nagasaki with Aitutaki, ‘Back in Aitutaki where the fellas chew tobbacy and the women wicky-wacky-woo…’

  ‘What do you reckon they wear under their skirts?’ I whispered to my buddy, Ann from Novia, another sailboat that had joined us.

  ‘I dunno,’ she giggled, ‘but it had better have good support!’

  As the guys strutted their aggressive stuff and the girls glided gracefully to the thud of hypnotising drums I recalled our host’s welcoming speech before the local dancing started.

  ‘Kia Orana – may you live long.’ She added, ‘Enjoy the show and help yourselves.’

  ‘It’s only polite to do what the host asks,’ I stated, grinning mischievously. The two olive skinned, strapping lads ignored the trickling sweat that coursed down their corrugated abdomens, and I tried to suppress an urge to wipe it away – at least while Noel was looking. They planted soggy kisses on my cheeks and I tried to act demure, not my age, which was too close to twice theirs.

  ‘Thank you, you were great!’ they laughed.

  Partaking in the “get the blobby tourists dancing after the professional show,” I paired up with a lad and copied his moves, totally forgetting that the ladies should be hip swinging with vigour. So, I wasn’t sure if they found me hysterical because I danced like a man or that I just couldn’t dance – maybe both. Still, the workout, fun, and laughter was well worth the comical show I gave the audience. Post performances of the professionals and the unrefined, the beautiful women and handsome men changed from their vivid dress into western shorts and t-shirts. The clothes morphed them from men to boys, their western dress was drab and a startling difference from their woven headdresses, skirts, and vastly rich costumes.

  The welcome into Aitutaki surpassed any we had received throughout our journey. The elegant locals were eloquent, embracing their culture with a proud vigour. The tiny island was protected from the ugly glutton of wealth, as land could only be handed on to family.

  The ‘Good mornings,’ from grinning grans, as they hurtled past us in their fine flowery dresses, inspired us to hire a moped and explore.

  Most of the transport on the island was via a small scooter, keeping pollution, noise, and traffic to a soothing minimum. Acquiring a Cook Island bike license for ten American dollars and twenty dollars for the hire was easy. All they wanted was our first names, and we were free to rampage around the eight square kilometres island, which housed a population of just 1600. There really wasn’t much to see, but the beauty of Maunga Pu, the highest point of the island, offered a fantastic three-hundred-and-sixty degree view where you could look out over the entire landscape. However, tenacious mosquitoes quickly marred the experience. Inland, small patches of houses were dotted here and there. The inhabitants were delighted when we stopped to say hello and offer candy to the shy kids. Visits were short; the battle with the fearsome mozzies was painfully lost.

  ‘Heelllooo,’ the grubby, five year old girl waved as we approached after our thirty-minute hike back from the expensive, inordinately slow Internet.

  The Main Street included a couple of tiny supermarkets, together with a few basic cafes and bars. Locals serenely sped past on their thrumming two wheelers, and not one person failed to wave or nod a greeting. Our mud-smudged friend stopped practicing wiggling her tiny hips to investigate us, comparatively large, white folk. As we reached the group of kids, I raised my arms and wiggled my hips
, trying to mimic her dance. The girls almost fell over, gasping and giggling at my efforts. We kept walking, but they were not prepared to let us go just yet. Spotting the new wooden drum Noel carried that we’d just purchased for a family gift, the sniggering group commanded the drum and demanded us to dance. Noel tried the warrior dance we witnessed the previous night, their crashing knees with straw skirts made a formidable sight, but unfortunately Noel just looked like a chicken with two left legs. My wiggling was not much better and as the kids banged on the drum, they almost expired in fits of laughter.

  Chores still had to be done. The tap where I gained permission to hand wash our clothes at was situated right next to a brick wall that was at the perfect height to relieve my back. The string of pine trees behind the neighbouring police station, next to the playing field, was perfect for drying. Noel filled Mariah with water, while I scrubbed our clothes. We hung out the washing, humming summer tunes in the warm, gentle breeze; the ambience of the island diluted the normally laborious tasks. As our colourful laundry flapped in the breeze, Noel returned with a small picnic. We sat on the soft, green grass, within the stillness of a Sunday. Our home, boat, and faithful travel companion, Mariah sat in sight at the end of the playing field, cooling in the breeze; we shared a quiet lunch, a calm contemplation, and maybe a short snooze.

  Our arrival back to Australia was almost put on hold. Our travel bug infested bodies had come across the one place in seven years of circling the planet that we were seriously thinking of stopping at (for six months anyway). Earnest consideration to taking a break, living the Aitutakian way, and enjoying a rest, resonated through our salty minds. Already my body started to unwind. To add foundations to the idea, Noel had the offer of work. His carpentry and building skills attained him job offers all around the globe. Sense prevailed, and we decided that talking to the harbour master about hurricanes was our first step.

  ‘We have had three hurricanes already this year and the water levels always rise up to our desks in this office.’ Their office was over three metres above sea level. Noel and I backed out of the office and out of our dream. Faced with organising the boat for departure, rolling tummies in time with rolling seas and a collectively agreed “bad year” for the Pacific trades, we decided to bid farewell to Aitutaki.

  As we sadly made our farewells to the locals, the goat still breathed the flowery scent that carried over the blossom-strewn garden. The skin we bought was from the island’s drum maker, a second hand, clean, odourless skin, that would leave Mariah before we arrived in Australia. The goat’s time, though, was short; a feast was planned… Kia manuia (may good fortune shine on you).

  From Aitutaki, we had a short, smooth sail to Palmerston Island, where locals spoiled the cruising visitors in exchange for gifts. The anchorage was rolling within the swells of the mighty Pacific Ocean, and we stayed just a few days before heading to Niue.

  Four or five day sails were now considered short hops. Like a well-oiled engine, Noel and I smoothly completed the tasks for setting sail, and our shifts ran like clockwork. As Mariah sailed herself towards our next destination, I started to wonder what would happen back in civilisation. In the meantime, Niue and a new set of experiences loomed over the horizon.

  ‘If I don’t go right now, I’m not going to do it,’ my voice betrayed an ungainly combination of conviction and caution. I hoped the rest of the crowd couldn’t hear it. They all moved aside to let me go, revealing through actions that they could hear the fear as much as I could taste it.

  We were fifteen metres underground in a silent, echoing cave. Only the solemn plop of icy, fresh water could be heard, woven between our awed whispers. I took two big breaths, the chill of the encompassing sapphire water temporarily forgotten. Two metres down, with lungs bursting only moments after a big breath, I turned underwater to head through to the next cave. My thrashing arms and legs fought for propulsion, and I felt stuck in a current that did not exist. I saw the torch light from our guide in the next submerged cave and headed toward the surface, seeking much needed oxygen. I was that close to being able to breathe again. I knew I could make it. Suddenly, a firm hand reached down and pushed my head back under. I was coming up too early; my soft head was on course for sharp, jagged rock. Fighting to withhold my panic, I swam farther along and the hand released me. I broke back into my world, gasping in the sweet smell of air. In reality, I had been under water a few seconds and swam a few metres. ‘That was pretty easy,’ I grinned.

  The unofficial tour of underwater caves was discreet and unsanctioned. If we had injured ourselves the responsibility would be at our door only. The sign to the entrance of the sunken paradise made it perfectly clear. Willy Kalah, our guide, took us on the tour for free; he owned a bar and hoped that we would pay him a visit – a good deal.

  The alien surroundings and phallic like rock glistened with their golds and yellows brightened by our torch beams. The thriving green foliage around the startling blue pools of clear water were extraordinary. ‘Wow,’ ‘oooh,’ and ‘arrhhh,’ became the group’s vocabulary between grunting from climbing up and down sheer faces of slippery rock with only a fraying rope to assist.

  Later, at Willy’s bar, he absorbed our weary minds in the tale of how his great grandfather was a pioneer in the island’s banana export and import. The Kalah’s have their roots deeply entrenched in the tiny island, completing work that present day cruisers are glad for. Centuries ago, the Kalah’s had a hand in blasting through the rocks to enable supply ships to make their deliveries by a dock and enable today’s travellers to make an easy landfall and haul their dinghies to a safe place.

  Niue is a country in its own right. The small island sits like the gem set in a gold of ocean. Situated approximately 230 nautical miles directly east of Tonga and 672 nautical miles east of Suva in Fiji, Niue created a welcome rest while sailing between Palmerston Island and Tonga. Niue is one of the last jewels in the ornamental circumnavigation ring.

  We met some interesting characters whilst here. The tears that pricked Mr. Premier’s eyes were not from the whispering smoke of his cigarette, but rather his emotions. His eyes shone as he frankly described losing his wife. He lost her first when she was alive. He felt that he had neglected her, as he worked endless hours fulfilling his task of leader of Niue. He lost her again when she sadly left this world.

  A mountain of a man sat beside him. His bodyguard seemed to have an easy time and enjoyed the myriad of conversations. As Mr. Premier sat with a few of us cruisers, sipping his cool beer in companionable chat, we could feel his excitement and love for his country. His honesty, friendliness, and down-to-earth spirit was refreshing and offers of residency were made with sincerity.

  Twenty mooring buoys were on offer for visiting boats, a bargain at five American dollars per day. Anchoring was difficult within deep, coral strewn waters. With boats coming and going, most days there were one or two available moorings. Getting ashore was exciting. The sheer cliff face and rolling seas did not allow beach landings. An unprotected concrete jetty with a small crane was the only way to make landfall. Hoicking yourself and all your gear from dinghy to the slippery concrete steps was like riding a galloping horse while trying to stand up. Timing was critical: ride the swells and understand the movement before making your move. One unlucky blighter stayed in the dinghy while the crane was lowered towards them, having the lifting straps ready to start with was imperative. The person in the dinghy secured the hook, and the crane operator (whoever was standing nearest) could lift the dinghy. The person in the boat had a tough time in the rolling swells of the Pacific and then performed a balancing act as the dinghy was lifted up. A trolley was provided and we all lined our dinghies up neatly, it was like the car park at a supermarket. After just a few shaky starts, we all became dab hands at the process.

  Alofi, Niue’s main town, was small, friendly, and funky. The quiet streets carried the good-humoured laughter of local lads shooting pool. Shady trees stood proud outside the popular Internet
cafe, under which a cruiser or two sat exchanging information as only water gypsies do. Watering holes perched on the headland, where we could peer thirty metres down over our silent boats, creating enticing dreams that we were fulfilling. Towards the end of the town, square blocks of concrete foundations sat in vivid gardens, where, once upon a time houses stood. In 2004, a violent hurricane kicked up waves high enough to reach over the massive rock structure and wash the buildings away. The hospital, lives, and dreams were carried away that year. The town was rebuilding, but it was a long way from flourishing. Flights to Niue were extraordinarily expensive, much desired tourist trade seemed too far out of reach.

  Having a taste of mopeds in Aitutaki, we were eager to hire bikes and explore this tiny country to see what other gems this jewel had to offer. A small group was organised and three couples hired small, lightweight motorbikes (125cc).

  James and Ann on board Novia (meaning sweetheart) were a typical British couple with an extra dose of daring. James had always wanted to ride a bike, but never had. Noel offered a five-minute verbal instruction, forgetting to point out the rear brake. The end of the instruction was finished with a flap of his hand saying, ‘It’s easy, you’ll be right, mate.’

  What James didn’t realise was that Noel had been riding bikes all his life. James jumped on, started up, amazingly got the wheels turning first go, and flew straight into a bush. We were all more than slightly relieved he veered right into bushes, instead of left off the cliff face!

  James came back on foot, with a few bloody scratches on his cheek. Ann was speechless and none of us knew what to say between belly cramping giggles.

  ‘Ahem,’ started James, ‘ready, Ann?’

  All heads turned to Ann with wide eyes.

  ‘Yup,’ she smiled, jumped on board, and off they went!