by Jackie Parry
Two days later, at a local fete, James was teaching a fellow cruiser how to ride. The stoic, single mindedness and blind bravado of the British lives on.
The empty roads were perfect for novices and old hands alike. Like sailboats, the motorbikes allowed thoughts and ideas to enter our minds and spill out before they took hold.
The island’s sixty-seven kilometre road worms through pockets of communities nearing extinction; vacant houses, bolted church doors, and limp business signs smothered the odd occupied home, where residents tried to shut out the failing town with pretty curtains and freshly painted front doors. Each town felt desolate, confirmed by the stray hungry dogs, bored grubby kids, and obvious lack of money.
On the positive side, hidden down unbeaten trails, Niue hid striking sights. Volcanic moonlike rock topped with skin tearing shards lined the path that weaved between the heavy jungles. Enormous ugly spiders hung in the trees, the females clearly carrying young. Breaking through the foliage, the pacified Pacific Ocean greeted us, and we watched the strength of the waves pummel the land. Enterprising locals had built ladders and steps to allow the adventurous to do their thing. Securely tied to a ten metre sheer drop was a strong wooden ladder. At the foot was an enclosed beach that, after traversing huge boulders, led to a secret garden. If a mermaid had stepped from the water and offered us a rainbow, it wouldn’t have been a shock. In the peaceful silence, vivid climbing greens clung along the sheer rock faces, and startling blue clear pools urged us in for a cool swim.
Alas, the time ticked on and, again, and we had to say farewell. The too familiar hand that squeezed our hearts was back, to remind us of our lot – our life that was full of farewells. Next stop was Tonga, where our trusty home and transport, Mariah II had spent summers many years ago.
It was funny, as we got closer to home, with more miles and experience under our belts, the more fearful the journey became. Everything had gone so well so far; surely it was time for a drama?
As we dropped the mooring and watched Niue shrink in the distance, we knew we’d never return to this unique country and we felt privileged to have had the opportunity to experience this solitary little world.
The drama we thought we were due for arrived in the form of windy and his mates. Basically, it blew like shit all the way to Va’vau in Tonga. Mariah swept up and down the building seas while Noel and I clung on. There was no fear, no shouting, no stress. We knew Mariah so well that we knew she’d cope with the seas. We knew we would cope too. We also knew it would finally stop, at some point. Life was so different now on board. The romping wind and waves were uncomfortable and tiring, but that was all. A strong, proven boat and strong proven crew kept our shoulders relaxed and at ease. I felt like I could do this forever. The sailing had completely ceased being any sort of drama. It was the next chapter in our lives that would become the drama – the transition back onto land.
24
Absent from society, but not for long
Our stay in Tonga was a restful one; we had no need or desire to participate in tours. Noel and I were content enough to just enjoy the soft scenery and giggling kids splashing on shore. The kind welcome from the locals was enough to help us experience their way of life. After a few days rest we weighed anchor, bound for Fiji.
Once upon a time, we had left Coffs Harbour in NSW bound for Fiji, and a storm had blown us back as we could no longer fight the malevolent ocean. We had re-grouped and decided to follow the trade winds. Seven years later, we finally made it to Fiji, heading in the right direction, some 30,000 nautical miles later.
The Royal Suva Yacht Club was an island bar with chipped wood, plastic tablecloths, cheap beer, and reasonable food. Together with our friends on board Iron Mistress (Robert and Elyse), My Chance (Alim and Kian), and Adverse Conditions (Nana and Spencer), we all dressed up in our finery and enjoyed one of our last “on the road” meals together. We all planned to meet in New Caledonia and from there we would be parting to go our separate ways. Suddenly, it was ending.
Before we left the Fiji anchorage we witnessed a large waterspout not far from the anchorage. We watched intently, realising how lucky we had been on our voyage. There had been no real damage to Mariah or to us. In a way, this made us more nervous, as something was bound to happen now.
In Noumea, New Caledonia, we were all in a marina. With great French food, gleaming and expensive bars, we indulged in a little luxury before heading home. It seemed a poignant time, a parting of friends. We would head south, while most of the other boats were heading north in Australia or down to New Zealand.
The separation from our buddies was tougher than I imagined. We had not spent a great deal of time together, zigzagging between anchorages – sometime we met up, sometimes we didn’t. But the ease of our friendships, the lack of expectations, and the fun times we had all shared gave a sense of belonging. Good friends and fun folk made our journey the incredible experience it was. We would miss them.
Australia had a horrid reputation of being one of the worst places in the world to check in to. It really wasn’t if you followed their rules. Their rules were strict, but not hard to adhere by, and they were there for a reason.
We had an amazing sail into Bundaberg QLD. Within near perfect conditions, Mariah blasted her way back into Australian waters. Three days out, on flat seas, I was sitting in the cockpit naked (it was hot). Suddenly, I could hear an engine. I quickly tied on my sarong. There wasn’t one boat in sight, so I looked up. The Australian Customs plane came so close that they could read Mariah’s name off our bow!
‘Mariah II, this is Australian Customs, how many people do you have on board?’
‘Good afternoon! Two people on board.’
‘Very good. Do you have any plants or animals?’
‘No,’ I replied. I always feel guilty with officials, even though I had never done anything wrong. However, I had read and re-read the rules and requirements for checking in, and I knew we were good. With a few more questions, they wished us well and flew off, flying over us every day until we reached port.
The unique colours of the Australian sky were drawing us home. As the sun sloped off behind the horizon, it painted the sky Aussie golds, which were woven with tinges of low pearly clouds. For a few glorious moments, the sea was warmed by the reflection of yellow. We were absent from society, but not for long.
25
“I hate it”
On 11 November 2005, we completed our circumnavigation.
Checking in was a breeze. With our paperwork in order, we were soon free to experience Bundaberg and make plans.
‘If we don’t leave soon, I’m flying to England!’
Queensland was hot; I had trouble coping in the heat. As soon as I stepped from the shower, I was a bundle of sweat.
‘Why are you getting so hot and bothered?’ a neighbouring cruiser had said to me.
It wasn’t until later that they revealed they had air-conditioning!
The trip had been successful. But, we still had to coastal hop south, and it was now that things started to get tense.
We didn’t really know where we’d end up. We had family in southern NSW, so that was a good start. Mel was due to have her baby any day, so Wollongong was our first stop.
After Noel cheerily became a grandad, we sought the next safe harbour south, which was Greenwell Point. A small, quaint town that would open up seemingly impossible doors and steer us to further adventures that we hadn’t even dare dream of. But first we had to deal with the transition of being “home.”
‘I hate it; I just want to leave,’ I said.
Just one month back and my skin already crawled with an erratic, insatiable, itch. I felt heavy. I just didn’t fit, and I was already fed up with trying.
For the first month back, I was numb. Family issues had to be dealt with. Noel’s mum had moved into a home; this was an incredibly emotional time. Her house had to be cleared. Sixty-seven years worth of stuff had to be moved – what was the point? Memori
es? We all have memories. Should we keep the boxes of photos? What’s the point, they would only sit in another person’s attic, collecting dust and the perplexed questions of, ‘I wonder who that is?’
Noel and I planned to collect nothing further.
‘You can’t get away from bureaucracy,’ a friend wrote in an email back to me after I had been whinging about the crummy life back in Australia. I disagreed. Yes, we had had to check into countries. But that was it. The freedom I had held had been lost. I didn’t really understand why. We were still on the boat; we were not working for someone else. Our time was our own – but was it?
Family were nearby, and we were obliged to become involved. We wanted to, of course; we wanted to see them and catch up, so that wasn’t the problem. We both have wonderful families that had supported us fabulously. So what was going on? What was this chain I felt squeezing around my neck, the despair, the slight depressed feeling?
It was dealing with land people and what that meant: phones for a start (‘What? You haven’t got a mobile?’), taxes, supermarkets, curtains, divorce, carpets, arguments, garages, TV.
TV! Yikes, I hated it. The sadness overwhelmed me – murder, sexual assault, torture, war, floods, hurricanes, riots, politicians, lies, death, and destruction. We hadn’t watched TV for years; we rarely tuned into the news or purchased a newspaper. The head-in-the-sand theory had been a blessed relief from the woes of the world and some of the hideous people that inhabited it. But now it came back to us in full force, everyone watched the news and we couldn’t escape it. I felt like crying every time I heard it. I wanted to be an ostrich again. I wanted to get back to my simple way of life.
Within the first couple of weeks of our return, we discussed the purchase of a phone and a car. I refused to get a phone and did my best to avoid buying a car. I just didn’t want any of that stuff.
A month later it became worse: family issues across the globe dragged us down. We were stuck in a lovely port, but were at the whim of the wind, which was blowing against us – we felt trapped. We were rudderless within a storm of transition.
We had to decide which foot to put forward, the left or right. We had to become proactive and do something for us; which was funny, as we’d been doing something for us for the past nine years! Perhaps enjoying life had made us selfish.
We started to think logically. We had years of sea-time under our belts, so we decided to put that to good use. We tried to research what courses were available, but it was January and everyone was on holiday. Our life was in limbo.
We did start to settle in, but continued to feel out of sync and kilter, even with new friends. I had to turn things around in my head. I had to see that this wasn’t the end of the adventure; it was the beginning of a new chapter.
Finally, we got back onto the right track. I started to enjoy the fact that we weren’t moving all the time. I liked knowing where the shops were. Focussing on the positives helped and, really, what had we to complain about? We were healthy, happy, and had time to plan more escapades.
We enrolled in a full time, six week, six days’ a week maritime course. During which, I did so well, I was asked to teach the following class!
We sold our house in England and purchased a little cottage in Greenwell Point, NSW. We sold Mariah. We never thought we would, but we started to enjoy land-life: a bathroom, a full- length mirror, grass, and ‘good mornings’ from friendly town folk.
We joined the Marine Rescue, and with further training we became skippers. I was their first woman skipper. I had some issues with some of the crewmembers, but I was much stronger than they realised. I’d been dealing with testosterone-fuelled comments on boats for years; it was water off a duck’s back. The guys that chose to come out with me on the boats I valued immensely.
I could now recall conversations with people on board Mariah that had suggested Noel should be the one to bring us in to ports, saying, in other words, they did not think I was up to it. When this had happened, I remembered shedding some private tears. People I deeply respected had judged me. I had felt my confidence drain away; I had wanted to give up, the fight felt too hard. Now I realised that these people had helped me. I had proven my abilities; I had worked my way through the doubts.
I am a fighter, and with my experience on Mariah, I had completed successful rescues in violent weather. I was now able to pass on my knowledge to students, witnessing them blossom in exciting maritime careers. I had learned enough to help others. I was a professional, and when Noel and I went on to study for our Master IV course (qualifying us to skipper vessels up to eighty metres), I was chuffed to receive many compliments from my tutors about my work. During our boat practicals, guess who did the best boat handling of the day?
I had become a fully trained commercial skipper. I was a qualified Marine Engine Driver. In fact, I did so well in our class (twelve men and one woman – me), I received joint top-of-the-class award.
It was then I was asked to teach maritime classes. I learned a lot more from students willing to share their knowledge. Of course, I had those students who couldn’t be taught by a woman. But they were few and far between. I learned something from every person on those courses and not just about boats.
I had also witnessed the students develop faith in me. Once I had proven myself to them, I gained a remarkable amount of respect that made my teaching experience something I would return to time and again.
Back on land, we read about how dangerous things were while cruising – in Borneo you could no longer play with the orangutans, crocodiles prevented swimming in Panama, cruisers could not go through the canal without an expensive agent. I wondered how true it all was. From experience, I figured it was exaggerated semi-truths. I had learned not to let other people’s enjoyment of creating fear affect me.
I had learned a hell of a lot. Leading a water gypsy’s life for almost nine years changed me in many ways. I have become more open minded. I practice forgiveness, remembering that I never really knew what is going on in other people’s lives; a curt remark on a first meeting may not be rudeness, it maybe shyness or fear.
I have learned to think more of myself, my abilities, my body, and my personalities (yes, there are a few). I’ve learned to trust myself. I’ve unbound my emotional corset. I am getting to know me.
On the flip side, in other ways I have become bigoted, frustrated, and sometimes I have short-sighted, frighteningly fierce opinions that I cannot seem to control at times; my views on kindness, evil, mistreatment, and fairness. I thought I would be stronger, but at times I think I’m weaker. Any kind of sadness, whatever shape or form in this world, cripples me emotionally.
As for Noel and I, we are unlike most couples we meet. There is a deep unwavering respect. Our loyalty to each other sometimes overwhelms me. Our trust is remarkable; we’ve been responsible for each other’s lives. That does something to you, it really does. We may not be doe-eyed at each other all the time, but the bond between us is mind-blowing.
I am older, wiser; I’ve been introduced to middle-age (isn’t that a bundle of fun), but I’m proud of my grey hairs. I have earned every single one of them.
Perhaps it is not about finding where you fit, but with whom you fit with. Well, that certainly applies to us. It has been fifteen years since I started this book. Noel and I have been married more than sixteen years now. We sailed the world, as you now know. But since then we have become qualified mariners, we purchased another sail boat in San Francisco, and spent two years bringing her home and importing her into Australia.
We bought and sold a house in Australia. We trekked part of the Bicentennial National Trail in Australia with five horses, a tent, and just the two of us for an incredible, eye-opening nine weeks.
I found a depth of fulfilment I didn’t know existed. I’ve found that I can choose happiness.
Some time in Europe with my immediate family is our next plan and maybe a canal boat.
The ups and downs of the journey are worth it. Life is
for living, being brave, and taking chances. We’ve had our hearts broken with farewells, we’ve been excited beyond belief, but we still haven’t found “home.” Maybe we will wander all our lives; it’s just in our makeup. The point is, home is with each other, wherever that is on our planet.
Life at sea is a love-hate relationship, a roller coaster. The journey becomes etched on your skin. We learned something new each day, about sailing and ourselves. Sailing the oceans isn’t easy, but offers magnificent rewards with perseverance. We whinged about the effort, but secretly we were glad, because if it was easy, everyone would be doing it.
Now, it’s a song, a drumbeat, a waft of salt air, or heady diesel fumes that activates our memories and transports us back to those days on Mariah; the chug of a marine engine is enough to spark the tiniest sense of sea-sickness, that bout of anxiousness prior to a voyage – that unmatched excitement.
This kind of journey was an experience as a whole, not just hops from one place to the next – it was the preparation, research, learning, trying new things, romance, escapade, the rich harvest of adventures together.
And, yes, it is about the good yarn at the end of it all.
Time Line
1998
8 August 1998 – became the proud owners of Mariah II
17 August – Brisbane
6 November – Moreton Bay
1 December – Brisbane and ‘Jack’s becoming quite the apprentice, changing filters and oil, soldering wires, helping me fit “Wander.”’
1999
25 January – Coxswain’s course
19 June – left Coffs Harbour, NSW, for first attempt to Fiji
1 August – ‘doubt we will traverse an ocean’ – back in Mooloolaba
2000
10 Aug 2000 – new engine, water tanks fuel tanks and headed north to Darwin