by Tania Aebi
In the livestock section, beheaded sheep, cows and chickens hung from meat hooks, blood draining from every orifice, while the live ones milled around in panic. The piece of meat you received depended on the time of day you arrived. As orders were placed, first the hordes of flies were waved away from the hanging carcass, then a piece was hacked off with a blunt ax. Observing these conditions, we weren’t inclined to feast on rare steaks. Rather, we boiled the meat up thoroughly into soups and stews.
Olivier and I visited the ancient port ruins of Suakin, 30 miles down the coast, to see the remains of a stone-and-mortar desert village, abandoned and fallen to bleached rubble. Caravans used to stop at the busy waypoint of Suakin, bringing their wares to trade with ships bound for India; it was the last point in the Red Sea where seasonal south winds existed so the ships continued no farther, unequipped as they were to beat against the blasting headwinds to the north. Today, with the development of Port Sudan, Suakin was deserted and crumbling, and as we explored its alleyways, we imagined how lively it must have been in the times of the caravan.
The unexpectedly exciting part of the excursion came when we had to take the bus back to Port Sudan. A group of people stood waiting in the main square, and as the transport made itself visible in the horizon, they took their positions like runners at the mark. When the bus came to a stop, bodies flew in through the windows and door, everyone scrambling for a spot. It took Olivier and me several buses to get the hang of things, until, luckily, one stopped right in front of us and we were in, helping the other bodies through the windows when the door jammed up.
In general, the Sudanese were a kind and proud race. Although the country was poverty-stricken and in billions of dollars of international debt, beggars were virtually nonexistent. Instead, people would stop us in the streets just to smile and practice their English, saying, “Strong, strong,” when they learned that I sailed alone.
One day in town, Olivier and I were hailed by a shoeshine boy sitting in the shade of a tree and surrounded by cronies who watched him shine the occasional shoe. A few instantly got up and offered me their chairs. In sign language, we talked and laughed with these young guys, and one ran out to buy us some Coca-Cola, while the shoeshine chief pointed at my leather flip-flops, insisting on waxing and polishing the half-inch strap while the others taught us how to say “thank you” and “you’re welcome” in Arabic. When we were ready to go, I tried to offer some money to the leader; he furiously refused, shook our hands and waved us on. I couldn’t believe it. These people were dirt poor, yet they had bought us drinks, performed a service and, even so, wouldn’t accept payment.
“Shukran,” I thanked him with my new word.
“Afuan,” he replied in welcome.
• • •
Penny and Annatria had arrived on our fourth morning, and later on, with Bernard, we set to fixing the engine. Throwing it overboard and replacing it with an outboard was out of the question in Port Sudan, a city in which it was a challenge to find even a roll of toilet paper. Also, the new starter problem ended up being minor; the only cable that hadn’t been changed in Djibouti had a rusty connection and needed cleaning. We made several tours of the harbor to check out the stuffing box and it remained in its place. The epoxy that we had used in Dijibouti had done its job well and Varuna once again had a working engine. Then Olivier climbed the mast to check the lights and found several strands on the forestay broken; we replaced the stay with a spare and stowed the frayed one as a reserve. He also fortified Akka’s rigging and spreaders to prepare for the ferocious winds, while I borrowed Penny’s sewing machine and patched up our sails with old scraps of sailcloth.
By now, we were well into the month of April and the clock was ticking. I was supposed to be back in New York within six months, before the winter season could begin to roil the North Atlantic. Ever since Australia, as a result of the occupational hazards of contrary winds and calms, engine problems and days often lost to my own reluctance to head back out to sea again, I had fallen further and further behind schedule. I had made a commitment to my father to do this trip in a certain amount of time and was determined to see it through as we had planned and get on with my own life. But now, over every move and every decision as Olivier and I prepared for the unpleasant trip up the Red Sea to Egypt, hung the omnipresent worry that time was quickly running out.
After one week in the Sudan, Alexio was finally ready and set out, followed by Christine with Henry aboard as part of their crew, and then Penny and Annatria, leaving Akka and Varuna as the last stragglers. Just as Olivier and I were finally ready to go also, the fearful winds piped up to a 40-knot sandstorm, screaming like a banshee and covering the town, the boats and rigging in a fine yellow dust. When the winds finally diminished to a more reasonable 15 knots, we motored out of the harbor the 14 miles to the cleaner water of Sanganeb Reeb and anchored to clean the boats and scrub the scummy keels.
The next morning, the wind howled again at 35 knots, dragging the boats and holding us at anchor for six more days. We twiddled our thumbs as the whining wind grated on our nerves, and anticipated a wonderful trip north if this was any indication of weather to come. Beating is already a dirty word in the sailing world, let alone beating into such heavy winds as these, accompanied by steep waves stacked one on top of the other.
On April 30, the wind eased to 20 knots, and we sailed off making 40 miles in the right direction during the first twenty-four-hour period. The second evening’s sky was laced with racing mare’s tails, and Olivier pointed up drearily and called over that they usually forecast heavy winds. Sure enough, dawn revealed a frothy sea, kicked up by the cantankerous winds we had been dreading.
Maelstrom or none, I put up the tiny storm jib Olivier had given me in Djibouti, and with triple-reefed mainsails, Varuna and Akka began to beat painfully into the teeth of a monster. Day in and day out for two weeks, always keeping an open eye for the laboring tankers and cargo carriers, we slowly tacked our way up through the beastly chop, inching past Jedda, Saudi Arabia, sometimes with exasperating advances of only 10 miles a day in the right direction. The wind was either strong or very strong and, from time to time, depending on the velocity, I would have to take out the third reef for the second or vice versa, in the process ripping the sail to shreds.
As it stood, the entire main was in such a sorry state that holes were easily made whenever I exerted too much pressure on it with my finger. Holding onto the pitching deck, with scissors, spare cloth and rubber cement underfoot, and thread and needle in my mouth, I spent half my time quilting the main back together, while getting drenched by every other wave. After all the patching, I discovered that sewing only made the situation worse, giving the sail an invitation to tear along the dotted lines. As I continued to patch over the patches, I desperately hoped that my father had received my last letter from the Sudan in time to arrange for a new sail to be waiting in Suez.
Cooking regularly was out of the question; Varuna was heeled over so far that more time would have been spent wiping the spilled meals up from the floor than actually eating. When I felt too weak to continue, I’d boil some rice, tuna and tomato paste and share it with Tarzoon. In the early mornings, I’d curl up on my damp bed, aching for some peaceful sleep, as Varuna lurched and thumped into brick walls of water. On deck, the spray was blinding as it flew off the crests of steep swells, mixing with the raging winds filled with sand. Sometimes visibility was good and other times, with landbound dust storms, the horizon was a burnt-yellow hue. We tacked east and west, coast to coast, through the north and southbound ships and, every so often, there would be the harrowing near miss. As the smokestacks paraded by, I saw the Russian Hammer and Sickle, the Japanese Rising Sun, and the red, gold and green colors of the African countries that we were passing to port and Arabia to starboard.
Whenever my anxieties and frustrations reached a climax, I would unleash all my pent-up venom onto the Red Sea. My gratification was almost indescribable after I had spit a hyste
rically vulgar screaming fit at the bastard. It brooded and growled back while I stomped around in the cockpit, ranting and cursing at everything I hated about the trip. From his corner on the bunk below, Tarzoon watched with philosophical amusement, and finally it got to the point where I too began to enjoy the outbursts. After I’d lost control, I would relax completely and cuddle up with my buddy until the aggravation accumulated all over again when the sea reached a new threshold of malevolence.
As the crow flies, it was 250 miles from Sanganeb Reef to Ras Banas, our first planned anchorage in the territorial waters of Egypt. After two weeks, with our zigzag course of tacking into the wind, Varuna must have covered 1,000, and finally I awoke one morning to see the island marking the way to our haven. As we approached the anchorage, we watched the wind die down to a flat calm, which ironically was how it was to remain for our two days of rest.
Akka and Varuna arrived in company with another familiar boat, the Broad from Sri Lanka, and Olivier and I eagerly tied our two boats together and jumped into the dinghy to go and say hello. After the abominations of the trip, it was a godsend to see old friends again, especially Dean and Faye, who were easygoing and had a cheerful sense of humor. Dean, an American in his early sixties, and his Australian ladyfriend, Faye, had just arrived from Jedda, and we all bewailed our adventures since forsaking the tranquil Indian Ocean.
Olivier and I remembered Dean telling us about his November romance with Faye when we had gone with Don Windsor and his son to meet my father three and a half months before in Sri Lanka. Dean had sailed the Broad to Australia with friends and family, and Brisbane was where he met Faye, who was about the same age as he and worked as a waitress at a local restaurant. He invited her to sail with him into the sunset. She gave away her house plants and off they went to see the world, trailing their dinghy, the Tender Broad, behind them. Adopting us here in Ras Banas, Dean filled up my empty coffee jar and presented us with a real delicacy of canned smoked oysters, while Faye baked a cake and some bread, which served our stomachs well after we had been accustomed to far more basic fare for so long.
We were graciously invited for tea and dinner by some Egyptian soldiers stationed in simple barracks on the beach. Because we were forbidden from venturing inland before procuring a visa, they then insisted on helping us provision, and one man hiked five miles to the nearest village to do the shopping for us. After all we had heard about the legal rigmaroles and difficult attitudes of the Egyptian bureaucracy, the generous soldiers of Ras Banas were a happy find. The negative reports that had filtered down from other boats had probably come from the sort of people who must have had bad experiences wherever they went.
Hurghada, situated at the southern tip of the Gulf of Suez leading to the canal, had become our mecca, and it was also where we all planned to enter Egypt officially. Bidding each other fair winds and goodbye until then, Olivier and I sailed out with the Broad, then separated. We pressed north to Ras Toronbi as I prayed to my mainsail, “Please, last until Suez.” In the distance, more Egyptian soldiers on camels rode slowly over the sandy plains.
During the nights, when the wind died and we began to motor, the air was always thick with moisture. It collected on the mainsail, dribbled down along the boom’s groove and dripped on my head as my hands grasped the tiller and became numb with the engine’s vibrations. Tarzoon hated the rumbling monster and hid under a sail on the bow, as far from the noise as possible, leaving me alone and wet in the cockpit.
As the boats hugged the coastline, I stared endlessly at the progression of spooky grayish mountains that walled in the Red Sea; they looked ominous and arid, without a single blade of grass, and made me think that they might have been what inspired the ancient Pharaohs to build the pyramids. Almost every peak resembled a monstrous triangle, and the view was awesome enough to alleviate the tension of the next couple of days while we waited for the antagonistic winds to return. Sleeping in fitfully short intervals, Olivier and I tried to keep watch for each other, but it was impossible to relax with land and its perils so close.
Finally, Varuna and Akka arrived at the coastal fishing village of Hurghada and anchored close to a nearby mosque wailing its usual litany in yet another Muslim country. That night, the cord on Olivier’s dinghy snapped, and the wind carried it off along with my favorite shoes, right back down the Red Sea from whence we came.
• • •
I had already been feeling anxious in Port Sudan, but now the shrinking timetable was making the situation serious. To arrive in New York before November 1987, I was going to cross the Atlantic during a high-risk period of storms, and the risk was increasing with every passing day on land. Thanks to our slow crawl up the unaccommodating Red Sea, there was no longer time to allow for snags from here on in, and even the usually calm Olivier was beginning to feel the urgency and worry for me. After allowing ourselves a few days in Hurghada, we fueled up, set out through the reef-speckled entrance to the Strait of Glubal and recommenced tacking up the 200 miles of the narrow bottlenecked Gulf of Suez.
The first day whipped us back with its relentless winds, and before nightfall we had only covered 10 miles to a minimal anchorage behind a reef. The next day we inched another 10 miles up the wind tunnel and crept into the horseshoe shaped sandbanks of Tawila Island, still in the Strait, and took shelter there for a day until the wind died down.
It was at Tawila that we walked along the virgin beaches for the last time, following shell tracks on the sparkling sand. Never again, I thought sadly, would I dinghy up to Varuna after a morning of idyllic beauty to see her pivoting slowly at anchor on waters mirroring her elegant shape. From here on in, the Mediterranean ports would have to be pit stops, and besides, the marine life in that sea was reputedly choking from all the pollution. Once we had passed through the Suez Canal, an entire way of life would be overshadowed by the commercialism of Europe. Beyond the canal were the continent of Europe, my final passages and home.
The next morning dawned calm, and we motored out of the anchorage until my engine overheated and a fuel line burst, sending up clouds of black smoke. Olivier came back and towed Varuna 5 miles to the next anchorage, where we tried to effect some temporary repairs.
The last two nights, after alternating between motoring and sailing, I pulled ahead of Akka in a zombified state, passing the eerie sight of oil rigs propped up like boxes on stilts all over the gulf; the flames from the huge burn-off flares lit up the night in a rosy glow. The lights flickered, reflecting against Varuna’s white deck, while I fought to stay awake, keeping an eye on Akka’s solitary light behind. Overhead, an unseen Scheherazade pulled black chiffons of cloud across the heavens.
The last day, while I was down below making a cup of coffee, Varuna, after tacking normally almost every hour for the previous day and a half, tacked on her own. That had never happened before and I hurried up on deck to see what was the matter. The Monitor was still attached to the tiller and I didn’t see anything that could have gone wrong, so, tacking the boat, I reset the self-steering, whereupon we tacked again. Leaning over the aft pulpit on my stomach to scrutinize the self-steering more closely, I saw the problem and it couldn’t have been worse.
The most critical part of the mechanical system, the steering paddle, had broken off just above the emergency lanyard intended to keep it attached in the event of such a mishap. Cursing, I threw on the engine and motored back on a reciprocal course, peering at the surface of the water. Losing that piece meant a major setback and an endless wait in Egypt for a spare to arrive, as I didn’t have another. The Monitor was my invaluable crew, tirelessly relieving me of the chore of steering the boat, and the thought of going to sea without it was unimaginable. What a relief it was to see the errant part floating on the water several hundred feet back! I scooped it up and my seafaring future was set back in focus.
Akka sailed up alongside and I told Olivier what had happened. Unable to improvise a repair, I told him that I would have to hand-steer the rest of the way. �
��Listen, Tania,” he called back across the water, “we’re almost at the last available anchorage. I think I can make it, but do you want to stop for the night?” We hadn’t slept for thirty hours; however, if we continued onward, we would arrive around three the next morning.
“No, let’s just get this over with.”
Resisting the temptation of some rest and a decent meal, we carried on, fueled by the resolution to leave the Red Sea behind as soon as humanly possible. And so, at 3:00 A.M. on June 14, Varuna’s engine puttered around the immense tankers awaiting transit in Port Suez and up to the small-boat anchorage. After dropping the hook and making sure everything was secure, I rowed over to Akka and melted onto a bunk. Olivier threw a blanket over me and within moments we both drifted into the sleep of the dead. The despised Red Sea was now a memory.
• • •
Two oversized boxes from my father were waiting in Suez, stuffed with the new mainsail, a masthead light, an Autohelm electronic steering device, five-minute casseroles, potato and Chinese rice dishes, bags of candies and chocolate, books, letters and a flashlight. What a relief it was to see that my letter from the Sudan had arrived on time! The morning after arriving, I joyfully dug through the bounty of necessities and treats. We hired the agent required in Suez to do the paperwork, and Abdul Manam Asukar was so affable that he straightened out all our canal formalities in record time, ran around getting my Monitor’s paddle welded back into place and even insisted on taking our laundry to get cleaned. His wife, Asma, and his daughter, Didi, invited us home for a dinner of Cornish hens and hummus, making us feel like welcome family guests, rather than just some more transitting sailors paying for a service.
Several days later, Olivier and I had rehabilitated Varuna’s fuel lines and changed Akka’s filters. We replenished my depleted tool supply and the boats were ready to make the transit. Dean and Faye had arrived belatedly because of the Broad’s ancient engine, which was due for retirement, and together we all went out for a last dinner. They had to get their engine fixed before leaving for Port Said, which probably would take a while, so it seemed we were destined to pass in the night. Anyway, Faye said, she was desperate to see a hairdresser and they wanted to visit Cairo. So, promising to write, we wished each other luck, and after yet another sad goodbye, returned to the boats. Drifting off to sleep that night, I thought I wanted to be just like them at sixty, carefree on the ocean, living as best they could one day at a time.