by Rita Pomade
I found one that I liked better.
“No good,” she snapped. “Commercial.”
The Tai Tai paid for our purchase, an incredible act of generosity from a woman who counted every penny and didn’t trust her fortune to anyone, not even banks. She marched out of the store, called a taxi and got into the front seat with the spiritual statue.
“Matsu rides in front,” she said as she settled in and seated the statue on her lap. “This Matsu asleep a long time. We go temple to have her eyes opened. I bring you Matsu when she wakes.”
Matsu stayed in the temple for a month and was returned to us the day the boatyard launched the Santa Rita into the Danshui River.
Chapter 7
PERILS OF THE FORMOSA STRAIT
Summer 1981: From Taiwan To Hong Kong
There is but a plank between man and eternity.
— THOMAS GIBBONS
The same day we launched the Santa Rita into the Danshui River, we moved aboard and started the preparations for our departure. Leaving Jonah in charge of the yacht, Bernard and I took a bus to Kaohsiung, a port city located in the southwest of the island, to buy equipment. Kaohsiung dismantled old cargo ships for their steel, and the boatyard told us we could find everything that we needed there for a good price.
We bought a life raft and an old fashioned bomb-shaped log to drag behind the yacht to measure distance — all from salvaged ships. We also found a good supply of second-hand sea charts at bargain prices. Bernard discovered a discarded dinghy along the shore of the Danshui while the Santa Rita was being built, so that was one less major purchase to think about. But it needed an outboard engine. Browsing among the second-hand stuff, Bernard unearthed an old Seagull, the type of engine you start by pulling a string.
“It looks like a piece of junk,” I said.
“It’s a good engine,” Bernard replied. “British made. They used Seagulls all through the Second World War.”
“Can’t we get something that starts with a key? I don’t like having to pull a string.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Maybe,” I mumbled. “I’m not so sure.”
I spent most of my time working on provisions — covering eggs with Vaseline to extend their shelf life, burying bay leaves in dry goods to impede weevils — to little avail as I was to find out, and buying fresh produce to store in a net on deck. We had no fridge, so any small trick to keep our vegetables from wilting was crucial. As a personal luxury, I made my first foray into Tien Mou, the upscale sector of Taipei, and picked up several small jars of instant coffee, that cost triple what they did back home.
Bernard gimballed a two-burner Coleman camping stove, so that it would remain stable regardless of the inclination of the boat. His setting it on hinges to oscillate with the axis of the boat meant I wouldn’t have to worry about pots falling off the burners when the Santa Rita heeled. Since the stove didn’t lend itself to elaborate cooking, I didn’t have to invest much in kitchen equipment. I did, however, invest a lot of time in figuring out nutritional one-dish meals that weren’t boring or too time-consuming to prepare.
We spent the evenings getting a feel for our new space. I relished the fact that I was finally home after spending over a year moving from place to place and living in ramshackle flats. Everything here was suited to my needs and taste — the compact lockers with a place for everything, the efficient, user-friendly galley, the separate cabins with comfortable berths, and two bathrooms. It didn’t matter that the bathrooms were the size of broom closets, where you had to sit on the toilet to use the tiny hand shower. Water was a limited resource, and we’d sponge bathe for the most part anyway. I kept stroking the teak interior. It felt like butter.
One evening we heard a dull, persistent thumping on the side of the hull.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Jonah bolted up the steps before us and was leaning over the stanchion lines by the time we came on deck.
“Pigs,” he shouted.
The three of us stared, transfixed. Dozens of bloated pigs bobbed by us, their backs half under water, their stiff legs stuck straight up in the air.
Bernard broke the silence. “Looks like the rainy season started early. It’s flooding the banks, taking some of the livestock. We may have a wet crossing.”
That night I lay in the berth and listened to the tap, tap, tapping of the pigs. Normally, what I’d seen would keep me up all night, but the movement of the water and the gentle tapping of the pigs lulled me to sleep.
Finally, in April 1981, with Guan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy, looking down on us from her mountain perch above the river and Matsu, the sea goddess of protection, secured on board, we were ready to motor down the Danshui to the Keelung harbour in southeastern Taiwan. Keelung faced the China Sea and was the departure point from where we would set sail to Hong Kong.
Escorting us to Keelung aboard the Santa Rita was a Taiwanese soldier. Our yacht, having been officially launched, was now considered a foreign vessel. It was a requirement by the government that a foreign vessel in transit through Taiwanese water needed a military presence. Our assigned soldier, terrified of being on water, clung to the mast. The movement of the yacht made him seasick, and he threw up on deck. We watched him closely to make sure he didn’t do anything rash that could hurt him or the yacht. In his rush to leave us, he forgot his cap, a souvenir I still possess.
On our first morning, tied along the concrete walkway of the Keelung harbour, I stumbled almost naked and half-asleep into the galley to boil water for coffee. I was shocked awake by a dozen squatting men peering at me through the portholes with unblinking curiosity. Half-smiling my acknowledgement of their presence, I pounced on the small curtains that we had installed over the portholes and closed them. The curtains were a last minute decision. I was now grateful that we went for them.
In spite of my “monkey in a cage” introduction to the people of Keelung, I managed to overcome my initial embarrassment and befriend some of the locals. Our willingness to struggle with their language ingratiated us to them, and they responded with good-humoured appreciation.
A local artist asked us if he could explore aboard. “Ke yi/ bu ke yi (can/ can’t)?” he asked.
“Ke yi (can),” Bernard responded.
In Mandarin there’s no word for yes or no. The verb is repeated. If you add bu, it means no; if you don’t add bu, it means yes.
I listened to Bernard’s response, his delivery perfect, and wished he had tried to learn more of the language. The artist thanked us with a pen and ink drawing of Bernard that now hangs in my home.
The Japanese had invaded Taiwan in 1895, and held on to the country for the next 50 years. Although they left behind a lot of destruction and bad memories, they also left behind the secret of the best Japanese food ever. We took pleasure in our evening outings, gulping down freshly caught tuna sashimi and hand-rolled sushi specials with a splash of wasabi and soy sauce — all the while listening to Jonah test his impressive knowledge of Mandarin. I’ve eaten a lot of Japanese food since, but nothing as good as the fare we found in the in the local stalls along the Keelung harbour. Good memories amplify the pleasure of recalled sensations, especially when they’re associated with happy times. For the three of us Keelung was a happy time.
Keelung opened the door to another memory, triggered when I spot a lone horse or cow in sunlit green pasture. I travel back in time to the bridge that connects the port city to the countryside. I’m standing on the bridge and watch two men and three women move through a wet rice field like actors in a slow motion film. The graceful, rhythmic flow of their movements reminds me of movies I’ve seen shot underwater.
In the midst of the field, a huge water buffalo stands motionless. Its dark brown coat looks painted against the brilliant green of the rice field. A tiny bird with toothpick-thin legs moves across its back pecking here and there. That scene of total integration of man, beast, and earth stopped time for me. I felt outside my body. Yet
every cell in me was imprinted. For such moments, I don’t need a photograph. A scene, an object, a touch will do.
When I came out of my reverie and looked toward the city, I could see the Santa Rita tied to the pier in the harbour. I wondered at how she had come into existence from nothing but a soup of chemicals. I felt an overwhelming pride of ownership — then tripped over my feet. Bruised as I was, I took it as a good lesson. There’s a time for musing and a time for paying attention. We can’t carry both at the same time. It was something to remember for our voyage.
I didn’t have to remember long. Tied along the pier near us was a fat-bellied yacht, looking more like a chunky house than a sailboat. She was the pride of George and Marlene, a retired couple from London. They were about to make their maiden voyage to Hong Kong, but had never done long distance sailing before.
“Would you like to join us?” George asked. “We could use the help.”
Of course, we’d join them. A flight back to Taipei wasn’t that long, and it would be good to have a trial run with another couple before making our own crossing. The Formosa Strait had a reputation for being unpredictable, and I had never sailed except for those few hours on Lake Champlain. Jonah was happy to take charge of the Santa Rita while we were gone.
Towards nightfall on the first day out, the sea turned ugly. Below deck, water started to seep through the floorboards. It meant the bilge was already flooded. George ran to turn on the electric bilge pump, but it didn’t work. The yard where they built their yacht had forgotten to clean the sawdust. It clogged the pump. We’d have to bail if we didn’t want to sink.
“What do you want to do?” Bernard asked. “We can bail and try to make it to Hong Kong or we can go back to Keelung.” Hong Kong was a five-day sail, but yachts were warned not to return to Taiwan because of its war with mainland China.
George looked bewildered. “I don’t know. Let me go to the head and think.”
Ten minutes later George was still in the head and water was creeping up.
Bernard asked Marlene if they had any buckets.
“Three,” she said.
“Get them, and we’ll start bailing.”
I was stationed below deck. Marlene was at the top of the companionway ready to receive the buckets. Bernard was by the stanchion lines so that he could toss the water overboard. George eventually left the toilet and quietly joined the bucket brigade. He never said what he wanted to do.
Marlene panicked. Each time she passed me the empty bucket, she threw it, often hitting me in the head. Her aim became wilder as her hysteria grew.
She’s going to kill me, I thought.
“Look, Marlene,” I shouted from below. “We’ve got to eat. Didn’t you buy string beans before we left? Why don’t you start preparing them?” I sat her down at the galley table with the bag of string beans and put a knife in her hands. “Just concentrate on getting the ends off and the beans in the pot.”
For the next half hour she sat at the table pulling strings from the beans. She looked like a mechanical doll as she methodically worked her way through the bag. Fear and focused activity can’t take up space in the brain at the same time. I’d have to remember that. After an hour of bailing, it became clear that too much water was coming in for us to reach Hong Kong.
“We’ve got to turn around,” Bernard told George.
“No, we’re going to Hong Kong,” George insisted. “They won’t let us back into Taiwan.”
“We’ll take our chances,” Bernard said.
“No, we’re going on.”
Bernard took the helm and turned us around. George was in a daze. I don’t think he had any idea what Bernard had done. After a bit of squabbling with the harbour police, we entered Keelung as an emergency.
It was a brief sail, but I had learned two important things. I don’t panic easily, and it wasn’t going to be an easy passage to Hong Kong.
Bernard was now doubly cautious about checking to see that all our equipment worked. I was happy he had taken his time before picking the shipyard. Sometimes his thoroughness irritated me. But I was aware that it may also protect us.
A few days before we sailed for Hong Kong, two Frenchmen who had befriended Bernard in the shipyard came to Keelung to make the crossing with us. Each was building his own yacht and wanted to get a feel of the Formosa Strait. They had come to Taiwan with their wives and one had a young son. Neither of them had done much sailing, but we were pleased to have the extra hands. Crossing from Taiwan to Hong Kong was never an easy sail. Waves are short and choppy and the wind is erratic. Huge fishing trawlers and heavy junks clog the narrow passageway, and they’re a serious threat in fog. Constant watch was mandatory.
We spent two weeks provisioning and preparing for the departure. Now we waited patiently for the coast guard to board and clear our papers. Matsu, goddess of the sea and protector of sailors, was in a visible spot behind the settee in the salon with an offering of incense and oranges. We were certain she would garner goodwill and expedite our exit from the country. We were wrong.
The man in charge of the Coast Guard delegation gave us a sour look. “No good,” he said. He jabbed his finger at Matsu and shook his head. “Bu hau, no good,” he repeated. He then turned to his assistant and spoke in Mandarin while we waited nervously to see what we’d done wrong.
He pointed to Matsu again. “Too low,” he snapped. “No respect.” He was visibly agitated. “Must be higher.”
“Where do you think is a good place?” Bernard asked. He thought if he included the officer in the decision, he would show goodwill. In truth, to place Matsu in a proper position, we’d have had to raise the roof of the cabin.
Satisfied with our display of embarrassment, the outraged official softened his hard stance. With barely a look at our papers, he waved us on our way.
Within an hour of leaving the port, I already felt like a fly in a blender. The Strait, whipped by a strong northern wind, shook us in every direction. Jonah was instantly seasick and spent most of the voyage with his arms wrapped around the toilet. I was relieved that I didn’t get seasick. I spent most of the time trying to prime the camping stove and boiling endless kettles of water for coffee, my butt braced against the galley’s counter and my feet wedged against a narrow locker built beneath the stove. By the time the water boiled, the next meal had to be prepared. I hardly left the galley except for the occasional trip to the head, where I exchanged places with Jonah for the briefest moment.
On the third day, a dense fog rolled in. Our crew lay huddled in their berths, cold, tired, and scared. They refused to come on deck. Bernard pulled the younger of the two men out of his berth. “Listen,” he shouted, “I need sleep or we won’t make it.” He half carried the guy up the companionway and stood him in front of the helm. The wouldbe sailor put his hands around the helm but stared, frozen, into the distance. Instead of holding the course, he turned the yacht in circles. His circling caused the cable from the log trailing behind the boat to get caught in the propeller. The Santa Rita stopped moving.
We were in the shipping lane and could hear the engines of trawlers and junks passing nearby, but we couldn’t see them. Even worse, we knew they couldn’t see us. We were in a fog so thick it was hard to say if it was day or night. We were waiting road kill for one of those monsters. Bernard turned on the VHF radio to contact the big ships to let them know we were out there. It was the first time we used it. It didn’t work.
Bernard turned to me. “I’ve got to free that propeller.” He grabbed a knife, tied a rope around his waist, and jumped into the sea.
I heard the splash, but couldn’t see him at all. I went below deck and waited. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. My hands were trembling. I heard an engine close by and could make out the shadow of a fishing trawler passing within inches of the porthole I was looking through. I believe my heart stopped at that moment.
Bernard couldn’t have been over the side more than ten minutes, but it felt longer than our entire
journey so far. When he surfaced and climbed aboard, I wanted to hug him, but he was all business.
“I couldn’t cut the cable.” he said. “I had to unwrap it from around the prop. That log’s no good anyway, too big for our boat. I’ll pick up a smaller one in Hong Kong.”
Most of our navigational equipment came off of scrapped cargo ships. I wondered how many other pieces of equipment we’d have to replace. “What about the other equipment we bought in Kaohsiung?”
“We’ll see,” he said.
He looked concerned. The stuff we picked up there was cheap and perhaps a big mistake. But now wasn’t the time to talk about it.
Our crew slept a lot, but they were always up for meals and ate ravenously. I resented these two men who ate heartily, but contributed nothing. To keep the peace, I kept quiet. There was already enough tension aboard the yacht. Though Bernard had coaxed the older one into taking the helm for a while, I had more fear of what he might do than what the weather might have in store.
At sunrise on the fifth day, the fog lifted, and Hong Kong appeared before us like a mirage. The city rose straight out of the sea. Its towering skyscrapers looked as though they were suspended on water. I was awe-struck by what seemed like a magical kingdom rising from the seabed, and relieved that we had arrived safely.
As we sailed into Aberdeen Harbour, Bernard offered the two men berths until they flew back to Taipei. I said nothing, but I was fuming. I wanted them off the boat as soon as we moored. I was going to say something when we were alone, but it wasn’t necessary. As soon as we tied up along the pier, they scrambled off the yacht and disappeared.
Meanwhile, I felt pretty good about myself on my maiden voyage. I didn’t get seasick. I stayed cool and alert in a dangerous situation. And I could even handle a camping stove that had to be primed on a rolling sea. The crew never missed a meal. I waited for Bernard to tell me how well I’d done.
Instead of congratulating me, he pulled away. The romance of the dream was suffering the growing pains of day-to-day reality. We were locked in tension, exacerbated by our small container of a home in an unfamiliar culture, and the fickleness of the sea. I not only had to learn how to survive physically in my new lifestyle, a reality I had not seriously prepared for, but I was going to have to learn how to survive emotionally.