Of Foreign Build (19 page)

Dad still hadn’t said a word. He simply nodded. Nervously, I made the call, worried about the ambulance finding us, as we were in an odd location compared to our address.

This terrifying occurrence happened many times, at least once a week before the doctors realised it was more than indigestion. As Mum deteriorated and became yellow with jaundice, the ambulance drivers started to grill her. They were frustrated with what they believed was a minor ailment. Dad and I were at our wits end.

Thankfully Noel piped up, ‘You are here to take the woman to hospital. Please just do your job.’

The following day the doctor told an extremely tired Dad and me that kidney stones had caused a blockage, causing the jaundice.

‘Your mum is lucky,’ he said gravely, ‘in these situations the best case is normally intensive care.’ It took a while for this to sink in; we found out that when stones get stuck and block pipes, the body’s poisons often cause death.

Mum is one of the kindest, gentlest persons I know, so I was quite amused when she became an awful patient. I would often tell her off for being so rude to helpful doctors. Despite the initial lack of correct diagnosis, the staff at the hospital was brilliant. I always admire these people; you have to be someone special to do this kind of work.

Dad and I became tired, and work slowed a little. Dad wanted to retire. He had worked all his life, giving his family a wonderful upbringing; it was his turn.

They started to receive details on houses for sale in a small town where they used to live. They wanted a bungalow, a small house so their children (me!) wouldn’t keep coming home to stay. We were all frank with each other, and we all loved each other dearly, but really didn’t need to live together anymore.

Mum was in hospital, and Dad wanted to view a bungalow in a street he had always liked. We snuck off, not telling anyone, and viewed the place. We both loved it and enjoyed telling Mum at the hospital visit that afternoon of our antics. Dad visited Mum every day in hospital, and I visited almost every day. Mum had done so much for me in my life that I had to see her to make sure she knew what was happening in the outside world, and that I cared. I know if I had been in hospital, she would have made the effort for me.

They purchased the first bungalow they saw (after viewing other properties too) and are incredibly happy, which in turn makes me exceptionally happy.

After almost two years in England turning the boat into a large garden gnome, working, buying, and renovating a house, we decided it was time to go.

‘Why are you leaving?’ One of my nephews asked.

My heart broke as his bewildered face was tinged with fear; it was the type of fear youngsters instinctively have in a situation they cannot understand. I could only hug him tight. ‘I don’t know. I want to go and have new adventures, but I’m sad that I have to say goodbye to people I love, like you.’ Knowing that he’d never understand, because I didn’t, I added, ‘I just want to see places – something inside me just makes me keep moving.’

It was now June 2003 and launch day. In little time,
Mariah
was crane lifted in the air and swiftly secured onto the low-loader. By mid-afternoon, we were in Southampton waters, gently eased in by the mobile crane and relieved that there were no leaks. Feeling a little out of practice, we started to manoeuvre to our berth. Noel, Dad, and I were ready with ropes, fenders, and hearts in mouth; the engine started, and we eased backwards. Without warning, the engine stopped. Now we were totally at the whim of the wind. We slowly glided towards two pristine boats. With limbs flailing, voices wailing and fending off, we just managed to avoid colliding. With a look of despair, the marina staff towed us safely into our berth. With pink faces, we admitted to leaving the fuel cock off!

The next day we moved into a different berth; this time all went well, which boosted our confidence. After a lay-in and a hearty breakfast, Noel and my Dad worked at putting the mast back together while, I worked on trying to find a home for all our possessions, which lay in a hideous heap within the boat and on the deck. Trying to safely store every possession, tool, and spare part on a thirty-three foot yacht that was eleven feet at its widest was no mean feat. Attached to the inside of every cupboard was a list of each item that was stored within it. This may sound a bit pedantic, but in an emergency, it was a godsend. By 4:30 pm, we were exhausted. The last two months had been filled with fifteen-hour days, trying to get to this point.

On 12 July 2003, with a good weather forecast, we left Southampton. As it was a weekday, there was not much traffic. The channel was well buoyed and the tide carried us along nicely through the Needles (the narrow channel between Isle of Wight and Southampton). After feeling a little like we were in a washing machine, we were spat out safely into the open sea. For the next six hours a westerly wind blew. We were heading west, so it was a bumpy ride, which wasn’t much fun while we were trying to recover our sea legs.

Eventually, the promised wind-change came, and we took off sailing pleasantly at over six knots. Thirty-three hours later, we made it to Falmouth, with not one problem and a fat-cheeked moon to light our way. Falmouth is the second largest natural harbour in the world after Sydney. The beauty of the English countryside and the rolling patchwork fields encompassing the harbour was breathtaking

We could anchor here. Once
Mariah
was settled we went to town to sample the local brew. We felt intoxicated with boat stupor. The bar was swaying with us and only another pint seemed to help.

After a rest, we provisioned for the next leg, destination Portugal; that meant crossing the notorious Bay of Biscay.

But there, in Falmouth, we sat. It was nice, but winter was coming, and there was all that wine in little Spanish taverns just waiting for little ol’ us. We had conveniently forgotten the pain-in-the-arse factor of waiting for good weather. Fortunately, we hadn’t forgotten the pain-in-the-arse factor of sailing in bad weather. So we sat, figuring the electoral roll would have our names soon. Mushrooms started to sprout from behind our ears, and our speech was starting to drawl: ‘do yew liik or parschty then, Cornish parschty yew canna beat it mind’ and ‘Parschty und a pint, sets yew oop fa life it doz’.

Yes, we sat for a while.

I had two choices:

(1) Apply safety in numbers theory (wake up Noel) and

(2) Make like an ostrich.

Crack,
lightning split the night with fierce ferocity. The Bay of Biscay was living up to its tempestuous name.

‘Wake up,’ I called to Noel. Hearing reassuring mutters calmed me down. Company is comforting when on watch.

Eventually, all was still and the lightning had moved off into the distance. In contrast to the angry weather, dolphins gracefully torpedoed alongside, a joyful sight that always generates a broad smile.

Amid gentle breezes and clear skies, we arrived intact at Rias de Muros, España (just north of Portugal). We anchored in the bay of this small, untouched town. With little tourist trade, the locals did not speak any English. We dinghied ashore, aware that we would finally be able to improve our non-existent Spanish.

Nearby shops made life easy to stock up. By using a series of signs we created, we communicated in a comical, clumsy way. The local butcher sold an array of meats. Unfortunately, Spanish for lamb did not exist in our vocabulary. Noel, the last person on Earth to be embarrassed, put his two index fingers on the top of his head, in the place of horns, pawed the ground and tried to make sheep noise. We didn’t want goat and the difference between goat and sheep evaded Noel’s hysterical miming. I think we ended up with beef that night, but to this day, I bet those giggling girls in the butcher’s shop remember, ‘That crazy Australian guy.’

In the bay, other cruisers were enjoying the peaceful anchorage and with local beer that was cheaper than water, we thought we would stop for some time.

Four days earlier, with heavy hearts, we had watched England recede. A sad farewell to friends, family and a beautiful, historic country; it was time to look forward, not back. We skipped down the Spanish coast, enjoying the small villages that were delightfully void of swarming tourists.

In September, we arrived at the river entrance to Lisbon. We survived a week in the capital where we obtained our USA visas.

There was thirty knots blowing outside as we sheltered behind the suburb of Caiscais, just a few kilometres from the heart of Lisbon. It was in Caiscais we experienced what it would be like to be a rubber band.

The wind created inevitably large waves on the windward coast. This, we happily reasoned, was fine. We were snug and rather smug on the lee of the headland. To quote from Abdul the poor quality carpet salesman, ‘Nature, like my carpets, does not a vacuum like.’ Nor does she like smarty-pant yachties lying comfortably in their bunks. Put the two axioms together and the result thus created? A two-metre swell rounded the Cape, entered the bay, and rolled with great stealth and accuracy, seeking out its prey. Contact! A perfect hit, right smack up the backside of the peaceful, if somewhat apprehensive, yachting fraternity. All things nautical were propelled fifty metres forward. The lonely swell, having completed its task, continued on its merry way. Leaving the vessels side-on to the ever present thirty knots of wind. Momentarily, the crew below thought that this okay, as there was relief from the constant grinding noise from their over taxed ground tackle… until windy and thirty of his mates decided to shove all the boats back where they belong. This was all very well, and things proceeded along without complaint or hindrance from any of the principals involved.

‘It all seems so jolly peaceful,’ one crew member was heard to say. Peace reigned supreme – for about twenty seconds. Then there was emitted a lot of horrible stretching noises, timbers complaining, and a general feeling of mal de mer prevailed due to stomachs protesting their being lurched violently from their bunks. What followed was the symphony of snapping ropes, bending steel, and fraying tempers. After five hours of this cycle repeating itself every sixty seconds, we eventually saw the sense in weighing anchor during the dark and wee hours and seeking out the relative solace of the open sea. Sines was our next town, where peace reigned once again.

In Portugal, I became an auntie again. Samantha Louise Lawrence arrived on 1 September. I was overjoyed, but a little sad. I ached to hold my new niece. Back on board, every blessed moving part seemed to have worn out while
Mariah
lay neglected at Shenley. Our motor for the dinghy would not start. Our anchor winch had retired. The camera had seized up. Noel had scraped his last vegemite and peanut butter jars and was becoming mutinous. (Portugal is void of these gastronomical delights.) Above all, I had my second grey hair.

Portugal’s history, based on the cross, had become my crossroad. I was at a crux, pulled in every direction. I longed for the old world in England, to celebrate another generation, but I liked the new world and its excitement of voyaging to the Americas. Do we cross the Atlantic? Do we head home? We could see loved ones, make repairs, earn funds, and buy vegemite. Making decisions could be the hardest part.

Incidentally, we liked Portugal. We explored old Porto, an optical feast famous for producing port. Its narrow streets hug a wide shimmering river that is Porto’s centre. Crammed with smug apartments and toppling slums, scrawny beggars wailed while blinkered, suited office workers clip clopped by. Cool stone arches crossed old cobbled streets. Drugs were openly available near respectable shops. Inside Franciscan chapels, wood-carved statues of beheaded martyrs and arrow pierced torsos of bloodied saints were on gruesome display. Visible bones laid in the catacombs, hence our excuse to inspect the winery and their cool, oak vat storage cellars. We were doing some serious thinking and hoping someone would find some vegemite, hankies, and hair-dye and send them our way.

Do you remember the game show
It’s a Knockout
? We were the latest contestants.

Game 1: locate supermarket with askew map.

Game 2: guess which employee is truthful, ‘Yes, we close soon’, ‘No, we stay open.’

Game 3: do not vomit when passing the butcher’s counter, which displayed skinned goat’s head complete with teeth, tongue, and bulging eyes.

Game 4: traverse beach, taking on hideous gait to prevent burning feet, splitting bags, and sinking.

Game 5: keep the shopping dry during dinghy crossing (impossible).

Game 6: perform miracles by finding space for supplies on an already bulging boat.

In the spirit of jocular games, we were great entertainment for the locals. Dressed for the evening, rowing ashore in a tatty little wooden boat, we managed to cock-up our beach landing with momentous brilliance. Simultaneously, we jumped out and the dinghy pinged up and away from us. I sat in the salty, sea. Noel lay down and chatted with the crabs two feet under. Through our tears of laugher, we noticed the beach dwellers were bent double watching us. Without further ado we wrung ourselves out and dripped our way to the bar.

Sines, Portugal is fifty nautical miles south of Lisbon and became our hometown for a few weeks while a gale blew. We had made repairs and were fully provisioned. We now felt ready to venture onward.

Scientifically choosing our next destination (eeny meeny miny moe), we headed for Morocco. From the corner of the Algarve (a place we didn’t wish to visit), at midnight we fired up our laptop, tuned into a weather frequency, and waited. A few minutes after midnight, a clear weather report came through on our screen. We fancied visiting Madeira, but the weather showed gale force winds over there. So, what about the Canaries? Well, winds were strong there, too. The only place that looked safe was south east of us. We studied our charts: ‘Casablanca it is,’ announced Noel.

Safely in Casablanca, we soon learned that traversing the dilapidated jetty took SAS training. Thereafter, the four-kilometre walk through the lonesome industrial port felt ideal for an ambush.

In town, vivid Bougainvillea tangled its way through the evil barbed wire. Mercedes and the Hilton mixed with hawkers of fake goods, peanut vendors, load bearers, beggars, dust, and chrome; it all created a nose-curling hum.

Conversely, genial natives emerged in the vibrant nightlife, making the journey worthwhile. The harbour was incredibly sheltered, although anchoring between the shipwrecks was a little hard. Our end of the mighty port felt like the Mary Celeste. But we soon found a little man, in an even littler hut ready to ‘watch over’ our boat. He organised diesel and water for us, and for a few dollars a day enabled us to venture into town without coming home to a robbed boat.

Traipsing through the port, the interior became more heavily guarded, and soon we were asked who we were and what on earth we were doing.

Checking in was easy, officials in town stamped our passports and weren’t interested in seeing the boat or performing any further checks. Wandering through the port like lost souls did us a favour, as the guards would stop a worker in his or her car and demand they take us into town. We found this highly embarrassing, although useful – it was a long trek. The people in the car, it seemed, were told not to take money. Indeed, none of them would take our offers. They were unhappy to be inconvenienced, but did as they were told by the guards and took us into town. The return journey was easier, as the taxis were allowed in to take us right back to the boat.

The next port south was Agadir, and it was incredibly touristy. We preferred exploring the locals’ domain and made our way to the markets. The Souk was a heaving sea of bodies flowing amidst the alluring and dangerous shores of the stallholders. Never had we seen such a collective frenzy. We bargained for camel skin gifts; it was a hard business. Vendors thrust leather goods, carved wood, exotic spices, and mysterious vegetables in our faces, while the throng drove us on. Our senses were relentlessly yanked and stirred. It was an experience all at once bewildering, intimidating, and exhilarating.

Sucked dry of dirhams and battle weary, we plucked the traders off our sleeves and retreated. Hailing a cab, we cried, ‘McDonalds.’ Calming down, instead we made for the Kasbah (old fort). It was sparse, but the view was breathtaking. It gave us time and space to recover and enjoy the twinkling sequins of the city lights.

Completing the trip, our friendly cab driver tried to fiddle the fare. We’d learned long ago to negotiate and agree to the fare prior to stepping in a taxi. It was with enormous relief we arrived back at
Mariah
, our home and sanctuary. However, she now smelt of pungent baked camel skin. Apparently the smell grows on you, but then so do spots.