Of Foreign Build (2 page)

Losing control and almost smashing up a fifty-five thousand dollar, ten tonne boat was quite exhausting. At the time, Noel and I had owned
Mariah
, our new home, for just forty-eight hours. My knowledge of sailing was on a par with my knowledge of moon landings. My first twenty-four hours at sea had been hair-raising. The thoughts of smooth seas, full sails, and clear skies were viciously blown away and replaced with a three-dimensional lurching, bumping, bucking, and gyrating hell. In an instant, I was all at once in disbelief, scared, and amazed. We had just one inch of timber between us and several miles of deep, dark, cold salty water. How
Mariah
remained in one piece astounded me.

We set off on an overnight trip to Brisbane from Tin Can Bay. Bouncing out into the ocean I sat in the corner of our small cockpit and fought the growing nausea. Looking out into the dark, threatening sky I noticed the fingers of vivid lightning sparking closer. Noel was on deck, and when he returned to the cockpit I found the energy to look up into his face just in time to watch him throw up over the side.

‘Just great,’ I muttered. Swallowing my fear, I was able to string a couple of words together.

‘Is it always this rough?’ I asked. Noel swallowed heavily.

‘Actually, this isn’t rough,’ he said as he wiped spittle from his chin. I spent the night whimpering in the corner, thoroughly regretting the whole boat idea. Neither of us slept.

As dawn tickled the sky, we reached Brisbane River, awash with relief to be in flat, protected water. As we puttered along, watching the city slowly awaken, the flaming sun struck purple on the tall city buildings.

That wasn’t so bad,
I thought.

Approaching the small marina, Noel had given me clear instructions on how to handle the lines. This was my first attempt at helping to dock the boat. I leapt off and managed to hold on to both the fore and aft lines. I was rather pleased with myself. Then Noel piped up, ‘I’m coming in on a bit of an angle, just chuck the ropes back on board, I’ll come around again.’ I shrugged and threw the lines back on the deck.
This is easy
, I thought, standing safely on a jetty. Feeling proud as punch, with a little happy-smile, I looked up to see my new boat and my new husband careering down the river, sideways. Noel stood in the cockpit reflecting the situation quite well by pulling tufts of hair out of his head. The four-knot current whisked them both away.

With a muttered expletive, I raced along with them as best I could on land while watching my home and husband teeter on the edge of disaster. The jetty I stood on was locked, and I literally dragged a half-naked man from his boat, demanding him to unlock the gate immediately. Running along the water’s edge, I could see my new husband and new boat heading for a rather large concrete wall. Noel grabbed a post and managed to tie up under the watchful eyes of several cruisers and half the population of Brisbane city that stood by to watch the three-ring-circus. I had caught up with
Mariah
by then, and as Noel grabbed a post alongside the concrete wall, I took the opportunity to hop back on board. Noel nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t seen me get back on board and did a double take at my presence and said, ‘How’d you get here?’

Suddenly, several grinning, rather hairy men appeared from other boats in an array of dinghies and offered to tow us onto the pilings; they had been watching the display of how not to go cruising.

We couldn’t stay against the wall – the tide was rising rapidly. With some reluctance to hand ourselves back into the clutches of the current, we let go of our haven. Fellow cruisers valiantly tried to tow us in their rubber dinghies, but the small boats couldn’t get any purchase and
Mariah’s
ten tonnes pulled them back alongside us. Suddenly, we were heading side-on to a large, solidly embedded concrete piling. It felt as though it was going to go straight through the middle of our boat – which we had owned for less than two days.

‘Fend off,’ was screamed from somewhere, and we all did our best. The piling stopped us in our tracks, and the solid hull of double diagonal timber planks stayed in one piece, suffering superficial wounds only. With several hands scrabbling to tie us up, so we were no longer a menace within the tightly packed boats, we were finally safe. The breath I had been holding, for what felt like hours, could finally be released. On further inspection, we learned that a cush drive had sheered on the engine, which meant we had no forward or reverse propulsion. This chaos was the cause of our eleven o’clock beers that morning and my look back along the slightly frenzied winding path of my life to figure out why the hell I was there.

The purple dawn lights that stroked along the skyscrapers were now replaced by a brilliant white reflection of sun igniting glass. The Brisbane River was as calm as a koala, and after coming uncomfortably close to destroying our new boat, we were safely tied up to a piling; the adrenaline was now replaced with weary relief.

‘So, how long have you been sailing?’ Our saviour and newfound friend asked as we gratefully sipped a cool beer as if it contained life-saving properties.

I pointedly looked at my watch.

‘Oh, nearly twenty-four hours now.’ I expected sympathy and congratulations on surviving my introduction to life on board.

Instead, he smiled. ‘Welcome to sailing,’ he said, with not a hint of irony.

I decided to sit quietly for a while.

That summer in Brisbane, the temperature hovered around an uncomfortable thirty degrees, but the boating community was great, galloping fun. Tied between the pilings, boats from all over the world tugged against their lines while the city unfolded around us each morning. Each day the river ferries sliced past the moored boats while the botanical gardens received their regular drink from the sprinklers; the calming sights were all wrapped up in a delicious aroma of coffee from the glut of funky cafes.

Showers and laundry were part of the facilities, as was the dinghy dock. The manicured botanical gardens that stretched out along the banks were like our own, and the city was small enough to hold on to its charming character.

Kindred spirits would sit outside the brown brick shower block, on green peeling wooden benches, talking boats and gadgets. The dinghies gently rocked together and against the floating jetty. It was a quaint and peaceful existence all for about fifteen dollars (Australian) a week. Christmas came and went with an ‘Orphans in the Park’ party. Most people living on the river had left their family behind to break away from society or to simply take some time out to travel. We all congregated in the grassy gardens, making enough food to feed however many on each of our own boats, resulting in a huge banquet style feast. Silly presents were exchanged and daft games played. I revelled in my new life.

After just a few weeks, with the engine repairs complete, it was time to break free for a while. We enjoyed our time in Brisbane city, but the cruising community had its highs and lows. The incessant, conflicting advice became a bore. Noel had years of experience under his belt, but some cruisers would talk to us as if we were three-years-old. I was a beginner, but I didn’t need to be talked to as if I was a baby. I knew diddlysquat about boats, sailing, weather, and navigation: I soon found out that there is nothing some ‘old-hands’ enjoy more than a new fledgling to break in.

Some days I would be lectured at and smiled at condescendingly. ‘You’ll have to learn how to do the dishes in cold water,’ was one I remember well.
How would it be different
? I thought,
do the plates and cutlery behave differently in cold water?
Perhaps they complain.

One couple would frown at me when I said, ‘She’s a wooden boat.’

‘Timber,’ they’d say with a superior smile.

I now know that people were, in the main, trying to give me an idea of what to expect. I only saw it as them having the chance to highlight my ignorance.

Noel would placate my frustration. ‘It doesn’t matter if you call things orange marmalade, as long as we both call whatever it is the same name.’

Despite this, our time in Brisbane was one of our most memorable summers. We quickly made some lifelong friends and had one of the most social times of our lives.

Living on a boat is like stripping your life of several complications and adding a whole new different set. Once you’ve got a handle of this weird floating world, the new set of complications are exciting and rewarding. Firstly, forget any sort of luxuries. Of course, buckets of money would buy you anything you needed, but we’re talking reality here. Our reality was a thirty-three foot boat, which was eleven feet wide – not much room to start with.

Below we had a galley (the kitchen), which for a small boat was quite sizeable. Squeezed in was a small oven and two burners, which ran on gas, a tiny sink, and lots of midget size cupboards. We had a navigation table big enough to lay charts on, surrounded by equipment I had yet to learn how to use. The saloon was our lounge and held a fixed-in table, two ‘bunks’ (settees which doubled as our beds when at sea), and a small pot belly burner, which I thought we’d never use because I was not going anywhere that cold (time would prove me wrong, of course). It was agony to try and watch anything on our small TV, as swinging three-hundred-and-sixty degrees on anchor meant that the shows were more snow, lines, and fuzz than clear pictures. There was a loo, which was called the ‘head’ (apparently in the time before the loo was invented the crew used to do their business at the head of the boat, over the side). A small work-bench sat opposite the head, where some of our good clothes hung above. Lastly, there was the v-berth. The v-berth is the front pointy bit, shaped like a ‘v’ – this is where we slept when not at sea. The engine sat under the cockpit. We call the deck our veranda for no better reason than to pretend we are wealthy enough to have such a thing.

Noel soon became my best friend and a strong supporter when he saw signs of me becoming withdrawn and shy. He’d send me off to the chandlery on my own to buy the simplest of things.

I always thought that I could step into anything new and be able to do it straight away or without much effort. That thought was fading fast, and it was a little scary. I was enjoying part of my new independence, but I hated the fact that I didn’t know much about the nautical world and it would take a lot of time and effort to become proficient. I had fallen into the trap of becoming bored with the cruising life, as I didn’t understand my environment. I didn’t once think of enrolling in a course, or reading more on the subject. Everything was so new, so scary, so unknown, it turned me into a behavioural idiot.

Fortunately, Noel was patient with me and explained everything he was doing on the boat and why, soon he re-awakened my interest. I think I would have been a gibbering wreck in the corner, dribbling occasionally, if it wasn’t for Noel’s support.

Noel and I gelled on the boat, and we started to work well together. Initially, though, the cross co-habitation of an Aussie and a Brit meant we had one or two communication problems.

‘I’ve got a problem with my doobrie,’ I said one day and had, apparently, used that word a lot.

‘Okay, we’ll go to the quack,’ said Noel.

‘What?’

‘To check out ya plumbing,’ he explained.

‘What bloody plumbing?’ In despair, I took on the Aussie vernacular, ‘And what the hell’s a quack?’

‘Aren’t you having trouble with ya doobrie?’

‘I’m talking about this bowline knot doobrie you want tied.’ I had become exasperated.

‘Ahh, I always thought you meant girly stuff when you said doobrie,’ Noel said rather sheepishly.

‘Doobrie means anything,’ I explained through the laughter, ‘I just can’t remember the right word sometimes, so I say doobrie, same as thingamajig, dooffa, whatsaname – doobrie!’

Likewise, Noel would say, ‘Let’s get some snags,’ (sausages) and I would think, ‘Will it hurt?’ I soon became accustomed to the lazy Aussie language to a point where I considered myself bi-lingual, translating European English to Aussie English. I also became used to Noel referring to doctors as quacks.

We pried ourselves away from our secure haven in Brisbane and set off on an adventure in to Moreton Bay. The enormous area was littered with shallows, but had the luxury of flat water, the islands offering protection from any large curling waves and the pumping ocean swell. The engine was fixed, but my nerves still twanged with tension, there was so much to learn.

In calm weather, we enjoyed some sedate sailing.

I think I’m going to like this
, I thought.

We had time to play with sails, so I learned how to haul up the mainsail and reef it down to a smaller size. I played with the foresails, furling them in and out. Time, appointments, and structure were blissfully shed and forgotten.

As the evening crept up on us, we searched the charts for a suitable anchor site. Anchoring was yet another new experience, which meant I sat back and supposedly learned, while Noel ran around like a headless chicken doing umpteen jobs on a boat he hardly knew. As we approached our selected anchor site, we silently glided past another boat that had already anchored and was lying at a rather precarious angle. The tide had lowered and the boat was aground on the sand. ‘What a stupid thing to do,’ we both muttered.

We found our spot. The glassy sea was mellow and Noel put
Mariah
in neutral. As she eased to a leisurely stop, he raced up to the bow to release the anchor, which fell about a metre, stopping just above the water. After much jiggling and muttering, he managed to release the chain a bit further and the anchor hit the water, only to stop running out again. More jiggling, pulling, swearing, and about ten metres came out. Finally, Noel’s colourful language was enough to turn the air blue and his face red, and he managed to release enough chain for us to anchor securely.

‘Deppy,’ our creatively named depth sounder, was a bit reluctant to work for his new owners, but after deciphering the varying flashing numbers, we thought we had enough water beneath us. Noel checked the rest of the anchor chain below decks and found it to be in one big knot. The next two hours was spent untwisting the heavy, rusting links.

Dusk approached and the sun started her descent behind the flat seas; the soft blues and gentle yellows that are unique to Australia tinged our tired faces. The red wine and satisfaction of a successful day’s sailing cloaked us comfortably. Although the bay was calm and flat, I noticed that I could still feel the boat move beneath me. I could suddenly see why boats were referred to as a living thing; in the water they are always moving, sometimes like soft breaths, hardly noticeable, but nonetheless there.

As darkness started to envelope us in our contained heaven, Noel asked, ‘Does
Mariah
feel funny to you?’

With my two months experience, I tried to grasp what he was talking about.

‘Erm, no not really,’ I replied, a little perplexed.

Noel checked the depth sounder and then jumped up and down on deck. He ran from one side of the deck to the other.

Odd behaviour
, I thought, but let him get on with it; I was in the reliable company of a rather nice red.

With an embarrassed smile, tinged with a flicker of worry, he said, ‘We’re aground.’

I glanced back at the other boat that we had passed earlier that was sitting at an odd angle. Now, it was even further on its side, and I realised we had done exactly the same thing. ‘What happens now?’ I asked, the catch in my throat revealing my fear.

Noel explained that we would keep leaning over until the tide switched and rose back up.

Not too bad
, I thought.

But Noel went on to say that, hopefully there wasn’t a large rock beneath us that could puncture the hull as
Mariah’s
ten tonnes leant over!

We calculated another two hours of leaning further and further over, before the tide switched back and started to straighten us up. I filled a bucket of water and put it on the deck, marking the water level and watched as it changed. It was like watching the white dot on the TV after it is turned off.

Mariah
leant at an awkward angle. We waited patiently in our home that felt like a quirky fairground attraction with the floor leaning at a thirty-degree angle. At last, the water level on the bucket started to change direction and we felt ourselves being taken back upright. At midnight, the sand released us, and we re-anchored in deeper water. Neptune had not awakened to witness our mistake, leaving the water calm. Noel operated the electric anchor winch while I hovered at the end of our bed where the anchor chain bucket sat, and flaked out the chain to avoid more anchoring-knot problems next time. The chain came up cleanly and we moved forward about 200 metres, into slightly deeper waters and re-anchored.

That night we slept like the dead.

The following day I had clean forgotten everything. ‘I am never going to understand all of these ropes and what they do,’ I groaned in frustration, ‘and what’s worse, what they are all called!’

‘A sheet is a cotton thing you lie on!’ I said exasperated. ‘Oh no,’ I continued sarcastically, ‘it’s a rope with a specific purpose, just don’t ask me what!’

Who thought of all these esoteric names was what I wanted to know. However, it did start to sink in slowly. I still felt a little stupid, even with Noel’s understanding and patience in teaching a complete beginner. Some days were a real struggle. But I remember my elation on reading an email Noel had written to his brother: ‘Jack’s becoming quite the apprentice, changing filters and oil, soldering wires, helping me fit wander (the wind vane).’ It was this kind of support that kept me going.

We returned to our piling in the Brisbane River, and I started to embrace the simple way of self-sufficient life. Solar panels gave us power (with a little help from the engine). We purchased gas bottles every two to three months, we filled the water tanks via jerry cans, and sat on our little floating island away from the hassle of real life. We had no letterbox where small bits of paper with large numbers intruded into our sanctuary, sucking dry the bank account to allow landlubber luxuries. And yes, there was the odd G&T (vodka for me please) while witnessing spectacular sunsets. This was interspersed with visits out to Moreton Bay, where we would do anchor pirouettes while savouring quiet, shifting views as we would fine wine – life wasn’t too bad.

We travelled ashore via our dinghy, and it took a while to get used to rowing the darn thing, especially in a powerful current. We didn’t have an outboard to power us along in the little boat, so learning to control the dinghy was funnier than my hairstyle in the morning. No longer did I sweep up the car keys, turn on the engine, and drive several miles without thought. Now, I tentatively stepped down the side of the boat, trying to keep balanced on a perpetually moving eight-foot bit of fibreglass. In the current, it was like stepping onto a galloping horse. Sitting down as quickly as possible was the first trick I learned. Having the rowlocks and oars at the ready was the next, before releasing the painter. Next, I had to concentrate on my action: try too hard and the oars came out of their locks. Lastly, I had to remember to look behind: the boat maybe going forwards but I was sitting backwards.

The dinghy dock in the town was always chock-full. To tie up, we would part the sea of small boats to reach the dock, then unload our gear (rubbish, items that needed fixing, shoes, shower gear etc), tie up on a lengthy painter, and push the dinghy back out. It was here that I noticed a strange phenomenon: most cruisers tied their dinghy up strangle hold, that is, with about one foot length. It was senseless and rather infuriating when trying to get ashore. Courtesy dictates that a decent length of painter (a couple of metres) be used so everyone can easily push the dinghies aside in order to reach the jetty. Still, it added to the daily events for half the city occupants who were fascinated with the comings and goings of the sea gypsies.

One morning, I made my way ashore alone for a job interview (this strange phase did eventually dissipate). In a small bag, I carried my smart gear to dress suitably after a shower. While getting dressed, I realised I had forgotten my bra. This was not a good look under a white blouse, although it may have given me a better chance at getting the job. Short of time, I had to row against the strong current, about 200 metres back to
Mariah
.

With lack of skill, due to lack of practice, I couldn’t row away from the clutch of dinghies. The current kept me pinned to the other dinghies that were tied up, preventing my oars from getting a clean stroke. I was scared of pushing too far away from all the dinghies; I had visions of a rescue boat and news cameras coming to find me up the river and everyone seeing my face on the six o’clock news that night, all because of my lack of underwear! The crowds grew quickly, watching my ridiculous efforts with amusement. My face turned redder. Finally, a fellow cruiser took my painter and towed me out. He didn’t use an outboard (small dinghy engine), he was rowing too! There was tittering amongst the hordes, their voyeuristic expectations duly met. Utterly engulfed in livid embarrassment, I was determined to avoid a repeat performance of this little episode. (I actually got the temp job – it was a good job, but I promptly left when I realised employment wasn’t what I actually desired!)

Noel wasn’t at all taken aback by my job-hunting-then-leaving ideas and he never made me feel inadequate in my abilities. My faith in him was growing rapidly, and I admired his abilities. Each day he would repair, replace, and adjust something that was totally alien to me. I was fascinated in his capability in knowing what he was doing. But this fascination would quickly turn to boredom. I needed something to do; I needed my own challenge. I was learning to cook on a tiny stove, becoming creative with food, as there was no fridge on board. I started to read boating magazines, but my knowledge was still so poor, I could hardly understand the articles and soon went back to my faithful novels. The boat was tidy, laundry, letters, and paperwork all up to date. I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself.

I was brave enough, however, to admit that my ignorance was not going to change much until we had put some miles under our belts. I was looking forward to moving, learning, and settling in to the watery way of life properly. I learned best by doing.

From Brisbane, we sailed south to a small town in northern NSW called Iluka. Currents, wind changes, and shallows make the Australian east coast a fickle, difficult stretch of water to traverse. It seems to enjoy taking boats between its teeth of wind and waves, tossing them relentlessly. I don’t remember sea-sickness or boredom, just the freedom and enjoyment of excitement and fear in setting sail.

Iluka sits on the northern side of the mouth of the Clarence River; the town of Yamba sits on the south side. Noel’s brother, Colin, and Colin’s wife, Brenda, lived there and gave us a hearty, warm welcome. It was a relief to be with family and have something familiar back in my life. They generously opened up their home to us and we relished the simple treats of a hot shower and comfy armchairs that didn’t move.

Mariah
was anchored in a small, protected bay. We still lived aboard and rowed ashore each day and jumped on our pushies (bicycles) for half a mile to their house. Iluka is a small, easygoing town, and we enjoyed the friendliness of Colin’s golf club where most of the locals got together. Socialising with non-cruisers was a welcomed break. We completed many jobs on board, and my learning curve lost just a little of its steepness. We lifted
Mariah
out of the water for the second time in Iluka. The first time was when we purchased her and a surveyor had checked out her bottom. At that time, I had disappeared with the vendor’s wife to have a girly chat!

This time, I was in charge of anti-fouling the underwater part of
Mariah’s
bottom. I learned about preparing the surface for re-painting and claimed this job as my own. It was exhilarating to understand and be able to get on with a large, important job without supervision. Colin and Noel thought I was a little odd, as it is not a pleasant task. Mostly I was bent in half trying to reach the underside with paint that was highly toxic. The two brothers worked hard on the clever stuff; steering gear, propellers, and engines. But, if there had been a competition for the most inventive idea, I would have taken first prize. I had opened a tin of anti-foul paint. At that time, five litres of this noxious stuff cost about one-hundred-and-fifty Australian dollars. On top of the paint were a few drops of rainwater.

‘Uuhhm,’ and ‘arrrhhh,’ were all Colin and Noel could come up with as they stood over the paint tin.

Meanwhile, I’d been rummaging in the boat and I strode up behind them.

‘Step aside,’ I said with authority, holding a tampon aloft.

‘Arrhhh,’ and ‘uuhhm,’ was repeated by the two brothers.

‘There, that takes care of that,’ I grinned. I had gently placed the tampon on the offending water and it had sucked it all up, leaving the expensive paint untainted.