Of Foreign Build (22 page)

Den and ‘Tash were staying on
Mariah
for the night and were going to help us check out in the morning at the wharf, where they could jump off and walk back to
Frodo
. As the evening progressed, Noel and Den drank beer in the cockpit while ‘Tash and I sat below chatting amicably, both trying to ignore the approaching farewell. ‘Tash was a tough girl. She was strong, adaptable, and just got on with whatever needed doing. She’d straightened me out a few times. ‘Come on, girly,’ ‘Tash would say, ‘get on with it.’ I knew I was going to miss her terribly.

My girlfriends in the UK were becoming just a memory. The four girls I was close to were all quite different, but all had been incredible friends to me, helping me in my most difficult times in my life before I had left for Australia. I sent emails, postcards, and letters, but I would only receive the odd email back. I was not there, so it was hard to be a part of their lives. At the time, I took this quite hard, but later I would understand. Life moves fast, it’s hard keeping in touch with those around you, let alone those farther afield. In England, I had seen my friends briefly, but I was so different and the comfortable, relaxed friendship had altered – I was now from a different world. They spoke of the latest car, phone, and computer. The most important thing to me was favourable weather and a safe anchorage. I had to remember it was I that had changed, not them, and I had to accept the fact that if I was not physically there, then the friendships would alter.

Our final night with
Frodo
wore on, and the guys decided to go into town to get some more booze. ‘Tash and I were just happy chatting. We actually went to bed before they left, and once they went out, we got up for another cuppa and a chat. We were so relaxed together, even the silent pauses in conversation were comfortable. The guys came back, singing and giggling; it was great that Den and Noel got on so well, too.

The following morning at dawn, I could hear someone clomping around on deck. I got up to find Den had had a swim and was sitting on the deck making noises in an attempt to wake everyone. He had only been to bed for a few hours and had had mountains of beer. This guy had the constitution of a bloody ox. In the cockpit sat the leftovers from the night before. The guys had run out of papers to roll up tobacco and had therefore tried to make a tobacco bong. Parts of the boat had been dismantled to make this thing! They were just like naughty children; they thought it was hysterical. ‘Tash and I laughed and rolled our eyes.

Mid-morning, we puttered over to the dock to fill with water, diesel, and check out of Barbados. The process became frantic; other boats were there, we were tied alongside them, and soon after they wanted to leave. I took the paperwork into the office, while Noel filled the boat with diesel and water. Noel and I were both captains, so when it was easier (and acceptable) for me to check us in or out of a port, I did so.

I sat down with the customs official, and he read through the papers. He looked up at me and grinned and said in the most patronising voice, ‘Arrrh, he’s let you be captain today, has he?’ I just glared at him. When I was faced with narrow-minded views, I didn’t trust my mouth with my thoughts. I bit my lip.

Later I realised I should have said, ‘No, when we checked in, I had let him be the captain.’ A lot of people assumed the boat was Noel’s, and that I had seen a good thing and married him. But the boat was
ours
, we had purchased
Mariah
together and both worked just as hard on her. Over time, I learned to deal with this temerity and realised that people with these types of opinions had the problem, not me.

Suddenly, we were ready to go and the boat that we were tied to was pressuring us to hurry. Den stepped off and waved farewell; he wasn’t a tactile person. That was just the way that he was. I thought ‘Tash would give me a quick hug and go, and I bit back my tears, as I thought she’d say ‘Don’t be soft, girlie.’ We hugged hard, and as we let go I looked into her face and saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. I held her again and let my emotions flow; she jumped off and waved farewell with Den. The silence on board was tangible; what was there to say?

Barbados provided fond memories of swimming with giant turtles, graceful, fearless characters, which nipped unsuspecting toes, sunsets and balmy nights. It also provided not so fond memories of ear splitting music until four in the morning and evening strolls where shady characters offered ‘
dessert’
to smoke after our chips.

We had a calm two-day sail into St. Lucia and anchored at Rodney Bay. In the vivid green of St. Lucia, we felt sad. We had said a sad goodbye to our good friends. Itchy-feet syndrome meant constant goodbyes, as new friends followed different paths. Meanwhile, back home, nieces and nephews were growing up and my friends were moving on. Maybe there was a patch of land waiting for us, somewhere where we could be still. If only our damned feet would stop itching.

We puttered our way north stopping at Dominica.

Through time and nature doing its thing, a small island had joined to the landmass of Dominica. Shirley Fort was built in c1780 and occupied this “island”. The fort itself had been occupied until 1815, and then abandoned in 1856. Between the years of 1982 and 1992, it was renovated. The fort was built by the English to hold territory between the French terrain of Martinique and Guadeloupe.

The rusty canons were littered around the maintained lawn; the big joke was that never a shot was fired in anger or war. Shirley Fort sat within gardens that resembled secret grounds: velvet lawns littered with artistic trees that were interwoven with vivid pink, red, green, and yellow leaves. The area was peaceful, calm. The silence pressed against our ears. We learned about cotton silk trees, which had half-inch, hardy thorns that covered the entire trunk like a carpet; surely a means for medieval torture. Teak trees were prevalent, with their straight trunks and big leaves. They were too young, though, and made us wonder if they would be allowed to mature before being slaughtered for humans to build their trinkets.

The thirty-minute walk to the east of the hill had us zigzagging up and up, watching lizards scarper, iguanas stare, and the shells of black crabs line the walk. We reached the peak, and the air was sucked in as we gasped in wonder. The Southern Bay, where we were anchored, opened up to allow us to view the speck of
Mariah
, the carpet of vibrant green, the blue sky, and a pretty rainbow framed the picture. Why wasn’t this place overrun with tourists? It was perfect. There were no beaches to speak off and such a terrain that electricity and water wasn’t commonplace. In twenty years’ time, I thought, this island would look very different. This beauty could not be ignored. We were thankful we had found somewhere in the world that we had the opportunity to see before it was deluged with people and the twentieth century, and quite possibly, destruction.

After a few hours’ walk, we deserved a cool beer. The Purple Turtle was the nearest place for a cheap beer, so it was here we sat and reflected on the wonders we had witnessed while getting eaten by mozzies and sand flies. The following day was carnival day, commencing at 4 am.

As the day gave way to evening, ashore the gentle groovy beat became a soothing backdrop. We watched the white anchor lights of the many yachts swing in the soft breeze; the black night, new moon, and stars were all conducive for sleep. We felt satisfied, content at peace. I wondered if we’d still feel the same at 4 am!

I had gone to bed early, and Noel was unusually awake around 11 pm, sitting in the cockpit. Suddenly, two dark guys sitting upon surfboards were hanging on to our boat.

‘What are you doing?’ Noel asked as he jumped out of his skin.

The two men pulled balaclavas over the heads and said, ‘We’re fishing.’

‘Bugger off!’ Noel shouted, ‘I’m radioing the police.’

Fortunately, the guys paddled off. I don’t like to think what would have happened if Noel wasn’t in the cockpit to stop them from boarding us.

‘We should give that information out on the Caribbean Net,’ I said to Noel, a little shaken when he told me the story the next day. He made non-committal noises, and we both thought that maybe it was a bit melodramatic to tell everyone, as nothing had happened. How wrong we were.

Each morning the Caribbean Net boomed into every boat that had tuned in with their HF radio. It was filled with lots of interesting information, we’d try to listen in regularly. The next Sched would send shivers up every cruiser’s spine.

‘Good morning everyone, this is the safety and security Net on Tuesday, the 24th February, at 08:15. First off, does anyone have any emergency or priority calls?’

‘This is yacht Blue Sky; we are in Marigot Bay, St. Lucia, do you copy?’

‘Go ahead, Blue Sky.’

‘Last night at 10:30 pm, we were boarded by two locals. They threatened us with knives and beat me up and stole various items. When they left, we desperately tried to call police on the radio, blow our horns, anything to attract attention. It was over thirty minutes before we were heard. We are okay, but this bay is packed with boats, so everyone should be on their guard.’

SILENCE

There were many of us living in the Caribbean for the season; we were all stunned and a little scared.

We were looking forward to reaching cooler climates. We began to slowly make our way up the chain of islands, and Puerto Rico was looming nearer. We were also looking forward to earning some American dollars.

As it was a French island, I loved Guadeloupe; however, the weather had been too hot and everything became too wet. To reach the butterfly shaped island, we did several dawn starts, which was just heavenly as it was the only time of the day we were cool. By the time it got to 8 am, the sun had so much strength that Noel and I almost came to blows over the tiny bit of shade in the cockpit.

We arrived at the butterfly’s tail at a town called Point de Pitre. We chose this town as, apparently, we could sail between the middle of the islands – i.e. along the butterfly’s body, the narrowest part. There was a bridge that needed to be opened, but we had to be ready at 5 am, otherwise the bridge’s operator saw that there are no boats ready and tootled off home!

This suited us, as we enjoyed these mornings. Even though the bridge was closed for three days due to maintenance, the anchorage was protected and safe. Plus, the forecast foretold of a big wind coming through for a few days, so staying put was beneficial.

We tried to get some more jobs done. The water catcher, in the form of tarps tied across the boat, with pipes tied at the bottom of said tarps, had been quite a success – we managed to fill up with rain water in Dominica. Noel had a great idea for an improvement, using hooks instead of ropes. After about four hours of fiddling, grunting and cussing, the whole set up looked exactly the same! I was wishing it would rain; I had this perverse satisfaction in watching the water trickle into our tanks.

‘Stop chewing my ear!’ I cried. ‘Great, there goes the paint.’ It was playtime for Mancha, the English Pointer and beloved pet of Roy and Chris.

In March 2004, we were sharing a condominium with Mancha. She wanted walks and attention, but we were there to do painting, fixing, and repairing.

We had arrived in Puerto Rico with the pressure of time against us. My parents were meeting us in Florida, but first we had a couple of months’ work. Roy and Chris were anxious for us to arrive to get on with it. We chose our weather window carefully and blasted our way through to Puerto Rico. As always with sailing, or any kind of travelling, you just can’t stop and see everywhere. This time we missed out on the Virgin Islands. Neither of us had been there before, and we felt sad that we had to sail past. As we were adjacent with the islands, a weather warning was issued: strong winds were heading our way. We could either stop and probably become stuck for a good few days, or continue on. After much uhhming and arrhing, we made the hard decision to continue. The pressure to reach Florida on time, coupled with much needed work, meant that the decision was already out of our hands.

Puerto Rico is the land of good coffee, colourful Spanish, a magnificent fort, endless road works, and police who wear bulletproof vests on traffic duty. Amongst the mayhem, we had our own turmoil. Our house back in the UK was empty; the tenant had left, which meant no rent, which meant no income. Whilst working, we had to think carefully about what to do, whether to fly to England to sort out the problem and do some work or even fast-track sail to Australia to earn dollars. We needed an income to live on. We discussed our problems, but with a salary coming in we had the luxury of waiting to see what happened.

We had decided to stay in a marina whilst working. We didn’t need the worry of being away from
Mariah
all day, leaving her alone at anchor. We walked to and from work each day and arrived back at the boat each night exhausted. After two days, we met the owner of the boat tied next to us. Sporting bloodshot eyes, a stagger, and a glass of rum tightly grasped, our new neighbour in San Juan Bay Marina, Puerto Rico, greeted us.

‘Great,’ we mused, ‘this is all we need after a hard day at work.’

There is nothing worse than dodging spittle while listening to the same slurred stories. Typically, our first impressions were as useful as a chocolate anchor. Bill was not a drunk. At seventy-five, his eyes had earned the right to do as they please. Throughout his life, he had traversed many oceans, losing two boats to a watery grave. His second lost boat, sunk by hundreds of attacking pilot whales, left Bill and his wife to survive in a small, rubber life raft for sixty-six days. Each day, sharks attacked, taking them within a hairs breadth of death. Amid the laughter, the tears flowed as I read their remarkable book,
66 Days
Adrift
, detailing their plight.

Bill became our friend; he was full of useful information for two foreigners lost in a new city. We discussed our dilemmas with Bill, and he offered his thoughts.

‘Go for it,’ he said, ‘live for the now.’

He was right; we realised that something would work out. Besides, the next adventure was nipping at our heels. We wanted to head for the Intracoastal Waterways on the east coast of America. Here, we hoped to see Washington and New York. Best of all, these waterways should be void of whales, and there was no night time travel – bliss!

San Juan Bay Marina, Puerto Rico was an interesting stop for a few months; not just because the rich, the poor, the colourful, and the dull mingled around this historical part of the world, but because of the constant reminders of momentous events in our past were present at every turn.

Noel will join us again here, to describe the sights and sounds:

Our history lesson started at 5 am. The drone of a twin-engine plane climbed to a crescendo of air grabbing propellers and oxygen sucking internal combustion engines. The re-enactment of the Berlin airlift had begun! Fifty metres above our sleep bemused brains, the first of the day’s constant air traffic began to educate us. Thoughts of the German Blitzkrieg on Poland occurred in the evening, as the returning planes gave their version of dive-bombing stukas. We were told that they once were a little more realistic and used live bombs.

Next on our historical journey were the morning ablutions. Cold showers in the marina, provided the Elizabethan background. Black soot in a fine layer had been spread over all surfaces. Placing one’s clothes on the peeling laminex of the basin shelf, as they had thoughtfully omitted the tedium of hooks, was always rewarded with an authentic smudge.

With the day’s preparations completed, we returned to the boat, learning the method perfected by daring buccaneers in assailing a vessel via the moving target of the bowsprit. Mind you, we thwarted reality somewhat and only juggled our shower bag and towel. I was sure it would have been more fun with a cutlass. This all led to the desperate need for coffee, which was prepared under the continued presence of piston engines skimming the masthead. This, of course, plunged us into the heavy nostalgic trip of imagining the days of post-rationing with the marvellous return of caffeine and victory rolls by “one of our boys” returning over the white cliffs of Dover.

With these reminders of history to start the day, we were now ready to hit the town of San Juan. San Juan was approached from the Marina after crossing eight lanes of freeway interspersed with three Bailey bridges and the construction team building their replacements. This gave a glimpse of things to come, a time when there were no demeaning problems to consider, such as, the pedestrian. In San Juan, they had planned and will one day complete the ultimate monument to Henry Ford: The Perfect Highway. Finally, a place where the driver does not have to worry about the wandering lower class members of our race. The pedestrian will not exist if we simply follow the guideline, to wit, “Make No Provision For Them!” We were clearly aware of this directive, while walking and dodging cars, to and from work each day.

At last, the laborious task of working for someone else was finally over, and we got to do what we do best: making plans for our next trip. Doubling the profits of Puerto Rico’s telephone companies, we placed numerous phone calls to England. They knew that we couldn’t really answer their questions, but my parents still asked, ‘When are you going to be in Florida?’ and ‘Where will you make landfall?’

But a date had to be picked. We made weather predictions and hoped equipment failures on the boat still alluded us. The date was like the Mecca, everything seemed to hang on it.

The day we left Puerto Rico, our American friends Bob and Carol on board
Star Cruiser
arrived into San Juan. Again, the decision to delay our departure another day was upon us. We decided to leave. We had to allow plenty of time to reach Florida, as Mum and Dad’s return flights were committed. With heavy hearts, we said our farewells to Roy and Chris in person, and Carol and Bob over the radio.

Having spent what felt like a long time in San Juan, recouping the coffers, and with the looming hurricane season, more decisions had to be made. After meeting my parents, did we head south to Venezuela and pirates, or north to New York and muggers? It was possible to avoid both obstacles; however, our hearts held hope of exploring inland. Actually, it’s remarkable that we were here at all. Pessimistic sailing friends thought the inland waterways of America boring (and oceans aren’t?) and for retirees. We were a headstrong couple, and if it felt right, we did it. We tried to live by this philosophy in a world of people telling us what we must see and do.

The Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) facilitates navigation along the eastern seaboard of the United States. It’s made up of natural river channels, estuaries, bays protected by barrier islands and man-made canals. Not too many people know about the ICW. I think the US is trying to keep it a secret to avoid attracting too many frightful foreigners.

We had already organised our visas, as we had heard about the ICW from sailing friends in Portugal, and we knew that it may become part of our itinerary. America can and will turn away boaters who arrive without a
bona fide
visa.

We decided to make a beeline for Florida, trying to get further north than Miami to avoid the busier waterways, but it all depended how kind Mother Nature would be.

Dominica Republic had troubles, so we avoided its shores, but halfway along our time-fraught journey a strong wind warning was issued. We could take shelter in the Bahamas, but it cost hundreds of dollars to stop there, and we had no great urge to see the place. The brochures looked beautiful, but it was busy, full of boat-wrecking shoals and packed with tourists. Reluctantly, we had to find a place to shelter until the blow had passed. Around this part of the world, currents were strong, with opposing winds seas would kick up and create a tough and dangerous journey. Our schedule had just enough allowance for a few days to wait out unfavourable conditions.

We puttered in to Mayaguana, in the southern Bahamas. The town was not worthy of the title of “town”. It had just one shop that opened when you could find the owner.

The shallow, heavily reefed water became our neighbourhood for three days as we sat on board and waited for the thirty-knot winds to abate. Boat bound and restless, we accepted an offer of a ride to shore. A couple on a motorboat anchored nearby ferried us in and I found a phone to call home.

‘If we aren’t at the airport to meet you,’ I said quickly, for I did not know how long the connection would last, ‘call Denise or Josie and give them the name and address of the hotel you end up in. At least then I can call them to track you down.’ Mum and Dad just giggled; it would be an adventure for them too, the excitement heightened as they could arrive with no one to meet them and nowhere booked to stay.

With butterflies bouncing around in our stomachs in tune with the ocean waves, we grabbed hold of the Gulf Stream and flew up the east coast to West Palm Beach, Florida. As land rapidly approached, we proudly hauled the American flag. Our tired smiles hiding the questions that we both had lurking under the surface – was the one thousand mile trip out of our way going to be worth it? Had we done the right thing bringing a yacht to inland waters that was saturated by motorboats?

Two hours later, we learned our first lesson that things changed fast: from the mayhem of a busy inlet, brimming with weekend anglers breaking free from domesticity, to a secure, peaceful and well-sheltered anchorage, where we drank to our safe arrival.

We arrived the day before Mum and Dad flew in. We booked into a marina and promptly sunk the boat – well, almost. The night before collecting the hire car to drive to the airport, we were sleeping well in the sanctuary of a marina, tied securely, within protected waters, what could go wrong?

At 2:30 am, a loud clunk woke me up. I peeled back my eyelids, lying still, listening. My heart was clattering, as I’d jumped when I heard the noise. Over the years, I had become accustomed to odd noises and squeaks the boat can make in different weathers, circumstances, and currents. This noise was alien. The full moon was piercing through the hatches, and I turned in my bed and watched the moonbeams hit the floor. The small mats on the floor levitated towards me.
That can’t be right
, I thought. I decided to get up and promptly stepped into water that reached my ankle!

‘We’re sinking,’ I stated, surprisingly calm. Noel didn’t need much more encouragement to leap up. Immediately, we turned the bilge pumps on. The mats were saturated and thrown out onto the jetty. Our tinned food that was stored in the bilge floated around us. Cans of coke sprung open and shot their sticky contents all over the cushions. ‘How lovely,’ we both muttered, interspersed with more colourful language of the bluer kind.

Quickly, our pumps won the battle. After mopping for hours, the boat was almost dry. But we had to source the problem. We could find no leaks, no holes – what was going on? Whilst pondering the problem, we washed-up the tins and washed-down the carpets to remove all the salt. I was mindful of my parents’ arrival, so we grabbed a couple of hours sleep. Later, after much detective work, we found a pump tap dripping: an easy fix, but a bad set up. The seacock on this tap had been inadvertently knocked open by me and slowly dribbled thereafter. The laundry bag sat near this seacock and when I had moved the bag, I think I had moved the seacock lever. We needed more security than that.

Arriving just in time at the airport, with bleary eyes, we met Mum and Dad at Orlando. It was great to see them again.

‘We’re going straight to the boat,’ I told them. We had planned to stop in a hotel for the night after their long flight, providing a rest before a lengthy drive. But the near sinking of the boat had left us a bit jittery, and we didn’t want to leave
Mariah
too long.

Mum and Dad slipped easily into boating life once again and were not too shocked when we over-filled our water tanks, because we were diverted by chatting to other cruisers, and nearly filled the boat with water – again!

We were now motor-sailing north, along the Intracoastal waterways, watching the cotton wool clouds scud below the azure sky. The east coast of Florida glided by, while we caught up on all the home news and hoped we’d stay afloat.

With the boat trying to sink since arriving in Florida, we had another leak near the propeller shaft. To fix the problem, we would have to haul the boat out of the water. For the time being, we tightened the bolts and crossed our fingers, which really wasn’t akin to good seamanship. We monitored things closely and could not leave the boat for any significant time. In the meantime, we enjoyed being in protected waters and with family.

As expected, Florida was teeming with gleaming boats, and anchoring at weekends kept our sanity in check. Many boaters had no clue what the collision regulations were, let alone what action they must or must not take when two vessels met. It was interesting, at times, being the stand on vessel; (depending on the type of vessel and area, when two boats meet, one is the stand on vessel and one gives way). It was like playing chicken with half-a-million dollars of boat (their boat not ours!). Listening to channel sixteen on the VHF radio became daily entertainment with boaters bickering for all to hear.