Of Foreign Build (3 page)

‘Arhh, uhhm, well done,’ said Noel, and everyone went back to work.

I realised then that perhaps a new perspective on board was a good thing.

Brenda played her part in this busy time. After a long day with the three of us working many hours so
Mariah
was out of the water for less time (the longer out the more we pay), we trudged back to Iluka Lodge and ate a delicious meal that Brenda had put together. All in all, the four of us made a good team. This was the first time I felt completely relaxed and happy with the direction of my life. Colin and Brenda played an enormous part in assisting me with fitting in and finding my place in this new watery world and warm, relaxed country.

My confidence was building, but in one fail swoop it could be knocked back to infancy. I was standing back to admire my paintwork on the undersides and a local came up and stood beside me; he was looking over
Mariah
. On her white hull were tyre marks from a fender used while tied to a wharf. The guy looked at me and said ‘I bet
you
were steering when that happened.’
Charming
, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
Bugger off
– was my second thought, which I may have said out loud! I went back to work with the hump. Sadly, it was often I would come up against these narrow-minded comments. I had to learn to take them with a grain of salt.

Although my days were starting to fill up with boat tasks and I finally forgot the idea of project plans, I still needed a challenge, something to stretch the grey matter.

I helped with the maintenance, but this wasn’t enough. Amid the mayhem of working on the boat, completing my UK and Australian tax returns (where mutterings of bazooking the whole UK government could be heard), I studied and achieved a diploma in travel writing and photography. It was a correspondence course with plenty of support from a tutor. During the course work, my first piece was published in a local paper. This gave me the motivation to build my knowledge and write more.

‘You’ll have plenty of material to write boat articles,’ commented Noel. This thought horrified me; I would never know enough to write about sailing and boats.

I mixed my studies with boat maintenance and just loved painting the v-berth (the bow end of the boat, where we slept). Tackling a job where the end result looked better than the beginning was so rewarding; I had never done anything like it before. The deep furrows working across my forehead were finally starting to relax.

The time came for us to leave Iluka. I had changed so much, finding that life was less of a struggle. However, Murphy and his law must have been lurking at this time and realised that I had not been challenged enough. He took his opportunity to test our fortitude to its limits on our trip from Coffs Harbour to Fiji. The excitement bubbled around my stomach like fizzy champagne. To think we could sail all the way to another country!

The journey would take about two-and-a-half weeks, but we both felt ready. By now, we had been working on
Mariah
for almost a year: getting to know her, replacing, and updating equipment. The trip south to Coffs Harbour was not a good start. A quick moving low pressure weather system crossed our path and I suffered my worst bout of sea-sickness; I couldn’t get out of bed. Noel sailed most of the way on his own, while I moaned and groaned from the bunk below, fervently praying for the relief of death. I questioned our lifestyle again, but I had become so attached to our new home that I resolved to buy heaps of sea-sick tablets and get on with it. But I didn’t know that this bout of sea-sickness was a walk in the park compared to what was about to happen.

The organisation for the long trip to Fiji was incredible. How to stow food for two weeks without a fridge; how to survive without constantly being plugged into the mains? Dried and tinned foods were our staples: potatoes, onions, garlic, and cabbage kept a long time, if they were kept in a ventilated area and out of the sun. Meat was relinquished. As a hearty carnivore, this was hard in the beginning, but over the years I became so smart at food management that three to four weeks or more at sea was easily catered for with delicious concoctions of one-pot repasts.

The small space we lived in moved three dimensionally twenty-four hours a day. The land, trees, and shops were replaced with sea, birds, and sky. Then, like a switch, it all changed; a gale was brewing, the sea washed black and was kicked into a chop by the building wind. The gale gathered momentum and became a storm. It grasped us firmly in its tumultuous fist. It scattered the birds, turned the sky an angry black, and the sea frothy white. We had left Coffs Harbour with a four-day weather forecast that was excellent; it was on the fifth day that it turned on us. For five days, we were held in the jaws of the wind that was building to sixty knots, and five-metre seas. We were buffeted and tossed relentlessly. Keeping watch for other traffic was a waste of time, because the climbing walls of water hid any view. The force in which the waves smashed against
Mariah
was terrifying. Neptune was angry, his fist pummelled into her hull, as if trying to break through. I could hear the rumble of waves gathering their skirts, lifting higher, and rushing to meet
Mariah’s
hull. The enormous smash as the green water fought to break-in, caused
Mariah
to lurch, churn, and cork-screw. Meanwhile, my stomach did the same. Cleaning teeth became a major exercise. Going to the toilet was a battle with layers of clothes, and sea-sickness. Which would win first? Peeing in a bucket in the open cockpit became a viable option, but it could become tricky with sliding feet. I could cook food, but then I’d reach my limit of being below decks. I couldn’t eat, and at times even water would not settle in my stomach. I realised how easy it was to become seriously dehydrated. Day after day and, night after night we rolled, bashed, and vomited. With nail splitting effort, we pulled down the mainsail and hauled up the strong storm sail, the veins in our hands swelled as if yelling out in effort. My hair escaped its elastic and whipped drenched strands against my red cheeks. It’s at the most inopportune times you think about a short hair cut. It was relentless. There were no breaks, just endless walls of water and
Mariah
dancing her way up and down, side to side. Everything in our home continually slid, bashed, clinked, and clunked.

Our navigation chart was folded in half to fit onto our navigation table. No matter how hard we tried, we could not sail past the crease in the chart! We reached one-third of the way to Fiji and were considering going north to Vanuatu.

‘This is Mariah II,’ Noel gasped on the HF radio as he tried to hang on and talk with other boats north of us, ‘we have fifty-five to sixty knot winds and are turning north to Vanuatu.’

Our radios worked very well and we received a response immediately.

‘Don’t come this way,’ gasped another voice, its owner clearly struggling too, ‘we have sixty to sixty-five knots up here!’

‘That’s it!’ Noel roared, ‘we’re turning-tail and going with it. Dig out the drogue!’

We turned for home.

With the drogue out behind us we took back control of
Mariah
. We stopped surfing down the mountainous waves. I realised how good it was to have a canoe stern boat, she didn’t attempt to broach once.

Now we had the storm jib sheeted amidships, the wind fine on the quarter, the drogue steadying our course, and we entered a period of comparative tranquillity.

Gradually, the motion softened as the storm slowly eased. The seas, having been stirred up so vigorously for so long, took their time in calming.

As we approached land, the mobile phone sprang to life.

‘Hi, guys, this is Mum, just checking how things are with you.’

This was one of about eighteen voicemail messages from my mum in the UK. Once or twice a day, every day, she had called to leave a message. This made me realise that the unknown world I had immersed myself into was scarier for my parents than it was for me. I had grown up with horses, manure, and competitions; an amazing outdoor life that was a stark difference to the water world. Boats and their unique ways were equally as alien to my family as they were to me.

We arrived safely into a comfortable, friendly town called Mooloolaba in Queensland, grateful that all three of us were unharmed: battered and immensely tired, but relatively okay. Noel and I had both lost a lot of weight, but it’s not a diet regime I’d recommend. My respect for nature was growing, as was my knowledge.

As we settled into a safe, secure berth Noel said, ‘What were you thinking during that storm?’

I was silent for a while.

Noel revealed his thoughts first, ‘I was thinking that I was going to step off the boat onto land and never step back on board again!’ His blood-shot eyes told the extent of his exhaustion. He’d got us back safely to land, and I was grateful.

‘I was wondering how, if we had made it to Fiji, you were going to sail the boat back on your own.’ I said, with a small smile.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked. He was struggling mentally and physically with the deep exhaustion.

‘I wasn’t going to sail back, I was going to fly home!’

We both smiled. We could reveal our feelings without incurring judgement.

‘What now? I asked as I looked around at the mess. Mariah looked like a giant had picked her up and shaken her vigorously, and we didn’t look much better.

‘Food,’ said Noel.

Over coffee and several hamburgers, Noel fell asleep in the café chair. After stealing what food and coffee I could from him, I woke him to take him home. He climbed over the rubbish tip that was our home and collapsed into bed. My nerves were still jangling, so I tidied the boat and rang family to tell them we were still alive. Noel slept for thirty-six hours without moving; I kept going in and checking he was still breathing! I had managed to grab some sleep at times during the storm. Noel had not, so he was exhausted. With Noel clearly taking all the responsibility on his shoulders, I still didn’t realise the enormity of the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss’ until much later on during another adventure.

Noel vowed to never leave Australian shores again, but I was ready to mount back up and have another go. I utilised the skills I’d gained from horse riding, climb back on when you’ve been thrown-off, and before long I was ready to take to the sea once more. First, we decided to take some time out and head south to Sydney for the summer, while we figured out what we should do.

With our tails between our legs, we slowly sailed down the coast to Sydney, where we sought work.

This gave us time to get over the traumas and accumulate some funds. We thought we had failed. We later learned that a successful voyage is about getting into port unharmed. We hadn’t failed; we had made good decisions and survived.

Going back to the working world seemed to calm us. We didn’t have the energy to think about what-next and what-ifs. Taking on a routine we didn’t like, but knew, gave us time to regroup. We were moored at the International Anchorage in Sydney harbour. I could walk to work and nearby trains. A tap in the park made water collection easy, and the grass verge was a good car park for the dinghy. In the evening, the privacy and tranquillity on board helped shed the city drudge.

Eventually, we started to discuss our next adventure. After six months, we headed north to see where the wind would take us. We signed up for the Coxswains course, which gave us both tickets to captain boats up to twelve metres. After completing the course, which was male-dominated and held people of varying degrees of experience, I realised I had learned quite a bit on board
Mariah
. We were both gaining more confidence to have another go.

As we puttered north one day along the coast, with the old Volvo engine ticking over, the rhythm of the motor changed, chugged, and stopped. We looked at each other and tried to contain the panic.

During the storm, we had been thrown about so much that our fuel tank had stirred up all the crap that gathers at the bottom and this had clogged the diesel lines and filters. After one or two hairy moments with the engine cutting out, I became a dab hand at changing filters quickly in rolling seas, and it was done in world-record time, any racetrack engineer would’ve been be impressed. I was really chuffed to be doing this. In fact, I would volunteer, compounding Noel’s thoughts that I was a bit loopy. But learning to be capable within our floating home was starting to become a reality and not just a dream.

Our first wedding anniversary came and went without gifts of flowers and chocolates, but with a new hammer, tool bag, and a book called
The 12 Volt Bible
. I started to make an admirable effort to learn.

We went back to Brisbane and decided to plunge more money into the boat before having another attempt at some serious miles. A new engine, water tanks, fuel tanks, new steering gear, and endless weeks of tireless work meant we had no excuses – it was time to leave Australia. We did all this work ourselves; I was Noel’s apprentice and made a big adjustment from a beginner to a person tottering on the brink of becoming a little wiser.

That was my first two years in Australia: our relationship and living on board
Mariah
. We had survived the roller-coaster ride where the tracks of our lives had spiralled into new directions. As we clinked glasses, remembering the events of the last twenty-four months, we giggled, bit our lips, and softly swore.

We both wondered aloud, ‘What will next year hold?’

In August 2000, we left the city harbour under our own fanfare of celebration. We deliberately sailed out on a weekday, so we could wave farewell to everyone that was scurrying to and from work.

I revelled in the freedom. We had spent six months as one of those uniformed faceless people, scuttling around the city. The only way we had coped was to look forward to our departure – not just a salary at the end of a long, pointless month. Pursuing a mortgage and pension was no longer one of our goals in life. We wanted our own career within a life we relished and controlled. Our ticket to freedom was swinging happily on anchor, just waiting to be released into the oceans.

We could wait no longer. In my head, I held dreams of venturing to new countries, but Noel still wasn’t sure. The responsibility of handling the boat and navigating us safely back to Australia in the storm still clouded his dreams. We slowly made our way around to Darwin with gentle winds stroking the sails. Following the seasons, we were sucked into the vortex of travellers heading the same way and just kept going. Arriving in Darwin, I hardly dared hope that we would leave Australia.

On reaching Darwin, we hauled down the sails and packed up for port. We were staying in a marina, a rare luxury for us. Continuous marina fees were prohibitive, besides we usually enjoyed the privacy and ever-changing views of swinging on anchor. The small sail on the foredeck, the staysail, was usually neatly folded and stowed below decks at the end of a trip. I carefully placed it into its yellow canvas bag, then started to haul it below decks when Noel said, ‘Leave the staysail out for when we leave.’ The magnitude of his statement made my heart flip-flop: he meant another country. I stared out across the horizon that held no beginning or end.

We’ll be going out there
, I thought, and a slow trickle of fear mixed with anticipation started to skip along my spine.

They were shooting Christians in Bali – or so we thought. However, within the world of boating where jungle drums are continuously beating, we learned that the country was safe due to the flood of money from tourism. The new idea of heading to Bali started to percolate in our busy minds and brewed into a new plan. This change of direction was bubbling in our heads just two nights before leaving for South Africa. Still unsure and feeling the burden of decision maker on board, Noel rang a cruiser friend in Brisbane who said, ‘You’re too late and too slow for South Africa; you’ll get caught in a hurricane.’ And just like that, instead of leaving for Africa the following day we purchased charts for Bali and altered our headspace to a different direction and country.

Suddenly propelled into the flowing currents of departing Australia, we pointed
Mariah
west, heading for the horizon. The waves of excitement swept over me. When I was a headstrong teenager and constantly arguing with my dad, I had shouted with crushing frustration, ‘I just wanna be free!’ I clearly remember feeling mortified when my dad had retaliated with anger and sadness, ‘No one is ever free.’ But I now had the sweet taste of possibilities and travel was gnawing at my vitals.

Watching Australia shrink behind us on the horizon filled me with a refreshing sense of relief. It was time to see other places together, experience new cultures and challenges. Somehow, we had worked through the first year of storms and crash landings and a second year of hard graft in an alien world. To a degree, we had shaken off our pasts and leaving Australia felt like a new beginning. Slowly, I was becoming more confident and competent. With two years living on board under our belts, I was getting into the swing of the sea gypsy lifestyle. I had found my place in the world, an unsettling feeling as it created some comfort that felt, all at once, peaceful and peculiarly unfamiliar.

At this point, I wasn’t aware of, or chose to ignore, Noel’s responsibilities. With his prior boating experience, his decisions were imperative. I could add ideas, feelings, and a little knowledge to the team, but Noel carried the full brunt of our decisions firmly on his shoulders. As our journey continued, I realised just how much weight that was. But it wasn’t until our next adventure, many years later, while trekking in the bush with five horses (my forte) and a tent, that I would come to realise the anxiety and responsibility Noel bore during this time.

Many sailors have a love-hate relationship with offshore sailing with the requirement of getting from one port to the next. It is better than coastal sailing in one respect, as there are far fewer things to hit. Once you have the sails set for the wind (which can shift constantly), all that is required are hourly checks of the bilge, heading (course), position, and sea conditions and then a good book. Of course, we kept watch twenty-four hours a day for other traffic. It was like a tag-team match, with one of us always awake. Large ships have a limited crew: their radar should detect small boats like ours, but they often don’t. Stories of a larger ship returning to port with a sailing boat’s mast caught on its bow sent shivers down my spine. On our watches, we were vigilant. Close to sleep deprivation, we persuaded our bodies to become accustomed to four hours on, four hours off.

When all was settled and
Mariah
was gliding to her mission, I became drenched by memories that had no regard for place or circumstance; some thoughts were enough to make me blush into the night. Recollections of those I had hurt made me squirm. I cradled my own hurts in time with the rocking motion of the boat. I recalled forgotten good times as a kid, and card games with my family by candle light during frequent power cuts. It made me smile, and I realised that even happy memories can make you sad. Those moments were gone. With no pattern or logic, I thought of things I should have done with my life. When the sailing charmed me, I realised there was still time. It was like a switch flipping: good sailing thawed morose thoughts.

Boredom played no part. There was clearing up to do, receiving weather, radio Scheds, power monitoring, fixing/maintaining, reading, checking the lines, rigging, resting, and sail changes, too! We navigated with paper charts, joining the dots, creating a highway that proved we were moving, drawing a line we seemed to follow. I day-dreamed of sweet grass and grand trees, succulent roast chicken, and gooey ice-cream. We kept moving; our thoughts did too, drifting away like clouds.

When I heard Noel “galley squirreling” I anticipated the smells. Tea meant it was my time to stand watch. Coffee meant I could close my eyes as he was making a mid-watch eyelid boost. Efforts of sleeping were linked with conditions – the gentle motion like a swaying train, or the vicious rolling in a malevolent and restless ocean where your insides jostled within your skin.

In tune with the vessel, new sounds were more obvious to me; “Hasty Tasties” (tin cans) could wriggle loose and create a drumbeat with a thriving echo. Snuggled in a comfy bunk listening to the patter of rain on deck, the ocean rushing alongside and creaking lines comforted me.

It was no fun being woken up at three o’clock in the morning and stumbling around in a vessel that was moving three dimensionally. Dressing in the dark in order to maintain night vision, while trying to keep balanced, was a great recipe for sea-sickness. Staggering into the cockpit, I’d clip my safety harness on and rapidly search the horizon, trying to grasp my bearings. At this point, Noel would hand me a cup of steaming tea and provide me with a run down on what had happened during his watch. At times it was so dark that the sea and the sky became one. Across the horizon, boats that were just pinpricks matched the pinprick stars in the black sky. Sleep bartering became a way of life, with Oscar-winning yawns to try to entice sympathy and maybe a minute or two longer in a warm bunk.

Ashmore Reef is a clear-water lagoon, a mid-point between Darwin and Bali, and a welcomed rest stop. The Australian Customs catamaran,
Wauri
, was posted here. As we approached the lagoon, the radio crackled into life.

‘If you’re coming in here, hang fire guys, I’ll come out and show you the way in.’ Doug, second in command of
Wauri
, armed with a huge grin, sped towards us in his RIB (Rigid Inflatable Boat) and gallantly revealed the route into the protected lagoon. We could stop for a few days and were delighted to have the knowledgeable guidance into the winding channel. We had had two gentle days at sea, but welcomed the opportunity of a break. By luck, we had timed it perfectly.

‘It’s quiet for us at the moment, so we’ll show you around.’ The customs men and women seemed glad to have some new company. Ordinarily, the team on board the huge vessel
Wauri
picked up Indonesians that had paid their life savings to be dropped, literally, into Australian waters. The refugees hoped to be arrested by customs and taken into the land of gold. The current hiatus enabled Australia’s defence team to spend some time with us, so the next three days were like a pre-paid, all inclusive, once in a lifetime tour. The customs vessel housed up-to-the-minute equipment. Noel, myself and a couple of other cruisers also en route to Bali felt as though we were in a candy store for boats. After a gadget-go-round, we were offered freshly baked chocolate cake and coffee. Next we discussed the afternoon’s activities, which involved snorkelling.

‘Don’t mind the sea snakes,’ Doug said with a sly grin.

‘Sea snakes!?’ I mouthed silently at Noel, trying not to panic and test my walk-on-water skills.

‘They’re harmless,’ announced Doug, ‘just a bit inquisitive; their mouths are so small that they can only bite between your fingers or your ears.’

In the clear, cool sparkling water, we swam with gliding turtles, teeming fish, and glowing coral. The snakes didn’t stand a chance with me. I swam with my fingers together, firmly covering my ears.

At the end of an incredible day, the customs team said, ‘Tomorrow, we’ll take you for a spin on our speed machine. In the meantime, here’s some videos to watch and if you want to do some laundry, just bring it aboard tomorrow. Sleep well.’ And with that and a smiling wave, Doug dropped us off at home on
Mariah
and motored off back to his base on
Wauri
.

‘I don’t want to leave,’ I said to Noel. They had won me with the chocolate cake. Right at that moment, all the effort and heart-stopping happenings during our two years on board, plus the work and study, all faded into insignificance.

‘Whaaarrrrhhhheeeeeeeeeee,’ this was yelled from someone, probably me, as we hurtled around the lagoon strapped into a six-seater, James Bond style speedboat. The g-force crushed my cheeks and gave me a wicked smile as the air was forced into my mouth. The team from
Wauri
were showing off their boat-handling skills. Hooning alongside turtles, spinning impossible doughnuts, speeding fast enough to distort our faces, I felt free. At last, we were starting to reap the rewards by having fun. But after two days of rest, raucous exuberance, and wine filled evenings, we reluctantly bade farewell and pointed
Mariah
towards Bali.

Seven days of endless water stretched out from the bow. Never had we felt this ready for a voyage. Within the nautical group at Ashmore Reef, I had held my own. I understood the watery conversations and enjoyed the array of nautical nuances. Even better, I was starting to handle the boat on my own. During my first watch en route to Bali, staring out across the endless carpet of water, I pondered that for a bit. The thought, that I was completely in charge when Noel was sleeping, felt daunting. I was in control of a ten tonne beast. This really only occurred to me now as we were doing longer voyages. I
had
to ensure that Noel had a good rest between shifts. I was resting well. So when I was on watch I had to take responsibility and be in charge. All at once, I felt powerful and completely petrified.

The uneventful sail to Bali was filled with days of clear skies and smooth seas, warm nights and the purring Yanmar propelling Mariah due to the lack of wind. Occasionally, I woke Noel to help me manoeuvre past a large ship. Night watches could be hard work with my body nagging for sleep. Engulfed by deep darkness, spotting the loom of a ship from miles away was easy, leaving plenty of time to monitor its direction and adjust our course if necessary. The red and green navigation lights helped decipher the direction of the other traffic. It felt a bit odd to rely on lights for a vessel’s heading, but all this was happening at only seven miles per hour. However, coupled with the three dimensional movement, at times it became near impossible to guess what was happening. I could become entranced with other boats and stared at them for hours as they were slowly swallowed up in the spangled black. I just didn’t feel comfortable averting my eyes. I had no idea why. It could take hours for a boat to pass, so it was pointless to keep watching the silent silhouette until it eventually became indistinguishable. At three in the morning, tiredness stabbed at my eyes and mental ability; I found it easy to let my imagination run away with me. I would imagine the ship coming sideways towards us! Eventually, my fears would gather momentum and hold hands with my inexperience and I would wake Noel from his slumber. He would rarely need to take any action, because I had already altered course as necessary, but sometimes I needed him just to be with me in the cockpit. It was at these times I was starkly reminded just how much of a novice I still was.

Noel never complained about being woken up. We both agreed that being completely sure of the situation was better than the unthinkable. A dalliance with a 200,000 tonne steel ship was going to do more than step on our toes. We did, on occasion, find ourselves on a converging course. Learning to use a hand-bearing compass to note and log the other vessel’s angle from us was important. If the bearing didn’t change (after taking two to four bearings, every few minutes), you knew you were heading for the same patch of water and you had to do something about it. Collision Regulations (Col Regs) are the international rules of the waterways. Sometimes, we had right of way. But if there was an enormous vessel heading straight for us at twenty-six knots, we made sure we got out of the way. The navigation lights on these mountainous ships seemed the same size as our own navigation lights and were hard to distinguish, especially if they had other cabin lights on. Even with all the equipment, common sense, and checking, I still managed, at times, to get into a bit of a pickle. The heavy tiredness, the fear of being hit, and the odd sensation of being awake at 3 am night after night could reduce me to tears. The thick cloak of darkness coupled with my total lack of night-time experience could mix up to create a great dollop of doubt. We had met people that had been sailing for years and still claimed they were learning.