So far this trip
in 2006 has been characterised by us getting held up: first, as I have said, we got stuck in Chalong doing this and that, and because of the
wind, but mainly because our heads had gone troppo! A common problem out hereÉ We met a couple on the pier at Chalong trundling their
gas bottle off to be filled - Larry and Shelley, two Canadians our age who had
sailed around the world. Larry had a vague way of talking as if his thoughts had simply floated
off to the horizon in all directions and it was taking him a long time to
gather them back together again! Shelley confided they might be in Thailand a while, taking time to
explore China and South East Asia by plane, because they had differing opinions
about what to do next: to risk the
Red Sea pirates or the Cape of Storms? This couple was still fit, even though falteringÉ
stuck for a while, but likely to move on in the end. Some arrive and never leave - out of a conscious
choice - and get actively involved in business, after marrying a Thai woman to
make this possible, and either integrate or donÕt integrate into the Thai way
of life. But there is
another category of washed-up sailors in these parts, bleached, faded, fat,
usually with Thai girl in towÉ Their eyes look suspiciously troppo and we
figure they just terminally lost the umph to move onÉ I often wonder what happens to the sailor whose boat is
falling apart, whoÕs too old or ill to earn money to pay for repairs, and whoÕs
washed up far from homeÉ
As I said
earlier, we got sick of being in Chalong in the end with all the noise, the
dust and the thundering traffic. The car rental guy we dealt with on Chalong circle had a chronic cough
from the fumes he has been exposed to all day long for the last ten years. His cough sounded awful and it struck
us as tragic for someone so young. He had a big smile and a shifty look which
tended to get on OliverÕs nerves so that in the middle of many a desperate
negotiation for the last vehicle available in Phuket, Oliver would suddenly
grab my arm and say ÒLetÕs get out of here, I donÕt like this guy!Ó I would watch OliverÕs retreating back
as he flounced off across the street and stay to smooth our manÕs ruffled
feathers because I know in the next emergency, realistically, heÕll be the only
one to find us a car for a price we are prepared to pay! We grew to like him over time,
won over by his infectious smile. He always insists on us leaving photo ID with him when we take a
vehicle, and Oliver always gives him his out of date Venice vaporetto pass,
which sports a Ômug shotÕ of Oliver and looks official! The man is satisfied since he canÕt read
English and he has no idea how inconsequential this document is! Meanwhile, we donÕt risk our
passportsÉ And in duping the man,
Oliver gets a small revenge for all those dodge cars we get given!
We were held
up several days in Nai Harn
waiting for our US tax returns to arrive by Fedex so we could sign them and
send them back post hasteÉ Amazing
how accountants and tax men can catch up with you even in impossibly out of the
way places and wield such powerÉ
We
finally did Customs and Harbour Master from Nai Harn, walking over the hill
from Ao Sane beach where we left the dinghy, and along the road inland to Nai
Harn proper where we discovered a great local veg stall where I could buy
coriander, Thai celery, chives, spring onions and various leaves that make rice
salad and stir fry so tasty! We got a tuk tuk from there to Chalong where we finished the Ôcheck-outÕ
procedure. We went on to Phuket
Town to get various odds and ends for the boat from the marine shops. Mostly abortive, but we found the
most amazing old-fashioned hardware stores that stock absolutely everything in
their dusty interiors; a
stationery shop with EVERY item THICK with DUST and unruly haberdashery
bursting out from its small section amongst the exercise books and rulers! And a second-hand bookshop to die
for (more weight for the boat – so the purchases were unpopular!). My response to Phuket Town
is ambivalent: I find it
intolerably noisy with its traffic, building works, pneumatic drills, dust,
dirt and uncovered drains. Yet I am fascinated by the murky interiors of all the specialist shops,
often with attentive, knowledgeable shopkeepers who donÕt speak any English,
but elaborate miming antics usually convey what we wantÉ ItÕs either that or else you find
a homely corner at the back of the shop with chair and TV and
shopkeeper-so-riveted-to-favourite-programme that they are loathe to tear
themselves away, and resent having to serve you or even take your money and if
they do that, they open the till with their eyes still on the screen and feel
for the change!
We
got a swish taxi back for the price of a tuk tuk! He was a cool dude Thai who spoke no English, which
was pretty normal and I donÕt expect them to. I think the onus is on us to speak Thai. The Thais are a nation who have never
been invaded, but instead have done deals allowing other nations to pass
through their territory in order to invade their neighbours! Arch diplomats, I guessÉ So their own culture is
uninterrupted. At
least, this is what I have gleaned. I think this might explain their attachment
to their own language and why they have not hurried to learn English in the way
that many other nations have done.
Having
checked out completely, we were now free to move further north up the west
coast of Phuket to get ourselves into a good position for a day hop to the
Similan Islands, which would be our last staging post in Thailand, before
setting off on our four day passage across the Andaman Sea to the Andaman
Islands. The next morning we
weighed anchor and were well under way when the phone rang and it was OliverÕs
agent, saying there were a couple of scripts they wanted him to read as a
matter of urgencyÉ
Downloading
scripts always presents a challenge in this boating life. Last year we masqueraded as
guests at the super-exclusive Datai Hotel in Malaysia to download the 200-odd
pages free in their library! Now as we sailed up the west coast of Phuket, wondering what the hell we
were going to do, I recalled an
article I had read on the flight coming over from the UK about two hotels for
the super-rich in Phuket - the Amanpuri and the Chedi – and later while
perusing the Sail Thailand Cruising Guide I had noticed their position on a
remote promontory on the West Coast. I had also registered that one could legitimately
anchor there! We took the
gamble that they would have wi-fi – and that we might be able to tap into
it from across the water!
Sure enough they
did!
In the end,
we were held up for four nights in Pansea Bay anchored off the Amanpuri and Chedi hotels, waiting to
download these 2 scripts from OliverÕs agents in the US and UK, so he could
read them and then hold the planned conference calls with the various directors
and producers, all in an effort to line up his next job before we go out of
range, as he will need to work as soon as we get back - an income tax bill has
just entered left field and totalled our savings!
The only time I have peace and quiet to
write this diary is after dark on deck - daylight hours are far too precious
doing maintenance and repairs and installing new systems and trying out the
famous swift-gig and of course improving her systems too! We are NEVER IDLE as you
old-stagers to this diary already knowÉ
So here I am on deck in the pitch dark, feeling my way across the page
using the thumb of the other hand to mark the line I am on! I am writing in long handÉ
The only reason
I have time is because Oliver is elsewhere up on deck locked into his computer
for hours at a time – and this goes on every night – trying to
connect up to the hotel wi-fi signal, which is frustratingly intermittent. His scripts take 20 minutes each
to download, but the signal keeps fading after 5 É tantalizingly, on his desk at home in the UK he has a
little gadget that would save what he has already downloaded and continue from
that point on, the next time he gets connected, but he forgot to bring it in
the post-Christmas packing frenzy! Maddening! Instead, the
download starts again from the beginning and fades just as it did before, after
5 minutes! You can imagine the
FRUSTRATION! I canÕt bear
all the effing and blinding, so I remove myself to the other end of the boat. The problem is, he also wanders
around delicately trying to line up the signal, so I have to keep moving
too! For his downloading
operation, the boat has to be at a certain angle to the shore and stay steady,
but of course a boat is forever riding around the anchor, shifting with the
vagaries of current and changing tide and the slightest gust of fluky wind! To get it to stay still is like
trying to restrain a rampant toddler in one place for 20 minutes –
impossible! And a boat never
sleeps, so you canÕt even wait hopefully for that to happen! Finally after 48 hours he
achieved his download, read his scripts and had his conference calls the next
day! We were ready to
go! We needed one more thing
from the wi-fi – a weather forecast for the next five days. After a lot more effing and
blinding, we got that too.
And I managed to send off e-mails about my pending re-accreditation as a
psychotherapist.
We amused
ourselves in the breathing spaces, watching the comings and goings on the beach
of the clientele of these two hotels with their exquisite Thai style pavilions
discreetly hidden amongst the trees on the headland – so different from
the ugly scars made by the new hotels springing up everywhere in Phuket, which
are superimposed crassly on the landscape, disfiguring it foreverÉ We were also
thoroughly entertained by the antics of the staff of a giant motor yacht called
Lady Christina that anchored next to us for 24 hours, complete with natty
little white helicopter parked on the roof! At the press of a button, secret chambers would open
up in the hull and disgorge luxury motor launches with glamorous ÔcargoÕ which
would zoom off to the beach to be met by a reception party bearing flowers from
one of the hotels. We looked
it up on the internet and learnt this was its maiden voyage and it is for
charter. Eventually it took
off south in the middle of the night.
Otherwise we had
the whole stretch of sea to ourselves.
The winds had
been so fierce in Nai Harn day and night and with so many expert yachtsmen
around, we felt embarrassed to take the ridiculous Swifty for her first sail
with all those eyes on us! Now we took advantage of the peace and quiet to try out her dinky little
gaff rig sail. We sailed her
over to the mooring buoys near the shore, to hitch her up so we could snorkel
off the rocky points. On our
return, we heaved ourselves up with a flick of the flippers and slippery with
suncream, slithered over her gunwales in an accelerated nose dive into the
cockpit! Undignified, but
effective!
We decided to
phone Gareth (the director of the marine services company that looks after
Sundancer in Phuket when we mothball her and go back to the UK) to check on
last minute details about arrival procedures in the Andaman Islands: he strongly advised us to engage an
agent to act for us over there. Only then did we remember the four ÔdocumentsÕ that Bob Mott had given
us when he came aboard in Chalong, saying we must have everything written out
ready for the officials on arrivalÉ
Not only that – one of the completed documents would have to be
submitted to Port Blair a week before our arrival! No time to lose - we should be there in a week,
maybe less! All this would
have to be completed before departing Phuket, because once on passage, with
only two of us, we would be hard-pressed to get all this together: one of us would be on watch and the
other sleepingÉ And anyway, we
would need the wi-fi connection to send off the e-mail to Port Blair. One customs document involved an
inventory of ALL equipment on board (with gadget-happy Oliver, youÕve no idea
how many items this involved – I think we had four typed pages worth!!!)É
it meant nose-diving into every nook and cranny on the boat. And I had to unpack all the
fridges and hard-to-get-at stowage places to itemize wine and beer. In these parts one tends to
provision for months at a time, because there is no knowing when you will be
able to stock up again. They
also demand an exact itinerary of what we plan to do once there, with
dates! This is what
completely stymied us and cost us another 24 hours, whilst we scrutinized the cruising
guide and various computer downloads on the Andaman Islands! Fortunately Bob Mott had
already given us some advice about where to go. Now suddenly we had to go through all the information
with a toothcomb and itemize what we would be doing each day for a
month!!! It took me a day,
using BobÕs notes, the Faraway website and the Andaman Sea Pilot.
To crown it all,
we got an e-mail from Carolanne, our great Irish friend whom we met on the day
skipper practical sailing course in Cape Town in 2005É saying she would like to
join us, which we both really wanted to happen, but this complicated our
logistics big time! After
agonizing over our itinerary for another few hours, we managed to work out how
to pick her up in Port Blair in the middle of our cruising trip and deliver her
back at the end just before we finally checked out: CarolanneÕs big thing is passages and she would have loved
to sail back to Thailand with us at the end, but Gareth said, from his long
experience in the Andamans, donÕt even think of having someone fly into the
Andamans and then not fly out again – that would completely glitch their
system and be a no-no!
Then the agent in the Andamans sent a document that night by e-mail,
saying we couldnÕt pick up any passengers at all! So we put off our planned departure early next morning
for the umpteenth time. In
fact we were beginning to wonder whether we should go at all and have Carolanne
join us here in Thailand. The only
complicating factor being – we had checked out, remember? So we had no choice but to
goÉ
Next morning further exchanges of e-mails
establish that, as long as we pay a fat fee, the agent CAN make it possible for
Carolanne to come to the Andamans! So back on track! WeÕd leave at dawn the next morning in order to get to the Similan
Islands, our last staging-post before the passage, by nightfall..
Throughout the
past week I had been saying to Oliver in muttered asides – what about the
diesel? Each day we stay on,
weÕre chundering through those diesel supplies that we got in Chalong –
weÕve run the generator every day and motored up the West Coast of Phuket. When I finally nail him
down just before we turn in, the night before our final departure, I discover
we havenÕt enough diesel to motor to the Andamans and the weather has now been
DEAD CALM FOR DAYS!! Oliver
persuades me that what we have is a reasonable amount, but I am not totally
convincedÉ
We decide to
leave at 6 am – that magic hour of half light when the imamÕs chant
echoes eerily across the water. I have not slept much, tossing and turning,
finding it hard not to picture us running out of diesel mid-passage and
drifting inexorably down to the weird whirlpools and treacherous currents off
Sumatra in Indonesia – thatÕs where all the un-manned yachts that drag
their anchors in Phuket finally end up – we have heard of one such yacht
that has just recently been picked up by the Indian Navy off the Nicobars and
they are asking for a salvage fee of $50,000!. I wake up at 5.30 am and challenge Oliver again about
the lack of diesel (NOT great timing, I admit!). He says he feels OK about it – heÕs evaluated
the risk and feels itÕs tolerable, but if IÕm going to worry about it all the
way to the AndamanÕs, heÕd rather wait one MORE day and unmothball the dinghy
– by now all packed away as our life raft for the passage – and go
and get some. I was NOT
POPULAR! In fact I drove
Oliver so mad that he started to cast serious aspersions on my
personality: he accusing me of
being ÒUNADVENTUROUS AND HELL-BENT ON AVOIDING ALL POSSIBLE RISK!Ó I was cut to the quick: thatÕs
not how I like to see myself! Not at allÉ
Having discarded
the diesel container that leaked in Chalong, we had to find another to replace
it. Annoyingly our last
spare diesel container was contaminated with an unidentifiable chemical. To liberate the container, we had
to decant its contents into the precious plastic bottles I had earmarked for
the watermaker!
Ready at last,
we row (!) the dinghy across the bay in the dead calm of the early morning, to
the publicly accessible Surin Beach, carrying 4 huge 30 litre diesel
containers, and the perennial rubbish, change of skirt, sunglasses, specs,
money and hat. As we
approach the shore, we negotiate our way round alarmingly jagged black rocks
that barely break the surface of the water, and then a wave unceremoniously
picks us up and dumps us sideways on to the beach! We leap out and drag the dinghy up the sand between
the empty sun-loungers. I change
my skirt and dispose of rubbish, while Oliver piles up the containers on to our
trusty trolley. At the
last minute our fears that the chemical residue might contaminate the diesel
got the better of us and we jettisoned that last dodgy container. Finally, we set off along the
main road in search of a tuk tuk. We discovered a very cheery tuk tuk station and after a good deal of
bargaining got one of them – a real gentleman – to take us to a
diesel/gasoline station he knew not too far away. He drops us back on the beach and Oliver and I stagger
down to the dinghy with our 90 litres of diesel. I stand chest high in the sea beyond the surf and hold
the dinghy steady and help Oliver lift the three huge diesel containers into
the dinghy. Free entertainment for
the early morning sun-loungers!
Then we start
rowing back to the boat about three-quarters of a mile away! At first we felt as if we were in
mini whirlpools because the dinghy kept turning uncontrollably round in circles
– you must by this time think we are completely inept! But actually, there WAS a good
reason: Oliver figured out that we
had too much weight forward and therefore effectively no skeg, so we had a
major reorganization of containers (with precarious wobbles!!!) and Oliver sat
in the stern to increase the skeg effect and I rowed, being lighter. Now we zipped along and got back
surprisingly quickly. We
were lucky the wind hadnÕt got up or the surf on the beach would have been
impossible and weÕd have been in a right pickle!
Once back at the
boat, Oliver stayed in the dinghy and handed me the first two containers, which
with superhuman effort I heaved up the stern steps on to SundancerÕs deck. I had just put the second one down
when I turned around to see Oliver catapult fully clothed (he doesnÕt take any
ÔwetÕ gear as he expects me to do all the wading!) backwards out of the dinghy into the water (!), followed to
my horror by the third container of diesel which seemed to slither out after
him. It all happened in a
flash: I was mesmerized by our
precious diesel, certain it would go to the bottom, but miraculously it twisted
and turned on the surface and never sank:
a vivid illustration that diesel is lighter than water. I had a zillion instructions to
the totally disoriented Oliver. The container that fell in the sea was the one that had a leaking screw
cap which I had staunched by jamming a sheet of plastic under the cap before
doing it up. It was this I
was watching ducking and diving under the surface! I asked Oliver to grab the diesel and pass it to
me. He looked blankly back
at me in his spluttering state: of
course, he thought the diesel was still in the dinghy! I motioned frantically and he
caught it and shoved it towards me so I could hoik it out.
As
he continued to tread water, still confused about what had just happened to
him, I noticed all sorts of things floating up out of his pockets and forming a
halo on the surface of the water all around his head! Like his precious little yellow plastic inter-dental
brushes, rubber o-rings, his sunglasses-plus-rubber-floater-head-band and his
hat of course! I fell about
laughing, it was such a funny sight.
Fortunately I had his wallet and shipÕs papers and passport in my
bumbag!
Afterwards, when
he turned over in his mind what had happened, he realized that he had lifted
the diesel can on to the seat of the dinghy, so that it suddenly tipped and
threw him out, and of course thatÕs why the diesel slithered out and the trusty
trolley, stowed in the bottom of the dinghy, didnÕt. Thank goodness, because that would have gone straight
to the bottom, which would have been a disaster, because we use it a lot to
carry diesel, petrol, gas bottles, provisions, water, wine and beer back to the
boat.
I thought water
must have got into the diesel, as I had noticed that can leaking in the tuk tuk
as we went over ruts in the
road. Oliver told me
afterwards he uses a filter that takes out water, so he wasnÕt bothered.
When we
originally unpacked Swifty and all her accessories, there were two things that
puzzled us: the bimini cover for life raft mode had no attachment points on the
hull of the dinghy to match the fittings on the cover, which meant the cover
was uselessÉ and the main sheet for her gaff rig sail seemed to be
missingÉ Perhaps the
manufacturers, losing heart at having only two orders, ran out of steam before
she was completeÉ
Now that we had
time to kill, Oliver decided to fit a proper new mainsheet with block on Swifty
instead of the incomplete system we had used until now. I was busy with something else
when out of the corner of my eye I saw Oliver standing up precariously in the
dinghy trying to fit the new mainsheet, whilst Swifty tipped wildly this way
and thatÉ Mesmerized I saw him lurch
sideways, losing his grip on the block he was holding in his hand, so it
slithered into the water and sank like a stoneÉ Too deep to dive for it and although we had the idea of
attaching a magnet to a line and picking it up that way, it was already too
late, because Sundancer as usual was romping around on her anchor chain and the
block was out of sight, probably buried in sandÉ
An hour or so
later, Oliver happened upon an unopened package: in it, the original swiftgig mainsheet together with itÕs very
own tiny little lightweight blocks!!! It was easy to fit and he spent the afternoon sailing
around the bay in Swifty, whilst I e-mailed Carolanne about our up-coming trip
in the Andamans and informed her of the gob-smacking figures the agents had quoted
to reduce her immigration, customs and port authority palava from three days to
one! $250 flat fee plus $150
for ÒarrangingÓ with those authorities for Carolanne to come on board with us
for 10 days cruising (because
despite the fact that she had booked to fly in and out on a return air
ticket, it was still forbidden for
her to set sail on a boat in the Andamans). Astonishingly Carolanne took all this in her
stride: I suspect the lure of a
holiday out of range of mobile phone/blackberry coverage, and the possibility
of an entire nightÕs sleep without interruptions from London, New York or the
Far East, demanding advice on some legal issue - more than outweighed the
paltrey sums of money involved! This could explain her passion for ocean passages, since they are
guaranteed out of range!
After such a long saga of false starts
and procrastinations, we really did leave Pansea Bay the next morning - in the
dark at 5.30 am to give ourselves a bit of practice for the Andaman
Passage. It was magical, but
strewn with fishing vessel lights as they all went about their unpredictable
haphazard business. I
found it very difficult to judge distance, often finding we were much closer
than I had thought we were, which was unnerving, but the new stabilized
binoculars are amazing for seeing in the dark – so at least we could
focus on the boats and figure out what they were busy with, for example,
pulling in a net, which meant they wouldnÕt be moving for the next few minutes
at least!
That day we had
excellent winds and made the Similans by 4.30 pm just in time to get a great
yellow mooring buoy in the channel between Koh Miang and Koh Ha – the
little rocky islet. It was a
relief to get a buoy as the anchoring depths were really too deep for our
anchor tackle. We were just
settling in to enjoy the delightful peace and beauty of the spot when a posse
of diveboats arrived and swooped in on the other buoys all around us, loaded to
the gunwales with divers of all nationalities. Some of these were huge industrial machines boasting
loud compressors that roared and hissed all night as the boats continually
swopped places on the buoys and zoomed off for night dives. The exception to these was a
delightful old fishing boat, loaded up with backpackers, the gunwales only just
clearing the water. In the
crowded stern section was a jumble of tables and chairs, cooking utensils,
washing flapping on rickety lines, and of course the ubiquitous dive tanks. Upstairs in an add-on
ÔpolytunnelÕ on the roof were sleeping bags laid out like sardines and an open
air platform where people sat around and chatted. It had a relaxed air about it. We got a lot of enjoyment watching
the little boat as it left its mooring and nosed about the rocky islets,
weaving between the other moored boats, doing a little sunset cruise just for
the hell of it, and a similar breakfast cruise the next morning. They were so chilled and unindustrial
– a refreshing whiff of hippiedom in the middle of the noisy chaos.
That night we
had loads of wind, but our mooring was out of the worst of the swell and was
firm. We slept well.
The next day
there was a strong northwest swell as we kayaked over to the northeast bay to
snorkel. It was an arduous
paddle and I took umbrage because Oliver had the audacity to criticize my
paddling style! When we
hitched up to a buoy for our snorkel, I must have forgotten to secure my
sarong, because as I was swimming back to the kayak after our swim, I was
diverted by this amazing flash of what I thought was an indigo blue giant clam
nestled in a bowl of the coral! I swam over to investigate, to discover my sarong floating on the bottom
in 15 metres!
I insisted on
retrieving it, so we paddled all the way back to Sundancer in the bucking chop,
to get a fish lure with horrid hooks and a diving weight and line. We battled all the way back and I
ÔfishedÕ for my sarong.
After half an hour trying to defeat the current, which kept sweeping the
lure away from my target, I finally hooked it! We still had to paddle back to Sundancer and by now we
were starving and I was NOT popularÉ Especially as the snorkelling had not been that
remarkable either, which was disappointing as the Similans are given the rave
in the books.
Back at the boat
we both felt deflated and very tired and pervaded by a weird, unsettled, queasy
feeling that lingered, unwelcome, probably due to the fact that our bodies had
been working so hard all morning to stay stable in the violent motion of the
water – a kind of sea-sickness, I guess. Late that afternoon we motored up north to Koh
Similan with a view to staying the night and leaving at 2 am for the Andaman
Islands.
On the way up we
battled against a nasty swell and current and northwesterly wind – which
would have headed us if we were on a course to the AndamansÉ We decided we were too exhausted and
irritable and weird to leave that night, so we put off our departure yet again. How many zillions of times have
we done this now???!!!
We managed to
find a suitable buoy at the Koh Similan northern anchorage, which was a relief,
because conditions were quite extreme, and again we were in about 25 metres
depth, which is a bit too deep for us to feel safe with our 55 metres of anchor
chain. We noticed an
Oyster coming in at dusk, heeling like mad in the ferocious winds. The Oyster anchored
over on the island opposite. It had a massive white internet receiver on the stern which ruined its
rather pretty profile. £800,000 worth of gear all in all, Oliver told me. We have noticed that these very
expensive, ship-shape, immaculately kept and expertly skippered boats are often
BritishÉ Watching the Oyster
sailing in those conditions confirmed our decision not to leave that
night.
At 3 am I was up
to keep my tryst at the full moon with my womenÕs meditation group, who meet on
the night of the full moon at home in the UK at 8 pm. We are 5 women who have met once a month since 9/11. Should one of us not be
able to make the meeting, we always have a cushion for that person to mark her
place on the five-pointed star/circle where we sit. None of us would ever dream of missing the
meditation, wherever we are in the world, but this does ask quite some
commitment from me in the tropics – 3 to 5 am on a boat in whatever
circumstances! Mind
you the next one would be during the night on my long haul flight back home to
the UK, fortunately when everyone else was sleeping, or I would have looked a
right weirdo!
I crashed out
for a couple of hours before waking up to our last day in Thailand.
The Koh Similan
anchorage was magical – striking smooth rock formations piled up high on
top of one another, silhouetted against the sky and forming a natural
harbour. A few yachts
were anchored here and there and only one dive boat. We watched all the comings and goings with interest,
especially of the local liveaboard flat barge that was nosing around the bays
of the island. It took
us a while to figure out what it was up to: it had huge concrete blocks, coils of thick warp (rope) and
lots of yellow and orange buoys on the roof – along with a kind of
conveyor belt with drop off and a little house to live in: after a lot of scrutiny through the
binoculars it dawned on us that it was laying buoys. The diveboat next to us, called Sundance, was clearly
servicing this barge: a cool dude
Thai guy wearing a pale blue bandana tore around in a white dinghy with style
and verve. He seemed to be the
local messenger, especially at the beck and call of the buoy layer and the dive
boat. He dashed around with
great panache and seemed to derive a lot of fun from his job. He would smile and wave cheerily at us
as he careered by.
We watched a
huge black motor cruiser come in – about 100 feet long. We called him Prospector Man - as opposed to Brochure Man,
whom we met at Yacht Haven at the end of our last trip. Brochure Man was an ex-RAF
engineer, with a young Japanese wife and baby, who had bought an impressive new
Tayana sailing yacht direct from the factory in Taiwan. His wife was afraid of sailing
and on their maiden voyage in the middle of the ocean the engine caught
fire! I imagine it was a
very frightening experienceÉ He
finally managed to get the fire under control and had been in dispute with the
manufacturers ever since about compensation. Brochure ManÕs boat was 56 ft long and it was becoming
obvious that his wife didnÕt really want to sail and the boat was too big for
him to sail on his own. So he was
adding mod-cons like in-boom furling to help him, but with a sense of doom he
told us he was finding out, through bitter experience. that these new mod-cons
constantly went wrong, causing him endless grief! Oliver drew the conclusion that Brochure Man
must have been seduced by the glossy brochure into making this unsuitable
purchase!
But I digress
from Prospector Man, who was a lean forty year old German, dark-haired and
swarthy, with a bevvy of teenage boys and girls who hung out in the dinghy with
him or else lounged around on the upper deck of the sleek black motor
yachtÉ The scenario was a bit
baffling. Oliver decided
they were teenage jet set and that the German was a charter skipper! They had all sorts of amusements
on board like jet skiis, but didnÕt seem to be having a lot of fun, mainly
because Prospector Man was constantly prospecting for a suitable buoy, never
satisfied by what he had, probably because his boat was so big and heavy. HeÕd dinghy and dive, checking out the
concrete footing and ropes of the mooring buoys, whilst the young people waited
listlessly in the dinghy.
At last he would find one that met his criteria, dash back to get his
STONKER (the 100 ft black motor yacht) only to find that in the meantime
another boat had arrived and gazumped him on his chosen buoy, with the result
that he would have to start prospecting all over again! We watched him miss several
buoys in this manner, as his cargo of teenagers got more and more droopyÉ
Overnight we had
had the company of a French ketch and a French sloop sailed by two couples who
were clearly friends. The ketch was meticulously cared for: the skipper had to weave his way across
the deck, it was so cluttered with gear, but everything had its place and he
was constantly fiddling and adjusting all the details. They were obviously
preparing for an ocean passage. Everything was incredibly ship-shape, even bordering on obsessive
compulsive! He and his
wife were a nice looking couple and a bit later they took advantage of the
brisk morning breeze to sail out, eventually a
tiny speck in the huge blue yonder. They were clearly not on a heading for
Port Blair in the Andamans, but evidently making for the Duncan Passage or the
Ten Degree Channel, to cross the Indian Ocean to Sri Lanka and The Maldives or
perhaps even Chagos, a tiny archipelago just south of the Equator in the middle
of the Indian Ocean.
Oliver dived to
scrub the barnacles off the speed log on the bottom of our hull in order to get
it working again (we have to do this every time we anchor for more than one
day) and re-fixed his kick-up rudder preventer block, which often works its way
loose. Finally he
succombed to my nagging to get out the storm sail and check that it will hank
on over our genoa on the roller furler. We gave it sheets and rigged a tack to attach it at
the base, should we ever need to use it.
Out of the
corner of my eye, I could see the ketch couple hoist their main on the mooring
buoy nearby and sail off.
That gave me an
idea. The wind dropped
completely around midday. Inspired by the ketch couple, I raised our main on the mooring buoy in
order to put in the 2nd reef, which I had started at Pansea Bay,
only to discover then that the reefing line was too short and had had to
abandon the job. Now I cut a
new longer line off a reel and I whipped the ends to stop it fraying. Since Oliver thinks reefs are
superfluous and that we will never ever need them (ÒBob Mott never did when he had Sundancer, so why should
we?Ó), he had never bothered to
find out how the reefs worked. It was I who had searched in Nigel CalderÕs book on boat maintenance and
with the help of his excellent diagrams had worked out how to rig the reefs and
how to use them. Much
earlier in our trip I had put in the first reef Ôjust in caseÕ. When I got to actually rigging
the second reef at Koh Similan, by some amazing fluke I wasnÕt tall enough to
reach the second reefing cringle (we hadnÕt yet twigged that you can rig the
reefs with the sail still in the sail cover, which is much easier because you
can reach all three cringles with no hassle), so I had to get Oliver to help -
which meant that he got to rig the reef that day and therefore gained first
hand experience of how the reefing system on Sundancer worked, which was soon
to save our bacon, because in extremis, it often turns out to be me on the helm
and Oliver out on deck by the mast battling with the lines, because he is
stronger. But I am running
ahead of myselfÉ
We had already
worked out our route to the Andamans and figured that it was more sensible to
leave at midnight, favouring a daylight arrival in Port Blair four days later.
But with the
mainsail up, we were now humming and hah-ing about whether or not to leave
right then - at 1300 on 14th
February, two weeks after checking out! By now the lively morning wind had dropped away and
there was a real danger we would be becalmed. I said to Oliver, ÒWhy donÕt we leave now? ItÕs a gorgeous tempting day,
cloudless and inviting and we can get our confidence by nightfall. If we wait till this evening, the
wind will come up strong again as it does every evening at the moment and weÕll
be tempted to put off our departure yet AGAIN! At least this way we can trick ourselves into
leaving!Ó
It was dead
calm. We were ready. So we left. Completely daft, because, as we
might have guessed, it was the calm before the storm! Unlike most other people, we donÕt ÔdoÕ weather-forecasts in
the tropics: Oliver canÕt see the
point because the forecasts donÕt give any information about the myriad local
variationsÉ However, before
leaving the Amanpuri and Chedi Hotels, he had made an exception and we HAD
downloaded the weekÕs wind and wave patterns in the Andaman Sea region of the Indian
Ocean. Even
these gave no indication of what would hit us in the dead of that nightÉ
Indeed we were
soon becalmed on a glassy sea and had to motor for many hours. We had a romantic sunset with a
glass of wine on the side deck to celebrate our first ever night passage, when
the wind ruffled into life, so out with the genoa. I cooked dinner and later went to sleep on our sea
berth in the saloon, only to be woken by Oliver at midnight.
ÒClose the
hatches!Ó I rushed around
closing our zillion hatches and returned to base. Oliver was at the wheel, swinging it vigorously
backwards and forwards from one side to the other in equal measure. ÒIÕve got to slow the boat down,
but I donÕt really know how – weÕre going too fast!Ó The seas were now running high
and everything was bucking and crashing. A huge cloud had been sitting on the far horizon
behind us all day, brooding, brewing up and fuming from a distance. We had remarked from time to time
how extremely slow moving it was. Our previous experience of storm clouds in this northeast season is that
they may bring the odd bit of lightning, but not much wind and generally just a
short shower of rain, if that. This one unleashed the works on us: thunder, lightning and torrential rain. Winds gusting up to 40 knots
howled and screamed in the rigging.
ÒThe seas are
too big to turn into the wind. Too late to reef!Ó We had full sail up, except for a slightly reduced
genoa!!! Ò ItÕs taking all my
strength and concentration to keep the boat as close to the wind as I can,
somewhere between 30 and 60 degrees. That way at least I can keep control. The wind seems to be backing,
itÕs all I can do to keep following it!Ó
Rain was teeming
in the saloon doors. I
closed one and stood and listened to Oliver from the other. There seemed no point in me going
out and getting soaked through, unless I had to! We never wear oilskins in the tropics, though in fact
I could have done with my Caribbean pair right then! It never occurred to me to look for them,
however. My mouth was
dry. Was this the end? It was night, pitch black –
we couldnÕt see a thing. The
rigging wouldnÕt be able to bear the tremendous forces on it and would break
for sure! I decided not to
say anything negative, as I felt that would not be helpful for Oliver who was
struggling himself at the wheel and needed all his focus engaged there - not
distracted by my fears! After careering blindly for what seemed like eternity, with lightning
all around us (yachts often get struck in this part of the world), there was a
sudden lull.
ÒQuick! We may be in the eye of the storm and then itÕll start up
again. Take the wheel and go
up into the wind and weÕll furl the genoa some more and take in a reef or two.Ó We managed to do this in bucking
seas, Oliver illuminated by lightning like a strobe show in a disco! I should have thought to take the
photo! I meanwhile was
blindly (because no reference points – couldnÕt see a thing!) turning the
boat head to wind, but it was like trying to chase my own tail – the wind
was swinging through 180 degrees, or so it seemed. I seemed to drive forever: my eyes glued to the Tac Tic wind meter which shows the
angle of the boat to the wind. Thank goodness Oliver had helped me rig the reefs that morningÉ Now I was thinking, ÒWhat luck!Ó
as Oliver battled on the foredeck in these atrocious conditions! Finally the reef was secured and
I started to set sail again. As I came off the wind I thought I was going mad – the COG (course
over the ground – our course over the seabed) on the GPS was reading
preposterous numbers. I was
totally disorientated, as when youÕve been blindfolded and turned around and
around and then set free!
Our track on the
computer during the storm showed tight circles and crazy zig-zag twists and
turns. It was only now that
we realized we were in horribly confused seas. But our dinky little reefed main and smaller genoa
were a great comfort. We
were totally whacked and it was only 2 am – four and a half hours to go
till daybreak!
In the Bay of
Biscay in the summer, only one four hour watch is totally in the dark –
the others go in and out of it:
there are only six hours of darkness, if that. Here in the tropics you have twelve hours in the pitch
dark. How we got
through that night I donÕt know. It totally rattled our confidence and made me wonder what on earth was
making us set out on this stupid venture? Why didnÕt we just stay and enjoy exploring the Surin and
Similan Islands instead? What made us voluntarily put ourselves at risk and subject ourselves to
adrenalin-pumping, dry mouth, fight and flight survival scenarios? I came across this quote in one
of the sailing manuals, which seemed apposite and made me laugh:
ÔHe who goes to sea for pleasure
Would go to
hell to pass the time!Õ Anon
Still on
super-alert, as we hurtled into the night, other paranoid thoughts jostled for
attention: ÒWhat if we get hit by
a whaleshark?Ó It could
happen at any time! I love these
creatures – they are extraordinarily beautifulÉ But many a boat has sunk after being struck by a whale
- so why not a whaleshark?
We ourselves had had a nail-biting encounter only the day before,
shortly after leaving the Similans: we were motoring along at full speed in
broad daylight when an enormous whaleshark (15 metres or so) chundered straight across our bow, pausing
for no one – completely intent on her own mission. Perhaps to her we were just
a poxy bit of flotsam! We would
have hit her if we hadnÕt Ôslammed on the brakesÕ by throwing the engines full
speed astern! The whaleshark
just surfaced and dived and surfaced and dived right across our bow! I found her inspiring
– the fact that nothing would distract her from her purpose: I admired her power and impetus!
I finally
drifted off to sleep and woke at dawn to find a somewhat calmer situation,
sunny and benign, with good winds, though the sea was horribly rough all that
day and the following night, making us bounce and CRASH and skitter over the
waves. A monohull
would have ploughed its furrow through them and possibly been more
comfortable. By the end of
the day we were exhausted from bracing ourselves. And deafened from the racket.
By evening there
were threatening ÔstonkersÕ of storm clouds all around us. As Oliver said, ÒAt sunset they close in like Count
Dracular, sparing no prey!Ó The wind started to build, so we took in a reef – we didnÕt want a
second night of terrorÉ
In fact the wind
dropped a little and we couldÕve done with our full main and genoa.
It was almost
impossible to sleep in the saloon-bed with the violent slamming and jolting as
the boat whacked the waves. The impact was not only physical – it was LOUD! Instead of drifting off to sleep
as I usually do, cradled by the ocean, I remained on super-alert, bracing
myself against every predicted crash! Oddly enough it was quieter out in the cockpit where
the racket was marginally more remote – one wasnÕt right INSIDE the crashing
as one was in the saloon. Even so, whilst he was helming during that initial period of the
passage, Oliver resorted to music on headphones to shut out the din!
On our third
day, the sea gradually reduced to slight waves and the day was benign and sunny
– far too frazzling in fact. We were knackered, especially Oliver, who was demented, driven to do
stuff when he was totally past it. We had been warned about this problem by Chas, an experienced American
sailor we had recently met in Telaga Harbour. He advised us about sticking to rigorous 3-hours-on
and 3-hours-off watches, even if it doesnÕt seem necessary, otherwise you can
become overtired without realizing it and thatÕs when you start to make
errors.
We decided to
put up the parasail to help us along – a glorious canary yellow, frilly
spinnaker – a highly unconventional Ôone of its kindÕ: it is supposed to tolerate higher winds
than a regular spinnaker, because it ingeniously spills wind through its frilly
vents.
But on this
occasion, boy did we curse it! We only had 9 knots of wind and could not get it to fly
consistently. We learnt it
needs a very particular wind angle – namely 150 to 210 degrees exactly, which is essentially a following
wind. It wonÕt tolerate any
deviation from that narrow band and that was frustrating. I learnt to keep it flying by
using the helm, but more often than not this meant sailing off course! We decided it was a Ô10 knot
sailorÕ and put it away and ran the genny and the electric engines for one and
a half hours. Then at 1500
the wind picked up a treat and we let out the genoa and scudded along on a beam
reach surfing the swells – literally flying and skimming over the top! The northeast monsoon winds
stayed constant into nightfall at 13 knots, increasing to 18 knots. We were doing a consistent 8
knots over the ground. Exhilarating sailing. I was in the galley down below preparing dinner and it was as noisy as
being outside, with all the underwater sounds streaming against the hull, roaring
and sizzling and hissing... Outside, Oliver was in his element.
ÒThe autohelm is
coping fine - not hot at all,Ó he informed me, as if this mundane piece of
information might help anchor me to the boat. For I was awestruck, as if in the presence of
God...
The moon wasnÕt
up yet and the stars were phenomenal – thousands and thousands in a
star-studded tapestry unlike anything I have ever seen before. We were engulfed in the deafening
sound of rushing water, peering out into TOTAL BLACKNESS – sheer blind
hurtling into the void! The
only light was the streaming phosphorescence in our double wake. It was an exercise in TRUST! Can you trust in the universe
that there isnÕt a whale, container or log that we will hit? For sure, if we had, at that
speed we would have shattered into a million pieces! It was magical and terrifying all at once. At first I struggled to enjoy it
to the full, I was too frightened. But as I got used to this edge, I was able to
surrender into the FULL sense of exhilaration, awe and wonder. In the sheer pristine
beauty of it all, my mind seemed to expand, awakened by the startling presence
of a myriad stars, winking jewels in the intense blackness, amplified by the
crisp night air. Shooting stars
streak their glooping threads across the spangled black and sputter out. The scintillating sparkles
in the effervescing, iridescent, phosphorescence of our wake held me in thrall. I had entered a portal to another
world.
Daylight dawns
on the 4th day and we havenÕt seen another boat for 72 hours now
– not a living thing nor barren rock on the horizon. Just a school of dolphins about
their crazy antics – shooting straight up out of the water and
bomb-dropping back into the sea in a shower of spray! Their energy was infectious and I couldnÕt help
laughing out loud.
Totally alone
out here, days from anywhere, at the mercy of every weather event that drifts
by, we had 3,100 metres (11,000 ft) of sea underneath us – imagine if we
sank! Such thoughts made me
feel precariousÉ However, generally the wide horizons and huge expanse of sea
engendered a forlorn sense of peace, which I rather liked.
Oliver and I are
now very very tired, he more so than me. I think he must have had the more strenuous watches.
We talk about the technical improvements we want to make, and remind each other
of safety procedures, pretty
rudimentary on our boat, and namely: ÒCarry a torch in your pocket at all times in case you
fall overboard, and if youÕre on watch, you get the knife!Ó On this trip IÕve been assembling
the grabbag in case we sink, adding to it as I think of new useful items. Some items I donÕt have on board
like energy foods. I make a
mental note to buy some in future. Swiftgig (our dinghy) is prepared with water in her bowels and sail at
the ready. We have
forgotten the handheld GPS at home. At first I felt angry about this: the temptation is to blame Oliver, but
unfortunately I am equally responsible! So we write our GPS position on post-it notes every
half hour, ready to grab if we have to leap into Swiftgig and phone Her
MajestyÕs Coastguard in Falmouth on the Sat phone! Who would ever come and pick us up out here?
ÒNot the Thais,Ó
say HM Coastguard (Oliver phoned them for a chat before we left the UK)É ÒMaybe
the Indian Navy if you are lucky enough to be in their watersÉÓ
I have two
grabbags packed. And I have
a list as long as your arm of things we have to gather up at the last
minute: they cannot be packed
because we use them all the time:
Lifejackets (which we keep ready in the cockpit), head torches, sat
phone, mobile phones, charts, parallel rule and dividersÉ Part of the drill in
the event of sinking is to deploy the Epirb, which sends out a satellite signal
of all our details, position etc, although unnervingly you have no way of
knowing whether itÕs working and whether anyone has actually received your
signal, and whether anyone is actually able to respond. You are left in agonizing
uncertainty as to whether anyone will do anything to help you and know
realistically that in these parts of the world you will simply be left to rotÉ
At
12.30 midnight, the winds seemed to be building. It was madly exhilarating! At 18 knots, we put in 1 reef – we are getting
good at this reefing business by now! We would never have reefed if we hadnÕt had that
cracker of a storm on the first night, which shook our confidenceÉ it was frustrating, because the
wind moderated in fact to 12 knots, so we werenÕt going as fast as we might
have. However, it was my
watch through the night and this meant I felt at ease and sat out on the side
deck watching the wake and scanning for ships and writing this account by the
light of the moon and by moving my finger down the page to mark the line I am
writing on, in an effort to keep it legible and not write over what I have just
written, which I have discovered renders it completely illegible!
About
2 am I heard a strange squeaking sound and something made me walk up to the
bow. What I saw, took my
breath away, it was so exquisitely beautiful. In the inky black waters I could see the
phosphorescent trails of two dolphins as they played in the bow wave, rubbing
ecstatically against the hull, swimming at the same speed as the boat, and then
accelerating forwards in formation to weave the great rhythmic arcs of a figure
of eightÉ leaving the phosphorescent patterns they had woven behind them in the
water, to slowly decompose like vapour trails in the sky. It was only by these ghostly traces
that I knew they were there! It was sheer magic!
I stayed on
watch for 5 hours to let Oliver sleep. When he awoke we shook out the reef and had good fresh
winds, which carried us into Port Blair.
Six hours out of
Port Blair – we attempted, as advised, to call Port Blair Port Radio on
the SSB. Zero response. Two hours out I called them on
channel 16 VHF. All went fine
until the official started requesting detailed information about the boat and
us. I was caught completely
unprepared, expecting to be informing him only of our ETA and name of
vessel. I was hunting
for the MMSR number, when he asked me to spell the name of the vessel in
phonetic alphabet. This is
normal practice in certain parts of the world, but we have never been asked to
do this in Thailand or Malaysia. I was tired and disorientated after the four-day passage. The phonetic alphabet! My mind was completely blank! I havenÕt used the phonetic
alphabet since our radio course a year ago! I bravely embarked on ÒSierra Uniform ÉÓ
ÒOliver what is
N?Ó I panicked. He looked blank. I abandoned the radio and
rampaged around trying to think which of our books might show the phonetic
alphabet. In the background
I could hear the radio crackling to life and the irate voice becoming more and
more exasperated.
ÒSailing vessel
Sundancer, this is CONTROL - phonetic alphabet please!Ó
ÒSailing vessel
Sundancer, phonetic alphabet PLEASE!Ó The voice was growing more emphatic with a steely
edge.
Finally,
mortified, I started again: ÒSierra, Uniform, (pause) Nicobar (!) Delta, Alpha, Nicabar (I blurted
again!), Charlie, Echo, (PauseÉ Oliver prompted me: ÒRomeo.Ó) ÒRomeo.Ó
The man on the radio showed no mercy:
ÒName of master please in phonetic alphabet!Ó
Oh God!
ÒSierra, Tango,
Alpha, PÉ P for Papa (Oh! ThatÕs
it! In my flailing around IÕd
happened upon the right word quite by chance!), Lima, Echo, Tango, Oscar, (Oh
God, there it is again, the wretched ÔNÕ) NICOBAR!!!Ó
What a
shambles! I felt utterly
humiliated and very very foolish! Part of the colourful entertainment in the Andaman Islands, we were
later to discover, when trapped in Port Blair enduring days of bureaucracy, was
to catch the odd surreal conversation between CONTROL and some other yachtie
driven demented by CONTROLÕs insane demandsÉ
I realized I
wasnÕt alone in failing to respond with military precision, when I later
happened upon one such exchange between CONTROL and a boat called ÒFreedom
FighterÓ who was evidently on the point of entering Indian waters just like we
had, after an exhausting passageÉ
ÒName of sailing
vessel please!Ó barked
Control.
ÒFreedom
FighterÓ, said a faded female voice.
ÒSay in phonetic
alphabet please!Ó
ÒFree / dom /
Fight / er!Ó came the earnest response.
ÒSay in PHONETIC
ALPHABET, PLEASE!Ó Control
was growing impatient.
ÒYou know, ummmmm LIBERTY!
ErrrrrrrrÉ LI
BERATION!Ó
That didnÕt do
it for Control.
Silence.
Out of
exasperation, the woman cast around, flinging out any similar words that might
do the trick. Anything!
ÒEMANCIPATION!Ó rang out across the air
waves. I couldnÕt help
admiring her sheer inventivenessÉ
ÒINDEPENDENCE!Ó She was on a roll, now.
ÒSELF-
RULE!Ó she blurted out, ever
hopeful.
Control seemed
bemusedÉ for once at a COMPLETE loss for words!
ÒErrrrrrrrÉ NO RESTRICTION!Ó I could tell she was tiring. Who wouldnÕt be in her shoes?
ÒNO LONGER A
SLAVE!!!Ó She dealt her trump
cardÉ if this didnÕt work,
she manifestly had no more ideas!
I SO empathized
with her!
But I also
suddenly realized I had no business listening in on this channel and switched
back to Channel 16 wanting to afford her some privacy at least for her dying
throesÉ
Typical –
once my own ordeal with CONTROL was over, the first sailing book I picked out
flopped open to a page displaying the whole phonetic alphabet from A to Z. There was the missing
ÔNÓ: N for NOVEMBER! So I printed it out and spelt
ÔSundancerÕ and ÔStapletonÕ and stuck it all next to the radio to avoid future
fiascos, along with the MMSR no.
An important
word about CONTROL, before I proceed. From now on, every time I write ÒThis is CONTROL!Ó,
you, the Reader, must imagine the words pronounced with a thick Indian accent,
roll the ÒrÓ as in ÒrrrrrÓ and swallow the first syllable Ò CONÓ, (Go on! Start practising! You must get it right! ItÕs very important to get the EFFECT!É now emphasize the
last syllable, dwelling on the Ò-TROLÓ for at least two beats longer than
normal: imagine the ÒoÓ sounding
like a cross between ÔbowlÕ and ÔbawlÕ: in fact it sounds like Òcon-TRRRORLLÓ. I will write it in capitals in my script
to indicate CONTROLÕs sheer weight and bossiness, but you must always hear it
as Òcon-TRRRORLLÓ !!! said
in a kind of sinister drawl of someone sent to persecute you and relishing that
role!
At 11.15 we had
our first real taste of (PORT) CONTROL who ordered us to proceed to anchor at a
prescribed lat-long off Ross Island, Ònext to a sailing boat called The Iron
LadyÓ. Once in the lee of
Ross Island we paused to take down the mainsail, only to be rudely interrupted!
ÒSailing vessel
Sundancer. WHAT ARE YOU
DOING? Please proceed
straight to lat/long XÓ
For GodÕs
sake! Talk about harassment! However, we were determined
to finish getting the main down.
He instantly gave us more grief. If a voice could rap you over the knuckles, ours would
be black and blue by nowÉ
ÒSailing vessel
Sundancer. I said PROCEED
STRAIGHT TO THE POSITION NEXT TO THE IRON LADY!Ó
Then a minute or
two later: ÒSailing vessel
Sundancer, have you put down your anchor?Ó
ÒNo. Not quiteÓ We were still searching for the right spot, not too
close to The Iron Lady.
ÒSailing vessel
Sundancer! This is CONTROLÉ PUT DOWN YOUR ANCHOR NOW PLEASE!Ó
As directed, we
anchored off Ross Island in the channel between Ross Island and the Aberdeen
Jetty, which was about a mile away across a rough and windy channel. We thought we would have to pick
up the officials in our dinghy – the tiny Swiftgig (!) with 3 hp engine. But fortunately two customs
officials arrived with our agent called Siraj in his launch. We had to fill in forms and
fortunately we were well prepared with pages and pages of printed inventories
of all our equipment and stores and personal effects. When it came to our list of alcohol, they sighed and
said if we mentioned any alcohol they would have to do a bond, which made them
feel very very tired at the thought of all the paperwork involved! They suggested we crossed out the
52 beers and 7 bottles of wine, 1 tequilla and 2 whiskies on the form! And put ÔNilÕ next to the
crossing out! We had been
warned they would require whisky as a bonus/bribe (which is why we had bought
it) and kept saying pointedly that we donÕt drink whisky. But they werenÕt interested. A yachtie told us later that they
are tired of being given cheap undrinkable Thai Whisky! They were very pleasant and
personable. They said the
yacht next door was a problem because they had a gun on board. ÒEverything has changed since
9.11Ó they said. ÒEven here. We have to be careful.Ó
They left and
Siraj returned with two immigration gentlemen. That all went smoothly. They told us there was no crime and to expect no
trouble: we were safe here in the
Andaman Islands.
Each time an
official arrived, they left big black footprints as they stepped on to our
white decks – spanking white after the ferocious rain storm on the
crossing! Oliver firmly required
that the astounded officials take their shoes off before proceeding! They looked very uncomfortable
and a little ludicrous in their uniforms, epaulettes and socks!
Previously,
Oliver and I had heard Iron Lady talking to Port Control who ordered the
skipper (a German with his wife and tiny baby on board) across to the Aberdeen
Jetty in his dinghy to pick up the immigration officials. The skipper was replying in his
clipped German accent that he had a small dinghy with a 1 hp engine, could the
officials come across on the ferry to Ross Island, which was only 300 m from
his boat? And he would pick them
up from there. ÒNoÓ came the
answer, he was to cross the channel.
ÒI am not prepared to do that!Ó he said, ÒThe sea is too rough!Ó
ÒThen you will
have to wait,Ó said Port Control spicily.
Now and again
the immigration officials on our boat got into a lively exchange in Hindi with
Siraj. He did a lot of
gesticulating. Oliver
guessed they were requesting he drop them at The Iron Lady! He acquiesced in the end.
We later learnt
that the Indian officials are accustomed to dealing with big ships alongside
the quays, but hate getting wet and seasick going out to distant yachts at
anchor!
After lunch the
Coastguard posse arrived in dashing white uniforms and epaulettes. Their commander proudly told us
that it was he who had picked up Kilo, the brand new catamaran that had
recently drifted into Indian waters from Thailand. We had heard about Kilo in Phuket where it had dragged
anchor in the night at Kata Beach when the Swiss owner was ashore, and
disappeared over the horizon and the story was that the Indian Navy had picked
it up off the Nicobar Islands, south of the Andaman Islands, still with its
anchor down, so strictly speaking no salvage fees should be payable,
nevertheless the Indian Government was asking $50,000 salvage fees. Since it was a Thai registered
boat, the Thai government were doing the negotiation.
I told this
proud coastguard official that a lot of people were talking about him in
Phuket! He didnÕt know what
to make of thatÉ
They were very
concerned about our gas, because a Thai motor yacht had exploded a week
previously in the Inner Harbour:
an Aussie friend of ours, Glenn, was there and saw it happen. Three men drew up in a dinghy and
one went aboard and down below to tinker with the engine. The next moment a huge fireball
lifted the boat right out of the water and the bottom fell out along with the
Thai man who was badly burned. The others were OK.
The coastguard
was also at
To get things moving and give us a sense
that something was happening, we decided to use the time to get diesel from the
fuel dock near the pier. We
had been advised not to bring Sundancer alongside the fuel dock at Chalong, as
it isnÕt suitable for yachts and one can sustain damage. So, as recommended, we went in
the dinghy with some of our big diesel containers. We bobbed around in the dinghy under the giant piles of
the pier waiting our turn, trying to catch the eye of the fuel attendants on
the dock high above us. Eventually we were able to grab the bottom of the wooden stepladder and
the attendant handed down the hose with the nozzle ready to go. We filled all the
containers and just as he was finishing the last one, Oliver realized that the
container he was filling must have a hole in the bottom, because diesel was
beginning to splurge everywhere in the bottom of our dinghy! With great presence of mind he
screwed on the cap and turned the container upside down, only to find the cap
leaked as well!
We watched helplessly as our dinghy filled up with 30 litres of diesel
and we bounced all the way back to Sundancer with diesel swilling around our
ankles! How on earth would
we clean up the mess without getting diesel in the sea? And one of us would have to board
Sundancer glooping diesel all over her pristine white paintwork, just to get a
cloth!