Of Foreign Build (26 page)

We wished our friends luck and headed back to disrupt my parents’ home, commandeering the washing machine while we organised ourselves to fly back to America in February 2005. The whirlwind week flashed along, with exhausting social events and playful games with my young nieces and nephews. Though our heads were already back in Alabama, it took a little while for our hearts to follow.

Back in America, with our sails aloft, we glided into Florida and our last stretch of the magnificent adventure on The Great Loop. It felt a bit like coming home to a favourite comfy chair. Leaving the rivers and entering back into the ICW brought a familiar feel with it, along with the comfort of smelling the ocean. We could see the hard, tenacious work Floridians had done to repair their pretty state after the bashing of ruthless hurricanes. Unfortunately, we also witnessed the telltale signs that remained: submerged boats, dismasted, left for dead, and bright blue tarpaulins streaking along the horizon, covering gaps where the roofs had taken flight – a carpenter’s dream. We were back in salt water and tides and were elated to be able to dip into clean water that tightened our skin with its sharp chill. The view was now dappled with the promise of spring.

It was an honour to be able to do this trip, to watch the seasons come and go and see parts of the world we knew nothing of. Our heads were starting to think Panama Canal and Pacific Ocean; our hearts were, for quite some time, still in America.

‘When are you going to be at the Panama Canal?’

This question plagued us.

‘If you can predict the weather for the next two months, I will tell you,’ was my frustrated reply.

Our delay in the UK meant we had to move fast to reach the Panama Canal in April. Thereafter, we would traverse the magnificent Pacific Ocean, and timing was of the essence. If we did not reach Australia by the end of November, we would be caught in cyclone season. We had made a pact that we’d never be in a latitude at the time when hurricanes or cyclones could develop. We hated thirty knots of winds let alone one hundred knots. Why would we gamble our lives and our home with nature?

My dad, Roy, and Noel’s brother, Colin, had firmly staked their claim to be our additional crew when we went through man’s majestic Panama Canal. They both knew we could not predict when we would reach there, as our timing laid in Mother Nature’s hands.

It was going to take some organising to figure out where and when to collect them. Dad fancied Jamaica, and although we knew we could get to Cuba, winds and currents were the other factors that could make it impossible to reach Jamaica. Noel and I had much chart studying to do. We needed to figure out the best route for us and learn about the predominant winds and currents. We could study the usual weather for this time of year, but that was never completely reliable. We calculated how many miles we needed to cover and how long it would take. We averaged one-hundred-and-twenty nautical miles per day (over twenty-four hours), but good and bad currents, wind, and weather changed our speed anywhere from fifty miles a day to one-hundred-and-fifty miles a day.

It was all on a toss of a coin when we plumped for the Cayman Islands on 5 April 2005. That was our target to collect my dad. Colin was heading to Los Angeles and would wait for our call when we were nearing the Canal, so he could hop on a short flight down to Panama.

We waited for good weather at the Dry Tortugas at the tip of Florida Key West. Our next stop was Cuba, but we were already behind schedule.

The sail to Cuba was unremarkable, but checking into Cuba was extraordinary; six tall men with polished boots and pressed uniforms stomped around
Mariah
for an hour. The sniffer dogs enjoyed a pat from us and wagged their tails, while the officials scowled. I bit my tongue as they flicked through private paperwork, but once they had left, we could relax in a safe harbour. Tied to a concrete wharf along a narrow stretch, it was faintly odd to be amid Cubans and other cruising nationalities, but not one single citizen of the United States.

Old Havana, Cuba, bustled around us as we walked as bewildered tourists do. A free bus ride dumped us in the heart of the city, with just our wits to find our way. Decaying and refurbished buildings fought for space, and we felt as though we had stepped back in time as the clot of American Classic 1950’s cars wrestled for road space.

Amazingly, we found the Ship’s Chandlery easily, and they had the charts we needed to help find our way to the south of Cuba. This was where we would make our exit to pick up my dad at the Grand Cayman Islands.

Time was ticking. It was two days before Dad landed at the Caymans and started to twiddle his thumbs. Meanwhile, the narrow channel to exit the marina was stirring up into a wild, white frenzy with the whipping winds. To attempt to leave would have been suicide.

We left Havana the day before Dad’s arrival in the Caymans and had thirty-six hours of our best sailing ever. ‘What a glorious life,’ I said. ‘Dad’s going to love this.’

As usual, our illusions were soon in shreds as we turned around Cuba’s western extremity and were met with ferocious head winds. The wind got together with the waves and they continually launched water over us. We had to carry on, sail changes, engine checks, ropes re-furled and, of course, our continual look out for other traffic. We experienced our worst ever and best ever sail, all in one day.

Mariah’s
engine was thrusting her hard into the walls of water that slammed undeterred; great geysers of water showered down, drowning us in sticky salt. The lurching became unbearable. Imagine the worst (best?) tummy lurching fair-ground ride, and then imagine doing that for twenty-four hours, non-stop while you try to carry on normally: cleaning your teeth, using the bathroom…
Dad’s gonna hate this
, we thought.

Off shift, we could not sleep. The soaring waves lifted
Mariah
,
and then released her. She dropped like a rock, slamming down; this left us levitating in our bunks before plopping back down in a muddled heap.

Twenty-four hours later, exhausted and salt ridden, we reached the anchorage on the south of Cuba, where we could rest and await favourable winds. With much relief we were away from towns (and bureaucracy), surrounded by rocky hills, mangroves, and the odd coconut tree.

We spent our rest day working; salt-water had found its way through a dogged hatch and had soaked our bed. We washed the mattress and linen in fresh water and pinned, tied, and clipped it around the deck to allow it to dry. Noel ensured the engine was okay and carried out routine checks and maintenance. In the afternoon, we plotted our course for the Caymans, listened to weather reports, and tidied up the mayhem that the fierce weather had left us in. Right at that moment we hated sailing, but had a destination to reach. We were already five days late.

‘We’re coming, pa!’ Noel and I started to quote dumb phrases from movies. Sailing could still have its dull moments and coupled with the endless horizons, we could become quite daft – anything to keep us amused.

We were just two days away from Grand Cayman and looked forward to seeing my dad. Things were not normal; we couldn’t pick up the phone or drop a quick email to find out if he had safely arrived and to let him know where we were.

Our route from Cuba to Caymans was a scenic one. We added over ninety miles to our journey to try and out guess the usual winds and keep them on our stern.

Like any kind of life, sailing has its ups and downs. One day, dozens of dolphins frolicked on our bow wave, Mums with babies sharing the ride, a sight that always brought a sting of joy to my eyes. We believed (and had tried and tested) the theory that sighting dolphins on our journey was a good sign, meaning a good journey – we had seen none on our last trip. The moonless night enabled us to witness the miracle of phosphorescence, the biological phenomenon that dazzled us with explosions of vivid blue and green.

The following day, three swallows had tried to find a stable place to rest their weary wings on board
Mariah’s
constantly shifting deck. One brave bird kept us company in the cockpit, chirping a pretty tune and turning his beak up at Noel’s favourite oatmeal biscuit that I tried to entice him with. Finally, bored with my company, he flitted below and snuggled on a sleeping bag, tucked in his head, and slept. I would take in any waif, so I felt delighted to offer a reprieve to these pretty birds that reminded me so much of home.

Our small feathery pal took flight, leaving a reminder of his visit with two little messy packets, a small price to pay to be so close to wild birds that had put their trust in large, clumsy humans.

Our feathery friend returned to our safe cockpit and sang his last chirp before suffering a swift heart attack right at my feet. With a different kind of sting in my eyes and lump in my throat, I carried the delicate swallow to show Noel, so he could say his farewell too. We gave the colourful swallow an official burial at sea. It was a poignant moment. Alone at sea, we became especially attached to any living creature that was braving the elements hand in hand with us. The afternoon was quiet and sad, but the small sprinkle of rain was refreshing; the clouds coupled up with the sun and rain to form a beautiful, horse-shoe rainbow. The water was flat, seas were calm, and things were well. I started to wonder what would happen next.

‘I felt just like Robinson Crusoe,’ my dad exclaimed.

We mirrored his relief that we had finally arrived to collect him from the Caymans. For five days, he had sat on the long shelf of white sand beach and watched for us to make our entry. We had snuck in at night and went searching for Dad in his plush hotel the following day. Actually, the hotel was the only one open after Hurricane Ivan walloped Grand Cayman. Other hotels were closed and undergoing repair.

As weary travellers, we took advantage of the luxuries of a holiday hotel. Hot showers, laundry, free Internet, and TV! For one day only we lived as kings. Dad then somewhat downgraded his accommodation, squishing into a thirty-three foot boat that disturbingly lacked fresh towels and maid service.

‘Where’s the air-conditioning then?’ Dad asked with a sly grin.

‘Same place as the running hot water and TV,’ I replied smartly.

We made plans to dive with giant stingrays and explore the island, but again Mother Nature waved her dominating hand, and the weather dictated an immediate departure.

Since selecting the Caymans to collect Dad from, we had found out that the Caribbean Sea was notoriously rough with big, ugly waves. Noel and I were anxious – Dad had spent holidays on our boat, but always in dead calm, flat water. Actually being at sea was a whole new ball game. We decided to beat east to Jamaica, which would take two days. At least then Dad had the opportunity to jump off and fly down to the Panama if it all became too much.

We re-introduced him to boat life with a different, more in-depth, preamble on safety.

‘This is your harness, always wear it and always clip yourself on. Tablets to curb sea-sickness are to be taken each morning.’

We were all ready to leave, but first we needed fuel.

For us, the simple task of filling up with fuel was not quite the same as driving a car into a garage. However, this time our task played out a sequence that was a hot contender for the next
Carry On
film.

I called the dock for the third time to confirm that we could pull up to the concrete pier to refuel.

‘George
Town Port Authority
,
this is the sail boat Mariah II
.

‘Mariah II
,
this is Port
Security
. When you see that large, black ship called Mona leave, you may tie up and refuel; we’ll be there waiting to show you where to go.’

We waited, one hour, and then two hours. At nine o’clock that night, Dad released us from our mooring, and I guided
Mariah
to the dock. Noel was flat on his back with a good book, not because he’d suddenly become perversely lazy, but because lifting the dinghy up the beach earlier that day had caused an imperative muscle to pop. Dad and I were on our own.

‘Port Security, this is Mariah II, we are approaching the dock, please indicate where we should tie.’

Silence.

I called again.

Silence.

I called again, my voice revealing my impatience as I circled Mariah.

‘Mariah II
,
this is Port Authority, have you paid for your fuel?’

This was the first we had heard that we should pay first.

‘We’ll be ready for you tomorrow, once you’ve paid,’
Port Authority said over the radio.

‘We’ll see,’
I said, the cutting anger in my voice was as clear as a glass.

At 8 am the following day, after estimating our required fuel and paying, Dad and I took
Mariah
to the dock – again. Noel was still on his back.

Nearing the assumed tie up location, we saw that the huge fenders for the ships on the dock would prevent Dad from leaping onto the dock to secure our lines. I couldn’t expect him to leap about like a teenager. I knew he’d give it a go and would probably do okay, but I could see him become a bit contemplative at the thought.

As only Jane Bond could, I eased
Mariah
alongside the wharf, pulled the throttle into neutral, leapt on deck, grabbed a line, and took a gamble that the fender would hold my weight. I took a further leap onto the filthy concrete with Dad right on my heels and between us we secured the boat. Noel adjusted his pillow and turned a page. Then we saw that the only place to tie up, where we had tied, was too far from the fuel!

With diesel now dripping from my neck, and the sweat covering my burning skin, we were finally ready to leave. It had taken six hours of running ragged, the sunscreen slipped down my face together with the sweat. Dad and I were suffering in the relentless, breeze free heat. Meanwhile, Noel adjusted his fan.

Now we had paid for more fuel than we had taken on board. With much relief, the refund was easy, as was the clearing with customs and immigration, although the diesel/sweat perfume coupled with my extraordinarily red face caused a few odd looks.

Dad was now officially on the crew list, I looked like a crisp, Noel was enjoying his book, and we were ready to leave, with only the notorious Caribbean Sea to tackle.

‘Anyone for a cuppa?’ Dad asked. He had become the official tea-maker on board. Mother Nature had taken pity on us and presented a stalling low pressure system, enabling us to gain plenty of easting and a restful night on Jamaica’s shores. Still wary of the fickle weather that apparently stalked yachts in this area, our stay in Jamaica was brief and only on anchor. Soon, we were watching the land disappear with four days and nights of sailing in front of us with our new crewmember.

As we steered south towards the necklace of Panama’s San Blas Islands, we were impressed with Dad’s ability to handle the oddities of sailing. As if Mother Nature was witnessing Dad’s adeptness, each day she pushed the wind a bit harder. The prevailing south easterlies were constant and strong across the Caribbean Sea. We took advantage of the gift of a suspended low. After two days, we were riding eight-foot waves, which provided us with a rolling ride that would earn a few casualties at a fairground park. Dad coped with the odd, three-dimensional, continuous, movement with a cheerful smile and more offers of tea. On day three, the dolphins came.

‘Look,’ Noel whispered to Dad, ‘over there on the horizon.’ Dad peered into the sun, and a huge smile spread across his face.