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Authors: Jackie Parry

Tags: #Nonfiction, #Retail, #Sailing, #Travel

Of Foreign Build (7 page)

BOOK: Of Foreign Build
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I tried to live graciously, but it didn’t always work. I’m not sure what these times were linked with, leaving one life for another, missing folk back home, or taking the time to dwell on unhappy events in the past. Just because life was an incredible adventure, I still had to live with myself, and sometimes I just didn’t like me very much.

Emotions were given a freer rein, or it was simply that I had more time to think. With just the company of my own thoughts, night watches could be a cauldron of tearful memories. During these lonely, dark times I had time to reflect on where I had come from, how I had got there, and where I was heading – to Malaysia, on a ten-metre boat!

This would lead me back to the events in my life in the UK. Martin had been my fiancé. A handsome, fit, fine man, he had had a routine doctor’s appointment and blood test, resulting in the knowledge of his leukaemia. We vowed to beat it, and I just knew with my positive thinking and strong will that we would beat it together. For six months of hideous chemotherapy, he lived in the hospital; I lived there too, in a chair. I left at 5 am to go shower and then go to work. I’d try to work all day and return straight to the hospital and my chair. Only to comfort a man who spent most of the time in incredible pain and fear, wasting away each day as the almighty cocktail of drugs would not share his body with food. I recalled with too much clarity his final days, his sorrow, his pain. Every expression, every line on his face etched in my mind. I knew his face would never fade from memory.

Martin had asked me to marry him before he died. As I organised our wedding, my dad had pulled me aside. I waited for the down-to-earth lecture, with only my best interest at his heart, about how I was going to be a widow, and to think about things – instead, he said, ‘Anything you want, anything at all, you’ve got it, just ask.’ I was speechless and so emotional that I couldn’t even thank my dad, his whole body urged me to believe he meant anything, if I had wanted the moon he would have gone and got it himself. But what I wanted wasn’t going to be possible.

Two days after the two-week diagnoses, Martin passed away in my arms. The cold world suddenly became too harsh, too bright, too loud. I wanted the world to whisper, to dull and be still. I had wanted to die.

On
Mariah
, absorbed in guilt during the night watches I would think about this; some nights I would cry so hard I would make myself sick. With the fires of hesitation extinguished, just six months after losing Martin I had run away and met Noel. I certainly didn’t give myself enough time to grieve properly. My night watches became my grieving time, which worked for us both. Noel was supportive and I could talk about my feelings and worries, but he didn’t need to see my crying and witness my tangible sadness. It was all mine, I just had to get through it. I didn’t cry for me, or a love I wanted back. I wished Martin had his life back. I grieved for a life lost, a good person, taken for no reason, for the senselessness of it all.

I had thought my life was over, and at times I still became sad and had trouble understanding. I still felt the anger at the injustice. At times, I wondered if I would have left work and gone to Australia and met Noel had this not had happened. I’m not saying I’m glad I had something to spur me on to wringing everything out of my life I could, but it did give me the shove to go out there and find what else goes on in this world. Life has a strange way of guiding you on to another path. The nightmares continued, but Noel was an amazing listener and a patient comforter. It was through this time he truly became my best friend; we created an incredible bond that would never break.

In my new life, Noel kept me in check. I tell him my dreams, he knows all about my vivid nightmares. I dream of things I wouldn’t tell anyone but Noel. He gently wakes me from my sad whimpering and draws me away from my nightly horrors. Noel has saved my life in more ways than one.

Sometimes nights were filled with horrors, but conversely my mind seemed to be two-timing me. I also had a few dreams of great happiness, where I’d laugh so hard I’d wake myself up, still laughing. I think I was a little unstitched at this point in my life.

It is said that time is a great healer. I don’t entirely agree with this sentiment – you don’t heal, rather over time you simply get used to carrying the indescribable pain; the grief matures into a settled sorrow.

At this point, my relationship with Noel was still building. I missed everyone back home so much. They had carried me through my darkest days. I’m sure I scared Noel a little by telling him that he wasn’t only my husband, but my friend, girlfriend, mum, and sister! I just meant I could talk to him about anything and he understood.

With all these thoughts, we were still preparing to leave Borneo. Carrying water via jerry cans in the oppressive heat created a need for a cool wash, which also meant that we had to carry more water. Finding food we could identify to stock up with became a challenge we could do without; finding more space on board evoked dreams of a larger boat. The memories of the wedding and orangutans kept me positive. I wondered if our adventures could get any better. They did.

 

9
Singapore Sling

I felt like a bit like Alice in Wonderland, as the journey became curiouser and curiouser. On 23 October 2000 at 3:20 am, we crossed the invisible equator. Noel had a wee nip of a thick, warming liquid, with a good measure offered to Neptune. Two days later, we arrived safely at Batam, Nongsa Point in Indonesia.

I can tell you that this part of the world keeps you on your toes. The day before we arrived, I was on the graveyard watch. On board our bobbing world, we were surrounded by hundreds of dancing lights of various shapes and sizes.

‘Is that a large boat far away or a small boat up close?’ I asked aloud, trying to dispel my fears. It seemed that in this part of the world marine regulations were as popular as tax revenue. Navigation lights were regulated through the choice of the locals’ favourite colours.

On boats the night-time lights are red for port side (left) and green for starboard side (right), a white light at the stern, and, if motoring (and not sailing) a white steaming light at the front. This helps to identify which way the vessel is moving. The locals favoured green; a good start you would think, a nice bright starboard light. However, the green would be an all-round light, on its own, which made it a trifle hard to work out what the beejeezus was going on.

The night was as thick as soup and as black as a mine. Our three-dimensional movement created quite the challenge in working out other traffic’s courses. Only a few months before I would have made Noel stay up with me all night to weave between the walls of surrounding traffic; now I was handling the boat, figuring out and understanding other vessels’ movements, and controlling my fears. I was alone and managing to control the ship, this thought boosted my confidence, which was sadly about to be dashed.

At first, I was a bit dismayed with the odd and indistinct navigation lights, but as the night went on my dismay morphed into unmitigated gratification for any visible navigation lights at all. At about 3:30 am, I became tired and my feet were sore. I had been standing up for the entire time on watch. Noel and I had worked up to doing about six hours on, six off, so we could get better sleep. With over twenty boats around us at any one time, I was constantly taking bearings with the hand bearing compass, frantically jotting these down and noting direction of every vessel. Suddenly, I heard another putt-putt engine, but I couldn’t see another boat. I checked our motor and it was making the same dull noise (there was not enough wind for sailing); the new noise I heard was different. Out of the darkness, a man appeared, then another. They were on a fishing boat skimming around our stern, and they had not one light on. I still, to this day, have no idea how they missed us. I grabbed the spotlight, which threw a solid white beam into their eyes. I sliced up the air with angry words; they understood how angry I was even though they didn’t understand my language. I used one or two of those words that
everyone
can identify. This really shook me up. They were so close that I could have shaken their hands, although I felt like punching them on the nose. Eventually, their engine faded into the night, and the gentle lapping of waves reclaimed their rhythm on the night.

Soon after Noel woke, he said that he hadn’t heard a thing. I was just glad to go hide under the covers, knowing I was in Noel’s safe hands. Dawn was brightening the horizon, and we would be in a safe harbour tomorrow.

Good
, I thought, I could do with a quiet, boring day for a change.

‘Here we are in Singapore,’ I said. It seemed that verbal acknowledgement was needed to make it real. We had sailed to Singapore! Actually, we were in Batam, Indonesia, at a place called Nongsa Point. We could see Singapore from the marina, just across the water.

It was muggy and sticky; the cloying atmosphere had hung around for weeks. Every day, a thick cloak of cloud sat over us, blocking the flow of air. I learned a hard lesson that the clouds did
not
block the sun. I burnt. Feeling perpetually sticky and continually sweating was no fun and caused tempers to shorten.

With
Mariah
safely tied in the marina, we caught the ferry for a short ride to Singapore. I was like an excited five-year-old, with another county to explore that I had always wanted to visit. But the hot air took its toll on Noel and worked its way through his thin layer of patience. Growing up in the strong sun-rays in Australia had made him far less tolerant of the heat, he’d had enough of it. In the midday heat in the middle of bustling Singapore, we stubbornly almost went our separate ways, like two-five-year olds sulking. I wanted to explore, and Noel wanted to find somewhere – anywhere – cool. Before the situation became completely out of hand, I remembered my tried and tested remedy to keep us all happy. My skills for boat handling were not the only skills I had developed: husband handling was becoming my other profession.

‘Come on, follow me, I have something to cure all your ills,’ I said. Noel looked at me and wasn’t quite convinced, so I went on to explain, ‘I’m taking you to Raffles for a Singapore Sling.’ A smirk played on his lips, and he followed like a good puppy wanting to please, knowing he would receive a reward. I’m sure if he had had a tail it would have been wagging.

This plan worked well. The famous Raffles Hotel is unassuming and easy to stroll past without noticing it. On the outside it appeared colonial and small, but step behind the facade and it is immense, gorgeous and opulent. It houses history museums, every kind of shop you can imagine, umpteen cafes, restaurants, and bars. They served Singapore Slings in the Long Bar, which opened at 11:30 am. We were the first through the doors, not quite, but almost, drooling.

‘Singapore Sling, sir? Madam?’ They can spot a tourist a mile away. I felt like I wanted to explain that we were not tourists, we were sailors. Didn’t they know we had sailed here on our own? The drinks were already made up and were served in a tall glass, vibrantly red and suitably exquisite. The Slings were a combination of gin and, well it seems to be a bit of a secret, but they were scrumptious. Unfortunately, so was the price at thirty five American dollars for two drinks. We savoured every mouthful.

After enjoying a heavy dose of alcohol, a cool breeze, and a couple of cigarettes, Noel was ready to hit the town. ‘Bring it on,’ he said with his cheeky grin, only a flicker of self-deprecation played on his lips.

We ventured around China Town, weaving our way between colourful stalls, weird and wonderful food, pirate videos, and CDs. Dodgy blokes behind combed moustaches offered us pretty much anything we could desire. Animated characters scattered throughout the markets called to the punters as they strolled by. Noel spotted vibrant Chinese silk dresses; they looked beautiful on the hangers, but on me they were stifling, badly cut, and frumpy.

The night in our cheap, and not-so-cheerful, hostel was a long one. Doors crashing, women screaming, and men shouting could be heard at alarming regularity. I kept my left eye propped open all night, convinced that somebody was about to crash through our paper-thin door. I was never so happy to bid farewell to the dark side of dawn. With only the cockroaches in the bathroom to contend with, we then bid a hasty retreat.

That afternoon, we headed back to
Mariah
.
Our budget could not accommodate us to stay in the hostel any longer, besides I needed some sleep. We failed miserably in buying supplies for the boat. We were so wrapped up in the feast of smells, sights, and sounds that we forgot we needed bread! We were a good team on board, but the normal living logistics left our minds when we ventured into new cultures. Waiting for the return ferry, we bumped into our New Zealand friends, Judy and Barry, from their yacht
Theta
.
They had been in Singapore for the day shopping, sensibly, for food. They kindly donated a loaf of bread to us. I felt embarrassed and unorganised (and, of course, grateful!)

We didn’t have a fridge on board, so our shopping was pretty simple. We used powdered milk and olive oil instead of butter. Over the years we had learned which vegetables and fruit lasts the longest and how best to keep them. Fruit with a thick peel keeps for a long time, along with cabbages, potatoes, carrots, garlic, and ginger. So there was plenty of time to cross an ocean before needing to reach shops to replenish.

Our simple diet had erased the weight I had gained during the first flush of marriage. No fridge meant no meat. Constant sailing meant constant exercise. Humidity stole my appetite. I was svelte, fit, free of office stress lines, and I felt great.

After the trudge of sightseeing and shopping, it was a relief to get home to
Mariah
. The marina at Nongsa Point was a bit of a coup for all cruisers. The marina itself was just eight American dollars a day and within a hotel complex complete with a swimming pool, hot showers, and cheap, yummy food. The hotel was mainly used by locals and holidaymakers from Singapore. As it was out of season, we had the run of the place. Sea gypsies lazed daily by the pool, talking about the jobs that had yet to be done on board.

‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ could be heard wafting over the sparkling water. The most physical exercise was done while raising our arms to summon a waiter for, ‘Another club sarnie, if you please!’ We decided it was time for a holiday. Swimming, shady trees, and waiters filled our days. The covert luxury of lunch ‘added to our bill’ made us feel like millionaires.

It may sound odd that we were exploring different countries and now we wanted a holiday. However, the fact that we had to basically keep our own mini city running (what with the engine, fuel, rigging, sails, etc) and maintenance and repairs, meant that we received little down time. We had to work constantly to maintain a safe boat and therefore safe passage.

We were now within a good group of boats,
Breakaway
and
Chinook
. We had all left for Nongsa Point around about the same time, but as we did not have radar on board
Mariah
, we had battled straight through the middle of the numerous squalls that were prevalent in this area. Other boats had tried to go around them, using valuable fuel and time. Ultimately we all were hit by squalls, but we arrived at Batam two days before everyone else. Reefing the sails at night, clipping onto lifelines, and braving the elements had served us well. We now fully trusted
Mariah
. She was a strong, seaworthy boat that could handle nature’s elements better than we could.

With all boats now safely in harbour, a party was on the cards within our small holiday haven, and one evening an impromptu celebration started on board
Mariah
. At one point, I counted eleven bodies squished into our small cockpit. Cruisers are used to making do within small spaced and utilising sparse cushions. We all settled into the normal rowdy cruisers party scene. Most people travelling on boats are on a fairly strict budget. It is an unwritten rule that when visiting other boats you take what you wish to drink with you and contribute to snacks or dinner.

On board, as usual, there were at least six different conversations occurring at once. Some people told stories that made you laugh so hard your stomach ached. After the boat started spinning, I retreated to one of the bunks under a fan while the party continued. Noel checked on me, tucked me in, and resumed partying. A while later, after slipping in and out of consciousness, I woke up to Noel staggering into the v-berth to join me in oblivion; meanwhile, not eight feet away, the party continued.

The next day was a write-off. Venue: poolside with plenty of greasy food, water, and dips in the refreshing pool. A couple of cruisers wanted to go water-skiing and tried to rope me in to drum up the numbers. I considered going, but realised that I was having trouble walking, let alone hanging onto a piece of twine, balancing on two planks of wood on water. I sensibly declined. I was realising that I didn’t have to please everyone in order to make and keep friends. My wants and needs should be just as important to me as someone else’s; that’s something I hadn’t given much thought to before. I was changing from a Corporate Girl into a Sea Gypsy Woman.

Eventually, we thought that we really ought to continue on our voyage. We stocked up and prepared
Mariah
for the next phase of our trip. Quite a few of our friends were taking their yachts to Singapore, but we had already been there via ferry. So, we left Indonesia and headed into Malaysia. Our next stop was a place called Port Dickson, but first we had to cross the Malacca Straits.

It seemed normal now to rest a few days at one place, sightsee, work hard at replenishing the boat, purchase and fit spare parts, and then head off once again. There was just no wind in this part of the world. We were motoring 95% of the time. Diesel was an incredible six cents per litre, and the seas were smooth and inviting.

 

BOOK: Of Foreign Build
13.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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