Atea – Page 6

21/10/201617/11/2016

1500 MILES TO NOWHERE

A mariner’s equation: VOYAGE DURATION = DISTANCE TRAVELLED / SPEED OVER GROUND

Ātea’s statistics: 300 HOURS (12.5 DAYS) = 1500 NAUTICAL MILES / 5 KNOTS

Moving at five knots over a distance of 1500 miles feels like you are on the long haul to nowhere. There is no dramatic change of scenery to occupy the eye, no pit stop to pull off at for a panoramic view and a stretch of leg, no store clerk at the petrol station for a moment of dull banter. There are no mountains that turn to valleys that turn to plains to mark the passage of time. Here there is blue if you look up, there is blue if you look down, and there is blue if you look 360° around you. Tomorrow comes but time loses definition as the days roll into each other. I can’t say that is has been a long trip, or a short one. It isn’t time that seems to matter so much out here – a week at sea or a month makes no difference. It will all be wrapped up into a whole experience rather than cut up into segments of time. The crossing of an ocean: Done and delivered as a neatly packaged moment in time.

That said this has been a passage of sameness. Our northwestern crawl from the sou’eastern corner of the Indian Ocean to the center of it has been a classic trade wind passage. Sails set wing-on-wing and our nose pointed west, we’ve had twenty-knot winds blowing up our lady’s bum at a continuous 180° for the duration of our passage. We‘ve had twelve days of an empty ocean, consistent winds, rolling seas, and blue, blue skies. Today seems no different than yesterday or the day before. Only our instruments clock the passage of time, and it isn’t until the end of the tenth day that I dare to count the miles we have left to travel. It was sight of another ship that roused my curiosity; we’d sighted our first ship with 1200 miles clocked behind us and a mere 55 hours to go. Clearly, we’d hit the shipping lanes as three other tankers crossed our path within ten miles over the course of the following 24-hours. It was a quick shift from feeling like we owned the ocean to becoming a tiny speck of flotsam drifting under the bulbous nose of those titanic giants. It is impossible to look at those big hunks of floating steel, 300 meters stem to stern moving at a clip of 20 knots, and not wonder what they might think at the sight of our tiny dot on the horizon, bopping in the breeze with our rags billowing in the wind out in the middle of this expansive sea. They may wonder where we were headed – other than a small, uninhabited archipelago there were still a lot of miles to go to get anywhere. With over one thousand miles behind us, it did feel like we were on the long haul to nowhere.

PASSAGE NOTES 21/9/16: Unlike the solid mass of the passing ships, Ātea rolls like a super-sized balloon tumbling haphazardly on a disturbed lake. I took Braca to an entertainment park in Langkawi and paid $5 for 15 minutes to tumble about on the inside of a human-size plastic bubble in an artificial lake and at that was more than enough time to frazzle the brain. Ātea provides us that same bubble to do our somersaults and cartwheels in 24-hours a day without an exit option.

While the sailing had been easy, a downwind run meant that the boat constantly rolled from side to side, knocking us about like a handful of dice mid-roll. The wind remained a constant 20-25 knots for the duration of the trip, but the big waves that defined the first four days settled into lazy rolling seas. Regardless of this shift, we spent our days like trapped animals at the zoo.

PASSAGE NOTES 15/9/16: We stand with all four limbs spread, the four of us as long-legged giraffes taking a drink at the watering hole; we piss like starfish in strong current, limbs splayed and grasping onto any surface that’ll hold; we sleep like small lizards latched onto a cement wall, fingers and toes seized in a death-grip on each corner of the bed. We somehow manage to cook on a swinging stove with bouncing pots and open the fridge with juggling skills honed to catch Tupperware as it tumbles out the door. In this undulating chaos, the kids, as always, seem unperturbed.

Again and again the children remind me of the value of living in the moment; regardless of living on the back of a bucking bull, life through two- and four-year old eyes is pretty good out on the high seas.

A change on Ātea is the ability to communicate with the outside world with ease. Due to our need for emergency cover for Braca’s diabetes and an appreciation of the complexities of the Indian Ocean weather patterns, we finally decided that a satellite phone was justified. In previous years, John would sit hunched over the long-range radio with ears strained to catch the best signal through atmospheric static and hiss. Our batteries drained as we tried to connect again and again, myself at the helm for the duration as the radio sent our autopilot in circles. Sending a single email used to be a task to consume everyone for the whole morning. Now, at the click of a button, we can send a few emails and download the weather charts, with a computer-optimized route taking the weather variance into account. Reams of data appear predicting our course, speed, position and weather for days in advance. And yet, we are more accustomed to the time trusted mariners laws. Despite computerized weather predictions, our departure date from Cocos was determined by the availability of fresh eggs at the local store. Despite the daily digital updates of subtle wind variances, our track was largely known to us months in advance, and set by historical averages and sailing ship passage notes contained in Admiralty Pilot Charts.

While certain systems on Ātea had been updated, there is still much in our world that is hard won – and lost – the old fashioned way. Take fishing for example. We have a rusty old rod and sun-bleached fishing line that we were using to try and pull dinner from the sea. After five lost catches in succession, tension started to mount with every fish caught and – unwillingly – released. We might as well have been tossing our tackle into the deep blue for the effectiveness of our fishing. The quick ziiiiippp – snap! lasted mere seconds before all was silent onboard again. We were feeling like the largest failures in the world of fishing until we realized what we were up against – big, fast offshore game fish. These weren’t two-kilo snapper or foot-long trevally – we were hunting hunters – and losing. Our last catch was our only battle, man dulling beast over an intense 45 minutes rather than our standard 30-second defeat. When we saw the long, dark shadow and a sharp, pointed tailfin of a marlin hauled up under our stern, we knew we were fighting a battle we’d never win with our crappy second-rate gear. We were up for smaller fry, and in that we were proficient; at least we could say that catching fish hadn’t totally eluded us.

Flying fish were bedecking our topsides nightly by the dozen. While our catch didn’t overwhelm John or I, the little winged fish mesmerized Braca and Ayla. And so, with shrunken eyes and crisp folded wings, these little lifeless creatures became endless playthings for the kids. So much so that when dolphin came to play under our bows, the kids would turn their backs on our mammalian guests and continue their fantasy discourse with their 3-inch scaled friends. Fortunately, we were able to replace the dead creatures nightly before the smell of dead fish overtook our senses. If not engaged with their newly adopted phantom friends, the kids would run amok with clothes pegs transformed in their imagination to batfish and butterfly fish, “fishing them out of the sea” on a length of twine, or dodge tea towels flicked wildly around the salon as stand-in’s for “baby manta ray” and “brother sailfish.” Clearly, creativity runs paramount in our world at the moment and dead fish and housewares beat Tonka toys every time.

PASSAGE NOTES 20/9/16: The kids seem to have never-ending energy and ever-changing ideas for filling their days. For me, I am enjoying some quiet time to relax, read a book, idly watch the sky and the sea, and let my mind drift in the quiet. I love night watch with the black ocean surrounding us, brilliant sparkling stars above, and the boat forging ahead at a fast clip. The boat lifts and drops to the movement of the waves; we are now seven days out and we’ve learned the sway of her dance. At first a racy tango, now a slow waltz. The wind is behind us at 140-160 degrees – there is no sail change, no tacking, no weather or wind shift. I look to the horizon and know that we are alone out here; the feeling is akin to a complete state of bliss.

My notes on that day make me think of a quote by Herman Melville: “Meditation and water are wedded forever.” Not that this feeling of peace hasn’t allowed us our wilder moments; there have been a few social engagements to attend along the way. On the 19th of September with 750 miles behind us, we celebrated “half-way day” with much fanfare. On the 20th of September we celebrated John’s 49th birthday, having decorated the interior of the boat as a box to be opened and the kids and I on the inside as individually wrapped gifts. On the 23th of September we celebrated “Rain Forest” day, where we pretended that the inside of the boat was a vast forest and on the 26th of September, our final day, we all put hand to brow and “land ho’ed” together at the first sight of land.

However we planned events to occupy the passage, our greatest surprise came the night before landfall when a Booby bird came calling. It was nighttime and I presume the bird was attracted to the lights; she flapped onboard then knocked on our windows with her pretty blue beak. I assumed she was injured as I don’t have experience of a wild animal volunteering close contact, but that wasn’t the case. I kept retreating to give her space to recuperate and fly, and she kept advancing toward me, inquisitive and confident. She waddled from the side gunnel to the aft deck, then from the helm to the cockpit floor. After wandering around and exploring her new surroundings, the pretty little bird finally settled into a nest of ropes in the bottom of the cockpit and tucked her head in to sleep. I sat in a corner watching in amazement: Is this what Chagos will be like, filled with wildlife completely unfazed by human contact? After several hours and several pounds of guano later, I decided it was time for our feathered friend to fly. I wasn’t entirely sure that she was onboard by her own intention and I was afraid that she was unwittingly trapped, so I covered her with a hand towel and freed her. I half expected my limbs to be pecked apart but she calmly let me collect her and set her out on deck, only for her to immediately return to her spot in the cockpit. Was it really her choice to keep our company? I put her back out again and she settled down on our railing where she remained through the night.

Our Booby-friend flapped off at daybreak as the dolphins rolled in, escorting us along the outer edge of the reef. I couldn’t help but feel that they were the keepers of the lagoon and our acceptance into the atoll rested on their judgement. As they rolled onto their sides to look at us, would they see our sails as a white flag and our curious faces as un-hostile company? Would they understand that we came on a peace mission and that their sanctuary would be remain undisturbed by us? They swam the arc of the reef at our side and finally bid us our welcome and their farewell as we took a tentative approach toward the pass. We picked a line through the narrow weaving channel with its harrowing four-meter depth, and rode the rolling surf into the sanctity of the lagoon.

Chagos at Last! We treated that evening as a true celebration. After a few significant setbacks, we’d finally realized our goal: time in a totally remote, uninhabited atoll un-tampered by human interference over the past several decades. We are completely alone except for the birds and the sea life, and the nearest human contact is over two hundred miles away. The isolation is absolute. We expect no outside contact over the next four weeks and for us this is the quintessence of what Chagos offers. Set three hundred miles south of the equator in the middle of the Indian Ocean, Chagos is the Shangri-La of the Sea. Chagos is the X marked on a pirate’s treasure map. It is the illusive gold of every panhandling miner, the gem of the seven seas. It is the epitome of every cruiser’s dream when they cast their lines and head off to sea in search of nirvana, the bonus being very few seek these atolls out as few are aware of their existence.

After almost two weeks of all-encompassing blue, I sat in the hammock at anchor that evening and watched the sky turn a radiant scarlet red. It was as if we’d raced to the finish line and, with the ribbon still draped across our heaving chests, the world stood up and applauded us. “I am happy to my core,” I said as I swung in the hammock to the setting sun with a flute of champagne in my hand, completely enfolded in a feeling of total Zen. No matter what the next month in Chagos holds for us, I have no doubt the reward will far outweigh the effort it has taken us to get here. After a myriad of setbacks, we’ve just traveled 1500 miles to nowhere, and there is nowhere I rather be.

To view corresponding photo album, go to: 1500 Photos of Nowhere

01/10/201606/04/2023

The Cocomo

Link to published article: The Kocomo

Aruba, Jamaica, ohh I want to take ya,
Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama,
Key Largo, Montigo, baby why don’t we go to the Cocomo…

The Beach Boy’s 1970s lyrics were what put Cocos Keeling in our sights. As we sailed south towards the small island dependency of Australia, I kept singing the song and imagining us bound for the kind of island that songs and dreams are made of. “Ohh I wanna take you down to Cocomo. We’ll get there fast and then we’ll take it slow…” and that’s exactly what we intended for our two weeks in paradise.

That said, I know the actual song had nothing to do with Cocos Keeling per say, and I’ve yet to find out what the Cocomo actually is. Regardless, heading for an island oasis in the middle of a large ocean was enough of a similarity; the palm trees would sway under white sand beaches, the waters would shimmer cool and invitingly, and I could almost taste the rum on my lips. What I didn’t foresee was the gale that preceded us that cast the island in a blanket of grey, but even the regional storm that typically shrouds everything in muted colours couldn’t dampen the vibrancy that defines this idyllic tropical island getaway. In all the damp greyness that surrounded us, even the deepest shadow cast by the clouds wasn’t enough to dampen the hues of bright blue that reflected off the water. As soon as the clouds moved past this place would pop in electric layers of colour and I knew that we’d landed what many cruisers seek out in their travels: A slice of island heaven.

Of course, history tells that we aren’t the only ones who have chosen this place as a sailor’s Mecca. The islands earliest history is the stuff cartoons are made from, though perhaps only appreciated by those with a twisted sense of humour. Cocos Keeling was first settled by an Englishman by the name of John Hare in 1826, who visited earlier in his career and determined it was prime real estate. On retirement he returned with a harem of forty women to see out his final years in the uninhabited and unclaimed island oasis. His plans were thwarted a few years later with the arrival of John Clunies-Ross and his motley crew. It took little time for the women to see the opportunity, and defect. Tensions ran high between the two former associates and Clunies-Ross, wielding more manpower, banished Hare to an adjacent islet shortly thereafter. Marooned and abandoned, Hare managed to escape and fled back to civilization but died several years later dejected and alone. Clearly, the Cocomo eluded him. Cocos Keeling did not provide John Hare the stuff songs and dreams are made of after all; the same was almost said of us.

Like John Hare, our decision to come to Cocos Keeling held its own comedies and dramas. Coming in between squalls, we found it difficult to find the entrance to the small lagoon off Direction Island, the designated anchorage for visiting yachts. After struggling over the previous 24-hours to make any headway, we finally reached the island only to be cut off from our anchorage by a line of coral that stretched across the lagoon. The entrance was marked by directional marker buoys, but it was hard to see any way over the reef. After scratching our heads and spinning Ātea in circles for half an hour, the threat of another squall pushed us to make a decision. I donned mask and snorkel, jumped in with a splash, and guided us over the reef by sight. The anchor was finally laid out and we breathed a sigh of relief. We were in, unscathed. I jumped around deck, counting the black tip sharks that patrolled beneath our hull and the yachts that joined us in the marina: six. Having neighbours was totally unexpected. Coming from Asia we were well behind any of the yachts transiting the Indian Ocean this year. We soon realized we’d hit a totally different cycle of cruiser: Those crossing due west on a southern route on a shorter timeframe.

About half an hour after arrival the police called us on the radio signaling they wanted to come alongside to clear us in, making protocol easy by coming to us directly. Relief. We would be spared the hassle of tramping around an unknown country trying to find the officials to clear in. They promptly pulled up and tied off our port side, but with difficulty. The squall had brought strong winds that churned up the sea and the vessels jostled against each other. I stated my concern about two steel hinges on the rib but the captain and police official dismissed my apprehension. This was standard procedure. What standard procedure didn’t protect us against, to our dismay, was pilot error and atypical sea conditions. Half way through clearance the vessels turned side on to the waves and a gut-wrenching BANG! BANG! BANG! rang through our ship. We were left with two softball-sized dents in the side of our hull. Lesson number one: always listen to your instinct, regardless of the size of the badge on someone’s hip.

Lesson number two: Always follow protocol when entering a country. Particularly if that country is Australia, and double that if this is your second offense. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that 1) I’m not a New Zealand citizen and permanent residency in this case doesn’t count, 2) I ‘m travelling on an American passport and needed a visa to enter Australia, 3) I have memory failure at the least opportune moments, and the fact that I’d overstayed my visa once before was a distant, forgotten memory. But we didn’t’ know any of this yet. We found out about lesson two a week later, with the threat of a $5000 fine.

There is nothing quite like an unexpected visit from the Australian police. It is not an experience I’d recommend, and not one I’d like to repeat. A few days after arrival we were called on the radio by the police and asked if all parties were onboard with passports on hand. An odd enquiry; I couldn’t imagine what they were interested in but nonetheless the question left me feeling uncomfortable. An hour later we were boarded and I was asked if I could be spoken to in private, and that the conversation would be videotaped and my statement recorded. I managed to squeak out my consent.

Police: “Excuse me ma’am, you are in violation of Australian border security on a visa infringement. Are you aware of this?”My pulse quickened: “What?”

Police: “Headquarters in Canberra have informed me that you have entered the country without a valid permit and are currently being investigated for violation of boarder security. Are you Kia Koropp and can you confirm that this your passport?”

You find it hard to think, let alone speak, in moments like these and so one word answered was all I could manage. “Yes. Yes.”

Police: “Is this an American passport?”

Feebly, “Yes.”

Police: “Do you have a visa to enter Australia or an Australian territory in this passport?”

At this, I started to sweat. “No…?”

Police: Have you ever been questioned about a violation of border security in the past?

Memory and eyes go blank. “What?! Definitely NOT.”

With my nerves shaken and eyes flickering between video recorder and clean-shaven cop, my shaky interrogation continued. While the Australian police have a fierce reputation, the kind who opts for a cushy job in a small island community and rides around on a bicycle to keep a paternal eye on a benign, close-knit community doesn’t fit the mold. Guided through the remainder of the interrogation with winks and soft suggestive prods, the rest of the conversation went something like this:

Police, out of sight of the camera eye: “Yes. Well I understand you left Sumatra without adequate provisions for the duration of your stay in Chagos.” Wink wink. “And you may have been concerned with the welfare of your child and, being in need of medical facilities, had to unexpectedly reroute to Cocos.” Wink wink. “And that storm… Whoa. That storm was fierce. There is no way you could continue on your course to Chagos AS INTENDED.” Wink wink.

In a moment like this you want to smile and cry and reach out to hug this random warm-hearted stranger offering salvation and unbridled kindness. Continuing our empathetic exchange with an air of formality, I was told that while he believed in my innocence and would request that a formal warning be issued, he could only provide a recommendation and the offence could warrant a $5,000 fine. The decision would happen by an official removed from the scene in faraway Canberra, sitting behind a desk flicking through incoming emails in what I hoped would be a very good mood. For the moment we were told to sit tight, relax and enjoy our time in paradise.

This was certainly NOT turning out to be the Cocomo we were expecting. Had Aruba and Jamaica been on this side of the world, we would have taken our entourage and our dreams elsewhere, but like John Hare we were temporarily marooned; it had taken us a week to get here and our next destination was two weeks away. Besides, what we needed next was a clinic and this was something Cocos Keeling could offer us. Ayla had picked up a rash on passage and some of the red spots had turned into welts that were spreading. Fortunately, the diagnosis was a benign skin infection called impetigo and curable with a week of medication. We also got Braca’s HBA1C test done, indicating his blood sugar control over a three-month period, which gave us reassurance we were managing his diabetes responsibly. Unbeknownst to us at the time, record of our clinic visit would provide us a significant lifeline when it came to dealing with Australian immigration over my visa infringement.

Fortunately we’d already gotten a glimpse of what Cocos had to offer and we were charmed, so hightailing it out of the country was not under consideration. Regardless of a string of upsets, this was going to be a fantastic destination and it didn’t take me long to put my infringement concerns on the sidelines. We’d found what the Beach Boys promised us and we were going to live the lyrics:

That’s where you wanna go to get away from it all, Cocomo
Bodies in the sand
Tropical drink melting in the hand
We’ll be falling in love to the rhythm of the steel drum band
Down in Cocomo…

We spent our days counting the black tip reef shark that made a daily pilgrimage around our boat, watching the dolphins spin under the spread of midafternoon rainbows and smiling at the large sea turtles that lazily idled by. Social engagements with other cruisers included sundowners and rowdy, raucous games in the cockpit. We built bonfires on the beach at sunset, shared meals on the spit ashore with an island-style fare of barracuda and mahi-mahi thrown on the barbeque served with heart of palm torn from the root of fledgling palm trees, and we washed it all down with the rich water from freshly cracked coconuts. We were living the Cocomo, Keeling-style. We had it all, ukulele and percussions included. All we were missing was the steel drums. Every day was marked with an afternoon snorkel, a swim off the beach and the slow pace of island living.

It didn’t take us long to register that we had changed cruising seasons with the transit between the northern and southern hemisphere, and in doing so we’d hooked into a completely different pattern of climate, of environment, and of cruiser. Instead of being hot, humid and windless as it was in Asia, the climate here is slightly cooler with constant trade winds. The water temperature dropped from 32°C to 25°C and the air temperature dropped with it. We started wearing clothes onboard again and sleeping under sheets, a novel change brought by the cool breezes of the southern trade winds. The environment is now cleaner and less spoilt, and more protected. This is a function of the Australian enforcement, which has with strict regulations in place to protect the environment. This is evident in the clarity of water, the cleanliness of the shores and the prevalence of shark and large schools of reef fish. While debris that flows south from Asia does filter through, the difference in the quality of the environment both above and below the water is dramatic and so very rare to see.

Two weeks of livin’ the Cocomo and I was back in front of the friendly police officer who, after inviting me to his wife’s playgroup and offering to collect and deliver me in his golf cart, broke the news: I’d received a slap on a hand, a warning. It seemed that my Canberra savior had woken in tussled bedcovers, had her morning coffee made by a particularly charming barista delivered especially strong and hot, and walked into the office that day with a spring in her step and a whistle on her lips… or something like that. I was not going to be $5000 in debt, I was not going to be herded out of the island by a bicycle-peddling policeman and I would not be barred by force in any future entry down unda. We were now OFFICIALLY welcome guests of this beautiful Australian dependency.

And so, we OFFICIALLY started to explore beyond the captivating confines of the lagoon in which we perched. The islands are positioned into two main groups: North Keeling is an atoll with a continuous coral reef enclosing a lagoon, South Keeling consists of an atoll with a reef connecting the various main islands around a large lagoon. Yachts have one designated anchorage in the lagoon at the northern entrance of South Keeling. It is here on Direction Island that the cruising yachts are based and where most of the yachtie activity is centered. The cruising guide states, “this is the only island in the world that is completely dedicated to cruisers.” In fact, the island is dedicated to the locals and holidaymakers that come from the inhabited islands surrounding it and not the cruisers specifically; however, all visitors are free to use the amenities as long as resources are used responsibly. Ashore there is a water tank for rainwater catchment, covered picnic benches and tables scattered along the beachfront, swings and hammocks hanging from trees, bonfire pits and barbeque facilities, coconut trees inscribed with toilet signs to direct the user to their perch, complete with long drop and a stash of abandoned beach chairs. There is even the convenience of Wi-Fi and a telephone booth offering free calls to anyone in the islands. All this is on offer for the nominal fee of $50 per week, and while some would complain at paying for a yacht swinging on her own anchor, who could complain about paying for a place with free local calls?!

It was at this random payphone, placed conspicuously between palm trees, that I met Flo. Between tears and phone calls, I scraped together the unfortunate situation that this single Italian cruiser had gotten herself into. Joining as temporary crew on a Chilean yacht, she’d developed a hostile relationship with the captain who’d threatened to throw her from the ship mid-passage. Clearly not an ideal situation as she and the skipper were looking at 1,700 miles to the Maldives in front of them. She was frantic to find accommodation ashore but none was available, and I took the opportunity to repay earlier kindnesses extended to me by strangers: I offered a safe haven. She packed her bags and by morning we’d acquired a new crewmember on Atea. It was a change of scene having someone onboard and we enjoyed the company, although it was a reminder of how tight a space our floating home becomes in the company of strangers. Regardless, a beautiful friendship was made through an unexpected encounter, thanks to a random telephone booth tucked up in the oddest, most unlikely spot on Earth.

While Direction Island offers a cushy gig for the cruiser, the quaintness of Cocos stands out with its matching cookie-cutter houses and complimentary golf cart that line the identical cobbled brick streets of the five by five block town of nearby Home Island. Even the police station is quaint, with its single desk and single fan in a small one-room office with an officer offering us cookies from the small fridge that sits in the corner next to a bicycle and the police-marked golf-cart parked out front. Better still, we made our fee payment at the Shires office, which can only make one think of a sweet pointy-eared, hairy three-toed hobbit greeting you warmly with a lop-sided smile. I’ve come to think of it as the Leave It To Beaver Island of the modern day world, a reference to the popular 1960’s American sitcom where everything is conventional in ordered suburbia. Home Island is about as quaint as a place can get.

Muslim descendants from Malaysia predominantly inhabit Home Island, with about two thousand residents on the small island. On the other hand West Island – the only other island with a town to offer –has a few hundred Australian residents, most of whom are on two- to three-year governmental contracts. The ethnic separation between the two islands is distinct, and clearly there are large subsidies going to support the island group from Australia. Not only is this evident in the two quaint provincial towns with identical houses lined like rows of Crayola pencils down neat cobbled streets, or the state-compensated golf-carts, the library or local school. On an island with little industry, it is hard to think of anyone being able to support himself or herself regardless of additional funding. Take shopping at the one-and-only grocery store on the island, with goods that arrive by plane twice a month and sold at exorbitant prices. Fresh fruit and vegetables arrive every other Friday by plane from Australia, and the villagers stand in a long line at the single cash register at daybreak Saturday morning for first opportunity to get fresh produce. If you aren’t there early, you’ve two weeks to go before you get the next chance to stock your cupboards. If it isn’t there, good luck finding it at one of the three tiny one-room shops, all offering the same collection of cheap plastic toys and the same dusty tins shipped from India.

If you do happen to be first in line that second Saturday, you better be prepared with your monthly wage, to offer up your firstborn or to take out a mortgage against your house: It is strategically impossible to leaving with a good supply of food and money in your bank account. A small box of basics runs no less than $400, and that doesn’t include wine and cheese. In fact, all the cheese in the chiller expired months ago and the only wine offered on the island is alcohol-free, so when I speak of a box of basics that’s exactly what I mean: A handful of onions, a box of crackers, powdered milk and a packet of noodles. The basics. Now, come that second Friday, there is the option of fresh greens, but that’ll cost you. In fact, in two weeks it cost us $1000 AND we came to the island fully provisioned.

What I was able to acquire cost us dearly: $30 for a dozen tomatoes, $25 for a handful of carrots, $40 for five cartons of eggs. Unfortunately the $16 for two head of lettuce, $6 per capsicum, $10 for a small Ziploc bag of green beans, $15 for half a small broccoli and half a cauliflower had to be left behind as the solar-run Wi-Fi was down for the week and we couldn’t transfer any money into our account. We shopped in Sumatra for a two-month provisioning at a fraction of the cost and left fully stored with every fruit and vegetable imaginable. We were going to eat like royalty in the uninhabited archipelago, sipping our passion fruit-pineapple piña coladas at sundown, crunching through our Cobb salad for lunch and enjoying a fresh fruit medley for breakfast. With the extension of the additional weeks in Cocos and restrictions on re-provisioning, our dial may be pushed toward empty during our time in Chagos. Fingers crossed, we learn to fish.

One trademark of Cocos comes from her position on the map. At 12S latitude, the little island group sits in the middle of the southeast trade winds, receiving strong consistent winds and thereby making it an ideal destination for those addicted to wind-on-water sports. For us, that means kite surfing. That is, it SHOULD have meant kite surfing had our kit not been curled up to melt in their bags during our last few seasons in the sweltering tropical heat of windless Asia. As a result, our kites couldn’t offer us a play in the 20-knot wind that beckoned us. Each day John sat under the palms swaying in the breeze hunched over tubes and pumps and repair kits, attempt after failed attempt to repair each split seam. I looked on towards the picturesque horizon as our French sailing mates soared backward and forwards under the spread of their leak-less kite, hearing our old chant of “if only we could find a spot where the water was warm, the breeze steady, and the lagoon flat and empty…” and kicked myself for, yet again, equipment failure at the least opportune moment.

Since we couldn’t play on top of the water, we spent our days in it. Given the health and richness of the underwater environment, protected as a marine reserve, there was little for us to complain about. The snorkeling was superb for the clarity, the corals and the life. Gray, black and white tip reef shark abound and proved reliable swimming companions, as did the large schools of hump-head wrasse and parrotfish, so thick in number that I could dive down and reach out to tickle their underbellies. There were grouper the size of my four-year old son, butterfly, trumpet and clown fish, flirtatious rather than shy, snapper and trevally for hook and sinker and an afternoon braai and large-mouthed clams and umpteen spongy sea cucumbers to serve on the side. Dolphin often came into the lagoon to swim around the resting yachts and several sea turtles poked around inquisitively. The kids leaped forward in their swimming skills; with Braca and Ayla swimming underwater unassisted by parent or float and both finding a newfound love of snorkelling, we would poke around the reef each day curious and playful in the rich aquatic wonderland. There was a rip that we often returned to with current running through it at three knots. We’d take the dingy with the outboard full tilt up to the top of the channel and jump in holding onto the painter and drift through the pass, our mouths agape and eyes batting around wildly trying to take it all in. Braca and Ayla kicked alongside us, no idea how truly spectacular the experience was but excited all the same about the sharks resting under the ledges and the myriad of fish that surrounded us.

For such a small, isolated spot on the world map, Cocos Keeling has delivered us an extraordinary time full of new charms and unexpected surprises, and it is hard to say goodbye to this uniquely charming atoll. From here, we resume our thrice-revised itinerary and head for Chagos where I expect to find a myriad of new delights. However, regardless of the new adventures that lay ahead, it is hard pull our bodies from the sand, leave behind the steel drum band and put down the tropical drink melting in my hand…

That said, perhaps a similar Cocomo lay waiting for us:

We’ll put out to sea and we’ll perfect our chemistry
By and by we’ll defy a little bit of gravity
Afternoon delight, cocktails and moonlit nights,
That dreamy look in your eye, give me a tropical contact high
Way down in Cocomo…

NOTE: If you are the Australian police, boarder control or, for that matter, any governmental agency, this essay is for entertainment purposes only. No passage is to be taken literally, and no statement can be used against me in a court of law. If in the future I should be under investigation for any reason involving entering or leaving the country, I would like to officially state that IN ROUTE TO CHAGOS there were three crucial and unforeseeable reasons to divert: 1) the weather was Gale Force 8, 2) both Ayla and Braca are on record at the clinic on Home Island, and 3) we were desperate for a few blocks of Cocos expired cheese.

If you are a close mate or family member, interpret as you wish. You know me well… does this sound like a scenario I could POSSIBLY get myself into?

22/09/201628/10/2016

Twenty-four Seven

DAY 1: 20.8.2016 00:20 S 1°10.311 E 98°19.685

Winds: 10-15 knots from 150° averaging 3 knots SOG

So, here we are – day one – our first day at sea behind us! It is funny to realize the awesome power of your own mind to control your thoughts and emotions; as our days counted down to our “big ocean crossing” – 1800 miles due west from Sumatra to Chagos – I kept ruminating about how difficult it was going to be for me to be confined to the boat for fourteen days. I know from experience that Ayla and Braca do fine onboard with their imagination and their toys to entertain them, and John loves the sailing aspect of cruising so he was looking forward to a long offshore passage. I do this for the cultural experience: the travel, the day-to-day interactions with the locals, and the pleasure of discovering of new places. However, within the last few days my excitement for the coming passage started to mount and my attitude shifted from one of tolerance to one of anticipation. It has been a long time since I’ve done an extended ocean passage but I’ve done it enough times to know that it becomes an adventure in itself; life onboard takes a shape and soon enough a routine is established and the days tick by with a unique flavour. What was going to confine me has changed now to an exciting experience ahead of us! Let’s just hope we get enough southerly to avoid too many squalls – the other hit us unexpectedly at 40 knots and laid Atea down for her first time – more excitement than I am looking for though a good test that she – and we – are prepared for some rough weather should it come.

Today we pulled anchor from yet another of the many amazing islands off the west coast of Sumatra. We knew so little prior to pulling onto her shores and now realize what a hidden gem it is; I wish our two months could have been six – a cruiser can easily spend the time there dancing down her western shore, dodging in and out of the islands that run down the coast. A quick goodbye coffee with Isobel from SV Manta and a trip shore to part ways with our resident pet hermit crabs, Water Liver and Water Maker, come to us by way of a local at Asu who watched Ayla and Braca on the beach for us during our stay there – and refused to be paid – so that we could dive in the afternoons. It was fun to have a pet onboard for a short while, albeit a non-cuddly one, though the obligation of keeping them alive during our long passage was not a pressure I was willing to take on. We will find new friends in Chagos when we get there.

Which brings to mind an exciting turn of events and a prime example of the freedom we have in the lifestyle that we live. Our revised cruising plans for the year, made by necessity after our ordeal with Braca’s diabetes, is that we would sail from Malaysia to Sumatra, west to Chagos and north to the Maldives this year. This was still the plan when clearing customs and immigration in Sumatra. In fact, this was still our plan until a day ago when we left mainland to the Telos island group to prepare Atea for passage. In route on night passage, a thought popped up that intrigued me… we might want to consider a trip to Cocos Keeling in route… which is not so much in route as it is 700 miles in the wrong direction. John and I talked about it in the morning and after checking some details decided it would be a good idea – the addition of Cocos would add an extra 700 sea miles and we would need to delay our Chagos permit but it was otherwise a worthwhile detour. After committing to this new plan it dawned on me how very lucky we are: We’d planned a westward sail months in advance and at the last moment we decide to point our bows south and head for an entirely different country on a whim. At my desk in the city in my old life it would have blown my mind to know that I could have such freedom; in this one, it is barely worth a shrug. One day Plan A, Plan B the next, and in the end we follow a course we never even envisioned.

Today has been a good one. How many times have I watched land recede behind us as we look to the horizon with all its water and unknown conditions in front of us? This afternoon brought dolphins off our port side, jumping and diving in a pod of fifteen. What a sweet parting to our two months in Sumatra. We expect a few days of light winds and squalls before he hit the trades, then with luck we have the wind on a beam reach to Cocos. That’s our hope after receiving our grib weather files for our new route – next we wait and see what presents.

DAY 2: 21.8.16 21:56 S 2°44.3 078 E 98°36.373

Winds: 5-10 knots from 05° averaging 4 knots SOG

Today has been one of settling into routine, and tucking up tight from the weather. Winds have been light all day, forcing us to listen to the drone of the engine rather than the slap of water rushing down the hull – both sounds an integral part of life onboard though one sings so sweetly and the other grates on the nerves. The combination of light winds and rolling seas leaves us all feeling like we’ve saddled a bull for the past 24 hours, a family rodeo act. Squalls roll past us throughout the day, breaking up the humdrum with short interludes of chaos.

One of the things I love about cruising is that it allows us to live a life that is outside the routine that settles like a film on life, the slow thickening of layers so subtle that it takes a while to realize how clockwork life has become. Many people find solace in the knowledge that days have set routines and few surprises; for me that regularity becomes an itch that turns to a boil. Time slips by and weeks become indistinguishable, one month the same as the next. While life inside the boat does weave on its own pattern – particularly with young children onboard – life outside is a constant kaleidoscope of colours. The cruisers you meet come from a wide variety of countries and histories, so your peer group is a true melting pot of personalities; you get the constant exposure to the traditions and cultures of the locals in whichever country you are visiting; your territory is in constant shift. Usually even the best spots hold our grasp for no more than a week before the anchor is pulled up and the ship heads for new territory. So, while days may start with the same cup of coffee and hard boiled egg, the minute you pop your head up through the hatch you breathe in the fresh air of change, of surprises and discoveries awaiting you.

It is easy to think that the days become mundane on a long ocean passage when the countries and culture and people and noise slips away and you are left to your own isolation, and this can be true. Weather becomes the trump card, and depending on conditions you can have a relaxed passage drifting with the trade winds, your movements as slow and carefree as a sloth, or you spend your days engaged in a harrowing battle against Neptune and the seven seas all thrown at you at once. Regardless, we are not in the roaring 40s but at zero degrees, smack on the equator, and storms would come as a big surprise here. We cope with squalls now as we inch our way toward the trade winds and the constant easterlies that come with them.

To break any monotony that might sneak up on us, god forbid, we’ve instituted a passage present for the kids, a gift which marks our first full day at sea. On the first day of any passage the kids are allowed to plunk their hands into a surprise box (a bag full of wrapped gifts) and pull out a new toy for the passage. Today it was Lego, and we spent our day putting together the miniscule pieces and playing to a two- and four-year old imagination. Tomorrow we will surprise them with an equatorial crossing ceremony. We crossed the equator a few days ago however we were smacked by a squall when we hit zero degree latitude and decided to delay the shot of whisky and the dunking of a child’s head for a more settled moment; it is a tradition we like to keep onboard Atea and so tomorrow should hold a little festivity for us all.

DAY 3: 8.22.16 22:07 S 4°21.312 E 98°47.491

Winds: 3 knots; TRIP: 259 DTD: 489

Night watch brings the hours of quiet solitude, time I claim to myself. The night is filled with blackness tonight and the seas are calm. It is too early for the night sky to be riddled with stars, so only the nearest and brightest are visible at the moment. There has been little wind today and we would have been becalmed if not for the engine, but the gray skies have given way to the brightest blues that are only seen mid-ocean. It has been a glorious day.

John and I have fallen into a pattern of me first on watch as I am the night owl and waste early evening hours tossing and turning while trying to force sleep. John can set his head on the pillow and be out in five, and so by natural inclination we’ve split our watch. After spending our last few seasons in the Asian cruising hub, it is such simple pleasure to be out in the open ocean again. There are no vessels to keep constant surveillance on and there isn’t the constant zigzagging through the fishing fleets that crowd the coastline off Thailand and Malaysia. It is just us, and the elements. It is the first time in years where my eyes are not glued to the horizon and the flashing lights of oncoming traffic; my attention is focused on conditions and any weather that lay ahead; I check the wind speed and direction, I check our course. I look at the lights – all twinkling above and not blinking ahead anymore. Tonight I’ve come inside to drink a tea, put my feet up and gossip in text about the day. It is the first time since leaving New Zealand shores that I can remember sitting below deck on while on watch.

While I built up apprehension of going offshore and the restrictions I felt I would struggle through, we are now one third of the way to our destination and the trip has been such a pleasure. Of course, we now head for Cocos Keeling rather than Chagos reducing our distance by 700 miles, but it was my attitude that changed before leaving that turned apprehension into excitement. There is something quite special about being out in the open and away from it all, your secret capsule becoming your entire world. There are no distractions, outside demands or pressures. All the busyness that defines the days prior to departure abruptly end when the anchor is raised and life turns inward like the focusing of a telephoto lens. I feel at peace out here and content.

We had a guest appearance today when King Neptune crawled up on deck and graced us with his presence. Ayla, age two, crossed the equator for the first time and Braca, age four, his second time. To honour the king, we dropped sails and tied a rope that dragged astern, and plonked the kids into the ocean for a quick swim. We followed this by a dash of rum on the deck (for Atea), a drop in the ocean (for Neptune), and a quick swig for John and myself; the children got a bar of chocolate and a scroll read to them stating the time, date and year of this historical event. Ayla almost threw the ceremony by a rush of tears at the sight of Neptune’s, but Braca was in stitches over the sight of his dad in costume and the mood quickly turned celebratory.

While the event, unbeknown to the kids, was planned by us, we were all in for a wonderful surprise when a pod of merry dolphins raced us to the setting sun; while always a delight to see dolphins dash and play in the boat’s wake, the bigger thrill was to see a large sea snake swim past the boat. Two hundred and forty miles off the coast and a sea snake appears – just what it was doing this distance out is a mystery to us. Neither John nor I had ever had the experience prior and we end the day with unsuspected surprises for us all.

DAY 4: 23.8.16 12:00 S 5°11.13 E 98°45.4

Winds: 3 knots; TRIP 438: DTD: 310

The pistons of the engine drummed though the night, and the morning brought overcast skies back to us again. At midmorning the dolphins returned and brought the wind with them. They spun in front of our bowsprit and danced around the boat as we raised our sails and silenced the engine. Ah… such sweet simple moments. But the dolphins took the wind with them on departure; we continued the day walking the tightrope between sailing to light headwinds and running the engine on a sailable breeze.

Yesterday was spent in the cruiser’s ritual of coddling the pantry. Given a small fridge onboard, most produce must survive in room temperatures – and in tropical heat it doesn’t do this without the constant affections of its consumer. I rolled 150 eggs to lubricate the insides, I dusted the mold off 5 kilos of carrot, I rummaged through bins of potatoes and tossed a few bug-harbouring offenders overboard, I pulled the outer leaves off bruised cabbage and sniffed and rubbed all the fruit for signs of rot. I find the bond that is created between purchase and consumption comical; a love affair created to extend the life of what we eat.

Outside of the shuffle of sail trimming, furling and unfurling, yesterday was a relaxed and quiet day. The cloud covering tempered the spirits and we slumbered through a sleepy kind of day. Last night brought our half way mark as we clocked 350 miles behind us, 350 miles to go. John and I are both hoping that our last-minute rerouting decision won’t burn us. We knew a southerly passage to Cocos Keeling would have us sailing to windward, but we were hoping that we would fall into trade winds today and we could maintain a beam reach. Atea will struggle if we have winds any forward of 40 degrees, which unfortunately is what was delivered to us most of the day. With light winds it has been slow progress; hitting the half way mark is a good reminder that we are progressing forward, albeit at a snails pace.

DAY 5: 24.8.16 12:00 S 6°50.1 E 98°30.9

Winds: SE17; TRIP:569 DTD: 179

91 miles in 24 hours, average 3.8 knots

We finally got it! A day of wind, 10-15 knots on a beam reach. The engine has been off all day, the sails filled, and the hull rocks through some sizable waves. We celebrated “Half Way Day” with the kids and spent most of the afternoon on the saloon floor playing Lego; John and I designing them and Braca and Ayla demolishing them. We were once again outsmarted by our daily catch, though by the pull on the line I like to think it was a Great White on the end of the line. Given our boat speed, it was more likely an undersized trevally but with a two- and four-year old on board, who’s around to challenge me?!

Last night we turned off all the interior lights and with a moonless midnight sky, we handed the kids torches and we ran around playing games to the eerie glow of the torch beams. The kids were thrilled by the simple game, and both John and I loved their exuberance as we raced around the boat flashing light and hiding in shadows.

Yet again, time amazes me. I doesn’t seem like we’ve been onboard long enough to reach the half way mark yet here we are, ticking through the days like we are crossing them off with a pen on a wall-mounted calendar. The entire trip should take us six days, a suitable amount of time for a passage: Not too much and not too little. Too little means you aren’t set up for a passage, and things onboard can be much more difficult. We readied ourselves for this journey in food preparation, stowage, and our mental headspace. Too much is when life ticks on automatic too long and you start to feel that you are trapped in Groundhogs Day and can’t break free of the cycle. A week means you’re in, you get in the groove and then before you know it, you are out.

Day 6: 25.8.16 23:30 S 10°10.5 E 97°45.3

Winds: 20-30 knots at 60-90° TRIP: 619 DTD: 126

We have now sailed for 24 hours on a beam reach with an average wind speed of 15 knots, the boat clipping through the water at an average of 7 knots. While the engine has finally gotten her rest, the sails have been in constant play as they are reefed in and out to maximize presenting conditions. The day has been clouded and the skies gray-blue, and we’ve avoided the few rain-filled clouds that have dotted the horizon.

Throughout the night torrential rain poured down on us, as we could not avoid what we could not see, and squall after squall rushing over the boat in succession. We tend to set a conservative sail configuration so squalls are easily managed as the winds quickly beat up to 20-30 knot speeds. Regardless, squalls present themselves quickly and settled conditions can turn ravaging in a matter of minutes; it is impossible to see the weather ahead on a dark, moonless night and so you rely on your only indicator of the weather ahead: Your instruments. You watch for a turn in the wind direction or the quickening of wind speed, the increase of boat speed, and you reef your sails or change your configuration set accordingly.

Last night the lights of a tanker dotted the horizon, and it amazed me to know that we were not alone out here. As the tanker grew closer, I had the feeling that I was growing bigger. Here, the expanse of ocean makes you feel like an atom a vast, endless space. Having pulled out a chart the day prior to show Braca and Ayla where we were going, it amazed me to look at the Indian Ocean and know we weren’t even the size of a pixel on the map. It amazed me even more to know we would get somewhere on it. In a week we would cross from the shores of one country to the shores of another. In two weeks we would travel from the eastern fringe of the Indian Ocean to an archipelago smack dab in the middle of it. With the tanker on sight I felt myself grow from that infinitesimal speck to an oversized version of me. The fact that there are other people tucked into the same spot of ocean seems so surprising, yet in a day this secluded world of ours will expand as we will step off the boat the same size as every other person around us. Our solitude will vaporize the instance we step foot to earth and we will merge into the busyness of society… or, perhaps in this instance, the slow-paced existence of island living.

Speaking of isolation and boat life, we do attempt to keep ourselves entertained. Today we amused ourselves with a “Snow Day” onboard. We pulled out bed sheets and cloaked the cabin in white and we dressed in rudimentary snowsuits and caps. It was a stretch to call them winter gear, but perfect for our tropical snowstorm onboard Atea: white knickers and a handkerchief tied around our heads, the first article of clothing the kids have worn since we left Sumatra. We built a snowman (a teddy bear with a carrot strapped onto its face), we had snowball fights and licked icicles that stuck to our tongues (toilet squares scrunched up into balls or strung from the handrails in long sections), and we played in our imaginary artic wonderland. Our imaginations took us about as far as we could get from the equatorial line we’d crossed only a few days before.

And tonight we continue to scream along in 25-30 knot winds, averaging 7-8 knots. It is so dark outside that you can’t see the set of the sails or the roll of the waves, and the drizzle that comes is light. At this rate we can hope to see landtomorrow, but the winds will have to maintain for us to do so. We have just over a hundred miles left to go and it will be a push for us but if these winds remain we will be able to pull in just before sunset.

DAY 8: 27.8.16 03:20 S 11°159.8 E 96°47.0

Winds: averaging 20 knots at 30-40°

TRIP: 460.9 DTD: 10.5

Last night saw us screaming along in 20-knot winds on a beam reach, rainsqualls periodically whipping up the winds and waves continually awash across our deck. The winds eased when dawn broke and we had a few hours of motoring to keep up our pace. The winds returned to 20 knots around X o’clock and maintained the rest of the day, but moved forward onto the nose making our pace infuriatingly slow. We’ve been looking at the sluggish countdown of miles all day – 30 miles to go at 11 o’clock should have seemed the end of the journey, but with headwinds abeam at 30 degrees it has been very slow progress. What should have been six hours turned into a twenty-four hour slog.

Gray skies all day, as has been the consistent colour of the sky all week… how I look forward to blue skies again! This weather would be one thing tucked onboard at anchor, another to be entertaining kids, cooking meals, and continuing our daily routines with the constant jostling about. It could be worse, but all the same I am looking forward to putting all five of us – Atea included – to rest in Cocos. Fortunately, it is 3:00AM I see lights on the horizon. We should finally get our hard-earned rest at some point midmorning.

DAY 9: 28.8.16 03:20 S 12°03.2 E 96°51.6

Winds: averaging 20 knots at 180° TRIP: 773 DTD: 2

The kids woke half an hour ago and rushed up on deck to check our progress. The deal we made yesterday was the first to see land and say, “Land Ho!” got a treat. Braca pressed his hand over brow and said the mariner’s line first, and Ayla followed with, “Ho Ho!” A green stretch of land surrounded by gray skies and gray sees lay before us – not the bright pristine colours you imagine of an island in the tropics, but land couldn’t look sweeter regardless.

9:30AM:

That’s it – we’ve made it! The past seven days and 722 ocean miles ticked by with relative speed. It would have been faster by airplane and more enjoyable being served gin and tonic, but our spirits remained high and we end the trip with a feeling of accomplishment, something I don’t feel when Air New Zealand does all the work. We didn’t have ideal conditions – the weather could have delivered us fewer squalls, we would have enjoyed more blue in the skies, the waves could have been a foot or two smaller, but the wish list becomes instantly obsolete at the end of a journey. A country with a comical and blasphemous history lies before us, waiting to be explored; an island whose only identity I hold comes from the lyrics of a song.

It is like magic how our world can stay a constant onboard yet everything on the other side of our rails shifts so quickly. A week ago I was learning to fit into the cultural norms of Sumatran society and a day ago I was a miniature version of me surrounded by isolation and the expanse of the sea. Tomorrow I will explore this little-known Australian outpost at the eastern edge of the Indian Ocean and at the end of the month I will explore a deserted archipelago in the middle of the Indian Ocean. There is no rat wheel in this world; while it may seem that life onboard a 44’ sailboat would feel confined and stagnant, I find the pace of change akin to having an air-freshener shoved up the nose – a revitalizing jolt to the senses.

11:00AM:

Anchor up to anchor down it has been six days, twenty hours and 778 ocean miles. We’ve spent the last hour circling outside the lagoon, trying to find an entrance through the coral. There are markers to indicate safe water but the passage looked too shallow to our eyes. The water is so clear that the depths are deceptive. With sight of another squall on the horizon, I jumped overboard with mask and snorkel and was greeted by a large Napoleon wrasse; together we guided Atea through the reef to the lagoon on the other size.

On first sight I know we’ve landed paradise… and so have seven other cruising yachts. We expected that we would be too late in the season for company as yachts headed across the Indian Ocean from Asia are well on their way west, but three French flags, one German, one Australian, one Chillan and one American flag flutter in the breeze. We’ve not see so many boats in one anchorage since leaving Langkawi in early June – what a surprise to find such a mariner’s metropolis on a small island in the middle of the southern Indian Ocean! Looking around at the dense palm-covered island with aquamarine blues ahead of a fringing reef, I smile with certainty that our detour to Cocos Keeling was a worthwhile change of plan. We look forward to the two weeks to come.

25/05/2016

Make Lemonade from your Lemon Tree

I feel like I have spent the last year chomping on a mouth full of acidic fruit, lemon after rotten lemon passed over on a chipped plate. Fingers pinch my nose tight as I slowly dissect the rotten flesh and eat my way through its bitterness. Just as I rid my mouth of its sour taste another is put in front of me. Each time I am convinced this will be the last piece of spoiled, bitter fruit that will be served. Each time look up from my empty plate to be served another.

“How have you coped?!” asked a close friend.
“The universe is trying to tell you something,” said the next.
“Give up when you are ahead,” coached my neighbor.
“Redefine your happiness,” pleaded my mother.
“Learn to cook,” said myself.

With optimism, stubbornness and bull headedness, I decided that I would turn that chipped plate upside-down, denying a diet of disappointment. Rather than consume each lemon, I would collect them and turn it into a bartender’s #1 drink. After stockpiling them, I would transform them. I pulled out my largest mixing bowl, grabbed my best kitchen knife and my biggest wooden spoon and I started to concoct a beverage that would make something beautiful out of something debauched. I cried when I cut into my lemons; I froze when I sunk my hands into the ice; I despaired when I lost sight of the recipe; I exhausted myself when I waited for it to mix. At the end of a long day of cooking, I poured my concoction into tall glasses and served it up for friends and family to taste.
“Ahhh…. !!” they said in union, “The Perfect Lemonade!”

The ingredients to a tasty lemonade made from a batch of bitter lemons are as follows:
Ingredients:
2 miscarriages
2 complex arm surgeries
1 damaged pancreas
2 determined parents
a pinch of supportive friendships
a dash of resolve

Method:
Put both miscarriages in a bowl and mix with a gallon of gratitude. Let sit until fully absorbed. In a separate bowl, add one wrist surgery and one hand surgery and douse with a litre of amazing medical ingenuity. Combine one diabetic son with a year’s supply of insulin, a crate full of syringes and 2,016 testing strips, add a satellite phone and a 24-hour emergency hotline; bring to a boil and simmer gently, uncovered, until tender. Remove from heat and cover with two dog-headed and determined parents committed to a dream.

The batch is ready to serve when you have a daughter with a redesigned limb, a son with an injection-supported pancreas, and two parents with their dreams still intact. Transfer everything to a serving platter and garnish with a twist of humour.

Lemon after lemon, my family has been tossed a succession of hurdles this year that have significantly affected our well-laid plans; each time we redefine our way forward to be hit with another obstacle. When I look back on the year I see that with every trial we carved out sweet memories, with every hardship we found beauty and adventure, with every lemon we squeezed out a few more drops of lemonade.

The first lemon was a miscarriage that changed our plans to cross the Indian Ocean in 2015, putting us back in New Zealand for a six-month contract and a delivery that never happened. Our next lemon was dropped three months later with a second miscarriage, which resulted in a trip to America to escape the New Zealand winter for the sunshine of California and the comfort of family in an attempt to put the two losses behind us.

During those first two months in California my daughter was given an opportunity to undergo a wrist operation to stabilize her right limb, turning our two-month holiday into a four-month separation from John who had remained on contract in New Zealand. At the end of that period Braca, Ayla and I flew to join John in Malaysia to resume our life afloat. We spent a furious two months getting work completed on Atea and the ship out of the boatyard, provisions purchased and last-minute purchases done to prepare for a year at sea.

At the conclusion of all our hard work and preparation, my son was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes and our trip across the Indian Ocean aborted a second time. What was expected to be a year that would see us drifting through the Indian Ocean with sand in our belly buttons and seawater in our ears instead had us wiping grit from our mouths and salt from our eyes; is was a succession of hard hits for our family and we were finding our way forward step by step by holding onto perspective to keep our lives on course and emotions in check.

We turned our hospital-tainted lemons into exotic tropical lemonade by taking the opportunity to explore Bangkok while awaiting our repatriation to New Zealand for further medical support and education. Rather than waiting out those weeks in the safety of a controlled environment, we packed up our insulin and our resources and hit the tourist circuit to explore temples and palaces, frenzied markets and congested riverboat taxis. This may sound little to most, but taking this on during our first days of caring for a diabetic without a team of medical support personnel was a daunting exercise. We found an unexpected pocket of pleasure through exploring the city and escaping the emotional trials we’d been through during the weeks stabilizing Braca; we cast aside our dependency on the medical community and put faith in ourselves that we would be capable of managing Braca’s condition whilst bringing laughter and play back into our world – and we did it with spectacular success.

Reality returned to us when we landed in Auckland and began our diabetic training within the New Zealand system. We spent our first month under the care of the pediatric diabetes team, re-learning how to care for Braca under a different system; gaining our understanding of the disease under two different systems gave us the advantage of additional resources. Again taking our lemons and converting it to lemonade, we completed our last course of training a month after arrival and immediately flew to the South Island to test our knowledge; we needed a good trial of glucose control on the road. If we could succeed on our own in the South Island, we would be prepared to succeed on our own in the Indian Ocean. Our camper van tour took us to all four corners of the South Island and the result was a fantastic month spent exploring one of the most beautiful countries in the world and being reminded of all that home holds for us.

At the end of our South Island tour, Ayla and I flew to California to complete her next operation, expecting to follow John and Braca a month later to Malaysia. Our post op recommendation was that we extend our stay an additional month, and with that extra time we jumped in the car four days after surgery for an epic coastal tour of the Californian seaside. Rather than moaning the extended time away from John and Braca or the delay to our cruising season, we had a fantastic girls trip with the company of some of my closest and dearest friends from my high school and college days. Again, lemons to lemonade; friends that I met and loved in the eighties and nineties opened their arms and their doors with a warm welcome a decade or two later. I have not had the opportunity in years to revisit these long-time friendships and it was rejuvenating to be surrounded by these golden friends again.

For those who don’t understand my ingredients, or the context to this story, I’d like to simplify: I believe hardship is a process to get through, and it is important not to forget the small moments along the way. What drives me to make a sweet drink from bitter fruit is the determination I have always had to see something through to the end, regardless of the hardships that present along the way. I have never been one to stop when the path gets rough or the road gets swept away by tsunami. In fact, I believe my biggest successes have come by way of failure first. Through this, I have learned that the hard times are to be navigated rather than run from, and I feel learning this has allowed us as a family to embrace some very special moments through some incredibly difficult times. The tough times always come; it is how we deal with it that allows us to stand tall or crumble, laugh or cry, take things head on or run from them.

Whether you see it coming or it finds you hiding behind the bushes, change is an inevitable part of life – and when hardship comes with it, I believe it is best to find your way rather than turn away. By taking events head on and embracing the change that comes with it I believe a person is best able to cope with the situation and move forward. For those friends who advised us to give up or redefine our goals and ambitions, I believe we can find a new reality in the context of our current passion. Philippe Petit once said in an interview “passion should be your motto” (in a very sexy French voice). I couldn’t agree with this sentiment more – life is too short not to live it on the edge of your seat and challenges need to taken as they come. I believe you should pursue your dreams the moment you have them, and change them when they fade into something different. Cruising is that part of “living the dream” for us at the present moment and I believe the obstacles we’ve been presented with lately can be navigated safely whilst still in pursuit of our passions.

Each of us must find our own way to make lemonade from our lemon tree, and this post shares the ways we have sought to make ours. I hope the conclusion of this year equips us with enough citrus to last the years ahead without any more fallen fruit and may this be the start of a new consciousness of travel as we forge forward as a family to pursue our lifestyle choice. May the misadventures of this past year lead us towards the adventures of the year ahead and let’s hope third time lucky as we begin our next attempt to set sail for the Indian Ocean!

21/01/2016

Eastern Spirits and Western Angels

We are in the country of spirits and as a child, when living here with my family, I remember stories of friendly ghosts inhabiting the houses of my schoolmates, evil spirits causing harm to workers in my father’s warehouse, water spirits invading the bedroom of our closest family friends. Of those who believed, it wasn’t only the Thai’s who had grown up on tales spouted through the generations; expatriates with experiences of their own came to independent conclusions and began dutifully placing offerings in the spirit houses that sat inside their homes. I, for one, neither believe nor disbelieve. I entertain the notion, however, that a Thai spirit has come onboard Atea to disrupt our balance. Whether benevolent or malicious, I believe it is up to interpretation and I try to look at what we’ve been given rather than what has been taken.

As I look back at 2015 our time has been generally been split evenly in fourths between Malaysia, Thailand, the United States and New Zealand. In that year, we lost a child due to miscarriage in both Malaysia and New Zealand; Ayla underwent major surgery in the US and Braca is now in intensive care in Thailand. Perhaps a Thai monk is in order to appease the spirits, or perhaps I owe thanks to my guardian angel for our good fortune. A response to our Facebook update on Braca’s condition resonates with this sentiment. In it my friend Gini stated, “I understand the Thai hospitals and doctors are world-class… I am amazed and encouraged by how your family has been so blessed with very scary health and welfare occurrences time and time again. The angels really take care of you and there is no reason why that will ever change.” There are so many ways to look at a situation; this is the first time we have had travel insurance. We could have been mid-passage. We could have been in a third-world country with poor medical care. Realize this and we can say how very blessed we are.

As many of you know we are now residents of the Bangkok Hospital in Phuket. This has come as a total surprise as at the moment we should be midway between Thailand and Sri Lanka, away from the business and busyness of society and lost in the silence and solitude of the sea. We have spent the last two months working overtime on overdrive, madly preparing and crew for a year in the Indian Ocean. We have spent $30,000 on the boat to ready her, countless days and endless expense buying provisions in preparation for remote regions, downloading hundreds of charts, upgrading equipment, the list goes on. The boat has been turn upside down, reordered, dumped on again and resorted in the flurry of preparations that had become our daily routine over the last two months. The months preceding this were spent on planning and organization, getting visas and caites in order, lining up local representatives in required countries, bolstering and purchasing insurance for both body and boat, our cash flowing like water. It has taken a lot of dedicated, hard work to get us to this point and at the very moment of completion all plans have been dashed on the rocks as a moment of crisis takes over the months and months of preparation and planning.

We’ve had increasing concern for our son Braca but have been unable to identify the issue. Over the course of a few weeks our normally exuberant and delightful son slipped towards a temperamental and lazy four-year old to a weak and to lackluster grump, sliding further in the last few days to an emaciated and exhausted inpatient. At first John and I reveled in his growth as his body slimmed down to a trim, long-legged stature; I attributed his mood-swings and bouts of anger to the testosterone spurt known to come to boys around the age of four. Gradually his appetite decreased, his energy dissipated, his temperament became moodier and more difficult. He started loosing his interest in play or engagement with others. Our worry started to mount but we couldn’t get Braca to admit to any discomfort. We took him to a clinic where he was diagnosed with vitamin deficiency; I felt it was more than that but continued to prepare for our journey while keeping a close eye on him. We cleared Thai customs and immigration and moved Atea to the westernmost departure point; the boat was ready but we were not sailing out until the final piece was in place: Braca.

On the day of our intended departure I whisked Braca to a reputable International Hospital, clear that we needed medical sign off before we departed. They checked his vitals and ran standard blood tests; all came back regular. The doctor found lesions in his throat, which he felt explained loss of appetite and as a result loss of weight and energy. He ran abdominal x-rays that revealed severe constipation. I left feeling optimistic with a handful of drugs and an easy cure, reporting back to John that we’d paid money to be told our son was full of shit. However, by night he was vomiting and his inclination to sleep all day still a concern, compounded by an abnormally heavy, deep rhythmic breathing pattern which certainly raised the alarm.

After researching the doctor’s analysis we felt the assessment was not represented by his symptoms. We ran our own list of symptoms against possible causes, knowing that non-professional self-diagnosis always provides the most dramatic results. Braca’s list was long: weight and muscle loss, over ¼ his body weight down to 14 kg; lethargy and loss of interest; mouth sores and bum rash; frequent urination and constant thirst; constipation; loss of appetite. We came up with a list of four: Depression, Addison’s Disease, Diabetes, Cancer.

In the morning we about-faced and returned to Ao Chelong, rushing ashore illegally to get Braca to the Bangkok Hospital in Phuket. It took no time after a quick examination for the doctor to recognize that Braca was in a critical state and things ran fast from there: IV drips, blood tests, ultrasounds, admittance to ICU. We’d gone from a surge of testosterone to vitamin deficiency to mouth sores to chronic illness in the space of a few weeks. Each prognosis was worse; it was a relief to finally arrive at the right conclusion.

To understand our predicament fully you have to appreciate a few of the circumstances. For one, we had gone through a lot of transitions and Braca was adjusting to changes in condition, environment and weather since leaving the United States. We also have a son who absolutely refuses to admit discomfort, illness, or unease. Since birth he has rejected a sticker for its resemblance of a plaster. I’d repeatedly asked how he has been feeling and he refused any confession, saying only “I’m FINE mom. Just leave me alone!” There is a beauty hidden in this frustrating trait. When admitted to hospital, the nurses in Intensive Care produced a chart with a series of ten faces, each expression progressively pained. Point to 1 and you had a grin from ear-to-ear, point to 10 and the head was sobbing into a puddle of tears. When he was admitted, lethargic and eyes half-mast they held the chart in front of him and asked him to identify the face that best matched his state. He took awhile to respond and after studying the faces he finally pointed to number 2: A cheerful grin on a very happy face. They suggested a few other expressions but he shook his head and pointed again at number 2. A few hours later, after he had exceeded his tolerance level for needles and jabs and was in a flurry of tears, they produced the chart and asked him to assess his pain. He pointed to number 2. The nurse again provided a few other suggestions and he doggedly shook his head and held his finger on number 2. This was repeated several times and he never varied once from his choice – a cheery grin on a happy face. Is there a better example of looking at the bright side in times of hardship? At age four Braca is teaching the world a lesson: Even in times of strife there is always a smile to be found.

John and I started this blog when we began our first season on Atea expecting it to be filled with stories of our travels along the way, opening our experiences to those interested along the way. We didn’t expect it to become such a personal narrative of our intimate and private affairs. In following us through times of play and pleasure as well as through struggle and more unfortunate circumstance, we’ve shared so much more than hidden jewels sprinkled far out at sea. Our high points and low points have taught us that life is full of surprises regardless of the most meticulous of plans. It has shown us that adventure comes in all forms and that even hardship brings beauty. Look at a little boys smile in the most dire of times and you know that life is all about perspective; regardless of events, rainbows can always grace our horizon.

06/11/201506/11/2015

Like a Fish Out of Water

As we look back the last six months the term “like a fish out of water” comes to mind. As a family we’ve been uprooted from our small steel home and deposited in an increasingly alien environment, reliant on others for our survival – all the while looking back enviously at those still swimming around in the pond. We are slowly but surely working our way back toward the edge. Very shortly, with one final effort, we hope to jump back where we belong and swim out into the blue.

This year has been a fast reminder that no plan is ever set in stone, and that regardless of effort things just never turn out as you quite expect them. We rolled into 2015 expecting to travel eastward to Malaysia, Borneo and the Philippines, but good sailing friends caused us to start looking westward. Soon Pacific plans were exchanged for Atlantic plans and we started looking at the Indian Ocean to get there. An unexpected third pregnancy early in the year caused us to abandon cruising plans and turn our sights from isolated atolls to the security of medical care. With a pregnancy pulling the strings and work contacts providing the anchor we found ourselves drawn back to a place neither of us expected: New Zealand in the winter.

By March Atea was dry-docked in Pangkor and we were wrapped-up in Auckland and it was cold. Very cold. Or at least that is how if felt after being spoilt and acclimatised to the Malaysian heat. As the winter approached we shivered in our woolly hats, huddled around heaters and sniffed our way into our new normal. John was strapped back into his work harness and I was adjusting to the domestic scene as our shore lives started to be reestablished. We settled into a rented house as our own home was under a tenancy agreement, with a six-month work contract ahead of us. All this was done in preparation for another child, but all for naught as we lost the baby early in pregnancy – after all this re-planning, resettling and readjusting, we’d lost the reason to be ashore.

As ever, it is the children who adjust with most ease to a new environment. While John and I do luxuriate in first world indulgences, we find that a few short weeks purges us of our cravings and we are ready to head back out to sea. For the kids the adjustment is quick and the past quickly forgotten – a valuable lesson in living in the present. Whether it is adjusting to a new house, a new culture, new friends or new routines, they are the first to find the fun in it and live fully in the current moment. This is a thing John and I struggle to do as we yearn for wide open spaces, flexible routines, constant change and adventure. Each season we’ve fallen more in step with the cruising lifestyle and we find our time ashore more constrained, our shore life an encroaching foreign territory. Slowly we find our comfort and our desire resides in a life afloat, and it is this pull that calls us back to sea.

By June we lost a second pregnancy due to another miscarriage and I was sick of loss, let down and a confined domestic scene. After four months in New Zealand, I was in need of change, the sun, and a new chapter. I flew myself and our youngest members to America while John stayed behind to finish out the work contract.

On my departure the intention was a two month separation: I got time with my family in California and some sunshine to boost the spirit, John couch-surfed with friends for the two remaining month of his contract. We were to reinstate our family and reconvene our cruising life at the end of September but a one month extension on John’s contract was soon offered and he accepted, a little extra money to boost the next cruising season a good thing. Plans were made and tickets purchased for a mid-October departure – all sights set for a return to Atea and an Indian Ocean adventure. As they say, “never count your chickens before they hatch” and true to the saying our plans, once again, unraveled.

For us in California, a two-month holiday turned into a four-month temporary residency. Whilst on holiday I was advised to look into local specialist hospital, Shriner’s Hospital for Children, for treatment for Ayla and I began the process without ever expecting it would go anywhere. Boy was I wrong! Not only did things happen, but they happened quick. Within a week of the application being accepted we were in consultation; within a day of consultation Ayla was under the scalpel. Surgery happened before we’d had a chance to consider the implications of it, but the opportunity for Ayla outweighed all other considerations.

And here we are now: A week before John’s departure and another five weeks for us to go before our fifth season begins. We’ve been closely watching our friends swim westward on the wide reaches of the Indian Ocean, straining against the confines of society’s net for our freedom. That said, it was not an easy ride for many of them. One boat was wrecked on an uncharted island, one lost their mast but lost no lives, one lost their mast and abandoned ship, one was struck by lightning, one was blown up on a reef. Plenty have reported minor breakages from breaking waves and strong winds, yet despite this carnage we are eager to dive in and resume our own journey.

I’ve no idea how best to predict this next cruising season. I know our intentions, but if this year has reminded me of one thing it is that all plans will soon be under a redesign. But that is immaterial; change is inevitable. What I do know is that we will be out there pursuing our passion, following our dreams and living our lives as we most enjoy it.

04/03/2015

Rum Punch Days

It is a laugh to report on our recent travels after my previous post that focused on the difficulties of the cruising lifestyle. That particular rant is certainly not representative of our current experiences, as our days are filled with highlights that tumble on top of highlights. Sure, we’ve had a few setbacks: We’ve flown our newly purchased drone into our rig and dropped it into the ocean, with half a dozen flights under our belt. We noted loose engine belts and found a crack in the water-maker mounting bracket, and spent a week on a water ration. Our refrigerator broke – twice. We spent one night in the middle of a thunderstorm and watched lightening strike the water around us, the world flashing electric blue, both horrified and completely thrilled by the experience. But all in all, our days are mostly filled with picture-perfect postcard settings, lazy days and rum cocktails.

We’ve spent the past three months exploring southwestern Thailand. This period seems less an off-track adventure and more a long extended holiday. Cruising in Thai waters is cheap and easy. Distances are short but there is variety depending on destination. If you use Phuket as a reference the following applies: Hop south and you are out of the general reach of mainstream tourism, free to pretend you’ve found a paradise not yet exploited. Head west and you are in in water so clear and you can see your reflection on the sand below, spending your days waterlogged, sun-kissed and beer-filled. East brings you into a labyrinth of sea caves and hongs that send you scurrying about with torches in total darkness, Pussy Galore and Bond-like, swimming or paddling through narrow winding passages until light finally breaks on the other side. Once through the cave and into the interior of the island, you are surrounded by thick jungle exposed to the sky from above. North offers a step away from mainstream tourism into quiet island getaways with tourists seeking to get a taste of a slower Thailand. Hit the hub, Phuket Central, and you are bustling for elbowroom amongst pink-skinned tourists, drinking cocktail concoctions out of buckets and gawking at bare boobs and lady boys.

Thailand is special for many reasons: the climate, the beautiful beaches, clear temperate water, the exceptional food and exceptional people, the inexpensive lifestyle. But for us in particular Thailand offers a social circle unique to previous seasons. I received more friend requests on Facebook after our first week in Thailand than on all our previous years of cruising combined. While using social media to gauge your level of social welfare has many inherent pitfalls, it is an example of how quickly friendships have been made this season and how many other cruisers we’ve been able to share company with.

What makes this particular group of cruisers unique is the collection of babes on boats (of the pintsized variety). Kid-boats: You avoid them like the plague. Unless of course you are infected yourself in which case you stalk them and hoard them like precious commodities. On pretense it is because kids enjoy kid-company. In truth it is to relieve oneself of the parental role of engagement. After weeks of being the only go-to for your child’s fantasy world, it is great relief when you can push them on another as a diversion. In addition, it is only those who have kids who invite those with kids onboard – and evening beverages is a staple for sanity on any ship. Given weeks of toddler games that leave you of crawling on all fours or tied up in rope, you really need both alcohol and adult companionship as a means of escape.

Regardless of reason given, it has been a pleasure to cruise in such a tight-knit group and have that connection with kindred spirits in foreign ports. Adventures jointly sought and holidays celebrated as a makeshift family unit have been a defining part of this season. As this year’s cruisers head onward and Braca’s flotilla of playmates dissipate, it will be interesting to see what dynamic a new influx of yachts bring.

January is a defining month as boats that intend to cross the Indian Ocean begin their migration. In typical Atea fashion, we enter the year with no set plan. Loosely, we’d discussed a trip that sends us north of Borneo into the Philippines. As we spent time with yachts heading across the Indian Ocean, our sights turned westward. To our surprise, unplanned influences look to direct us on a path independent of research or planning.

We have officially invited our third crewmate onboard.* Let me preface this with an earlier conversation that went along the lines of, “yeah, I’d be open to another,” at which time the conversation was decidedly more theoretical than practical. After firmly deciding that Atea would head west to Sri Lanka as soon as possible, medical advice has recommended that we don’t attempt a third pregnancy at sea. All significant test dates line up with the more remote regions of the trip, and given my age the BOLD FACE RECOMMENDATION is that we do not travel after 34 weeks – which would put us somewhere near East Africa. Such a timeframe would mean a race to the finish line, so to speak, to make it to South Africa by the beginning of August. We have decided that we will not choose the fast-track option and will leave an Indian Ocean crossing for another season.

As I write, each day we are committed to a new plan. While this indecision was starting to do my head in, I realize that all possibilities are good ones and we merely struggle to make the optimum choice – which of course changes depending on mood, amount of sleep, the state of chaos or calm onboard. So, wherever tomorrow takes us we will end up in a good place. If that decision happens to move us onward from Southeast Asia, we take with us a season full of friendships, paradise held in our fingertips and, of course, a belly full of rum.

_______________________________________________________

* Please Note: We lost the child during the second month of pregnancy. I chose to include the comment about our third as it was part of our experience and I wanted this little soul represented in our season. Little sweetheart – you are missed.

23/12/2014

Malaysia by Sea

We have finally completed our transit of Malaysia’s western coast. We entered Malaysian waters as a family of three and exited her northern shores as a family of four. Of the ten months that Atea was temporary resident, we have cruised a two months of that time.

Of general impressions, it is a culturally fantastic place to visit however not ideal from a cruising perspective. Her waters are a murky, dirty brown and littered with rubbish. Beaches are equally scarred by a waterline filled with plastic debris. The skyline is hazy and thick of smoke from burning palm plantations. Yachts typically day hop up the coast because a maze of fishing traps make night passage hazardous and the horizon is a cluster of lights from the hundreds of trawlers pulling up anything with a gill or fin. We’ve stopped any attempt at fishing out of compassion for the little marine life left. The heat has been repressive, Ayla suffering the most. She had three bouts of heat exhaustion before we identified the cause of her illness and now sleeps with a fan inches above her head.

From a tourist perspective however, there is much on offer. Most of the tourists are from near and far reaches of Asia and I’ve enjoyed being immersed in the mix, standing out in my whiteness like a sore thumb. It is predominately Muslim and days are punctuated with the call to prayer. While as a tourist we are not expected to dress in full cover, it is still a courtesy to cover shoulders and legs – a hard won courtesy in the heat. In several towns the mix of religions is evident and what stands out is the multi-cultural cohesion: Mosques, churches and temples are evenly dispersed down alleyways and ethnic diversity is evident in the wide range of cuisine options. We toured Malaysia through our bellies, guided by our appetite.

Remote anchorages dominated our previous cruising seasons and we spent our time in either isolated bays or small island villages where locals relied on subsistence farming and fishing and resources were scarce. Atea always left homeport fully stocked for the duration of our trip, cubbyholes stuffed with a year’s supply of canned and dried goods. This season has been very different. We boarded Atea where we would be spending the initial part of our season rather than facing the long distances we’ve undertaken in years past to get to our cruising destination. We are planning on spending the first six months sailing up and down the Malaysian and Thai west coast, exploring local sites with nothing more than day hops in front of us. There is no need to stuff Atea to the brim with staples as food will be cheap, delicious and in ready supply. Given the large Indian population, we are filling our bellies with roti cani, tandoori chicken and green curry, in addition to local Malay and Chinese cuisine. Markets are filled with a wide range of fruit and vegetables and grocery stores are stocked with local and imported goods to satisfy multinational cravings. Food, for the first time in our cruising history, is easily stocked and easily replenished. I used to have a secret stash of treats, doled out on special occasions. Now it feels like a lavish lifestyle to eat as the taste buds desire.

This rule used to follow for alcohol as well. Where it was once our “liquor reserves,” it is now a stockpile. Langkawi is a duty free haven and the tax cuts make it a cruiser’s Mecca. Boatyards offer a good place for mariners to base themselves for haul out and refit, and parts are available at good rates. It is also Mecca for the alcoholic. Top shelf booze runs $10 a bottle, and there is no limit to quantity or variety. Beer runs $2 a can, and we purchased it by the truckload. Wine is the only category of liquor that is consistent with New Zealand prices, so we are skint on cork but loaded with anything 80-proof and up.

If you are a yacht owner or an alcoholic, Kuah is a must. If you want a taste of cruising in the Med, Telaga offers you the flavour. If you like history and art, Penang offers a maze of vibrant colour that lines the boulevards, where street art abounds…if you are not too distracted by all the delicious smells from food trolleys to see it. The Fjords south of Langkawi are stunning skyscrapers of rock projecting from the sea, scenic and quiet and beautiful. The mangrove forests east of Langkawi are winding arteries of river, nourishing the abundant wildlife that feeds off it.

While I mention the things that Malaysia lacks from a cruising context – murky water, clogged and cluttered – there are amazing attractions on offer that are not accessible to the average tourist. Of course, charters are available to take tourists out to the sites, but they are powerboats that run at high speed and in a cluster. What they miss is the magic, the beauty of solitude. It is the freedom to stay where you want, for as long as you want that defines the cruiser’s ambition. It is the joy of finding a place on your own and discovering its quiet and its noise: Deep red sunsets setting to the silence of fallen wind and tide, a million bats floating out at dusk to cover the moon, eagles that swoop and rise again with fish in talon, dodging each other in flight, monkeys lapping up water at the shores edge, playful and flirtatious for none but you as witness. These are only a few of the moments we’ve shared with the inhabitants of Malaysia over the course of the past few weeks.

For those who wonder why you’d take a yacht 20,000 miles through fine and foul weather when you can hop on an airplane for a fraction of the price – this is the point of cruising. You can never fly to where you can sail, and you can never buy what you can get when you work for it. My previous post highlighted “The Other Days,” which in truth are few and far between. It is These Days, self-sought and not offered in travel brochures, which breathe the soul into the life of cruising.

08/11/201409/11/2014

Pontification and Circumstance

We are living the dream. Really, this is it! White fluffy clouds and white sand beaches, freshly caught fish grilling on the barbeque and spiked coconut drinks served with little pink umbrellas. Bum swinging in the hammock, soft breeze flowing over bare feet, suntanned arm resting on the handrail. Eyes lazily gazing at pink speckled sunsets. Quiet mornings where the only sound is of a distant seabird dropping soulful echo in your ear. Bliss. This is what cruising is all about – the stuff landlubbers’ dream of and sailors boast about. Idyllic days spent on your haunches hakuna mata-style, all no worries and glowing happiness.

We have these times – really, we do! The only caveat is that of these days that sailors have and landlubbers dream about is that these moments are apportioned by The Other Days. And The Other Days happen just as often. These days look like this: Sweat pouring down backsides whilst crammed into tight, enclosed spaces, furiously cursing your boat, the heat, the sea, the salt, your partner, your mother, and your mother’s mother. You’ve a spanner and wrench in hand that might do the job, only if you can figure out what needs to be done. And you’d better figure it out – because you are the only name listed in the directory for handymen. If not, you have a hammer as back up so that you can, at the minimum, fix your frustrations if not your faults.

Let me take a moment and pontificate. In particular, I feel an urgent need to pontificate about rosy-glassed pontificators. There are so many first person narrations and third-party reiterations told in cyber chat, blog posts and magazine entries that preach of the goodness, almost akin to godliness, of those committed to aquatic travel. There seems an unspoken commitment to gloss over The Other Days. We’ve universally become ambassadors for The House of Travel and we are each madly selling package tours.

I was recently forwarded an article titled, “After Living Abroad for a Year and a Half Now…” that goes on to list ten points as to why an eight-year-old child has finally become enlightened by way of shedding herself of the entrapments of shore to live life afloat. She has cast aside her flash house, her new car, her TV, her plastic toys, her local friends, and her traditional education with no pain, remorse, or regret. She no longer knows about stress, having freed herself of all first-world entrapments. Brave warrior – she can now soar high and free. But…. but… really?! I have been a juvenile world-explorer. I am now raising a juvenile world-explorer. In both first and second instances, I understand the sacrifice that is asked of children when we take them out to sea. Every day is not filled up with sunshine and seahorses, baby turtles and rainbows. Sometimes the rainbows are just days of rain. Sometimes the sunshine is just melting heat. Sometimes instead of seahorses and turtles, you get dead coral and barren reef.

I like The House of Travel, and I do not want to offend. I wouldn’t dare illuminate the Dark Side of the cruising scene; that might alienate me from my peers. But I am prepared to reveal what happens on The Other Days; those days we really wish we were somewhere else. I have provided the Top Ten as follows.

1. Resources: You’ve access to every specialist required for the job, as long as you can pull that particular hat from your drawer. Otherwise, you may want to find that hammer. Or finance a new boat. On a yacht, the directory for services looks like this:

Plumber: Mr. & Ms. Self 1-800-GOODLUCK
Electrician: Mr. & Ms. Self 1-800-GOODLUCK
Seamstress: Mr. & Ms. Self 1-800-GOODLUCK
Mechanic: Mr. & Ms. Self 1-800-GOODLUCK
Nurse: Mr. & Ms. Self 1-800-GOODLUCK
Tour Guide: Mr. & Ms. Self 1-800-GOODLUCK
Money-Juggling Account 1-800-MPTYPOCKT

Every moment of each day your alter-identities are on stand-by. You’ve ten pagers attached to your hip, buzzing simultaneously, demanding immediate attention. At no time are you not on-call – it is a permanent state of affairs for every sailor. It is for you, the expert, to assess the emergency situation and respond to calls on level of urgency. All the while wondering, in the back of your head, why can’t we just go cruising? Why wasn’t this part advertised in the brochures? At no point did I receive a Cruising World with a model poised on the front cover with her bum-in-the-air, head-crammed-in-tight-space, back-burnt-and-twisted, profusely sweating middle-aged saltwort with a bubble of swear words above her head. This is the wrong kind of bikini-clad!

2. Duplicity: Everything has a back up, because everything breaks. And eventually every back up is used so you rely on the Directory of One, a pot of glue, your favourite swear word and, as last resort, your trusty hammer. When you’ve just bought two of every system onboard, at inflated marine prices, it is demoralizing to replace everything system by system to end up with a quick fix that only does half the job.

3. Replenishment: In a land-based home environment, if your bulb burns out you drop in at the corner mart to pick up a replacement. No problem. If the handle of your garden hose breaks you pop in to the local hardware store and buy another. No problem. You’ve just pulled the last square off your loo role and hop to the cupboard to find an empty plastic wrap. No problem, TP just a quick pop to the diary. All these are 15-minute jobs, completed without thought as you grab your car keys and drive on automatic pilot on an effortless errand. However, each of these insignificants whilst cruising can eat up entire days, and even then it may end in task incomplete. First, you have no car. No problem – catch a bus. If you happen to be anchored anyplace large enough to have public transport, you spend half the day sorting out taxi ranks and bus stops, to find out that the route you have taken has delivered you to a random mystery suburb. Second, you don’t speak the language. You gesticulate madly until someone smiles and points you in a direction, and you wander in circles until it finally dawns on you that local culture is to placate and appease. After a half dozen of these courteous navigational suggestions you finally clue in: They didn’t understand a word you said but it was more hospitable to appear helpful. Third, you finally navigate yourself to the right location to find out that they closed five minutes prior to your arrival for a protracted siesta. Or every staff member fell communally ill and the place will be closed for a week – directly corresponding with the day you arrived and the day you intend on leaving. Or it is a national holiday, a religious holiday, a wedding, or the birthday of a distant relative of the owner’s neighbor’s best friend. Regardless of the reason, you’ve just mimed and hitch-hiked your way across town to hear, “Sorry, please try again tomorrow.”

4. Space (-less): You’ve shopped around and done the research and found yourself the perfect boat. You’ve taken her on her maiden voyage and have fallen completely in love. She is perfect. You leave homeport, high as a kite. Make the most of those first years, as her glory fades. Little by little, season by season, your lady ages. Soon you are looking over at the boat anchored next to you, in lust. When that moment happens you will know you’ve contracted it. Forever after, you will suffer from a condition called 5-Footitis. No matter what, at some stage, every cruiser realizes that your boat is just a little too little.

I get it when my friends express amazement and, silently, pity when learning that we are raising a toddler and infant on a sailboat. Space is tight. Toys are kept minimal. Braca has learned that only one set of toys comes out at a time because there are no corners for typically toddler chaos. There are no “silent spaces.” Ayla has adjusted to sleeping with the roar of an engine or toddler in her ear. Literally. We eat, sleep, play, and work all within a 50-foot space. Fifty feet divided by two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, a dining and living room, a work shop/engine room, a few cupboards and a closet, divided again by four active bodies, equates to half a cubic square per person at any given time. I get why friends look at me in a “thank god it’s not me” expression. At times on passage it is akin to living in the world’s smallest apartment, locking the door and throwing out the key.

5. Connoisseur’s Courtship: Cruising brings you to an entirely different level in your relationship with food. There are many people who have a great affection for food, but no one has ever courted food like a yachtie. Our relationship is physical. We don’t buy it at the grocery store and toss it in the fridge. We search for it like we are on a quest for long-lost treasure. We map it out on parchment and spend limitless time playing Hide and Seek. Rarely is a one-stop shop on offer. You have to search the town for a fresh market, a canned-food supplier, a butcher, a baker, a cheese shop, and a liquor store. Food is collected in bits and bobs. We are the modern day foragers and gatherers.

After spending all this time searching for these nutritional treasures, there isn’t a vast fridge to shove it all into. You have to select the bare minimum temperature requirements of each item and sort it accordingly. With a fridge and freezer each the size of a miniature beer cooler, competition for cold air is fierce. What doesn’t go into the fridge must withstand humidity and heat. Often a provision run must last months, so the lifespan of your fruit and veggies is critical. As a result, you coddle it and wrap it in cotton wool. We spend days searching for it and once located, attend to it like a first-born. Ancient methods of preservation are learned and implemented. Eggs are tended to and lovingly rotated each day, like Mother Hen, done so they will last months unrefrigerated. Carrots and green beans are individually washed and dried and wrapped into bags, the cycle repeated daily to protect it from moisture and rot. Potatoes and apples cohabitate, extending their freshness for weeks. Onions are individually wrapped in kitchen paper and only the dirtiest potatoes are selected as they take the longest to age. Bay leaves are tucked into all the bulk stores, fending off weevils and other unwanted pests. All this time and attention may sound endearing and sweet, however it is a relationship born out of necessity.

6. Decadence: Speaking of culinary affection, let me quickly touch on the topic of decadence. Point five, discussed above, solely focuses on foods of basic necessity; not foods of luxury and desire. Of the latter, I would like to wake up one morning and have a bakery at my disposal, all hot dough and buttery croissants, rather than spend the half hour the evening before bashing flour with my knuckles. I often crave a cappuccino with a frothy flower served in a delicate ceramic cup, the daily newspaper set to the side. I want to look at a menu with vast selection, dine on the chef’s special, and follow it with the devil’s pick in sweet delights. Superficial desire, I know. But the appeal becomes heightened when the option for a café or fine dining has been taken away.

7. Slow: Some days are just slow… too slow. Some days are on instant rewind and repeat. Somehow you’ve auditioned for the sequel of Groundhog Day and landed the lead role. Your days become a repeat of the same routines: A morning swim and a play on the beach, a siesta at noon, boat maintenance (because there is always boat maintenance), followed by sundowners with whoever straggles into your anchorage that day. Quiet nights. I miss the noise of city life. The loudness. The business. The pace. I miss live music, small pubs and rugby matches. I miss old faces. Not the geriatric kind of old faces, but the familiar old faces of long established friends.

8. Weather: Life is very much ruled by the weather. I know that grey days get people down wherever you are. But when you are stuck in a floating box in a downpour, it gets all the more oppressive. Cruisers usually pull it off because long days of rain are not the norm during the dry season in the tropics. But when bad weather hits, you better be prepared for it. It takes no time to learn that you never leave your yacht with the hatches open – better to come back to saloon filled with stifling hot air than a cabin full of water. Most often you cancel your agenda as there is nowhere to go in torrential downpour. If you do decide to be ambitious, it is inevitably awkward. You hunker down in the dingy and get pelted as you race ashore, then lumber along with gear in hand as you splash your way to your destination. Regardless of tactic, when you get where you are going you are soaked to the bone, wet as a tramp, wondering was this worth it?… wherever you head to, they’d better be serving beer!

9. Budgeting: When you board a boat with the intention of being a long-term cruiser, you slip back into the financial position of a teenager with a minimum wage job. You have cash, but you never seem to have enough of it. Money is constantly being budgeted; priority spending shifts as boat repairs claim more and more of the “reserve.” Cruising funds are further constrained each subsequent year and budgets are constantly revised in attempt to make the money last. Boats by their nature suck money, and each year there is less money available to suck.

10. Temporary Retirement & Re-Employment: You drip out your retirement account so that one day when the rest of your peers are dropping out of planes in their golden parachutes, gunning around town in their Maserati’s, sipping vintage wine in their split-level homes, you are heading back to an office. Older, slower, and grumpier.

While this Top Ten list isn’t exhaustive, I have probably succeeded in making my point: There is a Dark Side to cruising. Cruising is not an exercise in seamanship, navigation and heavy weather tactics. We rarely spend our days battling storms, big waves and nautical disasters. We usually spend our days fighting logistics and minor inconveniences.

Cruising isn’t a long holiday. It is a lifestyle choice. There are incredible highs, and these make dealing with The Other Days worth every moment of it. When back on land I often feel like I am living amidships on even keel – the highs aren’t near as high and the low’s happen less often. While I do love coming ashore and indulging in extravagances and indulgences, I find that when the novelty wears off I am soon looking around saying, “Well, this is a bit dull. What next?” Within a matter of weeks, days begin to blend into each other and months fade away without notice. All the conveniences of home you craved on The Other Days, like cars and cash machines, Google Maps and high speed Internet, seem like adventures worth their weight in pain and sweat on reflection for it made for good stories shared over a grog at sunset. At home social occasions are planned rather than spontaneous. It takes years to meet the neighbours, rather than the quick invitation that goes out with boats you share an anchorage with. Friendships ashore often come after long courtship with social circles rather than the quick acceptance you get in the cruising circuit. Eclectic Camaraderie. I enjoy the feeling of brotherhood and sisterhood that is felt between sailors, mixed by way of culture, nationality, age, religion and financial standing. All of whom share a love of boats and the sea, a passion for nature and wildlife, who are seeking out exploration and adventure. Each willing to put themselves out there to attain it regardless of the sacrifices it takes to get there.

23/10/201425/10/2014

Something To Say About Miracles

We finally arrive in Penang – exactly one year after our intended arrival date, and well past due we share this story.

For those of you who have met Ayla, you will know that she has a condition called radial dysplasia. She has the fourth stage that is defined by the absence of a radial bone and thumb. Often the condition is associated with heart and renal issues, along with a variety of other potential complications. It is only now that we have her with us that I can share her birth story, or more specifically, her en utero story.

I have heard many people say what a miracle babies are and what a complex process their development is, particularly in the womb. I understood this but never really appreciated it. It was truly amazing with my first to follow the month-to-month stages of growth and how quickly complex systems develop.

I got the condensed version with Ayla as we didn’t discover we were pregnant until the 15th week, well into the second trimester. We were sailing up the eastern Australian coast when I discovered a lump in my stomach, of which it took several days for me to convince John it wasn’t a figment of my imagination. We were a few days out of Cairns when he agreed that there was something evident, of which I said “it is either a good lump, or a bad one.” I figured it was either tumour or a baby and I knew right away which I preferred. A few days later we were able to confirm good news, and the following day we got an ultrasound.

It was such an unexpected surprise. For several reasons we thought I was unable to conceive, so to learn that we would be joined by yet another was fantastic news. During the ultrasound we were told that we would be having a girl and that all looked good in the scan. We were jubilant – a daughter for us, a sister for Braca! We returned to the receiving room to wait for our photos and our alarm grew as our wait was extended. Couples arriving after us came and went while we still waited, and we were finally called back into the examination room. There is a funny thing that adrenalin does to shift the space around you. I am sure everything slipped sideways and created a void as voices started to drift off when the doctor started talked about problems that had been found. Further tests were recommended. Specialists were referred. I walked out in a mechanical daze until I was freed by the open space outside to break down and cry. I called my mother and the words I remember repeating were “my baby is broken.”

We spent several weeks in Cairns seeing specialists who helped us understand what Ayla was dealing with. We had a child with a malformed limb with a host of other serious complications that could present on delivery. Her kidneys could fail. She may need heart surgery at birth. She may have mental disability. Blood transfusions.

Fifteen weeks along and we had some major decisions to make. Were we to carry this child to term? Should we head directly to New Zealand and the safety of a medical system we would be supported by? Could we dare carry forward with our plans and spend the pregnancy in remote regions with an at-risk pregnancy? Those few weeks without a plan and so many factors outside our influence was a very stressful period. I cried my full for the sorrow I felt for a child I couldn’t do anything to help, and worried over the possibility of a future with a special-needs child.

In the end, we decided to press on. Atea and crew would sail from Australia through Indonesia as planned, with sights on Singapore as a base for temporary work. We discussed this with the specialists and agreed that we would get periodic ultrasounds along the way. I did some research on potential delivery locations and found a gynecologist in Penang, Malaysia, who shared a birth philosophy that I was aligned with and who agreed to deliver Ayla for us. I owe my deepest, most sincere gratitude to Dr. Narinder Shadan for his support along the way. His responses were prompt, his manner gentle and sincere as well as professional, and his patronage gave me the confidence to carry forward.

We had a magic season – our trip through Indonesia was filled with dances and festivals, celebrations and local hospitality. It was easy to let my worries get lost in the fullness of our lives, and I embraced that. It was easier for me to put the pregnancy out of mind when results of the ultrasounds along the way confused us with a myriad of different results, all worse than the last.

Lombok and the northwestern Gili group provided a significant change to our plans. Through some close sailing friends I was introduced to Julia, a gynecologist-on-holiday who sat down for a consultation with me – it was a very fortunate introduction. We discussed Ayla’s condition and the risks we were taking of a delivery so far from home. She offered to join me during my next ultrasound appointment, as she would be traveling through Lombok and close to the hospital I would be visiting. On the evening, she was there in advance of us – “us” included John, Braca and I and our French friends Marie & Michel and their two children Nali & Niobe, 2 and 4. We walked in like a fortified battalion of misfit tourists. The doctor I consulted with was using old equipment and was under trained, and so Julia stepped in and ran the ultrasound for him. The conclusion was that I needed more sophisticated equipment to get the results we were looking for, and so we were referred to a specialist clinic across town. Off I went trailed by my eight-strong support team.

The results of the second test indicated that Ayla was loosing weight. She was in the 10th percentile and with it our focus shifted to low birth weight concerns. We decided that we had too much at risk to deliver Ayla overseas and made the decision to return to New Zealand for her birth.

But first, we had to get there. We had a floating home half way between points and needed to find a safe place to leave her. We ran through a few, mostly impractical, ideas before settling on a plan. My proposed solution – ludicrous on reflection – was to sail from Bali to Borneo, sail upriver and trek wild orangutan, then help deliver Atea o Singapore. Once there, I’d hop on a plane with a belly fit to bust and a two-year old, leaving John to job hunt in Singapore while I flew to NZ to deliver a baby and return once we’d received clearance. After persuading John to this plan, I realized that leaving him to his bachelorhood while I roamed Auckland knocked up and homeless was, while a wildly creative plan, definitely not a sound one. Eventually we agreed that I could keep the orangutan if I acceded Singapore. We would put the search for a contract in Singapore on the back burner and take it one step at a time. John would return with me to New Zealand to join in the birth of his daughter. If we could return to Atea soon after delivery we would address work options then. If we needed to stay in New Zealand at the request of our doctors we would be in a position to do so.

Having agreed on plan, we then needed to get both ourselves and our boat over 1000 miles to Danga Bay Marina in Malaysia, with 4 weeks remaining before the flight cut off. Women are denied access to airspace a month prior to their due date, which left us with a lot of distance and little time to get Atea secured before we had to fly.

While our pace was quick, we did schedule in a detour up the Kumai River in Borneo to visit wild orangutan in their natural habitat. With few places around the world that offered such a unique experience I was determined to get there (see video on our blog: X). John always teases me that when I am given option A and option B to choose between, I always choose A and B. We were also able to celebrate our son’s second birthday with our fellow cruising mates before signing off on the season. We then followed a quick pace to get Atea to our designated marina and did so with three days to spare. We madly packed bags and boat not knowing how long our departure was for. I expected a quick return and packed accordingly, however prepared the boat for an extended absence to ensure she would be keep well should be gone longer than anticipated. It was a mad few days in sweltering heat getting things ready for our departure. No feet up on soft cushions for the abdominally-enlarged. We worked steady and hard together, with a day to spare for a sight-seeing tour of Singapore before departure. All would have rolled without comment had the airline staff not stopped me at check-in, two short hours before departure, and demanded that I get a medical certificate confirming me fit to fly. Talk about sending a woman into early contractions! We raced out of the terminal to get a stamp of approval from an airline-approved doctor. Fortunately, the checkup was a blitz – I was asked my age and weight, told to flash him my ankle for visual inspection and waived out the door. It was the quickest, most expensive consultation in my life, and I thanked him for it. We were cleared for travel. Holding my belly, we sprinted off to departure count down and boarded our flight just in the knick of time.

The day after our return I had appointments with the specialists to discuss Ayla’s case. It was quickly determined that Ayla had slipped from the 10th percentile to the 3rd and the suggestion was made for an immediate C-section. I was totally unprepared for that recommendation. We had only just arrived, we were sleeping in a friend’s basement and had made no preparations to receive an infant.

We agreed on a contingency plan and monitored Ayla’s weight, however it was quickly evident that she was continuing to struggle and so on my subsequent assessment I was asked to immediately check in for an induction. A long, drawn out two days later, I held my beautiful baby in my arms.

One look at Ayla and I fell absolutely head-over-heals in love. Now, this is the amazing thing about nature: I had spent six months protecting myself and all the barriers crumbled the minute she was placed in my arms. I looked down at the most beautiful face I’d ever seen; blue eyes that reflected my father, graceful fingers that reflected my mother. Johns smile. My nose. I felt so proud of her for the miracle she made happen – she had survived on a single-vein umbilical chord with half the blood supply of a standard birth and she had made it.

It was the right decision that we had returned to New Zealand. We were wrapped up in a medical system that made things happen. As an American it was amazing to be in socialized care within a country with such excellent medical support. Things just happened without draining me of all my sweat, tears and dollars. Within days of Ayla’s birth, she had a full set of detailed full-bodied x-rays, a brain scan, a heart scan, bloods drawn and genetic testing – all reviewed by the top pediatric specialists in the country. I was visited by a Psychologist who offered free support counseling should I need it. Ayla’s pediatric doctor made several visits to check in. After all the emotional pressure of this pregnancy, it was amazing to fly home and fall into the arms of such an efficient medical system.

As always, it is the unknown that is the scariest. I remember a poignant moment when the psychologist called in. After a brief summary, I said how deeply I had fallen in love with my daughter on our first day together. She looked at me with very serious eyes, nodded, and asked, “and how are you feeling about her today?” She was looking for all the things unsaid. But there was nothing other than this floating feeling of elation. We’d made it. Ayla hadn’t been whisked off to an operating theatre or intensive care in her first moments. None of the disasters that we’d feared for her had presented. She had been placed in my arms on delivery and stayed with me every moment since.

And here we are, a few weeks shy of her first birthday. Back onboard Atea in the town we’d intended as her birthplace. I had sent Dr. Narinder an update when Ayla was born and said we’d touch base if we made it to Penang. On arriving, I followed up on that promise and received a reply filled with his typical warmth and enthusiasm. Two days following he came down and joined us at a pub near the marina and we met in person for the first time. He was introduced to the baby we’d hoped he would deliver and we were able to thank him for the support he gave us along the way. Had he not been there, we would have made very different decisions in regard to our movements last year.

While our pregnancy had been a difficult one, no day since her arrival has been. We’d spent six months preparing for the worst and every day since celebrating her progress. During that meeting a comment Dr. Narinder made hit home in a way I had never registered similar comments before. In talking about Ayla, he said what a miracle she was. When I acknowledged him he stopped, held my gaze and repeated, “No. She really is a miracle.” And for the first time I understood just how very, very lucky we were.

Police: “Excuse me ma’am, you are in violation of Australian border security on a visa infringement. Are you aware of this?”My pulse quickened: “What?”

Police: “Headquarters in Canberra have informed me that you have entered the country without a valid permit and are currently being investigated for violation of boarder security. Are you Kia Koropp and can you confirm that this your passport?”

You find it hard to think, let alone speak, in moments like these and so one word answered was all I could manage. “Yes. Yes.”

Police: “Is this an American passport?”

Feebly, “Yes.”

Police: “Do you have a visa to enter Australia or an Australian territory in this passport?”

At this, I started to sweat. “No…?”

Police: Have you ever been questioned about a violation of border security in the past?

Memory and eyes go blank. “What?! Definitely NOT.”

That’s where you wanna go to get away from it all, Cocomo Bodies in the sand Tropical drink melting in the hand We’ll be falling in love to the rhythm of the steel drum band Down in Cocomo…

We’ll put out to sea and we’ll perfect our chemistry By and by we’ll defy a little bit of gravity Afternoon delight, cocktails and moonlit nights, That dreamy look in your eye, give me a tropical contact high Way down in Cocomo…

If you are a close mate or family member, interpret as you wish. You know me well… does this sound like a scenario I could POSSIBLY get myself into?

DAY 1: 20.8.2016 00:20 S 1°10.311 E 98°19.685

Winds: 10-15 knots from 150° averaging 3 knots SOG

DAY 2: 21.8.16 21:56 S 2°44.3 078 E 98°36.373

Winds: 5-10 knots from 05° averaging 4 knots SOG

DAY 3: 8.22.16 22:07 S 4°21.312 E 98°47.491

Winds: 3 knots; TRIP: 259 DTD: 489

DAY 4: 23.8.16 12:00 S 5°11.13 E 98°45.4

Winds: 3 knots; TRIP 438: DTD: 310

DAY 5: 24.8.16 12:00 S 6°50.1 E 98°30.9

Winds: SE17; TRIP:569 DTD: 179

91 miles in 24 hours, average 3.8 knots

Day 6: 25.8.16 23:30 S 10°10.5 E 97°45.3

Winds: 20-30 knots at 60-90° TRIP: 619 DTD: 126

DAY 8: 27.8.16 03:20 S 11°159.8 E 96°47.0

Winds: averaging 20 knots at 30-40°

TRIP: 460.9 DTD: 10.5

DAY 9: 28.8.16 03:20 S 12°03.2 E 96°51.6

Winds: averaging 20 knots at 180° TRIP: 773 DTD: 2

9:30AM:

11:00AM:

That’s where you wanna go to get away from it all, Cocomo
Bodies in the sand
Tropical drink melting in the hand
We’ll be falling in love to the rhythm of the steel drum band
Down in Cocomo…

We’ll put out to sea and we’ll perfect our chemistry
By and by we’ll defy a little bit of gravity
Afternoon delight, cocktails and moonlit nights,
That dreamy look in your eye, give me a tropical contact high
Way down in Cocomo…