Maiden Voyage (31 page)

We anchored off a Japanese pearl farm, the first civilization we had seen in over two weeks. Olivier kicked me off
Akka
in order to arrange my gifts. Taking a freshwater sunshower in
Varuna's
cockpit, I impatiently counted the seconds until I was allowed back on board.
Akka
was spic-and-span, and on her table was a wrapped present with twenty shells surrounding it. Oliver had made a leather folder for carrying my papers and a necklace of pre-Columbian stones.

As testament to an incredible demonstration of willpower, I also had presents that I had brought back from New York to Tahiti. There was a box of candy and some money toward a good restaurant meal from my father. Fritz gave me a silver cat pendant wrapped up in an empty can of 9 Lives cat food and a letter. He wrote: “You know that writing is not my specialty, but this is a historic year. You are 20. I am 40. And my mother is 80. So now, go have a nice party with your cat. Fritz.” He meant Dinghy, of course, and I thought about all the other changes that had taken place since I'd last seen my family.

The trip to Thursday Island led through a windless Albany Channel
with a current pushing us along at 3 extra knots toward Cape York and the Torres Straits. Here, the Indian and Pacific oceans meet in a passage that is only about 100 miles wide at the most, and almost completely dammed up by reefs, sandbanks and islands. According to the tidal situation, currents up to 6 knots swirl and eddy through small channels. With tidal charts, we had calculated everything just right and used the currents to advantage.

Thursday Island is the administrative and commercial center of the Torres Straits group wedged between Australia and Papua New Guinea. It was a brief sabbatical from the trip, with time to provision and rest up before the voyage to Bali. But there was one last problem to resolve before heading out to sea.

Ever since Samoa, I had tried every different kind of lice shampoo on the market. No matter the strength, none solved the problem, and I was afraid that nothing would help unless I just shaved off all my hair. I had resorted to using the public showers late at night so that no one would smell the medicinal shampoos. Together with Olivier, who had also contacted the buggers in Tonga, before meeting me, we were sick and tired of this degradation, and willing to try anything. In a desperate moment we poured kerosene over our heads, and after our scalps began to burn, we rinsed with generous helpings of Palmolive dishwashing liquid. The clumps of hair that fell out of my head and the subsequent sores were more than worth the price of permanent liberation.

On October 20, we transferred Tarzoon back to
Varuna
, and Mimine stayed to make the trip aboard
Akka
. As we sailed away from the Torres Straits, Booby Light flashed the end of our Australian odyssey, and I regretfully looked back to the land Down Under that we hadn't had the time to explore properly. Ahead was the Arafura Sea, a journey of 1,800 miles across an ocean reputed to be windless and mercilessly hot at this time of the year. As a howling wind pushed us quickly into the Gulf of Carpenteria and
Varuna
slowly began to pull ahead of
Akka
, my thoughts drifted to Olivier and what might be in store for us in Bali.

•   •   •

During the following days, the easterly winds dwindled and slowly veered to the north and northwest, spiraling counterclockwise. I changed the sails accordingly until we began to beat. A depression had formed off Darwin, to the west, and was dishing up a little trouble, but nothing serious. On October 22, the weather conditions had become positively placid, with either a light westerly
breeze or none. My endless scanning of the horizon paid off when the yellowish triangle of
Akka's
sail appeared a few miles astern, and I took down the jib and waited for her to catch up.

Olivier was below, and I motored my way over the calm water, turned off the engine and blasted my horn 15 feet away from his cockpit. He popped out on deck in an instant and, foolishly grinning at each other like Cheshire cats, we waved, happy with the surprise.

“Why don't you come pick me up,” he said. “I can leave
Akka
on her own for a couple of hours.”

“What if
Akka
starts going faster, or if a squall comes,” I protested, immediately apprehensive of the idea.

“Look,” he answered in his always confident manner,
“Varuna
doesn't even have a genoa up and she is already going faster than
Akka
. It'll be all right.”

“OK. Well, let me get ready and I'll be over,” I doused the jib to keep
Varuna
from heeling and turned the engine back on. Olivier, up ahead, was already prepared, standing at the lifelines with one hand keeping balance against a shroud.
Varuna's
bow pulled up to
Akka
and the waves gently rocked her nearer to the other boat. Timing his move, Olivier gave me directions as I balked at our proximity while struggling to keep Tarzoon from jumping over to the meowing Mimine. Just as Olivier leapt, a little gray ball whizzed across and Tarzoon scratched his way out of my arms and ran to nuzzle his foster mother.

Until sunset, we talked, gave each other bucket baths and played with
Varuna's
sails to stay close to
Akka
. As the sun disappeared beneath the horizon we welcomed the cool night air and I brought Olivier back home. He put out his kerosene lanterns for me to see him during the night. But, as I slept, we lost sight of each other and at dawn the horizon was empty.

Two days later, on the evening of October 24, I pulled out my logbook and wrote:

“My position for the day was exactly the same as yesterday's. Last night at about 7 o'clock, I saw the lighthouse of the westernmost point of the Gulf of Carpenteria and couldn't pass it on port tack, so I tacked to starboard. During the night we totally regressed back to point A. Started all over again this morning and as soon as it gets dark enough to see the light, I'll know if we made any decent progress. I saw a yellow snake with brown diamonds along its spine swim past, and a turtle
.

“There are only 1,200 miles left until Bali. In five days we have only made 300 miles. This is hell. What else can I do besides take out another book and read. During the day, all I do is mop up perspiration and wilt. Night finds me exhausted from the heat. Please, dear God, don't make this too hard a trip and let us get to Bali safe and soon.”

Two hours later, I pulled out my logbook and wrote again:

“I saw the light and we were passing it just fine, so I was sitting below reading when I heard a, ‘Ho, Ho.' I ran outside and there was Olivier! Right next door and shining a light at us. He said that we were lucky that he woke up just then and looked around or else we would have crashed. Imagine that. “

During the rest of the pitch-black night, the wind dwindled practically to zero and we didn't have a hard time staying together, as forward progress waned to a drift over the heaven's reflections on the water. Morning dawned a mirror flat calm, not even a remnant swell. I motored over to
Akka
and Olivier jumped in the water with a line to attach the boats, while Mimine miscalculated her jump and ended up swimming over also.

Only 30 miles away, the Australian desert sweltered, bringing even the ocean up to a lukewarm temperature that only allowed a very temporary relief from the heat. We were stuck in a
pot au feu
and sweat dribbled all over whether we moved or not. A family of mahi mahi swam in
Varuna's
shadow, teasing us and cleverly avoiding baited hooks. Another turtle and snake and thousands of miniature jellyfish swam past, all just indicating that we were not able to even go as fast as they. On a constant shark alert, we dived into the tepid water every fifteen minutes to bring down our body temperatures a couple of degrees. I felt as if I were being fried alive.

For two days, Olivier and I made canned-tuna-and-tomato-paste pizzas and played every form of gin rummy we knew, wishing for all the ice cream we hadn't bought on Thursday Island. During the day, we fished the jellyfish out of the water with my bucket and took pictures with the macro lens. We spent the night sitting in
Varuna's
cockpit while Olivier pointed out all the constellations overhead, showing me which arm of the great Southern Cross pointed vaguely south and what place the stars I knew from my navigation had in other heavenly bodies.

On the second afternoon of these infernal days, an army-green Australian Coast Guard cutter sliced through the water in our direction. Instinctively, as the authorities drew closer, we both wondered if we were doing anything wrong. We stood in the cockpit, and with quivering noses Mimine and Tarzoon gazed up at the towering hulk.

“Hello! Where's your wind?” an Aussie coast guardsman greeted us from the bow.

“Hello,” I shouted back in response. “We have no idea, but would you mind asking your weather fax?”

“No problem, mates,” he called back, and popped below, coming back a minute later with the sad upshot: “Looks like you've got more of the same until tomorrow night.” We winced.

“Could you do with some ice cream?” the man called, surrounded by his cronies, who were all staring down at our little universe of two boats, gently rocking out in the middle of nowhere.

“Absolutely!” I yelled enthusiastically. “Thank you. As much as you can spare!”

“We're slowly baking to death out here,” added Olivier. “Thank you.” We continued to shout effusive thanksgivings as the pilot maneuvered his bow so that it came directly above
Varuna's
cockpit and the man launched a green garbage bag our way. Inside there was a block of ice and a half gallon of vanilla ice cream.

“Good luck!” called the Aussies. They revved their engines and pulled away. Like a pair of wild animals, we dived into the cabin, ripped off the cover and began gouging holes in the cold, creamy mixture.

Fortunately, the Coast Guard's weather facsimile was wrong, and that evening, a passing zephyr turned into a legitimate breeze and we got moving again. From then on for twenty days, we managed to stay within sight of each other.
Varuna
sailed much faster than
Akka
in those conditions, and to coordinate our speeds, I kept a reef in the main and used the working jib instead of the genoa to stay alongside
Akka
, who sported her full suit of light-wind sails.

With the heat and meager progress, averaging 50 miles a day, our spirits took a severe beating and lethargy overcame every urge for action. The sight of an enormous manta ray making a leap into the air, the infernal racket of sails slapping against the rattling shrouds, the renewed sputtering of my engine and the loss of water through a leaking jerry can all became just another part of the routine.

Every night Olivier hung out his red and green kerosene lanterns,
and I replied with my small white kerosene light. The compensations of having human contact overrode the disadvantage of fatigue from keeping constant vigils, and as we passed the outermost islands of Indonesia, Timor, Roti and Pulau Sawu islands, I scooped up a perfect nautilus shell floating on the water.

Passing the last dent of Australia finally brought us to the doorstep of the Indian Ocean, and we readjusted our lifestyles as the wind picked up from the west, the direction in which we were still headed. Olivier had predicted this. He had an uncanny instinct for reading the weather through cloud formations and ocean characteristics, and I was learning from his knowledge of meteorology. The stringy cirrus clouds racing from the west replacing the puffy cumulus of the day before and the growing swell from the west had foretold the counterclockwise shift.

As
Varuna
began to beat, I reassumed my favorite position standing at the spray hood, and Tarzoon, unaccustomed to the heeling, poised himself to jump up and join me. I heard the familiar scritch of his nails on the fabric, looked around to cuddle my friend and didn't see him. Alarmed, I scanned the empty cockpit. Tarzoon had gone overboard! Looking back to the wake behind
Varuna
, I caught sight of his little head, a picture of terror bobbing up and down in the waves. Screaming with a burst of adrenaline, I leapt to the Monitor, disengaged it, rounded up into the wind and backwinded the sails. Trying to keep my eyes on him, I pushed the tiller over so that
Varuna
would back down on the spot. Tarzoon swam frantically toward the boat and as we drifted closer, I leaned over and scooped him up.

After Tarzoon fell overboard, I realized that I'd probably have a mental breakdown if anything ever happened to him. Torturing myself with the thought that one day, alone at sea, he could very well be lost, I picked up his soaking body and hugged him close, swearing that I would always do my best to protect him.

Like turtles,
Varuna
and
Akka
slowly slammed past Sumba, Sum-bawa, Lombok and Nusa Besar islands, and Bali finally became more of a reality. On November 16, after twenty-seven days,
Varuna's
longest time at sea, we hugged the coast of Nusa Besar with only a channel separating us from Bali's Benoa Harbor. The full moon illuminated white cliffs as the swish of the ocean was broken by the waves thundering against the volcanic walls after their unhindered passage up from southern oceans.
Varuna
and I had crossed the Arafura and Timor seas, and soon we would be acquainting ourselves with our third ocean.

A large fringing reef was a ruff almost encircling the extremities of Benoa Harbor's buoyed entrance channel, and I kept a leery eye on the crashing white water the next morning, as I followed
Akka
through the strong current and messy chop. Halfway through, the engine petered out once again and I found myself in a state of chaos. The main halyard was in total disarray, tangled with all the other paraphernalia—cups, harbor charts, binoculars—and my straw sun-hat kept falling off my head.