Of Foreign Build by Jackie Parry

dodged charter, local, and fishing boats with nothing more than two oars, a torch, and plywood. People pointed while we wobbled up and down in huge wakes perched on our small timber dinghy (we had managed to swap our fibreglass dinghy for a lovely timber sailing-dinghy). David and Petrea, our friends on board Dolphin Breeze (an Australian couple whom we had met at Ashmore Reef), took pity on us and lent us their spare outboard with a warning of its temperament. Out of practice and with an amused Balinese audience, Noel started up the motor and we slammed, bumped, wriggled, and giggled out of the body of dinghies tied at the jetty. The small marina was chock full of other international sailors. But the borrowed motor soon showed its dislike for water and work. Inspired to own an outboard of our own and a more civilised way of getting ashore, we toured Bali for the best deal. Spending a whole day negotiating, drinking tea, and telling stories to the only place on the island that sold the motor we wanted, we finally became the proud owners of a little two horse power outboard.
    Typhoid fever claimed two fellow cruisers as hosts. The couple had spent over eight hundred Australian dollars on jabs before leaving Australia, whereas we had injected no more than coffee. Our guardian angel must have been on his or her toes. Initially, I had envied Petrea and David. Dolphin Breeze was a beautiful fifty-foot sailing boat, and they were paid to take it around the world, the owner joining them at certain locations. An amazing job, I thought. However, when Petrea became ill, she cried, ‘I just want to go home.’ I realised then that Noel and I were at home; Mariah II was our home wherever we were. Suddenly, their attractive career had lost its sheen for me.
    Benoa’s expensive marina was held together with string. The added attraction of rats and festering heat along the packed jetties left us dumbfounded as to why sailboats were vying for a space within the marina. On anchor, the fun didn’t stop.
    THUD , ‘What on earth was that?’ Noel called out.
    I was already half-way out of the boat, ‘oh dear, a ship has just drifted into us.’
    This made Noel spring-up from our bed.
    ‘It’s okay,’ I continued, ‘no harm done, it sounded worse than it was.’
    In the dead of a peaceful night, a rather large, rusty tanker drifted into Mariah . The Balinese vessel had swung too close and had given us a noisy nudge. Apart from the fact it sounded like they were coming through our hull, we suffered no damage and like ants spotting a yummy snack, the crew frantically scurried into clearer water.
    The next day, armed with cans of Cola and small toy koalas as a thank you gesture for moving away from us straight away, we puttered up to the long, elderly tanker.
    ‘Hello, hellooooo,’ we called out as we tried to hold on to the rusting ship. As we approached, the crew became nervous and avoided eye contact; their covert scurrying seemed a little odd. Eventually, a serious looking man leaned over the corroding decks towards us, clearly thinking we had come to complain. His white eyes pierced out from his sun-baked skin and thick, dark hair.
    ‘Hello, we’ve bought you some gifts,’ we unholstered big smiles. ‘Thanks so much for moving so quickly last night, we really appreciated it.’
    Our friendly behaviour channelled around the battle-scarred boat, and the crew started to appear. Pure delight smothered their lined faces and toothless grins, and they all came out of hiding when we lifted aloft our small gifts. Their wide, bright smiles were priceless. Cola, it seemed, was a useful currency.
    So much had happened in such a short time. New friends, cultures, and experiences were a daily event. All my life, blinkered in an office, I had never known this alternative world existed. I had broken away from the shackled drudgery of the norm. My second life had only just begun at twenty-seven. After a heart-breaking time in England, I began to