see some truth in the saying, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ Later though, I would be surprised how those hard times in the UK would come back and devastate me all over again.
The watery way of life soon revealed itself as being extremely social. I was intrigued about why other people were sailing and not going to ‘work.’ ‘Work’ is where I previously believed everyone belonged.
Some people were following a dream, others were escaping or just didn’t know what else to do. We were all the same in the fact that we had taken a leap of faith and given up the home, car, and mortgage – the normal way of life and the regimented nine-to-five. In fact, I came to realise that making this change was a brave step, not a cop-out. My judgements and beliefs were starting to change. Landlubbers talked about breaking free from society, but when it actually comes to the crunch, it isn’t that simple. Friends at home said, ‘You are so lucky.’ I agreed that we were lucky to have our health and wits (mostly) about us. But we had made this decision. We had got up off our backsides and made this happen for us – it wasn’t a gift. And there were certainly compromises that came hand-in-hand with this life. No running hot water, constant shifts at sea, distance between friends and family, and sometimes terrifying moments where death seemed inevitable or even wished for. We were on a constant budget, because there was no income. We watched every single penny.
Ageism was something that raised its ugly head once or twice when Noel and I had met landlubbers in a pub.
‘You obviously married Noel for his money,’ someone once said to me. It didn’t help that in my late twenties I had looked about eighteen, but I was conscious of what other people thought. Noel is sixteen years older than me. I was, therefore, surprised that ageism didn’t exist in sailing folk. We would all get together with a vast range of cultures and ages, and there was never a barrier between us; we were kindred spirits with a desire for freedom and adventure. It was like a breath of fresh air.
In Bali, the days raced by with frequent trips into town. Just getting ashore was a project in itself. It was too far to return if we had forgotten an item.
Each time we went ashore at Benoa harbour we’d first check that we had all our necessary items: shoes, bag, money, laundry, water containers, shopping list, sun-cream, passport, ad infinitum. We’d balance all our gear and ourselves in the dinghy and find a space to sit. Next we’d play dodgems with all the other vessels (no ‘rules of the road’ exist in Bali). It was necessary to frantically bail-out the dinghy and keep a three-hundred-and-sixty degree look-out while holding aloft all possessions to keep them dry. When we reached the marina we’d tie up cursing those who tied their painter too short! Then to complete the trip ashore we’d traverse umpteen dinghies of varying stability to reach land.
There was never a dull moment.
‘Oh crap, I’ve forgotten my sandals.’ We had almost reached the jetty.
‘What do you want to do?’ Noel asked, clearly not happy about returning to the boat.
‘Oh, sod it,’ I grinned, ‘I’ll buy some sandals in town.’ I went into town shoeless and purchased a pair of cheap sandals. My feet were embarrassingly filthy by the time we reached the shops. Bare feet were not considered unusual in Indonesia, but with our western world of dressing, I felt partly naked without shoes.
Road travel in Bali was yet another challenge; in fact, it was a real battle of nerves. Viewing the traffic and behaviour, their road transport rules must read:
1. Don’t stop for anything .
2. Do not remove your hand from the horn – ever .
3. Precariously balance as many family members as possible on one scooter to terrify all the tourists.
Scooters were the locals’ choice for transport, and they thought nothing of loading up the entire family. Mum, Dad, three kids, and
The watery way of life soon revealed itself as being extremely social. I was intrigued about why other people were sailing and not going to ‘work.’ ‘Work’ is where I previously believed everyone belonged.
Some people were following a dream, others were escaping or just didn’t know what else to do. We were all the same in the fact that we had taken a leap of faith and given up the home, car, and mortgage – the normal way of life and the regimented nine-to-five. In fact, I came to realise that making this change was a brave step, not a cop-out. My judgements and beliefs were starting to change. Landlubbers talked about breaking free from society, but when it actually comes to the crunch, it isn’t that simple. Friends at home said, ‘You are so lucky.’ I agreed that we were lucky to have our health and wits (mostly) about us. But we had made this decision. We had got up off our backsides and made this happen for us – it wasn’t a gift. And there were certainly compromises that came hand-in-hand with this life. No running hot water, constant shifts at sea, distance between friends and family, and sometimes terrifying moments where death seemed inevitable or even wished for. We were on a constant budget, because there was no income. We watched every single penny.
Ageism was something that raised its ugly head once or twice when Noel and I had met landlubbers in a pub.
‘You obviously married Noel for his money,’ someone once said to me. It didn’t help that in my late twenties I had looked about eighteen, but I was conscious of what other people thought. Noel is sixteen years older than me. I was, therefore, surprised that ageism didn’t exist in sailing folk. We would all get together with a vast range of cultures and ages, and there was never a barrier between us; we were kindred spirits with a desire for freedom and adventure. It was like a breath of fresh air.
In Bali, the days raced by with frequent trips into town. Just getting ashore was a project in itself. It was too far to return if we had forgotten an item.
Each time we went ashore at Benoa harbour we’d first check that we had all our necessary items: shoes, bag, money, laundry, water containers, shopping list, sun-cream, passport, ad infinitum. We’d balance all our gear and ourselves in the dinghy and find a space to sit. Next we’d play dodgems with all the other vessels (no ‘rules of the road’ exist in Bali). It was necessary to frantically bail-out the dinghy and keep a three-hundred-and-sixty degree look-out while holding aloft all possessions to keep them dry. When we reached the marina we’d tie up cursing those who tied their painter too short! Then to complete the trip ashore we’d traverse umpteen dinghies of varying stability to reach land.
There was never a dull moment.
‘Oh crap, I’ve forgotten my sandals.’ We had almost reached the jetty.
‘What do you want to do?’ Noel asked, clearly not happy about returning to the boat.
‘Oh, sod it,’ I grinned, ‘I’ll buy some sandals in town.’ I went into town shoeless and purchased a pair of cheap sandals. My feet were embarrassingly filthy by the time we reached the shops. Bare feet were not considered unusual in Indonesia, but with our western world of dressing, I felt partly naked without shoes.
Road travel in Bali was yet another challenge; in fact, it was a real battle of nerves. Viewing the traffic and behaviour, their road transport rules must read:
1. Don’t stop for anything .
2. Do not remove your hand from the horn – ever .
3. Precariously balance as many family members as possible on one scooter to terrify all the tourists.
Scooters were the locals’ choice for transport, and they thought nothing of loading up the entire family. Mum, Dad, three kids, and
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