gran all piled together onto the machine! In town, skinny children washed in a filthy stream, while further up-stream a mother washed her family’s well-worn clothes; further along, a man used the stream as a toilet. We were not on a package holiday, shielded from the real life by a modern hotel. We witnessed how the locals really lived.
The two weeks in Bali were spent re-stocking (food, fuel, and water), hand-washing clothes, boat maintenance, officialdom (customs, immigration, police, marine officials including open baksheesh/bribery), making new friends, and some sightseeing. Folks at home imagined us sitting on the aft deck watching sunsets with our G&T (vodka for me still). This did happen on occasion, but most of our time was spent sourcing supplies, making repairs, and organising both Mariah and ourselves for the next leg. There was no car to hop into, just our own propulsion and the odd taxi. Sightseeing consisted of fighting off tactile locals who wanted to sell us their fake wares; this daily battle came to tarnish the beautiful mountains, lush green paddy fields, and clean air.
With many new friends and promises of a reunite in Thailand, we finally packed our last fresh items on board and hauled anchor.
At this time, computers didn’t figure hugely in our day-to-day travelling, I tapped away on our old laptop to keep a diary, but that was all. Little did I know that soon I would have a whole wealth of heart-stopping information I would want to record.
7
Restoring my faith in the world
Grooming each morning to make myself appropriately respectful for the office used to be a way of life. In my sailing days, my well-worn tweezers had become as effective as chopsticks. But it didn’t really matter, my eyebrow shape morphed monthly. September I looked surprised, October continually perplexed. My fashion became fifteen-year-old Levi’s that were holding up quite well. My style was chameleonic after a DIY attack at the long, brown mop atop my head. The make-up I owned, at its third birthday, had congealed into a honey-like substance. I still used a dab of mascara, once every year or two. The bizarre thing was, I enjoyed this state of being. My friends who still did battle in the ‘real’ world thought I was quite odd, and they were probably right. But, I had found the liberty I craved. No longer did I have to speak the corporate speak and dress correctly. Those blinkers I had been wearing all my life were gone. My senses craved more and were not let down by the feast that was about to be bestowed upon them.
It was the little things that meant more, like good food, wine, and a good time with lots of laughs. Of course, I had these things before, but life on board was different. The laughing was hearty, the enjoyment complete; for the first time ever I was being me and not dressing-up myself or personality to fit in. Being free to go where the wind took me had restored my faith in the world.
Before freeing myself from land life, I had started to think that maybe I was actually living in hell. Not too long ago, I had walked through Hades, holding hands with someone who was to leave the torture, to go into a better world – not hell and not earth. This part of my life would haunt me for some years. Later in my watery world, as I learned to relax during the lonely night-time watches, the acute stab of loss would, again, twist in my gut.
As well as all the personal changes, natural changes, like weather, were a major factor in our agenda. There were the “trades” (the trade winds) that dictated all of our departures, the length of time at sea, and the quality of journey. As we headed north towards the equator, squalls became a main event. A thick, black cigar shaped cloud would spiral towards us, like an evil hand ready to give us a shove. Within the wink of an eye, a severe wind would blast down from the tumultuous cloud and slam down on us hard. Thick curtains of rain would surround us and make any sort of
The two weeks in Bali were spent re-stocking (food, fuel, and water), hand-washing clothes, boat maintenance, officialdom (customs, immigration, police, marine officials including open baksheesh/bribery), making new friends, and some sightseeing. Folks at home imagined us sitting on the aft deck watching sunsets with our G&T (vodka for me still). This did happen on occasion, but most of our time was spent sourcing supplies, making repairs, and organising both Mariah and ourselves for the next leg. There was no car to hop into, just our own propulsion and the odd taxi. Sightseeing consisted of fighting off tactile locals who wanted to sell us their fake wares; this daily battle came to tarnish the beautiful mountains, lush green paddy fields, and clean air.
With many new friends and promises of a reunite in Thailand, we finally packed our last fresh items on board and hauled anchor.
At this time, computers didn’t figure hugely in our day-to-day travelling, I tapped away on our old laptop to keep a diary, but that was all. Little did I know that soon I would have a whole wealth of heart-stopping information I would want to record.
7
Restoring my faith in the world
Grooming each morning to make myself appropriately respectful for the office used to be a way of life. In my sailing days, my well-worn tweezers had become as effective as chopsticks. But it didn’t really matter, my eyebrow shape morphed monthly. September I looked surprised, October continually perplexed. My fashion became fifteen-year-old Levi’s that were holding up quite well. My style was chameleonic after a DIY attack at the long, brown mop atop my head. The make-up I owned, at its third birthday, had congealed into a honey-like substance. I still used a dab of mascara, once every year or two. The bizarre thing was, I enjoyed this state of being. My friends who still did battle in the ‘real’ world thought I was quite odd, and they were probably right. But, I had found the liberty I craved. No longer did I have to speak the corporate speak and dress correctly. Those blinkers I had been wearing all my life were gone. My senses craved more and were not let down by the feast that was about to be bestowed upon them.
It was the little things that meant more, like good food, wine, and a good time with lots of laughs. Of course, I had these things before, but life on board was different. The laughing was hearty, the enjoyment complete; for the first time ever I was being me and not dressing-up myself or personality to fit in. Being free to go where the wind took me had restored my faith in the world.
Before freeing myself from land life, I had started to think that maybe I was actually living in hell. Not too long ago, I had walked through Hades, holding hands with someone who was to leave the torture, to go into a better world – not hell and not earth. This part of my life would haunt me for some years. Later in my watery world, as I learned to relax during the lonely night-time watches, the acute stab of loss would, again, twist in my gut.
As well as all the personal changes, natural changes, like weather, were a major factor in our agenda. There were the “trades” (the trade winds) that dictated all of our departures, the length of time at sea, and the quality of journey. As we headed north towards the equator, squalls became a main event. A thick, black cigar shaped cloud would spiral towards us, like an evil hand ready to give us a shove. Within the wink of an eye, a severe wind would blast down from the tumultuous cloud and slam down on us hard. Thick curtains of rain would surround us and make any sort of
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