tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40471284479023920302023-11-16T01:20:55.831+10:00Voyages of BanyandahWe go where there are no rules, except Nature’s - Survive. No marked lanes. No stop lights. Earth and her creatures provide wonder and knowledge, adventure and entertainment. They are the platform we wander as if through the Garden of Eden; they reveal mysteries beyond wisdom, bring knowledge by simply observing life.Capt'n Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527779009841985801noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047128447902392030.post-60646197722878956182009-12-29T11:50:00.004+10:002009-12-29T13:39:16.927+10:00TO THE NAVAL OF THE WORLD"You're on your way where? To Easter Island! Wow, that'll be great!" My friend's voice, sounding awed and impressed, came clearly over the Ham radio in Banyandah’s aft cabin. "But isn't this the wrong time of year?" Scepticism had crept into his voice. "You do know it's winter down there."<br />
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Of course I knew - hadn't I sat for hours with those dog-eared weather charts before me? Hadn't I tracked over and over again July's wind patterns for the deep South Pacific. My friend had voiced his worry over storms, but it wasn't storms that were shown in the ocean before Easter Island, it was frustrating calms and winds from around the clock.<br />
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The crash and bang of drooping sails now confirmed what those charts had indicated. Again we were becalmed. What a slow trip. Our fourth straight night without wind and we're bobbing about as though a toy boat at bath time with southern storms sending up a fury of swell. Already twenty-four days have past and Banyandah has managed a mere 1,800 miles - a jellyfish could go faster! A measly 100 miles separates us from the island of statues - maybe I'll motor.<br />
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LATER:<br />
We did motor, just for a titch, galvanised into action by sighting a strange, round object bobbing on the sea a short distance from our ship. Through binoculars it became a glass fishing float like those seen in fish restaurants; a big one, translucent green with woven netting around it. I couldn’t let a goody like that go floating past. No sir. Banyandah’s straight-six fired up, and with a call below, one, two, three, both boys and their mom tumbled up to gawk about till sighting the float. Then they shared my excitement. Down came the headsail; it hadn't been doing any work anyways. And in came the trolling line that had hung straight down into the abyss. Then with a push of the gear lever and pull of throttle, we went rapidly in pursuit.<br />
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Drifting in minutes later, both boys were outside the railing dangling outstretched arms, each hoping to be the lucky one to reach the green ball first. Jerome got the prize. He swung out a foot, trapped it then swooped down a hand, grabbing the netting. Zap! One treasure plucked from the sea. <br />
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Judging by the enormously long gooseneck barnacles, it had been wandering the world for some time. One side must have been a titch heavier than the other because that half was loaded with grand-daddy goosenecks, while the other was perfectly clean. Pencil thick rubbery necks, wrinkled like elephant’s trunks, those goosenecks had two white claspers at their ends.<br />
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Other critters were living on that mini-world too; a whole community of crabs. About a dozen little fellas and three big brutes with heavy armoured shells and stubby muscular arms dotted with hairs in neat rows. So small, all would have lain in a boy's hands.<br />
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Jason, the sympathetic one, grabbed a plastic bucket, dipped it full of sea water then began easing those freeloaders into the bucket. He coaxed one then another out the small gaps between glass and net. And while we watched, Jude and I realized just how shattering a blow this was to that microcosm. I mean, prior to our arrival that bunch of sea buddies had been merrily floating about the world aboard their own tiny adventure machine. The barnacles probably blabbed back and forth, made baby barnacles and watched it grow light and dark. The crabs on the other hand had the run of the ship. In calm weather they might have gone topside for a bit of sun baking or feed off the tasty algae growing on their tiny planet. They may have even dared short swims out to tasty looking morsels drifting past. And if any sea monsters came up out the blue, more than likely they just shrank under the protection of the netting. What a perfect life!<br />
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Then we came along - and swoosh, their whole world went into a spin. Animals hardly ever protest, so we humans think they don't care, or don't feel, or we think they don't think. But maybe they do....<br />
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After Jason had collected all the crabs, without thought he dumped the bucket of water and crabs back into the sea. They were very much alive to be sure, but my God, what a shock. To be just plopped into such a massive world with their only sanctuary, our ship, speeding away must have caused a few crabs’ hearts to flutter. Can you imagine? Maybe you've never swum in the middle of the biggest ocean? I have with goggles, and it seems to go on forever, a light blue world without end - with absolutely no place to hide. The tiniest particle stands out like a roadside billboard flashing, "Okay fishes! Here I am! Dinner time!"<br />
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Splashed from bucket to boundless sea which way would they go? Surely not down. And what if a hungry fish should happen by? Gulp! There'd be no place to run. We never meant to be cruel. We just wanted the ball. And they would have died on our deck if we hadn't thrown them back. Sometimes doing what seems right is wrong.<br />
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THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME:<br />
Start at the Galapagos, cross the equator, turn south, travel 25 days and nights, see not one soul, just sea and sky, catch a few fish, fight a storm and afterwards drift a bit until at last an increasing wind brings a black silhouette in the waking hours of a brand new day. Welcome to the navel of the world.<br />
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</div>At first light see huge combers pounding against a dark red, vertical headland latticed into blocks that look like giant bricks. Atop it see a smooth conical slope of yellow and green crowned by a topknot of eucalyptus. This is Poike, the last stronghold of the Long Ears. Welcome to Easter Island - Bienvendidos a la Isla de Pascua - Ia orana Rapa Nui.<br />
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On the horizon, a storm is coming, so race the gathering wind in behind this mysterious land seen by so few. Hang on tight past Poike as blasts roll down this treeless land, careening our ship atop a torrent of white foam and spray. The sheer cliff tumbles into a crescent of crumbling rock, the last remains of another long dead volcano. Standing out clear in the wind blown bright morning light, this one is Rano Raraku, birthplace of the moai. <br />
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The wind now comes in vicious jabs, so run close alongside big southern ocean combers rumbling high up the rock shore. And fly past other worn volcanic cones; past a strange open land tilted gently towards the sea so all can be seen; past a collage of pleasing earth colours, past browns and reds, strange heat fused violets, past pastures peppered with small lumps of black rock that God Himself must have sprinkled down from the heavens. Past many more silent iconic moai standing guard over Rapa Nui. <br />
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The island's bold southern headland appears ahead across a flecked white, wind swept sea; it’s another dormant volcano. Then figures on horseback appear, a running dog alongside. The land dips, the sea breaks less strongly and a bottom of turquoise is at long last seen. Vinapu, an open roadstead, bounded by yet more rare earth coloured cliffs. <br />
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"Anchor away," my young son cries. Welcome to the island of statues.<br />
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Of course there's no harbour, we knew that before setting out. Just a triangular shaped island ten miles a side. If the wind changes, we run. If a storm attacks, sleep is forsaken and decisions have to be right. But with our first glimpse, we knew our decision to gamble so much was correct. An indescribable aura permeates the air over this island of mystery. Its presence can be felt. If we get no further, it will have been worth the long voyage.<br />
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But we get quite a lot farther. Not through any help from the weather for that storm was just a taste. In our first days we were forced to shift six times, forced to stand watches through black rainy nights, to listen to combers break just aft of our vessel. Giant ground swells and violent winds tested our anchors. We lost one. <br />
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Gaining the land was always a challenge. But once there, our dream came true. Everyone was so kind. Pascuans, some two and a half thousand Polynesians dating back to the thirteenth century inhabit the island, which today is a possession of Chile. Spanish is spoken. So is Rapi Nui, their dialect of Polynesian. A bit of English too.<br />
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If we hadn't had so many storms - but in the end, we got our fill of the rock giants we had come such a long way to see. After the first storm had flown, we shifted Banyandah to Hutuiti, the bay under the impressive sight of Rano Raraku and then wandered; just ourselves, the extinct volcano, and our cherished Banyandah in the blue at its base, and the moai. Some stand erect, some on an incline, others pushed over on their noses. Many more were still contained in the rock; noses, foreheads, ears and chins in various forms of completion. From Rano Raraku’s volcanic crest, the sea stretched unchanged since creation. Above, a lighter sky kept us company as we slid our hands over the contours of those mysterious creations, our souls listening to their secrets. Who, how, all the questions passed through our minds. And such perfect shapes; like the Mona Lisa, not their beauty, but mood, feeling.<br />
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During the middle of our two week stay, the weather turned balmy and the sea became flat. We anchored then on the north coast in the bay used by one of its first discovers, La Perouse during his visit of 1786. We strolled upon the vacant land, exploring caves we chanced upon, tingling with the thought that we might discover some still hidden treasure. Walking to the cove at Anakena, which folklore says is the original landing site of Hotu Matua, the first king of Rapa Nui, we discovered the remains of a large village. Evident today by the number of stone remains precisely set in the shape of a large double ended canoe, being the foundation stones of an olden day "boat house” that was built from a reed still growing in the crater lakes. Also at Anakena was the original statue raised by the Heyerdahl expedition, plus a set of seven others more recently raised with power equipment. Petroglyphs of sinister half-man, half-bird creatures decorate the rock walls of the Ahu - the stone temple platform on which the statues stand. <br />
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Our second storm struck the day Judith and Jerome hiked the ten miles down the island to Hanga Roa, Rapa Nui’s only town. We’d run out of food. The previous night had been hot, airless, but with dawn came a light zephyr that slowly grew as the day passed. At lunch a drop of rain fell. The bay then became choppy as the wind started blowing onshore.<br />
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It was Judith's first trip to the town for I had checked us in with Jason. While doing so, we’d met a helpful Pascuan named Orlando Paoa, a few years my senior. At the counter of a rustic timber store, he was standing next to me speaking a tongue so strange I’d impulsively asked, “What language is that?”<br />
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Without hesitation, the tall, solidly built man turned and said, “Why, that’s Rapa Nui. When did you arrive?”<br />
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Picking up my box of supplies I replied, “Oh, just this morning.” Then bid him good day.<br />
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A few minutes later on the boardwalk alongside the dirt track, a red and white pickup pulled up with my new friend driving. “Can I give you a lift to your boat?” he asked.<br />
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“How do you know I came by boat?”<br />
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Planes come only twice a week, the last yesterday.” <br />
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After our chance encounter, Orlando helped me clear the Chilean officials, assisted our purchases then gave us a box of much desired fresh fruits before delivery us cross island. But not before a quick stop at his hotel for a welcoming island drink. His parting words were, "See me again when you need any help." Orlando, the perfect friend to a sea-roving family in a far away land. So, before Judith departed, I outlined where Orlando could be found.<br />
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At three that stormy day, when Orlando's pickup breasted the last hillock from town, our bay was running a fairly nasty sea. It was still possible to land, only because our patch of sand was protected by a peninsular of land. But the journey cross swell was fraught with danger. Orlando, Jude, Jerome and several others piled out the truck then began carting box after box down to the shore. I rowed in. Jason stayed behind, in charge of the ship.<br />
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Once landed, cameras clicked, and Jude gushed with the news of her day.<br />
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"Oh what fun - It was fabulous," she ran on. "They're ever so nice."<br />
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From an icebox carried by a small army of Pascuans, Orlando poured me a drink. Raising a similar glass to his lips, he toasted our further safe travels. Standing on the fine rainbow sand looking at the hostile sea, a much appreciated blast to my spirit in hand, I was further impressed by this man.<br />
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Out the wind, I felt safer and the spike of unknown liquor, tasting sweet yet sour like a doppelganger daiquiri, soon lifted the worry I'd carried most of that day. My features relaxed. The smell of salt and sound of surf hung in the air. The setting must have been right; thusly encouraged Orlando began the saga of his life. <br />
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</div>Before the airport was built in the sixties, Easter Island was a prison for young blood wanting a look at the rest of the world. Only once a year did a ship come. No other communications was possible. As a lad of fifteen, Orlando had yearned for more than containment. One dark night, he and four others quit their birth land, their prison. In an open fishing boat they drifted across the sea in search of other lands. Nearly 60 days later, a heroic story in itself, they found the first one. Orlando's story captured my imagination and in awe I stood on the coloured sand of Ovahe with my eyes blazing into his. Our friendship became fused in that meeting. His future, dramatically altered, then took a very different course. From the tiny Cook Island where he was first interned then put on the next ship, he next landed in Panama, where he joined the US Air Force and gained higher education while serving twenty years before being sent home to help construct the Easter Island Airport needed by NASA. Now he owns one of the island's finer hotels and has a large family spread about the world. Concluding his tale, Orlando gave a call to a tall young Pascuan, and I meet Benjamin, one of his sons, a handsome healthy twenty-three year old.<br />
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"Jack, you'll have to move your ship,” Orlando went on. "A new storm is coming."<br />
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I smiled. "I'm shifting as soon as these supplies get on board."<br />
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Orlando was silent for a moment looking out to sea. "Why don't we trade sons for the night, my one for your two? Yours can come home with me, have a shower, watch television. My son can experience a night at sea."<br />
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How could I refuse, the man had been so kind and I never imagined the storm would become quite so fierce. <br />
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"Benjamin, do you get seasick?" I quickly asked. A cute shake of his jet black curls his reply. "Okay, let's load up. I'll bring Jason ashore."<br />
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Half an hour later, the transfer complete, I was swearing and cursing. Our anchor was jammed in that confounded Easter Island rock while a violently rolling Banyandah had Benjamin limp and sick all over her side. <br />
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Finally away, we flew like lightning across La Perouse Bay, the Three Crosses atop Poike our landmark ahead. Close aboard, we roared past that red wall while surf flew and the sea ran freely across our decks. Then back again to Tongoriki at the base of Rano Raraku, but this time much farther out for the swell had built and now broke in deadly white lines across the entrance to the shallow bay.<br />
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In gathering dusk, we anchored deep, let miles of line out, and buoyed our anchor. With no-where else to hide, our existence became a screeching wind blown night of worrying. Each blast topping the last as clouds raced past the full moon making it alternately light and dark. In the moonlight, the land looked hauntingly silent and extinct. But from there to us, it was a madhouse of life. Waves tumbled till the ocean glowed eerie while white spume trapped our home in a cacophony of screeches and sea swishing past the hull. The protesting anchor rope made it useless to attempt sleep.<br />
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Daylight brought a white world. Nature gone mad. And I was surprised to see through drifts of mist the land still before us and the vague moai looking at us. Inured by years at sea, by other memories of screeching wind and mad seas, we got on with our daily life. But, bed ridden, Benji became our worry. He could not drink nor eat. <br />
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The peak of the storm had passed before dawn and by late afternoon, though still blowing full gale, a small boat put out from the shore. Pitching bows high, a familiar figure came riding the white wave like a rodeo rider. It was our friend Orlando, a broad grin lighting his face.<br />
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"The boys are okay." He had to yell across the small gap after the open craft containing two others had circled astern and ploughed back alongside. "I'll keep them safe until this blows itself out."<br />
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Hearing his father’s voice, Benji came running. First sighting the boat then his father, Benji leaped for their craft then swam for safety. Orlando, an even greater smile lighting the dull day, waved hugely over his head. Then they were off, smashing the head sea, back to their land. Jude and I, now alone, prayed for their safety while watching their single outboard struggle.<br />
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From that day on, we became a regular in the Paoa House; showers, lunches, shopping trips, tours of the island, we also got together for stories of folklore. Nothing was too much, and our friendship, knowing a time limit existed, grew with rapid delight.<br />
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The days passed, quiet ones returned and we ventured further from our home under the guidance of Orlando and his guides. Rano Kao, the island's volcanic southern tip not known for its giant moai but for its natural beauty overwhelmed us when we reached the very top of the trail. A giant caldera of glistening lakes strewn with marshes dotting its floor then looking up its green and brown streaked walls, hawks rode the thermals. The ruins of Orongo enjoy a dramatic location on the crater lip. And it was there, first looking down upon the crater lake then across the knife edged caldera wall that dropped as if atop the world’s tallest building to a cerulean sea that we listened to tales of Rongo Rongo, the bird cult ceremony. <br />
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“Come,” the guide suggested. “Examine the 53 ceremonial stone houses, squat and so beautifully adorned with bird men petroglyphs and other strange creatures.”<br />
Then he explained that here the Orongo men had awaited the return of the sea terns that signalled the annual race to bring the first manutara (Sooty Tern egg) from the islet of Motu Nui. A true fantasy that. <br />
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As the fine weather lingered we became saturated with island lore, but the worry of new storms churned away in my thoughts. Why push our luck, I found myself thinking until finally, with perturbation, I mentioned departure. Once spoken, the move became definite and our efforts turned to reprovisioning. Here again our island friend came to our aid. His truck made many trips across the bumpy dirt tracks carrying supplies and boxes of his garden's produce. When water was mentioned, the next day he arrived with drums of sweet rain. I mentioned cooking gas, and like a magician, two full cylinders showed up on our beach.<br />
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We took time off during these forays for a pleasant, island style, fish barbeque organised, naturally, by Orlando. Sitting upon rocks overlooking the statues, a plate of island fair balanced on my knees, beside me the man who had made our visited so complete. In my reverie came distant sounds of far away and with them a remembrance of Orlando’s excited voice telling his long ago sea adventure. <br />
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"Orlando, you should come with us." I was looking deeply into his eyes and quietly nodding my head. "You should join Banyandah for the ride to Tahiti."<br />
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Excitement bloomed in his grey eyes then I watched it dwindle and die. I guess he really had no chance to say yes. His business demanded his daily presence. <br />
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"But my son, why not take Benji?" His words brought a vision of Benji doubled over and retching. <br />
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I replied we'd not see land for more than twenty days. But, if Benji thought he could take it, I'd welcome him on board.<br />
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Like his father, Benjamin was intelligent and thoughtful, so I described as best I could the hardships of such a voyage. He considered them for only a moment, and then accepted.<br />
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“Why?” I asked. “You get seasick.”<br />
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Looking earnestly into my eyes, he said the words I will never forget. “It is an opportunity I may never have again. I must.”<br />
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Only, it wasn't that easy. Chilean officialdom rates as high as the greatest in the world. And though the island population was excited, even envious, officials barred our way. For several days I delayed departure while Orlando did battle with Chilean immigration. He made telephone calls overseas, elicited favours from friends, bullied through red tape and finally received permission for his son.<br />
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</div>A grand finale barbecue was hastily arranged, to be held before the boat on the sandy shores of the first settlement at Anakena. That final morning, a second tour of Rano Raraku was arranged upon my request. The Four J's wanted to say goodbye to their rock friends who have guarded the island for so long. In a whirl, it was over. The moai stood just the same while a strange feeling crept inside us as the island spirits infiltrated our souls. Then came the barbecue and plenty of friends; many laughs, more stories, and a promised reunion. A few hours before twilight, we made our final goodbyes. Tears flowed as if we were leaving home.<br />
<br />
For a final time the anchor rose from the rock bottom of Rapa Nui, sails were hoisted, and Banyandah edged towards a cloud scattered horizon rapidly filling with gold. And like a play coming to end, daylight dwindled, taking the island from our sight.Capt'n Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527779009841985801noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047128447902392030.post-14099861986678714272009-10-10T07:30:00.004+10:002009-10-10T07:45:11.062+10:00Late Night Visitor<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/Ss-p8fVsx6I/AAAAAAAAAjQ/zXR3gnvoGpw/s1600-h/IMG_1345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/Ss-p8fVsx6I/AAAAAAAAAjQ/zXR3gnvoGpw/s200/IMG_1345.jpg" width="200" /></a>While alongside at Emu Point Slipway in Albany, I heard my dear lady shouting in the night. "Put that down. Get out of it."<br />
<br />
Groggy, coming out a deep sleep, I thought she was dreaming, and was about to comfort her back to sleep, when I felt her crawl over me. That got me wide awake. I sleep next to the companionway.<br />
<br />
Rising in the dim light, I heard Jude shout that someone had been on our boat and had just gotten off. So without a thought, I was away like a shot, over the rail, onto the dock and off towards the empty parking lot. In the dim single lamp, a large figure was walking off with something in his arms. I ran after, shouting, "Put that stuff down! Walk away and nothing more will happen!"<br />
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Reaching alongside the figure, he was bigger than me, shirtless and carrying our two green shopping bags in one hand, and in the other, swishing round n'round something like a long Kungfu stick, which I carefully kept out of its range.<br />
<br />
"Now look buddy, you don't want any trouble. Just put that stuff down, and get out of here and there'll be no trouble." Not a word in reply, just the swishing of that long stick. I looked about the dark marina, not a soul in sight. Look back to the young man, the stick caught the arc light and became our homemade boat hook whose sharpen stainless end doubles as a gaff.<br />
<br />
Jude now suddenly rushed up and damn near tackled the fellow, and I had to yell at her to keep away. "He's got our boat hook!"<br />
<br />
In a shrill voice she yelled out, "That's my dirty laundry in those bags! Just put it down and get out of here."<br />
<br />
What was this character doing? Dead of night, stealing dirty laundry and an ancient boathook. I didn't want trouble, not for us nor this young fellow. But he wouldn't stop walking towards the exit, so I began screaming out "Help! Robber! Help!" I was so loud; someone would either come running or call the police. But the lad just kept slopping along the payment and no one came to our aid.<br />
<br />
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</div>Emu Point Slipway is an industrial area. There's a marina, but few are there at night. "Look lad, my lady and I built that boat, we built every scrap, sailed her around the world, raised our kids on her too, so she's precious to us. Won't you just put the stuff down and walk away. I promise there'll be no further trouble."<br />
<br />
And just about when I'd given up all hope, he stopped, and then slowly put the bags and hook down, and then shuddered and began to cry.<br />
<br />
I have weakness for all mankind. The world's a tough place. And having pulled myself out from a rather horrible start, I find time for lost souls where ever I encounter them.<br />
<br />
Reaching up, putting my arm round his bare shoulder, I comforted him and ask what was the matter?<br />
<br />
In a torrent, out poured, "They mistreat me. Won't let me out. Don't understand."<br />
<br />
Jude picked up her laundry and moved the boathook away from the two of us while I asked, "You talking about your family?"<br />
<br />
"No, I've been in hospital, but the nurse abuses me, so I ran away tonight. I didn't mean any trouble. Just thought I could get some money to get to my dad."<br />
<br />
I was still just in my nightshirt and suddenly feeling the cold, I said, "Look, why don't we go back to the boat. Are you hungry?"<br />
<br />
Well, of course we didn't get on the <i>Banyandah</i>, but sat on the dock alongside her, and while Jude made us cups of tea and slices of bread with marmalade, I listened to this young lads outpouring.<br />
<br />
In a nutshell, he wasn't crazy. Just knew his rights, as we all do with the tellie informing us all the time that we have the right to this or that. And he'd found an easy way through life as a ward of our great nation. At the present moment, he was checked into a mental ward claiming he had self-harm problems, and oh yeah, he'd abused.<br />
<br />
I grew up in LA. The world's most fierce city. Walk into a payphone and the sharp edge of a knife might find your throat. Park your car on a dark street and a pistol may greet your exit. Abused? Crikey, I got touched up at thirteen and was drugged by two old farts at eighteen. So I told this young man there's no profit in looking back. Life is the future, not the past. It's tough enough without carrying extra baggage. Then thinking of our welfare system, I asked, "What's the matter, you don't like hard work?"<br />
<br />
"No, I don't mind working. My dad and I once picked fruit and I enjoyed lugging round the bins."<br />
<br />
"Well then, Life is an opportunity. Get off your butt and go somewhere in life. The system will make you a captive. They pay you enough to survive, but not to progress. And unless you make a break, you'll be no more than you are now for the rest of your life. Look at us; seen the world, love all critters and still going strong because we have had dreams."<br />
<br />
Yes, I know, won't erase a lifetime of problems in a couple of hours, so we asked if he had family then listen to a string of woe about broken marriages and his mom's new man not wanting him around. It didn't surpass my own history.<br />
<br />
"What about your dad?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, he's great. In Queensland but."<br />
<br />
"Well, that seems the best course to me. Change of venue gives you a new start, and if your dad will help, you'll find some support while you get yourself moving forward again. Just find a dream."<br />
<br />
Considering it was three in the morning, Jude then asked the most important question, "What are you going to do now?<br />
<br />
"Dunno."<br />
<br />
Always practical she suggested, "Why not go back to the hospital and tell them what you've done and ask them to place a telephone call to your father."<br />
<br />
Surprising us both, he agreed, so we gave him a shirt and old jumper, exchanged my Ugg boots he'd nicked for a pair of sunny Queensland flip-flops, and he walked out of our lives.<br />
<br />
Jude called the hospital around ten, and the staff nurse exclaimed, "Oh, you're the couple." Then reported he'd told her the whole story and that they were attempting to put him in touch with his father. Do hope his life has a happy ending. A few days after that we sail off across the Great Australian Bight.Capt'n Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527779009841985801noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047128447902392030.post-48541971858798150042009-09-23T12:39:00.002+10:002009-09-23T12:43:25.548+10:00The people you meet<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrmJFQtWh9I/AAAAAAAAAWM/LccFJ0Ow3C8/s1600-h/George_300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrmJFQtWh9I/AAAAAAAAAWM/LccFJ0Ow3C8/s200/George_300.jpg" /></a><br />
When guests of the Fremantle Sailing Club, I awoke feeling a bit old this particular morning. Too much booze or one too many stories the night before had me feeling every one of my sixty-four years and I was crawling rather lethargically round the cabin when I heard a rap on our railing. Coming up my eyes clasped onto a man my age inspecting my boat.<br />
<br />
"Bonny wee sailing ship you have laddie," were his first words, and I smiled. I love people who like my boat. And replied, "She's stout and looks after you in a storm and that's what matters, plus she's a treat to live aboard."<br />
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"Aye, I can see that", this fellow went on, his bushy eyebrows going up and down as he ran his eye over our craft.<br />
<br />
"You're a Scots, I can tell. My wife's a Geordie." And with that disclosure, he ambled closer.<br />
<br />
"Aye, a bonny lad from the old country." He said when we were eyeball to eyeball.<br />
<br />
"Been back lately?" I asked, thinking of our own trip home to England in 1999.<br />
<br />
"Aye, went back in 2005."<br />
<br />
"Good flight?"<br />
<br />
"Did nay fly, I sailed."<br />
<br />
"You sailed back to Scotland!" I exclaimed suddenly reassess this man. I had been more concerned with my own problems that morning as we'd been meeting so many dockside, full of dreams and claims.<br />
<br />
Curious I asked, "Did you do the Red Sea and canal." Thinking what a silly question, but having twice traversed the Red Sea, thought I'd hear the latest.<br />
<br />
But what I next heard wiped away every remaining concern for my aging.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrmJnoqNexI/AAAAAAAAAWs/qXQr3iFWW_Q/s1600-h/voyage_07+%28927%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrmJnoqNexI/AAAAAAAAAWs/qXQr3iFWW_Q/s200/voyage_07+%28927%29.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
"No, didn't do the canal. We rounded the Horn."<br />
<br />
"What! You went round the Horn! How big a boat?<br />
<br />
"33 feet."<br />
<br />
"And how many souls on board?"<br />
<br />
"Just me."<br />
<br />
"Oh you've got to be kidding, you sailed solo round the horn, and... and you must be my age." I hesitated over the last not wanting to ruffle his feathers.<br />
<br />
"Aye and maybe I've a few years on you. I first rounded the Horn when I was seventy. Rounded it again when I turned seventy five, and if my bonnie lassie will let me out again, I'll round it again in two years when I'm eighty"<br />
<br />
Somehow I knew this man was genuine, so I said nothing but slid my hand across the rail to encompass his. Looking into those warm gentle eyes, I felt the man's lust for life pour through me and suddenly I was not the least concerned that I was 4,000 miles from my home and about to turn a mere sixty-five.<br />
<br />
Later that same morning, when the club's bosun bid me good day and I called him to the rail to disclose what I'd heard. He smirked and commented, "Oh so you've met George. Last time he rounded the Horn, he had to go aloft to fix a parted halyard, and slipped and fell, his foot getting caught in a step loop. Ripped some tendons, but George just got himself down from the mast, wrapped the leg then carried on round the Horn non stop to Scotland."<br />
<br />
Well, since meeting George, I have never once felt the advancing years blues. And when alone on a dark watch, I feel the man beside me, and together we puff out our chests, happy to still sail the sea, and with pride look out over inky blackness to the stars.<br />
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</div>Capt'n Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527779009841985801noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047128447902392030.post-68847834318448710052009-09-18T09:30:00.011+10:002009-10-02T18:50:27.745+10:00Fishing for monsters<b>Aboard Banyandah, offshore of North West Cape WA</b><br />
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</div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrLFgCJPuxI/AAAAAAAAAIM/0fkW3o7vPg0/s1600-h/blog_3_source.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrLFgCJPuxI/AAAAAAAAAIM/0fkW3o7vPg0/s320/blog_3_source.jpg" /></a>Walking aft I saw our Ocky strap bowstring tight and the trolling line singing. Shocked and alarmed I jumped back shouting, "Hey Jude! Come look. Something huge is hooked up."<br />
<br />
We nearly always troll a fishing lure when sailing during daylight hours. In the past, we also dragged them during the night, but too many lures got taken by Noahs even after we devised a simple alarm consisting of an empty tin that fell to the deck whenever we had a strike. Whether then or now our setup has always been a simple handline. Attach the lure by a few metres of wire trace to a swivel then 50m of 100kg tested monofilament that's attached by another swivel to nearly 100m of small-diameter braided sash cord that makes the initial haul-in a little easier on our hands. The boat end is attached to a strong Ocky strap held in a bight of line that only lets the strap stretch to its maximum length without breaking, and seeing how far it stretches is something like watching it weigh the fish. A normal-sized fish usually just takes the catenary out the line, but on this bright Sunday morn motoring over some of the world's best fishing ground it was like a guitar string. We had just hooked a monster.<br />
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<br />
We didn't go near it. Any second something could snap and flick back into an eye. "It's stretched tighter than when we hooked that fertiliser sack." I reminded Jude of the time we hooked a big woven plastic fertiliser bag that nearly stopped our boat when it popped open. Just to be sure it wasn't another bag, I cautiously approached the line and tested its tautness then tiptoed back saying, "It's a real monster. Let's drag it for awhile and hope it gets free."<br />
<br />
So we did. The white line a tightrope you could walk on. For the next couple of miles we took turns searching the sea with the glasses but the sparkling sea hid our monster. Then in the briefest second, it suddenly rose close enough to the surface for me to see a long sleek dark body and long bill, which sent me racing for our video camera and calling, "It's a marlin or sailfish!"<br />
<br />
Once when leaving Cocos Keeling with a similar fishing rig we hooked a two or three hundred kilo black marlin. In those days <i>Banyandah</i> had two masts and we attached the trolling line to the smaller mast's support wires, but stopped doing that after the black marlin nearly pulled it over. These days we attach the trolling gear to our new stout tower.<br />
<br />
For a good 20 minutes the video recorded a rather boring scene of blue sea and bowstring line which eventually had me giving it a few serious jerks to wake the fellah up. But whoever was on the line was happy to tag-along, sometimes racing to one side then the other. Not once did it jump free of the sea so we shut down the recorder and simply waited. And so did our monster, for another good hour. Completely bored now, I took matters in hand. Damn! I hate getting sucked in to battling big fish.<br />
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<br />
Jude was assigned the all-important task of head camerawoman in addition to her regular duty, which is to keep the gathered line away from my body in case the beast makes a run I can't turn. With a serious face, she uttered a few words of encouragement then followed that up with a stern warning to be careful. Nodding I would, I took hold of the braided sash cord and started hauling. Once started, I try to keep it coming. Slacken off and the beast might turn and run. The idea is to force the creature up to the surface where its powerful tail is less efficient. Steadily, hand over hand using the strength in my arms I pulled, all the time dreading the beast might run. But it didn't. So I kept yelling, "Come on. Tail-walk you crazy fish. Throw the hook."<br />
<br />
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</div>When just a boat length astern, this most magnificent creature was seen gliding effortlessly through the water with its iridescent blue sail fully extended. And when almost close enough to touch, the creature finally jumped out the water like an excited puppy on a short leash. That's when its flashing tail splashed the sea's surface and its noble head shook in a last ditch effort to throw the lure. Oh, how we wished to see it flung free, but we didn't, and the beast fell back exhausted, to be towed on its side while we wondered what to do next. <br />
"Put that camera down, now!" I ordered Jude, no longer able to keep the worry out my voice. "Get the biggest pliers quick!" Meanwhile my eyes are glued on the beast, expecting any moment to see it come alive and take a run. Instead, our eyes made contact and our minds interacted and in my head I'm sure I heard it say it would wait. Jude returned with my water pump pliers, and without hesitation, I leant over the rail and grabbed the bugger by his sword. God! He was as big as me and so much more powerful. But looking again into its eyes, I think this guy had been through this before. They were staring at me and seemed to be saying, "Okay, let's get this over. Stick your tag into me and I'll be on my way." Fine by me. A cooperative beast. Sure made my job of reaching into its jaws with the pliers and twisting out the hook a whole lot easier. After checking Jude had the camera whirling, I released its sword and was delighted to see a huge splash and with a quick swish of its tail, the creature flashed away.<br />
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<br />
We'd had lots of excitement, plenty of photos, but no fish. So Jude convinced me to put the lure out again. I must have rocks in my head ‘cause an hour later we had the same scenario. Another taut line dragging a very boisterous tenant who was a bit smaller. Nevertheless, we dragged it for half an hour because I was still recovering from my last battle. Eventually, there was another hand-over-hand tussle, this time a shiny slippery stinky barracuda hit the deck. It's a fish we absolutely hate. This one broke free, went berserk, snapping its dagger teeth and leaving slimy prints until sent over the side.<br />
<br />
<br />
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</div>Now Jude, she's a vixen, put on her prettiest face, cuddled me, and massaged my sagging arms, and, well, I put the lure out a third time. Fortunately, nothing happened. Not straight away. Not till about four when the sun was heading for Africa did we hear the plastic spool clunk against the tower. I let out a moan, feeling decidedly weak. I would have settled for a steaming bowl of pasta, but being a good sailor boy and a slave to my woman, I took up my station back aft and tested the line. You know, you can feel the brute shake its head when trying to throw the hook, and feeling that sent adrenalin through me. A fight hey! You want to take me on? Okay, try it. So I pulled. And it fought. And I pulled some more using my shoulders and the strength in my back, which was about all I had left. Fifteen minutes later, the bell ending round ten sounded and a 20kg wahoo was heaved alongside where Jude ripped into it with the gaff. The two of us then struggled to bring a wiggling twitching monster up over the railing. All of a sudden, we had more fish then we could eat in a week. And that called for a cold beer before the bigger job of carving it up.Capt'n Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527779009841985801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047128447902392030.post-12756073510164987552009-09-16T14:12:00.022+10:002009-10-02T17:43:58.254+10:00Running scared at Spratly<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrmOiKLEhdI/AAAAAAAAAW8/eGjV2fl_91Q/s1600-h/79+spratly+voyage+crew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrmOiKLEhdI/AAAAAAAAAW8/eGjV2fl_91Q/s320/79+spratly+voyage+crew.jpg" /></a> Back in 1979, the world had no satellites guiding our every movement day and night. Instead, all ships used the heavens to navigate, and our maps, what we called charts, we’re inaccurate - some made by aerial surveillance during WWII with soundings dating back to the earliest explorers.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Running scared at Spratly</span></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Only steel nerves and luck stood between the <br />
1979 Amateur Radio expedition and disaster<br />
</div><br />
From the log of the <i>Banyandah</i> -South China Sea, March 31, 1979<br />
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<br />
0600 Dawn is breaking on this our third day at sea since departing Brunei, North Borneo. On the far eastern horizon an expanding band of changing pastels is rising. The sea and sky are becoming distinct.<br />
<br />
As the sky brightens, pearl-grey clouds become highlighted with crowns of liquid gold and a charge of excitement builds thorough all on board. Silhouetted against this display of Nature’s beauty, my six passengers are scanning the horizon for the first hint of our mysterious destination. Their chatter sounds like a flock of birds greeting a new and lovely day.<br />
<br />
Somewhere ahead lays Amboyna Cay of the Spratly Islands. According to the pilot book, we should find only a 50m circle of sand surrounded by a bit of fringing reef. But recent hostile military activity in this area may have changed all of that.<br />
<br />
0700 According to my sights and calculations we should be very close and I’m going to climb to the masthead for a look round.<br />
<br />
0715 From the top, a tiny irregularity breaks the otherwise barren horizon, and elated, I yell down, “Land ho!” This raises a cheer from the deck and happy excited faces turn to follow the direction of my outstretched arm.<br />
<br />
Nothing can be seen from deck level so a barrage of questions assault me as I climb down Banyandah’s 15m main mast. “How big is it?” “Is it sand?” “Any trees?” “Did you see any buildings?”<br />
<br />
“Hold on guys. It’s just a blip. In a half-hour it’ll pop up out of the ocean as if by magic.”<br />
<br />
0745 Through binoculars, a yellowish sand crescent is just visible, rising out the sea as we ride up the swell, disappearing as we slid down. Everybody wants a look through the glasses, but Harry Mead, VK2BJL, team leader, and a new friend soon to become a dear and significant person in our lives gets the first chance.<br />
<br />
“Jack, is that a rock I see on the right-hand side?” Harry asked in his slow half-laugh half-lisp handing back the glasses, and as Banyandah rose on a larger swell I saw what could be a rock, a wreck, almost anything. It’s just too small to make out.<br />
<br />
0800 It’s not a rock or a wreck. It now looks like a huge tent – like a circus tent, only all tan in colour. Other objects, possibly structures, are situated about it. I’m beginning to get worried. The guys are getting edgy too; Stew, K4SMX, keeps talking about a letter he has which explains that we are a scientific expedition studying radio propagation. He keeps saying the letter is written in both Russian and Vietnamese. That sounds like he knows something I do not.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Amboyna Cay</span></b><br />
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0810 There are three distinct groups of people visible on that tiny mound of sand, a group at each end with a smaller number on the top. The “top” hardly more than two metres above the sea. <br />
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0815 The smaller centralized group has begun signalling us with semaphore flags and everyone turns to me. John, KV4KV, asks the obvious, “What are they saying?”<br />
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“Look, I haven’t a clue,” I said a bit perplexed. “But I think I’ll anchor just offshore and row in for a friendly chat. After all, we don’t even know who they are and they can only tell us to go away, right?”<br />
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My wife doesn’t look so sure, but the others nod or mumble comments like, “We’ve come this far, we ought to give it a go.”<br />
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After everyone agrees, Stew beams another of his southern hospitality smiles and says, “I’ll even go in with you.”<br />
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0915 Trouble<br />
We’re running scared, powering away from Amboyna Cay just as fast as our 80hp engine will push us. And we’re searching the horizon in every direction for any intruder, deathly frightened we might sight one.<br />
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What happened back there was insane. I mean, we’re just ordinary folk – peaceful family men – out on an adventure. We meant them no harm, and there was definitely no reason for them to try to kill us.<br />
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I guess things really began to happen once we came within a mile of the island. From that distance we could see that the cay was about half the size of a football field with several buildings of clapboard and corrugated iron at the centre, two radio towers as well. We also could see that the perimeter was reinforced with a wall of sandbags, and the wall facing us had a sign with large white letters, “BAOTHEP”<br />
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We began our final approach with one operator at the radio, scanning the bands, listening for a possible contact with the island. The other ham operators were on deck, clustered close together by the centre cockpit where Judith was at the controls, and I was at the bow, searching for a clear patch in the coral to drop the anchor.<br />
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I remember it became deathly quiet – only distant sounds of a light wind upon the sea and the sound of my heart beating in my ears pumping adrenaline through my body. As I reached for the anchor release, an abrupt order rang out, and groups of green-clad men began to scatter.<br />
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Explosions cut the air – boom…boom…boom...boom. The physical impact of the concussions slammed into us, and thrown to the deck, my mind began recording every detail of those hour-long seconds.<br />
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I saw four puffs of grey-white smoke hanging in mid-air above the cay and heard a shrill whistle go overhead then felt heat on my cheeks. The five operators, heedless of injury, threw themselves headlong into my cockpit and as I looked back along the deck, I saw the 200 litre drums of petrol nakedly lashed to the rails and for an instant my mind’s eye imagined a huge orange-red blossoming death ball erupting from them. Then I screamed, “Move it! Move it! Full power!”<br />
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Getting up on all fours, I saw Judith at the helm, kicking bodies away from the floor mounted controls. And then, with her eyes sunk deep and her teeth exposed in a grin of animal fear, she slammed the boat into gear and pushed the throttle to full power.<br />
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For what seemed like hours, we waited, unmoving, rigid, our every nerve straining for the slightest warning of a new attack. But none came. We were lucky.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrBt-i26nWI/AAAAAAAAAHM/Ov3NNpRYX7k/s1600-h/79+brunei+mosque+JJJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrBt-i26nWI/AAAAAAAAAHM/Ov3NNpRYX7k/s320/79+brunei+mosque+JJJ.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Real Gold atop Mosque at Bandar Seri Begawan</span></b><br />
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Directly after the attack we returned to Brunei. Three expedition members thought it too dangerous to continue. Secretly so did I. Docking at Maura port in the early morning hours after six days at sea, Harry, Stew, and Bill, K1MM, wanted to try again. A new island was chosen, one which US government officials assured us was “safe.” That assurance reinstated my confidence, and I accepted the charter. Later those assurances proved nothing more than hog-wash.<br />
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We re-provisioned that day and departed that night. Two and a half days later, on a morning very similar to the one at Amboyna, we made landfall. Immediately, two unmarked ships closed in on us from opposite directions. One steamed directly across our bow only 200m off. It appeared to be a phantom ship – no flag, no markings, and no crew visible. When it had passed, we reversed our course, put on power, and prayed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrBuPhq_oyI/AAAAAAAAAHs/Pbvs4sKRG6g/s1600-h/79+barque+canada+reef.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrBuPhq_oyI/AAAAAAAAAHs/Pbvs4sKRG6g/s400/79+barque+canada+reef.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>1S1DX - Barque Canada Reef</b><br />
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Again, we were lucky. But all of us thought we had just about used up our quota of luck. Tired and fed up with being scared all the time, we decided to head for home. That night, dear Harry nobbled me so sweetly over where we might go that I changed course for a reef charted as completely submerged, but near our rhumb line and worth investigating. Arriving the next morning, a hot glassy-smooth day with absolutely no wind or swell, as we rounded the weather end, I watched from the masthead shaking my head in disbelief. Our luck was still holding. Right on the edge, a cluster of coral rocks had been dashed up by some past storm and a baby sand island was forming. It was no larger than my deck area, but appeared to stay above water at all tides.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrBuHjY9TdI/AAAAAAAAAHc/7FDAE8IUUBU/s1600-h/79+barque+canada+ashore_bill_K1MM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jn_SETTXSVA/SrBuHjY9TdI/AAAAAAAAAHc/7FDAE8IUUBU/s200/79+barque+canada+ashore_bill_K1MM.jpg" /></a>This tiny scrap of sand, surrounded by miles of open ocean and hostile forces, became 1S1DX, the last active amateur radio station in the Spratly Islands. In four days of operations, 30,000 contacts were made from that dollop of sand. A great result for the team. <br />
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Footnote:<br />
Sadly, four years later, a Singapore yacht operated by the owner and his wife, carrying four German hams on a similar radio expedition to Amboyna Cay in the Spratly Group, was fired upon by Vietnamese forces. One German radio operator perished immediately when the yacht burst into flames. The rest of the party drifted for ten days on debris, with a second operator dying of thirst the day before being rescued by a passing Japanese freighter. This tragedy has never been properly explained as the attack on Banyandah had been widely reported.<br />
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My comment on this today:<br />
Obviously I was naive not to think of the oil in that area. Brunei, one of the richest in the world at that time, derived its wealth from offshore petroleum. The Vietnam conflict had only just ended and they were SE Asia’s most powerful force and one of the five Nations claiming the Spratly Island region. From what I remember, the team’s friend at the CIA gave us inaccurate information because the CIA never thought we’d really go. <br />
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A few log books further on, we were fired upon again, but that’s a story for later.Capt'n Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527779009841985801noreply@blogger.com0