I'M NOT SUPERSTITIOUS BUT..."

Rona House

After a somewhat boisterous Tasman crossing in 1992 I wrote a poem for Flying Fish called `Letters Home'. Its closing line was `I never seek out adventures but still somehow they happen.' It seems I tempted the Gods!

Having survived that storm, Cacique (my Vancouver 27) and I wended our way uneventfully up the Barrier Reef and on towards Bali, even having the good luck to be able to use Bali Strait instead of the longer but usually easier Lombok Strait. I'd guess that was the day that Flying Fish dropped onto doormats around the world including, it seems, the one on Mount Olympus -- where they read my poem.

After 25 hours on deck I had cleared all land hazards, fishing boats and major shipping lanes. It was a beautiful morning as I headed out into the Java Sea, and I was feeling particularly content as I checked that the final ship was going to clear and went below. CRASH! The ship had changed course, probably curious to have a look, misjudged things, and Cacique `T'eed her in the middle of her starboard side. Fun for the ship's crew no doubt, watching a naked yachtswoman trying to sort out the chaos, but I think they might at least have stopped or answered the VHF.

I jury-rigged a forestay and lifelines and continued; adapting my route towards Singapore to allow for the fact that I wouldn't be able to anchor along the way for sleep (I'd lost bow rollers, fairleads and anchor winch, and having suffered three broken ribs and bruising myself knew I would be unable to hand-haul an anchor).

Three days later I'd recovered my good spirits and was moving into the South China Sea. That was when one of the bugs permanently resident in my tropicalised body decided to make whoopee. The first sign was double vision and I immediately reduced sail and put Cacique on the safest course I could find before the fever took hold. Looking back at the log I was delirious for a while and it was a week before I could hold down any food, but Cacique looked after me and eventually I sailed into Singapore, safe if somewhat weak having lost 15lb from my already skinny body.

I took five weeks to repair Cacique and regain my health for the next leg up the Straits of Malacca, but that wasn't quite adequate and I soon stopped for another week in Kelang, just to eat.

Setting out once more I'd left Kelang about twelve miles behind when I went forward to raise the staysail in a nice breeze. The halliard gave! Before I knew it I was in the water, having cleared the windward lifeline, being towed along by the lazy jib sheet which I'd somehow grabbed in passing. Adrenalin promptly levitated me five feet out of the water but it wasn't quite enough to regain the deck so I spent half an hour trying to knit a ladder from the jib sheet. Couldn't manage that either. About six miles behind me was an anchored freighter which now seemed my best chance, so I let go the sheet and started swimming. Luck was on my side and after an hour or so I managed to hitch a ride on a local fishing boat.

We had to finish laying his nets before he'd chase Cacique, but eventually we caught her. The mate went forward with a line and I realised I was about to lose Cacique to a salvage claim. I was grateful to the fishermen but couldn't afford to be that grateful, so as the fishing boat angled in on Cacique's windward side there was a simultaneous leap -- the mate for her bows and me for her tiller. I don't know how I managed to clear that gap and the lifeline, but next thing I was hauling Cacique's tiller to windward as the mate tried to fasten his line forward. I won! The mate gave me a long look, then shrugged and settled down to negotiate a price.

The rest of the leg up to Thailand I had to take things easy and, meeting OCC members for Christmas, accept a bit of gentle teasing about my adventures. `You were asking for trouble writing that poem' was the consensus. On Christmas Day our Commodore and I stood on a Thai beach looking out to sea enjoying that warm feeling of appreciating privileged lives despite a few problems. "But" I said "there's no way I'm going to admit to these past few weeks unless we introduce in the OCC an award for The Most Embarrassing Voyage. Enough is enough, all I want now is an uneventful passage to England".

It looked as though I was going to have my wish, the passage to Sri Lanka being marked only by a 164 mile day (surely a record for a Vancouver 27). The beauty of Sri Lanka is inland and I joined forces with three friends and headed for the mountains. Now tropical ulcers are common amongst both locals and sailors yet I'd never had one -- until my first started burrowing into my Achilles tendon. The planned three day trip turned into nine as I awaited a local surgeon's decision as to whether I was going to lose my foot, but again luck was on my side. In fact there is no better way to enjoy the island than being forced just to sit, look and breath it in.

Setting out for Aden I was frustrated by light headwinds. After several days I was only midway between Sri Lanka and the Maldives when a local craft approached. Closer to the coast I'd met similar boats fishing, but this was loaded with fuel and too far offshore for that. Judging from its course it was almost certainly a smuggler, and as such probably ready to indulge in a little amateur piracy. I loaded my flare guns, placing one by each hand (out of sight) as I stood in the cockpit holding a conversation with the imaginary crew and guard dog below. The `smuggler' ran parallel about 10 yards off for fifteen minutes watching this charade and ignoring my polite denial of interest in trading before moving off. Was I in danger? For some weeks I was not sure, but then another yacht in the same area was boarded and stripped over a 3-4 hour period. Anyway I was unscathed and soon enjoying an unscheduled week in the Maldives before moving on.

The passage to Aden was proceeding smoothly and I was giving a wide berth to Socotra when ... CRASH! `Oh no, not again', I thought. Rushing on deck I set eyes on a whale about 18 feet long. lying alongside Cacique and pumping out blood. Both he and I dove below -- me to go into my abandon ship preparations and then to check for damage. To be honest I could not treat it seriously as all the time a scene from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy kept going through my mind: a whale and a bowl of petunias materialise above a planet. Just before it hits the ground the last thing that goes through the mind of the bowl of petunias is `Oh no, not again'. Supposedly, if you know why, you also know the answer to `Life, the Universe and Everything'. Perhaps the answer is the same as to why do we sail -- one moment you can be totally relaxed and sane, the next comparing yourself to a bowl of petunias!

No damage done and no more real incidents as I beat up the Red Sea, though I was rammed by a porpoise, something I'd never even heard of happening before. The `desert sheik' of the poem only came up to my armpit and was easily repulsed. Perhaps my experiences of the past few months were helping because even the Suez Canal pilots were easy meat in their attempts at extortion ("If you give me and the men at the security station a good time you can stop here overnight, otherwise you must have a tow at $200 per hour").

So the trip wound down as Cacique beat her way through the Mediterranean to the Canal du Midi and thence from Bordeaux to Teignmouth in Devon, where I arrived on 19th July to find my mother waiting on the beach. "You must be tired" she said "I'll make a nice cup of tea". The English are not easily impressed!

I'm not sure why, after my earlier statement, I decided to tell the truth about this last year. Perhaps because I've sometimes been guilty of thinking other people's `adventures' resulted largely from lack of experience, preparation or care. Now I shall never again listen to someone else's horror stories without sympathy. Also of course I'm hoping that by this confession I can remove `The Curse of the Flounder' and rise to the level of the Flying Fish.