Homepage von Weltumsegler Bobby Schenk



THE GREAT ESCAPE

CHAPTER I

The incredible stress and frantic pace of the last few weeks at work and the three weeks between leaving DLJ and leaving the dock in Rowayton was almost impossible to cope with. The amount of preparation this time compared to when we sailed away in 1971 was staggering. Even though I had spent every weekend of the past year refitting the boat, and Kitty had spent her time organizing the logistics, our "must do" list seemed to keep getting longer as departure day approached. The only things getting shorter were our tempers and our bank balance. I now understand many older peoples' preoccupation with their net worth and the anxiety associated with no more steady income except Social Security checks and I don't even have Social Security!

Every time I turned around there was another piece of gear that we just had to have, or something had to be replaced, or a spare part for an important piece of equipment had to be acquired. I kept telling myself that out in the middle of the ocean if something were to break, I wouldn't be able to sail into a marina and say "Fix it, please!" I had to think of and be prepared for every emergency. On top of all that, we decided at the last moment to install a refrigeration system, a radar which a friend, Ed Gaynor, had given us, and a ham radio so that in an emergency we could contact civilization.

By the time we left, I had almost totally rebuilt the boat. I had pulled the engine out over the winter and had it rebuilt, reinstalling it myself. I had replaced all the old plastic ports with heavy duty aluminum ones. All the running and standing rigging, including bottle screws was replaced. I designed, had fabricated, and installed a two foot bowsprit to reduce the weather helm and give us a second head stay. I replaced the old kerosene stove with a new propane one, which entailed building an air-tight storage locker for the two 20 pound gas bottles we now carry, and running the necessary gas lines from the bottles to the stove. I reinforced some of the bulkheads, added extra cabinets and a book shelf. I enlarged one of the kids’ bunks and raised the over-head in our aft cabin 4 inches. Finally, I rewired all the electrics. By now, I know every screw, fitting and wire on the boat.

In spite of all that effort, we had to make at least 3 repairs at sea on our first leg from Charleston to St. Thomas. At sea everything works 24 hours a day and with the kind of stress we subjected the boat to, things just wear out no matter how well they are made to start with. At least we had the parts and the tools to do it.

Everything was much simpler when Kitty and I sailed around the world back in 1971. Then we had only a 30 foot boat with no electronics--not even a depth-sounder. We also had no house to rent, furniture to store-and no money to buy things with, so we went without except for the bare necessities. We also didn't have the added responsibility of two boys, aged 9 and 11.

As our hoped for departure date closed in on us, the pace became even more frenetic. And so did the stream of well wishers who found their way to the boat to see how things were progressing. To all of you whom I may have been a little short with, please accept my apologies but I was under the strain of a million things to do and not enough time to do them. I am also plagued with a one track mind that hates to be interrupted.

Finally, on Friday October 9th after a whole week of trying to just pack the boat with spare parts, tools, food, clothing, books and toys, we began to solve the Chinese puzzle and find a place on board for almost everything. Inevitably some necessary items like skateboards or second spares for the left-handed framizon were deemed expendable and left behind amid rousing protests from the offended party. However, as the puzzle came together we realized that we were coming unglued and couldn't even think of taking watches, 2 hours on, 2 hours off, for the 24 hours down the Jersey coast. So we called old friend and sailor, John Flahive. John used to work with me at DLJ, now he dials and smiles for Furman Selz. He also owns a 37 foot sailboat and had sailed with me on other occasions, one being a trip to Bermuda where his good humor and good cooking kept us all in high spirits during three days of poor weather. I could also trust John when neither Kitty nor I were on watch, which meant I could sleep soundly off watch. A call Thursday night produced John with his sea bag Friday morning. Thank god for good friends!

After a final hectic 2 hours with the boatyards' rigger up our mast fixing a jammed halyard, we were actually ready to leave at about 4:45p.m. We quickly went back to the house for a final check, rounded up the kids, hopped on the boat, and with the help of a few neighbors cast the lines off at 5:10 p.m. All along we had kept telling our friends that we were probably going to leave the next week so they wouldn't feel compelled to come and wish us luck, interrupting our last minute efforts. Consequently, our send off party was quite small consisting of only a few neighbors and a couple of neighborhood kids, some of whom stayed home from school to play with Alex and Spencer for the last time for a couple of years. Even so, it was an emotional event.

As we motored down the river, 3 of the kids' friends, Mark Cavanaugh, Michael Markus and Peter Granville-Smith, were running along the beach waving goodbye. They followed us all the way to the mouth of the river where they stood on rocks at the point and waved until we were out of sight.

A few tears welled up in my eyes as I went below to get out the chart, there was Alex lying on his bunk, crying too. I sat down next to him and we talked for a while about how sad it was to leave all our friends; but, then we could look forward to the adventure that lay ahead.

That night we went as far as Stamford Harbor, all of 5 miles away. We weren't an hour away from the dock when John proved his worth by pointing out that the buoy I was heading for was not the one at the harbor entrance. I was about to run us on the rocks... I needed to get some rest. Even so it was already dark as we pulled safely inside the harbor and dropped our anchor. After a quick dinner we all collapsed for a good night's sleep.

The next day, Saturday, we got off to an early start and made the 11a.m. tide at Hell Gate. We then sped down the East River on the outgoing 4 kt ebb tide, stopping at the 23rd Street Marina to take on fuel and to drop off our friend Ronnie Shapiro, the girl who had introduced Kitty and I nineteen years ago and who had been helping us pack both the boat and the house all week. More tears.

By 2p.m. we were going by the Battery. I looked back at the towering buildings of lower Manhattan and wondered if we were doing the right thing (this was only October 10th after all a full two weeks before the market crash of October 1987). Well, no turning back now. As we sailed by the South Street Seaport, the pier was empty. No crowds milling about, no big send off from friends on their lunch break. I had hoped to be there a day earlier so that we could wave goodbye to all of my co-workers who had wanted to see us off. I had also planned to fly a banner from our rigging proclaiming "DLJ's BEST EXECUTION!!". Donaldson, Lufkin and Jenrette, better known as DLJ, is a stock brokerage firm and it’s motto is, “DLJ, Best Execution!” for its ability to execute large stock trades.

Now the canyons of Wall Street were empty. Even the Hudson River had only a few tugs going about their business. A far cry from when we were here last summer with 40,000 other boats to wish Happy Birthday to the Statue of Liberty. As we went under the Verrazano Bridge, a huge freighter came at us making two short blasts on his horn signifying his intention to pass starboard to starboard. As he passed I wondered where he had come from and realized we were about to embark on as long a voyage as he had probably just completed. The only difference being that it would take us a year to get to where we were going.

All that night we powered down the Jersey Coast. With John on watch for one 2 hour shift and Kitty for another, I was able to get a solid 4 hours of sleep between my watches. It was an easy night.

The next day, however, was a hard beat up the Delaware Bay against both wind and tide. Night fell with at least 25 miles more to cover before we could turn into the relative calm of the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal. Those five hours were spent with John and I running between the deck and the radar scope below as we tried to pick our way between navigational buoys and the tanker traffic coming down the river. Finally at 1a.m. we were tied next to the marina dock at the end of the canal.

Very early the next day, before anyone could come to ask us for dockage fees, we were on our way again. The morning provided us with our first decent sail of the trip as we cruised down the Chesapeake under spinnaker towards Annapolis. That's where John was to get off to go back to New York to dial for dollars and where we were to meet our friends the Lymans, who, with 3 boys just our kids ages, were sailing their 49 foot sloop to Sydney along the same route we intended to take. Since Cabot and Heidi were good friends and our kids’ exuberant playmates we had planned to spend a lot of time together in various anchorages from Annapolis to Australia.

The week in Annapolis was notable for installing a new head in the boat and taking the boys on a trip to Washington, D.C. I realized the old head wouldn't last with 2 years of everyday use by a family of four and I sure didn't want it to break some place where I couldn't fix it. Knowing my luck it would have broken while in rough weather somewhere at sea so that in addition to the worries of "weathering the storm" so to speak, we would have been quite literally "knee deep in ****" . So I replaced it with a stronger, more efficient, and incidentally easier to use model.

Since we were in Annapolis, I thought that a side trip to our nation’s capitol would be our first opportunity to turn this saga into a true educational experience for our kids--or so I had hoped. We borrowed a friend's car and drove into Washington DC. After a quick lunch at McDonalds we went right to Christopher Dodds' office (our senator from Connecticut) and got a pass to get into the Senate Chambers. Then we went down to the basement of his office building and took the Senator's trolley under Constitution Avenue to the Capitol building where we maneuvered our way through endless corridors and infinite lines of other tourists until we finally ended up in the Senate Gallery to watch our elected officials making the laws that govern our nation. We sat down to see the Senate Chambers empty except for four or five senators and a few aides engaged in parliamentary negotiation. For those of you who have not had the privilege, a parliamentary discussion is when two or more senators talk in a language totally foreign to us mere citizens, taking a long time to say what seems to be nothing at all. After 15 minutes of that, the boys were itching to get on to The Air and Space Museum, the Lincoln and Viet-Nam Memorials and the Washington Monument. We got up and left Senator Lowell Weicker gesticulating to an empty chamber.

As we rode back to Annapolis that night, I asked Alex what he learned from our trip to the Nations' Capitol. He very firmly replied "I learned I never want to be a politician because it's so boring." That night he wrote 2 sentences in his log about the boring visit to the Senate and the rest of the page was about the fact that the McDonalds had two stories and the Washington subway system was real clean--no graffiti-so much for an educational experience.

On Sunday, October 18th, we left Annapolis to slowly cruise down the

Chesapeake. Monday night I heard on the radio that the stock market had dropped 502 points!

The next day, as we were sailing down the Bay, I couldn't contain myself and called back to the office on our VHF radio telephone and got the rundown on the meltdown. It was 11:00am on October 20th and many Dow Jones stocks had still not been able to open. I can't tell you how relieved I was to have sold all my stocks before I had left. On the other hand, I felt that I was missing history being made and for a brief moment I wanted to be back at my desk to watch the happenings. But I felt so insulated from the trauma that I'm sure everyone back at the office was going through, I was more relieved to be exactly where I was.

The next three weeks found us leisurely powering down the Inter-Coastal Waterway, a collection of rivers, bays and canals that allow one to go from Norfolk, Va. to Miami, Fla., without going out into the ocean. The "Ditch ", as it is called, was crowded with sail and powerboats all fleeing the advancing winter up north for the warm climates of Florida, the Bahamas and the West Indies.

Early in the waterway we met a Canadian boat with 2 kids, a boy Alex's age and a girl Spencer’s age. We powered together for the better part of 2 weeks leaving them in Beaufort, N.C., where after a few days of last minute maintenance chores and a good weather report they were going to leave to go straight to the Virgin Islands. We, however, were going to Charleston, S.C., before heading offshore. Charleston was far enough south so that I felt we would miss the worst of the storms that form off the Carolinas and pound Cape Hatteras during the winter months. It was also far enough north to get our easting before hitting the southeast trades. The trade off is that it is well west of Beaufort and so the need for easting is greater.

On Saturday November 6th Pip Wick, another sailing friend, and I left Charleston. Kitty and the boys were going to visit my parents in Florida with a side trip to Disney World while Pip and I got the boat to St. Thomas. My reason for not taking the family on this leg was that the North Atlantic in November can be very rough. In fact, of our whole trip to Australia, this leg had the potential of being the roughest.

The day Pip and I left, the weather forecast was for SE winds 15-20 kts backing to NE and staying that way through Tuesday. By Wednesday a low pressure system would be off the North Carolina coast which could intensify and move NE. We felt that we could be east and south of the low center by Wednesday and so we left on what we felt was a reasonably good forecast.

The first night out I felt crummy not having got my sea legs yet. Pip felt fine as we slogged into the southeasterly winds. The wind never did back or veer around to the NE as predicted so our progress was slow and hard as we beat directly into the strong ESE winds. Sunday we tacked south and Monday we tacked NE. By Tuesday we were able to make some easting but we were not as far from the oncoming storm as we had hoped to be. In the meantime, the weather forecast kept getting increasingly bad. The low we were starting to experience on Tuesday morning was now predicted to turn into a gale by Thursday night.

Tuesday afternoon while I was in my bunk reading and Pip was on watch I heard a voice come over the VHF. It was a ship talking to a yacht. When the yacht came up I recognized the voice to be that of Bob Orrett on "SPINDTHRIFT", the Canadian friends we left in Beaufort a few weeks earlier!

First of all, I never leave the radio on so it must have been left on inadvertently or turned on by accident. Secondly, the range is only about 35 miles, so to hear anyone's voice was a shock ---and to hear Bob's voice was mind blowing! I then got on the radio and established contact. According to our SAT NAVS, we were only 12 miles apart so we headed for each other and 45 minutes later we rendezvoused 500 miles at sea.

The weather had been so bad up until then that their kids had gotten so seasick they had decided not to continue on to the Virgin Islands, at least 6 or 7 days away. Instead they had turned and headed for the Bahamas, only 2 days away. That is how they came to be so far south of what should have been their track to the V.I. We waved and shouted for a few minutes as we circled each other five hundred miles from land, in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.

Finally we turned and each went our separate ways to once again face the solitude of the North Atlantic. The meeting at sea is a testament to the wonders of modern electronic navigation as without it, it would have been very difficult to pinpoint our positions with enough accuracy to be able to meet, especially given the poor weather conditions and lack of clear skies with which to get a fix with the sextant.

The weather forecast that night had the oncoming gale upgraded to a full-blown storm!(This was the November storm that dumped early snow on NYC). We might have been clear of the storm, except that as the low pressure center moved NE, a second trough moved SE and caught us full force Thursday night.

By midnight Thursday, we were down to bare poles (i.e. no sails whatsoever) and we were surfing at hull speed down 15 foot seas with 35-40 kts. of wind directly behind us. With the autopilot doing the steering, Pip and I stayed below in the security of our cozy cabin as the fury raged outside. The motion was not that bad, the noise, however, was! The wind howled and the seas roared and every once in a while a big comber would slam into us with a crack. Down below, Pip and I read our books and remarked how it didn't seem so bad. Yet whenever we stuck our heads out the hatch for a look around, we were amazed how awful the seas looked. I had been right about not taking the kids on the first leg, it was fairly rough and very uncomfortable, as the following excerpt from my log indicates:

"It's 0230 am Saturday November 13th, somewhere in a part of the Atlantic known as the Bermuda Triangle. Pip is sleep in the aft cabin as his watch his10pm-2am and now I am alone to sail the boat until 6am, when we will flip to see who makes breakfast.

By morning we will have been at sea for seven days with approximately 5 or 6 to go before we reach St. Thomas. Life here on our 40 foot universe has settled into a daily routine and except for an occasional news broadcast on the short wave radio our only contact with civilization is in speculating what is happening back on Wall Street. Not that it would have any influence in our daily routine. What does have an influence, though, is the high seas weather forecast on the single side band radio and it has not been good. More bad weather for us!

Our course is 125 degrees magnetic. The wind has veered around to the NE at 30 kts., which puts us hard on the wind and has us heeled over about 30 degrees. We are trucking along at 7 kts., crashing through each wave as it smashes at our bow trying to keep us from making any progress. As though the sea is saying to us "So you want to go south to your island paradise-well, let’s just see how much you want it and how well prepared you are!" Thank God I didn't try to talk SPINDTHRIFT into turning around once again and coming with us.

As I sit below I am being serenaded by a cacophony of noises from the endless creaking of the boat to the smack and gurgle of the sea rushing past the hull. As we rise up to meet one wave and crash down into the next, then surge forward to do it again.

At least we are making good time and in spite of the sea, the noise and the motion, I feel a sense of security down here in our cabin away from the wind and sea. Every five minutes I stick my head out on deck to look for ships and check the sails and our wind-vane self steering gear which is holding us on our course, guiding us through the unknown such as Gandalf did for Bilbo Baggins and his band of dwarfs".

Two days later, my log read:

“ It's 2am Tuesday November 17th and I just took over from Pip. It's blowing a near gale out as it has been for the last 3 days. This is our second bout with the North Atlantic during the winter. The seas are only about 10-13 feet but are steep and coming from abeam. Now they slam against our side and roll us over as much as 45 degrees. We have only a small storm jib set and nothing else, still making 6-7 kts. Every so often a wave breaks over the whole boat and cascades down the deck, completely covering the ports, giving the illusion we are actually on a submarine, not a pleasure yacht. Consequently all hatches are battened down hard making it like a steam bath below. Sleep is impossible between the heat, the violent rolling, the crashing of the waves and the constant screeching of the wind in the rigging.

We have been at sea for nine days, half of which have been like this, a couple not quite so bad and we actually had 2 days of relatively good sailing. Although the memory of those days is somewhat blurred at the moment. However, we are closing in on St. Thomas and if all goes well we can make the last 265 miles by Thursday morning.

It was my turn to cook dinner tonight and I decided to make chicken and dumplings. I got out a can of boned chicken, one of chicken a la king, a fresh potato, an onion and a couple fresh carrots. I strapped myself into the galley and began to slice the carrots I had just sliced up a hand full when the boat took a particularly violent wave throwing the boat hard on her side. If I hadn't been strapped in I would have been thrown across the cabin. The carrots had no such restraint. As Pip and I picked them up off the deck we looked at each other and asked "Are we having fun yet?"

Because the stove is gimbaled, once I was able to get the ingredients into the pan, all we had to do was wait for it to cook, add the dumpling mix between the rolls and dish it out. Time to eat! Pip and I each sat on the bunk balancing bodies as well as bowls full of chicken and dumplings, spooning the gruel into our mouths. Our feet kept coming off the floor in unison as the boat rolled from each monster wave and we struggled to stay erect.

On top of all this discomfort, the bilge pump is running every few minutes as the sea finds its way below through every conceivable fitting. As soon as we get to the islands, I will have plenty of work to do re-caulking all the chain plates and I will have to haul the boat to re-install the bobstay fitting as that is also leaking under these harsh conditions. I must also get a spare electric bilge pump; even though I have two heavy

duty hand operated ones already installed. At least our bunks are dry!

Wednesday afternoon at 17:30 (5:30pm for you landlubbers) we dropped anchor in Great Bay, Jost Van Dyke, British Virgin Islands. We went ashore for a beer even though we had not cleared through customs and then back to the boat for our first night's peaceful sleep in ten days!

Three days later Pip left and Kitty, Alex & Spencer arrived by plane from the States, just in time to be deluged with a solid week of rain. Very unusual for that time of the year.

The last time Kitty and I were in the Virgin Islands was back in 1976. It is staggering how many more boats are in the area now. In Charlotte Amalie alone there has to be 3 times as many yachts as when we lived there in 1975. Also the whole economy of the sailing community is now geared for the people who charter a boat for a week or two and who have $3-5 thousand dollars to spend on their short vacation. It was clear when I had to spend $.10 per gallon for water in Virgin Gorda that those islands were too expensive for our modest cruising budget. Nor were the Virgins the type of cruising we were looking for. After a week, we left week for the Puerto Rican island of Culebra, having never seen the sun.

Only 30 miles west of St. Thomas, Culebra was exactly what we were looking for. A quiet, laid back community where the living was good and the surfing at the beach on the other side of the island was terrific. To get to the beach was a 4 mile walk; however anyone driving by with space in their car would stop to pick us up, so we never did walk the whole way. The town consisted of a bakery, a "hotel" a few grocery stores and a hardware store.

One afternoon I sat on the sidewalk next to the hardware store, talking to the owner, a Spanish man of about 50 with a warm pleasant smile and a little twinkle in his eye. A few minutes later another older man with leather sandals and skin the same texture as his sandals, wandered by, smiled, waved hello and slowly inched his way into our sphere to add his 2 cents. It was obvious he had nothing else to do and was happy to wile away the time in gossip with an outsider. In an hour and a half no one came into the hardware store so our conversation went uninterrupted.

After 5 days in Culebra we spent a day in Vieques, 15 miles southwest and then went to Palmas del Mar, on Puerto Rico's east coast, where we immediately hauled the boat so I could fix the bobstay fitting. I also had an appointment to see a doctor in San Juan to check out my kidneys as I had blood in my urine on the off shore trip and I wanted to make sure there was nothing wrong like a kidney stone. The next 4 weeks were a total nightmare.

Monday we rented a car and drove the 45 miles to San Juan to see a doctor about my kidney problems. Before we left San Juan to return to Palmas del Mar, it started to rain. By 5:30pm when we left it was a deluge. We had to drive 20 miles an hour because we couldn't see 20 feet in front of us. Halfway back to Palmas, the highway was blocked with police. The road had washed away and we were directed off the highway onto a back mountain road. It was more like a trail etched into the side of the cliff, with torrential rivers washing across the road every so often. Four times we had to ford an overflow stream with water up to the doors of the car. Three times the engine stalled.

Each time we feared we were doomed to spend the night out there in the middle of nowhere. Luckily each time the car would restart after a few minutes rest. Four and a half hours after leaving San Juan we got back to Palmas.

On the second trip to the hospital in San Juan, the doctor asked me to give a sample of my urine. He gave me a sterile test tub and directed me to the men’s room down the hall. When I entered the room, there was urine all over the floor. It looked as though it had not been cleaned in a week and that most of the men who used it had been blind. One more trip to San Juan and some horrifying experiences in a hospital where very few people spoke English, revealed an abnormality with my kidney, one possibility being a tumor. The day after learning that, we left for St. Louis so that I could be checked out at Barnes Hospital where Kitty’s brother in law is a top surgeon.

Even though all turned out well, I was once again reminded to enjoy life now, be thankful for each day and not waste it. That philosophy was one reason behind our decision to make this trip. We wanted to spend time with our kids before they grow up and go off on their own. We felt if we didn't do it now life would just go by too fast.

On December 23rd we found out all was okay with me and also had some good news concerning Kitty’s mom, who had some medical problems as well. Christmas 1987 at Kitty’s parents in St. Louis was an especially happy warm family gathering.

On December 30th Tamure was back in the water, cleaned up and repacked. Finally on Monday, January 4th, we left for the San Blas Islands on the north coast of Panama some 960 miles away. This would be the first real offshore passage of more than 2 days for the boys.

We left the harbor at noon and by 4pm Puerto Rico was beginning to fade from sight. Alex sat in the cockpit looking back at the vanishing shape of terra firma. I could tell he was somewhat anxious, so we talked about what he should expect for the next 6 or 7 days, about how safe the boat is and of our friends the Lymans, who were now in the San Blas Islands waiting for us.

That night Alex got seasick and at least once a day thereafter he was sick. It only lasted a few minutes and didn't affect his spirits or his appetite. Still as I watched him blow lunch I wondered whether or not we had done the right thing. Was it really fair to him to be putting him through all this? I must admit, even though we were sailing with the wind on our quarter, or directly behind us, the 30 kt winds and high and confused seas made for a really uncomfortable passage, even though it was a helluva lot better than the trip down with Pip.

Even so there were some good times, like the two or three dark cloudless evenings when the stars glittered in vast profusion. On those nights we got out a book about the stars given to us by a friend. We spent hours picking out such constellations as the Gemini Twins and Orion holding his shield. They loved learning about the constellations and would come out every night before bed to pick out some more.

The third night out we were able to talk to the Lymans on "CHEWINK" on the SSB radio and that cheered up both Alex and Spencer. From then on we talked to them every night and it was the highlight of the day.

There was a big swell from the north crossing with the waves being driven by the 30 plus kts from the east and when the swell crossed with the waves, the sea would peak at 10-15 feet, rolling the boat violently occasionally breaking in the cockpit. In spite of these conditions, we were really flying. In fact one day we did 206 miles in 24 hours. My best days run ever and the first time I have ever broken the magic 200. On the night of the 5th day we hove to for a few hours, 20 miles north of the San Blas so we would make a morning landfall. We had averaged 176 miles a day, until we hove to. Not a bad trip, as far as I was concerned. The rest of the family would prefer to sacrifice a little speed for a lot more comfort. Hopefully their wishes will be granted in the Pacific.

At 0930, Sunday, January 10th we dropped anchor next to "CHEWINK" between two idyllic atolls of the San Blas in stunningly clear, calm waters. In a flash the kids joined the 3 Lyman boys in the water, seasickness and cross seas instantly forgotten.

We have been in the San Blas for two weeks and at last we truly feel like we are enjoying the carefree adventure of cruising as we remember it from 17 years ago.

After all the traumas of the trip so far, I am finally slowly ticking down like a tired old pocket watch someone forgot to wind. Our day consists of having breakfast, helping the kids with their school work until 11:00am, or I do some maintenance project while Kitty struggles alone to achieve discipline in the classroom with the same success as a substitute teacher back home. After chores and school, it's time for the adventure of exploring these pages out of National Geographic. We either go ashore on a nearby island, take the dinghy up a jungle river or we may spend the afternoon skin-diving on the reef for dinner.

After dinner we listen to the shortwave radio or read finally falling asleep by 9:30 or 10:00. This sure is a far cry from struggling with the Lexington Avenue I.R.T. at 5:10pm hoping that the crazy guy who just got on doesn't look at me and praying I make Grand Central in time to make the 5:24 to Rowayton, but knowing the pause between 14th street and Grand Central means I'll be on the 5:53 instead.

As I write these final pages of the first chapter of "The Great Escape of

1987", we are anchored among a small group of palm-treed atolls called the Hollandes Cays. Next to us in the anchorage is a 26 foot Swedish boat with a single-hander named Tom, who is on his second circumnavigation. It seems after two winters in Sweden the desire for a bigger boat gave way to the desire to get back to these tropical wonderlands. Ahead of us is a 30 foot sloop "ANDROS" with an English couple, Vera and Jeff. Jeff had been a professional diver on the oil rigs in the Persian Gulf and left when the shooting got out of control a year ago. Tom was a stevedore in Sweden. In this group there were no stockbrokers, no rich scions of industry, just people who like the pace and adventure of the cruising life. In other words you don't have to be rich to go cruising, you just have to want to do it.

The nearest island, 200 yards to starboard, is inhabited by a family of Cuna Indians, living in thatched huts. It is perfectly calm here at anchor even though the trade winds have been blowing a steady 15-20kts for the past few days. The Caribbean breaks in a continuous roar on the reef in front of us, yet not a ripple reaches our languishing yachts.

This morning I was ashore helping Mr. Robinson, the Cuna Indian who lives on the small two acre island with his family, repair his cayuca, a dug out sailing canoe. He wanted to remove his old mast step and move it further aft so he could fly a bigger jib. His sails are made quite literally from old flour sacks and cotton duck. Luckily it is summer vacation for the Cuna children and while his grandson, age 12, and Alex and Spencer sit in the shade whittling sailboats from palm frond stems, we wile away the afternoon learning about Cuna customs and traditions from Mr. Robinson. His English was slightly better than my Spanish, which I am trying to remember from almost 30 years ago! And which I flunked then!

Later in the afternoon we went diving, a boy on each shoulder and we got two lobsters and saw a huge Moray Eel. Swimming along with a kid on each side watching them discover the wonders of skin-diving is a truly great experience. The whole afternoon was punctuated with cries of "Look! Look! Lobster!" Both of them have become real proficient at diving and can get down and look in a hole in the coral for fish ten feet from the surface. We have yet to see our first shark, but Tom saw one yesterday, so any time now I expect they will have that experience.

Two days ago we were anchored off the Rio Ciedras, one of the Cuna village islands. The whole island can't be more than 2 or 3 acres large, but it is covered stem to stern with thatched huts with small alleyways between them to get around. There is a small basketball court in the center of the village and that makes up the village square and the school playground. The huts are low (all the Cunas are extremely small) and inside everything from pots and pans to clothes are hung over the rafters, and hammocks, the principal furniture are strung everywhere. It is impossible to see how so many people live in these small, Spartan quarters. As we walk down the alleyways we are followed by 20-30 kids, running and laughing and touching Alex and Spencer, especially their blond hair. Women peer out of the doorways holding up molas, the beautiful appliquéd blouse which they want to sell to us. Naturally we bought some, but are amazed at the inflation in price since we were here last. Fifteen years ago the best mola was $15-20, now try $200-$250! However, even at that price they are still stitching for about $.50 an hour, as a good mola takes 3 months to make.

When we got back to the boat, Alex talked about how little these people have and how simple their life is and how rich we must seem to them. This is certainly a better education than reading a Social Studies book!

In order to wash our clothes, we had to take our dinghy to the mainland and then up a jungle river to a place where the water was fresh and all the Cuna women were doing their wash. As we did our washing, there was a cayuco next to us full of dirty laundry with a woman pounding her clothes on the rocks, while the husband sat in the cayuco and watched. He kept looking at me as I was standing next to the dinghy washing our cloths and then floating them downstream for Kitty and the kids to rinse. The guy looked at me with disdain. Either he thought I was gay or I was setting a dangerously bad precedent!

I just realized you have not heard from Kitty, so she will now add her impressions of the San Blas. In the future I promise to let her contribute more to our story, for it most certainly is OUR story. We could never have gotten this far without her support and help in all aspects of planning and executing those plans, not to mention her help in sailing and maintaining the boat and keeping the crew fat, happy and contented.

Kitty:

We have just spent the last two weeks in the San Blas visiting many plantation islands (families from the village have monthly turns staying there to harvest coconuts), interspersed with village islands for mola buying and getting Cuna bread, long thin loaves for $.05 a piece which are irresistible. Our favorite anchorage is here in the Hollandes Cays, where we have been anchored off a plantation island and have made friends with a family ashore.

In the morning we have school (which really has its ups and downs!), in the afternoon the kids sail ashore in the Dyer dink by themselves and play with one of the boys, Elezier, who is 12 and speaks a little Spanish (no English), and is very bright and friendly. The kids don't talk together as much as they imitate each other. Ours taught Elezier to make potholders, braided bracelets, play with Legos and throw a Frisbee. He taught them how to use a machete to make a sailboat from a palm frond stem (they taught him to rig it through) or from half a coconut. They spent hours together sitting in the shade of palm trees, whittling, carving and then improving on what they have whittled or carved. Then surfboards come out and all 3 mess around in the water. By then, Scott and I would have been ashore talking with his grandfather, Mr. Robinson, who speaks fair English, and told us so much about the islands, their traditions, politics and religions. We bought our Mola book (a gorgeous book about the Cuna Indians, the appliquéd blouses that are called molas they hand make, and the history of the islands). Mr. R. knew many of the people in the pictures. His wife’s father is even pictured on a full page as he was a medicine man-you should have seen her face when she saw it! Tears welled up in her eyes as this was the only picture she had ever seen of him and he had recently passed away.

Honestly, we could hang around this island for 4 or 5 hours talking to the Robinsons, friends off the other yachts, or walking the beaches looking for shells.

We never get bored and neither do the kids. And what a thrill it is to see how much they are absorbing about how other people live. The San Blas are the perfect islands for their first experience of different cultures.

As relaxing as our days at this plantation island have been, ashore on village islands is exhausting! The islands are packed with thatched huts and at each one, Cuna women want to sell us a mola. Luckily there are always some men around who speak Spanish (the women only speak Cuna) and we can just barely communicate with them. At our favorite village island, Rio Ciedras, a teenage Cuna boy who we had met up one of the rivers was our official guide. After finally getting anchored with about 20 cayucos tied to us and Cunas all over the boat, Herman managed to get the crowd off the boat and then came ashore with us. We looked like the Pied Piper with kids absolutely thronging around us as Herman led us to the island's best mola maker. Molas have gotten a lot more expensive (in 1972 we paid $3-$15 for a full blouse, both sides) and now an average one is about $20, a really good one about $50 and a superior one $100 or even $200. We fell for one for $100 and after some debate, agreed to buy it. Earlier in the day we had been adding our expenses and discovered (not too surprisingly) that we are $4,000 over budget at only 3 months into the trip (tickets to St. Louis and some expensive diving equipment, wet suits, snorkels and fins for the kids and a big spear gun for Scott all added up) so at the purchase of the $100 mola, Spencer says"$4,100 and rising!". I didn't know whether to laugh of cry.

In the village islands there will sometimes be someone who speaks English, but most often we end up in someone's hut, gesturing and groping for Spanish words we learned 30 years ago to communicate. We have spent many hours in the village islands "talking" in Spanish, learning about Cunas and telling them about ourselves, and sometimes it gets a little boring for the kids since they don't understand much Spanish. So we spent most of our time in the idyllic plantation islands.

We have also been up two rivers on the mainland by dinghy and that is a real treat. The first river was near Ciedras village (where we met Hernan) and next to an airport, if you could call it that. The plane swoops down from the mountains, stopping practically in the sea. The lounge area consists of a little thatched, covered stand like a bus stop where Cunas lie in hammocks waiting for the plane. It is incongruous that they lead such simple lives on their islands, yet travel regularly (particularly the men) to Panama City for work or to sell molas in these little puddle jumpers which fly 120 miles over 2,000 ft. mountains. I'm not at all sure I'd do it!

Ciedras was a small, nice, but not particularly spectacular river, while Rio Diablo, which we went up a few days later, was gorgeous. It was wider with lush growth, bright flowers, palm trees and beautiful birds. We got drinking water (which we used for showers) and there was even a little rapids where the kids rode their surfboards. We also visited a traditional cemetery where they build lean-tos over shallow mud graves, hanging pots and pans (and whatever else the deceased might need) from the roof.

Tomorrow we leave for Panama and the Canal and hopefully a lot of mail, as this is our first mail stop. In Panama we will not only transit the Great Path Between the Seas, but provisions for our trek across the Pacific, as it will be 3 or 4 months before we can restock in Papeete, Tahiti. It will also be our next mail port and we would love to hear from all of you.

THE GREAT ESCAPE

CHAPTER II

PANAMA THROUGH MARQUESAS

The last newsletter ended as we were about to leave the San Blas Islands for the Panama Canal some 75 miles away. It is at that point where I shall start Chapter 2 of the" Great Escape".

At 0630 Monday, January 25th, we raised our anchor and in the first rays of the morning light made our way past the protecting reef of Chichime Cay, in the San Blas islands off the north coast of Panama. We stuck our nose back out into the blue Caribbean and sailed all day on a beam reach about 2 miles off the Panama coast. We used our radar to determine our exact position from the shore because we wanted to sail inside of an unmarked reef 2 1/2 miles offshore. Soon we spotted the reef breaking 1/2 mile to the north and slipped safely between it and the mainland.

By noon we had passed Isla Grande and we then turned south to Porto Bello. The wind was a perfect 20kts out of the north and we had been flying all day at 7 knots. We finally dropped anchor at 1630 off the old fort at Porto Bello, after a great day's sail.

After the uniqueness of the San Blas, Porto Bello seemed somewhat drab. At one time it had been the main port of the New World, from which most of the gold from Central America was shipped back to Europe. Now nothing remained of its past greatness except the ruins of the old fort and a beautiful old white church with brightly painted icons.

The rest of the now small town is run down and the streets are littered with groups of worn old men passing the time playing dominoes. It looked as though there was 100 percent unemployment and those few shops that were open seemed to be staffed by women, who sold old canned goods, some not-so-fresh vegetables and bread. However, everyone was pleasant and flashed a friendly "Buenos dias" as we walked by. Within an hour we had seen the whole town, bought bread and were back on the boat making dinner.

The next day was an easy 18 mile run to Colon. Two miles off the breakwater I called Harbor Control on Channel 12 on the VHF. A voice came back instructing me to proceed to a place called the flats, a designated anchorage for yachts just before the actual entrance to the Canal and a 1/2 mile dinghy ride to the customs dock.

There were about 25 ships anchored outside the breakwater and another 15 anchored in the harbor itself, all waiting to transit the Canal to the Pacific. It was fun identifying their colorful flags and exotic home ports. We felt like a little mouse winding our way through a herd of sleeping behemoths.

As we made our way to the flats, we saw another yacht already at the anchor. To our surprise it was an old friend, Mark Scott, on his 38 foot sloop 'LONE RIVAL". Mark and I raced against each other several times in the Newport-Bermuda Single-handed Race.

Once we got settled in the blustery anchorage, I took the dinghy ashore where I cleared customs and got permission to bring "TAMURE" to the Panama Canal Yacht Club, which we did. I then spent the rest of the day running around getting the necessary paper work done for the canal transit. First, I went to the Port Captain with my papers from Immigration and Customs and arranged for an admeasurer to come down and measure the boat to determine the fee we would be charged for the transit. Next I called the manager of the Pedro Miguel Yacht Club, located just after the first down lock and received permission to stay there for a week during our transit. With a letter from him in hand, along with the results of the admeasure and $105, I walked back to the Port Captains' office to finish the paper work. Finally we were assigned a pilot to take us through the canal on Thursday.

While running around between the different offices in Cristobal I couldn't help noticing the changes that had taken place since our first transit 16 years ago in our 30 foot ketch "BEBINKA". Back then, before Jimmy Carter gave the Canal and the Canal Zone to Panama, the Americans still had total control and the Zone was in fact American territory. Everything in the American section, including the town of Cristobal was neat, scrubbed, trimmed, painted and purified. It was a model place to live and work. Colon, only just across the railroad tracks in Panama, was dirty and run-down. Going from Cristobal to Colon was like crossing 96th Street: one side of the tracks rich Americans live in splendor, on the other side, Harlem. Today with the Panamanians in charge of everything, Cristobal has become run down with pot holes, peeling paint and total neglect. Now crossing the tracks is like going from Harlem to East Harlem.

Thursday morning at 0800 our pilot arrived to take us through the Canal. In addition to the pilot, we had to arrange for four line handlers to be aboard to assist us. Mark Scott and two other yachtsmen waiting to take their own boats through came along for the experience. Two university students from England, bumming around the world looking for adventure, made up the rest of our crew.

With the required line-handlers, four 100 foot lengths of line and our pilot, we left the dock and headed for the first of the three locks that would raise us up a total of 81 feet to Gatun Lake. The pilot then informed us that we would tie alongside a tug while in the locks--a mistake that almost turned into a tragedy.

As we approached, the big doors of the lock slowly opened. The huge locking teeth on the edge of each door made it seem as though we were being devoured by a giant monster. Once inside the lock, we rafted to the waiting tug. A freighter was already in front of the tug. No sooner had the gates closed when the water all around us began to boil, turning the filling lock into a giant cauldron. We strained and pulled against the lines as the whirlpools of swirling water tried to pull us loose from our grip on the tug.

Finally, the water level had risen 27 feet and the gate at the front end opened to the second of the three locks. That's when tragedy almost struck. The tug captain, at a command from the lockmaster to hurry up, threw his engines in forward and took off at 10-11 knots with us still tied alongside. Our hull speed is only 7.2 knots and consequently he literally was dragging us under. We were at a 45 degree heel and our lee decks were awash. Everything was under so much strain that the lines were singing and smoking. I was paralyzed with fear. I was sure something would break. Either the decks would pull off, or one of the winches that the lines were secured to would break off, flying through the air with the velocity of a cannon shot and go right through one of our crew. Frankly, at that point, I almost wished one would go through the bridge of the tug.

When we got to the next lock, I was raving mad and made the pilot go up to the bridge of the tug and tell the captain no more than 6 knots to the next lock. He did so and the rest of the lockage was uneventful. We even had a beautiful motor sail across Gatun Lake. As night fell, we were tied up just after the first down lock at Pedro Miguel Yacht Club. I found it interesting and exciting that we were the only vessel in the lock as we were lowered to the small lake between the Pedro Miguel and Miraflores locks where the yacht club is located.

Every day of the next week, we either took a bus or got a ride into Panama City in pursuit of the last minute supplies and spare parts that we needed before our long trek across the South Pacific. After Panama City, it would be four to five months before Tahiti, the next place we would be able to re-supply.

Rumors flew throughout our stay in Panama that General Noriega was about to step down and that even if he didn't there might be riots in the city. Luckily, there were no riots while we were there even though Noriega never gave up power. However, about two weeks after we had left, the banks all closed down, as well as the supermarkets, so the unfortunate yachts behind us could not get any money or re-provision.

Fortunately, we had no such problems and finally all the things on our many lists were checked off. Thank God, for we could not fit another thing on board! Our water and fuel tanks were topped off, a fresh stalk of bananas hung from our radar pole and the inflatable dinghy was rolled up and stowed below. It was time to move on to the South Pacific.

The locks were relatively easy and by late afternoon we were powering out of the last lock. At sunset, we dropped our hook off an island at the end of the causeway marking the beginning(or the end, depending on which way you look at it) of the channel leading to the Canal.

There was one large house on the island whose lights guided us to the anchorage as the sun had just gone down and the tropical dusk had quickly turned to an ink black, moonless night. As soon as we were settled, a speedboat came by with 3 heavily armed men in street clothes. I panicked at the prospect of being boarded by this band of desperadoes. When they flashed a spotlight in my eyes and demanded to know what we were doing there, I was a bit nervous to say the least. I explained we were just seeking a place to anchor for the night and that combined with the appearance of Alex and Spencer, seemed to mollify them. They spoke amongst themselves for a moment and then informed me in no uncertain terms that we must leave at first light in the morning. We learned later that Noriegas' weekend retreat was on that island and the desperadoes were his special bodyguards!

The next day we left at dawn and had a beautiful sail forty miles into the Bay of Panama to Contadora, a resort island made famous by the Shah of Iran when he was exiled there from 1979-80. It had been a beautiful but tiny island retreat for rich Panamanians and Europeans. However, in the past few years, the island has gone to seed. Some obviously expensive houses are boarded up and one street through the center of town is filled with pot holes. It speaks more of wealth that once was than of what is.

After two days of playing on the beautiful beach at Contradora, we sailed to

Isla San Jose, the southern most of the Perlas Islands. We had heard that a German couple were homesteading there and had quite a well stocked vegetable garden. When we sailed into what we later called "Dieters' Bay", we came across a modern day Robinson Crusoe.

It was late afternoon by the time we were securely settled. A slight swell found its way around the point and past the huge rock formation that stands 250 feet high looking like a giant tiki guarding the entrance to the bay. The last of the sun's rays were bathing the anchorage in brilliant orange tones and reflected off two round spots on the tiki, creating eyes that appeared to be gazing past us to the hill beyond, as if that were some hallowed ground.

There were two other boats already in the bay. Actually, I should say another yacht and the remains of what was once a small steel sailboat but now looked like a barely floating rust bucket with two sticks as masts, no sails and enough weed and grass clinging to its hull to make me think it had rooted itself to the bottom.

The next day we took the dinghy ashore, which necessitated making a "wet landing". We surfed the dinghy through the two foot breakers to the beach, then jumped out knee deep in water to wade ashore, pulling the dinghy behind us before the next wave could come and swamp us. We walked up the beach to a small clearing at the edge of the jungle and sat down on a log to put on our shoes. From out of nowhere appeared a scrawny little man who looked like Ben Gun, the crazy pirate who had been marooned on Treasure Island for 23 years by Long John Silver.

He stood there with an impish little smile, half covered by a white scraggly beard, wearing a pair of shorts the Salvation Army would have refused. In a scratchy, high pitched voice exactly like Ben Guns', he half squealed, half giggled "Welcome to El Paradiso". This was Dieter!

Dieter and his wife Gerta are the owners of the rust bucket. They had come to the island 5 years ago and with the permission of the owner had miraculously hacked a garden out of the impenetrable jungle, living all the while completely off the land. He told me they even eat the island rats they catch in their traps. According to Dieter they are very good and an excellent source of protein!

Dieter took us on a tour of his garden plantation where they had, just the two of them and using only crude tools, cleared 4-5 acres of the tenacious jungle. After several years of back breaking work, they were now growing papaya, bananas, pineapple, cabbage, taro, oranges, limes, yucca and sorrell, with which they make El Paradiso wine. He and Gerta supplement their fruit & vegetable diet with eggs from their flock of chickens, fresh fish, iguana, and of course, the rats. Add to this a fresh water stream fed by an upland spring and there you have it.....El Paradiso!

At the end of our tour Dieter proposed a hike the next day to show us more of the island but warned warned us to wear long pants and shoes. Early the next morning we met Dieter and Gerta on the beach, along with the 4 kids and 2 adults on CHEWINK, who were also in the harbor. Dieters' long pants looked like the ones worn by the homeless people in Grand Central, except they were clean--his shoes were no better. But his enthusiasm, his optimism and the twinkle in his eye were the complete antithesis of those poor discards of society. Here was somebody in tune with his environment and in love with life. He was never without a smile. Dieters' hat had a flap sewn on the back which gave him the appearance of a cast-off from the French Foreign Legion. The old rusty shotgun he carried completed the illusion.

We trotted off into the jungle single file, following our "Great White Hunter". First we climbed to the top of a hill, "Dieters' Lookout, where we could see our boats serenely at anchor. Further on he brought the procession to a sudden halt and motioned us to keep still. He listened for a moment and then snuck off while we stood in silence on the trail. A minute later-BOOM followed by a second-BOOM!. Dieter reappeared promptly with a proud grin and holding two dead iguanas by the tail for all to admire.

An hour later, all hot and sweaty, we came out of the jungle to a beautiful white beach, whereupon our host and hostess stripped off their clothes and ran for the water. "When in Rome..." I said, as did CHEWINKS' crew. Knowing Kitty’s modesty, to say nothing of Alex and Spencer’s, I wondered what they would do. To my surprise all three were wearing bathing suits under their clothes. It was the first co-ed nude swim the boys had experienced and I was dying to know what was going through their heads at that moment!

We got back to the beach in the afternoon and Dieter roasted the iguanas over a fire, while Gerta fried plantains and sliced just picked papaya for a salad. This combined with fried rice and cole slaw that Kitty and Heidi produced made a real feast. Even the boys tried the iguana, which tasted like chicken and the iguana eggs, which were all yolk and quite pungent.

Later that afternoon Dieter came to us with a book written by friends who had circumnavigated in the early '70's with us. It was a very popular book amongst the German sailing community and had a picture of Beate, the German author, and Kitty and two other wives. Dieter pointed at the picture and said "You! For 7 years I dream of meeting these girls and now here is one in my bay!" whereupon he did a little dance and went over and kissed Kitty.

We stayed in Dieters' Bay for almost a week before heading off for the Galapagos, 1,000 miles away. Early on our departure morning we rowed around to the other 3 boats (including Dieters') that were still in the harbor to say goodbye. When we picked up our anchor and raised our sails, they all tooted their horns to wish us a good voyage.

Once out in the Bay of Panama we were really on our way. It was 5,000 miles downwind to Papeete, Tahiti, the first port where we could re-supply or find a machine shop to assist in major repairs if it became necessary. To turn around and beat our way back to Panama would be all but impossible.

Fortunately, the six day passage to Wreck Bay, Galapagos, was a dream. Everyday there was a light breeze with absolutely flat seas. We seemed to be gliding across the ocean. The kids were able to do school and read and Kitty cooked gourmet meals and I washed the dishes. The following is an excerpt from my log:

"I am writing while on watch here at latitude 1` 32'N, longitude 84` 12'W., the time is now 2100 hours. Kitty is in the aft cabin trying to get some sleep. Alex and Spencer, who cannot sleep, are reading in their bunks in the main cabin. The wind died at 1500 as it has for each of the last 3 nights and we are therefore under power. I do not like to wallow around in a big pond that heaves and sighs and rolls around like one giant dish of jello. Besides, the batteries need charging. We are heading south even though our course to The Galapagos is actually 245 degrees. By doing so I hope to pick up the southerlies that the Pilot Charts say is closer to the equator, as well as the strong south west flowing Humboldt Current."

So far this passage is a sailor's dream. The sea is almost flat calm even when there is wind. Most of today we were on a close reach doing 5-6 kts in 10-12kts of apparent wind. The salon table was up and Alex and I played chess. Alex beat me! Kitty made banana bread from the last of our ripe bananas.

On the passage from Puerto Rico to San Blas, the kids, especially Alex, were sick most of the time and I kept asking myself if this was all fair to them. This trip neither one has shown the slightest sea sickness, but in fact have gotten into a beautiful routine of reading, drawing, playing Legos, listening to music and book tapes, playing cards or chess, making everything from paper airplanes to shell necklaces and even doing the evening dishes.

If all goes well, tomorrow, the boys will be meeting King Neptune as they are initiated into the "Order of Shellbacks" on the occasion of their first crossing of the equator. Kitty and I have been scheming on what to do for them-- whatever it is, it should be fun!"

We crossed the equator at approximately 11pm that night. Early the next morning, I was on deck, wrapped in a sheet like a toga. I had a paper crown on my head, shaving cream for a beard and my spear gun for a trident. I blew the foghorn and yelled for the kids to come up on deck. They stood in front of me while I read them a proclamation initiating them into the Order of Shellbacks and doused them with a bucketful of Southern Hemisphere sea water.

When we arrived in Wreck Bay on San Cristobal Island, Galapagos, five other yachts were in the harbor, including CHEWINK who had left Dieters' 2 days before us and a steel sloop from Canada named WINDWOMAN, who had two children, a boy aged 7 and a girl aged 10. That made 6 kids between 7 and 11 years old--Alex and Spencer were ecstatic!

Even though we had tried for the past 9 months to obtain a cruising permit from the Ecuadorian Government in Quito, we, as well as all the other yachts in the harbor had been unsuccessful. The problem we were faced with was how to stay longer than the official 72 hours allotted a sailing yacht that did not have the official permit. Yankee ingenuity and a con act perfected by 12 years as a stockbroker, enabled us to turn 3 days into nearly 3 weeks! While we would have preferred twice that amount of time, we did get to see a lot of the islands and did things we had not done the first time through in 1972.

However, not knowing how long we could stay we had to put every minute to good use. On our second day in Wreck bay we chartered, along with WINDWOMAN and a German couple from another boat, a fishing boat and the necessary guide to take a trip to Espanola, 35 miles away. The island is a breeding ground for albatross and blue footed boobies and also has large colonies of beautiful rust colored marine iguanas and charming sea lions. The animals have absolutely no fear of humans and we were able to stand literally 3 feet away from a pair of boobies executing a mating dance, completely oblivious to camera shutters clicking around them.

The first extension to our official 3 days came when Spencer developed a fever along with diarrhea, throwing up and chills, and the Navy doctor to whom we took him notified the Port Captain that we should not leave until Spencer was better. Peter, off WINDWOMAN, used the argument that his kids were friends of ours and therefore he should be allowed to stay too. To our amazement, the Port Captain shrugged and said "OK!" He must have gotten up on the right side of the bed that morning, there was no rhyme or reason as to why he let some boats stay and why some had to leave after 3 days.

Thankfully, Spencer was much better the day after, but everyone in town knew he had been sick and asked about him. He was a celebrity.

Each night while we were in Wreck Bay we ate dinner out, mostly at Cecelia's, because it was cheaper than eating on board, at least that was the argument the wives used. Cecelia's was only $3 per person and was the local gathering place for the yachties because it was suggested by the Port Captain, and since we all wanted to be to be on his good side we made a point of eating there. We soon got to like Cecelia, her husband Vincente and 12 year old son very much. When we were ready to leave, it was thanks to Vincente plus a carton of cigarettes, that we were allowed to go to Academy Bay on Santa Cruz for one day.

Once in Academy Bay we were able to talk that Port Captain into giving us an extra day or so to go to an inland village where we were able to rent horses and a guide and visit a tortoise reserve looking for the famous Galapagos Tortoise. The trip, which had been suggested by CHEWINK who had to move on ahead of us due to their earlier arrival in the islands, was undoubtedly the highlight of our Galapagos stay for the boys. They were a bit apprehensive at first, never having been on a horse alone before. However, the momentum of events found them astride crude wooden saddles with rough rope reins in their clenched fists before their fear could take over. Trotting down the narrow path the kids gained confidence and were transformed from knee-shaking dudes to rough riding cowboys with the bravado of rodeo stars.

We rode for 3-4 miles down the mountain along a stone studded narrow trail. The horses were incredibly sure footed, thank God. Finally we came to wild underbrush and swamp grass taller than our heads even though we were on horseback. After half an hour of making our own path through the wilderness, we dismounted and went on foot another 100 yards as silently as possible. We were rewarded by finding a dozen of the huge Galapagos Tortoises, slowly eating and plodding through the brush. They were huge, some almost as big as a VW Beetle. The guide informed us that one was perhaps 200 years old. We imagined him being born when our founding fathers were signing the Declaration of Independence. An awesome thought! How the rest of the world has changed in their lifetime and yet here the tortoises were, foraging over the same ground and swamp in exactly the same way they had done 200 years ago.

To get back to the boat from Santa Rosa, we had to hitch a ride in the back of a pickup truck. We were a little gun shy because while coming down from a crater lake on San Cristobal several days before we witnessed a terrible accident with just such a truck. The driver had swerved to miss another car and the truck flipped over, the people and contents were thrown out all over the dirt road. Glass was everywhere and people were lying all over, crying, screaming and bleeding. We stopped and emptied our truck so our guide could take all the injured to the hospital, where one woman reportedly died later. We were a sober group of yachties walking the rest of the way to Wreck Bay. But we needn't have worried because our drive was peaceful down from Santa Rosa to Academy Bay.

Then our two days in Academy Bay were up and Peter and I had to check out. The first thing I asked the Port Captain was where we could get diesel, already knowing it was only available in Baltra, 45 miles away. When he said there was no diesel in Academy Bay, I asked if Baltra might have some and if so, could we have permission to go there. To our surprise he said yes, and voila...another few days in the Galapagos!

It took us a leisurely two days sailing to get there, and the Baltra Port Captain allowed us 3 days to take on fuel and rest Kitty’s back which was bothering her. But then we really had to leave the Galapagos; there was no way to officially stay. However, there was a way to unofficially stay and that was to find a secluded bay and hide out from the authorities and the tour boats. I had just the perfect place! On my chart of Isabella Island I had noticed a small bay on the east side which did not appear to be a stop on any of the tour boat routes. That was important because the guides on the tours would inform the authorities, i.e. the Ecuadorian Navy, of any boats anchored in the Galapagos without the necessary permit and guide.

We and WINDWOMAN got our clearance papers for leaving the Galapagos to go to Hiva Oa in the Marquesas. Instead, we sailed into a small cove in Cartago Bay where we were hidden by mangrove trees from anyone passing by on the outside. A day later we were joined by Lyn and Margaret on JOURNEY, who we had been in touch with on the radio, and there we stayed for four more days. We snorkeled, swam, fished, socialized and explored the vast lava flows surrounding the cove. We got the boats organized for the next passage; I made a repair to the roller furling amongst other odd jobs and Kitty went on a shopping spree in our aft cabin locker, which is enormous and alone holds 3 months of food. Accessible main cabin lockers were replenished, the Avon was deflated and stowed while the Dyer sailing dinghy was raised up on deck and lashed, the forward cabin once again became a sail locker.

Finally, on Tuesday, March 8th, we were psyched and ready to go. The three boats timidly emerged from our hiding place-we did not want to get caught just as we were finally leaving-and headed for the open ocean and French Polynesia, 3,085 miles away.

The following excerpts from my log tell the story of that voyage:

"Wed., March 16th, 9:37am:

We have been out at sea for 8 days and if we maintain our present rate of

progress, it will be 11-12 more days before we get to Hiva Oa, our first

island in the South Pacific. Life here on our foot universe has settled into a

real routine. The sun comes up at 6am, we start to get up at 7am and by 8

Kitty is thinking about breakfast. I have already been out on the deck to

check the course, sails and rigging. I also check the deck for any flying

fish that may have boarded during the night. Alex and Spencer are usually

into a book.

At exactly 8am we turn on the ham radio and the morning natter hour

begins. There are five other yachts in our group, scattered over a four hundred

mile stretch of ocean. We all left the Galapagos at approximately the same time

and this is our party line gab session to break feeling of isolation here on such a

small yacht in the middle of such a large expanse of ocean.

At first we each give our position and local weather conditions so that

those behind us can anticipate the coming weather. Then we talk the same

nonsense that every 7th grader discusses on the family phone each afternoon,

or evening, after school, except our nonsense covers such topics as

WINDWOMAN'S engine trouble, recipes or even corny jokes.

Breakfast is served about 9, usually consisting of toasted homemade

bread with eggs and melted cheese on top, powdered milk or juice and the odd

flying fish unlucky enough to land on our deck. After breakfast, I do the dishes

while we run the engine to cool the fridge and charge the batteries. I have just

finished the dishes(done in sea water and liquid Joy). Kitty and the kids are on

deck playing a peg game requiring strategy a bit more complex than checkers.

In half an hour, about 10am, school starts. Kitty teaches English, spelling

and reading and I become a math, geography and science professor. At noon

we normally break for lunch and recess and at 2pm school starts again with

Alex and Spencer switching places so that the one who was learning math on

deck with me now studies English with Kitty. After school the boys and Kitty

pick up their books and read for pleasure, while I may do some boat

maintenance chore. Alex has been reading at least 100 pages a day and has

gone through almost all his books and is now reading "Tales of the South

Pacific", by James Michener.

The evening radio schedule starts at 4pm, after which Kitty starts dinner.

The weather has been so nice that we usually eat on deck watching the sun set

over the western horizion. By 8:30 the kids are in bed and Kitty and I start our

alternate watches until 6am, when it starts all over again.

The fact that the kids are able to do school while at sea underscores the

most impportant aspect of this passage. Both boys have gotten their sea legs.

Neither one has suffered in the least from seasickness. Even though the motion

is better than the Caribbean trip, it is not without the odd dish flying across the

cabin as an occasional wave slams against our side.

The weather has been mostly overcast with a SSE wind, 12-18 kts, and a 5

foot sea. Our course is just south of west, therefore the wind and sea are just aft

the beam. Yesterday absolutely beautiful, sunny skies and sparkling seas. At

8pm last night Kitty had gone to bed, while Alex, Spencer and I stayed on deck

marvelling at the profusion of bright stars dancing across the sky. It looked as if

God was waving a giant sparkler over our heads. As we sat there staring up at

the heavens, the discussion turned to how vast the universe is, the fact that there

is no end to it and how small we are in relation to it all. Spencer then wondered

how it all began and we talked about who God is and how every society from

ancient times has had its gods to answer the same question. We concluded that

God was responsible for the order of things, the laws of nature so to speak, for

surely everything on our earth works so well and so harmoniously with every-

thing else that it must all be part of a grand design, as opposed to being just a

random event. I am always amazed at how much our kids comprehend. They

are surely getting as much out of this voyage as we are.

Fri. March 18th: Halfway this morning after 10 days at sea. I hope

we have only 10 more days, or less.

We have been making good time averaging approximately 160 miles a day,

although we have made that speed at some sacrifice to comfort. Today

the motion has been terrible. The day started out with the coffee pot full of

fresh coffee grinds(luckily no water in yet) flying across the galley and

grinds ending up all over the floor. The wind and sea have come slightly

more on the beam and the sea has become more lumpy in the last

week. Just like the Caribbean passage.

In the morning I made a fiddle for the top of the fridge so that we can now

put pots, bowls, etc.. down when on a port tack and not have them flying

across the cabin. That took about 2 hours.

The motion is starting to get to us today. I wonder sometimes why we do

this. Right now I think about you people reading this newsletter while sitting

at a desk, or in your favorite chair, thatdoesn't move. Oh joy! And hot

showers and clean sheets every night. Oh well, tomorrow is bound

to improve and we are making good time. This afternoon, in celebration of

the halfway point, and because I especially began to smell like Limburger

cheese, we all took a fresh water shower and put clean sheets on our

bunks. Back at home we take these things for granted, but out here,

where they are not readily available, its amazing how much joy a simple

thing can bring.

Tonight Kitty will make baked chicken for dinner from our small stash of

frozen meats. Even though we have a freezer, we only took enough frozen

meat for 6-8 meals, to be used mostly fortreats. We did not want to be put in

the position that the family on WINDWOMAN is in. The second day out they

lost their engine and of course, without it , their freezer and all their frozen

food--$200 worth of meat over the side!

A couple of days ago on the afternoon sched., Bob on RHODORA told us

that the trip from the Galapagos to the Marquesas was the same distance

as a trip from Boston to a point 600 miles west of San Francisco. Every

afternoon he plots our progress across the USA and reports where each

boat is. Yesterday we were 75 miles west of Omaha, Nebraska!

Mon., March 21st: Perfect trade wind sailing for the past two days.

Hope it holds for the rest of the trip. Our twice daily radio chats are getting

longer and longer; this morning we talked for 1 hour and 10 mins. It's hell

on the batteries but swell on the entertainment.

One thing that is apparent from this trip is that, eventhough we come from

different walks of life, the common trait we all have is a certain

self-reliance. When something breaks, as it always does, we just "have at

it", as Brian the Kiwi on BOUNDER, one of the five boats in the group, says.

For example, two days ago Brian pulled apart his transmission and

replaced one of the bearings, all the while rolling around at sea. Peter on

WINDWOMAN also took apart his engine, but unfortuantely he did not have

the necessary parts to fix it. But thanks to my SSB radio, I made a call to

Canada for him and got a friend who is coming to meet him in Hiva Oa and

bring with him the parts he needs. On TAMURE I've been lucky only to

have had to make a repair on our stove and on the windvane self steering."

By Wednesday morning, March 23rd, it looked like we might be able to

make it in 19 days. However, right after breakfast the wind died. On this whole

trip so far, from St. Thomas to here, the trades have never really settled in like

they're supposed to. It's probably due to the depletion of the ozone layer or

some other man-made phenomena. No matter what the reason for the wind

dying, in response I put up the spinnaker but had to take it down five hours later

when I noticed a tear in the foot. Our speed continued to drop off and on Friday

we had only made 113 miles. Even though the wind picked up again on

Saturday, our hoped for 19 days was dashed. Still at 20 days we made the

fastest time in our group by a full day and only CHEWINK, at 49 feet, was able to

do it in less time. They took 19 days.

Sure enough at dawn, Monday, March 28th, I saw the moutainous island of Hiva

Oa about 20 miles away.At hearing me yell "Land Ho!", Kitty and the kids rushed

on deck to get their first glimpse of land in 20 days. It was a beautiful sight. We

sailed into the harbor of Atuona, where there were already about 10 other yachts

crowding the small anchorage area. We dropped the hook at 11am, after having

sailed 3.083 miles in 20 days, 2 hours, for 153 mile per day average, 6.4 kts.

over the ground. Not bad!

In a letter to a friend, Alex described the twenty days at sea by saying,"Go into

your room, shut the door,paint the walls blue and sit in a rocking chair and rock

back and forth for 3 weeks"

After 20 days of nothing but blue skies and blue water to look at and sweaty

bodies to smell, the lush green foilage bursting with red and white frangipani

assaulted my dulled senses.

As soon as the sail covers were on and the lines coiled, we launched the dinghy to go ashore, clear in with immigration and customs, pick up our mail and get ice cream. It was a mile to town and when we started to walk we looked like 4 drunken sailors because we were so used to the rocking boat we could barely stand on firm ground, which seemed to be rocking beneath our feet. Luckily we soon got a ride. Within an hour we had cleared in with the Gendarme, posted the required $800 per person bond (which will be refunded upon leaving French Polynesia), received 3 month visas for the boat and ourselves and found the ice cream store($.50 a scoop - the size of a golf ball).

Even though Atuona has grown considerably since our last visit 16 years ago, it still makes a rural Vermont village look like a thriving metropolis by comparison. There are 3 general stores, a bank (with only one employee), a Gendarmerie, a bakery and a post office. As we were walking down the only street in town licking our microscopic ice cream cones, I saw another yachtie coming towards us. When we got closer I had a strange feeling I had seen this woman before. A short conversation proved I had! The last time I had seen Harriet Rogers was 2 years ago on the railroad platform at Rowayton station. She had grown up in Darien, lived in Rowayton and commuted to New York on the 7:05 before moving to California, marrying and setting sail on their small sloop FREELANCE to cruise the Pacific. Talk about a small world!

After a week in Atuona, we sailed to Fatu Hiva, about 45 miles south. Fatu Hiva

is the epitome of the primitive South Pacific island paradise. Thor Heyerdahl

found it so fascinating that he and his new wife spent a year there living with the

natives back in the 1930's. It is also one of the few islands that probably has not

changed since our last trip.

Hana Vave is small, only about 1/4 mile at the head, and is open to the ocean

to the west. The trades came in as they should while we were there and blew

consistently from the NE toSE, so we were in the lee with very little swell rolling

into the anchorage. Rock walls on each side of the bay rise up 40-50 feet and

then for the next 300-400 feet sprout coconut palms with long skinny trunks,

topped by a mop of shiny vivid green fronds, waving a friendly salutation. Above

the palms the sides rise another 500 feet in vertical walls covered here and there

with light green foliage but dominated by the grey and black spires whose faces

have been etched by Mother Nature into features resembling ancient idols

lookind down on the boats at anchor.

At the end of the bay there is a black, sandy beach ringed by a white lace

collar of surf. Nestled behind the beach is a small village with a few white

buildings, each with a shiny red roof that adds the only color other than various

hues of greens and browns of the rock and fauna. The most prominent building is

the Catholic Church, with its white spire and red roof visible just under the tops of

the palm trees. Behind the village a valley winds its way back into the island

between a sheer rock face over 1,500 feet tall on the left and equally high spires

of jagged rock on the right. At the very back of the valley, a mountain rises 2,690

feet with buttresses on either side looking like arms embracing the valley, the

village and the bay. It is truly a spectacular sight.

One day the people from the two other yachts in the bay and ourselves hiked

about 2 miles up the valley to a waterfall. The last 3/4 mile the hike was through

thick underbrush alonside a stream, laughing its way down through the boulders

and rapids to the bay at the mouth of the valley. As we worked our way upstream,

we passed old ruins that spoke of a time when these islands were teeming with

happy, healthy Polynesians; but that was before European sailing vessels

brought terrible diseases that decimated the population.

As we made our way further upstream, a low roar began to emerge over the

gurgling of the rapids.The roar grew louder until we finally broke through the bush

into a clearing and stood looking straight up 500 feet of sheer rock with a torrent

of white water cascading down its face to a pool in front of us. We all stripped to

our bathing suits and jumped into the ice cold water for a refreshing bath.

On the way back we stopped to climb a few orange trees alonside the path and

picked handfulls of huge, ripe fruit to quench our thirsts. We also picked up a few

brown coconuts from the ground and when we got back to the boat we husked

them and fried the meat in oil and salt. The result was salty, sweet coconut bits

that we munched with our rum and Tang cocktails as we sat in the cockpit

watching the sun go down, throwing its last rays of orange light over the cliffs and

mountains of the valley.

That Sunday, April 10th, we rolled out of our bunks a bit earlier than

usual so that we could dress, have breakfast and be ashore by 7:45am. The

whole town of Hana Vave is Catholic and we were invited to go to the Sunday

morning service. The boys and I were dressed in long pants and bright shirts

and Kitty had on her pink sun dress. As we walked up the road from the dinghy

landing, all one hundred people in the village were converging on the church.

The men were also dressed in long pants and Hawaiian shirts, with shower

thongs on their feet, and the women wore colorful sundresses and sandals,

except for the oldest women of the village who appeared in bare feet.

At 8am the bells rang and everyone filed into the church.The pews were

austere wooden benches that reminded me of the Chapel at South Kent, the

Episcopal Secondary School I attended. In front was a crucifix carved out of

wood. The Christ looked distinctly Marquesan with strong, broad calves and

muscular back and shoulders. As soon as everyone was inside, the Priest, who

was also the Gendarme and the Mayor, walked down the aisle to the altar.

Then the whole congregation began the most beautiful singing I have ever

heard. It was all in Marquesan and was more beautiful than the Gregorian

chanting I had once heard as a boy, while visiting an Episcopal monastery.

Certainly this music was more melodious and much happier than the solemnity

of the monastery. One woman with an especially strong voice was the lead and

everyone else joined right after her. The women sang the melody and the men

the harmony; the singing was loud and full as everyone in the church joined in

with zeal. Most of the service was sung in this way--it was beautiful and

moving.

Everyone, regardless of age was in attendance. One little girl about 4 years

old in the pew in front of us was obviously tired for as we were all kneeling, she

fell sound asleep with her head on the pew in front of her and her body slumped

on the kneeling pad. Here she slept, mouth open for the rest of the service.

Most of the anchorages in the Marquesas are relatively open to the ocean swell

and therefore taking the dinghy ashore usually involved a wet landing. The

absolute wettest was on the beach at Hana Menu, a cove on the north side of

Hiva Oa. We had stayed there for a week on our first trip and fondly remembered

the fresh water pool near the beach which was fed by a beautiful waterfall and

surrounded by tropical flowers. There we would bathe and do laundry.

One day while we were ashore doing laundry, the swell had become

especially bad causing large breakers on the beach. To get back to the boat we

had to launch the rubber inflatable, filled with clean laundry between breakers,

all jump in and paddle like an Olympic rowing crew to get beyond the surf line

before the next breaker came. Apparently we paddled like a bunch of school

kids because just as we got to the surf line, a huge comber arrived at the same

time and for a moment we were trying to paddle straight up a wall of water. The

next thing I saw was water everywhere as we rolled backwards and were half

drowned in the surf. The dinghy and our camera, locked securely in its bright

yellow water-tight floating case, washed up on the beach before us. The laundry

however diasppeared into the clutches of the ocean never to be seen again.

Not one piece! We were only able to reach TAMURE by having the boys swim

their surfboards out through the surf in order to reduce the weight in the dinghy.

From Hana Menu we made an overnight sail to Taiohae Bay, on the island of

Nuku Hiva, where we renewed an old friendship with Maurice McKittrick, owner

of "Maurice's General Store." Maurice is half British and half Marquesan. His

father, trader Bob McKittrick, had come to the Marquesas before WWI,

established a trading store and married a local girl.

Maurice's store has been a mecca for yachties for years and on our first trip

Kitty and I and two other yachties painted a mural of Nuku Hiva on one of the

walls of the store. Over the picture of the island we inscribed "Taiohae Bay

Yacht Club". We spent many evenings there enjoying Hinano Beer and

admiring our artwork. The mural is still there 16 years later, although Maurice

now uses that room for his living quarters.

Maurice remembered us and one night came out to the boat for dinner to

reminisce about old times. Maurice is now 69, but his memory is incredible.

Stories of all the yachts from many years ago were told as if they happened

yesterday. He showed us his guest book, which we had signed so long ago,

complete with a picture of BEBINKA and including a short history of ourselves

and our trip. He said he no longer keeps a guest book as there are too many

yachts now days. About 150 will visit the Marquesas this year versus the nine

that signed his book in 1972. This profusion of yachts has destroyed some of

the intimacy between the yachties and the locals. There are just too many boats

for the locals to be friendly with each one. Yachties don't seem to seek out the

locals as much either, for as Maurice was climbing aboard TAMURE he

mentioned that it was the first time in 4 years he had been invited to someone's

yacht for dinner.

Another "must stop" on our wanderings through the Marquesas was a place

known to the yachties, and even on some charts, as "Daniel's Bay". The correct

name is Taioa Bay, or even more precisely, the part of the bay we anchored in

is Hakatea. But to most yachties, it is simply Daniel's Bay, named after the

woodcarver who lives there and who has befriended most of us passing

through.

Back in 1972 we spent almost two weeks with four other yachts in the bay,

hiking up the valley to the waterfall, going on a pig hunt with Daniel and having

an old fashioned pig roast on the beach . We were looking forward to seeing

Daniel and his wife Antoinette again to renew that friendship.

Incredibly, nothing had changed in the bay and as we sailed in it was like going

back in time 16 years. The only change turned out to be with me. After anchoring,

I went ashore to say hello to Daniel and Antoinette. I found them sitting on their

front steps watching the yachts at anchor. To my disappointment, there was no

sign of recognition in their eyes, even when we talked of the last visit and they

recounted the events and the people of those two weeks. Later in the afternoon I

returned with Kitty and as soon as Antoinette saw her, a broad smile beamed

across her now sparkling face. "Kitty, Kitty!", she said as she took Kittys' hands,

looked into her face with obvious recognition and then kissed both cheeks. It was

then that Daniel remembered that on the first trip I had a full red beard that came

half-way down to my chest. This time I was clean shaven. Even though Daniel is

now 60 years old, he still works and hunts like someone half his age. However,

as a concession to his advancing years he has stopped woodcarving because

his eyesight is nort quite good enough anymore.

The next day Daniel led us and the other yachties in the bay, including the crew

of CHEWINK, on the 3 hour trek up to the cascade at the back of the valley. Two

hundred years ago the valley had a population of over 3,000 people and

evidence of that once thriving society was everywhere in the remaning stone

foundations, walls and roads. Today, however, the tropical jungle has taken over

and much of the way was rugged going. After about 2 hours of hiking, we came

around a corner to a small clearing where we caught the first glimpse of where

the small river dropped off the sheer cliff 1,200 feet to the valley below. This is

supposed to be one of the 5th or 6th highest waterfalls in this world.

We had to ford several streams and rivers, twice wading through the rushing

water up to our waists. the kids loved swimming down one set of rapids that the

adults crossed with hands linked together making a human chain with feet feeling

blindly for secure footing lest we all be washed downstream with the squealing

young swimmers.

We finally emerged at the base of the waterfall to swim in the grotto formed by

centuries of cascading water pouring into the volcanic rock. We ate our lunch,

made by sleepy hands slamming peanut butter and jelly onto long rolls of French

bread at 6 a.m. Our stomachs full and bodies cool, we picked ourselves up aff the

soft ferns, shouldered our packs and headed back down the valley to our boats,

bunks and early bedtime.

Two days later, Alex, Spencer and I went back to the waterfall as guides with

the crews of WINDWOMAN and HOMER'S ODYSSEY, both of whom have kids

the same age as ours. That time, however, we could not go swimming in the

grotto as heavy rains the day before had produced so much water over the falls

that the wind and spray at the bottom was so fierce we couldn't get into the grotto.

In fact, we could barely hear eachother over the roar of the falls. It was very

dramatic, like being in a raging hurricane.

During the week we were in Daniel's Bay, Ahoo, Daniel's grandson whois just

Alex's age, was on his Easter vacation from school in Taiohae Bay. With our two

and the kids from CHEWINK, WINDWOMAN, EXIT ONE and HOMERS

ODYSSEY, there were 11 children under the age of 15, and 8 of them were

between 9 and 13.

A week after Ahoo's break, we were back in Taiohae Bay. Daniel and Antoinette

were there to see Ahoo and his mother appear in a school play. It was the

culmination of a weekend fair put on by the parents as a fund raiser. Daniel and

Antoinette invited all of our family to come to the play. We could have been back

in Rowayton! There was a Marquesan Bob Bottomley(the Principal of Rowayton

School) running around trying to keep the kids from getting too wild, fixing the

lights that mysteriously went out at curtain time and chatting with proud parents. A

group of fathers were making and selling barbequed shiskebobs of beef from a

cow Daniel had slaughtered the day before. They also offered Coke and Fanta to

wash it down. Mothers sold L'ecole Saint Joseph tee-shirts at another booth

while kids ran helter skelter everywhere.

The play itself was about traditional life in the Marquesas and must have been

very funny because the audience was in constant hysterics. Even though we

couldn't understand a word of the Marquesan dialect, the mood was infectious

and Kitty and I and the boys were all laughing as well. The play was finally over

about 10:30p.m. and as we walked back to our dinghy, the street was filled with

groups of families all walking home. It was a great end to our stay in the

Marquesas. The next day we left for the Tuamotus, although we were tempted by

Daniel and Antoinettes's plea to stay " just one more day....". Good-byes are

always hard, especially when we know we won't see the people again. But that's

what we thought when we said good-bye to them 16 year ago--so who knows??

the kids are already talking about who they'll see, and what they'll do(sometimes

differently...) when they come back on their own boats.

On our way out, however, we stopped at Ua Pou, an island 20 miles southwest,

to get a supply of fresh vegetables and fruit as the low atolls of the Tuamotus do

not have much of their own.

Well, Kitty the typist, thinks I have gotten a bit too long winded in this chapter, so

I will end it here. You will probably have to wait until we get to Samoa in the

beginning of August to hear about our near disaster in the Tuamotus(they aren't

called the Dangerous Archipelago for nothing) or to find out how we spent over

$50 on ice cream in the first two weeks in Tahiti.

The highlight of Papeete has been, of course, mail call and we have devoured

with relish all the letters that many of you have written. Those letters will be

personally answered and we hope more of you will write of what's happening

back in the States, especially all the gossip at the office or at home. Alex and

Spencer would love to hear more from their friends too!

Our next mail call will be:

Scott & Kitty Kuhner Always put Scott & Kitty Kuhner

Yacht "TAMURE" "Hold For Arrival" Yacht "TAMURE"

General Delivery The Travel Co. Ltd.

American Samoa, 96779 Am. Express Client Mail

USA 189 Victoria Parade

(mail should arrive by August 1st P.O.B. 654, Suva, Fiji

(Mail should arrive by

September 1st)

THE GREAT ESCAPE

CHAPTER III

Tuamotus to Pago Pago, American Samoa

The sail from Ua Pou, in the Marquesas, to Fakarava, in the Tuamotus,

was ideal. For the first time since leaving New York, we had a truly beautiful

trade wind passage with 15-20 knot southeasterly breezes, accompanied by

long, 8-10 foot swells, the tops of which were covered with small, sparkling

white caps. Never-the-less, we were a bit nervous because the Tuamotus have

a bad reputation for shipwrecks.

The Tuamotu Archipelago consists of approximately 50 atolls scattered in

a line 1,000 miles long running northwest to southeast between the Marquesas

and Tahiti. Atolls are coral reefs atop circular rims of submerged volcanoes.

Parts of the reef consist of sandbar type islands covered with coconut palms

and can only be seen 8-9 miles from seaward.Most of the atolls only have

islands on one side of the lagoon, while the other is amde up of coral reef, most

of which lies one or two feet below the ocean surface and is evident only by the

constant crashing of the surf breaking on it or an occasional rusting hull of a

wrecked ship wose navigation was obviously not "spot on". Usually there is a

pass where the water that comes flooding over the exposed reef can escape

from the lagoon to the ocean outside. The passes are frequently narrow,

unmarked and have strong currents of up to 8 or 9 knots on the ebb. Sailing

through the Tuamotus demands exacting and precise navigation and is not for

the beginner. In fact, on my small scale chart, the group is referred to as "The

Dangerous Archipelago".

On our first trip back in 1972, before the days of satellite navigation, very few

yachts sailed down into the middle of the group preferring to either avoid the area

entirely or only visit the northernmost 2 or 3 atolls. At that time we visited Takaroa

on the northen perimeter of the group. Now, armed with a Sat Nav and radar, we

were attempting to thread our way through the middle of these dangerous islands

and visit the atoll of Fakarava.

After 4 days at sea we were approaching the group and all that fourth

day, I plotted each fix the Sat Nav produced and compared them to my celestial

observations. I needed to know exactly where we were at all times. We closed

in on Kauehi, an atoll 40 miles east of Fakarava, and caught a glimpse of its

palm trees on the horizon just as night fell. At the speed we were sailing, we

would be off the pass at Fakarava long before dawn and so at 8:00pm we hove-

to in the lee of Kauehi and kept track of our drift by half hourly sweeps of the

radar. At approximately 4:00am, we set sail again in order to make the pass

between 11:30 and and 12:30 which would coincide with my calculation of

slack tide. We arrived at the appointed hour, but unfortunately the ebb tide was

still in force and there were breakers allacross the entrance. The pass was wide

and deep though and so, undaunted by the small breakers, we trimmed the

sails, fired up the engine, put the throttle to the floor and charged ahead at 7.2

knots, figuring that if the ebb were too strong we would merely turn and wait

outside until the current died down. There were a few exciting moments as

TAMURE made her way through the line of breakers and then shot into the

lagoon ahead of us.

Fakarava's lagoon is 30 miles long, by 15 miles wide. It is six miles fron

the pass to the village Rotava, where we anchored close to the beach. Another

yacht, SILVER INGOT, was anchored further out but our depth sounder showed

large coral heads all around and I chose to anchor in the shallower water in

case we snagged one. Without scuba tanks I could dive 40 feet, but not the 60

feet in which SILVER INGOT was anchored. Here we were protected from the

east and southeast trade winds, but would be exposed to any blow from the

south through the west.

The next day we went ashore to explore the town of Rotava. There is just one

coral road running along the narrow strip of land separating the ocean from the

lagoon and bisecting the small village. A concrete quay juts out into the lagoon

just enough for one 40 foot fishing boat to tie along side. Across the road from the

quay is the school and village square. Just north of the school, a small shack with

stools in front of an open counter beckons local kids to sit at the "Snack " and

have soft drinks or suck on plastic cups filled with frozen Kool-Aid. South of the

school, small, clean, hurricane-proof, new cement houses are set back and

separated from the road by neatly trimmed hedges, freshly mowed and raked

lawns and colorful bougainvillea and frangipani bushes. There was not one

discarded Hinano beer bottle, empty Kool-Aid cup or other evidence of

civilization's permanent garbage found on most streets throughout the world.

As we were walking down the street, 3 guys sitting on an open veranda sucking

the last pieces of boiled fish from the spines, licked their fingers clean and waved

us over. A half hour later John, from SILVER INGOT and I had a date to go diving

with these kids on Monday. Further on, two young women stopped us and gave

us hats freshly woven from coconut fronds as well as strings of shell necklaces for

the four of us. Everyone we passed said "Bon Jour", or stopped to talk, and within

2 days we realized we had met or seen everyone on the island as every face had

become familiar.

After church on Sunday, everyone walked up to the village square to watch the

spear throwing contest. In the center of the square, a lone coconut was fixed high

on the top of a 45 foot long pole. On one side of the square 20 of the 25 or so men

in the village between 18-40 stood lined up, each with his own half dozen color-

coded spears sticking in the ground next to him. Halfway down the adjacent side

of the square was a table with two judges sitting ready to keep score. The rest of

the town flanked the judges. The whole scene reminded me of the Archery

Contest in the movie Robin Hood.

To throw a spear, the right index finger cups the end and then it is lofted, rather

than thrown at the coconut. On the command of "go", everyone launched their

spears at once, resulting in a barrage of missles flying through the air at the

coconut. Surprisingly, eight to twelve found their mark. One spear hit dead center,

only to be followed by another, sticking in al;most in the exact same spot. It was

as though Robin Hood had split the arrow. The crowd roared its approval.

After each man had emptied his arsenal, a pin at the base of the pole was

pulled, the pole lowered, spears identified and removed. Then the whole process

started again, this time from the opposite side of the field. The spear throwing

lasted all afternoon and determined the best two or three men to represent

Fakarava at the all island Bastille Day Contest in Tahiti.

While Kitty and I were watching the spear throwing, Alex and Spence were on

the pier playing tag and swimming with a group of local kids. They may not have

been able to talk to each other, but the language of play and laughter seems

universal and the kids were having a great time.

Monday morning John and I went with Pierre, James and two other guys, all

about 17 years old, in their 18 foot outboard motor boat to go diving for fish. After

trying a few spots that produced few fish, we went to a large coral head looming

up from the 120 foot depths of the lagoon. Visibility was at least 60 feet. As we

adjusted our masks and snorkels, we saw that the spot was teeming with fish.

There were grouper, snapper, doctor fish, schools of small colorful reef fish, giant

clams with mouths gaping in sparkling blue green grins and of course, sharks. By

the time we had shot a few fish, there were atleast 8-10 black-tipped reef sharks

who had smelled the blood and were circling us in hopes of getting some of the

spoils. I watched as Pierre shot a grouper, only to have a shark streak by and

grab it right off the end of his spear. It was a bit disconcerting to have a four foot

shark dart a few feet over my shoulder, from out of my blind spot, just as I was

about to shoot a fish. Pierre and James just slapped the water when the sharks

came too close.

One particularly aggressive shark would not leave James alone. Finally he

aimed his gun and fired, driving the spear right into the shark's throat just below

the jaw. The stunned beast wiggled frantically, finally freeing himself. "Oh my

God", I thought, " a wounded shark!". I was petrified, but the kids didn't seem to

care. The locals believe that sharks only bite people who are mean to their wives

and kids. Divers who are good to their families are safe. I prayed those sharks

knew I had been good to Kitty and the kids, and in fact I had even done the dishes

the night before. Later I learned from a local doctor that there are actually a

number of shark bites in the Tuamotus and that most are serious enough to

require immediate evacuation to the hospital in Tahiti. Some never make it!

By 3:00PM the boat was loaded with fish and all our limbs were still intact. We

noticed that the sky was black and threatening off the southwest, so we headed

back across the lagoon hoping to make it before the squall hit.

Just as we arrived at our boats, the wind switched from SE to SW and began to

blow hard. We were no longer in the lee of the island and the 30 mile fetch inside

the lagoon allowed a considerable sea to start building. Within 15 minutes, it was

blowing a steady 30 knots and gusting to 40. We were now on a lee shore and 20

yards directly behind us the rapidly rising sea was breaking wildly on a coral reef

a few feet from the beach. As the sea hit the shallow water we were abchored in,

it began to crest and soon we were burying our bow into each assaulting wave.

TAMURE would then bob up and pull hard. The strain soon parted the short

snubbing line tied to the anchor chain. About the same time the chain wrapped

on a submerged coral head and effectively shortened our scope, resulting in such

a severe shock each time we rose up on a wave that there was a real danger the

chaIn could snap and cast us on the menacing coral reef behind us. We ran the

engine slow forward to relieve some of the strain; but mostly all we could do was

cast anxious glances at eachother, look back at the breaking surf 20 yards behind

us and pray the squall would be over. Every once in a while, we would look over

to see SILVER INGOT also bobbing and tugging frantically at her tether. The seas

were crashing wildly over the cement pier where two boys stood, unaware of our

tenous position, squealing with delight each time the spray from the surf

cascaded over them. There we sat, with our hearts in our mouths, practicing our

"fox hold religion" praying for it to calm down.Two horrifying hours later the wind

began to moderate. For the moment we were safe, but had come close to

disaster.

In the calm that followed, John came by in his dinghy to pick me up so that we

could go ashore to thank Pierre and James for taking us diving, as well as to pick

up gear we had left in their boat in our haste to get back to tend our own boats.

We caught them in the middle of their dinner and they insisted we sit and join

them to eat some of the fish we had just caught. Afterward, I invited Pierre and

James out to our boat, where we spent the rest of the evening listening to them

play the ukelele and sing Tahitian songs. Just before they left, they asked if we

would like to go with them to harvest copra on a small island about 10 miles down

the lagoon.

The next morning before we were to go off with Pierre and James, I felt we

should raise anchor and move into deeper water a little farther from the beach.

We cranked up the engine and turned on the electric windlass, but the chain

would not move. I put on my mask, fins and weight belt and dove 40 feet to

where it was wrapped around several coral heads. I was able to free it from two

of the coral heads but it was wrapped so tightly around the third that when I got

down to the anchor, I did have the staying power to untangle it. I made 5 or 6

attempts, but each time I grabbed the chain and tugged on it, my lungs

screamed for more air, forcing me to claw for the surface before they burst. I

became frantic because each time I broke the surface gasping for oxygen, Kitty

pointed out a menacing black cloud advancing on us from the southwest. I

finally realized I could not free the anchor myself and swam ashore to enlist the

help of Pierre and James. They came quickly to our rescue. With all three of us

working, we finally freed the anchor just as another squall was approaching.

Kitty and I agreed that we would not feel comfortable leaving the boat to go on

the copra expedition in this unsettled weather. If the trades had been constantly

blowing out of the east or the southeast, it would have been fine; but it was no

place to be with menacing dark clouds, a sure sign of more squalls, coming up

over the southwest horizion. Therefore, instead of reanchoring we said goodbye

to James and Pierre, raised our sails, made for the pass and sped out just at

slack water. Reluctantly, we turned for Papeete, Tahiti, 250 miles to the

southwest.

Papeete, the hub of the South Pacific, is a bustling city of semi-highrise

buildings, traffic jams and three movie theaters, each playing the French dubbed

version of "Fatal Attraction", "Rambo III", and "Wall Street". There are boutiques,

banks, and industrious Chinese, colorful Tahitians and gawking tourists.

We anchored with our stern tied to a tree ashore, two blocks from the center of

town in what is known as the "low rent" district. The area is so named because

there is no cement quay with electricity and running water as in the center of

town. There was also no parade of tourists gaping down our comapnionway

and the daily fee was only $6 as opposed to $9.50 in the high rent district.

As soon as we were settled, the four of us trotted several blocks down to the

American Express office and picked up a mountain of mail; the first since Panama

5 months earlier. We then got double scoop ice cream cones at $2 each and

ambled back to the boat, slurping away, oblivious to the chocolate stains dripping

onto our clean white tee-shirts. Our attention was excitedly focused on our packet

of mail that would bring all the news and gossip from home.

For some reason ice cream had become a compelling passion for all 4 of us.

However, we quickly realized that at $2 per cone we would soon go broke. Yet

we were as bad as heroin addicts, unable to go into town without stopping for a

daily ice cream fix. The solution was to carry spoons with us wherever we went.

then we would buy a one liter container for $3.65 and all delve into it at once, four

spoons wildly diving in to satisfy the unquenchable craving. In New York silver

spoons hanging on a chain around one's neck are a sign of a cocaine addict. In

Papeete, spoons hanging around yachties' necks may not be silver, but they still

signify an addiction that is no less severe! In the first two weeks in Tahiti we spent

a whopping $51.50 on ice cream alone.

Papeete is a mecca for cruising yachties of every nationality. There were

about 60-70 of us there that first week of June-with 2 or 3 more arriving every

day. We saw many friends we hadn't seen for a while, such as Tom the

singlehander on the Swedish TAI-FUN, and Jeff and Vera, the British couple on

ANDROS, who we hadn't seen since the San Blas. We got together and had fun

telling each other of our respective adventures of the past six months. Bob and

Beth, on the Bermuda 40 RHODORA, had gotten in the day before us and while

we had spent quite a bit of time together in the Marquesas, we had visited

different atolls in the Tuamotus. We compared notes over dinners together and

they were fast becoming close friends in our new life.

We also met new people, such as the Dutch family, Aad, Hella, and daughters

Anita and Alice, who had just come on their 47 foot steel boat HELENA

CHRISTINA around Cape Horn east to west. Along with RHODORA and HELENA

CHRISTINA, we decided to go to Moorea, 12 miles away, for a week to get away

for a week to get away from the bustle of Papeete. We anchored inside the reef

near Opunohu Bay in 30 feet of clear water and pure sand bottom. We all swam,

snorkeled, hiked, explored and had cook-outs on the beach. We also got to know

Aad and Hella better, while Alex and Spence became inseperable playmates

with Anita and Alice, who also were 9 and 11.

Aad was truly a character. He always wore long, white loosely woven cotton

pants that were slightly dirty, a long sleeved white shirt and a red bandana tied

around his head. He has a dark complexion and an angular face with a narrow

mouth that always was always spread in a v-shaped infectious smile, revealing a

wide gap between his two front teeth. He is the type of person one laughs with

even before he has said anything. He had been a ship's captain in the Merchant

Marine. and was now on a fast 2 year circumnavigation with his family.

Each night for a week in Moorea together, we would all crowd into one of our

cockpits and be mesmerized by Aad--his face painted in the warm yellow light of

a lantern while he gave off his own sparkling glow--that of a ranconteur who loves

his own stories. The stories were a Maritime equivalent of Sam Spade and a

Dutch Sam Levinson, the plumpish Jewish comedian who specialized in telling

funny stories about growing up. It was usually close to midnight before we would

break up and fall into bed chuckling at Aads' latest story. We were sorry to see

them go at the end of the week, but if they were to be in the Red Sea by

December they had to push on.

From Moorea we went back to Papeete for a few days and then sailed

TAMURE the 40 miles around the south side of Tahiti and anchored off the

Gauguin Museum. It was a beautiful spot surrounded by a botanical garden and

quiet beaches. Two days later we motored over to Taravao, the main town on the

south shore whose primary function was to serve the farmers on the plateau of

the Tahiti-Iti and whose secondary function was as a bedroom community for

some willing to make the 1 1/2 hour commute to Papeete. Even out here in

Paradise there are some crazies willing to do that! Taravao had absolutely no

facilities for tourists. It was strictly a modern working Tahitian town with gas

stations, record shops, hardware stores, car dealerships and supermarkets. The

only reason I knew I wasn't in the states was by the way women dressed at the

supermarket.

Two hundred years ago fanatic missionaries came to Polynesia and

convinced the native women that God would surely condemn them to hell if they

continued to walk around bare breasted. Ever since then the Tahitians have

covered themselves. However, God said nothing about how they were to be

covered and it was the fashion in Taravao for Tahitian mamas to be pushing

their shopping carts down the supermarket aisles wearing a pareau skirt

wrapped around their ample waists and only a fully filled E-cup bra on top. I

thought I had walked into a T.V ad..."I dreamt I went shopping in Tahiti in my

Maidenform."

There is a beach a few miles south of Taravao that is a favorite opf French

women whose husbands commute to Papeete. They flock there to sunbathe in

the skimpiest bottoms and no tops. It's ironic that the originally Polynesian women

went around barebreasted until the arrival of the missionaries. Now it's the

Europeans who walk around topless.

Bastille day is July 14th, but Fete, as the celebration is called, begins in June

and runs through July. Part of the festivities is the contest of groups performing

the traditional Tahitian dance called the tamure. The tamure is a faster, sexier

version of the Hula. We named our boat after the tamure dance--a fast sexy

dance, a fast sexy boat!

One night a bunch of us yachties went to watch some groups practicing for the

competition that was to be held a week later. We were able to sit right at the edge

of the dance floor. A group of 30 virile young men and 30 of the most beautiful

women in the world performed. The women each had golden brown skin with

shiny, long dark hair hanging over beautiful shoulders past breasts covered only

by half coconut shells held together with string.Their stomachs were all taught as

a drum and exposed below the navel. A short pareau, smaller than a micro mini

skirt made up the rest of the outfit. The drums started beating, hips began

shaking, pelvises gyrated and all our male eyes bugged. We were mesmerized!

The muscular young male dancers occcupied Kitty and for once she wasn't giving

me the elbow and telling me to stop staring. On the way back to the boats, all of

us male yachties agreed the dancing made us briefly fantasize about being a

singlehander in French Polynesia.

It was the second week in June and Jay and Terrie Wood, friends from home,

were meeting us in Bora Bora in 2 weeks. If we wanted to visit Huahine, Raiatea,

and Tahaa, which are on the way to Bora Bora, we had to leave busy Papeete

and head for the quieter Illes Sous Le Vent.

A pleasant overnight sail brought us to Huahine, where we entered the lagoon

through a pass on the northwest corner and motored down the west side of the

island to Avea Bay, which we had loved in 1972. It was a big disappointment.

Sixteen years ago the bay was totally deserted, beautiful and pristine. It was also

for sale and one could have purchased the whole beach from one tip of the bay to

the other, about 1/2 mile, for $100,000. Someone obviously recognized the value

and now there are two hotels and several houses on the beach; it's special aura

had been bulldozed under.

Back at the north end of the island, we took a walk to an area where there are

ancient temples. The kids were fascinated to learn that a human sacrifice was

made to consecrate each temple when it was originally built. Many of the temples

are far back in the jungle and to get to them we hiked along well formed tunnels

through the thick foilage and vines closing over our heads. When we came to a

clearing, we saw many wild banana, papaya and mango trees. One banana tree

bore a bunch at its top that was perfect for picking; so Spencer stood on my

shoulders and with a knife cut them down for us to take back to the boat. We

never have been able to get his foot prints off the shoulders of that white shirt I

was wearing--it now has permanent black epaulets. At $7.50 per load to wash

and another $7.50 to dry, laundromats in French Polynesia are a luxury for the

rich. We mere mortals must continue to use a scrub brush and bucket and live

with the inevitable "ring around the collar".

A beautiful 5 hour sail down wind in the easterly trades brought us to Raiatea

and Tahaa, two islands that share the same barrier reef. In our days exploring

Tahaa we saw no other yachts, probably because of the extreme depths of the

most anchorages. It was like dropping our hook in the middle of Long Island

Sound, as most places the water was 70 or so feet deep.

Saturday, June 25th, was Christmas in Bora Bora. Jay and Terrie Wood(or

should I say Santa and Mrs. Claus) arrived with a big bag full of goodies from the

States. They brought Rowayton t-shirts, sun block and spare parts for the boat.

Jay had even spent a day taking pictures of springtime in Rowayton and our

house, which made us very homesick.

For the week Jay and Terrie were in Bora Bora, we put caution to the wind,

threw our wallets on the ground, kicked the money out and had a fabulous time.

We were anchored off the hotel Bora Bora where Jay and Terrie were staying. It

is one of the most exclusive luxury hotels in the world. Any minute we expected

to see Robin Leach filming an episode of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous".

That first night we went ashore and had our first unlimited hot shower in six

months. I stood under the nozzle, hot water blasting at me full force and reveled in

the sensuous exhilaration. Towelling off, I said to Jay, " I just experienced some-

thing better than sex!"

Monday we all rented bicycles and set out on an 18 mile circumnavigation of

Bora Bora. After two weeks of beautiful weather, the sun vanished and dark rain

clouds covered the sky. At least we would not be riding with the blazing sun

sizzling down on us. It rained on and off all day, but as luck would have it, every

time the clouds dumped on us, we just happened to be in front of a restaurant,

snack or ice cream store or boutique. 18 miles, 3 ice cream cones, 2 beers one

lunch and a chocolate cake later, we had peddled back to the hotel where

Spencer realized he had done the whole trip on a flat tire!

There is only one road on Bora Bora and that is the one that goes around the

island. Other than short off shoots, that's it. As we biked around the island it was

interesting to observe that the Japanese tourists all rented Honda cars for their

excursion, the Americans rented motor scooters and the yachties rode bicycles.

One night after dinner at a great restaurant, we all went to investigate the

sounds of drums and Tahitian singing we had been hearing for the past few days.

We followed the music until we found ourselves walking into the backyard of four

or five houses grouped together. Around the perimeter, naked light bulbs glared,

hanging from a wire tied to trees around the yard. Any grass that may have at one

time covered the ground had been trampled into mud by the hundred and fifty

pounding feet practicing the tamure. The entire neighborhood, from grand-

parents to toddlers in diapers crowded around the dance area, watching intently

as the dance teacher cum drill instructor ran the 75 odd young men and women

through their paces. These were the kids of Vaitape, who would represent the

town in next week's competition in Bora-Bora. "Wiggle your hips!", "Move your

knees!", "Down, get down!", "No, move to the left, not the right!". After an hour of

stopping and starting, walking through the choreography, practicing movements,

etc., the group went silent. Then the drums began again, but this time the guitars

chimed in with a beautiful melody, the girls all swayed, the boys moved in unison

and the most beautiful Tahitian singing began to resonate throughout the area.

Everything had come together. It was beautiful and moving. Old men stopped

talking, babies sucked quietly on their bottles, mothers smiled. At this moment,

they were all proud of their group and believed they would win the contest next

week.

On July 3, Jay and Terrie left and we moved the boat back up off the small, less

glamorous Oa Oa Hotel that welcome yachts.

The OA Oa is owned by Greg Claytor, a young ex-banker from California, who

came to Bora-Bora in 1980 and bought the hotel. Being American, Greg

organized a Fourth of July celebration for all the yachties, American or not,

including a dinghy race with a champagne dinner for two as the first prize.

There were two catches to the race: the first was that we had to have two

people per dinghy and propulsion was to be by one person holding up a bed

sheet to catch the wind, while the other one steered with an oar; the second

catch was that once we got down the course, we had to jump into the water and

swim the dinghies the last 100 yards to the dock.

Everyone's competitive spirit surfaced, and two male friends, who were athletic

and considered strong competition had devised an elaborate harness

arrangement with their dinghy painter to enable them to tow it while swimming. As

we were all getting ready to leave for the starting line, Kitty sat on the dock

chatting with Jerry and Brian about their strategy, all the while sneakily untying

their harness right under their noses. In the meantime, Spencer and I filled our

hard dinghy with water balloons while Alex readied the inflatable, lncluding

loaded squirt guns, for himself and Kitty.

Greg towed us all in one long line the 1/2 mile upwind to the start. The gun went

off. People were yelling. Sheets were raised. Boats started to move. Balloons

exploded. Water was flying. Laughter crippled some of the competitors. At first

Kitty and Alex led the pack, but with a fresh gust of wind the hard bottom dinghies

flew past the inflatables and before I knew what had happened, Spencer and I

were in the lead. The person in second place opened out an umbrella over his

sheet and started to gain. More balloons exploded. We dove into the water and

then all we had to do was swim 100 yards to the dock. Just then the elastic in

Spencers' jams broke and they came down around his knees. With one hand

holding the dinghy and the other gripping his pants, he kicked for all he was

worth. Over the commotion, I could hear Jerry and Brian loudly yelling at each

other about their harnesses being screwed up. Spence and I hit the dock 5

seconds ahead of the next crew! We invited Alex and Kitty to join us for the

champagne dinner, where Spencer forfeited his champagne to Kitty in exchange

for a Fanta.

The day before we were to leave for Bora-Bora, I started a maintenance

project which I should have let lie. I had been aware that my alternator was not

putting out the full 20-25 amps it normally did. It was, however, still putting out

10-12 amps so I had not intended to tackle it until American Samoa.

That Wednesday morning we had been talking to some of the Oa Oa Hotel

guests on the beach. One of them, Ken, an ex-British Paratrooper and now a

mercenary in the French Foreign Legion, happened to mention that he was an

alternator expert. I described our problem and he felt it was probably dirty and

worn brushes.

"Take it off," he said, "and I'll show you how to take it apart and clean it. It

shouldn't take more than an hour."

Wrong! I should have known that no maintenance project on our boat ever takes

less than 3 times as long as I think it will. Four hours later, while I was reinstalling

it, the wrench hit a hot wire, arched a current to the alternator and blew the

diodes. Now it didn't work at all!!

Out came the spare and Ken climbed down into my cramped engine room to

help me install it properly. Ken was the epitome of a Legionnaire. His head was

shaved, his body lean and he looked as if he could kill with his bare hands.

Actually, it was his bare feet that could kill. But , how does one suggest to a

mercenary that his feet smell so bad he should put his shoes back on?

Even though the newly installed alternator was working, we no longer had a

spare and consequently we decided to take advantage of the only real deal in

French Polynesia. We went right down and bought for $400 two 47 watt solar

panels that would have cost $900-$1,000 back in the states. The only problem

was that they would not arrive on the inter-island freighter from Papeete until

Saturday.

Saturday came and so did the solar panels. However, by the time we got them

stowed away on the boat it was late afternoon and raining. One of the eight

moorings at the Bora-Bora Yacht Club had freed up and we reasoned that if we

took it for the night, we could more easily stow the anchor the next morning before

putting to sea. But that was not how it turned out.

About 1:00AM Sunday morning Kitty and I woke up to shrieking sounds

caused by wind whistling through the rigging at 35-40 knots. I went on deck

naked and in the driving rain doubled the lines on the mooring and wrapped

them in rags to guard against chafe. I returned to the cabin shivering, where

Kitty had a dry towel and a warm hug waiting. At first light we were both awake

to see the windspeed indicator go to 50 knots. We peered out the

companionway hatch to see first one and then a second yacht sail past us with

only a tiny storm jib and disappear into the shelter of Faanui Bay behind us. We

wondered what was hapopening at the Oa Oa anchorage just around the

corner where we had been for the past three weeks. We turned on the VHF to

see if anyone else was up at such an early hour. To our surprise, the radio was

buzzing with cries for help from two yachts in distress.

While we were fortunate enough to be in the lee of Point Patina, the wind that

had been blowing all night straight up the lagoon at the Oa Oa had raised four

feet seas in that anchorage. Three yachts had chafed through their moorings

lines in the middle of the night before their owners could react, had been blown

onto the reef in front of the hotel. Those who had made it through the night had

cast their moorings free at dawn and were seeking shelter in Faanui Bay. Soon

SEARK, a 45 foot steel ketch, was left and that was only because they could not

start their engine, nor was there room enough between them and the reef to sail

off.

Tom and Jan spent an anxious two days checking their chafing gear while the

waves rolling 3 miles up the lagoon kept slapping their bow as if challenging

them to a duel.

Even though we had no waves hammering us, the yacht next to us dragged its

moorings and then the skipper let it go to also seek refuge in Faanui Bay. Fifteen

minutes later a houseboat belonging to the yacht club chafed its lines and came

careening through the anchorage before it ended up on the reef behind us.

Kitty and I looked at eachother and without saying a word, both knew it was time

to leave the false security of the mooring and go somewhere we could anchor

using our own tackle, which we knew we could trust.

Buffeted by 40-50 knot winds, we powered across the lagooon, where we

wound our way between some large coral heads to find protection from the wind

and seas behind a small island. We dropped our hook near several other yachts

in 30 feet of water and a sand bottom. There we stayed securely nestled for the

next three days until the wind blew itself out.

After one more day to let the seas calm down, there was mass exodus from

Bora-Bora. Like a wagon train proceeding westward, WINDWOMAN, JOURNEY,

RHODORA, and ourselves filed out the pass bound for Suvarov and then Pago

Pago, American, Samoa. The four of us had left the Galapagos together, but

cruised French Polynesia at our own paces and it was just by chance that we

were all leaving Bora together. Four other boats also left that day, so we had a

regular armada reporting in on our twice daily radio sched. at sea.

If I had not botched the alternator, we would have left on schedule and been

caught at sea in those bad winds--as was CHRISTOPHER ROBIN, another

Valiant 40 and RONDELEY, a Rafiki 39. the former blew out her main and the

latter limped back into Bora-Bora under engine alone because she had been

dismasted in the storm.

As it was, we had a pleasant 5 day 690 mile, downwind sleigh ride to Suvarov.

Back in the 50's and 60's a New Zealander named Tom Neale, lived by himself

on and off for 20 years,on this small, desolate atoll in the middle of the Pacific

Ocean. Now two representatives of the Cook Island government are resident

caretakers of what has become a national park. It is a favorite to spot for cruising

boats to stop enroute to Pago-Pago and the day we sailed in, six other yachts

also came through the pass. Together with a Danish yacht and the Swedish yacht

TAI-FUN, it made nine of us representing five nationalities.

Suvarov was even better than Fakarava for spearfishing. the visibility was at

least 50% better , the fish bigger and the sharks even more agressive. Bob from

RHODORA, Peter from WINDWOMAN and I went diving one day and speared 11

fish in a very short time. We were only able to get 8 of them into the dinghy. The

sharks got the rest right off the ends of our spear guns.That night, Itako, the

current Cook Islands "caretaker " of the island, told us of a diver who lost his

thumb when a shark went for the fish he was holding. The three of us looked at

eachother and even knowing we were good family men, decided maybe we were

getting a little too blase about sharks. The next night Itako and his co-worker

hosted a fish fry on the beach for all us yachties; all the fish had been caught

using hand lines from the dinghy.

Two weeks before we arrived, an English singlehander fell asleep approaching

the low atoll, sailed onto the reef and was shipwrecked. He had taken all the gear

off his holed, and mortally wounded yacht and made a camp on a small motu

near the wreck. Although only a few miles away from the "civilization" of

Anchorage Island, he had already made it clear to Itako and his partner, as well

as to the few other yachtmen who had gone to his assistance, that he neither

needed nor wanted any help. He preferred to stay alone for a while. So it was

with curiosity rather than the urgency of a rescue effort that many of us piled onto

TAMURE one morning and set off across the lagoon to meet the famous

castaway, whose fate had already been broadcast across the Pacific via Ham

radio.

Ian McNair is a 51 year old Englishman who has been sailing for almost 30

years, most of the time by himself. He was nearing Suvarov after a non-stop

passage from the Marquesas and the last few days had been rough and tiring.

He sat his alarm clock for a one hour nap when he was still 20 miles off the

island. He didn't wake up until four hours later, when his boat , the ARION,

smashed against the Suvarov's eastern reef. In a few minutes, the large swell

had carried him high and dry onto the reef, breaking off one of the twin bilge

keels and stoving a hole in the side of his hull.

By the time our little hoard descended upon his tiny camp, Ian has settled into

the solitary life as a castaway. The only sign of his ordeal was the rather

sunburned condition of his fair skin and unruly locks of his red hair. He was

gaunt, but obviously no more so than he had been 51 years. It was obvious he

had quickly established himself because not only were all his posessions neatly

stacked around a mattress under the crude lean-to he had constructed, but the

wildlife had already begun to reclaim their territory with two boobies nesting less

than 2 feet from his bunk.

150 yards from his camp, high on the reef, the ARION lay on her side, mast still

intact and her bow pointing to the sea looking like a beached whale desperately

wanting to make it back to its element.

Ian was very articulate and talked freely of his ordeal. He admitted crossing that

thin line between complacency and disaster. Twenty years ago he would have

hove- to 20 miles out to get some sleep rather than carry on trusting the efficiency

of a $12 alarm clock. He even smiled good-naturedly as we all clicked our

shutters to capture his plight for our scrapbooks

At 3:30 in the afternoon, faced with the necessity of navigating back across the

lagoon while the sun was still high enough to see the hazardous coral heads, we

all scrambled onboard TAMURE and left Ian to his solitude amidst the pounding

surf and squawking boobies. Powering back to Anchorage Island, we wondered

what Ian was thinking as he watched our boat disappear into the sunset.

We'd had 5 fantastic days of snorkeling(despite the sharks), beachcombing,

and relaxing with Itako and the rest of the yachties. The six boat kids in the

anchorage had built themselves a palm frond fort, complete with opening doors

and woven mats to sit on, where they all spent each day improving on the fort or

just talking.

It was time to push on. As hard as it was to leave Suvarov, we were looking

forward to restocking in Pago Pago, American Samoa. After all, we were down

to our last 3 rolls of toilet paper! Four days, 450 miles of squalls, headwinds,

calms and generally poor but not violent weather later, we sailed into Pago

harbor.

Pago Pago(pronounced Pango Pango), American Samoa, is a study in

contrasts. As we sailed into this protected hurricaned anchorage, our eyes

scanned the rim of the mountain that rings the harbor, 2,000+ feet high. Above the

tops of lush green peaks, puffy clouds scudded by, occassionally bumping into

the mountain ridge knocking loose a quick torrent of rain. As our vision

descended from the heavens, it took in the steep green sides of the mountains

luscious in a savage, unspoiled beauty. It finally alighted on the white houses,

roads, buses, cars and then the three large tuna factories that line the harbor at

the water's edge.

We all proceeded to the customs dock, where we went through all the

formalities required of customs, immigration and the Harbor Master. We were

then assigned a spot to anchor and were told we could not move from that spot,

even to go to the fuel dock, without prior written permission from Pago Harbor

Control. On the fourth attempt, we finally got our anchor to hold. The previous

tries, the anchor came up entangled in plastic bags; one was actually a gaudy

black shower curtain.

Once anchored, we secured the boat. The sails were furled and covered, all

lines were coiled and put away, the twin jib poles were fastened at the life lines

and the dinghy was launched. With those chores completed, we breathed a sigh

of relief and took a closer look at the water beneath us.

From the beauty of the heavens above us through the purgatory of man's

construction at the shoreline, my eyes now fixed on the harbor water, which to my

horror I realized was the personification of hell itself. I was reminded of the New

York subway system when I would stand on the platform waiting for my train and

absently gaze at the pungent, gray slimey water stagnating between the tracks. I

was convinced that Mayor Koch must have found someone to build a giant

system that drained all that ooze via a huge pipe straight through the center of the

earth, emptying rigth here in Pago Harbor. Just as this scene was shattering my

image of the American Paradise in the Pacific, one of the large tuna fish

processing factories was accepting the catch from 3 or 4 Japanese fishing boats

tied alongside it, leaned over slightly, lifted one cheek and expelled the most

pungent, noxious gas imagineable. I gagged and grabbed for a towel to cover my

nose. Never will I be able to relish tuna fish with the same enthusiasm as prior to

our stay in Pago Pago.

As filthy as the harbor is, and the local streets aren't too much of an

improvement, the friendliness of the local Samoan people make up for it all. they

are the nicest, most polite people I have ever come in contact with. While

standing at the counter in a government office waiting for someone to process my

request to move the boat to the fuel dock, no less than four people came up and

very pleasantly and enthusiastically asked if they could be of help or if I was

being taken care of. In a government office no less! the bus drivers, counter girls,

waitresses, even people on the sidewalks all have the same cheerful attitude. A

sharp contrast to the U.S. Virgin Islands.

From here we intend to stop briefly at Apia, Western Samoa and Niataputapu,

Tonga, before going on to Fiji. By the end of October we will be leaving for New

Zealand, where we will stay until the end of the hurricane season next March or

April. From there our plans are up in the air as it will be too late to make the trip

around Cape Horn.

In the meantime, our next mailing address will be:

C/O K.H. Peter Kammler

Owhiwa Road, R.D. 1 Parua Bay

Onerahi, Whangarei

New Zealand

That address should be good between November and March or April of 1989.

Don't forget we love to hear what's happening back home as much as you love to

hear what's happening out here.

THE GREAT ESCAPE

CHAPTER IV

AMERICAN SAMOA to NEW ZEALAND

For the past two months, I have been plagued with a severe case of "Writer's

Block", but I will now attempt to finally put on paper an account of our

adventures from Pago Pago to New Zealand.

In spite of the foul harbor water and pungent smell from the tuna canneries, we

stayed in Pago almost four weeks. The first week Kitty took advantage of the

relatively cheap flights to the States(American Samoa is a U.S. possession) to

visit her mom, who was not well, and the rest of her family back in St. Louis. That

left me to teach school, cook meals, wash clothes and do boat maintenance.

Even though Alex, Spencer and I were frequently invited to other yachts for

dinner, we were ecstatic when we saw Kitty walk through the customs gate after

arriving back in Samoa.

Most of the next two weeks was spent doing work projects and reprovisioning

the boat, which truly had bare cupboards at that time. I installed the solar panels

we had bought in Bora Bora, completely serviced the engine, replacing all filters

and belts, changing the oil, checking tappit clearance, tightening the shaft

coupling and cleaning the spot painting and engine to prevent rust. I also made a

raincatcher to collect fresh water, repaired a few worn places in the sails and

rebedded some leaky deck fittings. Kitty went to at least four different

supermarkets with a three foot long list of goods we needed. We wanted to

restock as much as possible because we had heard that New Zealand was very

expensive, rivaling even French Polynesia. In fact, there was a yacht int he harbor

that had bashed their way 2,000 miles against the wind all the way from New

Zealand just to reprovision in Pago.

Determined not to leave Samoa with only negative memories of the harbor, we

did take a few days to go sightseeing. One Saturday 19 yachties, 10 adults and 9

kids, piled into a rented bus for an excursion to a small volcanic island a short

distance offshore about 15 miles up the coast.

The bus was like all others in Pago, it was made neither in Detroit nor Tokyo. It

was probably constructed in the drivers backyard out of a few sheets of plywood

nailed together to form a box and then set on top an old pickup truck bed. Holes

were cut out of the walls an sliding plexiglass windows were put up to give the

passengers protection from the rain. Wooden benches were bolted to the floor to

sit on. The interior was finished with self adhesive shelving paper and two large

speakers for the tape deck, which blared Bob Marley tapes. Over the windshield

were 2 pictures: one of the drivers' family and one of the "Last Supper". The top of

the dashboard was covered in blue carpet that held a pile of coins to make

change.

The bus rumbled out of town into a countryside that was free of all garbage,

even the empty plastic popsicle tubes that littered the ground in Pago. We were

deposited at a crude dock where we were to get a boat to take us over to Aunu'u.

A helpful Samoan produced what he claimed was the largest boat around to

transport us across the two mile strait. The "largest boat" was not very large and

by the time 19 of us were on board, there was only 6 inches of freeboard left.

A two foot swell was running through the strait and I held my breath the whole

way across hoping that by doing so I would make the skiff just a little lighter. We

looked like a Vietnamese refugee boat with people hanging on everywhere.

Once ashore this hoard of tourists marched along a path to the quicksand pond

and then on to the top of the volcano crater, like a bunch of cattle being led by our

nine year old Samoan "guide". A few hours later the herd staggered back into the

village square and made straight for the small store where we cleaned out their

supply of soft drinks.

Most of the houses in the village are traditional Samoan fales that have 6-8 foot

logs stuck in the ground in an oval frame supporting a thatched roof. Pandanus

mats are rolled up or down to form sides and let the breeze in or keep the rain

out. More pandanus mats make up the floor. There are also a few palangi houses

scattered about. (Palangi means white person). those have square cement walls,

aluminum framed windows and tin roofs, making them look more like bunkers

than homes.

We walked past one traditional fale whose panadus walls were rolled up so that

only the roof gave any shelter and the log posts the only sense of defined space.

An old woman and a man sat crosslegged on the floor. The man hailed Kitty and

me to come over . He asked where we were from and then proceeded to tell us

that he was retired from the U.S. Navy, where he had been a Chief Petty Officer.

He now teaches school in Pago Pago and was visiting his mother, whose fale

they were in. When I mentioned that I had been a second class Pettty Offficer in

the Navy, he became even more friendly and for the next hour we sat

crosslegged while he talked about Samoa, its history and how the traditional

customs are now in conflict with western values acquired when many Samoans

visit and live for a time in America, especially Southern California. He was so

interesting we hated to leave when the boat came tgo collect us for the return trip.

The entire last week we were in Pago, the wind blew down the harbor at 40+

knots. The other 50 or so yachts in the anchorage pitched and rolled. Many

dragged anchor, some down onto other yachts, inevitably inflicting damage.

Thankfully, we held fast. The worst that hapoened to us was getting sprayed with

that awful harbor water whenever we dinghied ashore. On the dock we would run

to the fresh water faucet with visions of hepatitis and wash the pollution off our

faces. The rest of our bodies we had covered with big plastic garbage bags.

On September 1st the wind was finally back out of the east at 15 kts. and

sincethe outlook was for a moderate easterlies for the next few days,we took that

opportunity to head for Niuatoputapu, a small island at the northern end of the

Tonga group. It took us four hours just to pull up our anchor because the entire

chain was covered with white tube coral. We had to scrape the growth off foot by

foot before letting it go into the chain locker below. Even so, a foul odor

permeated the front half of the boat all the way to Niuatoputapu.

Niuatapotapu, or "New Potatoes" as it was called by the yachties, is only 200

miles from Pago and had we been able to leave in the morning as planned, we

would have gotten there by the following evening. However, because we were

delayed cleaning the anchor, we decided to reduce sail and arrive the morning

after. As it turned out, we had 20 knots on the quarter and even with only a reefed

main and staysail set we were 10 miles from the island 2 hours after sunset.

consequently we hove-to until morning. If we had pushed hard we could have

been in the harbor by dark. Still it was a pleasant, even though sleepless night.

The pass is narrow but has beacons, that when lined up led us easily into the

snug lagoon on the lee side of the island. Kitty took the helm, manuevering

TAMURE to a stop head-to-the-wind 200 yards off the jetty. I pushed the CQR off

the bow into the aqua green water and payed out the chain while Kitty backed

down with the engine, forcing the anchor to securely bury itself in the sand 25 feet

below us.

No sooner had I finished covering the sail and coiling the lines when we noticed

some official looking people waving at us from the dock. I hopped in the dinghy

and rowed ashore to be greeted by three men, each in a different but colorful

uniform. They represented Health, Immigration and customs. Back on board, they

all squeezed below, producing reams of forms from plastic briefcases which were

to be completed in triplicate. Satisfied that all the blanks had been filled in, they

each stamped our passports and then accepted the cold juice and cookies Kitty

offered, while Alex and Spencer went on dck and lowered our yellow quarantine

flag.

The bureaucratic necessities completed, I brought the three officials back to the

dock where they all climbed aboard an old tractor. Customs sat in the seat and

drove, while Health and Immigration each held on where they could, trying to look

dignified as they rolled slowly down the quay and then headed for Hihifo, "the

capitol", two miles away.

The lagoon is secure and peaceful. The outer reef lies only a quarter mile away

from the island, which is not enough distance for a dangerous swell to build up if

bad weather forces the easterly tradewinds to change direction,as it did in

Fakarava and Bora-Bora. A A long stone and gravel quay sticks out into the

lagoon and every afternoon it swarms with little brown bodies jumping in and out

of the water like flies buzzing around a ripe mango.

At the foot of the Quay big shade trees act as a welcoming arch to the village of

Falehu, which squats on the slight hill beyond. A dirt road leads several miles

along the water's edge to the town of Hihifo, known as the capitol because that's

where the officials and the only store are located. As we walked toward the

village, two women, sitting in the doorway of a thatched hut no bigger than a

toolshed, waved hello. A three year old boy wearing just a tee-shirt wriggled fom

between the women to see what was going on, while four piglets squealed on the

front grass. Just down the road on the right is a rectanglular wooden communal

building with wooden flaps over the windows to keep the rain out; when open,

they are propped with long sticks. Beyond the community center another dirt road

goes off to the left up a grassy knoll that is dotted with thatched huts and a red-

roofed Methodist Church. Children, goats pigs and piglets are everywhere.

Mothers sit in their doorways weaving pandanus mats or squat over a smoldering

fire cooking the next meal. At that time of the day men are usually in the bush

tending their gardens or off fishing on the reef.

When the first child saw us, a cry went up "Palangi! Palangi!", and twenty kids

came running to ask the only two English sentences they know: "What's your

name?" and "Where are you going?". We answered politely and cheerfully, only

to have them ask it again and again.

About two hundred people live in Falehu. Most have homes consisting of two

thatched huts, one for cooking and one for living. The living hut normally has two

rooms: a front room for entertaining, eating and sleeping and a back room hidden

from view by a curtain. the few glimpses we got behind the curtain invariably

revealed a bed buried under with open suitcases filled with clothes. More clothes

were stacked all over the floor. It seemed to be used as a dressing closet rather

than a bedroom.

The front area is about 12 by 15 feet. It usually contains one piece of furniture,

like a sideboy, housing prized posessions such as china plates, glasses and

serving dishes of assorted patterns. The floor is covered with pandanus mats and

everyone sits crosslegged or sleeps on them. Several homes we were in had

their walls papered with pages from Vogue or Glamour magazine. Everywhere

we looked we saw beautiful young models dressed in everything from bras and

panties to Evan Picone business suits. It was totally incongrous with the stark

poverty of the village and the Puritanical modesty of the Tongan people.

There was a family with four girls, ranging in age from 15 to 22, that became

friendly with all of us from the yachts. One night we were invited to their house for

a feast and to watch the girls perform Tongan dances.

Kitty: The hospitality of the Tongans is unbelieveable. A few families

competed for the company of the yachties, putting on incredible feasts of the local

delights, such as sea slugs, clams with seaweed, lobster, raw fish in coconut milk,

smoked fish, snails, taro and of course roast pig. The food was served on plates

but made the trip to our mouths the Tongan way, with our fingers. After we were

finished, a finger bowl and towels were passed around.

I had wanted to contribute to the feasts and for the first one I made

two cakes and a rice dish, which after I had presented them to the mother of the

house, were never seen or heard of again. Later on the cleaned pans appeared

at my side. I never knew if my labors in the galley turned into pig slop or what,

but after that I learned to take basics like flour, rice or milk powder as a gift that

they could use when they wished.

Spencer, our younger son (9 1/2) wrote a letter back to his class in

Rowayton describing the feast from his point of view:

Nuiatapotapu, Tonga

September 14, 1988

Dear 5th Graders,

Right now we are in Nuiatapotapu, an island in Tonga. We crossed the

dateline so we are a day ahead of you.

We have been invited to 3 feasts. I had a lot of different foods. I will list them

all. Sea slug,x seaweed with raw clams*, raw fish,* coconut candy*, roast pig*,

lobster**, fried fish**, coconut milk* right out of the coconut. I starred the ones I

like and exed the ones I don't like. There was no table, no utensils, no napkins!!

There was a finger bowl at the end of the meal. We also had to sit on the floor

on woven mats.

There are a lot of kids here. We swim off the cement wharf with them.The

only English they speak is "What is your name?" and "Where are you going?".

They also pronounce my name Spenchon.

We also went bareback riding. We rode down a path but didn't get

too far because we were too sore.

I didn't get any letters over the summer, did you send any?

Sincerely,

Spencer Kuhner

Scott: After one of the feasts, Ofisi, our host for the night asked us to stay

for a kava party. He had arranged for three friends to play guitars and sing

Tongan songs while he handed out half coconut shells full of kava. All of us

except Alex and Lyn Heron, from the yacht JOURNEY, tried the kava. Even

Spencer had some of the brown liquid that looked and tasted like dirty dish

water. The kava ceremony is as important to the Tongans as smoking the

peacepipe was to American Indians, and we tried our best to coax both Alex and

Lyn to at least take a ceremonial sip. No deal! I didn't think it was so bad and after

a few bowls, my tongue went numb! Fred from WINSOME, and I soon became

quite mellowed out after several more bowls of the stuff.

In the meantime, the guitar players kept slipping outside-I think they preferred

vodka to kava. they were by no means professional and I had a sneaking

suspicion that they kept playing the same two songs all night. By 9:30 most of us

were getting a bit stiff from sitting crosslegged on the floor for 3 1/2 hours and to

solve the dilemma of how to politely end the evening, I asked Ofisi if they had a

"farewell" song. "oh yes!" he replied and turning to his singers said something in

Tongan, whereupon they immediately broke out into a rousing chorus of

"Goodnight Irene!"

Walking back to the quay, Spencer, proud of having tried the kava, asked Lyn

why he refused to drink it. Lyn then confided to the rest of us that the reason he

had refused was because he happened to see one of the guitar players pick his

nose and flick it into the kava bowl. On hearing that, Alex was ecstatic that he had

not tasted it either.

Kitty: Most afternoons after school, a group of Tongan kids swam out to

the boat to take turns jumping off the bowsprit or paddling around with Alex and

Spencer on their styrofoam surfboards. The younger boys would often strip naked

and carefully hang their shorts on the lifeline, while the girls swam fully clothed in

long dresses and then sat there dripping wet in the cockpit as we chatted, played

cards or ate popcorn which I had made and passed out. If they weren't swimming

off the boat, all of them, including Alex and Spencer, would be ashore jumping

the 10 or 12 feet off the dock into the water and climbing out again via the big

truck tires hanging as fenders alongside.

Scott: KItty, Alex, Spencer and I, remembering the fun we had riding in the

Galapagos, rented horses to explore the island. When the horses showed up they

were so skinny I thought I was looking at a two dimensional drawing. Not only

that, there were no saddles, not even wooden ones. All we had to cover the

horses' protruding spines was one brightly colored cotton cloth each. I

nicknamed mine "Razorback". Forty five minutes after leaving the village, I looked

over my shoulder and saw Alex walking his horse. I quickly followed his lead, but

was already so sore I could barely dismount. Kitty was the only one still riding as

we made our way back to the village. The boys and I looked like Humphrey

Bogart staggering out of the Sierra Madres. We each had raw sores on our butts

that seemed to take weeks to heal. so much for horseback riding in Tonga!

Kitty: There are only 6 motorized vehicles on the island and those are for

officilal transport. The rest of us walked or rode horses on bicycles. Alex and I

borrowed two collapsable bikes from another yacht, the kind with tall frames and

tiny wheels. Feeling like circus clowns because of both the teetering bikes and

the gleeful audience which immediately surrounded us, we set off for the capitol

to mail some letters.

The islanders' reference to Hihifo as the capitol had given Alex and me great

expectations as to what we'd find there. We sure hoped there would be a cold

soda and some ice cream. However, it distinguished itself from the other two

villages only by the existence of a store and a post office. The store had nothing

cold available because there is no electrcity on the island. So we settled for a

warm orange soda and peddled over to the post office.

Tongan stamps are the most unusual in the world and we were looking forward

to choosing some especially interesting ones for our mail. After paying for the

stamps though, the postmaster, Tofu, whose other duties included customs

officer and banker, simply took our stampless letters and tossed them into a

drawer overflowing with other unstamped mail. He explained that they were out

of stamps as no ship or plane had called for over two months. Not to worry, when

the supply ship due to arrive in two weeks came, he would personally stamp all

the letters and send them on their way. There is always some satisfaction in

seeing one's letters safely tucked into a mailbox, particularly when it has been an

effort to get them written(for example, the birthday thank you notes from the kids to

their grandparents). I debated yanking them back out of the drawer, but this would

be our only opportunity to get Tongan stamps. Reluctantly, I left them where they

were and hoped for the best.

Some of the Tongans speak more than passable English. One new friend, Tui,

had even been to university in Fiji and had quite an impressive vocabulary. He

liked to fine tune his Scrabble game with yachties and when he issued a

challenge to Scott and lyn, they readily accepted. the game was to be held the

next morning on TAMURE and I declared a holiday from school in its honor.

Scott picked Tui up at the wharf at precisely 10:00AM and Lyn arrived armed

with a can of pretzels, one of peanuts and six sodas, anticipating a long game.

The weather looked dismal, a perfect day to be holed up down below on the boat.

Just after the game started, the wind came up and up and the rain came down.

TAMURE began to whip around on her anchor chain so I went up on deck to

check things out. Within minutes the tranquil lagoon was being lashed with 50

knot winds. Luckily no sea could buildup, but spray lifted off the water making

visibility poor and me worry. I suggested to Lyn that he might want to go back to

JOURNEY in case Margaret needed help. He got only up enough to see through

the port that it was blowing sheets of rain horizontally across the bay and

announced that he could'nt possibly go home in this, and settled back into the

game. Scott didn't bother to get up - he knows I worry enough for the both of us.

The torrential rain was driven so hard by the screeching wind that I couldn't look

forward into it and Nuiatapotapu was no longer visible at all. Lyns' rubber dinghy,

which was tied to our stern, was being flipped time and again. It was lucky that he

had put his oars on deck when he came aboard.

I looked back at JOURNEY, who like all of us was heeling over with each gust,

and watched Margaret, dressed in only a bathing suit, struggle forward to open

their water tank fills to collect water from the now clean decks. What a trooper!

Where would these men have been without us?

Down below, the game went on. Their concentration was quite impressive

considering what was going on outside. It was hours later that both the game and

the storm ended. Although Lyn was the winner, it was only by a few points over

Tui and quite a few points over Scott. I think Scott was impressed by Tui's

trouncing of him....or embarrassed.

Scott: The four girls from our adopted family were especially attentive to

the single males who came on the yachts. I'm sure their fondest dream is to marry

a rich Palangi who will suport their whole extended family in splendor. However,

whenever they visited any of the boats, especially the ones with single males,

they would always be in groups of 3 or more, or chaperoned by their father or

brother.

One day Tom, the Swedish singlehander on TAI-FUN, cam over to TAMURE

looking great. Kani, one of the girls, had just cut his scruffy hair, which had hung

almost to his shoulders. She had done a commendable job or at least it seemed

so in comparison to what Tom used to look like. My own hair was getting long

about the ears and I thought it would be neat to get pictures of a native Tongan

girl cutting my hair. That afternoon I went ashore with a pair of scissors, a comb, a

towel and a camera. Kitty and the boys said they wouldn't miss this, so they came

along too.

Kani sat me on the ground, put a towel around my shoulders, looked me in the

eye, momentarily crumpled into peals of laughter, collected herself and then

raised the scissors to my head. With a serious concentration, broken only by an

errant giggle, she worked the scissors as clumps of hair fell about my shoulders.

Kitty and the kids, and by this time a crowd of onlookers, watched as the pile of

shorn locks grew larger and larger and my head felt cooler and cooler. Finally,

she stepped back, smiled and announced that she was finished. Sniggers from

the peanut gallery warned me that my cut was not as good as Tom's. A later look

in the mirror revealed two holes in my head: one at the back that Mother Nature

has been perpetrating on my vanity and a larger one right on the top of my head

that, thank God, would eventually grow back out. When I saw the finished product

I prayed the pictures would turnnout because it was a hell of a price to pay if they

didn't.

On Sunday, after attending the Methodist service, Kitty and I were talking to the

minister who said that the Methodist women from all 3 villages would be getting

together that evening for choir practice and invited us to come and hear them.

When I asked if it would ne all right to bring a tape recorder, his eyes lit uup and

with a big grin he said, "Sure!"

Kitty felt tired so she decided to stay on board with Alex and Spencer while I

rowed ashore with Spencers' big boom box and a blank tape under my arm.

When I got to the community center, most of the villagers were milling around

outside looking in the open windows. Inside a group of 50 or so women sat on the

cement floor in a semi circle around a blackboard covered with Tongan hymns. A

woman choirmaster was banging her pointer on the chalk words as the hall

resonated with the women singing in time to the beat!

I stuck my head in the door and caught the pastors eye. He motioned for me to

come in and join him and the five other five other men sitting on the floor listening

to the singing. Everything stopped while I got myself and the boom box settled.

Then, with a nod from the choirmaster and a tap from the pointer, I pushed the

record button as fifty melodious voices singing praises to God in Tongan and

three part harmony, bounced off the walls into the box and onto my tape. As soon

as the hymn was over, the pastor asked me to play it back to the ladies. Seven

hymns and seven playbacks later, choir practice was over.

But the evening had just begun! The men, including myself, rearranged our

mats so that now we were sitting at the far end of the room, while the women

formed two rows down each side facing the center. Two women from each side

got up, faced each other and did a sort of ad-lib skit, talking a mile a minute in

Tongan, wildly gesticulating at one another and laughing uproariously at

whatever they were saying. Everyone else laughed with them, including me even

though I couldn't understand a word that was said.

As soon as they sat down, a second two teams got up and went at it. One of the

women said something while pointing at me and the whole place roared. Soon a

third group took their turn and in their effort to outdo the others, one of the women

started to dance a Tongan version of the Watusi in front of me. With that, an old

lady from the other team, and I mean grey, toothless and wrinkled old, came over

and grabbed me by the arm and dragged me onto the floor to dance with her.

She could barely stand up she was laughing so hard. The whole place went into

hysterics. Then the first lady tried to pull me away from the old one and a tug of

war ensued. A fat Tongan mama, caught up in the excitement, leapt up from the

floor and came running over, shaking like a whale as she did, and jumped on top

of all of us. As the three groping women and I collapsed to the floor, the laughter

almost blew the roof off the place. In fact, out in the anchorage Kitty and the kids

heard the commotion. Alex turned to Kitty and said, "What's Dad done this time?"

The laughter finally subsided and everyone sat down in 4 long rows. Beach

towel sized trays made from palm fronds and piled with food were brought in and

put before us. There must have been one for each couple and each tray was

loaded with lobster, fish in curry sauce, clams and seaweed, yucxa, tapioca, dep

frieddough balls,raw fish in coconut cream, roast pig and drinking coconuts. this

feast, like all the others, was consumed with the fingers with gusto.

When the finger bowls arrived it was time for the speeches. Each of the church

elders in turn got up and said their piece. One of them translated for me when the

chief gave his speech. He thanked me for being their guest and said what a good

sport I was and how nice it was that I did everything they did. I laughed when they

laughed, drank kava with them and ate the way they ate. However, after 5 hours

of sitting crosslegged I didn't know how much longer I could sit the way they sat. I

prayed for the evening to draw to a close as sharp pains began to shoot down my

legs and up my back.

Two days later, Kitty and I looked for the old lady who pulled me to the dance

floor. We found her at the chief's house and then presented her with an "I Love

Rowayton" shirt for performing in the best skit. she was touched and started

giggling all over again.

Early in the evening of September 17th, after two weeks in Nuiatoputapu, the

VHF, which we normally left on monitoring

Channel 16, cracked to life squawking "TAMURE, TAMURE......WINDWOMAN."

We nearly jumped out of our skins. We hadn't seen or heard of the Bogers since

we left Pago and had no idea where they were. It turned out they were hove-to

about ten miles away waiting for dawn to come through the pass. they thought we

might be in Nuiatoputapu and by chance have the VHF on and so we had a nice

long chat.

Just after daybreak, they sailed in and anchored next to us, but, because it was

Sunday, no one came to clear them through Customs. It was just as well because

after a quick discussion, we all agreed it was getting late in the season and both

boats wanted to leave the following morning for Fiji.

After breakfast Monday, we got ready to go to sea. Everything had to be stowed

in its proper place. The Dyer sailing dinghy was hoisted on deck and lashed to

the cabin top and the rubber dinghy was deflated and packed below. By the time

the sail covers were removed and the anchor brought up, two fresh loaves of

bread came out of the oven. Late morning saw the sails set for Wailingilala, an

atoll in the Fiji Islands 300 miles downwind. As soon as we were out the pass, the

engine was shut down and the self steering windvane set on our course. I went

below to clean the paddle wheel on the knotmeter, which was encrusted with

barnacles. Ten minutes later Kitty stuck her head down the hatch and yelled,

"Check the chart, it looks like there is a reef right in front of us." I ran on deck to

see breakers a mile away. A quick look at the chart showed there was in fact a

reef dead ahead. Thank God for Kittys' ever vigilant hawk-like eyes. The bad

news is, I will never hear the end of that oversight!!

All the running around above and below decks and working on the knotmeter

with my head in the bilge began to get to m. I still had the remains of a bad head

cold that I picked up in Pago and my inner ear was completely clogged. The wind

had been blowing a fresh breeze for a few days, kicking up a good 8-10 foot sea

that made us roll heavily. My eyes began to have a hard time focusing I went on

deck just as it hit me. Kitty looked on sympathetically as I hung my head over the

rail and "liberated" my breakfast.For the next 3 days both Alex and I were laid low

with acute "mal de mer." I vowed never to sail with a head cold. Alex vowed never

to sail again, period!

The whole way to Walingilala, WINDWOMAN was no more than a mile off our

beam. Kitty had the brilliant idea of breaking up the night watches between the

two boats. We took the 8PM to 1AM and they took from then to 6AM. The boat off

watch left its VHF on and if for any reason the person on watch felt someone

should be on deck, a radio call would go out to the sleeping crew. That way each

adult only had to stand a 2 1/2 hour watch and could sleep a whole 7 1/2 hours. It

worked great.

Fiji is a nation of many islands roughly 1,000 miles north of New Zealand.

Coming from Nuiatoputapu, we had to thread our way thru the reef strewn waters

and small Fijian islands which stretch 300-400 miles north and east of Viti Levu,

the main island, where one must first clear customs before stopping anywhere

else. Wailangilala is at the northeastern corner of this "navigator's nightmare" and

is only visible from 6-8 miles away. We had to stay far enough north to miss Duff

Reef, 15 miles to the east, two feet down and invisible except for waves breaking

on it , as though it were licking it's chops in anticipation of a good meal of

fiberglass and flesh. But we also had to stay far enough south so that we would

not miss Wailangilala. The SatNav and radar proved their worth, especially since

my continuing seasickness had made it all but impossible to navigate with my

sextant.

We made a perfect landfall and sailed thru the unmarked pass to anchor

illegally in the protected lagoon of the uninhabited atoll. We had not officially

cleared into Fijian water, which can only be done at one of three ports on Viti

Levu. Even though Alex's and my seasickness was cured as soon as the anchor

dropped, I felt uneasy the whole 2 days we were there half expecting a gunboat

to discover us at any moment.

Fully rested, we made a night sail down the Nanuuk Passage into the Koro Sea to Ovalau where we went through the official formalities. Last year there was a military coup in Fiji and the army is now in control. However, the only evidence of political turmoil was a newly imposed $25 fee for security clearance.

From Ovalau we beat our way down around Viti Levu to the major port of Suva,

where we found McDonald's hamburgers, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Hare Krishna

ice cream and hot Indian curry. We also found a sailmaker to repair our torn

spinnaker, a survival equipment company to inspect our liferaft and renew its

certificate of fitness, and a yacht chandlery to supply the fittings for the continuous

maintenance required by TAMURE, which now had brought us 10,000 miles.

Kitty: "........we were fascinated especially by the market, bustling with

Indiand, Fijians and Chinese. the Indian men are such aggressive salesmen,

luring you over to their stalls to persuade you to buy some of the incredible variety

of fresh, crisp vegetables and fruits. The women lend a little class to the

atmosphere, with their more demure approach and long, colorful sarees. Woven

baskets, all sorts of shells, woodcarvings, trinkets, exotic curries and buckets of

fresh clams and just caught fish are also offered. We were amused by the piles of

fresh eggs neatly stacked in cardboard tiers and amazed that they survived the

hustle and bustle. As we elbowed our way through the crowds, we had to smile at

he big sign in the center advertising the local Family Planning Center, to which no

one seemed to pay much heed!"

That is a direct quote from a newsletter I wrote in 1972, and nothing at the

Suva market had changed in the interim 16 years. Judging from the throngs of

people, they still didn't heed the advice of the Family Planning Center, whose big

wooden billboard still hung in the same spot. then again, here we are returning

with four in our family instead of two!

Before arriving in Suva, I had read the following in our South Pacific

Handbook: "In Suva, beware of the seemingly friendly sword and mask sellers

who will approach you on the street, ask your name, then quickly carve it on a

sword and demand $15 for a set that you could buy at a Nandi curio shop for $3.

Laugh at them." When I was in town I was always wary of anyone asking me my

name, or the kids' names, and several times had to be very firm, bordering on

rudeness, with these guys. So I really had to crack up when Scott returned to the

boat one afternoon and proudly produced two swords, each had "Alex" or

"Spencer" hastily carved on the front. He thought he'd gotten such a good deal for

just $5, unaware there was a mask that went with it plus $2 change. Laugh at

who?

Scott: During the two weeks we stayed in Suva, 3 or 4 new yachts came in

every day. The anchorage near the Royal Suva Yacht Club quickly filled up with

flags of all nationalities. Most crews were getting ready to head south to New

Zealand or Australia for the coming hurricane season. the charm of Suva,

convience of the yacht club, availability of supplies and comraderie of fellow

cruising people exerted a deep pull to keep us from exploring other areas of Fiji.

However, we were determined to visit some of the more remote islands where we

could experiece the traditional Fijian lifestyle.

Peter Boger and I spent a whole day going all over town to the various

govenment agencies to get our customs clearance, security clearance and

permission from the Minister of Fijian Affairs to visit Kandavu and the Astrolabe

reef area, as well as Yasawas. After working our way through all the red tape, we

made an excursion to the open air market to get 3 kilos of kava to take with us.

At every village we would visit, we were supposed to find the local chief and

present a 1/4 kilo of kava root as a sevu sevu, or peace offering, and ask

permission to stay in his area. this ritual is very important to the Fijians,especially

in the outer islands where the old culture still governs village life.

A seven hour beat into the southeast trades brought us to a white line of

breakers marking the northern end of the Great Astrolabe Reef. We ran along the

reef until there was a space of 200 meters where the sea was not breaking. I felt

that must be the pass; but there were no markers identifying it as such.

Just before leaving Suva, I had installed small steps on our mast so that one of

us could climb up to the spreaders and con our way through the reefs. Almost

invisible at deck level, from aloft they can be distinguished by their green, yellow

or brown color, depending on how close to the surface they are.

We approached the break in the crashing waves. Alex climbed up onto the

spreaders and reported the water in front of us was a dark blue, indicating it was

deep enough to proceed. He continued to direct us through the break in the reef

that was known on our charts as Usborne Pass. We powered on across the calm

lagoon and nestled up into the lee of Ndravuni Island.

WINDWOMAN followed 20 minutes later and after anchoring the boats, both

families went ashore with our quarter kilos of kava to make our sevu sevu. Two

boys met us on the beach, led us into the village and stopped in front of one

particular hut beckoning us in side. There, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was an

old man with drooping jowls, big fat lips, and a set of lower teeth that pointed

outward rather than up. A long sleeve shirt covered his chest and an old faded

sulu was wrapped around his waist, covering him from there down. His feet stuck

out from under his knees and the soles were thick with cracked calluses from

many miles of walking through the bush.

The chief turned to us, broke into a big smile and motioned for us to come inside

as he said "Bula", the Fijian word for welcome or hello. All eight of us(our family

and Peter and Tanis with their children, Alex and Jennifer) sat in front of him and

once settled, Peter and I each laid our bundle of kava on the mat in front of him.

First Peter, then I, gave a little speech about how we had come to his beautiful

island from Canada and America to show our children the Fijian way. He reached

over, put his hand on the kava, and said something in Fijian, which I presume

was his acceptance speech. He looked up and asked, beaming, if we would join

him in a bowl of kava-of course we couldn't refuse.

As we drank, he told us that all the uninhabited islands around Ndravuni

belonged to him and that we were welcome to anchor anywhere we pleased. We

could spear as many fish as we wished, but we were not allowed to hunt the

goats.

The next day we sailed over to one of the deserted islands in the chiefs' domain.

The four kids spent the afternoon building a palm frond fort on the beach while

Kitty and Tanis snorkeled in the crystal waters. Peter and I went diving on a

nearby coral head, returning with three huge lobsters for dinner. He offered to grill

lamb chops for the kids while Tanis boiled the lobsters for the adults. Kitty baked a

chocolate cake for desert. We arrived on WINDWOMAN after dark, Kitty put the cake

down in the cockpit next to the pan of chops and we all relaxed with rum and

Tang. Peter was up and down in the dark tending the barbeque on the stern and

soon we smelled something burning. Looking aft, we saw that Peter had been

charcoal grilling Kitty’s cake! Jennifer wrote a composition for school which she

titled "The Night Dad Barbequed the Cake" and so it is laughingly remembered

that way. And P.S., yes we did eat the crispy cake!

Kitty and I had talked on the radio to CHEWINK, who were also in the Astrolabe

area, and arranged to meet on the way to a village on the south of Kandavu.

WINDWOMAN wanted to stay put for a few days to repair their leaking dinghy.

The thirty miles to Korolevu Bay is strewn with unmarked reefs, strong currents

and only a few beacons. The wind was light so, rather than creep along under

sail, we turned the key on, pushed the instant wind button and powered along at

6 knots. I spent most of the day up on the spreaders looking through my Tom

Cruise Polaroid sun glasses for the tell-tale green spots indicating shoal water or

the more ominous patches that would mean certain disaster. Every once in a

while, a cloud would cover the sun and then all my ability to judge the water

depth would be lost. My heart would be in my mouth until the sun reappeared.

Once, it came out just in time to illuminate a patch of coral not more than 150

yards off our starboard bow. We could not let our vigil down for one minute.

The route brought us close to the outer barrier reef and through a narrow 1/4

mile channel that winds its way through sharp and menacing coral. By 3PM we

were past the last danger and steamed into the wide bay to drop our pick midway

between two small villages.

No sooner had we backed down on our anchor to make sure it was set than a

man, standing up in the back of a 15 foot hollowed out log and holding a long

stick, paddled over to out boats. His muscular build was apparent through his

unbuttoned, rolled sleeve old dress shirt tucked into faded jeans. His bare feet

were tougher than jackboots but his smile was warm and friendly. He called

"Bula" and after a short conversation about where we had come from, he asked

us to come to Lavidi, the village to our east, and meet the chief.

Kitty and Heidi finished school on board while Cabot and I went with Bill and

our bundles of kava to make our sevu sevu. We landed our dinghy at a stone

wharf just big enough for two dugout canoes and tied the painter to a bamboo

tree. Bill ushered us into a communal bure in the center of the dozen or so huts

that made up the village. We were instructed to sit in the front of a room that was

bare except for a large kava bowl in the center of the floor.

Bill left and returned a few minutes later with the chief and five or six other men.

Bill sat next to us to act as interpreter and sponsor while the others arranged

themselves in a semi-circle behind the chief, all facing us. When everyone was

settled, Bill nodded to us to put our kava on the floor in front of the chief. I once

again made my speech about coming from America and Cabot followed with his

version. Bill then stood up and talked to the chief and the others in Fijian. Every

once in a while he would glance at us and I heard words that I could recognize,

such as "American" and "yacht". He then put his hand on the kava and continued

talking, mentioning sevu sevu. All the men chanted a refrain and clapped their

hands three times. The chief placed his hands on the kava and accepted our

offering in Fijian. Once again, all chanted a refrain and clapped. I thought to

myself that this whole process was just like sitting around a conference room

presenting a DLJ analyst to the chief investment officer and senior portfolio

managers of one of my former institutional clients. We would sit and be offered a

cup of coffee and I would introduce the analyst. He would give his spiel, the CIO

would lead the questions, the PM's would all nod and murmur agreement as if we

were lucky, everyone would clap at the end.

At the end of this sevu sevu ritual, everyone broke into a smile and a new bowl

of kava was mixed. The chief poured a half coconut shell full and handed it to Bill,

who passed it to me. Following the custom, I clapped once, took the cup, raised it

to my lips, said Bula and drank it all down in one gulp, while everyone clapped

three times. Cabot’s turn was next, followed by the chief and each of the men

present. For the next two hours we talked about America, New York subways, and

Maine snow. It was fun to try and describe an elevator: one enters a tiny room, the

door shuts and re-opens later into a totally different area. Real science fiction.

Every ten minutes we all had to down another cup of kava. By the fourth round I

was asked if I wanted a "high tide" or "low tide", i.e. full or half full cup. We finally

excused ourselves with promises of returning the next day, we took the dinghy to

the western village near our boats. There we went through the same ritual except

that the chief spoke excellent English with a New Zealand accent. Seven or eight

bowls of kava later, Cabot and I were finally able to leave. All that kava had made

us tired and it sat in our stomachs like heavy water and wood fiber.

In the morning Heidi and Cabot took CHEWINK to a bay about 10 miles away to

check out a waterfall that, according to the locals, was supposed to be

spectacular. We wanted to stay and go back to Bills' village, especially since we

had been watching canoe loads of well dressed women coming into the bay and

disembarking at the stone quay all morning. We went ashore and were told by Bill

that Lavidi was hosting a meeting of the Methodist Church women from six

different nearby villages, the church elders and chiefs. We were invited to stay as

guests of honor. The festivities lasted all day and included a church service and

song fest, socializing and a feast similar to the one I had attended that night in

Nuiatoputapu when Kitty stayed on the boat.

We had bought our Polaroid camera ashore and between functions we took

pictures of the church elders and everyone else who was quick enough to get in

front of the camera before the two rolls of film we had were used up.

That evening after the organized festivities were over, the visitors packed

themselves into their dugout canoes and made the trip back to their own villages.

The men of Lavidi, pleased that the day had gone well and that their role as hosts

had been a success, retired to the common hut for their own kava party. They

insisted that I join them as they drank kava, played guitars and sang until the wee

hours of the morning.

The next day when Bill was on board for coffee, I asked if he would like to bring

his wife and baby out to TAMURE and I would take a picture of them. He thought

for a second and then said, "That wouldn't be right. Will you come in and take a

picture of the whole village?" As soon as we arrived with the Polaroid, a jubilant

cry went up and within 3 minutes everyone was out in the common laughing and

crowding together to get into the group picture.

When we finally left Korolevu Bay the whole village came to say good-bye. Bill

and the chief kept saying, "Good-bye Mr. Scott", and Bills' wife just stood and

waved, her eyes filled with tears. Our eyes too were moist. Before we were

allowed to leave, we had to promise to return next April.

We rejoined the Bogers of WINDWOMAN and together spent the next two

weeks cruising through the Mamanutha and Yasawa Island groups on the

western side of Fiji. Again, the navigation was all visual as only one reef was

marked by a buoy. At the end of a long day's run we were always exhausted from

the physical and mental strain.

The highlight of the Yasawas was exploring the caves of Sawa-I-Lau. A crevice

in the side of the cliff led us to a still pool inside a huge cavern. We slipped into

the water and swam to the far side of the pool where we dove down 10 feet, went

through a hole in the wall and came up into another cave where we could breath

air. Dark, damp and musty air, but air. A tiny beam of light made its way through a

hole in the ceiling. The luminous glow was eerie. Spencer got annoyed when I

moaned like a ghost and then grabbed his leg. The distance from the Yasawas

back to Lautoka on the main island is just too far to go before the sun gets too low

to still see the reefs. We were forced to spend the night at Vomo Island, even

though the anchorage there is open to the south and would be uncomfortable,

even dangerous if the wind were to veer from the east.

The diving around Vomo is reputed to be excellent. Both families snorkeled for

the rest of the afternoon around several enormous coral heads which were alive

and vibrant, teeming with a variety if brilliant hued fish, purple and green mouthed

giant clams and a green spotted Moray Eel. Peter and I, feeling macho and

adventurous, talked each other into going for a night dive; a first for both

of us. After dark, I squeezed into my wet suit, put my spear gun, snorkel,

mask, flippers and underwater flashlight into the inflatable and went

over to pick up Peter. We tied the painter to a coral reef off the

western point of Vomo and dove into the inky black water.

Our world was limited to the two beams of light from our flashlights that danced

around the dark void. One beam landed on a huge parrot fish, motionless in

sleep, and then swept past to startle a school of tiny, shimmering, pink fish

looking like sequins sewn onto the reef. At the fringe of my light I thought I saw a

long Gray Shark moving through the water.

I surfaced and said to Peter, "Did you see that?" "

"See what?" he said. "If it was big, I don't want to know."

"I hear if you pee in the water, it keeps the sharks away," I kidded.

"Good, because if that's true, there isn't a shark for a hundred miles!"

"We can't go back without a lobster," I coaxed. We both stuck our snorkels in our

mouths and proceeded on our hunt. A few moments later I saw what looked like a

few small sea snakes. I tapped Peter on the shoulder.

"What the hell were those? Snakes?"

"More like long worms," Peter said. Down again. This time they were

everywhere, millions of long, white worms wriggling out of the coral and climbing

our beams of light. It was though we were swimming in a giant cauldron of

spaghetti! Our warm cabin began to have far more appeal than a lobster dinner.

We learned later that this was the rising of the Mbalolo and is explained in our

South Pacific Handbook this way: "The Mbalolo is a segmented worm about 45 cm. long and lives deep in the fissures of the coral reefs of Samoa and Fiji, rising to the surface only twice a year to propagate and then die. It has a fixed day of appearance, one night in the third quarter of the moon in October and the corresponding night in November. It has never failed to appear on time for over 100 years. This is one of the most bizarre curiosities in the natural history of the South Pacific."

Kitty: The evening wasn't eerie only underwater for it was Halloween and

soon after dark a little pink sheeted ghost(Pink Floyds' ghost) and his big sister

the rock star surprised us coming alongside. Alex and Spencer also dressed up to

join Jennifer and Alex for trick or treating, even though there was only one other

yacht in the anchorage. Both boys donned bright flowered Hawaiian shirts,

mismatched checkered Jams, sunglasses and hats. They hung cameras around

their necks and smeared zinc oxide on their noses. In a flash they became Blue

Lagoon tourists (Blue Lagoon is the name of a small cruise line that visits the

Yasawas) complete with name tags saying "Hello, my name is...", and little

cardboard passports sticking out of their pockets. The other yacht, a Canadian

boat from Vancouver, was caught off guard and probably gave up half their

supply of "on watch" treats. It was wonderful for a change to merely have a

sandwich bag of Halloween candy and none of this picking through it all,

checking for tampered wrappers and straight pins. The only negative, to me

anyway, was that there were no bags of leftover candy hidden in the boys' rooms

to pluck a caramel from now and then.

Scott: October was over and the hurricane season was beginning. During

our first circumnavigation we were caught in Suva in October, 1972, while

Hurricane BeBe lashed the island with winds of 180 knots. It was time to head

south to seek shelter from the cyclones that dance around the tropical

southwestern Pacific during the southern summer like a drunken bull in a china

shop.

Although it was against the letter of the law, after clearing out of Fiji at Lautoka,

we went to Malololailai, just 25 miles away, to wait along with 10 other yachts for

a good weather forecast before making a break for New Zealand. There was a

cyclonic depression sitting just north of Vanuatu and although it was 680

miles away, it could, if it turned into anything more sinister, march down on us

with devastating force before we could outrun it.

I kept busy by tackling the projects on my fix-it list while Kitty reviewed the past

school year with Alex and spencer and administered the Calvert School final

exams, the ones their classmates back home had taken last June. Whoever said

"Teaching your own children is easy" must have been a childless administrator

who got a cut on every correspondence course sold to an unsuspecting public.

The tropical depression lingered near Vanuatu, unable to make up its mind as

to what it was going to do. The tension slowly began creeping up the back of my

neck, sneaking into my subconsious, twisting my stomach into knots. A few boats

got tired of waiting and left, hoping to be far enough south before it began to

move that they would miss it. Unfortunately, they weren't so lucky and ended up

heaving to in 40-50 knots of wind for over two days.

We waited and waited. Finally, on Friday, November 11th, the weather was right

and in spite of our superstition about starting a passage on Fridays, we left for

New Zealand. It was a beautiful sail at first, with 10-15 knots of easterly winds.

Three days out we caught the tail end of the depression and had to heave to with

just a staysail for 8 hours. About 2 A.M. the wind eased slightly and while Kitty

and the kids were asleep, I rolled out a little bit of jib. TAMURE bounded ahead at

4 knots. We were on our way again.

Halfway to New Zealand we raised Sydney Radio on our SSB and placed a call

back to Kittys' parents in St. Louis. We received the very sad news that Kittys'

mom had died the day before....just when the weather turned nice again for us.

The weather was perfect for the rest of the passage; however, under the

circumstances, we weren't able to appreciate it.

John and Maureen Cullen operate Keri Keri Radio out of the Bay of Islands,

New Zealand, as a volunteer service. Twice a day we talked with John on the

SSB and by the time we reached Opua in the Bay of Islands, Kitty had a

reservation and ticket waiting for her for a flight back to the states. A New Zealand

friend, Leon Smith, who had circumnavigated with us in the early '70's and whom

we had not seen since then, happened to hear us talking to Keri Keri Radio. He

then drove for four hours up from Auckland to bring Kitty back to catch her plane.

New Zealand hospitality is truly wonderful.

Kitty is back on board, the kids have started a new school year and I am

embarking on the major maintenence projects that are needed after a year and a

half of cruising. The only real problems we are faced with now is to decide where

we will go from here. When I was home, I would lie awake nights worrying about

client relations, McLagen reports and the falling prices of a newly recommended

stock. Now I lie awake nights worrying about the best route home: via South

Africa, Japan, The Red Sea or ship the boat back? If you are a born worrier the

cruising life won't change anything but the subject matter.

As soon as we decide what we're going to do, we will let you know so that you

can keep those cards and letters coming. In the meantime, the following address

is good until the middle of March.

Remember, no news is not good news to us!

Scott, Kitty, Alex and Spencer Kuhner

C/O Peter Kammler

Owhiwa Rd., R.D. 1 Parua Bay

Onerahi, Whangarei, New Zealand

THE GREAT ESCAPE

CHAPTER V

NEW ZEALAND TO NOUMEA

Cruising isn't always the carefree, happy go lucky lifestyle that we would like to

believe. Often we are faced with the same trials and tribulations that confront us

back in the so-called "real world". Our seven month stay in New Zealand was

punctuated with just such confrontations.

The last chapter closed as we arrived in New Zealand from Fiji having learned

of Kittys' moms' death through a radio telephone call home while at sea.

Thereafter we checked in each night at 7 P.M. with John Cullen of Keri Keri

Radio, who runs a net for people sailing the southwest Pacific. John takes our

positions and local weather conditions and tells us what to expect for the next 24

hours with the familiar phrase, "Scott, for you I have.....". His voice is very

comforting especially when it's blowing 35 knots and he says we should see the

winds easing to 15 knots by morning.

John also assists yachts in emergencies. Before we had even arrived in NZ

another yacht listening to the sched had arranged a plane reservation for Kitty

and John alerted customs and immigration so that they could facilitate our entry

procedures and Kitty could leave for the airport.

Leon Smith, a New Zealander who had circumnavigated with us in the early

70's and whom we had not seen since, happened to be listening to Keri Keri

radio and heard our dilemma. He immediately volunteered to drive 4 hours up

from Auckland to the Bay of Islands where we entered NZ and drive us back

down to the airport.

All went like clockwork at Opua, Bay of Islands, and customs and immigration

came aboard to present us with the paperwork to legally enter into New Zealand.

By 10 A.M. Kitty was ready to leave for Auckland and I went to find the Port

Captain to let him know we were about to leave. He was on another yacht tied to

a barge 20 feet below the main wharf. I began to climb down the ladder when a

few feet from the bottom I slipped on a greased rung and fell, gracefully arching in

the air in a backward swan dive, landing on my ribs against a steel beam. I lay

stunned for what seemed like an eternity, my eyes bugged out of my head like a

squished frog, unable to suck in any air, wondering if I had already taken my last

breath. Finally, it came in short gasps--first my wind and then the pain!

Four men helped me into the car and Leon and Kitty took a detour to the local

hospital. They stayed long just enough to find out that other than a couple of

broken ribs there was no major damage and I would eventually be all right. Then they

left for the Auckland airport.

That next week Alex stayed on HOMERS ODYSSEY, a yacht with another 12

year old boy and Spencer bunked down on CHEWINK with the 10 year old twins,

Alex and Drew Lyman. Kitty was home with her family while I sat propped up on TAMURE barely able to breath, let alone move. Friends dropped by every once in a while with some hot soup and within a week, the pain began to subside. However, it was another 3 weeks before I could sleep through the night.

At the end of that first week, Peter Kammler, another sailing friend from the old

days showed up at the dock to take all three of us to his farm in Parua Bay to

recuperate and wait for Kittys' return.

At the end of his circumnavigation in 1974, Peter had gone back to Germany,

acquired a new boat and a new wife and set off once again for the islands in the

sun. After a few more years of cruising the Caribbean and the South Pacific, Peter

and Dagmar arrived in NZ. They fell in love with a beautiful farm near the sea, tied

their schooner MAUNA KEA to a mooring and began raising cattle instead of

sails.

The farm consists of 50 acres, half of which is lush, rugged native bush and half

is beautifully groomed paddocks with 25 head of cattle grazing on it. The main

house is perched on the top of a high hill. Evenings we would sit on the

gingerbread trimmed verandah looking southwest over Parua Bay and watch the

sun set in a blaze of colors behind the majestic spires of Bream's Head. To the

northeast the view is of ten miles of rolling farm land with the sea off in the

distance. It is a perfect spot for an old salt who has swallowed the anchor.

Peter had spent the last two years renovating the farmhouse, clearing the land

and fencing it, and turning the old wool shed into a beautiful guest house. We

were the first to put the new guest quarters to use. Every day for the next few

weeks I taught school in the morning. The kids then played around the farm, their

favorite spot being a glade down in a deep valley with a stream running through it

where they built dams and sailed their model boats. At 4:30 they came back for

showers and walked up the main house to help Dagmar set the table for dinner.

It was a warm and comfortable way to recuperate and wait for Kitty to come

back.

When Kitty finally arrived we returned to the Bay of Islands to pick up TAMURE

and sail her down to Parua Bay, where we anchored in sight of Peters' farm just

before Christmas. The holidays saw ourselves, Bob and Kristi Hanelt and their

son Kristian, Peter and Dagmar and Ann Goodhue and her son Stephen

gathered at the farm. All of us except for the kids, who weren't born yet, had

circumnavigated in the early '70's. It was quite a reunion. Only one couple, Roger

and Sheila on KUAN YIN, was missing from the small group that had crossed

the Pacific and Indian Oceans together back in those early days of cruising.

The new year brought us to Auckland--a real city. The first thing we did was

buy a used car. The only problem was that Kiwis drive on the wrong side of the

road and are more aggressive than New York cabbies! From the weekend fatality

statistics they don't appear to be very good drivers either. In fact, we often said

that the only people who are worse drivers than New Zealanders are the

Americans driving in New Zealand!

We bought the car for two reasons: One was to give us mobility to get the parts

and materials for the refit TAMURE was in need of after 12,000 miles of hard

sailing; the other was to bring the family on a camping tour of South Island. In

early February we brought the boat over to Half Moon Bay Marina and had her

pulled out of the water. She had a mild case of the "pox", blisters below the water

line that are the scourge of fiberglass boats, especially those who spend a lot of

time in the tropics. My plan was to grind the blisters out, then go to the South

Island while they dried out, come back and fill them with epoxy and complete the

rest of the maintenance.

During the first week we moved off the boat and in with Ann Goodhue and her

sons David and Stephen. Ann’s house is a small 3 bedroom cottage facing the

marina. While I was grinding blisters, Kitty was busy rounding up sleeping bags,

tents, a camp stove, utensils, back packs and personal hiking gear. This was a to

be a real vacation from the boat .

The day came when we loaded kits, cats, sacks and wives into the car and

headed for St. Ives. We all felt great, free of the demands of TAMURE and off on a

totally new adventure. We were also unaware of the doom about to befall us. That

first night, 2 hours out of Auckland, we stayed with Tom and Kaye Williams, “cow

caulkies” (dairy farmers) we had met in Bora Bora. Early the next day we resumed

our travels, all singing along with the tapes Spencer put in the cassette player.

Soon we stopped at our first tourist attraction, the Waitomo glow worm caves.

Emerging from the caves, Alex noticed a sign pointing to a path thru the woods.

It said "Scenic View". We were lured into the woods like Hansel and Gretel. After

a few hundred yards the path crossed a cow pasture. Halfway across the

paddock I was about 30 feet in front of Kitty, on a path that had been turned to

mud by heavy rain, trampled by many cows and then dried into uneven clumps

and hoof prints. All of a sudden Kitty tripped and fell with a crash. I can hear the

"crack" even now. I spun around and saw her lying on the ground, holding her

right leg across her left knee, her foot hanging almost perpendicular off to the side

of the ankle.

All she said was "It's broken." there was no mistaking it, it was broken. I ran

back to the park attendants to get them to call an ambulance and returned to

comfort Kitty.

Forty-five minutes later an ambulance drove through the fields and parked on

top of a hill about 150 yards above us. A slightly paunchy man in his mid 40's and

a nurse dragged a stretcher and a cylinder of laughing gas down to Kitty. She

took one look at them and thought "My God, how are these two going to get me

up that hill?" Just then three park rangers came up the path to help.

After a few whiffs of the gas and as she was clamped onto the stretcher, Kitty

turned to me and said, "Be sure to get pictures of this!"

Halfway up the hill the rescue crew had to stop and catch their breath. Young

athletic mountain climbers they were not. At the top of the hill, breathing heavily

and glistening with sweat, they carefully loaded her into the ambulance. Spencer

rode with her while Alex and I returned to get the car. When the ambulance came

by we fell in behind and the procession wound its way through country roads to

the Te Kuiti hospital 25 miles away. It was hard to fully comprehend what had

just happened, but instinctively I knew that our saga had just taken a 90 degree

turn!

At the hospital an x-ray revealed a spiral fracture of the tibia and a clean break

of the fibula, both down near her right ankle. Many small fractures led to the ankle

but did not go into the joint itself. She was wheeled into the theatre, as they call

the O.R. A young doctor set the bones and put Kitty in a cast from knee to toe. As

they wheeled her out of the theatre I asked the doctor how it went. "Okay," was all

he said and then disappeared. At that point I was concerned with comforting Kitty

as she came out of the anaethesia and turned to follow her into her room. An

earlier call to Kaye Williams brought her down to collect Alex and Spencer, so

we didn't have to worry about them.

Kitty was in too much pain and too doped up to read, so I thought a T.V. might

take her mind off the predicament we were in. they didn't have televisions in the

hospitals, so I called the local T.V. sales center to rent one.

"Well, no we don't rent T.V.'s for less than 3 months. But hey! Your wife is in the

hospital-come on down, I have a T.V. right here she can use for a few days-no

charge."

I went down to pick it up. The owner Murray Delziel, of Delziels Appliance

Center, came out to meet me. "Gee, I hope your wife feels better, I'm sorry this

T.V. isn't color, but I hope she enjoys it."

I walked out with the T.V. under my arm. At the front of the store I turned back to

Mr. Delziel and said, "By the way, don't you want my name or ID or something?"

"Oh yeah. I guess I should!" and he wrote on a note pad:Scott Kuhner, Te Kuiti

Hospital. "O.K., fine."

Te Kuiti Hospital is small and intimate and serves the local farming community. I

half expected to see Andy Griffith from Mayberry RFD come around the corner at

any moment. It was starting get dark and I had to find a place to stay for the night.

A nurse who looked just like Aunt Bee was making the bed, so I asked her if there

was a motel nearby. She looked at me and said," "Why don't you come home with

me tonight?" She paused for a second and then turned to Kitty and exclaimed,

"Oh, it's all right, I'm married and besides, I'm too old for that anyway!"

Another nurse volunteered that for $6 a night I could stay at the student nurse's

quarters, which are no longer used by the nurses. A half hour later the ambulance

driver came into the room with his wife and daughter to see if they could take the

kids and me back to their house for the night. Everyday thereafter, they came to

visit Kitty and bring flowers or some other present. This is the real charm of rural

New Zealand.

The next day I listened to the nagging voice in my mind that wondered why the

doctor who set Kittys' leg was not more positive or why he had not come by to see

her. I asked to see the post op X-rays and when the doctor on duty brought them,

even I as a layman could see that the bones were not properly aligned.

A few phone calls to friends produced the name of a respected orthopaedic

surgeon in Auckland who agreed to see Kitty in a week when the swelling should

be less severe. Six days later we met Dr. Lamb in his "rooms". He is a handsome

man with just enough grey in his hair to suggest a wealth of experience. He

peered over his bifocals with an expression of confidence and projected a

bedside manner similar to Marcus Welby, M.D. He agreed the bones were not set

properly and then reviewed our options with us.

Later on, while submitting some medical forms to a government agency, the

woman behind the counter looked at the papers, then back at me and said, "How

did you hear of Mr. Lamb? He is the best bone specialist in NZ and for a tourist to

find his name would be like finding a needle in a hay stack!" We were in good

hands.

Those hands ended up puting a plate and 4 screws into Kittys' leg to hold the

fibula in place. She was then faced with 10 weeks in a cast and another 6 weeks

of physical therapy. At least she was on the mend.

Meanwhile, we were back living with Anne Goodhue and her sons. All seven of

us squeezed into her small house overlooking the boatyard where TAMURE was

in dry dock. Only an exceptionally good friend could put up with a gimp, two boys

and a bum that came home every night covered with sawdust and bottom paint.

Down at the yard, I worked on TAMURE from 8 a.m. to 7 p.m. I ground out and

epoxied the blisters, moved the bobstay fitting above the water line, installed 3

new Lewmar hatches to replace the leaky wooden ones, rebuilt the head and put

3 coats of antifouling paint on her bottom. Finally TAMURE was put back in the

water and we moved on board, giving Anne back her peace and quiet. I hoped

we hadn't given credence to the old proverb "After 3 days both guests and dead

fish begin to smell!"

At the end of April Kitty finally got her cast off. However, an x-ray revealed that

the tibia had not been healing properly and a bone graft was mentioned as the

worst case scenario if it didn't begin to mend on its own. We had to re-orient

ourselves to the fact that we might have to stay in New Zealand for a whole year.

The kids were enrolled in a school a few blocks from the marina and loved

having a real teacher and more than one classmate. I got a job and realized how

much I missed working. Doing nothing is the most tiring thing in the world

because you can't take a break!

Fay, Richwhite Equities is a merchant banking firm in Auckland, like the D.L.J. of

New Zealand. Michael Fay is also the person who challenged the San Diego

Y.C. for the America's Cup and, as of this writing has probably won it, albeit

through the courts.

Fay,Richwhite had been wholesaling NZ stocks into the States through brokers

like Morgan Stanley and they felt it was time to meet the people who are actually

managing the portfolios of foreign equities. My job was to find out who they are

and to set up a two week trip for the senior institutional equity salesmen to meet

as many of those potential clients as possible.

Two p.m. Monday in New York is actually 6 a.m. Tuesday in Auckland and so

my day began before dawn. Unlike New York, the streets of Auckland are

deserted at 6 a.m. the only signs of life are the street cleaners driving their big

sprinkler trucks--even on the days it was raining.

Bill Aldridge, the salesperson who would be going to New York, met me and let

me in the building. We would take the elevator to the 25th floor, hang up our

coats, get a cup of coffee and then I would pick up the phone. At 7 a.m. the sun

would come up over the harbor. At 7:30 other Fay, Richwhite people would start

to come in and by 8:00 everyone was at their desk. A half an hour later an

announcement came over the loudspeaker informing us that breakfast was

served.

The morning meeting begins at 9:00 and lasts a half an hour. It is attended by

all six people in the institutional equities department: Peter, the head trader who

looks more like Richie Burns or Billy Birchfield(two young aggressive traders at

DLJ) than Dudley Epple, the experienced old pro who runs the DLJ desk; Geoff

and Bill, the sales manager and senior salesman; and Anthony and Liz, the two

analysts. No one is over 35. All are as sharp as the best on Wall Street. Even the

physical set up is similar to back home: one huge round table with two computer

consoles and a phone bank in front of each chair.

In fact the only difference between Auckland and NYC is the numbers. Between

the New York Stock Exchange, the Amex and the OTC, there are well over 3,000

stocks of interest to more than 1,000 institutions managing large portfolios of

common stocks. In New Zealand there are 30 stocks of institutional size and

possibly as many clients.

At 10a.m. Peter and Geoff leave to go over to the floor of the exchange. The

traders from five or six other brokerage firms arrive at the same time, all joking

with eachother as they take their places at their respective booths. Nobody at the

Stock Exchange seems to be over 35 either!

The room is approximately 60 feet by 100 feet and two stories tall. A catwalk

extends across the front wall 6 feet from the floor. The names of all the traded

securities are arranged in rows reaching height to knee level. At the second floor

level in the back, a glass partition walls off four old ladies in flowered print

dresses and a delivery boy watching intently from the visitor's gallery.

At 10:15 a.m. the bell rings and a young woman in a grey stewardesses uniform

reaches up and points to the first stock. A trader in the pit yells "buyer!", another

also yells "buyer!" and a third "seller!", signifying that they will buy or sell at the bid

or ask. Finally someone says "seller at..."(the bid price) and the amount of shares

he will sell. Those who announced their intentions to buy at that price and then

get together and split up the sellers' stock amongst themselves.

Each name on the board is gone through once and then trades can be done on

stocks already passed. By 11-11:30 it's over until the 2 p.m. call when the process

is repeated.

Back in the office the chef had prepared a gourmet lunch for the whole office. It

is served from carts and eaten at one's desk. Even though my day was done by

noon the when portfolio managers in Los Angeles had finally gone home, I often

stayed just to sample the day's lunch.

By going to work at 5:30 a.m. and coming home just after noon, I missed all the

rush hour traffic that is as bad as the Long Island Expressway at 5:30p.m. on a

Friday night in July. Instead, my commute to the West Park Marina at the end of the

motorway took exactly 18 minutes. We were at the edge of exerbia with a new

housing development on one side of the road and farms with open fields, cows

and horses on the other.

I often wonder why we left NZ. The kids loved their school, we had made a

number of very good friends and I had a job with the most innovative and

probably the best brokerage firm in the country. Everything was perfect. I guess it

was the desire to finish what we had started that made us willing to move on.

However, we would question that decision more than once on the passage from

NZ to Noumea!

On June 1st another x-ray showed Kitty’s leg had started to heal nicely. Mr.

Lamb looked over his bifocals at Kitty and, with a glow of satisfaction as though

he were addressing his star pupil, proclaimed her fit for travel. On hearing the

good news, we put the gears in motion for pushing on. We made daily trips to

every supermarket in the area, taking on cartons and cartons of tinned bully beef,

Spam, veggies, powdered milk, snacks, juice mixes, paper towels, etc. I spent

hours at Transpacific Marine going through the chart catalogue and ordering over

$2,000 worth of charts just to get us from NZ to Cyprus via the Solomon Islands,

Indonesia, Singapore, Thailand, Sri Lanka and the Red Sea. This was not the

route we had intended to take when we left home 2 years ago, but plans change.

It was much too late for Cape Horn and the lure of exotic places like Singapore,

Kuala Lumpur, Port Sudan and the Pyramids enticed us into deciding to go home

via the Red Sea and the Med.

On Friday, June 9, we cleared customs and immigration for a Sunday

departure, then we would become persona non grata in NZ. By then there were

only a handful of foreign yachts in Auckland that were still going to leave for the

tropics. It was late in the season; equivalent to December 11th in New York. The

winter depressions were already marching across the Tasman Sea one after

another. The tail end of one was just spending the last of its fury over Auckland

before heading on east into the Pacific. We were anxious to get on our way and

after 7 months in NZ, we had a bad case of "harbor rot".

We powered over to the gas dock, took on 60 gallons of diesel and filled our two

75 gallon water tanks. It was time to go. Just after noon we raised the main, rolled

out the jib and under an overcast sky we left Auckland astern. I looked over my

shoulder at the Fay, Richwhite building and once again wondered if we were

doing the right thing.

We sailed to a bay in Rangitoto Island just seven miles away to spend the night

and wait for the beginning of the next high to bring the southwest wind.

Another American yacht,TRANSIT, followed us over and we got together for

dinner and to analyze his weatherfax charts, each hoping for a favorable wind to

blow us north. Monday morning it was still raining and a northeast wind was still

blowing. TRANSIT stayed put but we opted to jump 25 miles further up the coast,

where we met BANSHEE, a 35 foot sloop sailed by two American women. They

too were waiting for the southwest winds to go to Noumea, New Caledonia, 950

miles to the north. On Tuesday the wind shifted to the south and both boats left on

what we had hoped would be a quick 6 day sprint to the trade winds and warm

sunshine. We were wrong!!

The south wind was cold. We were wearing long underwear and sweaters, it

had been 4 degrees Centrigrade the night before. By midnight the wind had

backed around to the northeast and gone from 10 kts to 25 kts. All day

Wednesday, it slowly continued to back and fill and by 7 pm when we checked in

with John on the nightly Keri Keri radio schedule, we were beating our way to

North Cape in 35 knot northerlies. We were down to a storm trysail, staysail and

storm jib. Everyone was feeling rotten although no one had actually blown lunch.

The lee rail was almost buried and cold seas were breaking over the bow. We

were all tied into our bunks; trying to sleep in those conditions was like trying to

sleep inside the bass drum of a hundred and one piece marching band.

As we approached North Cape, we experienced a current of almost 2 kts

against us and not wanting to get caught in a strong south easterly that could turn

the current into a cauldron of boiling angry water, we tacked over to the northeast.

Eighteen hours later we tacked once more to the northwest. Thursday night we

reported to Keri Keri that we were still beating our brains out in 30-35 knot

northerlies. Both Spencer and Alex got sick, but only for a short time. This was

proving to be the worst trip for them so far and they were doing better than

normally.

John repeated our position and conditions and then said "Yes it's pretty dicey

out there, but tomorrow I have for you northeasterlies moderating to 15-20." By

Sunday we were powering in calm conditions.

Our course to Noumea was NNW and Monday saw us beating into NW winds.

Wednesday night we were back to powering in a calm, expecting to be in

Noumea early in the morning. Thirty minutes into Kittys' midnight watch, however,

conditions changed from calm to 35 knots of wind and rain, right on the nose

once again. When dawn broke the visibility was less than 1/4 mile and the wind

was gusting to 45 knots. We were afraid of approaching the reef that extends 40

miles south and 10 miles east of Noumea in those conditions, so we hove-to to

wait it out.

All the hard beating to weather had produced leaks we never had before. Most

of the chainplates were leaking, one particularly close to our electronics. Water

was coming through the starboard sail locker whose gasket had worn out. It even

came through the mast boot. Because we have such a shallow bilge, any water

on a starboard tack accumulates on the cabin sole next to the galley. Just then

our automatic bilge pump quit. The big hand bilge pumps didn't go all the way to

the way into the sump. To get the last bit out, we had the floorboards up and I was

pumping the sump with a small hand pump into a bucket, which Kitty hauled up

on deck to empty overboard. Huddled in their wet bunks, the kids didn't seem to

be too bothered by the conditions.

By 11 AM the weather moderated slightly and visibility improved to 2-3 miles.

We raised the staysail, brought the storm jib over to the correct side, turned the

engine on and motorsailed towards the pass 20 miles away, hoping to make it

before dark. The autopilot was keping us bashing into the short steep headsea,

working out towards the break in the reef. Our radar picked up the wreck on the

reef and pinpointed our position even though we still hadn't sighted land.

Several hours later we put full power to the engine to push us the last half mile

against 30 knots of wind blowing straight out the narrow pass. Just when I could

see the reef close on either side of us, the engine alarm went off. It had

overheated! Panic! We shut the engine off, rolled out the jib, fell off slightly and

were just able to squeak by the end of the reef sailing into the lagoon. We passed

by a large sailing yacht lying over on the reef with a huge hole in the bottom

pointing at us as if to say "Careful mates, or you'll end up like me."

Noumea was a beautiful sight and the anchorage was flat calm. No more

rolling, bouncing or pitching. We slept soundly for the first time in 9 days, even in

our wet bunks.

New Caledonia is a French colony and while different from Tahiti still has a very

definite French flavor. Its wealth is derived from its vast nickel mines and every

afternoon the smelters northwest of town cast an eerie golden hue against the

lush green mountains and beyond. The town of Noumea radiates from a central

park. Modern five and six story apartments, stores and offices are interspersed

among cement sided tin roofed buildings that have housed the same business for

the past 100 years. Somewhere in the maze of the streets and shops we were

able to find everything needed to make our repairs. In fact , one can find anything

from Cartier watches to Coleman lamps. In one store genuine La Coste shirts sell

for $60 each while two doors away exact Taiwanese replicas go for $18. Walking

around Noumea everyday helped to strengthen Kitty’s leg and except for a few

sore tendons, she was beginning to get around without limping.

The week after we arrived we were secure in the anchorage when a blow came

through bringing winds of 35-40 knots in town. Forty miles out to sea, a sister ship

to ours named FANTASY reported being hove-to in 50-60 knots of wind. She had

a hard trip from Australia, had blown out most all her sails and had no fuel left to

run her engine. She was drifting slowly towards some reefs about 50 miles down wind. She requested that Noumea radio notify shipping in the area of her position. That was the last transmission from FANTASY and for the next 5 days we all worried about her, even getting the French Navy to send a plane out. Nothing! then news came that the crew, a couple and two boys Alex and Spencer’s ages, were rescued by a passing freighter that was bound for NZ. Dick had come up on Keri Keri radio and explained to John and all of us listening to the net that given the circumstances, he chose to be taken off the boat in order to insure the safety of his family. Two days later a French destroyer towed the abandoned FANTASY into Noumea.

On the Fourth of July, thirteen yachts, 9 Americans, 3 Kiwis and an Aussie, went

to a deserted bay to celebrate with a good old barbeque. For two days we

relaxed, swam, snorkeled and played on the beach. Half the boats had kids. One

morning all eleven of them went ashore and cooked their own breakfast over an

open fire. That night Alex and the girl on the boat next to us stayed up for hours,

each sitting on the bow of their own boat, talking away as 13 year old kids

anywhere do.

R & R on Noumea was over and we were ready to go to sea again. We needed

a good passage and were rewarded with 7 days of beautiful tradewind sailing

that took us 900 miles still further north to the Solomon Islands, the area of some

of the harshest fighting during WW2. The charts of the Solomons are filled with

familiar names from the war such as Guadalcanal, Tulaghi and "The Slot". During

that passage we caught fish, did some school work and got back into the cruising

mode. Alex read Michener’s "Tales of the South Pacific", many stories of

which are about the war in the Solomons. He also devoured all our reference

books and by the time we got to Honiara had mapped out a sightseeing itinerary

for us. But that will be covered in the next chapter. In the meantime, our next

address will be:

C/O Steve Brown

No. 3 Jalan Nusa

Tamanduta

50480 Kuala Lumpur, MALAYSIA

This address will be good until December 1st. Please write and tell us all your

gossip. We leave Darwin, Australia, next week for Bali and Singapore and then

Malaysia and Thailand for Christmas.

THE GREAT ESCAPE

CHAPTER VI

SOLOMON ISLANDS TO SINGAPORE

The last newsletter ended as we sailed from Noumea, New Caledonia, to the

Solomon Islands. The 900 miles took seven days and was perfect trade wind

sailing. We broad reached in 15-20 kt winds and sparkling seas, averaging 6 1/2

kts. Spencer caught a dorado while he was sitting on the stern lazily holding onto

the trolling line; he actually watched it jump out of the water and dive at the lure!

He also hooked a blue marlin. It jumped clear out of the water a few times, tossing

its' head angrily, until it finally threw the hook. This passage made up for the hard

trip we'd had bashing our way north in the heavy weather we encountered

between New Zealand and Noumea.

On Friday, July 14th, we sailed into Tavanipupu, a cove on the southeast tip of

Guadalcanal. There we met the Humphries, an English ex-pat couple who had

come to the Solomons thirty years ago as government administrators. They had

built their retirement home on their own little island in this beautiful bay. We

dropped our anchor less than thirty yards from their beach and tied our stern

to a palm tree. That night they invited us to their beautiful home of mahogany

beams and thatched roofing built on stilts one story off the ground. From their

verandah we overlooked our boat at anchor in the lagoon. Their existence

seemed perfect until Charles told us that Mafwani had contracted a bad case of

malaria a few months ago and been very sick. It is a constant threat even on their

own little island. He admitted that they were virtual prisoners because if they both

left at the same time, their home would certainly be ransacked by local natives.

They love us yachties to come and visit because aside from infrequent trips to

Honiara, we are their main contact with other Europeans.

Two days later we made the 65 mile trek down the coast of Guadalcanal to

Honiara, the capital city. City is a misnomer as it has a hard time living up to being

called a town. There is one main street with stores extending several blocks east

and west from the center. On that eight block strip there are two souvenir shops

but no tourists, 2 pharmacies, a supermarket, a propane gas distributor, a number

of small greasy spoons a car rental agency, some hardware stores, a bakery an

insurance agent, a gas station one hotel and the local yacht club. The street is

paved but covered with dust.

On the trip from Noumea Alex had read Michener’s "Tales of the South

Pacific", many stories of which are about the war in the Solomon Islands. He

had also read all our reference books on the islands and by the time we arrived in

Honiara had mapped out a sightseeing itinerary for us. Because Kitty’s leg was

not quite 100% yet, we rented a van for the day and along with three other

yachties set out to see the reminders of WW2. We went to Red Beach where

about 20 amphibious landing craft still sat rusting under palm trees and

overgrown weeds. We crouched our way into Colonel Fox's bunker dug into the

side of the hill which gave the name "foxhole" to all such dugout shelters. We

explored an underground Japanese field hospital and could only imagine what it

would be like getting operated on while bombs were dropping outside. We went

to Henderson Field, the airstrip that was the focus of so much fighting and on

which the father of one of the yachties had landed during the war. We went lastly

to the Japanese War Memorial. Other than that there is nothing on Honiara. It will

never be a tourist mecca.

Not only is the heat unbearable, but we were constantly fearful of getting

malaria. The Solomons has the highest incidence of malaria in the world and

Honiara the highest in the Solomons. In spite of the heat we kept our hatches

covered with screens 24 hours a day and rarely went ashore after dusk when the

malaria carrying anopheles mosquito comes out to feed. Even though we were

taking two chloroquine and one Maloprim every week, the pills don't actually

prevent malaria, they only suppress it once contracted. In fact, two weeks earlier a

crew on another yacht had a raging case that required hospitalization even

though he was taking the pills. We were cautious to the point of being paranoid

and were to have a few anxious moments later on.

A week was all we could take of Honiara and so left for the New Georgia group

and Marovo Lagoon, home of the Solomon Island woodcarvers. We had a

beautiful overnight sail past Tulaghi and into the lower end of the famous "Slot",

the strait between the New Georgia group on the west and Santa Isabel and

Choiseul on the east where the Japanese tried to run their supply ships past our

freighter planes and PT boats to re-provision their troops on Guadalcanal.

At dawn we sailed through Mbili Passage to the crystal clear water protected by

the off lying fringing reef. The men of Marovo Lagoon specialize in producing

beautiful carvings. No sooner had we dropped anchor than two or three men in

separate dugout canoes pulled up next to TAMURE and asked to come aboard to

show us their carvings. They proceeded to hand us objects wrapped in blankets

or old clothing and immediately followed their wares into the cockpit. Once on

board, they laid out a spread of bowls, war canoes, sharks, masks and faces

called nusa nusas carved in ebony or sandalwood and inlaid with nautilus shells.

Then the bartering began.

These people have learned the value of their art and no longer can one get a

beautiful inlaid bowl for a pair of old trousers. They state their price and won't

budge. However, money isn't always the object of the sale. Our favorite carving

was brought for a quart of epoxy resin, some epoxy glue, 5 sheets of sandpaper,

2 drill bits and $100 in Solomon dollars ($1 US=$2 Solomon.) We were slightly

insulted once when one man who wanted to show us his carvings agreed to trade

for clothes. However, when he saw our clothes he changed his mind and wanted

only money.

A few days later we met up with our friends Carl and Peri, on KUKARA, and both

dropped anchor in front of Cheke village. We tidied up the boat, put the awning

up and looked around-amazingly no canoes laden with wood carvings were

making for the yachts. We went ashore and met Mauven Kuve, the local baker,

sage, and self appointed mayor.

Mauven had bushy gray mutton chops, a high shiny forehead and a habit of

clearing his throat halfway through each sentence. He had run A small hotel for

backpackers and consequently knew we like some privacy. He had convinced

the people of his village to let the yachts anchor in peace and only try to sell to us

when we came ashore. The village was so friendly and peaceful we decided to

stay a few days. One day while Kitty ambled through the village, Alex, Spencer

and I went with a 14 year old guide for a trek to a distant waterfall. The jungle was

so thick that if we had strayed even 50 feet from the path we would have been lost

and eaten alive by swarms of mosquitoes and other biting insects buzzing about

our heads. I pictured the hell our WW2 marines must have gone through during a

patrol, dying of the heat and jungle rot, slapping at a mosquito only to alert a Jap

sniper hiding in a tree. No one was laying in wait hoping to shoot us, never the

less, neither the kids nor I could wait to get back to the comfort of our boat. When

we did, we learned that Kitty had spent a pleasant afternoon ashore and

discovered a woodcarver putting the finishing touches on an exquisite war canoe

that he was willing to sell at a very good price.

The best purchase we made was a real dugout canoe for the kids. It's nine feet

long and carved out of one tree trunk, but the lines are exquisite as though it had

come from the drawing board of a naval architect. Every time we went to a new

village the first thing the boys would do was launch their dugout from its nest on

the cabin top. Within minutes TAMURE would be surrounded by village kids in

their own dugout and the races, splashing and laughing would begin.

Alex wrote: “When I saw Dad coming back in the dinghy with such a broad smile I knew he had brought a canoe for us. It came out with a man kneeling in it and paddling with a carved oar. We put the canoe in the rubber dinghy and handed it up to see if it would fit on deck. It fit perfectly. We threw it back in the water and tried it out. I had a hard time waiting for Spencer to finish his turn! Lots of native boys came out in their canoes and taught us to bail with our foot, get in from the water and go double. While one of us was in our canoe with a native, the other went in their three man canoe. When we bought it, it had a Solomon name but we changed it to "SOLO MAN" so that we could pronounce it.”

One evening Mauven came by with his brother-in-law, Dr. Douglas, who looks

like Harry Belafonte at 33 years old, only more handsome. He is a surgeon

trained in Australia and Hawaii and had been the head of the surgery department

at Honiara Hospital until there was a change of government and he found himself

a friend of the wrong political party. Now Dr. Douglas serves the local community

in Marovo Lagoon. He treats mostly malaria cases and festering sores, cuts and

jungle rot. He told us that unfortunately just that past week he had lost two people

to malaria and that approximately 80% of the Solomon Islands are infected with

the disease each year. That bit of information really helped us to relax in the

Solomon Islands!

Mauven and Dr. Douglas asked us if we'd like to go buna fishing with them in

the morning. After breakfast, Carl from KUKARA, Alex, Spencer and I climbed into

their huge dugout canoe. It was like six people trying to sit on a log powered by a

balky outboard motor. I had rowed competitively in a single scull while in college,

so I am used to tippy craft. But this was impossible. It was about to roll over at any

moment. It also leaked...badly! My heart was in my throat as we started out on the

two mile voyage across the lagoon, rocking violently from side to side, bailing

frantically with plastic containers and nursing the sputtering engine. Finally,

Mauven admitted we were not keeping up with the encroaching water and didn't

really trust the engine. Much to my relief we went back to exchange the leaking

log for Carl’s inflatable Avon and his new 9 hp engine.

Once across the lagoon, Mauven guided us to a small island with a few coconut

palms, pristine beach and a long coral reef extending 300 yards from shore. On

the beach he dug a one foot hole and filled it with fresh leaves picked that

morning from a Buna tree. The leaves were mashed into a sandy pulp, stuffed

into a burlap bag and brought out to the reef, where we put on mask and fins and

dove into the water.

I watched as Mauven and Dr. Douglas slapped the top of the water to scare a

group of reef fish into a hole in the coral. Then as one kept the fish in the hole by

continued slapping, the other grabbed a handful of the sandy Buna pulp, dove

down and stuffed it into the hole. Two or three minutes later the fish came darting

out twitching convulsively before becoming paralyzed and floating to the surface.

We leisurely swam over, scooped them up in our bare hands and tossed them

into the dinghy.

Even though Dr. Douglas assured us that the Buna leaf would not affect us, I ate

with caution that night half expecting to begin twitching uncontrollably at any

moment.

From Marovo we sailed to Rendova Island, through Blackett Strait and past the

exact spot where John Kennedy’s P.T. 109 was run down by a Japanese

destroyer. We sailed close by Plum Pudding Island where he and his crew finally

got to shore. The war is still very much in the island's recent past and evidence

remains everywhere from sunken wrecks and a totally intact fighter that we saw

in 15 feet of water to the many old timers who talked first hand about their

experience fighting the Japanese.

If we thought Honiara was a backwater, Gizo is a real hole. There is a fuel dock,

3 Chinese stores, a broken down Post Office and bank and a hotel no one would

actually want to stay in scattered along a three block dirt road that leads to the

hospital at the end of town. There isn't even any potable water, except for rain

caught on rooftops and that may have dead animals floating in it.

the first night in Gizo Spencer developed a slight fever which is the first sign of

malaria. Naturally we panicked so Kitty brought him early the next morning to the

hospital to get a blood test. As we walked into the hospital I thought we had

wandered into Auschwitz. The building was WW2 vintage clapboard and the dirt

on the floor was probably from the same era. The natives, seated on benches in

the waiting area outside, were covered with festering sores, mangled limbs,

hacking coughs and runny noses. It looked like the admittance room for a leper

colony.

An open door revealed a ward with six men in a room designed for three. The

overflow were lying on mats on the floor with their little pile of belongings next to

them. Two of the sicker men had a family member feeding them rice. Kitty and I

looked at each other and wondered if we should turn and run. Spencer surveyed

the scene and I perceived his growing panic at the thought of having to stay.

Spencer: "When I was in the Solomon Islands I got sick with a fever of 100 degrees F. My parents were worried about malaria. We decided to go to the hospital. When we got there I couldn't believe it! The waiting room was really dirty and smelled terrible! There were people with sores and coughs all around. But there were some people who didn't look sick at all and I had no idea why they were there. We went into the doctor's office and it wasn't much better, but it was a lot cleaner. I was surprised to see a nice comfortable bed. They checked me for malaria and said all I had was a stomach bug. They told us what pills to get and that the pharmacy was in the hospital. Nobody was in the pharmacy and my dad had to find someone who could get the pills. I definitely hope I never have to go to a hospital like that again."

We were ready for a civilization fix, so on August 8th, we set sail in company

with Carl and Peri for the Torres Straits and Australia. Within an hour of leaving

Gizo the wind came up out of the south and rather than beat along our intended

course to clear the southeast tip of the Louisiade Archipelago, we fell off and

headed for Misima in the Deboyne Group. We felt we could thread our way

through the reef strewn archipelago by using the Jomard Pass. Carl and Peri

elected to keep plugging away to windward and take the route with the least

navigational obstacles.

With sheets eased, TAMURE picked up her skirts and flew. Dawn two days later

found us south of Misima. The wind was still from the south and I was becoming

uneasy about our intended anchorage in the Deboyne Group because unless the

wind backed to east of south, we would be extremely hard pressed to clear

Jomard Pass before nightfall the next day; it was not a place to be navigating after

dark.

Kitty had been studying the charts and pointed to a small unmarked pass

through the reef surrounding the Calvados Chain of islands east of the Deboyne

Group. She saw that we could use Gamai Island as a reference point to pick out

the pass and anchor next to Moturina for the night. The next day we would then

have an easy reach 23 miles across the lagoon and exit through a break in the

reef at the south western end, emerging in the Coral Sea. By doing so she

reasoned we would also not have to fight the 3-4 kt current that can run through

the Jomard entrance, the route we had originally intended to use.

I slapped my forehead and said, "I could have had a V8!" It was the perfect

answer and turned out to be as good as Kitty predicted.

By 10:30AM we were swimming around TAMURE while she lay peacefully at

anchor off a crescent beach with palm trees shading a dozen thatched huts and

women in grass skirts doing their morning chores. That afternoon we entertained

some girls from the village who had swum out to see our strange vessel. They

invited us in to see their houses but we did not visit the village because we were

now in New Guinea and had not gone through immigration or customs

formalities. Nor did we have a visa. Going ashore under those circumstances

could result in heavy fines or even confiscation of the boat if caught.

The next morning we got up, had breakfast, cleaned up and were underway bu

10:00AM, refreshed and ready for five more days at sea. By sunset we were

through the lagoon and well into the Coral Sea free of any dangers. Our evening

radio schedule revealed us to be only 8 miles behind Carl and Peri who had

spent the whole time beating around the southeastern end of the string od islands

we had just come through. Having large scale charts of the area had allowed us

freedom to choose a route which was better for us.

Four days later we finally caught sight of KUKARA as we both closed in on

Bramble Cay at the entrance to the Torres Straits. On our previous

circumnavigation finding this little sand cay presented a navigational nightmare

for us as we had only a sextant to determine our position---a few miles off could

put one in the shallows of the Fly River in New Guinea to the north or on one of

the notorious reefs of the Great Barrier Reef to the south. Sixteen years later with

the help of Satnav and radar, we confidently approached Bramble Cay at night

and made our turn west to enter the ship's channel through the Straits. We day

sailed the 100 plus miles to Thursday Island, Australia, where we waved goodbye

to Carl and Peri, who were continuing on to Darwin.

After hearing that this was our second trip to T.I., the customs official who

cleared us in dug through his archives and pulled out the ship's register for 1973.

He showed us the entry back in August of that year of the yacht BEBINKA with

Scott Kuhner as captain and Kitty Kuhner as crew. Just below it was MAUNA

KEA, owned and skippered by our German friend Peter Kammler, who now lives

on a farm in N.Z. Also listed were Roger and Sheila on KUA YIN and Bob and

Kristi on SKYLARK. It was a real trip down Memory Lane.

After Thursday Island we had a pleasant four day sail across the Gulf of

Carpenteria and through the Arafura Sea at the top of Australia. As we

approached Cape Don, our turning point into the channel leading to Darwin 120

miles away, we were trying to establish our position against the flat featureless

coastline. We were looking for what is shown on the chart as a small island 10

miles east of the cape. It was getting dark and we planned on anchoring behind it

for the night, leaving early on the tide the next morning. I kept scanning the

shoreline with the binoculars but could see nothing. I turned on the radar. Still no

luck. However, I did notice some tiny blips directly in front of us. My first thought

was static. Then I reasoned they could be small fishing boats so I grabbed the

binoculars and went on deck to scan the horizon again. Rocks!!! Dead ahead!!

We quickly tacked over and passed close to a rocky ledge that was just

beginning to poke through the surface as the 15 foot tide was ebbing. The strong

tidal current must have been pushing us towards shore.

A few minutes later I spied the island that turned out to be only a sandbar. The

heat, hazy air and no identifiable landmarks really played havoc with our visual

senses.

We were lucky to have spotted the rocks on the radar. Three weeks later our

friend Mark Scott on LONE RIVAL was looking for the same island. The tide was

slightly higher then and the rocks were not visible. He ended up aground on that

very same ledge so far from civilization. It took two tides before he was able to get

himself off--luckily with no damage. Another lesson in not letting oneÕs vigil down

for a moment. To be complacent is to court danger. And then there is luck. We all

need a lot of that. Had the tide been higher when we were there, we would have

surely ended up on the ledge just like Mark.

The incredible need for luck in all this sailing makes us extremely superstitious.

For example, we never start a passage on a Friday. And before I start any

passage I always put my pants on backwards, go up on the bow, spin around to

my left 3 times, throw a pinch of salt over my right shoulder, spit into the sea and

yell at the top of my lungs, ÒNeptune oh Neptune great God of the sea, look after

our boat and look after me!

Darwin is an isolated town at the top end of the AustraliasÕ Northern Territory.

On Christmas day, 1974, a hurricane had literally blown Darwin off the map. The

town has been completely rebuilt since then and consequently it is a beautiful city

with wide palm lined streets and modern shopping malls. However, a mile out of

town and the outback begins. On evening jogs out past the yacht club we would

find ourselves in fields teeming with small kangaroos running, or rather bounding

past us.

The tidal range in Darwin is 18 feet at neaps and 27 feet at springs. The land is

not steep to and consequently we had to anchor almost a mile off the Darwin

Sailing Club. The dinghy ride to the club took 15-20 minutes even with our 2 hp

outboard. We soon learned not to forget anything on the boat when going ashore

for the day. At low tide we had to beach the dinghy, run up to the club and grab a

dolly, bring it back to the surf line, load the dinghy on it and haul it 600 meters up

the beach to the high water mark. Quite an ordeal.

One afternoon while relaxing at the club a young looking white haired man

walked by. Suddenly he stopped right in front of me, looked me in the eye and

said ÒMy God, Scott Kuhner!Ó and before I could react he followed with, ÒJohn

Burnett, South Kent School.Ó

South Kent is a small private school in the foothills of Connecticut. In our days

there were only 120 students in the 8th through 12th grades. My seniot class

consisted of 21 boys so to see another alumni out here in the middle of nowhere

was quite exceptional. We spent the afternoon and evening reminiscing about

school days and catching up on almost 30 years.

One by one the items on our fix list were crossed off. Kitty made several runs to

the supermarkets in town to fill our near empty lockers. Two days of jerry jugging

water and diesel fuel out to the boat filled our tanks. After two weeks we were

ready to leave. Besides, it was getting late in the season and if we tarried any

longer we would be faced with the change of the monsoon resulting in

headwinds and adverse currents from Bali to Singapore.

The last thing we did before clearing Darwin was to go to the Indonesian

Consulate to get our visas. the receptionist in the consul general's office asked

me if we would do her a favor and bring a few small packages to Kupang, Timor,

our intended port of entry into Indonesia. Thinking it would be a good "in" once

we got there and wishing to help her out, I agreed. The next day she showed up

at the yacht club with a trailer in tow containing 10 huge boxes and 2 metal

barrels--the whole lot weighed at least 600 lbs! she must have thought we were

an old trading schooner. I wasn't sure where we were going to put it all, but I

reluctantly agreed to take the goods providing she write a letter on official

stationery addressed to the head of customs in Kupang stating what was in the

packages and who they should be delivered to. Thank God for that foresight.

We left Darwin September 13th and powered for the first 24 hours through a

dead calm before light winds allowed us to ghost along at 3 kts. For the next few

days it was on and off with the engine, depending on whether or not there was

wind enough to fill the sails.

Dawn broke on the 17th as we closed with the southwestern tip of Timor and

turned up the Semau Strait. The early morning rays of the sun accentuated the

bright colored sails of the 3 junks riding the last of the ebb tide out to sea.

The harbor of Tenau, where Kupang's port facilitates are located was just

coming alive as we circled the wharfs looking for a place to anchor. The

fathometer read 100+ feet right up to the docks-too deep for us. Sharp whistles

from the crew of a freighter tied alongside drew our attention. They were

signaling for us to tie up to them. It seemed like the best solution so we

maneuvered close to the 200 ton rust bucket. Kitty threw the bow line and Alex

heaved the stern line to the deckhands. Amidst a lot of yelling and hand waving

we nestled up to the freighter just as a baby would cuddle against its mother; only

we looked like a blue blooded infant being nursed by a down in the mouth

homeless old bag lady.

then it began. "Officialdom Indonesian Style". they have it refined to a degree

unsurpassed in the third world. No sooner than we had got the last line cleated

when we were boarded by two quarantine officers. They wanted all of our papers:

ship's registration, crew lists, passports, port clearance from Darwin,

immunization cards and lastly, but most important, our Indonesian Security

Clearance. That piece of paper signed by the Department of Foreign Affairs,

Department of Defense and Security and the Directorate General of Sea

Communication took us three months of corresponding with our agent in Jakarta

and $200 to get. Without a security clearance, a yacht is not welcome in

Indonesia.

Luckily we had been warned about their penchant for requiring copies of all our

papers and so we had many on hand. I handed them a set of everything and they

in turn wrote out a “certificate of practique” indicating we were free of

communicable diseases. One of the two looked up at me and asked for a 5,000

rupiah (approximately $2.75) fee. Just as I gave him the money and before I could

ask for a receipt, two customs officials clomped on board and immediately came

down below. The quick sleight of hand with which the quarantine officer slipped

the money into his stack of papers made me realize I had just been taken.

Customs wanted their copies of everything as well and rewarded me by

handing over a ream of forms to be filled out in triplicate. That done I showed the

letter about our packages to the senior official, who of the four on board was the

only one who could speak understandable English. The letter was in Indonesian

so I had no idea what it said. Apparently it did contain the name and phone

number of the person to whom they were to be delivered. He said he would make

the call. Just before he was about to leave, he asked if we had any guns, drugs or

pornography on board and was so amazed when I answered no, especially to the

question of guns, that he decided to search the boat before he left.

We opened all lockers and stood by as he looked for a concealed weapon. The

quickness with which he grabbed for and perused a sailing magazine with a

bikini clad girl on the cover made me think his real intention was to find some

Playboy magazines he could confiscate.

Next on the agenda was the port captain. A trek up the hill behind the wharf

area brought me to his office. There were five men in grey uniforms standing idly

in the stark institutional turquoise room. The cracked plaster walls were adorned

with only the Indonesian crest flanked by the official picture of Suharto on one

side and that of the president on the other.

No one spoke a word of English, but when I asked for the port captain they

waved me into a small office. It had the same stark walls but no pictures. The only

thing in the room was a dented metal desk and an equally abused filing cabinet. I

stood there wondering what I was supposed to do when finally the port captain

walked in. Through grunts and sign language, I learned he too wanted copies of

all my papers except the port clearance from Darwin, which he wanted the

original of. Unfortunately so had the customs and they had gotten it first. Dealing

with these officials when I don't speak the language was extremely frustrating.

However, I finally understood that I should go first to customs, retrieve the original

Darwin clearance and give them a copy, then go to immigration 12 miles on the

other side of town at the airport where I would get yet another form to bring back

to the port captain.

Back at customs the English speaking officer told me he had contacted the

recipients of the packages and that they were on their way down to collect their

freight. I was told to wait for them before going to immigration.

An hour later a short round lady and her skinny husband arrived, accompanied

by another woman in what looked like a police uniform. Not one of them spoke

any English. the people whom the packages were meant for looked a little

confused and seemed a little intimidated by all the officials. They were obviously

unaware of the impending arrival of the ten crates and two barrels of goods from

Australia and looked like they would rather not have to deal with all this.

However, I did manage to get the goods offloaded from TAMURE by forming a

human conveyor belt of myself, 2 customs officials, a police woman, a curious

deckhand, a fat lady and her skinny husband. This was done as the freighter we

were tied to disgorged its own cargo of fertilizer in 100 lb. bags pulled from deep

within its hold by big nets on cranes and spewing smelly dust over everyone.

As soon as the packages were ashore and loaded into the waiting Jeep, the

customs men, police woman, fat lady and husband drove off without a glance

backward. So much for our good deed or our "in" in Timor!

Next I had to catch the bemo into town and switch to another that would take me

to immigration at the airport. Bemos are small delivery trucks turned into buses by

the installation of side benches and loud tape decks.

Alex and I climbed into a bemo that was unoccupied except for the driver. We

drove towards town at 15 m.p.h. and each time we passed any people(about

every 50 yds.) the driver would slow to 5 m.p.h. and beep his horn to attract

customers. It worked, for by the time we entered Kupang the bus was crammed

with more people than the clown car at the circus, all of whom kept staring at Alex

and me. Rather than repeat the process to get us to the airport, we hired a car and

driver. He agreed to bring us to immigration, wait and then return us to the boat,

all for $8 US.

The front office of the immigration building is divided down the middle by a long counter staffed with bored officials sitting on stools every few feet. Behind them

are at least a dozen more uniformed immigration officers sitting at desks or

roaming aimlessly around the room. Alex and I were the only people not in

uniform and probably the only ones with a mission. No one looked busy. A few

people were chatting in a far corner. One man sat behind his desk and for the

whole hour we were there had his hands behind his head, elbows pointed out

and eyes blankly scanning the ceiling, probably counting flies. Four others milled

about occasionally stopping to talk to one of their co-workers....workers!??

Finally one man ushered us into his office, a desk hidden behind some filing

cabinets. We filled out more forms while he took our papers which he read,

reshuffled and with a flourish stapled together. Lastly he stamped and signed the clearance form that was to be returned to the port captain and then stamped

our passports. Even though our driver sped back to Tenau, scattering people and chickens in a cloud of dust behind us, we were too late--the port captain had gone for the day.

We were told to come back tomorrow.

Kitty: Soon after Scott and Alex left to complete the immigration

formalities, Spencer and I heard a shout from above the deck of the freighter and

found yet 3 more men who wanted to exercise their rights of Indonesian

officialdom. They indicated with a formal salute(sign language for "captain") that

they wanted Scott. Because he wasn't there, I thought I could avoid this little visit,

but what they had in mind was a "search"(which they could say in English) and it

was just fine with them that the captain wasn't there. So, street shoes and all, they

clamored down from the freighter and marched below.

They introduced themselves as officers from the police, Navy and port captain's

office and instantly showed how hot they were by fanning themselves vigorously

with their hands, one nearly popping his shirt buttons as he flapped it about to be

sure I got the idea. And hot it was--all the hatches and ports were closed in a futile

attempt to keep out the fertilizer dust from the freighter. They asked for a drink and

got Tang, which I'm sure was not what they had in mind.

Socializing over, they got down to business. The police officer began with

questions about guns, pornographic videos or magazines, while the other two

looked around the boat picking up and examining whatever caught their fancy-

magazines (in particular, the yachting magazine with the scantily clad girl on the

cover was carefully examined but disappointedly returned to its rack), cassette

tapes or books. Knowing that some other boats had been thouroughly searched, I

expected to have to unload the lockers for them, but they surprised me with just a

cursory look at our storage areas.

Then the inevitable paperwork. Did I have copies of all our documents? It

seemed each bureaucratic specialty need their own set--no official would leave

the boat emptyhanded! After shuffling the papers from one side of the galley table

to the other, I was presented with a form to sign in lieu of the captain and they got

up to leave/

Peace at last...

Or so I thought, and then I saw that the freighter had set up scaffolding to paint

the outside of their hull--the very same side we were tied to!! A crewmember had

already slopped grey paint over much of their topsides and little droplets now

speckled our non-skid deck. He was now preparing to lower the makeshift

scaffolding between our hulls(scaffolding makes great fenders) but something

changed his mind, most likely the look on my face, and he moved to the

freighter's stern instead.

Everytime I went on deck to check our lines, which were straining in the surge,

all the deckhands would shout "Miss" and indicate they wanted a beer by raising

a cupped hand to their tilted heads. That got irritating fast so I told Spencer they

would never ask a kid for a beer so maybe he should check the lines. But that

didn't work either so spencer and I spent the next few hours sweltering down

below just to keep from being badgered for beer.

After dark I thought it might be safe to venture on deck for some air. The work on

the freighter had stopped and several men stood quietly at the rail, staring at

TAMURE and peering down our hatches. One asked in tentative English where

we were from and that began a pleasant conversation as I answered questions

about the States and they taught me some Indonesian words. I realized how little

contact they have with the outside world and how unusual our sleek little yacht

must appear to them. This encounter erased the frustrations of the day and

reminded me of some of the reasons we're out here cruising in the first place: to

learn about other people and cultures.

Scott: By noon the next day, after having gone back into town to make

more copies of the forms immigration had signed and delivering them to the Port

Captain, Navy, Coast Guard and Police, we were officially cleared in.

Unfortunately the whole process had taken so long that we only had two hours

left before we were officially supposed to leave Kupang. I could have gotten

permission to stay longer, but it would mean repeating the whole process.

Instead, we cast off from the freighter and powered over to anchor in front of the

main town where Kitty and Alex spent our last official hour going ashore to get

some fresh supplies while Spence and I did our best to wash off the grime of

Tenau.

Kitty: Coming up on the city of Kupang from the sea two crumbling

buildings reminded me of bombed out Beirut and I began to have second

thoughts about how badly we needed vegetables and bread. But how could I

leave Kupang without even going ashore. Alex decided to leave me off on the

beach and explore a little estuary nearby while I shopped. The town was actually

reasonably attractive and interesting.

As I walked through town alone I realized I was the only tourist around and

almost the only woman and began to feel pretty conspicuous--I wished I had Alex

along.

The market was on the beach on the far side of town. It seemed they all saw me

coming at once and every vendor called out to me and tried to herd me into their

stalls. One man slithered up to me and ran his hand down my arm, pulling me

towards his stall, which unnerved me slightly. I was buying vegetables at the time

from someone who spoke a few words of English and he came out from his booth

and stood (protectively?) next to me while I finished choosing tomatoes and

cabbage. If I had known that the Kupang market had a pretty aggressive

reputation I probably would not have gone by myself. It's not a matter of fearing

for ones safety, it's just that tourists are pretty much of an oddity, in particular at

the local market in Kupang, and create quite a stir. The result was I cut my

shopping a little short and headed back to where Alex was waiting in the dinghy. I

was glad to have had my "Kupang experience" but even gladder to be back on

TAMURE.

Scott: A 48 hour sail with a gentle breeze and flat seas brought us to the

island of Komodo, home of the famous Komodo Dragon. Every Sunday the

National Park Rangers take a group of tourists into the dragon reserve. there

were about 25 backpackers of all nationalitiesin our group. they had all traveled

two days by bus and small fishing boats to get there and had spent the night in

spartan rooms provided by the park. However, food was not provided by the park

and those that did not bring their own had to go hungry until they could get a

fishing boat over to Flores Island later that afternoon.

We all followed the guides, one of whom walked with a live goat on a rope,

along the well worn path through knee high grass and scrub until we came to a

ridge where 6 feet below there was a clearing. The goats' throat was cut and as

he gave his last pathetic bleat was hung by his hind leg about four feet off the

ground from a tree at the edge of the clearing. Within minutes giant lizards came

out from behind rocks and holes in the ground and converged on the goat.

The biggest of the lizards were over 10 feet long and probably weighed 600 lbs.

They looked at the goat and flicked long red forked tongues that stretched at least

3 feet from their mouths. Then the carnage began. They literally climbed all over

each other to get at the tasty carcass. Strong jaws with razor sharp teeth clamped

on the goats limbs and ripped it apart. Bits of meat and blood drooled from their

mouths as they devoured their weekly meal. Two of these lumbering beasts

showed remarkable bursts of speed fighting for the last remaining morsels. It was

a pretty gruesome sight that killed the appetites of all of us present, including the

starving backpackers.

From the land of the Dragons our next stop was the enchanted island of Bali.

We made our way through the colorful fishing boats and coastal freighters of

Benoa Harbor, the port of entry. A young man in an outboard came along side,

wearing a big smile, and asked if we remembered him. It was Wayan Koda, who

at 18 years old had looked after our boat for us while we were in the same harbor

back in 1973. Now 34, Wayan and his brother Made, have turned their

willingness to help us cruising people into a thriving business called Bali Yacht

Services. Not only did Wayan remember us, but lounging in our cockpit talking

about the good old days, he reminisced about most of the yachties from that era.

He had us doubled over in laughter with his perfect imitation of Nick Lichtfield, a

good friend of ours from home who had sailed with his wife Nancy around the

world a few years after we did.

Of all the places we have revisited, Bali has changed the most. The population

has grown by 50%, tourism by 1000% and the traffic by 5000%, or so it seems.

The helter skelter development and hoardes of tourists threaten to overwhelm the

peaceful Balinese and their incredible artistic culture. The special charm of Bali is

giving way to souvenir shops and street hawkers. The paintings are now mass

produced and more effort seems to be spent in separating the tourist from his

money. That said, Bali is still unique.

We rented a van with Bob and Beth, our friends from RHODORA, and the six of

us drove off to explore the countryside. In 1973 there were 3 galleries at Ubud,

the art center, and now there are more than 33 all filled with tourists and

shopkeepers haggling over prices. the problem with the haggle system is that we

never knew what something really cost until it was bought.

I walked into one shop and saw a small painting I liked. I asked the

shopkeeper, "How much for this one?"

"Sixty thousand rupia"

I frowned and offered twenty thousand.

The old man laughed at me. "Fifty thousand," he said.

"No, twenty," I said.

"Okay, for you last price: forty thousand."

"Would you take twenty-five?"

"I paid thirty for it and must sell it to you for thirty-five."

"Too much," I said. "Twenty- five is my last offer !" I turned and

started to walk away. I got out of the door and ten steps away when he came

running out with the painting.

"Okay, Okay, it's yours for twenty-five."

I had bought it and at that point could not turn it down. The numbers seem big,

but 1,800 rupia equals one dollar. Somehow 5,000 rupia seems much more

important in conducting negotiations that $3.00 U.S.

We soon learned only to ask the price of something we truly liked and then only

offer what we wanted to pay for it, but sometimes we had to relent. Spencer, who

had seen probably a thousand paintings by now, found one that he especially

liked because it reminded him of the Sarong Dance we had seen the night

before. He decided he would spend some of his 40,000 rupia souvenir budget for

that one. He was floored when the first quote was 120,000 rupias. He offered

20,000. A verbal battle over price, employing the same tactics just described,

ensued. Raising his offer in stages from 20-35,000 rupia, Spencer became

desperate for the painting and offered his full 40,000. The guy finally said,

"50,000 but I can't go any lower." We tried the walk away ploy, expecting the

man to come running after us. A block away we realized that he just wasn't going

to sell it for less than 50,000. Spencer then pleaded and listed a number of

chores he could do to come up with the difference. I agreed and he went back to

trade his money for the painting.

After lunch we took a walk down a dirt road that led out of town. A half mile

away we came to another village with no tourists and no traffic. This was Bali as it

was fifty years ago, probably even 150. High stone walls at the side of the

road cordoned off each family compound. A woman with a bundle balanced on

her head and a child clinging to her hand invited us to come in and see her

house. We followed her through the gate in the stone wall and up the walk to a

courtyard in the center of which stood a stone pillar with a small temple on top

holding an offering of fresh wild flowers and burning incense. Four single story

houses built on cement platforms squared the courtyard. The doors and windows

had no coverings, giving an airy, yet solid feeling totally different from the frail

looking thatched houses of the Pacific Islands. The same type of paintings that

were for sale in town hung all over the walls. In one of the rooms a boy was sitting

cross legged, hunched over a canvas, brush in hand. Presumably all the works of

art in the house were for sale but the woman was not a pushy shopkeeper and

just showed us around the rest of the compound.

Our walk continued through lush green rice paddies and past a group of women

beating the golden ripe rice to separate it from the chaff. We came to a hilly area

that was sculptured with tiered rice paddies. The path turned into a 50 foot long

steel beam crossing a deep gorge with a raging stream boiling far below. The

boys and Bob and Beth made it across first, followed by Kitty with her now healed

broken ankle. After some hesitation, and with the assistance of two school girls, I

too reached the other side. We then turned onto another road that would lead us

through a monkey forest before returning to Ubud.

Kitty had brought some bananas to feed the monkeys and was holding them in

her hands as she rounded a corner just before the forest. Two monkeys jumped

her and landed on her chest. In an instant they had grabbed the bananas from

her and fled. They were so quick that they were back in the trees before Kittys'

sharp screams pierced the air. When I asked her to do it again so I could get a

picture she almost beaned me.

On another trip to the mountains, this time with Carl and Peri, we drove to

Titrigangaa where a sultan had built beautiful bathing pools fed by fresh springs.

We arrived after dark and found the hotel at the baths was full so we tried the

losman just outside the palace grounds. We were in luck, they had space.

However, four star it was not. The first room the manager showed me only had

two foot pads and a hole in the cracked floor for a toilet. He did have two rooms

with actual flush toilets but no sinks. Kitty brushed her teeth with bottled water and

spit it into the toilet before lying on top of the bed, whose sheets probably hadn't

been changed in 3 weeks of nightly use.

The next day we drove through mountainous country covered with intricately

tiered rice paddies, radiating warm and almost iridescent tones of greens and

gold from the morning sun. We continued to the coast, following it until we came

to a junction that showed on our map as the road back up over the mountain to

Batur. An old man standing beside the road waved his hands to the left when I

yelled, "Batur??" Almost immediately the road started climbing uphill. The grade

got steeper and steeper, the road narrower and narrower and soon we were

inching our way up blind switchbacks carved into the side of the mountain. As we

came around one corner a truck, almost out of control, hurtled down the one lane

road directly at us. It was either cut to the inside or plummet over the edge. I

pulled the wheel hard and somehow squeezed between the rock wall of the

mountain and the truck. No one spoke a word for the next hour until we finally

reached the summit and headed down the other side. Only then could Peri and

Kitty admit their mutual panic as to how on earth we would get any help on that

godforsaken road if we had an accident.

Carl and I wanted to visit the temple at the top of Mt. Batur. To go inside, we

needed to conform to the Balinese custom and wear a sarong, or wrap around

skirts, with a sash. As we came back out to the car dressed in these skirts to our

calves, black ankle socks above our shoes, sport shirts, baseball hats and

camera bags hanging around our necks, two women hawkers somehow knew we

were tourists and came running over. They tried to sell us some postcards for 900

rupias, or $.50 each. Even though we didn't want to buy any, we were forced into

making a counter offer and ultimately walked away with ten cards for 3000 rupia.

We thought we hadn't done so badly until later on we saw the same postcards at

the post office for sale for 100 rupia each.

For our last look at Bali, Carl, Peri, Kitty and I hired an air conditioned van with a

driver while the kids stayed in the harbor and made model boats with two friends

from another yacht. While on our way to visit an old temple by the sea, we got

caught in a traffic jam of cars, tourist buses and throngs of people choking off the

street. We were elated--we had stumbled onto a cremation ceremony. It is a

joyous occasion in Bali and in their minds the bus loads of tourists only add to the

festivities assuring the deceased of a magnificent send off.

Over the din of the crowd the cacophony of a Balinese percussion band grew

louder. They were preceded up the street by a full scale paper Mache bull

perched on bamboo poles and carried by twenty men in black pants, green shirts

and red bandannas. On top of the bull sat a young man wearing bright green

pants, a gold embroidered fez-like cap and a black tee shirt with "Mickey Mouse"

written in bold letters on the back.

The men carrying the bull and rider ran up the street, stopped short, ran back,

stopped short again almost toppling the rider and then ran again back up the

street. Behind the bull an elaborate six tiered temple borne by many pallbearers

carried the body. Men with long forked poles ran alongside to lift the overhead

telephone wires for the temple to pass underneath. A huge procession of family,

friends and tourists followed for half a mile, where everyone, including the street

vendors selling Cokes and souvenirs, filed into a big field.

Three of the pallbearers climbed the temple and threw fist-fulls of paper money

at the crowd. Men laughed and jumped for the rupias like bridesmaids trying to

catch the garter. The body was transferred from the temple to the bull and then set

on afire with a flame thrower. Tourists stuck video cameras at the body as the first

flames engulfed the bier. I thought that was a bit crude but then I saw Mickey

Mouse in the midst of the tourists shouldering his own video camera.

This next part was written while sailing from Bali to Singapore:

Oct. 12th: Most of the time we're pretty blaze about our trip because everyone

is doing the same thing. However, every once in a while we are really awed at

our own adventure. For example, last night Bob, Beth, Carl, Peri and ourselves

were anchored off Bawean Island in the middle of the Java Sea. I always have a

mental image of where we are on a world map and it struck me that our

anchorage was in a truly remote area of the world. While it is remote relative to

the good old U.S of A., it is not devoid of people. On the contrary, Indonesia is

one of the most densely populated areas of the world, rivaling India and China.

There are people everywhere, especially out here in the Java Sea. Even forty

miles from land we saw many sailing craft the size of large canoes with pontoons.

They were manned by Indonesians huddling under an awning, sticking an arm

out into the hot sun, jerking on a fishing line. Their boats are painted in

psychedelic designs and look like sea going versions of the bus Ken Kesey and

his merry pranksters drove across the U.S. in their electric Kool-Aid acid test.

Last night, right after we anchored, two of those boats came and settled near us.

The whole crew of five or six hung over the side staring at us as though we were

exotic animals in the zoo. At first, it was a little disconcerting, but then I realized

that if the whole group could be magically transported to Greenwich Harbor in

Long Island Sound, we and a hundred other yachts would be hanging over our

rails staring at them.

Oct. 16: We are now heading across the South China Sea bound for

Singapore. We are still in one piece. However, yesterday while anchored at

Serutu Island, where we had stopped for some much needed rest, we had an

encounter that made us briefly question whether we would ever see

civilization again. The previous night had been spent dodging thunderstorms and

praying that none of the ferocious lightning bolts would find our mast to be the

shortest route to the ground. Just after the storm we had talked via VHF to a

passing freighter who warned us to keep a constant vigil from here on because

there had recently been a number of cases of piracy near the Bintan Islands, an

area directly on our course.

RHODORA, KUKARA and ourselves talked about what to do in the event of an

attempted boarding and worked ourselves into a state of apprehension that had me on the verge of getting sick. Exhausted and worried, we were trying to get some rest at what we thought was a quiet deserted anchorage. At 2 p.m. I had just finished emptying 40 gallons of diesel fuel into our tanks when I noticed a scruffy fishing boat belching black smoke from the exhaust pipe sticking out the side window of its small cuddy cabin. It was coming straight at us full throttle. There were three men on board, one in the cuddy cabin but plainly visible and one on the helm. A third man sitting on the bow under the blazing hot equatorial sun was dressed in black pajamas and a ski mask, looking like a terrorist.

The boat never slowed down until it was ten feet from us. The helmsman threw it

in hard reverse while the bow man fended off with one hand while tying a line to

our stern rail with the other. Before I could react, the terrorist and the helmsman,

who flashed a smile marred by a black space or two missing teeth, had clambered

aboard TAMURE, sat in the cockpit and started jabbering in Indonesian. Alex

stuck his head out the companionway, took one look at the intruders and

scampered below to inform Kitty that there was a man who looked like a terrorist

on board. I yelled to Kitty to get on the radio and call Carl, who was anchored 50

yards away. I wanted him to come on deck, make his presence known and to

watch the action on TAMURE in case we needed his assistance. Kitty called Carl

and then stuck her head out the companionway, smiled and said a pleasant

"Hello" and offered three Cokes and a pack of cigarettes to our guests. They immediately pulled their ski masks off their faces gave us a big smile and started to sip their Cokes. The advertising tune “I’d like to give the world a Coke and live in harmony” was going through my head as they sat back in the cockpit and looked everything over, jabbering among themselves. Every once in a while they turned and tried to talk with me. Since I couldn't speak Indonesian and they couldn't speak English, we mostly waved hands and were incomprehensible to each other.

Slowly I realized they were being friendly rather than threatening and I began to

relax. Soon we were crudely communicating. They let me know I could get diesel

on the other side of the island. I told them we were on our way to Singapore. I

pulled out our chart of the area and asked them to show me where they were

from. They were fascinated by the chart and examined it carefully, pointing to

places and talking excitedly. The helmsman then turned to me, pointed at the

chart and held up two fingers--Did I have two? No, I only had one. He was

disappointed. But then I remembered I did have a copy of another chart of the

same area and gave it to them. They were ecstatic.

Alex: When I saw two guys jump on board without asking, I wasn't half as

freaked as Dad was, even though one of them was wearing a ski mask!

Somehow I knew our luck was not that bad! They didn't look like they would have

guns in the hole because the boat looked like it could sink any minute, guns and

all. Anyway, they did not have any guns and eventually got up and left by

themselves.

Scott: Just when I was wondering to myself how I was going to end this

little visit, they both stood up and said they had to go but not before inviting me on

their boat, opening the hold and loading me up with fresh fish. As they pulled

away, they waved good-bye and gave the thumbs up signal. So ended our ordeal

with the local pirates.

For the next two and a half days we endured the heat from the blazing sun and

the monotonous drone of the engine as we powered in a dead calm across the

equator towards Singapore. After the primitive islands off Borneo, Singapore was

like coming to the Emerald City at the end of the Yellow Brick Road. Its skyline is

pierced by modern high rise buildings right out of Architectural digest. The harbor

is more congested than New York or Panama city with ships from small freighters

to enormous super tankers. One of our reference books said it is the second

largest port in the world behind Rotterdam. The city itself is truly awesome,

especially to an American who believes everything in the States is the best in the

world. Everything here is new. There is no litter. The subways not only work but

are air conditioned, both in the cars and on the platforms, and are completely free

of graffiti. Singapore made me realize the extent to which the Pacific Rim, Japan

and the four little dragons, South Korea, Hong Kong, Taiwan and Singapore, is in

fact an economic miracle. But that whole story will be the next chapter.

In the meantime, tomorrow we are leaving Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, to spend

Christmas in Phuket, Thailand, with the rest of the cruising fleet. After the New

Year we will shove off for Sri Lanka, the Red Sea and plan to be in Cyprus by the

end of March.

Please send your letters to arrive in Cyprus between March 1st and April 1st.

the address will be:

Scott, Kitty, Alex & Spencer Kuhner

C/O American Express Client Mail

A.L. Mantovani & Sons Ltd. YACHT TAMURE

PO3 109, King Paul Square HOLD FOR ARRIVAL

Larnaca, Cyprus IN MARCH

THE GREAT ESCAPE

CHAPTER VII

SINGAPORE TO SUEZ

Chapter VI ended as we threaded our way through the numerous tankers,

freighters, container ships and local tramp ships transiting the Singapore Straits.

After the wilderness of the remote areas of Indonesia, arriving in Singapore is like

coming to the end of the Yellow Brick Road and seeing the Emerald City of the

Land of Oz appearing before us.

One man, Lee Kuan Yew, is the mastermind behind this economic miracle

called Singapore. He had a vision of what the island state could be and struck out

separately when Britain gave Malaysia its independence. He has governed with

an iron hand for the past twenty five years defining the term "benevolent despot".

Singapore is no longer a steamy port of tin roofed colonial buildings and coolies

pulling rickshaws. It is a modern city of wide streets lined with high-rise glass

enclosed skyscrapers. An imposed order to life ensures the smooth operation of

everything.

Stepping into the subway system is like going for a ride on the skyway at

Disneyland. Everything is modern, clean and efficient; even the platforms below

ground are air conditioned. The walls are free of graffiti and there are no

homeless or panhandlers. Cleanliness in the rest rooms is assured by signs

above the latrines that proclaim "$150 fine for not flushing after use". People obey

the law because harsh penalties are meted out to those who don't. There is

almost no drug problem because the penalty, even for possession, is death. The

severity of the punishment may not be a deterrent to the crime, but it does tend to

eliminate the ranks of the second offenders.

Rather than experiment with drugs, the Singapore teenager aspires to

academic achievement and each afternoon we saw kids in school uniforms

studying as they rode the buses home or sat in their parents' small shops. The

result is an educated work force that has attracted capital from all over the world.

The huge industrial park in the center of the island is populated by such corporate

giants as IBM, Pfizer, Caterpillar, Philips N.A., Siemens and Mitsubishi. The

standard of living in Singapore exceeds that of any U.S. city by a long shot.

The downtown area is a shoppers paradise. Stylish stores sell expensive

designer clothes in competition with cheap imitations complete with green

alligators or the famous double G. Any electronic of photographic gadget can be

purchased at a fraction of the cost in New York--if one is a good enough

bargainer.

We had settled in at the Changi Sailing Club along with ten other cruising

yachts. All of us were doing a major re-provisioning before heading off to Thailand

and across the Indian Ocean. Each evening the yachties would arrive back at the

club with cases of food or boxes of camera equipment, VCR's, computers,

engine spares, and even spare engines.

Our own daily sorties into town satisfied some of our long suppressed consumer

appetite. We bought toys for Christmas, a telephoto lens for the camera and a 5

HP engine for our rubber dinghy.

Kitty: The next reliable stocking up port would be Cyprus, 6 or 7 months

away. Armed with my notebook, I made several reconnaissance trips to the various

supermarkets taking notes on what was available. After making a list of food

requirements, I spent two days at Yaohans filling cart after cart with non-

perishable foods and items such as toothpaste and t.p., writing down every single

purchase. At the end of the second day I was delivered along with the stores back

to the sailing club dock. A drizzly day made the project of getting $1,500 worth of

goods out of the boat a challenge. I supervised on the dock, Alex and Spencer

packed carton after carton under a tarp on the dinghy and made numerous in the

rain to TAMURE, where Scott got it all down below as quickly as possible. That

night we slept among cases of Tang, spaghetti, apple sauce, peanut butter,

tinned meats and vegetables and the next day Scott and the boys were shipped

off to the waterslide so I could concentrate on stowing everything and writing

down where I had put it. Six hours later every nook and cranny on the boat was

filled. It seemed I shouldn't need anything for months, but I knew I would be

constantly supplementing along the way.

Scott: After stowing the booty on board, we would take a well needed

shower and then congregate at the food plaza in Changi Village for dinner. There

we would order a new culinary treat from one of the many stalls that lined the

perimeter of the cement plaza filled with metal tables and chairs. Each vendor,

sweating over his wok of grill in blue chinos and a damp singlet, hands chopping

and stirring at blurring speed, cooked up his own specialty. For approximately

$1.50 we would gorge ourselves on noodles with shrimp and seafood sauce,

baked duck in a black, tangy sauce covering a mound of rice, fried chicken wings

in tomato salad, or any of the other numerous dishes, each more exotic and tasty

than the last.

While in Singapore we spent time with two ex-pat families who live here. One

was president of a shipping line based in Singapore and the other headed up

the local office of an international advertising agency. Both families loved it there

and never want to leave. Interestingly, both said they work harder than back in

their home countries. The Pacific Rim is a hotbed of economic activity led by

Japan and the "Four Dragons", Hong Kong, South Korea, Taiwan, and Singapore.

The Asian is the ultimate entrepreneur and the pace of business is like a runaway

locomotive.

On November 7th we left Singapore, once again in company with Carl and

Peri McIlroy on KUKARA. We motored past all the ships at anchor and into the

constant stream of traffic between Europe, India, the Far East and Japan that

funnels through the Malacca Straits. Those waters between Sumatra on the

west and Malaysia on the east are also saturated with Indonesian, Malay and

Thai fishermen with hand-lines in dugout canoes, with trolling lines in 2 or 3 man

launches or with drag nets in even larger vessels. The locals have been making

their living this way for centuries. For almost as long, others have been making

a living by preying on foreign vessels venturing into these waters. As long as I

can remember, I had heard about pirates in the Malacca Straits. The ship that

passed us on the way to Singapore had warned us of them. Our friend at the

shipping company said two of his ships had recently been boarded by pirates

who held up the crew at gunpoint. There were also many press accounts of the

Viet Nam boat people being slaughtered by pirates just 300 miles northeast of

Singapore.

Given all that, why would a yacht want to sail in these waters? Originally we

had planned to give the area a wide berth sailing direct from Cocos Keeling to

Sri Lanka. However, we kept looking at the charts and were drawn to it just as

the explorers and early traders were 500 years before us. Of equal importance

were glowing accounts written by other yachties who had gone before us, none

of whom had reported any problems with unfriendlies. Why make a 1500 mile

offshore passage when we could explore the Malay Peninsula and still make

the Red Sea "season" with ease? Besides, what we were reading and hearing

about the area made it sound too interesting to pass up.

The first night out we anchored off a small fishing village built entirely on stilts.

All night long small boats with loud diesel engines passed close to us. Some

would shine a spotlight on us making us feel somewhat apprehensive, but no

one tried to approach. Maybe they knew we were only poor yachties and that

the merchants had already siphoned the last out of our pockets.

The next three days we powered in calm weather broken only by the

occasional thunder shower. At night we merely pulled close to shore and

anchored. We did not want to travel in the dark because of thousands of

fishermen, many in unlit boats, tending their nets scattered along our path. We

spent the daylight hours dodging these obstacles that wanted to ensnarl us in

their tentacles like the giant squid that gripped Jules Vernes' submarine

"Nautilus". In fact, one day on the radio we heard the yacht CALISTO complain

that he had gotten caught in some nets and had bent his shaft, damaged his

gearbox and made his stuffing box leak so badly that he had to limp back to

Singapore. However, the nets were easier to evade than the vast commercial

shipping fleet just one mile further offshore.

At one point a ragtag boat with three fishermen broke from their nets and

powered full blast to within 15 feet of our beam and then kept pace with us while

they brought their hands to their mouths and then tipped them up, the

internationally recognized signal for "Got any beer?" The middle one reached

down and pulled up a big fish for trade. We smiled, waved and yelled "No beer",

wherein they turned away and steamed off. Even if we had wanted to trade for a

fish, we didn't want them getting too close and banging up our topsides. Their

rough, dirty, wooden hulls would never have felt a collision and they drove like

they knew it. Anyway, if we had given them beer I'm sure we would have a

whole fleet stretching from horizon to horizon making straight for us like a

swarm of bees going after a bear with honey. As it was, the same ritual was

played out at least once every couple of hours.

Two hundred and eighty miles up the Straits we arrived at Port Klang, Malaysia,

where we picked up a mooring at the Selangor Yacht Club and then I went

ashore to clear in. While checking in at customs, I was faced with a new

dilemma: should I declare the shotgun I had bought from another yacht in

Singapore and go through the hassle of turning it in or should I not mention it and

hope they didn't search the boat? The penalty for the possession of a firearm in

Malaysia, I found out, is death. Unfortunately, I didn't learn that small detail until

after I had elected to leave it hidden in the bilge. Even though no one ever came

to inspect the boat, nor did any official even ask if we had one on board, every

time I saw a customs officer I also pictured the gun in the bilge and a gallows with

a hangman's noose swinging over an open trap door. Which is worse, pirates or

officials? Or Kitty constantly hounding me under her breath about the gun and

asking if I had paid the premiums on my life insurance.

Port Klang is an hour by car from the Malaysian capital of Kuala Lumpur. I had

learned that Steve Brown, a fraternity brother whom I had remained good

friends with ever since our days at the University of Pennsylvania, is now the

head of the BSB advertising agency in K.L. Steve sent his car and chauffeur

down to bring all four of us back to spend a week with him in the big city.

The drive from Port Klang to K.L. was like going along Route 1 from

Hackensack to Hoboken. The traffic at 5 p.m. was bumper to bumper as we

passed factory after factory disgorging cars into what was becoming the Long

Island Expressway on a Friday night. Malaysia is trying to duplicate Singapores'

economic miracle but does not have the infrastructure, such as transportation

and communication systems, that will allow it to grow at the present pace for

much longer.

However, unlike Singapore which some people consider to be sterile, Kuala

Lumpur has not lost its exotic old southeast Asian charm. Skyscrapers

creatively designed with an apparently free hand for style sit majestically next to

rows of one story white limestone colonial buildings with tin roofs. Dutch,

Portuguese, English Colonial, Muslim and modern architecture adjoining parks,

wide streets and narow crowded alleys give the city a truly eclectic atmosphere.

Limousines, taxis, cars and buses are flanked by hoards of small motorcycles,

scooters and bicycles. Shopping centers complete with Kentucky Fried Chicken

and the golden arches of McDonalds are surrounded by vast bazaars whose

capillaries are choked with hawkers, hagglers and buyers.

We spent a week at Steve’s sprawling Frank Lloyd Wright style house. The

main and guest wings embrace an aqua swimming pool which spills over one

end into a cascade of water and rock gardens that greet guests emerging into

the great entrance foyer.

While living with Steve we sampled the cosmopolitan night life of K.L. One

evening Kitty and Spencer were tired so Alex and I went with Steve to dinner

and then on to a hot disco. As we stepped out of the limo, the maitre d'

welcomed Steve with enthusiasm and familiarity of a favorite regular. Then, with

an apologetic frown, he pointed to Alex's running shoes and informed us that

while a coat and tie were not a prerequisite for admittance, leather shoes were.

Like his accommodating counterpoint in New York who can produce the black

clip-on tie for the under attired, he took Alex to the back room and a few minutes

later Alex emerged in a perfectly fitting pair of black shoes.

It's a good thing Kitty had stayed at the house that night or my ribs would

surely have been bruised from the constant jabs received as I stared at the

parade of beautiful, sexy Asian women dressed in the latest fashions.

Driving around K.L. we were amused at the many words the Malaysians have

borrowed from the colonial English. Some cars had "teksi" printed on their

sides indicating they were for hire. One could catch a "bas" to go to the

"muzium", buy "filim" for his camera and have "cokolat aiskrim" for dessert.

Even though it was after Thanksgiving when we left Port Klang, the northeast

trades had not yet filled in and the lack of wind meant we would once again

hear the constant drone of the engine as it pushed us along the glassy waters of

the northern Malacca Straits.

Coming up to Penang we decided to pick our way through the sandbars

between it and the mainland in order to save ourselves an extra 15 miles. We

had bought a new chart of the area in Singapore and felt confident we could

negotiate the inner route with ease. The chart didn't show a new expansion

bridge on the approach to Georgetown and although we had a report from

another yacht that the reputed height was 60', that was only hearsay and from

the water a bridge never looks taller than our mast. Alex climbed to the

spreaders for a better angle of view. With baited breath we inched our way

towards the span finally breathing a sigh of relief as we squeezed under it with

our mast still intact. We then put full power to the engine and arrived at the

anchorage off the customs' wharf just before dark.

Kitty: Georgetown had a reputation for being a filthy anchorage that

often contaminated yachts' topsides with black gooey oil or created havoc when

the unpredictable winds and swirling currents hurled yachts into one another

that had originally anchored a safe distance apart. We had intended only to stop

for the night and push on the nest day. However, rave reviews from the boats

who had been there just ahead of us encouraged us to persuade the boys to

put their clean water-sport plans on hold for just one more day.

In the morning Alex, Spencer and I went off to find the funicular to the top of

the mountain behind Georgetown. Scott came up with some excuse for fixing

something but we really knew it was his fear of heights that made him elect to

stay on the boat. He could have come because the funicular was so packed

with Malaysian tourists and locals who rode it to their houses perched at

different levels on the side of the mountain that we couldn't even see out of the

windows. Once we arrived at the summit the view of Penang and the Malaysian

coastline was spectacular. The air was cool and refreshing and in fact, the

funicular was originally built to allow escape from the humid heat down at sea

level.

After lunch Scott and I set off with a list of sights we wanted to see, so we hired

a trishaw, a three wheeled bike with a small carriage for two in front, and a

seat and pedals for the human horsepower in back. Our driver looked as though

he was left over from the days of the rickshaws and wheezed, grunted and

puffed as he maneuvered us around Georgetown at a snails pace. Because we

were at only eye level as we crept through the narrow streets, we felt a real

intimacy with the life going on in the tiny Oriental houses that emitted smells of

smoking incense and revealed traditional small altars lined with burning

candles through open front doors.

Although he would occasionally pause to catch his breath, the old Chinaman

pedaled admirably to mosques, temples, an ancient Chinese clan house and

even several kilometers out of town to see the largest reclining Buddha in the

world, which stretched over 100 feet from bare feet to peaceful smile. More

interesting was the Burmese monastery where Buddhist monks in golden robes

quietly talked, head bent towards head as they walked serenely through the

blossoming gardens with the birds singing overhead.

By the time we started home it was rush hour. The noisy horns and smelly

exhaust fumes were especially noticeable in our open trishaw. But we seemed

to have the right of way as our driver courageously pedaled across traffic lanes

with only the tinkle of his bicycle bell to warn others of our intentions.

On the way back I told the driver I wanted to get some bread and thought he

would simply stop at one of the little roadside shops. Instead he went straight to

a huge European style supermarket and I felt a little silly stepping out of our

rickety trishaw into the aisles of Nescafe and Corn Flakes. It was an amusing

contrast.

Scott: We left Penang at 8 p.m. and actually sailed for the first time in

months. The northeast trades had begun to make an appearance. We arrived at

Langkawi at dawn and I turned on the engine to power into the anchorage.

Within five minutes the engine overheat alarm was buzzing. I stopped the

engine and rolled out the sails and Kitty and I neatly tacked our way up close to

the headland, dropping our anchor near several other yachts already nestled

there.

It was time for our morning radio schedule with Bob and Beth on RHODORA.

While I was telling him about our engine overheating bemoaning the fact that

the impeller had worn out, we were interrupted by a "Break, break..." I

responded, "Go ahead break." Thru the radio came, "I overheard your

conversation. I'm in Singapore and headed your way in about a week. I will be

glad to get you a few spare impellers and bring them with me when I come to

Phuket."

Was God calling from Heaven to answer my prayers? No, it was Wally

Huebsch on MINNESOTA JANE, whom I had never met and yet he was willing

to lay out $200 for spare parts that he could not use. He saved the day and

although I did not know it then, Wallys' spare parts would play an important role in

our push up the Red Sea. For the moment, however I was able to replace my

old impellor with our last spare and then sit back, relax and enjoy Langkawi. We

spent the next three days swimming in the freshwater "Lake of the Pregnant

Maiden," snorkeling and barbequing on the beach before Steve Brown took a

well earned vacation and flew from K.L. to join us for the sail up to Phuket,

Thailand. He stepped off the plane with a small bag of clothes and a big

smoked ham--the perfect guest! The next week we experienced the best sailing

of our trip so far. Flat seas, good breezes, sunshine and cool nights. We sailed

up the coastline past small rock islets and lush countryside.

For two days we stayed at Phi Phi Don, an absolutely beautiful jewel of an

island east of Phuket that is unfortunately being over run by tourists and trash.

The Thais don't seem to realize that Phi Phi's attraction is its pristine beaches.

They don't notice or care about the plastic and other garbage that is beginning

to smother those very beaches that draw the rich tourists to their island. At this

rate, in a few years there will be only a few empty decaying hotels poking

through an overgrowth of rubbish as a silent testimonial to Phi Phi Don's past

beauty.

But now it is still beautiful and in the morning I awoke to find Steve in his usual

vacation attire, a green pareu wrapped around his waist, already sitting in the

cockpit after a morning swim. He was sipping a fresh cup of coffee and admiring

the white beaches crowded into the lagoon by the rocky cliffs behind it. Two

days later Steve would be back at his desk, a rep tie around his neck rather

than droplets of clear sea water.

Phuket, Thailand, is a European bachelors' tourist Mecca. The beaches are

beautiful, the food is exotic, the girls are plentiful and everything is cheap.

Wanting to escape the tourists for a bit, we sailed in tandem with SUTAMON, an

Australian yacht with a 13 year old boy and an 8 year old girl aboard, beating

our way up into Phang Nga Bay.

As we sailed up towards the head of the bay a strange sight appeared on the

horizon in front of us. Spikes stuck up out of the water as though an enormous

shark from a Japanese horror movie had opened its jaw and come up from the

depths to devour a whole fishing fleet, its teeth just breaking through the

surface. As we got closer we could see that they were rock spires, some rising

straight up for almost 1,000 feet with green vines clinging to their sides. It looked

like a fairy land with each spire more spectacular than the last.

We anchored next to an island that had a large cave beckoning us to explore

it. Naturally the kids were in the dinghy before the engine was off, but

immediately came back to get us to see this magic grotto. We all jumped into the

Avon and motored into the mouth of the cave. Inside an atrium opened up to the

sky far above our heads, wild pink flowers lined the walls, lit with stray beams

from the sunlight that was shining down on us.

In the next few days the kids spent hour after hour exploring caves and

lagoons around the island while Kitty and sue cooked up buckets of fresh

prawns that we bought from the fisherman for about $1 per kilo.

It was almost Christmas and we had made arrangements with a number of

other boats with kids to all get together and have a Thai feast on the beach at

Phuket. The following is an excerpt from a letter written by Skip Rowland on

ENDYMION to his family describing Christmas there. He catches the mood

perfectly and since he and Denise don't have any children of their own, we

believe their view of the kids is unbiased and accurate.

"Christmas Eve in the tropics. Two in the afternoon. Slightly over 140,000 miles from home. And it feels like it. Whoever coined the phrase "There's no place like home for the holidays " really was a sage old guy. If I lived to be 100 I would have 100 Christmas Eves with a tear in my eye missing those I love and the family that has made my life so complete. Let me tell you a little of what it's like in Thailand at this tiny bay called Kata Noi. Noi means small & I know not the meaning of Kata.

It's a rolly anchorage. The wind is light from the NE and the swell carries a message from some distant activity in the NW meaning it's broad on and we roll. We have our anti-roll devices out. It helps, but Denise, busy baking a Christmas cake finds her contents slithering to and fro across the galley in the swells. I'm in our aft cabin....the most stable writing platform at the moment. The wind scoop above me brings in an occasional zephyr to help minimize the number of times I must sweep my brow with a cloth to fight off the constant perspiration.

Maybe I should be outside. About 15 true cruising yachts are gathered here now. Another 10 or so should arrive before dark. Santa is coming here tonight you know. And last night he spoke by radio phone to most of the youngsters on these boats...addressing each one by name and recalling behavior traits from the years past activities. Poor Jamie, a 7 year old Canadian on BAGHEERA was shocked to find Santa had inside info about his starting the brush fire at Lizard Island. Another 7 year old, Andrew, from the Australian yacht WILDFIRE had apparently began spreading the word that Santa was a fake. He won't do that again.

At the moment all of the yachtie children are gathered on BAGHEERA. Looking across I would place their number at 15. They are lined up on deck to grab a spinnaker line and hurl themselves with abandon into the sea, pretending as kids do that they are leaping from mighty cliffs...and conscious each one I bet, that this is a special day and Santa comes tonight. Their laughter wafts across the anchorage, excitement is evident in their voices. There is a diversity in dialects. They blend though, as naturally as good herbs and spice. These are cruising children. Long beyond their years in wisdom and compassion. They are products(almost all) of solid happy families where love is abundant and parents give to their children as at home they might give to the country club or work ethic.

This multi-national collection of little "twits" has seen more of life in the last year than most kids will get from a total education by books. These youngsters will be the leaders of tomorrow and we will all be better for it. They understand teamwork. They take direction. They are curious, polite and relaxed. I'm Impressed. This week in the world, revolution in Romania claimed more than 2,500 lives. America sent troops to Panama. and everyone at home was bombarded with directive Christmas advertising. Imagine the hype. The pressure. The social stigma. I doubt our young cruising friends realize just how fortunate they are. But I'll bet you this....they will someday....when they look back on how they spent Christmas 1989. It's a nice group gathered here pretending we are all the families so missed from home. Tomorrow we will all gather for a pig-on-the-spit Christmas dinner organized by BERNA MAREE from NZ and TAMURE from America. It will be at Pulayapa (small restaurant) on the beach at mid-afternoon. Over 70 people have signed up at 130 baht per person. That's $5.20 per head. There will be three pigs plus all the Thai trimmings. On the beach, hot, 500 miles from the Equator. Not home, but Christmas anyway."

The northeast monsoon had been steady for a couple of weeks , so on

January 14th we left Thailand for Sri Lanka, often described as a "teardrop on

India's left cheek." It was a perfect sail as the following excerpt from our log

attests:

"It's 2:30am Thursday, January 20th. Kitty is asleep in the port bunk, Alex in the starboard and Spence is snoring away on the floor. TAMURE is roaring along at 7 knots in 15 kts of wind from our starboard beam. The seas are only 11/2 to 2 meters so its quite pleasant.

I have been listening to the financial news on the BBC. The U.S. trade deficit was higher than expected but the dollar firmed after initially falling. U.S. stocks rallied because President Bush called for lower interest rates. So what else is new? I took the headphones off and got up to check around for ships as I have been doing every 10 minutes for the past two hours. An orange glow on the eastern horizon heralds the rising moon.

No ships in sight, yet I know that twenty miles south of our present position the shipping lanes are as crowded as a super highway. Yesterday an errant freighter came within 2 miles of us and called on the VHF channel 16. When I responded, he informed me that neither his gyro compass nor his SatNav were working and wanted to know his position! When I gave it to him, he thanked me and then headed south to the shipping lanes.

The half moon now shines across the sea. There are no clouds and the stars are exceptionally bright . Directly ahead is Orion's Belt and off the port beam the Southern Cross has been getting closer to the horizon the further north we have come. Soon we will say goodbye to that old friend in the night sky. Usually I just poke my head out the hatch to scan the horizon and check the instruments before going back to my radio program. But it is such a beautiful night and TAMURE is sailing so well that I stand one foot on each side of the cockpit, grabbing the hand rail on the dodger, and feel her graceful power as she surges ahead at 7 1/2 kts.

We have averaged 150 miles per day since leaving Phuket five days ago. The only negative this passage has been losing our best two lures to fish that were too big to land. However, yesterday there were three 10 inch flying fish on the deck that Kitty pan fried for breakfast. After breakfast as Alex and I sat in the cockpit looking out at the sea, he turned to me and said, "You know, it's kind of neat to know that 700 miles to the north lies Pakistan, Bangladesh & India while to the south there is nothing until Antarctica." I wonder how many 8th graders have that same sense of geography? Or even where they are on this planet"

We had been somewhat apprehensive about going to Sri Lanka because of

the political problems they have had there for the past couple of years. Rarely in

the past two years had we picked up a Time or Newsweek that did not have at

least one column about the bloody civil war in Sri Lanka. The Tamils, who are

concentrated in the north and east, are fighting the Sinhalese for their own

independence. The Sinhalese are native to Sri Lanka while the Tamils were

brought in from neighboring India during the British colonial rule to work the tea

plantations. When the British left, the Tamils began to dominate the economy

and held most of the top government jobs. The more populace and indigenous

Sinhalese felt threatened by the Tamils, who have been in Sri Lanka for 200

years, so they passed a law making their language the only official one for use

in politics and commerce and took back many of the top jobs. The situation is

complicated and volatile. It is a problem that is as difficult as the Arab-Israeli

conflict or the Catholic vs. Protestants in Northern Ireland.

The fringe elements on each side have become more and more violent with

murders and terrorist bombings a commonplace occurrence. Last August the

body count reached 150 per day. Thousands of people have died(and are still

dying) in the conflict, but although known journalists have been attacked, there

has been nothing directed at foreign tourists; the risk I suppose is one getting

caught in the cross-fire. The American Embassy in Singapore warned travelers

not to go unless there were urgent reasons, family, business or whatever, but

we went ahead and got our Sri Lankan visas just in case. We would count on

the boats ahead of us to keep us informed on the realities of visiting Sri Lanka;

we all know how the media can exaggerate a story but it would be silly not to

keep close tabs on the situation. By the time we left Phuket we had been

reassured that most of the fighting was in the north and no one had

encountered the least bit of trouble traveling inland, other than seeing a body

or two on the street, so we decided to try our luck.

As soon as we were anchored in Galle Harbor, a launch carrying the port

doctor to give us “practique” and the mandatory agent to do the clearing

paperwork, came alongside. The agent had a message that we were to contact

Eden Brown at the American Embassy. Why would the American Embassy want

to contact us and how did they even know we were coming to Sri Lanka? We

imagined the worst.

After what seemed like hours, the paperwork was completed and we went

ashore to call. With trembling fingers we dialed the Embassy in Colombo. Yes,

Eden Brown was there. Soon we discovered that Eden, a vice consul there, is

also the daughter of a sailing friend from home who had written her to keep an

eye out for us. Two days later we hopped a train for Colombo to meet Eden and

her husband Cal and to tour the countryside for a few days.

There are no first class compartments on the train from Galle to Colombo and

riding second class was comparable to traveling on one of the old Long Island

Railroad trains. As we pulled out of one of the station stops along the way, I

stuck my head out the open window to see men running and jumping on the

train, hanging from doors, windows and platforms. Inside people were jammed

in the aisles and we were lucky to have gotten a seat.

Kitty: A rumbling three hour ride brought us to the big dirty beggar ridden

train station in Colombo where we were rescued by Cal and Edens' driver. The

driver was only the beginning of the hospitality shown to us by Cal and Eden

and their two little girls, who gave up their room to Alex and Spencer. Even

though we were complete strangers the four of us hit it off immediately. They are

a fascinating couple with wonderful stories of years of living overseas and of

particular interest to us were their impressions of Sri Lanka.

Our three day inland trip was made in a Peugeot station wagon with a local

driver as a guide and we shared it with another yachting couple, John and Joan

from PIECES OF DREAMS. It is incredible how much one can see and

experience in a small country like Sri Lanka in such a short time. Although we

visited an elephant orphanage to see the little ones fed with baby bottles, it was

more exciting to see working elephants on the streets carrying heavy loads in

their trunks. Snake charmers placed themselves at strategic spots and as much

as I would have liked to avoid them, it wasn't possible to keep Scott from having

at least one snake draped around his neck for a picture.

The first night was spent up at Kandy, the ancient capital of Sri Lanka, where

in the early evening we visited the Tooth Temple, created to house a tooth of the

first Buddha. It draws hoards of tourists who line up to file through, jostling the

handful of worshippers praying on their mats. After seeing the acrobatic

Kandyian Dancers & Firewalkers, we returned to the "gentile shabby"(Scotts'

accurate description) Hotel Suisse, where Mountbatten had his headquarters

during WWII, to spend the night.

The following morning we had to choose between heading north to the

temples and ruins of Anuradhapura or going into the mountains to Nuwara

Eliya, where the British went to play and relax and recover from the heat and

ailments of the lowlands. The first choice meant too much driving. Instead we

elected the hills and went through some spectacular scenery in the 5 hours it

took to climb 6,000 feet up to Nuwara Eliya. Waterfalls fed rivers well below us

and tea plantations carpeted the hillsides, dotted with Tamil women picking the

bright leaves. At one of the tea plantations we had an informal tour through its

old wooden buildings cluttered with machines that seemed to date from the

Industrial Revolution, operated by workers who didn't appear much younger.

Although we weren't able to get a room at the famous Hill Club, we were able

to make a dinner reservation. John and Scott had to put on a jacket and tie,

Joan and I wore wrinkled skirts that only yachties can get away with, and Alex

and Spencer mournfully put on long pants and collared shirts. It was an elegant

affair, especially from our current standpoint. The dining room was enormous

with tall ceilings, mahogany trim and drapes with a horse pattern on the

windows. The five course roast beef and Yorkshire pudding meal was served by

an Indian waiter in white gloves with a towel draped over one arm of his formal

red jacket. His white pants had a sharp crease and he glided across the

varnished floor in... bare feet!

As we began the descent to the coast the next morning, a small Sinhalese boy

approached the car with a bouquet of flowers for sale. After a no, thank you, we

started down a steep hairpin curve and as the road straightened out we saw

we saw another boy with flowers--he looked familiar but we passed him by. The

next time he appeared we asked Harold if it was the same boy and he said to

look back up the mountain when we rounded the curve. Sure enough it was him

with arms, legs and flowers flying as he raced straight down to intercept us

again!! After several thousand feet of this we were so impressed with his

stamina and perseverance that we bought the flowers. Then he climbed all the

way back up and started all over again with another car full of tourists.

After another night of big beds, hot showers and the company of Cal and

Eden, we were on the train back to Galle. It's always fun to get away from the

boat and, luckily, it's also fun to get back to it.

One aspect of life in Sri Lanka that cannot go unmentioned are the touts; men

(usually) who follow visitors around bugging them to buy some cheap souvenir

or to shop in a certain store, invariably that of a cousin or brother or father. They

can be a real annoyance to the point of being the main thing some people

remember about the country. We had our "Tout Training" in Bali and have

learned how to say "NO" (read my lips...), shrug them off or simply ignore them;

so we were ready to take on the world of touts. But they didn't bother us and we

couldn't figure out why until I took a good look at Scott: 6'3", wearing aviator

sunglasses and his black Captain hat with all the official gold braid on the visor-

they must have thought he was military.

It is not possible for people on a cruising yacht to end their story of a visit to Sri Lanka without mentioning Don Windsor. Just outside of the Galle harbor gates, Dons'

home is open to all sailors, who he greets from his chair on the veranda where

he holds court in a flowing white robe. He is not only our middleman for

everything from laundry to tour guides, but he is a fascinating person. Many

evenings we gathered with other yachties to have a beer on his veranda, tell

our own stories and listen to his and often enjoy an enormous meal served

family style at his roomy dining table. For years he has provided a Sri Lankan

"home away from home" for yachtsmen--we found it to be so.

Scott: The season was getting on and if we were to get to the Red Sea

before the southerlies died away at the end of March, we had better be on our

way. With full water and fuel tanks we left for Salalah, Oman, 1,800 miles away

on what we had hoped would be a pleasant tradewind passage. The first night

we powered to get out of the lee of Sri Lanka and early the next morning the

northeast trades blew like stink funneling down the Gulf of Mannar between the

subcontinent of Sri Lanka.

The breakfast dishes were washed and put away. We were all down below.

Kitty was helping Alex and Spencer with their school lessons while I was

immersed in the latest Tom Clancy thriller, popping my head up every 15

minutes to look around. All of a sudden we were shocked out of our cozy

cocoon by a loud speaker directly overhead bellowing "Hello!" All four of us

scrambled to make it through the hatch at the same time in our effort to get on

deck.

Hovering less than 200 feet above us was a U.S. Navy helicopter. We all

waved like madmen and the chopper pilot, in a good old American accent,

wished us a good morning. He then informed us that a convoy of five Navy

vessels was headed our way and with that he flew off. An hour later 5 big

warships steamed over the horizon. One, a guided missel cruiser, called on

VHF channel 16 and let us know he was crossing our bow and would pass us

port to port. We then had a short informal chat with the radio operator who is

from Huntington, New York, and sails on Long Island Sound. He was

astonished to see such a small yacht in the middle of the Indian Ocean and was

flabbergasted to hear that we had come from the Long Island Sound. We

watched as the fleet sailed on by and left us to our solitude once again.

Two days later and for the next week and a half the drone of the engine was

heard more often than the waves lapping at our bow. Thank God for those extra

jerry jugs of fuel that we had taken on in Sri Lanka.

The following is from our log:

"It is our sixth day at sea in what could be our slowest passage yet. During the day we coax what we can out of the few zephyrs that tiptoe across the surface of this big lake. They must be afraid of the dark because they disappear altogether as soon as the sun goes down, forcing us to resort to burning more fuel.RHODORA, SUTAMON, BERNA MAREE AND LORD FRED are between 300 and 700 miles ahead of us. On the o800 radio sched they all report similar conditions. Where the hell are the fabled northeast monsoon winds?? We don't have enough fuel on board to power every night so unless they appear soon, we may be out here for a long time."

Kitty: (In a letter to her dad) "This is our tenth day out and we still have

400 miles to go. It has turned into a long trip with more motoring than we have

ever done on a long passage. Scott and the boys have eked out every mile they

could with our light air sails: setting the spinnaker only to replace it with the

drifter an hour later and then take it down and put on the engine as the wind

dies down completely, just to repeat the whole drill as soon as the next breeze

appears. Many times we are doing only three knots. Luckily the seas have been

calm so we weren't too uncomfortable in the light airs."

Scott: "So far from land and the support we get from other people the

fragility of our small ecosystem is apparent. Last night a hose in our fresh water

system pulled loose from its connection and before we discovered it, one whole

tank(almost half of our fresh water supply) had emptied into the bilge. We still

have 70 gallons in the second tank and 30 gallons in jerry jugs on deck which

with rationing could last us almost two months. We don't expect to be out here

for another two months; nor can we afford to lose the contents of the second

tank.

Precarious as our position might seem, we are more worried about Mike and

Lois on their 45 foot converted fishing trawler TUFF. With 1,000 gallons of water

aboard thirst is not a problem. However, having a big Gardner diesel as the sole

means of propulsion, engine trouble 800 miles from land is more serious than

the mere loss of some water. They are about 150 miles behind us and Mike

reported on the radio sched that 3 of his 6 injectors were not working. Mike is a

competent, confident Aussie mechanic and assured those of us listening "Not to

worry mate. We'll make it, even if I have to use the generator for an engine!" (In

the end he beat us to Oman by a day!)

Fourteen days after leaving Sri Lanka we finally arrived at Salalah, Oman, on

the southeastern edge of the Arabian Peninsula. One hundred and fifty-two

days of that time, or over 6 1/2 days, were spent motoring and while the engine

had worked well, we were soon to learn that it was getting tired.

Oman is a deeply religious Islamic Arab country. When the authorities came to

the boat to check us in, they politely informed us of a few rules we had to obey:

we had to be back on our boats by 6 pm each day; we were not allowed outside

the port complex on Thursdays or Fridays, the Muslim weekend; there was to be

no drinking of alcoholic beverages except on our own yacht; and Kitty was to

make sure she wore long skirts and kept her arms covered past her elbows

whenever she was out in public.

One of the reasons we stopped in Oman was that we had heard it was a good

place to provision. It is also a country that does not issue tourist visas but does

allow yachts to stay up to two weeks. Here was a good opportunity to see a

relatively closed country and to replace some foodstuffs that we had consumed

since leaving Singapore.

As the shops in town are open from 8 am to noon and then again from 4 to

8 pm , most mornings we would hitch a ride the 8 miles to town to do our

shopping. The locals were so curious to see us that getting a ride was easy.

Halfway to town is a triangular road sign with a picture of a camel crossing the

road to indicate caution; just beyond the shoulder 5 or 6 camels were grazing

idly.

Salalah is an oasis of two story buildings lining wide streets littered only with

the dusty sand of the desert that engulfs the town. There is not much traffic and

few pedestrians. Each store is operated exclusively by men and most of the

customers are male. In a strict Muslim country like Oman, women are relegated

to the home and during the week we were there I think I saw a total of a half a

dozen women and each one was covered from head to toe in black. Even their

eyes were hidden by a black veil. I couldn't help thinking what a confining

society it is and how difficult it would be for westerners like Kitty and myself to

live there. Women's Libbers forget It!!

One day, as the cab Kitty and I had taken back from town approached the

docks where we kept the dinghy, we saw Spencer sneak up behind a police

guard, take careful aim and let him have it with a squirt gun. I panicked, my mind

immediately visualized the whole family being publicly flogged. Just then the

policeman turned and threw a whole bucket of water at Spencer, dousing him

thoroughly. We had come upon a full blown water fight between Alex, Spencer,

Tao from SUTAMON, and the two young men on duty, who we learned later

started the whole thing in an effort to combat the intense boredom of guarding a

secure and nearly empty dock area. It only ended when one of the policemen

was chasing the kids with the water hose and ran too far, ripping it right out of

the wall leaving a broken pipe gushing a giant spray of water. It took an hour to

find the main shutoff valve and a visit from an unamused supervisor to stop the

flood while two soaking wet chagrined police guards tried to contain their

spasmodic fits of laughter.

The 600 miles to the Communist country of South Yemen at the entrance to

the Red Sea took five days, most of which was spent propelled by the "iron

jenny". The salt water pump was again giving us trouble. It had finally worn to

the point where it was no longer self priming so that each time I wanted to turn

the engine on, I had to make sure the system was primed. A nuisance, but not a

disaster. We were about to discover worse problems with the engine.

As we came around the point and into the harbor of Aden, Kitty took the helm

and guided us to a spot to anchor. I ran forward and turned the handles of the

windlass to free the CQR. When she hears the chain running, Kitty usually puts

the engine in reverse, slowly setting the 60 pound anchor into the bottom.

However, when she threw the shift lever this time, instead of the whir of the prop

pulling us backwards, there was only a loud "Clunk"...and the engine stopped

dead!

Thinking we had caught something in our prop, I quickly changed into my

swimsuit, put on my mask and snorkel and dove into the water to free it up. Even

though the harbor water was oily and dirty I could see immediately that the prop

and shaft were unencumbered. My heart thumped...it must be the engine itself!

After two hours working with Mike on TUFF we had partially dismantled the

hydraulic transmission and surmised that the problem was warped or damaged

forward clutch plates that should be replaced. Here in Aden??? A few cab rides

and wild goose chases later, I finally found an English speaking mechanic who

could help. He was the foreman at the state run shipyard and he and his helper

came out to TAMURE to look over the problem.

Five minutes later he said, "Look, I can pull the gearbox out for you and in

three hours tell you exactly what's wrong, but then you'll sit here for a month to

six weeks waiting for parts. If I were you, I'd sail your boat to Cyprus and fix it

there. Your transmission will not disengage from forward gear and when you

put it in reverse, it wants to go forward and reverse at the same time. Naturally

the engine stopped. If you just leave it in forward and use it as little as possible,

it will probably get you there."

That was Mike's diagnosis as well-but it meant facing the Red Sea with a

crippled engine. The winds there, especially from Port Sudan to Suez, usually

blow hard out of the north, right from where we want to go. However, every few

days there is a short spell of calm weather and our strategy had been to hide

behind a reef or in a marsa (an indentation in the desert affording some shelter)

during the northerlies and to power like hell in the calms. Now we realized we

would only be able to power when necessary and then it would be with our

stomachs in our mouths. But that's how it would have to be. We did not want to

sit in Aden for the next six weeks waiting for parts.

Once we decided not to repair the gearbox, we opted to see a little of Aden.

An English speaking cab driver whom I had befriended agreed to take us and

Carl and Peri from KUKARA on a guided tour. The six of us jammed into his

1973 Holden and bounced over pot holds that would make Ed Koch wince.

In 1967 the British left Aden and there has not been a bit of maintenance done

since then. It is an excellent example of a failed Communist experiment and

everything from bicycles to buildings is in a state of disrepair. One shop had

junked bicycles all around, even on its roof. Half a rusty frame hung its lone

wheel over the eves and into the path of the unwary entering the front door-it

had probably been flung there just as the British left. Bullet holes and half

bombed out buildings from the 1986 civil war are the general architectural motif.

Aden cannot be considered a tourist haven. It is primarily a refueling port for

Russian ships entering or leaving the Red Sea.

Omar, our driver, told us his favorite story about Aden. "There were three men,

An American, a Russian and an Adenite sitting by the beach. The American,

who was listening to a portable stereo cassette player, suddenly picked it up

and threw it into the sea. when asked by the Adenite why he did that, the

American replied "Oh, we have plenty more of those in America!" Then the

Russian threw his bottle of vodka into the ocean and announced as an

explanation, "We have plenty more vodka in Russia!" With that, the Adenite

picked up the Russian and threw him into the sea. The American looked

incredulous and asked why he did that, didn't he know the Russian could

drown? "Not to worry", said the Adenite, "we have plenty more of those in Aden!"

We drove past a group of squatters that had erected a shanty town out of

wooden crates, bits of tin and anything from the garbage dump that didn't

decay. It was so squalid it made the rest of Aden look respectable. Omar

pointed to it and said, "We call that Little Moscow."

Kitty: Despite the dismal picture Scott has painted of Aden, the place did

have its charms: no beggars despite the obvious poverty, working camels pulling

loads through town, slushy yogurt drinks served in chilled stainless steel

glasses, miniature loaves of crusty white bread(one for the road and a dozen for

the boat) baked twice daily. And a very unique barber shop, which is a story

in itself.

Late Thursday afternoon we went in search of a barber shop for Alex and

Spencer who were unhappy with my most recent job on their hair. Down a little

side street, between the cobbler and the tailor, were bright multi colored doors

which opened into what appeared to be a private living room until we saw the

two rickety barber chairs. In an alcove in the back, remarkable for its green hued

mural of a tropical jungle painted on the wall, a small group of men sat on an

old couch socializing. When we asked who the barber was, an old man

dragged himself up from the couch and stepped forward, speaking to us after

pushing a wad of something he was chewing into his cheek. After the usual

argument over who goes first, Spencer climbed into the chair.

Scott and I were asked to join the rest of them in their little social group. They

were each chewing on a wad of green leaves called "Kat", that reputedly

produces a high somewhere between marijuana and beetle-nut. The leaves are

brought in from the mountains in North Yemen on Thursdays and Fridays, the

only days it is legal to chew it. One of the men leaned over and offered Scott

some leaves, which he promptly stuffed into his mouth and began to chew. Five

minutes later I noticed he surreptitiously walked over to the door, leaned around

the corner and spat the whole wad into the street. As he walked back to sit

down, he turned to me and said under his breath, "Too bitter!" In spite of the

state of induced euphoria, both Alex and Spencer were pleased with their hair

and the fact that the "shingle effect" that I had produced the last time was

now a stylish cut.

Scott: Saturday, March 3rd, we limped out of Aden praying our gearbox

would hold together for the next 1,250 miles-"Just Get Us To Cyprus!" was our

battle cry. We were happy to be powering reasoning that if it became worse or

failed altogether we would detour to Djibouti for repairs. However, if it was okay

for the next 60 miles we would turn north at the Straits of Bab El Mandeb and

start up the Red Sea where there would be no hope of any repairs until we

reached Port Suez in Egypt.

The engine and transmission worked all night so when a gentle southerly

came up at dawn we raised the sails and pointed our bow toward Bab El

Mandeb. The wind rose to twenty knots and for the next three days we enjoyed

an atypical downwind run up the Red Sea.

Just as we finally passed Ethiopia, a country in the midst of a bloody civil war

and very hostile to yachts venturing into its territorial waters, the winds made an

abrupt 180 degree shift to the north at 25 knots. Rather than beat the next 70

miles to Port Sudan into rapidly building seas, we bore off to the west to the

coast of Sudan just 20 miles from the dreaded Ethopian border.

Even though we had not had a SatNav fix for five hours, we felt we could pick

up the land on our radar and then find our way to a small island ten miles

offshore where we could spend the night. Our dead reckoning position showed

us to be within 4 miles of the supposed island and still our radar screen was

totally blank: no land, no island, no nothing! Suddenly we saw three tiny blips:

could be small boats or static. After a meticulous scan with the binoculars Kitty

yelled down that she saw what looked like sailboat masts.

The blips were in fact three other yachts already at anchor behind a sand bar

which the chart called the island of Dahrat Asis. The coast and islands in the

area are less than one meter high and totally devoid of any trees or other

objects that would help give a decent radar return. The desert crawls out of the

sea on its belly and spreads across a vast sandy nothingness until it meets the

mountains 20 miles away.

In spite of rolling gunnel to gunnel that night, we were pleased to be there

knowing that half of the Red Sea and the Ethopian coast were now behind us.

From there to the Suez Canal we should be able to day sail.

In a quiet barrier reef anchorage the next day, protected from the ravages of

the relentless north wind, we still did not feel totally secure. The wind blew the

desert sand into a haze that obscured the distant mountains. We felt vulnerable

not because of any impending danger but because of the bleak isolation of the

place.

I looked through the binoculars and even with the desolation, I saw what

appeared to be a six foot square box made from driftwood. Outside the crude

shelter two Bedouins in dirty white robes squatted next to their camels and

stared out at us. Only Allah knows how they survive in that hostile environment.

It was our first exposure to the African desert.

Over the next two days we made our way up to Suakin, the first town on the

Sudanese coast. The channel winds its way past the old city that was once a

beautiful port but now is just ruins of crumbling buildings and free standing

walls with doors opening into space. A lone minaret with its teardrop shaped

dome poked up through the rubble. The afternoon sun cast a yellow tint on the

broken skyline as it stood starkly against the windswept desert behind it.

The channel made a turn left and the "new" town of Suakin came into view. It

was almost indistinguishable from the ruins except that most of the walls of the

squat buildings are still intact. The far side of the harbor is a graveyard of old

dhows rolled over on their beams showing us their broken ribs and empty holds

through big holes in their topsides, a testament to past days as a center of

commerce. Suakin was the last slave trading port in the world, actively

trafficking in slaves as recently as the beginning of the twentieth century.

While it may have been a thriving city even in this century, walking into town

today is like going back two hundred years in time. A main street winds its way

through buildings that look like old wild west jails made of coral and white

mortar. Skinny men wearing white robes and turbans that contrast with their

dark weather beaten skin plod along in leather sandals or bare feet. Many have small mustaches or goatees. All look worn beyond their years. They either have a dagger stuck in a scabbard secured at their waist by a wide girdle or carry a long sword sheathed in dark leather slung over their shoulder.

A young boy led a goat pulling an old 44 gallon drum tipped on its side and

mounted on wheels. A rubber hose protruded like an elephant's nose at the

back and a bucket jangled alongside. That was the water cart and the cargo is

very precious; the town probably sees but a few drops of rain a year.

The dusty street brought us to an open market area where goods were being

unloaded from the backs of camels. One turned his head and spat at his driver

as he tried to make the stubborn animal get up with his new load. the market

was bustling. Two men clapped each other on the shoulder and gave a high-five

handshake. Three others waved their arms madly arguing about some trading

deal while another group stood by and watched impassively. Old men sat at a

few crude sidewalk cafes sipping demi-tasse glasses of ugly black coffee while

playing a serious game of cards or dominoes. Men everywhere, but only

occasionally did we see a woman and then she was covered as usual from

head to toe. However, unlike in Oman, these women's faces were exposed and

they dressed in bright orange or red robes. The pattern and colors looked as

though they identified the wearer as belonging to a specific tribe or family.

Small boys followed us along the street wanting us to take their picture but

when I pointed the camera at one of the women she immediately turned to hide

her head. As I was busy clicking the shutter in this photographers paradise, a

man in western clothes riding a bicycle came up to us and said he was from

Army Security and that we were not allowed to take pictures without a permit,

which was obtainable only in Port Sudan. He didn't confiscate our exposed film,

but we were not to take any more. He then said he wanted to come out to see

our boat and could we pick him up with our dinghy at 6 pm. Not knowing

whether this was a command performance or a request, we complied. Besides

Ngaum spoke good English and we hoped to learn more about Sudan.

He arrived accompanied by a friend who spoke excellent English and claimed

to be a marine biologist at the University of Khartoum, but we suspected he was

also from the security police. They looked around the boat for a few minutes and

then spent the evening telling us about life in Sudan. One custom Ngaum

described in graphic detail was how local Muslim women amputate the clitoris

of their young girls so they will not become tempted to become promiscuous

when they reach maturity and are married. As he was explaining this, Alex and Spencer listened with jaws agape.

He also talked about the civil war presently devastating the country. The MuslimArabs of the north want to dominate the Christian Arabs of the south and make Sudan a Muslim country, but in the process it is impoverishing an already poor country.

One of the first things Kitty did when we got to Port Sudan a few days later was

to go to the police station and get the required permit for the cameras, there were, however, certain restrictions:

1-No pictures of military establishments or personnel.

2- No pictures of slum areas.

3-No pictures of beggars.

After reading this fine print, Alex looked up and said, "So we're not allowed to

take any pictures!"

The whole Port Sudan bureaucracy is overwhelming and antiquated. To

check in I made the customary visits to the doctor, harbor master, customs and

port police and was sent to Immigration. The immigration building was teeming

with Ethopian refugees, who, dressed in their white robes and turbans, looked

like they were about to have a meeting of the Black Muslim Chapter of the Ku

Klux Klan.

I squeezed my way into an office where I was to pay my entry fees. The clerk

was sitting behind a desk in the center of the room surrounded by old dusty

books stacked from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. My payment was noted in a

similar book which would no doubt eventually find its way onto one of he piles

as a permanent record of the Kuhner family having paid their entrance tax into

Sudan. The undisturbed dust on the testaments of countless others who paid

the same tax over what looked like the past 100 years was evidence that no

one had ever cared to verify any past payment....ever.

Finally I was directed to a room with three desks occupied by men in uniform.

Along with the piles of official documents stacked against the walls, the last

remaining six square feet of space contained twelve Arabs all yelling and

jostling each other, waving their arms trying to get the attention of the hassled

bureaucrats. As a westerner I stood out and immediately an immigration officer

came over, looked at my tax receipt and then put his hand out for our passports.

Thinking he would stamp them with our entry, I gave them to him whereupon he

took out a piece of paper, wrote TAMURE on it, wrapped it around the passports,

secured it with a rubber band and chucked them into a cluttered drawer in his

nicked and scratched up desk in the middle of the chaos and dishevelment.

"You'll get them back when you leave the country," he informed me. All I could

do was pray they wouldn't be lost in the clutter before we checked out. As I

walked away I felt naked, as though an important part of our well being was

being held ransom back in that madhouse. I needn't have worried though,

because upon leaving the passports were returned to me with the same lack of

ceremony.

Just about everything we needed to accomplish in Port Sudan, even simple

things like buying fuel and flour had to be negotiated through that bureaucratic

maze. Climbing the steps at the Ministry of Transport to get authorization to

purchase 200 liters of diesel fuel, I passed a line of locals that wound its way up

the staircase and around a corridor stopping in front of the office I was looking

for. Just as it dawned on me that they too were trying to get permission to buy

fuel and I might have to go to the back of the line, a bunch of arms extended

from the queue and pushed me up through the door. Inside an Army colonel

filled out and signed a form giving me permission to buy exactly 200 liters of

diesel at a specific gas station on the other side of town.

Back at the boat, I tied six 5 gallon jerry jugs together and hefted them over my

shoulder. Spencer had three more bundled together over his shoulders. The

two of us set off up the wide dusty trafficless streets of Port Sudan in quest of our

assigned gas station. All eyes turned to look at us as we walked past the many

Sudanese men lining the sidewalks and peering out of shop doors. Finally one

man could stand it no longer. He came up to me and in a hopeful voice asked,

"Are you selling those containers?" When we finally got to our destination, all

the electricity in town had gone off and we had to sit and wait two hours for it to

come back on before the attendant could get his pumps to work.

Kitty: As skipper, Scott is normally the only one of us who really

experiences a country's bureaucratic hassles but in Port Sudan I got a taste of it

too. Besides diesel and oil, many food staples like rice, milk powder, yeast and

flour were rationed and obtaining any quantity at all of these items also involved

the dreaded permits.

Along with 4 or 5 other yachts, we needed flour, so early one morning Joan

from PIECES OF DREAMS and I set off to get some. Since a little English was

spoken at the tourist office, that was our first stop. A few minutes later we had

what we thought was a request for flour--a formal looking paper written in

Arabic --and understood we were to go to a big government building near the

Botanical Garden. Several wrong offices later we were sent out to a tiny little

building in the botanical garden itself and an inkling of suspicion began to take

hold. Sitting down across the desk from a pretty Muslim woman obviously in

charge, I saw a big thick gardening book open in front of her and it was then that

the penny dropped and I realized they thought we wanted flowers. Luckily, she

was just having breakfast and I pointed to the bread on her plate in explanation

and the three of us had a good laugh.

Knowing Joan and I would never find our way alone to the proper authorities,

she released her young helper to walk us through the routine of getting a permit

for flour and then obtaining the proper official signatures. Many hours and

still more cluttered offices later, we ended up at the dusty flour warehouse on a

hidden little side street in town where we had a 35 kilo sack(the smallest amount

available; if this was their idea of rationing no wonder they were short of flour)

loaded into the back of a taxi and went back to the boats. We were delighted

with the success of our mission and with knowing that we now had adequate

flour no matter how long it took to get up the Red Sea.

Fruits and vegetables of excellent quality were in abundant supply in the

market, as was meat. I don't know how anyone could eat that meat though: the

sights and smells on a trip down the aisles of the open air meat department

were enough to turn anyone’s stomach. On tables were piles of innards,

unidentifiable hunks of meat, heads, hooves, tongues and behind the "butcher"

hung whole carcasses (of ???) covered in flies--some sort of tenderizer

maybe?

Barry and Gloria on the Australian yacht GLORY B III had befriended an

educated Sudanese man who was obviously from a well to do family. Amin

invited a small group of us yachties to be his guests at a friend's wedding party.

They were Christians and as such did not conform to the strict Muslim codes.

Only a few of the female guests were covered in the traditional chador. Most

wore expensive looking evening dresses and lots of gold jewelry that made the

contingent of yachties in our wrinkled clothes look like country bumpkins.

The bride and groom had just returned from their honeymoon and this was the

last of many parties held to celebrate their marriage. After a feast of lamb and

other local dishes, a band played popular Sudanese songs. At first just the men

got up and danced. We were encouraged to join in by a member of the wedding

party. Barry, Peter, Theo and I tried to mimic the others stomping our two left feet

in time to the music and snapping our fingers high in the air. First the groom and

then one of the guests, a trim Black man who was good enough to be a

professional and whose enthusiasm was contagious, came over and danced in

front of us, each snapping their fingers over our heads. We returned the gesture.

Soon the bride beckoned the women in our group to the dance floor and they

did the same routine amongst themselves. I must have been a little too infected

with the enthusiasm of the dancer who showed us how to do the steps; because, at the end of the evening he came over to me and in a perfect southern California cool accent invited me up to his hotel room for the rest of the evening.

I was saved, when about 11;00 the doors to the compound burst open and a bunch of soldiers with Uzis came running in. The whole wedding party was being told to disburse. There was a civil war going on and Port Sudan was under martial law. All the yachties, with me in the lead, made a hasty retreat down the deserted streets to our boats, accompanied by the security police to make sure we were on board before the 11:30 pm city wide curfew.

The next day Amin brought us to the bazaar that assembled on the outskirts of

town three times a week. Merchants, traders and shoppers came in buses, pick

up trucks and camels. By 4 pm the three acre field was buzzing with the

commotion of commerce. Those with merchandise to sell had it spread out on

blankets while buyers and browsers roamed the aisles in between. Almost

anything could be found from packaged Jockey shorts to the traditional flat

woven baskets.

Two Bedouins just in from the desert approached me wanting to sell a sword.

The slight curve in the blade indicated it had been sharpened many times and

the scabbard was scratched and nicked. A sword like this could not be found in

a souvenir shop, but the 1,500 Sudanese pounds, or $150 he wanted for it was

more than i was willing to pay. After considerable arm waving, cursing and

screaming we settled on 500 pounds, all the money I thought I had with me.

However, when I pulled out my wallet I discovered I only had 300 pounds. With

sincere disappointment on my part, I showed him the insufficient funds and said

I was sorry but I didn't have any more. He was angry and indicated I should

borrow the rest from my friends. I shook my head and walked away, but he kept

following me demanding his 500 pounds. Finally I turned and said "Look! Here is all the money I have, 306 pounds and some change. If you want it, take the money and give me the sword! If not, leave and don't bother me anymore!"

He obviously needed the money probably to taste the sweet delights of the big

city. Encouraged by his friend, he grabbed the money out of my hand and reluctantly parted with his trusty sword that had come in from the desert slung over his shoulder. As he walked away, Amin chuckled. I looked at him and said, “Don’t tell me I have been taken. “Oh No!” he replied "That's the first time I've ever seen a westerner get

the better of an Arab!"

The wedding party and the trip to the bazaar only temporarily distracted me

from the worry of our gearbox and the engine water pump that had started to

leak just 20 miles south of Port Sudan. If I could not repair the pump, it would

soon get worse and allow salt water to find its way into the pistons and

crankcase. That would be a disaster.

George, on another American yacht IO, had a similar engine that used the

exact type of water pump. His was also leaking and needed to be rebuilt. The

possibility of finding any parts in Port Sudan was NIL. Luckily I had spare set of

bearings, seals and impellors. George had two spare shafts and an extra

housing, but no impellors. Between the two of us we were able to rebuild our

pumps and put together a less than perfect spare pump each. Even though I was able to stop the leak, the main housing was still worn to the extent that it was no longer self priming. But at least it was usable. Of the 25 yachts in Port Sudan five had water pump problems; with those statistics I will always carry a complete new water pump in my spare parts kit.

After two weeks in Port Sudan, we set off in a light northerly to tackle the rest

of the Red Sea. We got ten miles up the coast when a 15 kt. blast of wind hit us

right on the nose. I turned on the engine to try and motor sail. The speedometer

showed less than one knot. I thought the gearbox had finally gone and my first

impulse was to head back to port. I actually had TAMURE turned south when

Alex and Kitty came on deck and yelled at me alternatively, "Look we've left!"

"We're on our way." "This is a sailboat, lets sail it!" "Let's keep going."

Just then our American friends on ASTEROID, a 70 foot ketch, and

LONGHORN, a Swan 51, sailed by. They yelled, "Party on ASTEROID at Marsa

Fijab tonight!"

I put the tiller over and we began short tacking our way north inside the barrier

reef. We became a well oiled family unit. With Kitty on the helm, Alex, Spencer

and I on the sheets, we were as quick as any racing crew back home. We

arrived at Marsa Fijab just before sunset. As we entered the small bay, I turned

the engine on just to try it again. The wind had died to a more reasonable 15

knots and we were able to make headway. It was only in my insecure state of

paranoia that I had forgotten the old engine just wasn't powerful enough to

combat 35 kts and a short choppy sea.

For the next week we sailed, tacking up the coast of Sudan in 20-30 kt

headwinds, seeking shelter each night. TAMURE sailed well keeping up with the

4 or 5 other yachts, most of whom resorted to motor-sailing in those conditions.

Each night I heaved a sigh of relief and counted up our day’s mileage, then

figured out how many more miles we had to go. We were slowly but surely

clawing our way up that barren coast.

At Marsa Umbeilla seven yachts waited for two days as it blew 45 to 50 kts.

Within 15 minutes of when it started to blow, the desert sand flying through the

air was as blinding as an arctic blizzard. We could barely see the shore only

150 feet away. Had we been caught out, it would have been impossible to find

that secure shelter.

After the blow came the calm. All of us filed out of Umbeilla to make the 150

mile dash across Foul Bay, so named because of its many reefs and poorly

charted areas. Day sailing inside Foul Bay is hazardous at best; but staying

offshore had its own problems. We had heard stories of yachts getting caught

halfway across when a blow came up, forcing them to turn and run all the way

back to Port Sudan before being able to find shelter. God, what a horrible

thought!

The calm lasted for six hours, pleasant powering in a flat sea. Then the rare

south wind appeared. We ran wing and wing into the night thinking we would

be in Ras Banas, our first stop in Egypt, by early morning. But this was the Red

Sea. At midnight we were motor-sailing into a light northerly. I went below to get

some sleep. Deep into a dream at home in Rowayton, the front doorbell was

ringing. I struggled to open it only to awaken and find the wind howling, the boat

heeled way over and the engine overhead alarm blaring. Before I could yell to

shut it off, Kitty had activated the kill switch.

Heeling over, the pump had lost its prime. In the morning I squeezed into the

pitching engine compartment and re-established the siphon in the water system

by disconnecting the hose and sucking the water through. But when Alex

looked over the stern to make sure water was coming out of the exhaust, he

reported back, "Dad, there seems to be a lot oil in the water."

An hour later I discovered the problem to be a leaking oil cooler that was

pumping the engine oil overboard with the cooling water. The engine sump was

bone dry and had it gone unnoticed any longer, the engine would have seized. I

re-routed the oil lines to bypass the faulty cooler and resolved not to run the

engine over 1,200 RPM.

Bob on RHODORA, one hundred miles ahead of us, heard us bemoaning our

plight on the morning radio sched. He said he had the same engine, and, would

you believe, a spare oil cooler. He was going to push on but would leave it with

Keith, another yachtie who was planning on resting a few days in Sharm Luli.

the next day Keith decided to take advantage of good weather but he would

leave the oil cooler with the soldiers camped on the shore at the military

outpost on the Egyptian coast. No problem, I could get it from them.

The next afternoon we got to Sharm Luli anticipating recovery of the spare

cooler, a quick repair job and setting off again the next morning. Instead I was to

learn the meaning of the word "frustration. "

At the encampment I told the group of soldiers who I was and asked about the

oil cooler. To my horror, I discovered none of them spoke any English at all. I

then tried to convey in sign language that a man had left a package with them to

give to me. One soldier thought he knew what I wanted and led me up a ladder

to the roof of one of the huts, where he showed me an old inflatable dinghy.

"No, not a dinghy. A small package this big," I said, making a box shape with

my hands. He shrugged. Back on the ground I turned to the others and went

through my sign language plea for the package. "Yes, yes," they said in English,

nodding their heads. "Okay, can I have it?" I replied. Blank stares. In

desperation I barged into each of the three shacks looking for the oil cooler,

oblivious to the soldiers asleep in their bunks inside. The others stood outside

and just looked at me as though they thought I was crazy.

An hour and a half later I was almost crying with frustration. I knew the oil

cooler was there somewhere, but where? I felt as though I was in some kind of

horror movie where seemingly smiling soldiers were actually in a subtle

conspiracy to drive me crazy.

I finally asked one of them to come out to the boat and brought him into the

engine room to show him the broken oil cooler. He didn't have a clue as to what

I was trying to get across. But as soon as I rowed him back to shore, he looked

at the side of the boat and something clicked. "Ah, friend," he said. "Yes, friend,"

I answered.

He brought me back to the roof of the shack and unrolled the deflated dinghy.

There in the center was a package with a drawing of a sailboat and TAMURE

written on it. He had seen the name TAMURE in big block letters on our weather

cloths and finally made the connection.

I found out later that Keith had given the soldiers the inflatable to keep (it

leaked) and they thought the whole lot was for me. When I turned it down they

couldn't figure out what the hell I wanted. If this is the way we communicate with

the Arabs I don't hold much hope for a negotiated settlement in the present Gulf

crisis.

We had fallen into step with Dick and Kay on the Australian yacht THORFIN.

They also had gearbox problems and used their engine as little as possible.

THORFIN sailed as close to the wind and as fast as we did and we stayed within

a few hundred yards of each other as we beat our way up the Egyptian coast to

Safaga.

The morning after we arrived we turned on the 7 am radio schedule just in

time to hear Gary on BERNA MAREE call for help. He was on the reef 5 miles

south of Safaga. We immediately started out to help. Before we got there, Dick,

who had left a few minutes ahead of us, already had BERNA MAREE floating

free with no damage. Had the north wind been blowing the resulting sea would

have pounded the wooden Kiwi yacht to toothpicks in a very short time. Gary’s

knees were still shaking when we tied up to the wharf.

In Safaga, nine of us from the three boats hired a small van and driver to take us

to the Valley of the Kings to see King Tut's tomb. Spencer couldn't believe that

the paintings on the walls of the tombs were the very same ones that were

pictured in his history book and made it come alive. At the Temple of Karnak in

Luxor we were awed at the splendor of the ancient Egyptian cities. But for all its

historical beauty I kept picturing Johnny Carson in a turban holding a letter to

his forehead, answering a question for the Great Karnak!

From Safaga we made a left turn into the Gulf of Suez and for the first time in

weeks I started to relax a bit. We only had 140 miles to go and a fresh southerly

breeze pushed us quickly towards Port Suez and the canal. Once again we

anticipated an easy overnight sail. How foolish of us to count our chickens so

soon! Before midnight the wind died and soon after it was a fierce 35-40 kts

right on the nose.

A SatNav fix put us 15 miles abeam of Marsa Thelemat on the Egyptian side of the Gulf. From where we were on the Sinai side of the Gulf we tacked west and made a run for it with THORFIN and BERNA MAREE hot at our heels. Even though the night was pitch black, we worked our way up into the sheltered anchorage by radar and there we sat for the next four days. So near and yet so far!

The wind blew so hard we couldn't even launch our dinghy to go visit our

friends only 50 yards away. For the next few days, we amused ourselves by going through our phone book and looking for friends who we thought just might accept a collect radio telephone call from us at a cost to them of US$ 5.00 per minute. Then we called Portishead Radio, located near Bristol, England , on our single-sideband radio and placed the call. To our surprise, every single person, who got the call from Portishead Radio asking if they would accept a collect call from the vessel Tamure in the Red Sea, accepted the call. What fun it was to talk with friends back in New York while we were hunkered down waiting out the sand storm that was howling outside our comfy cabin.

Finally at dawn on the fifth day we made a break for it and at 10:30 that night were met by our agent Abdul Sokar, who escorted us to a mooring at the Port Suez Yacht Club. Even though we were all dead tired, we went over to THORFIN to celebrate our arrival with a cold beer. For the first time in many weeks, we were able to relax. The Red Sea was at last behind us. BERNA MAREE arrived the next day, ASTEROID, LONGHORN and RHODORA were already there. Each day others would straggle in and heave a sigh of relief. Later on we learned that during the 1989-90 season, four yachts never arrived in Port Suez. They were doomed instead to their crews abandoning them to a burial on some reef in the Red Sea.

Egypt is not known for its hygiene standards. We were apprehensive about

getting sick on the food as so many other yachties had. During the week we

stayed in Port Suez we only went ashore for dinner once. Abdul had assured us that one restaurant in town was excellent., cheap and clean so a group of us decided to try it. However, three quarters of the way through the meal, Barry leaned over the table and whispered to everyone that he had seen the waiter clear dishes from an empty table, bring them to the kitchen, wipe them with a dirty rag, fill them with food and set them in front of diners at a new table. None of us could finish our meal.

Abdul arranged for a car and driver to take us to Cairo, an hour and a half

away. Mike and Charles on a boat call Rhysling joined us, as we had all wanted to visit Cairo, especially to see the pyramids located just on the edge of town where the desert meets the city. Mike had been single-handing his boat from California to New Guinea, where he met Charles and two other New Guinea men who agreed to help him sail west. The other two left Mike in Singapore; however, Charles, who was only about sixteen wanted to continue on all the way back to the United States. Mike had borrowed some old school books from us and had been teaching Charles how to read etc. He was an excellent student and years later when he went back home to New Guinea, he became a captain of a tug out of Port Morsbey, New Guinea. Charles had become very good friends with Alex and Spencer.

Cairo, with its 8.5 million people sprawls outward from the old section of

narrow streets, stone houses and winding bazaars on the east bank of the Nile. The blare of loudspeakers from over 400 hundred mosques calling the faithful to prayer five times a day pierced the drone of the street noise. To the north and west the wide streets of the modern city are crowded with traffic where only the sound of the horn determines right of way. The pollution there is so bad that living in Cairo is reportedly the equivalent of smoking two packs of cigarettes a day.

At the boundary between the mass of humanity called Cairo and the desert lie the Sphinx and the three Great Pyramids of Cheops, Cheephren and Micernius. We found a place that would rent us some camels to ride out on the desert so we could take a picture of Kitty and I and the two boys on camels with the Pyramids in the background. Because Charles and Mike were with us we need six camels. As I was negotiating a price, the owner of the camels suggested that we rent three camels and three horses. His rational was that the camels are uncomfortable to ride for someone not used to them and that the horses would make a welcome relief as we could change back and forth. However, once out in the desert, I really wanted to take a picture of all four of us on camels with the pyramids in the background. After much haggling, we compromised when he agreed to have another camel waiting for us when we got out to the place where I wanted to take the picture. The three kids, Alex, Spencer, and Charles got on the horses and we three adults mounted the camels while a guide, who was to go along with us, ushered us out the gate of the stables and walked us about 100 feet to a place where we could just see the pyramids. He immediately produced another camel and had us take a picture of the four of us on the camels with the pyramids in the background.

Our guide then walked us to the path leading to the desert. For the next half hour we rode out into the desert with the three camels and three horses and our guide running after us on foot. Finally we arrived at the exact spot in the desert where all we could see was sand and way off in the distance the pyramids loomed in all their glory. At this point I said to the guide, “This is where I want to take the picture. Please get the other camel now!” Then he turned to me and said that we had already had the other camel back just outside the stables. “No!” I replied! “The deal was that you would have another camel out here in the desert with the pyramids in the background.”

He started to argue; but, I said firmly that this was the deal. He continued to argue. I continued to say that the deal was to have a camel out here in the desert. He continued and I continued. Finally I sad, “Now listen carefully, I have not paid you and unless you get us the camel I will not pay you!” He started to argue again and this time I just said, “No camel; no money!” as soon as he started to open his mouth again, I repeated, “No camel no money!” After a couple more times of my affirming, “no camel no money”, he finally stomped on the ground and ran off.

Fifteen minute later he reappeared with a camel. I was afraid that our guide was really going to hate me and show it. But; on the contrary, he was extremely polite and even friendly. We took our pictures and as we rode back to the stables, I realized that he respected me for not letting him get away with cheating us out of the camel. We had had enough experience bartering with Arabs all the way up the Red Sea, for me to learn that is the way they do business.

After returning the camels we asked our driver to bring us around to the pyramids themselves. Alex and Spencer both felt that the climb up the narrow passageways into the center of Cheops' pyramid was the neatest. My vote was for the gold statues and jewelry from Tutankhamens' Tomb now in the Cairo Museum. At the time Kitty was reading "The Search for the Gold of Tutankhamen" and knowing the incredible difficulties encountered in finding the tomb and the thrill of finding its contents still intact, she was especially awed by the Valley of the Kings itself and seeing the actual contents of Tuts' tomb in the Cairo Museum, from the solid gold sarcophagus(mummy case) to the simple

containers foodstuffs were put in.

The Suez Canal links the Red Sea with the Mediterranean by means of a 107

mile long ditch out through the desert at sea level. It isn't wide enough for two

way traffic, therefore ships go through in convoys: north in the morning and

south in the afternoon. Yachts typically make the trip in two days, stopping for

the night at Lake Timsah.

At 2:00am on April 25th our pilot arrived to take us on the first leg of our transit.

Mohammed insisted on sitting out in the cockpit wrapped in a wool blanket to

keep the cold desert night air at bay, steering by hand while we slept. When I

came on deck to take over he still preferred to steer while he chatted about his

wife and daughter. He took none of the food we offered because it was

Ramadan, a month of daylight fasting for the Muslims.

We had heard a number of horror stories about yachts getting hounded by

their pilots for "baksheesh", the Egyptian term for something halfway between

a tip and a bribe, and were prepared for the worst. Abdul had suggested we

give each pilot ten U.S. dollars in small bills as they left the boat. Instead, both

Mohammed and the following days pilot were courteous and thankful for the

"present". By 11:00 am the second morning we cleared the breakwater at Port

Said. I gave Kitty a big hug as we entered the Mediterranean!

During the past three years the most often asked question by people standing

on the dock looking at our home on the water has been, "What about your

children? Aren't you afraid they are missing out on school?" On the contrary,

their education has been expanded by their direct contact with the world; their

horizons have been broadened beyond what we had hoped as the following

excerpts from letters to friends back home show.

From Alex's letter:

"......On our way to Oman, about a week at sea, we went for a swim next to the boat. Spencer had gotten a new board in Phuket and this was its first go! Oman was interesting, very rich and had everything from pineapple Tang to Bounty candy bars. The port was nice and clean. The guards at the dock were so bored that they started a water fight! We had lots of fun until one of them ran too far with the hose and broke the pipe. After searching for an hour for the shut off valve, someone came and closed it off.

Aden, the first Communist country of our trip, was a dump. Trash everywhere,

bullet holes(from the 1986 civil war) in walls, collapsed buildings; but surprisingly there are no beggars and the people are nice.

On our way to Sudan we got so close to a tanker that I could hear it humming

over wind and waves (200 meters away). In Sudan the land is so low that at 4

miles away we could not see it (even on radar). Suakin, Sudan's original port,

had interesting ruins and other things: such as camel trains, markets and men

with swords (real swords, ones for battle!). The kids looked through our camera

and watching the focus go in and out. That was before the police told us not to

take photos.

In Port Sudan one needs a permit to get anything. Mom wanted flour and

ended up in a botanical garden for flowers!

Northern Sudan and southern Egypt are all desert with neat natural harbors.

From Port Safaga we went to Luxor to see the Valley of the Kings, the Temple at

Karnak and the Nile River. Crossing the Nile was funny: on a ten car ferry twenty

cars would be squashed on and more would still be fighting to get on.

The Valley of the Kings is hot and dry and crowded. King Tut's Tomb was very

small and hot. Inside the tombs the light was dull and the air damp. When I

came outside the light was so bright and the air so dusty I could barely breathe

or see!

On our way to Suez we had to stop for 5 days to wait for the wind to go less

than 40 knots. From Suez we went to Cairo to see the Pyramids at Giza and the

Cairo Museum. Cheops Pyramid was my favorite thing in Egypt. The Cairo

Museum was not (definately not) my favorite thing.

After the Suez Canal we sailed to Israel and stayed in the Tel Aviv marina, a

very clean place. We had some friends living in the Jewish Quarter of Old

Jerusalem and we stayed with them. Actually, Spencer and I slept in a tent on

their roof. From there we could see all of the Old City, including the Dome of

the Rock, the third holiest Muslim temple."

From Spencer’s letter "

"......In Sri Lanka we met a Quebec family who took Alex and me body

boarding in about 12 foot surf! It was really fun because I had never been in

such a big surf. We also went touring in Sri Lanka and saw temples and

elephants, snake charmers and firewalkers. The funny bit about the firewalkers

was they step in damp sand before going on to the fire.

After that we left on a two week passage to Oman. In Oman if you see women

at all, they are completely covered in black clothing, including their faces.

We left from Oman to Aden, South Yemen, on a five day passage. In Oman

everyone was very rich, but Aden was basically a dump. There were bullet holes

in the buildings and bus stops from a civil war in 1986. Aden was pretty boring

and Alex and I were usually on SUTAMON listening to tapes with Tao and

Monique. One interesting thing about Aden is the showers in the Seamen’s Club

are electrified! Whenever I turned it on I got a small shock. Tao got such a bad

shock it almost knocked him down! The day before we left Aden we met a

yachtie who had such a rough time in the Red Sea that he came back and was

shipping his boat up to Suez. It wasn't very encouraging news for us!

The next day we left for Sudan on a 4 day passage which is pretty good for the

Red Sea. We had hopped up the Sudan coast anchoring in little harbors called

"marsas". The marsas were usually uninhabited with clear cold water and sand

everywhere. We almost always found a place to sail our model boats with

friends. We also went to Suakin, an old port that was in ruins. That was fairly

interesting, especially the camel train in the morning. After that we went to Port

Sudan where it was a pain to buy anything because many different foods were

rationed.

Egypt was the most interesting place in the Red Sea and I liked it a lot. First

we went to the Valley of the Kings where we saw King Tut's Tomb and a few

others-they were all empty because either their contents were at the Cairo

Musuem or had been stolen long ago. But it was weird to think that these were

here over 6,000 years ago! In Cairo we got to go inside the Great Pyramid and

climb to the King's Chamber. We also took a camel ride up to the pyramids

which was fun, although it gave me sore legs.

After that we went through the Suez Canal and headed for Israel. I couldn't

believe it, we were finally in the Med!!

September 26, 1990

We are now in Gibraltar finishing up this newsletter and plan to leave for

the Canary Islands next week. The end of November we will begin the Atlantic

crossing to the Virgin Islands, where we will cross our outgoing path in Frances

Bay, St. Johns, and officially complete the circumnavigation. We feel almost like

the old milk horse who can smell the barn door and while we don't anticipate

being home in Rowayton until spring, 1991, all four of us look forward to getting

home, getting jobs, and going back to a normal school classroom with old

friends.

For those of you who are still awake and not cross eyed, you'll have to wait for

the next newsletter to hear the story of our summer odyssey in the

Medtierranean. In the meantime, our next address will be:

Good up to Scott, Kitty, Alex and Spencer Kuhner

Xmas YACHT TAMURE

C/O American Express Client Mail

Tropic Tours

P.O.B. 1855, International Plaza

Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas U.S.V.I. 00801

After that: C/O De Flines

42 Nearwater Rd.

Rowayton, Ct. 06853

Chapter VII Suez to Home

At eight O’clock On the morning of April 26, 1990, a new pilot came aboard to bring us through the last leg of the Suez Canal. We had been anchored in Lake Timsah for the night as we had not been able to make it through the whole canal in one day. Occasionally we would see abandoned military vehicles on the banks on the canal left over from the Yam Kippur war with Israel back in 1973. As we entered Port Said, we gave our pilot the requisite US$10 baksheesh. He thanked us profusely and jumped from Tamure to the waiting pilot boat. However, almost immediately, a second pilot boat came along side claiming we needed another pilot to take us through the port itself. Abdul had warned us that this would happen; but, he said that we did not need to take on a separate pilot to bring us through Port Said.

It took a lot of yelling, shaking our heads no and waving the persistent potential pilot to get away until he finally realized that we were not about to let him aboard. He finally gave up and motored off while we continued on to the entrance to the harbor. We gave a sigh of relief as we cleared the break water and powered of into the Mediterranean Sea. A sigh, it turned out, to be a bit premature.

When we cleared Egypt back in Port Suez, we cleared for Cyprus, even though we had considered going from Egypt to Israel. The reason we didn’t clear for Israel was that the Muslim State of Egypt doesn’t want people going from there to the Jewish State of Israel. We had a friend from our first circumnavigation back in the early seventies who had sold his business in The States and moved to Jerusalem. David was studying to be a Talmud Scholar and lived in the Jewish quarter of the Old City. He and his wife Shoshanna had invited us to come and spend a few days with them. How could we pass that up?

Once out of the sight of land, we made a right hand turn and headed for Tel Aviv 145 miles to the northeast. The wind was coming out of the northeast so we had to tack up wind to get there. As night fell, we flopped over on a port tack slowly closing with the coast at the Gaza strip. About eleven thirty at night Spencer who was on watch by himself, (remember was only eleven and a half years old) came down from the cockpit and shook me awake. “Dad”, he said in an urgent voice, “there is a ship out here with no lights and they are circling us!”

It only took me a half a second to shake the sleep out of my brain, jump out of my bunk and bolt on deck. I heard it too. There was definitely a boat with no lights circling us. Now my heart went into second gear and began pounding at a voracious pace. Why would anyone except somebody with malicious intent be circling us with no lights? What to do? The only thing I could think of was to call for help on the VHF and hope that the ghost ship would hear my call and leave the area. I jumped down into the cabin and grabbed the VHF. I turned to channel 16, the emergency channel, and called for the Israeli Navy. “Israeli Navy, Israeli Navy, this is the sailing yacht Tamure calling the Israeli Navy. My position is 31 degrees 32 minutes north and 33 degrees 41 minutes west. We are being circled by a boat with no lights. We fear they will try to board us!!”

I kept repeating this plea; but, there was no response. I went back on deck to figure out what to do next, when all of a sudden the menacing boat turned on a HUGE bright searchlight and shined it right at us. Then they proceed to circle us again all the while blinding us with their searchlight. Finally the VHF crackled to life. It was the Israeli Navy. They were the boat that had been circling us. They then started to interrogate us, “What is the name of your vessel? What is your port of origin and what flag do you fly? What was your last port? How many people do you have onboard? Did you have any Arabs on board when you were in Egypt? Where are you headed?” etc.. Finally they seemed to be convinced that we were just a small family on our little boat sailing to Tel Aviv. Then they told us that we had come too close to the Gaza strip and that we should take a heading of 345 degrees until we reached 32 31 north and 33 32 west. From there we could head directly for Tel Aviv and when we got to within twenty miles of Tel Aviv, we should call the Israeli Navy again and let them know our position and intention of sailing into Tel Aviv.

This we did and had no further trouble with menacing ships. The Israeli Navy gave us permission to enter Tel Aviv and by mid afternoon we were safely tied to the dock at the Tel Aviv marina. Then customs, immigration and the bomb squad all came down to clear us into Israel. While I was doing the paper work with the officials, the bomb squad had a thing-a-ma-gig on a long handle that could detect explosives and they were sweeping it under the hull of Tamure, just to be sure no one had attached a bomb to her hull while we were in Egypt. They also brought a bomb sniffing dog on board. They soon declared that we were clean.

The next day we decide to take a quick trip to the beach just beyond the marina. As we were standing on the beach, there was a towel right in front of us. Just then a beautiful girl in a bikini came out of the surf and walked up to the blanket. She dried herself off, pulled on a pair of green fatigues with an army symbol on her sleeve, picked up her Uzi and happily walked off the beach. What a shock! Not because she had an Uzi with her; but, after four months in the Arab countries where all the women are covered from head to toe in Black whenever they are in public, we were shocked by the difference in the Israeli culture that allowed a beautiful girl to be on the beach alone wearing a bikini.

Once we had gotten our breath after the short overnight trip from Egypt, we called our friends David and Shoshanna who lived in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem. They invited us to come up and stay with them for a few days. They gave us their address and told us that they might be out sometime the next day for a few hours; but, if they weren’t home when we got there to just walk around the old city and come back in an hour or so. They also warned us, if we did that, not to leave our bags anywhere or ask a shop keeper to watch them for us while we walked around. That would only invite the bomb squad to inspect the bags to insure that they did not contain any explosives.

Walking through the Jewish Quarter of the Old City was like going back in time a thousand years. The streets were narrow and mostly just walkways filled with bustling people. We found David and Shoshanna’s apartment on the second floor of a very old building and waked up the stairs to their front door. When we arrived at their apartment, they were not there, so we had to cool our heals for a while. They had given us a “heads-up” about not leaving our bags anywhere because people would think that maybe a bomb is in the bags. Therefore, we walked around for about an hour with our bags in hand and when we arrived back at their apartment, they were there.

David had had a successful political polling business in Washington DC and had sold it to move to Israel to become a Talmud scholar and eventually a rabbi. He had become very orthodox in his religion and so had Shoshanna. When they opened the door we all received a big welcome and smiles; but, when I went to give Shoshanna a kiss, she backed away, because orthodox women do not kiss men other than their own husbands. After we were all settled, David sat us down and explained all the rules of an orthodox household, especially those of keeping a kosher kitchen, so that we wouldn’t accidentally do anything that was against their orthodoxy.

Kitty and I had the guest room while the kids slept in a tent that David had rigged on his roof-top balcony. From the balcony, we could see the Wailing Wall, or the west wall of the original Temple. Just beyond the Wailing Wall was The Temple on the Mount, the place where Mohammad ascended to Heaven to talk with God. Off to the left we could see the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, where Christ was crucified. From David’s balcony we could plainly see three of the most holy places of the three monotheistic religions of the world.

The next day we even went and walked the Stations of the Cross, the route that Christ walked with the cross on his shoulders before he was crucified. Even though I was brought up a Christian and had gone to an Episcopalian boarding school for four years and was still spiritual, I had abandoned organized religion and as a family we rarely went to Church. Still, our stay in Jerusalem was very spiritual and moving as we stood on the very ground that was so holy to all three religions.

One night at dinner, Shoshanna brought up the idea of driving us to Bethlehem to see the place where Christ was born. David, however, disliked the idea because they had Jerusalem plates on their car and he was afraid that the plates, combind with Shohana’s Orthodox Jewish clothing, could provoke some kind of anti-semetic violence. Undeterred, Shoshanna decided that David was being too cautious, even paranoid, and so the next morning after David went off to Talmud class, she encouraged us to make the trip in spite of David’s trepidation.

We arrived in the town square about mid morning and found a place to park. Even though Shoshanna was a bit nervous about leaving her car with the Jerusalem plates, but she was more interested in showing us the church where Christ was born. We walked across the town square to the church. Once in the church, we walked down this narrow staircase emerging into a small dark room with lights illuminating a manger. . I wondered what Alex and Spence were thinking, because, we had not brought them up in the Church nor did we practice any organized religion in our home. Later Alex said that even though they were “templed out” they did recognize the historical significance of the places we were seeing. I, however, had gone to an Episcopal boarding school where we went to church every day and twice on Sunday, so I was well versed in the Christian traditions. All the songs and prayers of Christmas such as “Away in a Manger….” began running through my head. I could even picture the Three Kings kneeling right there where I was standing and offering incense and myrrh to the baby Jesus

We were staying with David and Shoshanna over Israeli Independence Day, and there was a huge celebration in the streets of Jerusalem. We all went and participated in the celebration. By participating, I mean that we and the boys, like many others in the crowd, had these funny little squeaky boppers on a stick. All through the night we kept getting bopped on the head and bopped others in return. The fact that there were military personnel in groups of two or three on every corner made everyone feel safe and festive.

David insisted that before we left, he would take us to see the Dead Sea. The Dead Sea is the lowest exposed place of the surface of the earth. It lies 1,373 feet below sea level. We took the road out of Jerusalem through Hebron down to the Dead Sea. A few Kilometers out of Hebron, there was a sign on the road with a big black horizontal line across it. Above the line were the words “Sea Level”. Naturally we had to get out of the car and take a picture of Alex standing beside the sign, bending down below the black line and holding his nose as of he were under water.

Before we actually got to the Dead Sea, we stopped at Ein Gedi Nature Reserve where we took a hike into the mountainous desert. As we were making our way along a narrow path on the side of a steep desert hill, Alex slipped and skinned his knee. It wasn’t a big deal…then. Later on it was a different story.

Further down towards the southern end of the Dead Sea we took a cable car up to the top of the Masada, King Herod’s mountain fortress. The Masada was built on a round Rock almost 1,200 feet high around 40 BC when King Herod fled Jerusalem to this natural fortress. In about 60 AD a band of Jewish zealots took over the Masada to escape the Romans and remained there until 73AD when the Romans finally laid siege to the fortress. However, before the Romans were able to penetrate the Masada, all of the Jews in the fortress chose some among them by lottery to kill all the others and then commit suicide themselves. When the Romans entered the fortress there were no living persons save a few women and children who had hidden in a cave. We were soaking up a history that predates our own American history by almost two thousand years.

Finally in the afternoon, we went to the beach at Ein Bokek, an area of hotels and beaches at the southern end of the Dead Sea. While there are some rivers running into it, because the Dead Sea is almost 1,400 feet below sea level, there are no rivers running out of it. Therefore, the only way for the water to leave is by evaporation and this leaves behind all the dissolved salts and minerals that the rivers had picked up on their way there. The result is that the water in the Dead Sea is very dense and caustic. We all changed into our bathing suits and went in for a swim. Actually to be more accurate we went in just to float in the dense water. Kitty took a picture of us floating as though we were sitting in a big lake of blue-green Jello. However, because the water was so caustic, Alex had to keep his knee out of the water or it would burn like crazy. So there he was, half sitting and half laying in the water with his hands out of the water and his knee elevated towards the sky, as if he was sitting on the bottom only a few inches beneath him. Spencer and I were also floating as though we were sitting in very shallow water when in fact it was almost over our heads.

Our stay in Israel was magical, inspiring, educational and just plain awesome. We would have loved to have stayed longer and explored other parts of Israel like the Golan Heights etc.; however, we need to get to Cyprus so that we could repair our transmission, which still did not work. We headed for Larnaca on the island of Cyprus which was only 165 miles to the northwest and just an overnight sail.

Larnaca had a wonderful marina and seemed to be the Mecca for cruising boats in the eastern Med. As soon as we arrived, we made reservations to be hauled out of the water so I could remove the transmission and bring it to a shop to be fixed. This meant that we had to live on the boat while she was “on the hard”. Being on the hard, we could not use the head because we didn’t have the sea water with which to flush it and even if we did we couldn’t just flush it onto the ground next to us. Therefore we had to use the facilities that were about 100 yards way. At night we kept a pee bucket just below the companion way and every morning someone was delegated to bring it down the ladder and empty it into the sea. But, the horror of living on the hard was offset by the multitude of kids in the marina.

Within hours of arriving, Alex and Spencer met some other kids who were living on boats in the marina. In Alex and Spencer’s words Larnaca turned out to be “the best kid stop” in the whole trip. There were over twelve kids between the ages of eight and fourteen living on boats in the marina. They were almost equally divided between boys and girls and they were of all different nationalities. There was a Norwegian girl, three British girls, and a girl from Thailand. Beside Alex and Spence, there was another American boy, a Brit, two Aussies and a Kiwi. They all did home school in the mornings and got together in their “club house” in the afternoons.

One evening, after dinner, the group of kids went into town on their own. The next morning, we found out that they had gone to the hotel a few blocks away, snuck up the inside staircase to the top floor swimming pool, pretended they were guests of the hotel and went in for a swim. This soon became their private swim club. Two girls, Kim and Charlene, ages 15 and 12 both from England, became enamored with Alex and Spencer and the next thing we knew they each had their first girl friend.

I had removed the transmission and taken it to a shop in Nicosia. While we were waiting for its return, Kitty, Alex, Spencer and I all painted the bottom of Tamure with new anti-fouling bottom paint. We had used two colors, red for the first coat and blue for the next two. In that way, when the red started to show through we would know that it was time to repaint. When we finished the kids went off to meet their friends in their “club house” which was an old steel trash shed about four feet high with huge doors in the front and a couple of old mattresses on the floor. After the kids went off, I noticed that there was still some red paint in the can and a brush with red paint lying next to it. The little devil sitting on my left shoulder whispered into my ear. I smiled and nodded yes. Then I picked up the paint brush, stuck it in the red bottom paint can and on the nice new blue bottom wrote in red “ALEX LOVES KIM.”

An hour later both Alex and Spencer came back for dinner. I sat patiently biting my lip to keep from laughing waiting for Alex to blow up. He said nothing. I waited. Still nothing. I couldn’t believe that he didn’t see it. Finally I couldn’t take it any more and asked if he had seen the writing on the new blue hull. He turned to me and said, “Sure I saw it; but, do you think I am going to give you the pleasure of making a big deal out it?!”

Both Kim and Charlene were very pretty. Kim was a year older than Alex with freckles and beautiful red hair. Charlene was exactly Spencer’s age, eleven years old and was as cute as a button with a broad and captivating smile. The four of them became inseparable and the leaders of the whole group.

One of Alex’s friends said that he and his parents were going to take a three day bike ride through the country side and asked Alex if he would like to go with them. That afternoon we went into town and bought a nice used bike for Alex, one that we all could use to do errands in town when he returned. We fastened a plastic milk crate on the back over the rear wheel, to hold his clothes for a three day riding/camping trip. The parents, Alex, and his friend were taken by truck way up into the center of the island. They did that because then the three day trip back would be mostly downhill. The rest of us were jealous as we watched them go off on their adventure.

In the meantime, the mechanics who were rebuilding the transmission brought it back to the boat ready to reinstall. Just as they were driving off, I asked, “All I have to do is to fill it with transmission fluid, right?” Their answer threw me for a loop. “No we have already filled it with 30 weight motor oil!” and they drove off. Shocked I said to my self, “Don’t they know that it is a hydraulic transmission and needs hydraulic fluid not motor oil?” No real problem, all I would have to do would be to drain the oil from it and replace it with transmission fluid. But, as I did this I noticed some lumps of brown goo coming out with the oil. If there was any more goo left in the transmission it would clog the hydraulic fluid ports and bugger the whole thing up. What was I to do? The only conclusion I could come to was to remove the transmission, take it apart and clean it all up before reassembling it. But where was I going to do that? While I whining about this to another yachtie who had been in Larnica for some time, told me of an old guy named Joe, who had a machine shop a few blocks away who might let me use his work bench.

I immediately walked the five blocks to Joe’s work shop, where I found a cheerful, older Greek man who after listening to my plight, immediately lit up, extended his hand and assured me that he would be more than happy to let me use his work shop. He also insisted that he would be available for any help I might need in cleaning my transmission of oil and goo. When we were in Israel, I got that spiritual feeling that there is a God. Now I was convinced that He exists and in fact was smiling down on me at that very moment as He was the one who had led me to Joe.

It was the presence of the goo that made me determined to take the transmission apart rather than just change the oil. It was a damn good thing I did because once I took it all apart I found a lot of goo inside. It seems that the “professional” transmission mechanics had used gasket goo rather than a proper paper gasket when putting the transmission back together and most of it had squeezed into the transmission itself. Not only that, but as we took things apart we realized that the “pros” had not replaced the scored clutch plates and as we delved further into the rebuild project we also discovered that the “pros” had put the thrust bearing in backwards. Had I just assumed that they had done a proper job and started off from Larnaca with my “newly rebuilt transmission” we would have been able to power for only a few minutes before the whole thing would have been destroyed!!

The pace of our work and the time it took to get the proper parts air freighted from the states meant that Joe and I would be working closely for at least six weeks. Joe was the perfect person to help me. Not only was he extremely knowledgeable but, Joe never did it for me, rather he very carefully showed me what to do and how to do it. He was a master teacher.

Finally, after six weeks, the transmission was back on the boat and the boat was back in the water and we were ready to leave to explore the rest of the Mediterranean. However, before we left Larnaca, we had to wait for the arrival of David Fish, one of Alex’s school friends back in Rowayton. We thought it would be great for the kids to have one of their friends from home join us for a few weeks so when they got back to Rowayton they would have already cemented some of their old relationships. Spencer’s friends were still a little young to travel almost half way around the world by themselves; but, Bill and Carolyn Fish thought that it was a great idea and David loved the idea of a little adventure. On the day of his arrival, we went to the airport to pick David up and bring him back to the boat. I must say that it was with a lot of admiration that we watched him walk off the plane all by himself.

Once David had become comfortable on the boat and the tearful goodbyes had been made with Kim, Charlene and the rest of the group, we motored out of the marina and raised sail. We sailed along the southern coast of Cyprus and then turned north towards Turkey. The weather was perfect and we had a beautiful sail which was great as it was David’s first offshore passage. He proved himself a real sailor and seemed to be enjoying being on the boat.

It took us a little over two days to make the 310 mile passage to Fethiye on the southwest coast of Turkey. We anchored off the town and checked in with customs and immigration. Then we took a walk to explore this Turkish town. It seemed as though every other store was a rug merchant each one having its own hawker standing out front imploring us to enter and see the “best” rugs for the cheapest prices in Turkey. We entered one store just to see what was inside. There were rugs everywhere and the proprietor insisted we see each and everyone. When we tried to leave the shop, he kept trying to show us just one more rug. I felt like some dog was growling and holding on to my pant leg with his teeth, refusing to let go.

From Fethiye we did a day sail to Marmaris. Again we anchored out; but, this time there was a huge marina filled with boats many of which were like old sailing Viking ships. These were the famous Gulets, hand crafted wooden boats built to traditional Turkish designs. There was a whole fleet of them and they are used as charter boats to take tourists on sailing excursions along the Turkish coast.

The route from Marmaris to Bodrum took us around the Karaburon peninsula and through the 5 mile wide slot between Simi, a Greek island, and the Turkish coast. Since it was so conveniently on our route, we decide to stop for a day at Panormitou Harbour, a beautiful little bay on the south western side of Simi that has only a small tavern and a monastery. Even though the island of Simi was Greek rather than Turkish, and technically we had to report our arrival with the Greek officials, we took a chance and didn’t bother checking in. After all we had planned to only stay one night and besides the customs officials were in another village on the north side of the island about six miles away.

As soon as we were anchored, Alex Spencer and David took the dinghy ashore and ran up the hill at the back of the bay. At the top of the hill there were big military gun emplacements and the kids started to climb all over them. All of a sudden they paused as Alex saw some police at the foot of the hill and he remembered that we were in the country illegally and realized that playing around the military’s gun emplacements might not be the smartest thing to do.

That night David began to have cramps in stomach. By morning he was in real pain and we began to debate whether or not to try and get him some medical attention. But, now we were in a dilemma. We realized that if things got worse we may need to get help for David; however, we were technically in the country illegally. In any case, it was obvious that we could not leave that day. By mid morning, David was vomiting. Just as we decided to go for help, even if that meant becoming jailbirds, David seemed much better and suggested we wait a bit before going for help. Soon there was nothing left to come out of his stomach. By this time David was exhausted and really needed some rest. So for the next two days we were fugitives hiding out down below in the boat and letting David catch up on his sleep. On the third day, David felt fine again so we upped anchor and sailed off to Bodrum which is back in Turkey where we were legal.

The highlight of our stay in Bodrum was our bus trip to the ruins of the ancient city of Ephesus. Ephesus was founded some time between 1500 - 1000 BC and ultimately grew to be the second largest city in the Roman Empire. It is also a holy place for Christians because the Virgin Mary is rumored to have gone there with St. Paul at the end of her life circa 37 – 45 AD. St John also spent the last years of his life there. When we arrived, we hired a guide to show us around the ancient ruins and explain the history to us. About half way into our tour, our guide brought us to a place were there was a line of marble carved toilet seats carved into a long box like structure. He explained to us that this was the public toilets and that a small stream running under the seats carried the waste out to sea. He also said that in Roman times, this was politicians’ favorite place to make speeches; because they had a captive audience.

Listening to politicians speeches while going to the bathroom is one thing. Trying to stay on the toilet while a pounding boat tries to buck you off is quite another. Thank God that by the time we left to cross the Aegean Sea David had gotten his sea legs. By now it was the beginning of August and the Meltemi, the strong winds that blow down from western Asia across the Aegean in August and September, was in full force. Leaving Turkey, we stopped at Kos, and Kalimnos, which were close to the Turkish coast and wasn’t a bad sail. However, the trip from Kalimnos to Mikanos, was an eighty mile, overnight bash to windward. It blew a constant 30 to 35 knots right off our starboard bow and the wind kicked up a short steep sea that beat on our hull as though it was determined to break through and come inside. In fact it beat on us so hard that the book shelves in the forward cabin came right of the wall as did the door on our clothes locker opposite the head.

Dropping the anchor in Mikanos was like arriving in Heaven. There was still a small surge from the effects of the Meltemi; but, that was offset by the beauty of our surroundings. The sun was shinning bright and the beach was a golden brown. The houses on the shore were mostly clean and painted a bright white. Mikanos is the tourist Mecca of Greece. During the day you can see backpackers, artists and jet-setters wandering the winding streets and alleys. On the one hand there are reported to be over 365 churches on Mikanos and on the other there are nude beaches and the hum of bars and the throb of discos wafting across the harbor at night.

We only stayed two days in Mikanos, because it was getting close to the time that we had to put David on his plane back to the States. Just a few miles to west of Mikanos lies Delos, a small barren island with extensive ruins. Unfortunately yachts were prohibited from anchoring there, so we had to take the ferry across. We spent the day wandering through the ruins. When we got to the amphitheatre, I went up on stage and pretended to be Julius Caesar, playing to a crowd of ancient Romans. I don’t think the kids appreciated my thespian talents as they yelled, “Daaaad! Stop making a fool of yourself!”

Time was really getting short as it was already mid-August and David’s flight home was coming up fast. The sail from Mikanos to Athens was not as bad as the one to Mikanos; however, it was still a bash to weather so we broke it up by stopping for a day at Kithnos where we went ashore and had a delightful meal at an intimate Greek restaurant under umbrellas on the patio. The next day we made the last leg into Piraeus, the port city for Athens and tied up next to a steel yacht flying a red fag with the hammer, sickle and star of the Soviet Union. We had seen man different flags on yachts around the world but this was the first time we had seen a flag of the USSR. Little did we know at the time that Russia was collapsing and that the red flag with the hammer and sickle would be abandoned the very next year. Unfortunately we never got to meet the crew to find out where they had been etc.

We had only two days to see Athens before we had to get David to the airport. Naturally the first place we went to was the ancient Parthenon and Acropolis on the top of the hill overlooking Athens rather than exploring the busy modern city itself. We hired a guide and spent almost the whole day learning all about the history of this fortified citadel and state sanctuary of the ancient city of Athens. Amongst many other things that I have since forgotten, the guide told us that the Parthenon and other main buildings on the Acropolis were built by Pericles in the fifth century BC as a monument to the cultural and political achievements of the inhabitants of Athens. When we got back to the boat that night Spencer plopped down on the settee, sighed and said, “I am all ruined out!”

When it was time for David to leave, there were sad faces all around as we brought him to the airport. We watched him get in line to check in for his flight. It was just after Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait and the Athens airport was under tight security. When David showed his passport to the official, they took him aside and started to bring him into another room. Kitty jumped up and asked what the problem was. They refused to tell her anything. Fifteen minutes later David emerged from the interrogation room and finally we found out what the problem was. Apparently his passport had shown that he had been in Turkey after being in Cyprus and before coming to Greece. The Turks and the Greeks were still fighting over Cyprus and the Greeks wanted to know why he had been to Turkey especially since he had not been with his parents. They then questioned him about who we were and why he had been with us. David was certainly going to have interesting stories to tell his school friends back in Rowayton.

Leaving Athens, we sailed west to the top of the Peloponnesian Peninsula and the Corinth Canal. By taking the Corinth Canal into the Sea of Corinth we could sail across the top of the Peloponnesian Peninsula to the Ionian Islands and that would save us at least three or four days. In ancient times the Greeks and Romans used to haul boats over the isthmus on rollers and during his short reign, 54 – 68 AD, Nero started to dig a canal, but he committed suicide only three months after starting construction. Finally in 1893 a French canal company completed it.

The canal itself is only 3.2 miles long and eighty feet wide with no locks. It was cut through limestone and the sides, at the highest point, rise 250 feet from the sea. It is a simple sea level ditch; but, it cost almost as much to transit as either the Suez or the Panama canals. Since we still had almost 1,500 miles to go before leaving the Mediterranean and because we wanted to leave Gibraltar by mid September before the winter gales began in the North Atlantic, time was of the essence. So, we bit the bullet, paid our fee and when the light turned green to allow boats to transit from east to west, we preceded to power though.

We stopped one night in the Sea of Corinth in Nisos, an island just west of the Sea of Corinth in the Ionian Sea, and then we did an overnight passage to a little fishing harbor at the bottom of Italy. Rising very early the next morning we set off to transit the Straights of Messina that separate the boot of Italy from Sicily. We had to get the tide just right because even at slack tide there were huge whirlpools and the time of max current, the whirlpools could suck a boat like ours right down to the bottom of the sea.

Powering at full steam ahead, we saw many whirlpools and were even spun around by one. Finally we broke free and entered Sicily at a town just west of the straights called Milazzo. We entered and cleared at the same time because we had planed to leave the next day for a small volcanic island just to the north of Milazzo called, appropriately enough, Vulcano.

We anchored in a calm bay on the northeast side of Vulcano, just at the foot of the volcano itself. Early the next morning, we climbed into the dinghy and made for shore, determined to climb to the rim of the volcano sixteen hundred feet above sea level. Now sixteen hundred feet is not all that high to a normal person; however, I have acute acrophobia and was afraid that my knees might start to wobble as we climbed to the top . No matter the four of us started up the steep rocky side following a foot path worn smooth by many feet making the same attempt we were. In fact there were numerous tourists already making the climb way ahead of us.

About three quarters of the way up, I made the mistake of looking down. I didn’t realize how steep the sides were and I immediately began to feel as though I might fall backwards down the slippery slope. I had to sit down on the path. Alex and Spence looked at me as though I was crazy because they had absolutely no fear whatsoever. I tried to get up and continue the ascent but couldn’t get my legs to work, so I told them and Kitty to continue on without me and that I would wait there for them to return. No sooner had they proceeded on than I saw a couple of very fat older ladies with plaid sneakers coming back down from the summit. They were so nimble that they were almost skipping down the path. When they saw me, one said, “Oh yes it is awfully scary isn’t it!!” and then kept on skipping down the path.

Twenty minutes later (which seemed like an eternity) Kitty, Alex and Spencer came back to rescue me. Finally I was able to slowly stand up and inch my way down the path making sure I did not look down past my feet. At the bottom we saw a big huge pool of mud with many people cavorting in the pool slapping the black gooey stuff all over themselves. They looked like some strange specie with black skin and big round white eyeballs that had just emerged through the mud from the center of the earth. Of course Alex and Spence wanted to join the rest and paint themselves with the black mud. They had no sooner jumped in than an English tourist told Kitty that she ought to make the kids come out of the mud because it could make them sterile. That was it. Kitty yelled at the kids to come out of there and she almost jumped in and dragged them out by their ears.

In the morning we weighed anchor and sailed west towards Sardinia, reaching Cagliari, a bustling harbor on the south side of the island the next after noon. During this passage, the wind was either nonexistent or right on our nose so we motor-sailed most of the way. Again, we only stayed one night because when Kitty went shopping she found that a head of lettuce was $5 which was way more than we wanted to spend. Therefore, we left the next day for Palma de Mallorca where we would meet old friends from our first circumnavigation in the early seventies. The next leg was 340 miles and like the last, the wind was either on the nose or too light to sail. By the end of that leg, I was convinced that one can always tell what direction the wind in the Med is going to come from; it will come from exactly where you are going.

We had been in contact with our best friends from our first circumnavigation back in 1971 – 1975 and found out that they would be in Palma de Mallorca for the summer taking care of someone else’s boat. We had sailed with Roger and Sheila from St Thomas to Durban, South Africa. Back then, they had been sailing a 36 foot wooden schooner that they had finished off themselves. Until we reached Sydney Australia, they did not have a self-steering device and had to sit on the helm the whole way, each taking a six hour shift. In Sydney, Roger and I built an outboard rudder with a trim tab operated by a big wind vane off the stern of the boat. Kitty and I had spent $1,500 for our Hassler windvane steering system back in Connecticut. It was the best one on the market at that time. Roger used scrap steel and baby carriage wheels for pulleys and welded the whole thing up himself. Total cost to Roger was $12 to get it hot dipped galvanized. When we sailed across the Indian Ocean together, his wind vane worked every bit as well as ours.

There they were on the dock to take our lines when we arrived. It had been seventeen years since we had left them in Durban where they were originally from, but they hadn’t changed one iota in those seventeen years and the reunion was fantastic. We had them over to dinner on Tamure the first night and stayed up until the wee hours of the night reminiscing about old times. About eleven O’clock in the evening, some Spanish music invaded the boat powered by huge speakers somewhere ashore blasting away. The “music” didn’t stop until approximately 5 AM. Someone must have thought that we were music lovers because every night at about 11PM the music came on, I presume to serenade us to sleep or to lure us to some disco. It did neither.

We would have loved to stay with Roger and Sheila for much longer than the two weeks we had with them; however, the music and the season dictated that we move on. For the first time in about 1000 miles, we had a gorgeous sail; 15 kts on the beam and sparkling seas. We had to take advantage of this breeze, so we sailed right past Ibiza and Formentera. My brother, Craig, had said not to miss these islands, especially the nude beaches there. With a longing look over my shoulder, we passed them right by and continued on to Almunecar on the southern coast of Spain where another friend from our first circumnavigation, Beate Zimmermann, was living with her new husband, Uwe.

Another fabulous reunion! Upon returning back to Germany from her circumnavigation in 1974, Beate wrote a best selling book in German about her trip with her previous husband, Peter. While we were in Almunecar, she gave us a copy and we were very flattered to find stories and pictures about Kitty and I and Roger and Sheila as well as a few other circumnavigators who were out there in the early seventies. We all had become very close friends as there were very few of us sailing across oceans in those days before satellite navigation and single-side-band radios.

Beate and Uwe’s house in Almunecar (they also have a home in Berlin Germany) resembles a tower of an old castle. It is on the side of a hill with a beautiful beach down in front of it. The bottom floor which opens out to a beautiful terrace covering a garage at the beach level has a small apartment where we stayed with the kids. It was like staying in an old Moorish castle.

Speaking of Moorish castles, one day Uwe handed us the keys to his car and urged us to drive into the mountains to the north and visit the old city of Granada. Before we had gotten to Spain, the kids had read a book about Islam, the Ottoman Empire and Spain. So, with great enthusiasm we all bundled into the car and north to Granada. Not only did Uwe give us the keys to his car and told us to stay in an apartment they had in Granada.

Granada is the home of the Alhambra, built by the Muslims after their armies conquered the Iberian Peninsula in 714 AD. At first the Alhambra was just a walled city and fortress; but, during the last sultanate in Spain (1238 – 1492) refurbished, expanded upon and made into a spectacularly beautiful palace. It had fallen into neglect for over two hundred years; however, in the late nineteenth it had been restored to its present state that dramatically displays the rich artistic culture of the Ottoman Empire. We hadn’t realized how advanced and artistic the Muslims were until we spent a full day going through the Alhambra. Nor did we realize how far west the Ottoman Empire had expanded. Somehow our history books had never fully covered the expansion of the Ottoman Empire into Spain. At least we had not paid attention if they had. The Alhambra was not just another ruin; it was a inspiring museum and testament to the rich culture of the Muslims. Spencer, who had previously been “all ruined out!” enthusiastically toured the castle as it brought to life the book he had read. This was another example of how much the kids were learning from our trip beyond just the home schooling they were doing.

The street from the center of town to Beate’s apartment was so narrow that when we drove up it we almost scraped the wall of the building on the one side and at the same time the building in the other side was so close that it folded our side mirror on the car back against the door. The streets and buildings in this neighborhood were obviously built before the advent of automobiles.

At night we could look out the living room window and see the Alhambra all lit up by many search lights. It was a truly magnificent sight. The next morning we wanted to stroll through the town of Granada. Since it was only a half mile to town and given the width of the streets, we decided to walk.

In the town center, we stopped at an herb stand that sold many different kinds of herbs all arranged in its own basket. Each basket had a sign above it telling what ailment it could cure. There were many baskets and signs indicating a cure for everything including arthritis, kidney infection, insomnia and prostate problems. It seemed as though the only herb they didn’t have was one for erectile dysfunction.

Back in Almunecar, we said our goodbyes to Beate and Uwe and pointed Tamure towards Gibraltar, a short overnight sail away. In the morning we saw the big rock standing so majestically guarding the entrance to the Mediterranean. As we rounded the Rock of Gibraltar we looked south and could sea the coast of Morocco only ten and a half miles away. It amazed us that the entrance to such a big sea as the Med. is that narrow.

Gib, as the port of Gibraltar is called amongst us cruisers, is the gateway to the Atlantic. In September and October it is filled with all kinds of cruising yachts about to head out to the Canaries for the first leg of the Atlantic crossing. Kitty and I are always attracted to a small well found sailboat, because during our first circumnavigation in the early seventies we had a 30 foot Seawind Ketch. Today most boats out sailing the seven seas are in the 40 foot range like Tamure. Tied up next to us on the dock in Gib was a Crealock 31 named Selene. The owner, Paul Lutus, looked like one of Santa’s elves. He was probably in his mid forties, had a twinkle in his eye, a bright red beard and an infectious smile. We had briefly met Paul in Israel and we were happy to see him again so we could get to know him better.

Paul has had an amazing life. He dropped out of school in the seventh grade because he thought he could learn better on his own. His parents kicked him out of the house at age 16, and to survive, he got a job repairing Television sets. He taught himself electrical engineering and designed electronics for the NASA space shuttle. In the mid seventies, Paul bought himself a computer and while using it he had the idea of writing a program that would let a person write a letter, report etc and be able to correct the writing as he went along. The result was “Apple Write”, the first word processing program. A few years later Steve Jobs, of Apple Computer, asked him to do an upgrade and Paul came up with Apple Write II; but, this time, rather than selling it to Apple, he licensed it to them. In 1985 the Oregon Academy of Science name Paul the “Scientist of the Year”. Finally in 1987 he bought a Crealock 31 and the next year set sail on a four year solo circumnavigation.

Paul was a genius and he was also a real likable guy. One thing we love about the cruising community is that it doesn’t matter how much money you have or how powerful you were in your previous life. All that matters is what kind of a person you are. There was something about Paul that endeared him to us. He would come over at night with a bottle of wine hoping to be invited to stay for dinner. One night he sheepishly asked if it was OK to do this, confiding in me that because he had been on his own since he was a kid he wasn’t sure of the proper social etiquette. Paul became almost a member of the family. Later when we were all crossing from the Canaries to Antigua, we thought that we may have lost Paul; but, I’ll tell that story when we get to the passage.

At the marina in Gib, we were moored with our bow to the wharf. One day, as I was sitting on the bow of Tamure talking to Paul on the wharf, I noticed that our head stay had a broken strand right at the end fitting. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My heart pounded as I bent forward to take a closer look and confirmed that indeed the head-stay was indeed stranded. We were about to leave to go on a 600 mile passage to the Canaries and then from the Canaries to Antigua another 2,500 away. There was no way I would face over 3,000 miles of open ocean with a stranded head stay.

There was only one thing to do; repair it right then and there. With Paul’s help I got the roller furling Genoa down, and then, because I am afraid of heights, I sent Paul up the mast to unhook the head stay and we lowered it gently to the deck. Anticipating something like this could happen, when we re-rigged before we left, instead of the typical swaged fittings, I had used all Norsman fittings. The reason was that if I ever need to replace it, such as the case was then, I could do it myself. With a hacksaw I cut the wire just above the strand at the top of the Norsman. I had spare parts for the Norsman so I could use the same fitting over again. I replaced the fitting and then because the head-stay was now about four inches shorter, I inserted a second toggle between the turnbuckle and the stem fitting. The whole job took about three hours; but now I felt confident to go to sea again.

While in Gibraltar, we most certainly had to make a trip up to the top of “The Rock”, where we were inundated with monkeys climbing all over the “rock” and coming up to us as though we were long lost relatives. However, after a week in Gib it was time to leave for the Canaries. This was the end of September and the longer we delayed our departure the greater the possibility of encountering rough seas as the winter weather started to bring stronger winds. In fact our pilot charts, which show the average weather patterns and probability of encountering gales for each month, indicated that by October the average wind force would increase from force three to four with virtually zero probability of a gale to an average of force four to six wind strength and three to four percent probability of encountering a gale.

We had wanted to stop at Madera, northwest of the Canaries; but, the winds were blowing 20 to 25 knots out of the west and we couldn’t quite lay the island, so rather than beating our brains out trying to make Madera, we bore off to make our landfall at Graciosa the northern most of the Canary Islands. At dawn on the fifth day, we saw the barren volcanic island of Graciosa about fifteen miles away. As we sailed around into the anchorage on the south side of the island, we saw two other boats we had briefly met in Gibraltar. Tangara was an Australian boat with Andrew and Gyliane and two boys, Donovan and Jerome, who were exactly Alex and Spencer’s age. The other boat, Gringo, was an English Ketch with Sadie and Dennis and two younger kids aboard. In the anchorage, the sea was calm, the sun bright and the view spectacular. In front of us was a pure sandy beach and behind the beach was a very high sand dune that was probably the remains of an ancient volcano.

Naturally the first thing the kids wanted to do was to climb the sand hill and soon there was an armada of dinghies assaulting the beach. This time, I was determined to make the ascent without embarrassing myself. As we trekked up the sand dune with a camera around my neck I felt like Lawrence of Arabia except that we didn’t have camels. I MADE IT!! To the top and my legs didn’t even wobble once. Of course I took a picture of Tamure in the anchorage far below and had Kitty take a picture of me, just to prove I had gotten to the top.

The next day, we all sailed around to Arrecife on the island of Lanzarote and after a brief stop, went on down and anchored off Playa Blanca on the south end of the island. In the afternoon, Theo and I took his dinghy ashore to explore this beautiful beach, while Alex and Teo took our dinghy to do the same. As soon as we pulled the dinghy ashore behind us and perused the beach, we got a most pleasant shock…. Playa Blanca, it turns out, is a NUDE beach. Naturally Andrew and I found a nice spot in the sand near the water’s edge to sit, relax and enjoy the scenery. Soon, two young naked gorgeous teenage girls walked by and Andrew and I each said to the other, “you dirty old man!” A few minutes later, we couldn’t help ourselves and looked back after the naked nubiles. There, standing about knee deep in the water in their bathing suits were Donovan and Alex and Donovan was busy chatting up one of the naked girls. Andrew and I looked at each other and shook our heads in agreement that we were in fact old men, if not dirty.

The next evening, all eight of us on Tamure and Sutemon had a cookout on the beach. There were still many naked old men with flabby knees and women with rolls at their waist and sagging breasts lingering in the beach. When one man had seen that we had come from the boats anchored off shore, he ambled over to say hello. He stood right next to Kitty, who was sitting on the ground, and introduced himself. Then he proceeded to ask us about our sailing experiences. I could see Kitty was feeling a little uneasy. After he left, she turned and said, “You know it is a little disconcerting sitting on the ground, talking to a stark naked man standing less than two feet in front of my face!”

From Lanzarote, we went to Las Palmas on Gran Canaria to stock up and get ready for the crossing to Antigua. We moored bow-to to the cement pier along the long breakwater that formed the harbor. This was the stepping off point for many “yachties” about to make the crossing and consequently the harbor was full of cruising sailboats; and with that, there were also many kids Alex and Spencer’s age. One of the kids was a Norwegian girl they had been friends with in Cyprus. There were also a couple of kids a few years older than the rest of the group, but were included none-the-less.

The kids were very ingenious and had figured out how to use the pay phone at the end of the dock to make long distance calls back to friends in their home countries, without having to pay anything. Also, one evening all the kids went ashore to make their own Bar-BQ, and one of the older kids had produced some alcohol. Naturally some of the younger kids wanted to try some of this “forbidden juice” for the first time. None of the parents would have been any the wiser, except for the fact that one of the younger girls, on arriving back at her boat, fell down the companionway into the salon and proceeded to vomit all over the floor. By morning, the word had gotten around to all the parents that some shenanigans had gone on the night before.

A couple of days later, I was in the middle of repairing the head (or toilet for you non-sailors) when Dennis from Gringo came aboard and invited us all to their boat for dinner. The invitation was enthusiastically accepted especially since our head was still in a state of repair and the smell was not conducive for an enjoyable meal. Since, I had wanted to complete the reinstallation of the head before dinner, it was agreed that Kitty and the kids would go now and I would follow as soon as I had bolted the head back in place. Kitty, Alex and Spence all followed Dennis out the companionway and trundled off to Gringo, while I went back to bolting the head back to the floor.

Only a few minutes later, I realized that I need another tool which I had left in the main cabin and proceed to get it. As I walked into the main salon, I came face to face with a startled vagrant. I immediately yelled, “What are you doing here? Get off my boat!!” With a hand pointed to his mouth, he kept saying, “Food, food.” I kept yelling, “Get off my boat!” as I was backing him towards the companionway. It was then that I noticed he had his right hand behind his back. My bravado wavered for a second as I thought, “My God, he’s got a gun!” But, I kept backing him towards the companionway looking at the small can of pepper spray I had for just such an occasion that was sitting on the shelf just behind him. Finally he had backed up far enough so that I could grab the pepper spray and point it at his face. “Now get off my boat” I said with complete authority. He looked at the pepper spray as though I was holding a can of “Right Guard” But, to my relief he climbed out of the boat and ran down the dock.

I scrambled out onto the pier after him; not that I was going to try and catch him, after all he just might have been holding a gun behind his back. Theo from Sutemon was standing there and I quickly explained what had happened. Just then someone from another boat came by and said that the vagrant had been on his boat as well and had stolen his tweed sport coat. A fourth guy came up and said, “We can’t let him get away; because, tomorrow he may be on my boat!” With that we all started running down the pier after him.

As we got to the end of the pier, a couple of policemen appeared and realizing what was happening, grabbed the vagrant. They asked us if we would come to the police station and press charges. I went back to Tamure to get the leather pouch where I carried all our passports. But, when I couldn’t find it, I realized that it had been out on the nav-table and that must have been what the vagrant was hiding behind his back.

At the police station, the guy whose jacket had been stolen was able to identify the thief; because, would you believe, our vagrant was wearing the very same stolen jacket. Someone else, who had also been on the pier, said that he thought he had seen the vagrant throw something from the pier into the rocks of the breakwater as he was running. This could only have been my leather pouch with our passports and ship’s papers, etc.

The cops then brought the vagrant back to the breakwater and told him to find the thing he had thrown from the pier. The breakwater was made from huge jagged boulders and walking on them was indeed a feat. Once, I saw the vagrant slip and fall between two of the rocks. When he grabbed his leg in pain and requested help from the policeman, the cops just looked at him and then kicked him in the bad leg. “My God,” I thought, “I never want to be on the bad side of these Canary Islands police.”

We never did find our passports etc.; but, we were smart enough to have carried Xerox copies of the front pages of all our passports. A trip to the American Consulate with the Xerox copies and a note from the police resulted in brand new passports from Madrid four days later. With new passports in hand, we were finally able to leave Las Palmas. Before leaving the Canaries entirely, we decided to visit one more island in the group. Gomera supposedly was the island where Columbus left to cross the Atlantic.

We anchored in the bay of San Sebastian and went ashore to explore the town along with Den and Sadie from Gringo and Paul Lutus from Seline. While taking a walk in town, we passed the bus station where we were told we could get a bus that would take us up over the mountains and down to a sleepy little village in a valley on the other side. Great! We all paid our fares and jumped on the bus.

I hadn’t counted on the fact that the bus would be traveling along a narrow road at the very highest ridge of the mountains. As we climbed up the curvy switch back towards the spine of the mountain ridge, I began to get uncomfortable looking out the window and down the side of the mountain which fell away straight down for thousands of feet just a few inches from the edge of the road. At first, I just tried to avert my eyes; however, soon my acrophobia over came me and to keep from inadvertently looking out the windows, I had to sit down in the isle of the buss so that I couldn’t see beyond all the people merrily chatting away impervious to precarious position we were now in.

Finally we got over the “hump” and down the other side of the mountain into a small village in the valley. We walked around the village, met some local people, had lunch and then I had to endure the treacherous trip across the mountain ridge back to the boat again sitting in the isle so I couldn’t see out the window.

Once back in the town of San Sebastian, we all went to the market to do our final food stocking for the trip to the Caribbean. On, November 21st, ourselves, Seline, Gringo and a boat called Neriad, left Gomera bound for Antigua approximately 2,500 miles away. In the middle of the first night, the windvane broke. I had relayed my dismay to the others during the morning radio schedule and Steve on Neriad, said that he was nearby and had a ½ inch stainless tube that we could use to repair it with. Just before noon, he rendezvoused with us and passed over the stainless tube. Within an hour, I had the windvane fixed and we had our tireless helmsman back taking over the steering duties.

The next day the wind filled in at 15 to 20 kts out of the northeast and we were humming along under twin headsails doing 6 kts to the southwest. In the afternoon of the 24th, we were relaxed in the cockpit, sailing beautifully when I heard the fishing reel scream as the line ran out. The kids and I all jumped up at once. They squealed with delight as they helped me reel in a huge, four foot six inch long dolphin fish.

On the afternoon radio schedule another boat called “Mooneshine” came up and joined our chat group. After a short discussion, we discovered that Moonshine was owned by Ron Trossbach. He had bought her from Francis Stokes who had sailed her in the 1982 BOC, single-handed around the world race. We were excited to learn that because we had bought Tamure from Francis as he was about to start on the BOC Race in his new Mooneshine.

On the sixth day, my log reads, “ Last night we had many squalls, most with winds of 25+ kts out of the NE; but, usually less than 30 kts. Just before dawn, we surfed to 11.5 kts in one squall so I rolled the jib in. Of course right after I rolled it in, the wind died so later in the morning, I poled the jib out to leeward, hanked the yankee on the moveable inner forestay and polled it out to weather. Then I sheeted the staysail amidships to reduce the roll. I got the sails reset just in time for our 0930 radio schedule and had long talks with Paul on Seline, Dennis on Gringo and Ron on Mooneshine.”

We must have been really bored because we had a second radio sched at 1400 and a third at 1730. Paul, being a single-hander, always joined our conversations as a break from talking to himself. However, one day he did not come up, which was unusual for him. We thought he might be changing sail or busy doing some other boat chore and did think much of it. But, when he didn’t come up the next day…or the day after that, we began to worry. Had he fallen overboard? Was he in trouble? Did he need help? That third night the rest of us debated whether or not we should turn back towards his last reported position and begin a search for him. It was decided that if no word in the morning, we would raise the alarm.

The next morning Paul came up on the sched and apologized profusely for his three day absences. He explained that he had gotten involved in writing a program to do some esoteric computer job and had become so totally absorbed that he had become oblivious to everything else including eating. Paul was a computer geek and had made enough money to go off cruising by writing the first word processing program for computers. It was called “Apple Write”. He had sold the first version to Steve Jobs at Apple for a pittance. However, a few years later, Steve asked him to do an up-date and this time Paul licensed the software to Apple and was able to retire on the royalties.

The wind remained light with a swell from the north making the boat somewhat uncomfortable. We went from flying the spinnaker to the main with jib poled out to poling out two jibs. It was getting a bit frustrating. At least we weren’t dealing with winds and seas that reflected storm conditions. At the end of the first week, the wind died altogether and we powered from 0400 to 0900 in the morning, when a 5 knot breeze from the NNW allowed us to fly the drifter and sail at 3 knots. It was a hot day so in the mid-afternoon, I tied two lines to the stern of the boat and Spencer, Alex and I all jumped in for a swim while Kitty kept a shark watch. We grabbed the lines and let the boat tow us along for a while. With the drag of three bodies, Tamure slowed down to only 2 knots.

Since the weather continued to be rather mild, I introduced a new aspect to their school work. Their daily math assignment was to learn out to navigate with a sextant. They would take turns shooting the sun. This consisted of measuring the angle between the sun and the horizon and marking the exact second when they pulled the sun down to touch the horizon with the sextant. Then we would go below and mark down the time and sextant measurement. Next we considered watch error, and determined the exact Greenwich Mean Time to the second that we took the sight. Finally we would go into the tables to determine the ground position of the sun at that exact time and how far and at what angle from that position our measurement put us. Even though the actual mathematics consisted only of adding and subtracting because the tables did the trigonometry, it was fun to apply math to a real life situation to come up with a position on the ocean that coincided with where the electronic satellite navigation system actually put us.

The light winds continued to plague us and as my logs reveal. December 3rd, “ Powered all night on a glassy calm sea that had a long swell from the NNW. At 12:30 turned the engine off and put the drifter up in 5 knots of wind from the SE. We are doing 3 knots on a course of 270 degrees magnetic. The whole ocean seems to be one big parking lot. Many of the ARC boats are diverting to the Cape Verdes to get fuel. A bunch of lows over the North Atlantic has canceled out the Azores high and the trade winds.” Note: the ARC boats were those two hundred or so boats that were sailing in the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers and had left the Canaries a week after we did.

December 4th, “ No wind, grey cloud cover, like the doldrums. Back under power since 6:30 last night. This morning a seagull was flying by looking for a place to rest. Spencer held out his had with some bread in it and the gull came, landed on his arm and ate out of his hand!”

December 5th, “ Wind came up at 0400 so put up main and genoa. At 0630 squall came so took down main and rolled in some of the genoa. By 0900 it had settled down to 10 – 12 knots out of the NW (where the hell are the SE trades???) I am beginning to want to be in port! I used to love being at sea, now I just want to get there! Alex and Spence seem to be doing OK, even when doing their school work. Still 900 miles to go.”

The light winds and occasional rain squalls continued for the next week until finally on December 14th we pulled Antigua into sight. The passage had certainly not been the beautiful trade wind sailing we had been expecting. In fact, it was the most frustrating passage we had made so far and at 23 days, this had been the longest passage, in terms of time, that we had experienced on the whole circumnavigation. The rumb line distance was 2,520 miles, while the distance between the Galapagos and the Marquesas was 3,084 miles and only took us 20 days.

We cleared customs at English Harbor and finally were able to completely relax and meet up with our friends Denis and Sadie from Gringo, who had arrived two days before us. We were back in the Caribbean and to celebrate we all went to see a steel band play on Shirley Heights, the high cliffs overlooking the harbor. Two days later Paul on Seline arrived and while I did a boat chore of replacing the ships batteries which did not seem to be holding a charge anymore, Alex, Spencer and Paul rigged up the sailing dinghies and proceeded to race each other and explore the inner swamps on the harbor. Paul was just a kid at heart and loved sailing the dinghies with Alex and Spence.

After a week in Antigua, we sailed up to St. Maarten where we pulled into the bay at Philipsburg to clear customs. The next day, we sailed around to the east side of the island and snaked our way through a ziz zag opening in the reef into the Oyster Pond where Alex’s friends from Rowayton, David Fish, and his family we going to be spending Christmas at a beautiful hotel overlooking the harbor. It seemed like ages since we had said good-by to David and put him on the plane in Athens Greece back in August. The kids had a great time catching up on all the news on their friends back home as did we.

Right after New Years Eve, we sailed over to the Virgin Islands to cross our out bound track and officially complete our circumnavigation. This we celebrated with Root Beer Floats. A few nights later, we listened to the news on the short wave radio of the invasion by the US Forces as we forced Sadam Husein and his Iraqi army out of Kuwait. Then we realized that the many squadrons of fighter planes we had seen flying east overhead as we were making our way west in the Mediterranean was the build-up to this war.

In St Thomas, we met Rear Admiral Jack Calhoun and his wife and 13 year old daughter on another cruising boat called “Interlude”. They were just beginning their cruising adventure and were eager to hear all about our travels. They were about to sail over to the Roosevelt Roads Naval Air Station on near by Puerto Rico to re-provision at the navy PX and invited us to follow along. While there we also ran into Mel, Jackie and Jennifer Noris who was also about the same age as Alex and Spencer. We had originally met them in Jost Van Dyke. It was interesting being at a U.S. navy base just as the Gulf War was beginning to escalate. Alex thinks he remembers that all non-military people were asked to leave the marina at Roosevelt Roads as the war escalated.

In any event, it was time to move on so we motored out of the marina and set sail for the Bahamas. It was an easy five day 600 mile downwind sail to San Salvador, where we cleared into the Bahamas. Rhysling, was already in the small harbor and once again, Alex and Spence had an opportunity to spend time playing and exploring with Charles. We decided to leave in company with Rhysling and head for the Big Farmer’s Cut where we could exit the Caribbean and enter onto the Bahamas Banks of the Exhumas. It was a short over night sail and in the morning we saw some low lying islands on the horizon. It was almost impossible to determine where the cut was because it looked just like one continuous coast line, with small breaks here and there. Luckily the SatNav gave us an accurate fix as we were approaching and I was able to determine exactly where the cut was.

As we negotiated the hundred yard wide pass, I could not help but remember exactly 30 years ago when I was a nineteen year old crew on a 43 foot Ketch that had absolutely no electronic aids to navigation. Back then, we had come non-stop from Cap Haitian, Haiti by dead reckoning. I remember that the morning after we had left, captain Schultz was in a slight panic, because we had not seen the light of Great Inagua the night before to check our position. Never-the-less, we had kept sailing and had managed to find our way to the banks of the Exhumas. But, now I was in complete awe of the fact that, without any of the electronic aids to navigation that we relied on, captain Schultz had managed to find the exact place to turn to enter onto the banks without going aground on one of the many coral heads in the false cuts. I thanked God for our satellite navigation system.

We spent the next couple of days sailing up the banks anchoring at night in the lee of one of the many islands that make up the Exhumas. One day we anchored in a beautiful little bay with crystal clear water only about 15 feet deep. As Alex dropped the anchor he turned and excitedly told us that he saw a lobster walking on the bottom just below the boat. As soon as we were settled, he put on his diving gear and jumped in after the lobster. In less than 15 seconds, he burst back to the surface yelling that there was a big barracuda swimming around him. I assured him that the barracuda was harmless. Anxious to get a picture, I put on a mask and snorkel, grabbed our underwater camera, and dove in. The barracuda obliged me by lazily swimming by opening his jaw while doing so. Later we found the lobster hiding under a coral head and bagged him for dinner.

At the top of the Exhuma chain, was Allan’s Cay, which had a good protected anchorage and the added attraction of being populated with iguanas. There were five or six other cruising boas with kids in the anchorage. As soon as we were anchored, the kids took the dinghy to the beach. A little later, I looked over with the binoculars and saw Alex holding, what looked like a skinny green leaf in front of him, while one of the iguanas nibbled on the end as a couple of others looked on. I just prayed that iguanas were not prone to biting the hand that feeds them. The next day, the whole group of yachties gathered on the beach for a party and Mike from Rhysling, performed magic tricks to the amusement of everyone, especially the kids.

From Allens Cay we did another day sail to Nassau where we went sight seeing with Mike and Charles. At this point we were like “a horse who could smell the barn door” as my father used to say. Palm Beach, where my parents live was only an overnight sail from Nassau and we were anxious to get “home”, so to speak. We had called them from Nassau to let them know we were coming. They lived only a short block from the inlet and must have been keeping an excellent vigil for us; because, they were there on the nearby dock to take our picture as we sailed in.

It was only the beginning of March and we had planned to stay in Palm Beach until the end of May before heading north back to Connecticut. I was excited to be back in the states and made a number of telephone calls to old friends letting them know we would be home in a few weeks. One of my calls was to John Flahive, a guy who I had been good friends with when we worked together at DLJ. John had left DLJ and was now working at another stock brokerage firm called Furman Selz. Our conversation was interrupted when Robbie Watson, John’s boss and sales manager, who had also worked with us at DLJ, grabbed the phone from John and said to me, “Kuhner, the guy who covers your old accounts in Hartford, just quit. I need you to come and take his place immediately!”

“ But, Robbie” I answered, “I won’t be home for another two to three months.”

“Listen;” he said, “Wall Street is in a recession. It will be hard to find a job in three months. I could hire any number of other guys tomorrow; but, I want you! At least fly up here right away and talk to me!”

I agreed to fly up in two days and at least talk with him. I had realized that the reason he was anxious to get me was that the whole time we were gone on the trip, I had been writing these newsletters and sending them back to my old secretary who very kindly had copied them and sent them on to all my old clients. Therefore, rather than falling off their radar, loosing their friendships and all the good will I had built up with them while I was at DLJ, I would be a returning hero.

I felt funny as the plane approached LaGuardia Airport. Now the trip really seemed to be over as I looked out the window at the familiar skyline of New York City which I hadn’t seen in almost four years. After the plane landed I took a detour, along with many other passengers, to the men’s room before heading off to collect my baggage. There was a line waiting to use the urinals and the stalls. As I was waiting my turn, a guy came out of one of the stalls, looked anxiously around and frantically yelled, “My suitcase. Someone has stolen my suitcase! I left it right here by the stall! Some has stolen it!”

“Yes,” I said to myself, “I am definitely back in New York!”

After talking with Rob Watson and learning that Darien Connecticut had a 13% head of household unemployment rate, I decided to take the job and agreed to start the next Monday. I flew back to Palm Beach to gather what I needed to complement what I could recover from our attic where we had stored most of our belongings while we rented the house and went off on our trip. The kids and Kitty would stay in Palm Beach until the first of April, when I would be able to take a week off and come back and help them sail Tamure the rest of the way home.

Later on, Alex had commented to me that returning to the US in super-rich Palm Beach was weird for him and Spencer. However, they had made friends with the Pulizter kids who were slightly older than they were, and lived a few miles away. We had rented bikes for the two of them and they would ride down to visit with their new found friends. As Alex said, “Hanging out with them was fun; but, the culture was so different”. Since cruising kids don’t know how long they will share an anchorage with other kids whose paths they cross, they don’t have time to slowly get to know one another. Consequently, one of the many positive things the kids acquired from our time cruising was the ability to instantly make friends with other kids. In fact we used to say that their next best friend was only an anchorage away.

After six weeks of dialing and smiling my old clients I was able to reestablish all my old relationships and felt that I could now take a week off to bring Tamure back home. It was the beginning of April and the strong winter fronts coming off the south east coast had exhausted themselves. Within two days of returning to Palm Beach, Tamure and everyone was ready to set sail for our trip north. After heading out the Palm Beach Inlet, we sailed a few miles east until we picked up the 3 knot northerly current of the Gulf Stream before we made the right turn towards the north.

We had three days of beautiful sailing in 10 to 15 knots of a southwest breeze; however, on the fourth day, the forecast was for the wind to turn and come out of the northeast. It would be right on our nose and against the Gulf Stream producing a very choppy sea. We were about sixty miles due east of Charleston South Carolina and the Inland Waterway so we turned west and ran for the comfort of cruising up the ICW as the Inland Waterway is called. However, this meant that we wouldn’t have the boat back to Connecticut before I had to go back to work. Therefore, we called our old friend Mike of Rhysling since we knew that he and Charles had gotten Rhysling to Wilmington North Carolina where they had a slip in a marina and had intended to stay for a while. Mike agreed to meet us in Wrightsville Beach and help Kitty and the kids get the boat the rest of the way to New York. We arrived in Wrightsville Beach after a week of motoring up the ICW and the day after Charles came, I flew back to New York, leaving Kitty, Alex, Spencer and Mike to take Tamure to Norfolk where they would go offshore from there to Cape May New Jersey where I would meet them for the final run to New York and then on to our home port of Rowayton.

All went well, except for the fact that Alex, who, over the past four years, had taken on a lot of responsibility with regard to sailing the boat, admitted later that he felt a slight power struggle with Mike over who was in command of Tamure.

Sailing in a stiff breeze about twenty miles from Cape May, Tamure was approached by Coast Guard cutter who insisted in boarding them. While Mike and Alex hove-to Tamure, three coast guard sailors came alongside in an inflatable dinghy and in the heaving sea, came aboard. They insisted in checking all safety systems and our papers. Unfortunately our ships papers had been stolen when we were boarded by the vagrant while at the cay in Las Palmas, in the Canaries. Consequently they wrote us up for not having our papers which meant we would have to pay a substantial fine. Once back home, I sent the proper authorities a copy of the letter we had requested from the US Consulate in Las Palmas, describing the theft of our papers and the efforts we went through to get new passports etc. The end result was that the infraction was dismissed and a new set of ships papers were issued.

I received a phone call from Kitty at work on Thursday that they had arrived in Cape May and were anchored off the marina. Mike had gone back to North Carolina and everything was fine. Friday night, I took a bus from New York and arrived to find a perfect weather window for the run to New York. We left on Saturday morning for an easy overnight run up the New Jersey coast. Sunday brought a beautiful spring day as we sailed past the Statue of Liberty. We all felt an overwhelming sense of emotion as Ms. Liberty held her torch high welcoming us home after three years and six months and twenty days during which we sailed thirty thousand three hundred and forty seven miles. That night we anchored off City Island just past the Throgs Neck Bridge at the entrance to Long Island Sound so that we would be able to sail into the Five Mile River in Rowayton the next afternoon when all our friends and neighbors including the kid’s friends would meet us with cheers and a big cake. Our friends, our home and our neighborhood had not changed. But, we had! Actually Alex later said that when we first got back into our house, it seemed smaller than he had remembered it. Then he realized that his memories were from the view of an eleven year old and Alex was now almost fifteen and six inches taller.

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