December 22 – 24
Our second day out of Cocos (Keeling) Islands and as usual the first two days are the hardest. Getting our bodies into the sleeping pattern takes its toll and there’s usually little conversation save updates on conditions and what we’ll be eating and I’ll spare you those details. Hugh seems to be slowly getting over his sea sickness, he’s still on the Phenergan but less regimented and at this rate he should be completely ok to sail two days after we get to Thailand.
We had a couple of stow-a-ways for the first two days. A gull perched itself on the spinnaker pole we’ve set (in case of favourable winds) and stayed there for a good 3 or 4 hours. Then later the following night another decided that the tender hoisted on its davits was far more comfortable and stayed there right through the night and following morning. We got hit with a few squalls over the past few days, nothing severe but driving rain and strong winds made things a bit uncomfortable for us as we are forced to close the hatches and then slowly bake in the sauna like atmosphere.
Lots of anticipation as we head towards the equator, I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s one of those human milestones things we sometimes need to feel we’ve accomplished something, (perhaps it’s a boy thing). As if just delivering the boat safely with our sanity intact isn’t enough.
Time goes by so slowly- and time can do so much, are you still mine? I need your love god’s speed your love to me……. sorry I came over all Righteous Brothers there for a moment. (So much for my sanity).
Reading seems to be the major preoccupation, I’ve already devoured 4 books the last being Thomas Hardys’ “Tess of the d’Urbervilles” so glad I didn’t have to do THAT one in high school.
Sunday December 25 Xmas Day
Well I kept a keen eye out in the sky all night and no sign of a sleigh or reindeer. Never-the-less, even without a chimney Santa seems to have visited by first light with our coach-house festooned in streamers and even a little Christmas tree. Actually a room air freshener in the shape of a pine tree complements of our skipper hung from a small reading light. We all scored well (obviously we’ve all been good) with red wine, VB and an assortment of kooky trinkets all wrapped in anything we could find. Peter won best presentation with his gifts all wrapped and sporting big bows fashioned from sail ties. Hugh had us most envious when he brought forth pre arranged Xmas presents from his family.
Though the phone didn’t exactly run hot, a few calls were received but unfortunately phoning out proved to be impossible. Those that did actually get through to us had tried on numerous occasions and only did through pure luck. The satellites just don’t seem all that interested in picking up signals in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
We gave ourselves a Christmas treat by turning on the air conditioning and sat below feasting on ham, tomatoes and canned turkey breast which resembled canned salmon that had been bleached and for my palate tasted suspiciously similar. Sadly the hype outshone the reality and it was somewhat of a subdued day. The missing of family and loved ones taking precedent of our emotions. To mark this rather unusual occasion, (even most yachties would have made landfall in anticipation of Christmas) of floating about just short of the equator I took the liberty to fashion a tribute to my shipmates by way of poetry and song.
So without further ado and with apologies to all the poets of the world and Oscar Hammerstein I hereby present the following.
To Peter –
When setting out upon the sea
One needn’t care a jot
We have our leader – skipper Pete
To guide our little yacht
His footwear maybe curious
His hairstyle wild and free
But you wouldn’t want to trust another
When you go to sea
Though quick to decide when the pressure is on
He never rushes decisions
Just pour him a coffee and role him a smoke
And he’ll do what’s best – with precision
So bring him the coffee and happy hour drinks
And curry surprises too
But make sure he bathes and changes his clothes
Lest this ark should stink like a zoo
He’s fearless and brave and handy with tools
And happiest with a VB
And there’s none ya could trust
Like our skipper-Pete
When out on the great big sea.
And if that wasn’t bad enough – here’s my tribute to Hugh Benedict Wallace.
To Hugh –
(To the tune of ‘my favourite things’)
Strange floppy head wear and long cotton trousers
Sheep at the backdoor of old rural houses
Dancing in moonlight with drums, flutes and strings
These are a few of Hughs’ favourite things
Marriage and daughters both pretty and many
Long groggy slumbers to woken thoughts – when he
Will speak of the dreams that his future will bring
They’re certain to be all of Hughs’ favourite things
Canoeing and trekking in strange foreign places
Thick gooey sun cream on ageing pale faces
Birthdays-a-plenty with lots more to sing
These are a few of Hugh’s favourite things
When the sea’s rough
When the mates’ gruff
When Hugh’s feeling sad
A cashew or two
And Phenergan will do
And then he don’t feel so bad.
Monday December 26
Flat sea, searing heat, no wind and the water temperature is an unbelievable 32.4c. Much bucket bathing, clothes washing and general activity today for some reason. Perhaps it’s the possibility of complete and utter boredom driving us headlong into depression but collectively we seem to have decided to be active today. Could it be our ‘cycles’ are coinciding due to our close and prolonged proximity to each other. I shudder with the thought. With the yacht now under motor for three days now, no sails to change and absolutely nothing to see perhaps we just need something, anything to do. Going up on deck is damn uncomfortable as it’s so hot. Not a cloud in the sky and what little puff of wind there is comes from the south, blowing diesel fumes into the cockpit. Nice!
Or perhaps it’s because we have a date with King Neptune later today and want to look our best on this auspicious occasion. None of us here on the good ship Last Chapter have ever sailed over the equator so the ancient ritual of initiating the land lubbers to ‘shell backs’ is to be performed. Strangely an air of anticipation takes over the yacht as the GPS counts its way slowly down to 00.00 degrees. Around 1800 hours there is a flurry of activity on board Hugh, has donned a makeshift sarong and red T shirt and for some very strange reason has chosen to present himself also wearing a balaclava and sunglasses. He either has something to hide from King Neptune or intends to commit and unarmed hold-up. Peter and I just figure he’s dropped another Phenergan and he’s off with the fairies again. Peter has fashion a rather splendid trident out of a stick a pair of BBQ tongs and a roll of gaffer tape. I’ve take the low key approach a donned my sarong and a rather becoming hat. Becoming that is on anyone else’s head, on mine it just looks stupid, but hey we’re in the middle of nowhere!
As the seconds tick down cameras are poised (get this – we have 3 cameras and 3 people to use them but no-one seems to know how we shoot each other AND the GPS showing zero degrees simultaneously and everyone wants the moment on their own camera. Eventually Peter pulls rank and we use his and at 1832 western standard time we cross the equator. I crack the top of a bottle of sparkling, cameras flash incessantly, we toast a cheer like schoolboys and congratulate each other on being just so damn good!
For some reason this is the panacea we’ve needed and what starts out as a light celebration and toast to King Neptune turns into a party. Buckets are poured over heads on the bow and videoed accordingly, offerings are made to King Neptune by way of alcohol, cashews are distributed and the stereo is set at “club” level. (A virgin sacrifice wouldn’t have gone astray)
After six hours of blokes being blokes, consuming a bottle of red, a bottle of sparkling and a litre bottle of OP Rum (mixed initially with mango and orange juice until that ran out then just on ice) and then ( I shudder again) tumblers of quite warm cask red we are well and truly merry. We congratulate ourselves on telling all manner of stories, pissing off the back of the boat without one MOB and deem that we’ve suitably paid the appropriate homage that should be afforded our aquatic regent and all in all we’re all round good guys and deliriously happy to belong to our mutual appreciation society. So there. (hic!)