Of Foreign Build by Jackie Parry Read Free Book Online Page B

Regulations (Col Regs) are the international rules of the waterways. Sometimes, we had right of way. But if there was an enormous vessel heading straight for us at twenty-six knots, we made sure we got out of the way. The navigation lights on these mountainous ships seemed the same size as our own navigation lights and were hard to distinguish, especially if they had other cabin lights on. Even with all the equipment, common sense, and checking, I still managed, at times, to get into a bit of a pickle. The heavy tiredness, the fear of being hit, and the odd sensation of being awake at 3 am night after night could reduce me to tears. The thick cloak of darkness coupled with my total lack of night-time experience could mix up to create a great dollop of doubt. We had met people that had been sailing for years and still claimed they were learning.
    Surely there is an ending to learning at some point ? I thought, foolishly. I found this highly daunting, but I had come this far and was determined to continue climbing the almost impossible heap of knowledge. It was fortunate that I could let Noel into my mind to take a look at my perspective. This provided him a semblance of understanding the tapestry of my life and how my thoughts led to the fears that I tried so hard to swallow.
    By our fifth day at sea, we had settled into a comfortable routine and cast grateful glances at the sea, sky, and clouds to thank Mother Nature for being kind. At dawn on the ninth day, after leaving Darwin, Bali crept slowly over the horizon to meet us. We furled the sails and puttered across the smooth water, untouched by any breeze, into Benoa harbour. Unwrapping the gleeful smiles that were stuck on our faces, we looked like a couple of silly fools – we had sailed to another country.
    As the land became clearer, we spotted a small speedboat heading straight for us. A brown, wrinkly man manically waved while trying to steer a straight line, I wondered what we’d done wrong. Impressively, he was hand delivering our mail. The day before leaving Darwin, we had organised our Indonesian visa (most people organise these a week or two before leaving). I had selected a date we would arrive in Bali. The sun-dried Balinesean postman had been looking out for us continually on the day I said we may reach their shores, and he promptly delivered our Indonesian visa before we stepped onshore. Mail and communications were a completely new ball game now; we had so much to learn. Giving our families the address for the harbour in Benoa, we thought they would have plenty of time to send on mail. They duly sent lots of updates, which did not reach Bali until a few weeks after we had left. Another sailboat carried our letters all the way to Thailand until they caught up with us. We soon learned that the Internet and phones would be our only communication from now on.
    Benoa harbour was a colourful, esoteric feast for eyes. Awash with peeling paint, top-heavy fishing boats languidly wallowed side-to-side, curiously in dead calm waters. Armies of tiny, brown men scurried around the drunken blue and red decks. Large motors roared b oom, boom , boo m as they cruised by with black smoke spiralling aft. Locals zoomed by closely, trying to peek inside our alien-looking yacht.
    Anchored amidst the cavernous bay, the row to shore was about a kilometre; we had not purchased an outboard for our dinghy, so we relied on oars and our rowing ability. Fortunately, my ability had improved since Brisbane. While getting ready to leave Australia, we were both fed up with endlessly emptying our pockets of cash for gear for the boat. The outboard was a long way down the list and never materialised. Going cruising is all about learning when to stop writing more lists, getting to the end of your current list, and just going.
    Now faced with the long row in a busy harbour, we understood our mistake. We became the locals’ entertainment whilst rowing across the busy, commercial harbour. We