The Voyage of the Northern Magic: A Family Odyssey

by Diane Stuemer

  Michael didn’t need to be invited twice and disappeared instantly to find the sweetened cereal in the secret spot I described. From the cockpit, I could hear excited exclamations as the kids discovered their windfall. It made me realize that a handful or two of Fruit Loops would go over very well with me, too; it had been four days since we had eaten a full meal. On the couple of occasions I had tried to prepare something hot, the ordeal of holding down various bowls and cutlery to prevent them from flying around the cabin while trying to shovel the contents into our mouths between jolts made the whole effort more trouble than it was worth.

  Then Michael reappeared, carrying a bowl of Fruit Loops for me. For the millionth time I was reminded of how blessed I was to have such wonderful kids; how many twelve-year-old boys would be thoughtful enough to think of their wet, hungry mom, standing alone in the cockpit, and share their treat with her?

  After lapping up the Fruit Loops with my tongue, I continued standing at the wheel, water swirling around my feet. I felt very strong, very happy, and very, very alive. What more can you ask from life than to find yourself sailing along the top of Australia with your family on an awesomely beautiful, wild and windy day such as this?

  We eventually made it to Darwin, tired but jubilant, and there we had a new steering arm constructed. While Herbert fussed around with the steering, de-rusting, and paint touch-ups, ascending the mast, checking all the rigging, and generally getting Northern Magic shipshape, I slipped once again into my provisioning mode, stocking the boat to the gunwales with as many groceries – including even kangaroo meat – as she could handle without sinking.

  Then it was time to go. Eight months after arriving in that great island continent, Northern Magic cast off from Australian shores for the last time and headed off into the Indian Ocean. It was an exciting, even joyous moment. As Darwin receded in the distance, our pangs of regret about leaving the familiar comforts of Australia began to disappear. Soon we were focused only on the seven-day sea voyage ahead, and the adventures that lay in store for us in the mysterious and fascinating continent of Asia.

  11

  The Land of Dragons and Smiles

  We had first met Yves Matson, a witty twenty-six-year-old Canadian, back in Fiji. He had left Canada around the same time we had, with the objective of circling the world without ever using an airplane. He had crewed on two boats before ours, compiling a hilarious collection of stories that kept us in stitches. The kids in particular adored him, and when they found out he was looking for a boat to Indonesia, they begged us to take him along on the ride from Darwin to Bali.

  Having an extra crewmember made this a very easy passage. Another person on night watch meant each of us could get at least eight hours of consecutive sleep. I was really pampered by having to stand only one four-hour watch each day in compensation for my duties as cook.

  But the best thing of all about having Yves was that he made us laugh. His jokes and true stories kept us rolling around on the floor. There was the “Bear Story,” which the boys would beg to hear over and over. There was the “Bare Butts in the Crowded Bar” story, which ended with Yves’s parents having to call him in a panic after receiving (cleverly doctored) photographic proof that their travelling son was working as a nude dancer in a gay bar in New Zealand.

  Our favourite, however, was the story of “The Defiled Oreo.” This story got me in big trouble later on in the trip, as I was attempting to retell it to friends on a longboat at midnight moored in the jungles of Borneo. I was recalling how Yves, in his initial telling, had baulked at explaining exactly how that legendary Oreo had, unbeknownst to him, been “defiled” by a high school-buddy. His reluctance to explain the nature of this defilement had forced me to coerce the information out of him. Now, at the very moment in Borneo when I blurted out Yves’s reply, there had, quite by accident, been a lull in conversation on the boat that was tied up beside us. My unexpected, incriminating, and disgusting punchline rang out like a church bell in the dark and silent jungle air. Fifteen pairs of shocked eyes, including those belonging to a rather proper older British couple, immediately turned accusingly my way. My reputation was as defiled as that long-ago Oreo. But the rest of the story – of how Yves got his ultimate revenge on the evil defiler – still makes us roar with laughter. All I can tell you is that it had something to do with an opened can of coke that had languished in a locker for six months and had grown an extravagant fur of thick green slime.

  I needed Yves’s good spirits to revive mine on the third day of our passage to Indonesia, when I found myself staggering for the bathroom and bowing in supplication before that smooth white altar, a penitent pose I was forced to repeat numerous times over the next two days. Now I realize I was being punished for having confidently boasted to Yves, who normally suffered from mal-de-mer, that I had regained my sealegs and was once again immune to seasickness. Yves had made no such boast and was therefore spared my undignified fate. He was gentlemanly enough not to gloat about it.

  Our captain succumbed as well, but understandably so, after having being forced to hang head-down in the engine room repairing, in turn, a broken fan belt, a baulky watermaker, and finally the alternator. He had been forcing himself to remain in good humour throughout his seemingly endless travails, and was even stoic when our mainsail began to rip along a seam, rigging up a line to take the pressure off the tear so we wouldn’t have to fix it underway.

  The biggest blow, however, came on our fifth day at sea when our refrigeration once again stopped working. With both fridge and freezer brimming with two months’ worth of meat and half a year’s worth of bacon and cheese, this was a significant disaster. It sparked a debate about whether we should stop at Komodo as planned, where we would have no prospect of solving the problem, or head directly for Bali, where we certainly would. After some discussion, we decided to stick with our original plan, even if it meant throwing all our precious supplies into the sea.

  Catching our first glimpse of Asia quickly turned our minds away from our rapidly defrosting cache of beef and chicken. The volcanic peaks of Flores Island, piercing the clouds at acute angles with their sharp, serrated edges, were stunning. The scene was unmistakably exotic, and an involuntary shiver of excitement passed through me as I realized how very far away from home we had come.

  When I got up the next morning, we were sailing along the south shore of Rinca Island, whose ragged volcanic peaks plunged right down into the ocean beside us. The island was clearly outlined in the misty grey pre-dawn light. As the sun began rising behind it, I realized it was actually shaped just like a sleeping dragon, with its head resting on the ocean surface and a long tail that curved elegantly alongside its body. It was almost as if this mighty beast was guarding the entrance to the island, home of the real Komodo dragon, and anyone foolish enough to intrude might find themselves snapped up in its hungry jaws.

  My imagination feasted on this primeval scene as the sun began to stretch its first golden rays over the back of the sleeping dragon and we began tiptoeing our way in through the strait. The narrow channel between Komodo and Rinca islands is notorious for its unpredictable currents, whirlpools, and riptides. Sure enough, waves suddenly reared up to bash us, and the current pushed us violently away, as if they, too, were sentries whose job it was to discourage unwanted visitors. But at last, around noon, we made our entrance into the shelter of Komodo Island.

  As much as we wanted to see the dragons for which this island is famous, our first priority was to locate ice for the freezer. Ashore, several men and a handful of young boys were standing by some small souvenir stalls, hoping for tourists, of which we were the only ones around. One of them helpfully sent his brother to fetch us some ice from the nearby village. In the meanwhile, perhaps we might be interested in inspecting his wares?

  After some protracted and dramatic haggling, we did end up buying one of his beautiful carved dragons. But the messenger returned empty-handed, explaining that the generator in the village was broken.
Our faces fell. Then another fellow stepped forward, saying he knew of someone else who would be able to help us … and, in the meantime, perhaps we’d like to look at his selection of shells?

  We were beginning to think that we’d have a better chance of finding a real fire-breathing dragon than of getting our hands on a cold block of ice. But desperate measures require desperate actions, so we invested three dollars in a shell and persuaded our newly enriched guide, a small smiling man named Ardi, to escort us on our quest to find some of this precious ice. We motored over to the tiny village on Northern Magic, our new friend standing proudly at the bow. The little wooden houses of Komodo Village were virtually identical. Built on stilts, they were packed neatly in a row along the water’s edge, with a fleet of slim wooden fishing boats lined up in front.

  Throngs of curious ragged children materialized on the beach. Every time one of us pulled out a camera, they all shrieked with laughter and fought for a spot in front of the lens. I really created pandemonium when I began filming with the video camera, which had a swivelling viewfinder that allowed people to see themselves as you were filming them. The minute I did this, twenty or thirty children began screaming and jostling for position. I had to stop after only a few seconds.

  We made our way to a little food shop at the far end of the village. Ardi helped translate our wishes to the proprietress, who displayed a small plastic bag filled with water that she proposed to freeze for us by the next morning. We ordered fifteen of these, not even bothering to haggle over price. We were just praying that there really was a working generator connected to a working fridge and this was not just another ploy to keep us, and our wallets, in the village a little bit longer.

  We then strolled through the village, where friendly faces appeared in just about every window and our entourage increased by the minute. We passed two tiny silver-domed mosques, one of which looked as if it had been made from tin foil, before reaching the home of our guide. On the way, we saw a group of men constructing a wooden fishing boat without benefit of glue or nails, using long wooden pegs instead. Outside another little shop, some colourfully dressed women, slender like almost all Asian women, were grinding coffee using a giant wooden mortar and pestle.

  At Ardi’s home, on stilts like the rest, we removed our sandals and climbed up a ladder to get inside. There we sat on woven mats in his living room and met his shy, giggling wife, his baby daughter, and two of his brothers, none of whom spoke English. The room was furnished with only a small cabinet and a bed. The walls were made of woven panels, and plenty of sky was visible through the thatched roof, even right above the bed. Yet the two-room home did not give the impression of poverty, but rather that of a quietly prosperous small shopkeeper. There were glass cups in the teak cabinet, and Ardi’s wife soon appeared with dark, sweet coffee and tasty creme-filled cookies.

  I passed around some candies I had brought. The minute I produced these, the door and windows came alive with the outstretched arms of dozens of children standing outside. They were just as quickly swatted away by Ardi’s brother. As Ardi unwrapped our sweets, he pushed the plastic wrappers through the gaps in the floor to fall into the open space below his raised house, joining a collection of refuse there through which chickens and goats happily rummaged. After our refreshments, the fatigue of our long day began to settle over us, and we decided it was time to make our way back to the boat. The minute we emerged from Ardi’s house, the horde of children reappeared. Soon, to their delight, Christopher initiated the tickle-and-chase game at which he had excelled in similar villages in Tonga and Fiji.

  At some point we lost track of Michael, who had wandered ahead. Suddenly, from somewhere far away down the beach came a strange sound, almost like the war cry of an army, running to engage the enemy. Except it was children’s voices, and they were screaming not in anger but in delight. As the noise came closer, around a bend in the beach appeared Michael, loping along in his easy athletic stride, a great big grin on his face. The clamour grew and in just a few more seconds we could see the source, a throng of children following in Michael’s wake, screaming and laughing as they ran. Our Pied Piper must have had fifty children streaming behind him, and they joined an almost equal number that were already dancing around us, waving and shouting as we returned to Northern Magic for the night.

  Even the King of Siam couldn’t have outdone the welcome we received from this roaring, running river of children, the grand finale to our first day in Asia.

  By six the next morning, Herbert was in our dinghy, heading for the little village on stilts. He returned triumphantly with fifteen bags of slushy ice, buying us a little more time at least.

  Before leaving, we had a more important mission to accomplish. We had to seek out an encounter with the legendary Komodo dragon, the real-life giant lizard that was probably the basis for the ubiquitous dragon of Far East legend.

  In years past, it was the practice for tourists coming to Komodo to bring a live goat along with them. The poor doomed creature would be left, bleating, tethered to a tree as the people stood back and watched the monstrous lizards tear it apart. People no longer bring goats, but the dragons, which reach three metres in length and live fifty years or more, haven’t forgotten, and still gather at the former feeding spot, hoping for a snack. Park officials have stocked the island with deer, and it is now up to the dragons, of which there are only a few thousand left, to hunt for their own food. A Komodo dragon is an adept hunter, capable of bringing down a fully-grown water buffalo.

  We headed into the forest with a young guide. He was heavily armed to protect us from these carnivorous dragons – with a long forked stick. Our guide had a real nose for the dragons, and kept peeling off the path into the underbrush after suddenly pricking up his ears, like a German Shepherd, at some sound or smell we were not able to perceive.

  As the seven of us walked down a narrow path deep into the orchid-filled forest, we began to make jokes about which of us was most liable to be snapped up by a hungry dragon. It’s not unknown for them to eat humans, especially small ones. A few years before, a Swiss man had been separated from his tour group, and only his glasses and camera were ever found. I joked that as long as you weren’t the last in line you were safe. This sparked a game like musical chairs in which whoever was bringing up the rear would try to sneak into a safer spot in the middle.

  Finally, we reached the dragon-feeding spot. And there, indeed, a Komodo dragon lay in wait, his two-metre length spread out languorously in a sunny spot on the forest floor. He was sleeping, or resting at least, storing up the sun’s energy like a living solar panel.

  We got within a few metres of the great black leathery beast, watched over by our guide and also by large unblinking black lizard eyes. Michael was a little too nonchalant for my taste, and I had to keep reminding him not to get too close. As I was filming the dragon close up with the video camera he sneezed, making me jump. The dust raised by his sneeze looked just like a puff of real dragon smoke.

  We saw several other dragons on Komodo before setting off. We planned to sail up the narrow strait between Komodo and Rinca islands and continue overnight along the north coast of the large island of Sumbawa.

  Our problem was figuring out how to get through the tricky strait. Our book of sailing directions said ominously that the channel was “little or never used because of strong, little known currents.” With the help of a local fisherman we established that the best time to transit the strait would be around high tide, at five that afternoon. So off we set, hoping to get through the narrowest part of the strait by sunset.

  It was a perfectly calm day, and the sea was flat, but as we reached the end of the bay in which we had anchored, the waters began to churn. Soon giant whirlpools began forming all around us. There was a perfectly calm pond of unruffled water in the middle of each whirlpool, perhaps five metres across, but outside that glassy eye the waters swirled madly. It was enough to make us wonder whether we were in danger of being flushed right dow
n the drain, as if in a giant toilet.

  Then came the tidal rips. We would see a distinct raised line of water slashing across at an oblique angle, like the drawing of a giant curtain. The minute we reached that line, we would sheer away along with it. Between the eerie whirlpools and the raging rips, our captain’s hands were full keeping Northern Magic on course.

  We had been motoring at a speed of six knots, but the instant we turned north into the strait we found ourselves virtually at a standstill. Herbert revved up the engine, and although our knotmeter registered a speed of seven and a half knots, our GPS told a different story; over land we were only progressing at a little more than a knot, or about two kilometres an hour.

  We stood there, virtually in place, for the next two hours, swimming hard but really only treading water. That same little bit of scenery along which we were frantically motoring simply refused to budge. But what scenery it was! Between those swirling whirlpools, the silvery schools of leaping tuna, the craggy volcanic peaks, and the living dinosaurs we knew roamed those distant hills, we felt as if we were in some surreal scene out of The Odyssey. We wouldn’t have been in the least surprised if a Cyclops had popped his head out from behind one of the mountains and reached out to grab us … come to think of it, maybe bringing a goat along wouldn’t have been a bad idea after all.

  As the sun disappeared, we began to debate whether we should just turn tail and run. Despite two hours of hard motoring, we had still barely left the harbour and could be safely back at anchor within half an hour. On the other hand, if we gave up now, who could say whether we’d do any better next time? Luckily, it was a clear night and there was a full moon, so even though there were many small rocks and islands in the narrow channel ahead, we decided to struggle on.