The Voyage of the Northern Magic: A Family Odyssey

by Diane Stuemer

  We walked under the bridge to the banks of the river, where there was a thriving market in Burmese goods. Beautiful hand-painted lacquerware, teak carvings, ornately carved wooden furniture, and amazing antiques speaking of a long-lost age of former glory were all for sale at bargain prices. The antique shops had a poignancy about them, the sad feel of a country selling its birthright for a handful of rice.

  After utterly foreign Thailand, returning to developed, industrious Malaysia gave us a distinct sense of coming home. It felt as if we were back in the Canada of Asia – prosperous, moderate, comfortable, businesslike. Soon, we sailed to a beautiful marina resort on tiny Rebak Island, a satellite of the duty-free resort of Langkawi.

  It was December 31, 1999. We had found an ideal spot to welcome in the new millennium. Tiny lights sparkled in a tropical garden, gentle waves lapped up on a beach, in the distance small islands rose up out of the ocean, and the lights of a town beckoned on a far shore. It was a place of perfect beauty. We realized how blessed we were to be there, to be celebrating this milestone together as a family, to be on this great adventure. That night a wonderful fireworks display launched us into the new millennium. Two days later, Northern Magic continued on her odyssey.

  We sailed for Phuket, in Thailand, our last stop in Asia before setting off across the Indian Ocean. There were many small islands along the way, and so we day-hopped between them. On Ko Rok Nok, a tiny, uninhabited island, we could see there was some kind of shrine on the beach, for there were conspicuous pieces of colourful material tied around an old tree. As we clambered over the rocks to visit this holy place, the boys leading the way, Michael abruptly turned back and said, with an expression of pure disgust on his face, “Oh, man, this is gross!”

  Jon chimed in, “This is a shrine for mating!”

  Indeed, we found ourselves in front of what was clearly a phallic shrine, decorated appropriately with dozens of large wooden carvings of an unmistakable shape. Visiting fishermen, who used this island as a daytime stopover, had obviously been worshipping here for many years. Many of the carvings were ancient and weathered, while others were brand new and brightly varnished. Some of the carvings were made from logs more than a metre long, others even longer, and painted in all kinds of gaudy colours. While a few were standing upright, most of the giant penises were stacked in a big pile like firewood. Our kids found the whole display totally disgusting, and couldn’t get away from it quickly enough: “How can you stand there and look at this, Mom?”

  After the boys beat their hasty retreat, a group of about ten Thai fishermen arrived. I tried to wipe the bemused grin off my face and display what was, I hoped, an attitude of appropriate respect and admiration. One of the young fishermen invited me to videotape him as he stood reverently in front of the shrine, placing his hands together in a praying gesture and closing his eyes for a few moments before finishing his prayer with a little bow.

  One of his buddies, who wore a carved bone phallus around his waist, lifted up a few of the larger specimens and demonstrated his manliness to me by hefting them onto his shoulder. I nodded and smiled approvingly, which I assumed was an appropriate response to this lavish display of masculinity. None of the young fishermen spoke English, so I never got to ask them whether they were praying for fertility, potency, or perhaps that they might become endowed with proportions equally majestic. Nor did I find out whether their hopeful prayers, whatever they were, were ever granted.

  Our island-hopping finally brought us to the large island of Phuket. We had assembled a long list of chores to get done there, our last stop before crossing the Indian Ocean, but we did take a couple of days off to tour around the island. First, we headed to Patong Beach, Phuket’s tourist and nightlife centre. It was a pretty classy place, featuring fine establishments like the ever-popular “Rock-Hard-a-Go-Go.”

  We carried on into astonishing Phang Nga Bay, whose myriad small islands burst dramatically out of the ocean in gravity-defying formations. We passed unmistakably Asian-looking islands with vertical walls and rounded tops, mushroom-shaped islands dripping with external stalactites, and huge rocky pillars thrusting from the sea. Surely, this must be one of the most exotic places on earth.

  One of the stops we made was at Ko Hong, near a collection of three small islands. Michael and Jonathan wasted no time in assembling our inflatable kayak, which Michael had named Goblin War Buggy. The boys begged to be permitted to go off and explore on their own, and a few minutes later, paddled off on a voyage of discovery. When they returned an hour later and submitted their report, the rest of us wasted no time in following.

  Taking Northern Magic Junior with Goblin War Buggy tied up behind, the boys led us back into the lagoon they had found. It was a miniature version of Phang Nga Bay itself, with tiny islets jutting up here and there and stalactites hanging menacingly, like daggers, from the walls of the larger islands that enclosed it. We tied up Junior on a stalactite and proceeded in War Buggy into a narrow cavern that was only a little wider and higher than the kayak itself.

  Inside the dripping cave, our paddles were useless, so we pushed our way through with our hands. At one point we slid tightly through a portion that forced us to lie back inside the kayak with damp stalactites practically scraping our noses. I wondered what had possessed the boys to explore this far into such a claustrophobic and unpromising cavern.

  But once through that bottleneck, we emerged into a brand new world. We had entered a hong, which in Thai means “room.” It was the interior of a massive cave, except that its roof had long since tumbled down, leaving it open to the sky above. The walls of the hong were covered with greenery. It was beautiful.

  The boys knew exactly where to go from here, and they excitedly paddled to another rocky opening. After pushing our way through, we found ourselves in yet another hidden hong, this one even more spectacular than the one before. Its vertical walls were covered with plants whose roots had somehow managed to find a foothold. Foliage – trees, vines, bushes, and wildflowers – was everywhere. The brilliant blue sky overhead capped what looked like a solid wall of rock and greenery around us.

  A single crow circled overhead and landed at the water’s edge not giving us a second glance. Other than its occasional “caw, caw,” we were entirely alone. We stopped paddling and just sat there in awe, taking in the breathtaking scene and not wanting to disturb its verdant beauty. Although it was a windy day, inside the hong it was perfectly calm.

  “All we need now are about a million little fish, some pelicans, frigate birds, and a few sea lions,” Michael remarked after a time, remembering a similarly intense experience at the Galápagos Islands in another wild and beautiful lagoon. Michael’s words echoed as they bounced their way up the rock wall to the open sky above.

  “Row, row, row your boat,” he began, tentatively, and satisfied with the acoustic qualities of the chamber, Michael launched into his own special variation on that old song, a more exciting version involving crocodiles and screaming. Jon and I joined in lustily, singing in rounds, and after we finished and listened to the last refrain echoing up into the sky – “All except your underwear, floating down the stream …” – we wondered what our music must have sounded like from the very top of the hong. But there was no one to laugh at this performance but ourselves – and one large black bird, who, thankfully, kept his thoughts to himself.

  The next morning we were about to set off on another island exploration when a fishing boat approached us. Several of these had already stopped by to offer us fresh prawns or fish, but we weren’t keen on seafood and had reluctantly waved the friendly fishermen on. The difference this time was that unlike the others, this fisherman spoke English. His name was Kodah Chotung, and he proudly displayed a wallet full of the names of other yachties he had befriended over the years. His face was open and friendly, and soon he invited us to visit his home on a nearby island.

  This was too good an offer to refuse. Herbert decided to stay behind, as we had heard reports of ro
bbery in the bay, but the boys and I jumped into Kodah’s wooden longtail boat, joining his two partners, one of whom was crippled, as if from polio. This poor man could hardly walk and had to be dragged on and off the boat on the shoulders of the other man. Also sharing the boat with us was the day’s catch, about twenty bright blue crabs as well as a handful of small stingrays with their tails cut off. The crabs scuttled pathetically around our feet with their claws bound tight with bits of string. The baby stingrays, not much larger than dessert plates, were, mercifully, already dead, and they sloshed around in a few inches of water at our feet.

  First, we stopped at a large tour boat. After a brief negotiation, our cargo of crabs was unloaded in exchange for a small handful of bills. Then we sped noisily around various ever-more beautiful islands towards the shallow edge of the bay and entered the mouth of a small muddy river, passing many fish traps and small fish farms. As the river began to peter out, we tied up at a crowded dock at an island village of 250 fishermen and their families, all of whom owned long, slender, brightly painted wooden boats virtually identical to the one on which we had arrived.

  This was a Muslim village, something of a surprise because Thailand is predominantly Buddhist. Just as before, we were greeted with smiling faces as we walked through the village, helping to forever banish our earlier misconception of Thais as being unfriendly. Kodah brought us to his sparsely furnished small home, where his dignified wife was caring for their year-old son. The baby was asleep, hanging from the corrugated steel ceiling in a small hammock made from a sarong; their other two children were at school. As we entered the house, several other people from the village gathered and watched us with unabashed interest.

  I had brought a little bag of small gifts, and it was tremendous fun to see the women inspect the things I had brought: small soaps, lipstick, some treats, a colouring book and crayons. They examined the preserved guava from Malaysia and the little Indonesian jello cups carefully before accepting them, making sure they were halal, or suitable for Muslims to eat. When they discovered a tiny bottle of perfume, Kodah scrutinized it carefully, and then asked me a question in his simple English that sounded something like “Any a ko hon?”

  “Pardon me?” I asked.

  “Any a ko hon?” he repeated. “Any a ko hon?”

  Finally I figured it out: he was asking if it contained alcohol, something strict Muslims refrain from using.

  “Oh, that’s not for drinking,” I clarified. “It’s for smelling!” I helped him open it up and demonstrated how it was to be dabbed on the wrists, an action he copied, sceptically. I was impressed at the family’s commitment to their religion and remembered how the same was true in another village we had visited a few days before, where our host had taken pains to make it clear that alcoholic drinks would not be welcome there. Perhaps being a minority made these villagers especially devout and protective of their faith.

  When Kodah dropped us off at Northern Magic, we shook hands warmly and thanked him for his hospitality, paying him for his time and fuel. I felt very warm towards this man, who worked hard all day in an open wooden boat to support his family and yet had offered his friendship to us so unstintingly. I was proud when Jonathan gave the youngest of the fishermen his own baseball cap, as this young man’s cap was so tattered and full of holes it was about to fall apart.

  As they were about to leave, Kodah held up a piece of frayed rope, and asked whether we had any line to spare.

  “Actually, I do have some,” said Herbert, and began rummaging around in a cockpit locker. He emerged with a large spool of strong yellow nylon rope, and I held it in the air, asking Kodah how much he needed.

  “Give him all of it,” Herbert said quietly in my ear. “I really don’t need it.”

  Watching Kodah’s face light up in surprise and delight as I handed over the entire roll of brand new line was by far the best event of the entire day. He could have been a child on Christmas morning, and if I had that moment on videotape, I’d play it over and over whenever I needed a lift. After thanking us profusely, Kodah putted off in his rough wooden boat, waving as he receded behind the sheer rock walls of Ko Hong. This was his lucky day, and ours as well.

  16

  Staring Down the Wrong End of a Gun

  It had been a long time since we had made major ocean passage, and I, for one, felt a little apprehensive. But after one last big stock-up with fruit, vegetables, sixteen litres of precious fresh milk, and a few miraculous and rare packages of Hershey’s Kisses, we set off from Thailand on a thousand-mile passage halfway across the Indian Ocean, to the island of Sri Lanka, just under the bottom tip of India.

  Only after we were well underway did I remember how liberating it was to be far from land and all the menacing obstacles close to shore. Soon, we began to fall back into that familiar rhythm of life at sea. With a light breeze blowing from astern, we hoisted our spinnaker, which cheerily inflated like a colourful hot air balloon and pulled us gently across the water. Despite our slow pace, the sea was kind, and life was fine.

  Michael loved to stay up late on my watch, and on the pleasant early days of this passage, he sat with me at night on deck, long after everyone else was asleep, watching the stars and the phosphorescent sparkles in our bow wave, talking about life, love, and geosynchronous satellites. When people have romantic ideas of what it is like to be sailing, they are probably imagining starry nights just like this, with God’s entire creation arrayed overhead as if for us alone. When we imagined taking the trip and growing closer as a family, it was a scene just like this that played in our minds. And our dream had come true.

  During our second night at sea, the wind began to shift subtly to the north. The spinnaker, which we had rigged to float loosely off the bow, adjusted automatically and positioned itself on the port side of the boat. Seduced by our gentle movement across the water, Herbert and I, alternating in six-hour shifts, were lulled into complacency. In the darkness, neither of us noticed that the line holding the bottom of the spinnaker was now rubbing against the jib, which was neatly rolled up on the forestay beneath.

  I was awoken by Herbert at seven the next morning. He flopped into bed beside me with a pained look on his face that told me something was wrong.

  “I’ve got some bad news,” he said. “Our jib is ruined.”

  Ten or twelve hours of that rope sawing back and forth on the rolled up foresail had chafed it right through, not only the outer cover, but through the underlying layers of sailcloth as well like twine rubbing through a roll of toilet paper. Our jib, probably the most important sail we had, was shredded, and we had only ourselves to blame.

  Herbert collapsed into bed as I trudged up to the cockpit to assess the damage for myself. Yes, indeed, the jib was hanging in tatters. How long it would take to repair was anybody’s guess.

  There was as yet no urgency, for we could continue to fly the spinnaker for the time being. But the minute the winds picked up or changed direction, we would need that jib, and we still had more than eight hundred miles to go before reaching Sri Lanka. Fixing it while underway would at best be a nasty job, with no guarantee that the winds would cooperate in the meantime.

  I did next what any prudent mariner would do under the circumstances: I whipped up a big batch of Aunt Linda’s Excellent Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies. I was actually sitting on deck, stirring the dough, meditatively tasting it every few strokes and pondering how to go about fixing that sail, when my reverie was interrupted by a crash. In an instant the spinnaker, the cause of our problems, disappeared into the ocean. It was as if, in penance for its misbehaviour the night before, it had honourably decided to commit suicide.

  Herbert was in the cockpit like a shot, roused from his sleep by that cracking noise. Soon he and I were madly hauling sodden lengths of nylon out of the sea while Northern Magic began rolling drunkenly back and forth, robbed of the stability the spinnaker had been providing.

  “What happened?” he asked in puzzlement. I didn’t have a c
lue. As far as I had seen, the spinnaker had simply fallen down into the water. In fact the block, or pulley, at the very top of the mast had snapped in two.

  So now we not only had major sail repairs on our agenda for the passage, but a trip to the top of the mast to install a new block as well. We looked at each other and agreed that it was time to find a place to stop.

  Our route was taking us across the Andaman Sea, near the northern tip of the Indonesian island of Sumatra, and past the Nicobar Islands, which belong to India. We could anchor at either of these places. Great Nicobar Island was directly on our path, we had a good chart of its waters, and it was the obvious choice. However, our cruising guide advised us that yachts were not permitted to stop there; in 1997 one boat had been detained before being asked to leave. On the other hand, a magazine article I had read a few days before had suggested that the Nicobars were beginning to open up.

  Sumatra involved a detour, and not only did we not have any good charts of those waters, we wondered whether it was even safe to go there. Most of the piracy in Indonesian waters happened off Sumatra, so this alone, we felt, made it a poor choice.

  We therefore decided to stop at Great Nicobar Island, taking advantage of a maritime tradition that permits vessels to seek refuge for reasons of safety or distress. We were certain that once we explained our circumstances, we would, in fact, be welcomed.

  We arrived at the island very early the next morning. We waited just offshore for almost two hours until we judged it was a reasonable time to make radio contact and ask permission to anchor. The last thing we wanted to do was sneak in, but after a further hour and a half of fruitless attempts to contact anyone by radio, we proceeded into the nearest anchorage. This turned out to be an apparently uninhabited bay. There we began to assess the damage.