Shooting Stars and Flying Fish: Swapping the boardroom for the seven seas

by Nancy Knudsen

  4. The Lessons We Learn

  Addu Atoll

  On a fresh blue-skied morning, after eighteen days at sea, and eight months after our departure from Sydney, we arrive in Addu Atoll, just south of the equator.

  We’ve read enough about Addu Atoll to know we want to come here. We’ve learned that it is a comparatively educated part of the Maldives, with more English spoken than usual in these islands because it had been a British base during the Second World War. Addu proved to be just what the British wanted – an isolated island base with a safe, deep anchorage in a suitably strategic position. With the use of flying boats, the navy built airstrips and constructed a large complex, where they housed oil tanks and supplies for the forty or more ships of the Eastern Fleet.

  We enter the narrow pass into the lagoon, and the anchor is down by noon. There’s not much to see – some army quarters, rich tropical foliage, patches of sand, some bicycle traffic on a causeway. It is a strange tranquil sensation, the stillness of the boat after so much movement for so long.

  On arrival we make some decisions that we are to regret. We attempt to motor between two crooked sticks into what appears to be a small manmade harbour, but when it is 1.9 metres beneath our keel and shoaling rapidly I back off in a hurry. We try to call by VHF radio to ask advice about the depths, and about customs and immigration protocol for this, our first foreign country, but there’s no answer. The Maldives insists that foreign boats must use a yacht agent for entry formalities, but there is no agent here in this remote atoll. Our agent is in Malé, the capital, almost 300 nautical miles to the north, and hardly any help right now.

  Instead, we anchor in the only shallow water we can find – a sand spit protruding into the otherwise very deep lagoon. On checking in at the local police station, we find out that they don’t even have VHF radio on the atoll, but they are helpful and friendly, trying to smooth our way through the complicated forms we are required to complete.

  The pace is languid here, life simple. The highest point in Addu Atoll is a mere two metres above sea level. Houses and shops made of coral hide among the palm trees and other tropical plants that thrive in the sand. Nobody runs. Kids play, old men chat, everyone seems to have a bicycle. As we wander in the hot sun I am envious of those bicycles. Many of them are folding bikes, just like the ones we couldn’t afford before we left Australia.

  Waiting in a bank queue, we meet a local man with good English who introduces himself as Mullah. He tells us he has both groceries and folding bicycles for sale – the bikes at one-tenth of their cost in Australia.

  Half an hour later we have purchased folding bikes for a song, completed our fruit and vegetable shopping, met Mullah’s wife and small son and enjoyed tea with his father. Then we ride our new bikes back to the shore where we have tied the dinghy, our newest friend following with our shopping in his car. We are buoyed by the happy contact we have made with people on our first foreign soil. As I record happenings in my journal this evening, I remark on how long it has taken to reach a foreign country: 244 days. It is a number that I am never to forget. We sink happily to rest without premonition, Blackwattle rocking and swaying in a pleasant swell.

  I am woken by cracking, banging and crunching sounds, which startle me out of bed. Ted is awake before me and we race into the cockpit. The sound tells us instantly that the keel of the boat is slamming into rocks. But how can that be? It quickly becomes clear even to our sleep-fogged brains: on arriving in the very deep lagoon of the atoll we had anchored in the only spit of sand we could find shallow enough for our anchor to reach the seabed. With the prevailing wind blowing in from the Indian Ocean, we were safe. But two things have changed: the wind has changed direction 180 degrees and swung the boat in the opposite direction next to the shore, and the tide, now at its lowest, has forced our anchor chain taut. We are on the reef and the swell is crunching the boat with every wave.

  Ted starts the engine and it kicks in, the boat lurches forward, but then the engine immediately stops and won’t start again. The boat drifts back and collides with the reef once more, alternately lifting and crashing.

  ‘My God, we’re going to lose the boat,’ Ted shouts as the milliseconds stretch into slow motion. ‘Get the staysail out!’

  Together we get the staysail out, working faster than we have ever worked before. Ted races to the bow to get the anchor up. The sail won’t set, we’re into wind, get it on, get it on tight, haul the wheel over. It starts to set. The shattering noise ceases for the moment. I hear the anchor winch chugging, straining. Ted’s trying to pull the boat forward off the reef with the anchor. Then it stops. The load is too heavy.

  Ted’s voice on the bow: ‘Damn! The trip switch has gone! Flip the trip switch! Get the radio on!’

  I have to leave the wheel to do this. I leap down the companionway, flip the trip switch and the VHF radio switch.

  The headsail is flapping by the time I get back to the wheel. My head is buzzing with urgent thoughts. You must sail, Nancy, we have to sail. I get the sail filled again and we’re moving. It doesn’t matter which direction, it’s all deep, just away from the rocks, follow where you think the anchor is.

  The trip switch keeps tripping. Each time I have to leave the wheel the staysail luffs, crumples.

  ‘Get the flares!’

  I have to leave the wheel to get the flares, flipping the trip switch on the way.

  I grab two large yellow plastic boxes of flares and drag them on deck.

  Now Ted starts flipping the trip switch, long runs between the bow and the flip switch by the chart table.

  He shouts as he runs, ‘A red one, find a red one, a parachute flare, let it off.’

  It’s dark . . . What time is it? . . . I get a torch to see the colour . . . red? Orange? This looks orange, is this what he means by a red one?

  I’m now trying to sort the flares and hold onto the wheel to keep the boat sailing. But I will have to let the wheel go to let the flare off. Who on earth will see it anyway? Ted is getting the anchor up a few chugs at a time before the trip switch goes. How long before the winch fails?

  I fumble with the plastic rip cord, and pull.

  White hot punch in the chest, backwards, red in my eyes, black, blinded, it’s gone. The wheel, you have to get the wheel, the boat must sail up to the anchor.

  For a few minutes we concentrate on the anchor and the trip switch, and I worry about over-sailing the anchor, dragging it on the side of the boat. There’s no more crunching. We’re off the reef, but not for long unless we can get the anchor up and sail. The engine won’t start and I don’t know why. I just sail forwards and away from the shore. I have lost track of where I think the anchor might be. Now I start calling on the radio – they didn’t have a radio when we checked in, but I have since seen a Malé coastguard vessel arrive in Addu Atoll – maybe they have a radio.

  ‘Coastguard, coastguard, coastguard, this is yacht Blackwattle, Blackwattle, Blackwattle. We are in distress. Do you copy?’ I don’t have much hope, but I can cope with this activity and running below to flip the trip switch, so I keep going. It yields nothing.

  Ted comes back and grabs another flare.

  ‘Hold it away from your body, hold it right away,’ I shout but must keep hold of the wheel. He lets it off and I can tell from the cursing it’s hurt him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s okay, I cut my fingers.’ Then he’s back on the bow, working on the anchor.

  Into the back of my mind there comes a smarting, then a burning, then a searing white pain on the skin inside my left elbow. It’s a burn, I’ve been burned. Well, my arm is working all right, so I won’t lose it.

  Finally there’s a faint shout just heard in the wind. ‘The anchor’s free.’

  We’re sailing free. Never were happier words spoken. I sail out away from shore. This atoll lagoon is very large – aro
und four nautical miles in diameter, and apart from occasional rocks, it’s very deep. I start to have more coherent thoughts, but there’s no time for reflection. I am emotionally numb, consumed with doing.

  Now we’re hit with a squall, the wind and rain hit hard but I know it won’t last long. The welcome cooling rain is driving into the cockpit, saturating me and my black silk nightie, which clings to my skin. However, there’s no visibility at all; I’ve even lost the lights of the island.

  ‘We need C-Map going, Ted, I need to know where there are obstructions.’

  He immediately starts the computer. We’re down at the bottom of the lagoon, wind-wise, and we start to make the crossing, safe in deep water for the moment.

  Ted takes the wheel. I get the only ice tray from the deep freeze, and put it in the bucket in the cockpit, grabbing a couple of pieces to hold against the searing on my inner elbow. Running to the stern I turn the torch on the dinghy and the source of the trouble with the motor is clear. Our dinghy painter floats, but we had tied an extra line to our dinghy for extra security and it had fouled the propeller. I look at my watch. It is just after 1 am.

  Now the VHF radio springs into life, with a heavily accented voice calling, ‘Sailing vessel, sailing vessel, this is coastguard.’

  Ted takes the mike. ‘Coastguard, we need your assistance. We’re disabled.’

  ‘What kind of assistance do you need?’

  ‘We need a tow to a secure place for the boat.’

  Garbled answer, difficult to understand any of the words, finishing with: ‘What kind of assistance do you need?’

  Ted repeats. There is no answer. So Ted keeps calling them over and over. ‘Coastguard, this is yacht Blackwattle.’

  I take the wheel, while Ted looks at C-Map.

  ‘Sailing vessel, this is coastguard.’

  I grab the mike. ‘Coastguard, this is sailing vessel.’

  ‘Can you tell me, is there any threat to life?’

  I feel an instant rush of shock, as I realise why they have asked the question: they’re going to reject our call for help.

  ‘Yes, yes, we have hit the reef, we have no motor. We’re damaged, maybe we sink.’ A little drama won’t go astray, so a rising voice. ‘Please come, please help us, please.’

  ‘Okay, okay, don’t panic. We’re coming.’

  Finally, the huge visiting coastguard vessel arrives. They throw us a tow line, and commence to tow us. This is all good news. I am putting ice on my burn while I steer.

  Finally, they speak to us. ‘Sailing vessel, now we have forty metres deep, you can anchor here.’

  Ted and I exchange looks. ‘Coastguard, no, we cannot anchor here, too deep for us, we need maybe twenty metres.’ We are trying to keep the English simple.

  ‘No, there is no twenty metres in Addu. Only forty metres. We cannot pull you to harbour in the dark. Can we give you some more line?’ Well, at least they are being helpful.

  Ted hesitates. ‘No, I don’t think that will work.’ He makes a decision. ‘We will sail for tonight. Can you please come and give us a pull in the morning?’

  ‘No, we cannot pull you in the morning. We only look after distress. In the morning, you must find another boat to pull you.’

  ‘But we will still be in distress in the morning.’ The logic seems plain to us.

  ‘No, in the morning, no distress. You get another boat to pull you.’

  But we don’t know another boat, we don’t know anyone, we don’t know who to call, we can’t speak the language, and no one seems to speak English.

  Ted argues back and forth with them. It’s almost funny that they don’t think there will be a ‘distress’ in the morning, but we’re not laughing, because we’re not out of trouble.

  ‘You must get a dawny to pull you, we cannot help you in the morning.’

  I look at Ted, mystified. What’s a dawny?

  Ted shrugs and gives up, they drop the line, and we turn our attention to the task ahead – namely, to sail until daylight. It is now one-thirty. We can’t leave the lagoon as the folding dinghy is still tied on with the motor attached, and we would surely lose it in the rough water of the open sea. Anyway, without an engine as a back-up it would be dangerous to try to navigate the pass at night.

  With the staysail we gybe back and forth across the lagoon, Ted at the wheel, me on C-Map, avoiding the rocks that are spread throughout.

  ‘Shall we do watches?’ I ask.

  ‘No, Nance.’ Ted’s voice is soft. ‘Stay here and keep me company.’

  There’s a lovely moon, and we drink coffee and tea and eat dates, and talk about how lucky we are, so far. We send an email to our agent in Malé during the night to tell him of our predicament and plead for help.

  Not long after we have settled into sailing mode, Ted turns towards me, torch in hand. Suddenly his eyes widen and his mouth opens. ‘Nance what have you done to your chest and neck? You’re covered in blood!’

  Puzzled, I put my hand to my chest and feel wet stickiness. ‘I think the flare must have backfired on me. That’s why I called out to hold the flare away from you.’

  Judging by the horrified look on Ted’s face, the wound must look bad, but there’s certainly no pain. I show him the burn on my arm. I’ve now run out of ice and have covered it with burn lotion. It is about the size of a hand.

  By 6.45 am we start phoning the only people we know to phone – our agent, our new second-best friend Mullah, and the one Western resort in the area, in the hope that they will at least speak English. We also try to call the coastguard on the radio, but get no reply.

  Mullah’s response is astounding.

  ‘Hello, Mullah, this is Nancy. Do you remember me?’

  When he hears my voice he interrupts quickly, his voice already urgent. ‘Yes, Nancy, Nancy! Yes! I know what happened – I was working in my shop during the night and the whole sky went red. I raced in my car to the causeway to see if maybe it was you. I spoke to the coastguard but they said, “Maybe it is some ship at sea.” Then I went to the causeway again and could see some flickering on your boat, and I saw the second flare go off. I went back and told them, “No, you must help – it is the yacht.”’

  So it had been Mullah who roused the coastguard.

  He goes on: ‘Yes, I can get a towing boat – a dhoni.’ Ah! That’s what they meant, not ‘dawny’ but ‘dhoni’ – I had seen pictures – large powerful and beautiful local fishing boats. ‘And I can get some divers. I’m working on it now, straight away. I would have called you, but I didn’t know your number.’

  We wait in the morning sunshine, not tired in the slightest, even though we’ve been awake most of the night.

  A mere half-hour later, the dhoni arrives, with thirteen young bloods on board, and Mullah. With the help of many rubber fenders to prevent damage, the two boats are tied together, and drift in the gentle breeze of a pleasant sunny morning. There is much discussion, during which the curious young men swarm all over the outside of Blackwattle, asking as many questions as their English will allow. One even asks very quietly, ‘Can we have a drink?’, which I am glad to provide until he makes it plain that he wants alcohol, not soft drink. He fades away when I say no.

  It is decided that some divers should go down to see if they can quickly get the line away from the propeller. If there is more damage than this we are at a loss to know how we can have repairs made in this place, or even in Malé, and we are loath to sail this heavy boat into the port without an engine as back-up.

  We hold our breath while the two divers, seeming to need very little in the way of air replenishment, stay down under the boat for many minutes at a time. They call for knife after knife, as the line is very thin, and it has wrapped itself tightly around the shaft between the propeller and the bearing. Finally it’s free, and Ted and I stare at each
other as he turns the key to start the engine, which comes to life.

  From here the story is all lightness of heart, as then we hear the most beautifully normal familiar growl from our beloved and reliable engine. The coastguard speedboat has arrived by this time, and they agree to lead us through the narrow passage lined with unmarked coral heads into the safest water beside the causeway. After we have anchored, they send a couple of divers down to examine the keel for damage. There is damage, but not structural, just deep grooving into the keel, and it can wait for another day. It’s just after 10 am; the whole drama did not last more than nine hours.

  ‘A cup of tea!’ I announce, when the divers have gone.

  ‘Come here!’ says Ted, from where he sits on the cockpit coaming staring at the shore.

  ‘What?’ I sit beside him to see what he sees.

  ‘You were terrific.’

  I laugh, and notice my voice is still shaky. ‘So were you.’

  ‘No, I mean it – I couldn’t have had a better partner in a crisis.’

  Rather than cry I go to put the kettle on.

  For the rest of the day my knees shake slightly, and we tend to our wounds. Despite all of Ted’s caution in letting off the parachute flare, the recoil has cut his fingers badly. The recoil was much worse than on the flares which we let off in our Safety of Life at Sea (SOLAS) training; those had hardly any recoil at all. I have a bloody imprint of the casing of the flare, like a crescent moon, embedded in my chest wall, and blue bruising spreads out from it.

  It’s all nothing. We saved the boat, and learned many lessons from Day 244: we lacked a weather forecast for the change in the wind which put us on the reef; we put a non-floating safety line on the dinghy; we lacked charts to get us unaided into the small harbour.

  We learn, we learn, we learn.

  We have been blooded by Day 244, but have also passed our first big test: we worked well together in a crisis. In the days after the incident, we don’t say much, but I feel a new closeness brought about by the experience, a new understanding of how much we need each other, how we literally sink or swim together. Ted gives me bear hugs at unusual times, like when I am trying to get breakfast, or coil the lines, or start the dinghy motor.