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A strong breeze across our starboard bow. A darkening sky to the west reveals
only an endless chain of cumulonimbus, their flat basis slung low across the
sky from north to south, convection jet streams blasting their billowing tops
ever higher. An ominous silhouette.
The rig creaks as a gust slams into the sails. I look up at our mainsail. Its
not going to last much longer. These traditional Indonesian cotton sails are
not made for gale force winds. I remember the sudden flash of fear in the old
man's eyes when I told him where we were going with the boat. He wanted to
tell me. But he could see that I was going to go anyway. So he handed me the
newly made brown sails and I gave the money to his wife. "Farewell" he said,
and without making eye contact he turned on his heal and walked to the back of
his shop where bits of sail and leach line was all that was left to remind him
of his last project.
It's two months later and we find ourselves in the Mentawai straights, 1500
nautical miles from the old man's shop, and the weather is going from bad to
worse. I curse myself for raising the mainsail in the first place. I knew the
weather was shithouse, but I wanted to show off our sails to our new
passengers who have just boarded. Now the main sail was going to be an
absolute bitch to get down. A gust hits us again, a raw and violent punch in
the chest, leaving me breathless, reeling against the blow, grabbing onto the
guardrail like a punch drunk boxer, hanging on the ropes, knowing you've lost
this round. And as if on cue the first big drops of rain are sweeping across
the deck and suddenly you are in it, the storm all around you, no sun, no sky.
Nowhere to run.
The westerly has whipped up an ugly sea, short and steep. The Indies is
pitching and rolling, like standing on the saddle of a massive horse, bucking
and rearing in slow motion, barely controllable. I see the faces of some of
our guests through the doghouse windows. Big eyes watching me on the fore
deck, clammy hands, nervous smiles and white knuckles. I walk down the
foredeck to the wheelhouse, lunging from one hand hold to the next, a rock
climber on an unstable face, squinting my eyes against the driving rain.
'Might as well get the passengers involved from the start' I think. TJ, Doc
and Dave are staring at me apprehensively. 'Can you guys please give me a hand
to get the sail down', I ask. But the tone of my voice leaves no room for
debate. This is going to be a grim and dangerous job.
The Indies Explorer is a 36m traditional Indonesian gaff-rigged ketch, no
different to the sailing ships of 300 years ago. Teak masts and
block-and-tackle. Not one winch to assist the sailors to raise the sails. A
complex and dated system of getting the sails down. The gaff poles (a boom at
the top of the mast) stay in position, and the main sail is pulled out along
the bottom of this pole like a curtain along the bottom of a curtain rod. It
is a method and it works.
But with a more conventional gaff rig the gaff pole is lowered with the sail.
So in heavy wind conditions the gaff pole can simply be dropped with sail and
all. Not so with our system. The sail has to be pulled in along the fixed gaff
pole towards the mast where it is gathered by three sail ties spaced evenly
apart. And when the sail is filled with a gale force wind this seemingly
simple task becomes a killer. The yachties out there will say: "Simply turn
her into the wind so that the sail spills the wind." Which works fine on a
standard Bermudan rig. But in our case the sail (which is not fixed at the top
or the bottom) becomes a giant 12m by 12m flag flapping in the wind. A
super-powerful whiplash action which can fling a man over the side like a
weightless rag doll. An uncontrolled main sheet will whip a sailor across the
chest with more venomous ill intent than any medieval cat of nine tails in the
hand of the meanest slave master. Its blood, sweat and no time for tears: A
complement of two men 18m above deck to flake and stow the topsail, three men
down on deck to release halyards, one man to control the main sheet. So the
four of us set out to deal with a system designed three hundred years ago.
'Never mind the fact that I am the only with any experience handling these
sails' I think to myself. The Indies Explorer falls into the trough of a 6m
wave, shuddering. The crest of the wave towers above us. It seems as if it's
going to break over the deck, washing us away in one foul swoop. I feel as
helpless as a hare caught in the spotlights, vulnerable, exposed, and
seemingly defenceless. But the Indies Explorer simply rides up the face of the
swell, her sharply raked bow doing exactly what it's supposed to, a three
hundred year old design which made these Pinisi ketches some of the most
successful Indian Ocean traders.
Up over the swell she rides, bowsprit pointing to the sky shouting "I will
lead you forth!" as she reaches the crest of the wave and then falls down into
the next trough, ironwood hull and teak ribs groaning as the change in angle
shifts the load from timber to timber, employing the strength of all 80 ribs,
40 stringers and hull planks 8cm's thick. Not a drop of water on the deck. The
dock yard manager in Padang said it's the strongest built wooden boat he's
ever seen. "You can't find wood like that around here" he said whilst tapping
her ironwood hull as we stood below her in the dock. I see another wave up
ahead. But this time I focus on the task ahead.
"Ease off the main sheet" I shout to Dave as TJ and Doc start hauling in on
the halyard's return line which pulls the sail in towards the mast. The sail
can now effectively be described as the flag I mentioned earlier, with Dave
and TJ each attempting to pull in on a rope fixed to the two wildly flapping
corners. Despite two turns around the crossbar Dave is unable to hold on to
the main sheet. I see it slipping from his fingers and dive over to lend him a
hand. But it's too late. I grab onto the end of the rope just as Dave looses
his grip. Suddenly the main sheet is free, and all the power of our giant main
sail is transferred to the point where I am now desperately trying to hang on.
It lifts me off my feet and swigs me around from side to side, feet in the
air, like the comic strip where Roger Rabbit hangs on to the bull's tail no
matter what because he knows that if he lets go his dead.
With a violent flick the sail flings me towards one of the shrouds. I'm in a
desperate situation. An untrained acrobat without a safety net. And as the
shroud comes at me I wonder what our new guests are thinking right now with
their captain 2m above deck hanging on for dear life. So I made a quick
decision: Let go the rope and grab onto the shroud. If I miss I am overboard
which during this storm means a long and lonely death with lots of time to
contemplate 'what could have been' if I had stayed at home in Cape Town
practising at my dad's law firm in stead of coming to Indonesia 2 years ago
with my newly wedded wife to build my dream boat.
Unless the sharks get to me quickly. Desperately I lunge for the stay. I feel
the steel cable in my left hand, hard and cold. My momentum takes me out over
the gunwale and for a moment my body flies over the frothing Indian Ocean.
Centrifugal force keeps my feet clear of the gunwale and after completing an
almost full 360 degree turn I land up back on deck, other side the stay,
standing on my feet. Just as I'm about to smile at what must be quite a unique
gymnastic sequence (deserving a 9.5 out of 10) the now newly freed rope
completes another cycle and unceremoniously slaps me across the mouth. I
stagger backwards, dazed, instinctively trying to get out the way. Blood in my
mouth.
By now we're in a full blown storm. The local Indonesian fishermen
appropriately call these intense tropical squalls 'black eyes'. They can last
for weeks on end, often resulting in missing boats, delayed crossings and very
unhappy charter guests.
Gus is at the wheel allowing the Indies Explorer to pick her own course across
the Mentawai straits. When we sat out from Padang early this morning we set a
course due west, the shortest route between Sumatra and the outer islands. But
now the storm is coming out of the North West, blowing a 30 knot gale and a
growing 6m swell to match. In this part of the tropics, so close to the
equator one seldom encounters wind swell higher than 4-5 meters. These swells
are generated by local storms and pressure systems and the distance they
travel usually govern their size. They are steep, very close together and
often come at you from all directions at once. Very uncomfortable.
The pressure systems of the world's southern oceans, south of latitude forty,
breed an entirely different type of swell: Open Ocean ground swell. Can be
almost limitlessly big, up to maybe 20m, and they travel incredible distances
from latitude sixty all the way to the equator and beyond. This distance
travelled is known as 'fetch', and these groundswells can have a fetch in
excess of 4500 nautical miles! As a result these beautifully shaped giant
swells are spaced far apart and the swell itself often stretches from horizon
to horizon.
Despite their size, the long wavelength means that a vessel hardly feels it
when they pass under. But when a ground swell breaks, their power is matched
by very few natural phenomena. The earth shakes. I am a surfer, and I set
out two years ago to finance and build this boat so that I could hunt for surf
in otherwise inaccessible areas. Groundswell breaking over a shallow coral
reef is what surfers search for (and our expedition is no exception), but
'breaking waves' and 'reef" are probably the two items highest on any prudent
Captain's "danger: to be avoided at all costs" list.
I wipe the blood from my chin and push my tongue against my two front teeth.
They're still there, although feeling a bit loose. A sharp
'CRACK-RIP-CRACK!!!!!' brings me to my senses. The mainsail has a healthy 2m
tear; about 10cm's from where the sail joins the mast. With a sudden surge of
bravado, my temper barely in control, I come out of my corner, realizing that
a 'knock-out' is the only chance I have left of winning this fight, of saving
face, of getting this nasty mainsail stowed before she kills someone or
self-destructs beyond repair. "Pull in the halyard!"
I shout to no-one in particular. TJ and Doc heave away. Slowly the top of the
sail responds, inching along below the gaff pole, 14m above deck. "Start
gathering the base of the sail!" I shout to Dave. I signal to Gus to turn the
Indies Explorer with the wind and to put the hammer down, full throttle. We
now run with the storm, going along at 10 knots, the apparent wind speed now
much lower. I grab onto the main sheet again, determined this time to finish
the job. The tactic works, and 10 minutes later we are in the wheelhouse,
dripping water onto the floor, stoked to be out of there.
We watch as Gus brings the Indies Explorer back on its original course with
grim determination. Tomorrow morning we WILL be at the outer islands. The
raging storm cannot dampen the spirits of the eleven surfers on board. I can
feel the electricity in the air. We are all together on the ultimate surf trip
ever. Its day one of the 3-month Indian Ocean Expedition.
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