Kijana (33 page)

Meanwhile, the north-west monsoon had hit and we were motoring almost 50 per cent of the time. We ploughed into the wind and waves, revving the guts out of the engine to make any headway. Our progress was a meagre 80 miles a day. Checking emails in this weather was a nightmare, requiring one person to point the satellite antenna at the imaginary spot in the sky where the signal strength came from, while another person on the computer dialled up the connection. Each time we went through this process to find the cupboard bare. Finally, an email arrived from the office, merely informing us they were considering our request.

The rain clouds came and went, but all the while the grey sky remained. It was on these types of days that the crew relied on each other more than ever. We would sit for hours huddled in the cockpit, dodging spray behind the bimini, and talk about anything that came to mind. After so long together, we'd covered most topics, so our conversations tended to be pretty weird. Jokes were repeated and themes explored to the nth degree, to the point where only a word needed to be uttered for the others to understand. We were clutching at straws but these were desperate times – any chortle in a storm would do.

However, despite our ready supply of laughs, the same could not be said for our fuel. We were becoming increasingly concerned that we may run out of diesel.
Kijana
had the capacity to hold 400 litres of the stuff spread over two tanks, one on each side, but even though we'd left Samarinda under full capacity, the engine had been guzzling it down to get through the weather. I was constantly using the dipstick to check the diesel level, calculating that it would be touch-and-go as to whether we would make it to Thailand with our current supply.

The next refuelling point was at the start of the Malacca Strait, opposite Singapore on the Indonesian island of Batam, which was a solid week's sailing away. We needed the wind to change direction so we could raise the sails and give the engine a breather. Also, the buffeting of the wind and waves was taking its toll on our equipment. One of the braces holding the wind generators had buckled under the constant rocking, snapping the spinning blades and spraying shards of carbon fibre across the deck. Luckily, no one had been on deck at the time or they could have suffered a serious injury.

Then, amid our worries, an email arrived from the office. They'd thought long and hard about our request, and had even spoken to Maya herself. They believed it was too early for her to join the crew, considering the delicate timing of our pitches to the television networks. But they conceded she could fly to Thailand for a short visit.

It wasn't the answer I wanted, but there was at least a tiny glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. That same day the wind slowly changed direction to come from the north-east, then continued to die down until there was not even enough breeze to stop the boom from slapping. However, the calmer conditions allowed us to at least drop the engine revs, reducing the fuel consumption considerably.

As we approached the beginning of the Strait of Malacca the wind was up and down, forcing us to use our last few drops of diesel to limp into a marina on Batam Island for refuelling. Three hours later we departed with full tanks and an even more depleted bank account, and joined the heavy flow of traffic entering the narrow channel between Indonesia and Singapore, which is one of the busiest shipping channels in the world. This required even more diligent watches to stay out of the way of the thundering tankers who cared little for small wooden yachts.

The wind continued to shift in all directions as though it was determined to make it difficult for us to travel. We used the sails as often as possible and managed to keep engine use to a minimum after we left Batam Island.

Unlike the shifting wind, my thoughts were focused on just one matter. I emailed Maya that we hoped to arrive at Phuket in five days' time, which was probably a little too optimistic. She replied that she would book her flight to arrive in Phuket the day we did. I'd set us a fierce challenge to travel about 800 miles in only five days, but I was determined to get there as quickly as I could. I didn't care what the wind had planned for us. If it wasn't going to help us, then the engine sure as hell would.

Plotting our position had never been more important. It reminded me of those last few days I'd spent aboard
Lionheart
before arriving home. I tackled the art of navigation with renewed vigour. Josh and Beau seemed to feed off my excitement and together we really got stuck into sailing as quickly as we could. Each centimetre on the map was a small victory, and every hour I would calculate a new ETA and make adjustments to keep
Kijana
on course. It was no mean feat, for the shipping channel along the coast of Malaysia threw up many obstacles, not the least being the long lines of fishing nets and trawlers which had the nasty habit of working at night without lights.

We entered Thai waters on 29 November 2002, and late that afternoon spotted, in the distance, the island of our dreams. We rechecked the chart to confirm excitedly that it was Phi Phi Lae, the location of Maya Bay. On that first brief sighting, it certainly appeared the way we'd imagined it – the first thing on the trip that had. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Our visit to that island was to come later. First, I had an important rendezvous. We continued on another 25 miles to Phuket Island and as the sun set and the wind died, we motored into Patong Bay. Without worrying about Customs, we dropped anchor and launched the dinghy for the short trip to shore. Maya expected to see us in the morning but I wanted to surprise her at the hotel that very night. I grabbed my Borneo backpack and threw in a razor, toothpaste and soap. It had been 17 days since we'd left Samarinda and the thought of a shower was sending us crazy.

As Beau and I stepped into the dinghy, Josh suddenly changed his mind and decided to remain on board. Throughout the entire trip us guys had shared every exciting moment together. Landing in a new country was always cause for celebration, if for nothing else than to get clean and have a nice meal. It would be the first time the three amigos hadn't shared the excitement of a landfall.

We tried to convince him, but he was adamant that he wanted to stay and get some sleep, which I found hard to understand. But I had other things on my mind, so Beau and I headed ashore in the dinghy and caught a taxi to the hotel.

Once inside the hotel foyer I used the phone at reception and dialled Maya's room, pretending I was still at sea. After confirming I would meet her in the morning, we climbed the stairs to her room, knocked on the door and hid against the wall. Sensibly, she took a while to open the door, a single girl in a strange country and all that. Eventually she opened it, and as she did I peered around the doorway to see my lovely girl standing in her pyjamas with a twinkle in her eye. I felt embarrassed by the stupid grin on my face, but there was nothing I could do about it. I was that happy! At that moment Kijana felt a world away.

CHAPTER TWELVE
TROUBLE IN PARADISE

THAILAND BROUGHT WITH IT ALL THE
trappings of western life we'd long forgotten. We felt guilty, dirty even, indulging in the luxuries of modern life – soft drink, spicy Thai meals and cheap pirated CDs. But after a few days of indulging, we soon tired of consumerism and yearned to get back to the business of Kijana.

We were kick-started into action by Beau's need to find his way to the other side of Thailand, where his meditation course was due to begin in a couple of days. It took us a while to work out the best way there – a bus to the mainland, then a train to the east coast of the mainland where the eight-day course of mind-cleansing was to be held.

We said our goodbyes and arranged to meet at the island of Phi Phi Don, the biggest island next to Phi Phi Lae, the location of
The
Beach
. From there we would make the triumphant sail into the lagoon of Maya Bay, all four of us together.

In Beau's absence, Josh, Maya and I sailed to the other side of Phuket Island, docking at a rather fancy marina and setting to work, giving
Kijana
a well-deserved clean. She had done a mighty job powering into the monsoon, so the least she deserved was a bit of TLC.

The marina was strangely located in an estuary that could only be accessed at high tide when there was enough water to cover the mudflats. Despite this odd impediment, the marina was a major facility, with more than 100 yachts berthed along the marina fingers, a couple of restaurants and dry-dock facilities.

Over the three days we were berthed there we took all the carpet outside to dry, wiped the shelves, restocked the galley, and washed the sheets and pillows.

The three of us worked well together, and there was a sense of achievement as
Kijana
was spruced up. Even if we were struggling to get good film for the documentaries, seeing
Kijana
in tiptop condition made me feel better. She was a major investment for the project and had to be looked after.

After completing our work we decided to sail to Phi Phi Don, where we would hang out and wait for Beau. As I paid the hefty marina fees I asked the shipwright for some advice on how to get out of the marina. Entry and exit had to be timed with the tides and I was heartened when he told me we were leaving at precisely the right time.

‘Just follow the river the way you came in,' he told me.

I stepped aboard
Kijana
, confident and happy with her condition, and excited about the islands we would visit in the coming days. With a clean boat I was keen to show Maya the best side of sailing.

I took to the helm after warming the engine and yelled out to Josh, who was still on the jetty, to untie the mooring lines. Josh stepped aboard just before the gap between the boat and the jetty got too far as confidently as any experienced seaman I'd seen. Watching him, I was even more confident that when Beau finally left us in India, Josh and I could maintain our vessel and command her safely.

However, my confidence soon evaporated when I felt a strange sensation as we motored into the first bend in the river. It was the dull feeling of
Kijana
wedging herself into a mud bank in the corner of the river. So much for our boating prowess!

‘Shit,' was all I could muster. I shifted the engine into reverse, hoping to back out of the mud, but she refused to budge. Even revving the bejickers out of the motor made no difference.

We could see the tide sucking the water out to sea, slowly dropping the level around
Kijana
's hull and holding her tightly wedged into the bank. It was at that point I noticed the masts leaning ever-so-slightly towards the mangroves trees on our port side. It wasn't much, but it was enough to cause panic. The tide was dropping so quickly that if we didn't get off the bank, our newly cleaned vessel would be left high and dry, pathetically leaning on her side until the tide returned in about six hours. How would that sound to the office? I could just see their take on it –
Kijana
had run aground because I was too busy ogling my girlfriend. Great!

Josh radioed the marina office for assistance. At least they didn't have far to get there, for we'd failed to travel more than 100 metres from the jetty. The shipwright and his crew arrived within five minutes in a powerful diesel tugboat. They attached lines to every point possible and gave the tug everything she had. But nothing would work. All the while,
Kijana
continued to lean further and further over as the rush of water from the river gathered pace. We reached the point where it was no use trying to pull
Kijana
out of the mud, for the tide was too far gone.

I looked at the shipwright with pleading eyes. ‘It's OK,' he said trying to reassure me, ‘it's happened to other yachts quite often.'

Then why the hell didn't you warn me, I felt like asking him. Instead, I asked what the ‘other yachts' had done. He told us to tie ropes from the top of each mast to an old rusting abandoned barge on the other side of the river. This, he said, would stop the yacht toppling over onto her side completely. With an outgoing tide, no vessels could get in or out of the marina, so our ropes weren't going to cause any problems, he said. We just had to make sure we got them down by the time the tide returned or else we'd cause a traffic jam of yachts.

The shipwright left us with the frantic job of stringing lines to the opposite bank before the lean got much worse. For more than an hour we crisscrossed the river in the dinghy, tying ropes to the barge, until we began to feel like spiders spinning a web. When we finished,
Kijana
looked like our poor insect victim.

To complete the experience it began to rain, so we scrambled aboard
Kijana
's deck, which now lay at a 45-degree angle. Below deck we began moving everything to the port side of the cabin to prevent anything falling off shelves and causing damage. The tide was so low by that stage we were able to walk around the exposed hull, which, from a distance, looked like a beached whale. We were even able to inspect the barnacles growing on the propeller.

There was nothing we could do except wait for the water level to rise when the tide came back in. Actually, there was one thing we were able to do – get some footage. Josh ran around like a madman getting shots from every angle.

While Josh stayed on board getting footage, Maya and I returned to the marina for a few hours. Josh later recounted how difficult it was to cook on a stove tilting 45 degrees. Why he even embarked on such a project was beyond me.

We arrived back as the incoming tide began to return the water level to its former depth. As surely as she went over,
Kijana
's masts began their journey back to an upright position. By this stage it was late afternoon and the day was escaping us. If we didn't get her off the bank during the small window of high tide, she'd be stuck there all night in a repeat performance.