The Scenario

With just seven days to go before our cruising permit ran out we had to make the 350 mile trip to Gan on the southern-most atoll of Addu. Once there we could provision, refuel, fill up our water tanks and check out of the Maldives to continue south a further 300 or so miles to Chagos, where we would spend a few weeks before heading west to Madagascar. Esper’s cruising speed is roughly 6 knots, so we average approx. 120 miles or so over a 24 hour period, providing favourable weather is on our side. Under engine she’s slower, and motoring into wind, tide or current her speed easily reduces to 2 knots or fewer.

The Weather

We are now in the transitional period, which is the precursor to the South West monsoon. Winds and stormy weather build during this period. However we were monitoring big lows building on both sides of the equator. On the south cyclones (hurricanes) travel west and rotate in a clock-wise direction; on the north side it’s the opposite. Both of these effect the weather in the surrounding regions and dictate where we can and cannot go. Travelling too early over the equator would be dangerous, travelling too late we could miss our window, so timing is important. Either side of the equator are equatorial currents. The Northern Equatorial Current travels from west to east, the Southern Equatorial Current from east to west. These can either help or hinder progress, so angles of attack become important features of passage planning.

The Start

We left Male with s/y Divanty (s/y stands for ‘sailing yacht’) and had a cracking sail south, arriving in Muli Lagoon on Mulaku atoll a day later. That was not without its problems too, with continued anchoring issues, but that’s another story. The inhabited island of Naalaafushi was a delight as we watched local kids taking part in ‘Children’s Day 2013′, putting on a fashion show, singing and dancing, all to the delight of proud parents and grinning spectators.

To make up some time our next trip was to take us east past the next atolls of Kolhumadulu and Hadhdhunmathee and onto North Huvadhoo, the penultimate atoll before Addu. We had planned to sail west of Hadhdhunmathee atoll but south-western winds put paid to that plan. Still, the forecast was westerlies so they should see us right for the crossing. Either way, we had to make the passage from the east to west at some point between the atolls. So once at sea and checking the conditions we agreed to go east of Hadhdfhunmathee atoll, under the southern side of it, protected somewhat by the reefs, to get over as far west before dropping south. We’d have preferred to have gone through the atolls but this requires eye ball navigation through shoals and bommies (columns of coral), possible during the day only, and time was not on our side.

We ate our pre-prepared pasta salad and within a couple of hours I was on the toilet with bum wee. I’d picked up a bug from somewhere and started feeling ill. This was not a good start and it was the beginning of my four-day diet, one that I wouldn’t recommend to anyone.

Squall One

As night fell Antony of s/y Divanty radioed through on the VHF:
“Esper, Esper, this is Divanty. Do you copy? Over”.
“Divanty, this is Esper. Go ahead.”
“You’re cracking along there, Esper. Do you plan to reef down (reduce sail) for the night? Over.”
“No, I don’t think so, Ants. We have one reef in and are in the lee of this atoll (meaning the atoll protects us from building seas and current).”

Mistake number one.

As we came round the south-east corner of Hadhdhunmathee atoll we tucked in towards land. Things seemed to be going well. We were close-hauled (sailing in to wind) and the winds were coming round to the west, so we had a good angle of attack for the next passage, which would take us into the One and a Half Degree Channel. Since this travels from west to east we had to get as far west as possible.

Suddenly Antony came on the VHF radio. Breaking the usual radio protocol he just said:

“Esper, there is a squall coming. It’s a big one, at least 26 knots.”

We’ve since checked Divanty’s wind instruments and found them to be four knots out. Unfortunately they read four knots slower than actual wind speed, so we were about to be hit by winds rated a Force Seven, near gale conditions. On a good day squalls are easy to spot. In daylight the clouds darken and you can see the change in sea state, there’s usually a white wall of water heading at you. At night if nothing else you can monitor the wind speed and see it pick-up steadily before the shit hits the fan. We had no such warning except Anthony’s, which gave us a few vital extra seconds.

At the time Liz was helming and I was at the back of the boat, about to engage our auto-pilot (an hydraulic ram that steers an auxiliary rudder so we don’t have to steer manually). I just had time to disengage the thing and get back to the cockpit before 30 knots of wind hit Esper square on.

“You know what to do, Liz”, I said, as I clambered back to the cockpit, hearing the winds whistling through the rigging. She’d done this before and I had complete faith in my helmswoman, but it still didn’t stop the adrenalin rush as the boat started to lean.

Almost immediately it arrived. Bang! We were hit by howling winds and hard rain, and Esper tipped over. Liz clung to the wheel, keeping Esper into wind as best as possible. Allowing winds and waves to hit the boat from the side could be dangerous and would have pushed us off-course, so steering her into the wind was crucial. An alternative would have been to go down-wind, putting the winds behind us, but that would have taken us into open sea and to the point of no return.

“I think we need to reef”, suggested Liz wryly. Nice to see my crew keeping their spirits up in hairy conditions, I thought! She was right, though, we had too much sail out. Although the boat was balanced and Liz wasn’t fighting at the wheel, she was too far over for my liking.

I attempted to reef the mizzen (the rear sail) first and instead of furling her away, the furling line slipped and the whole sail came out, ripping my hands in the process. This pushed Esper into wind so now Liz had to battle to keep Esper from tacking (putting the wind on the other side of the boat). With Esper tipping up further I was clinging to the mizzen mast and looking down at the solar panels that I had stupidly left out. Normally mounted so they are at 90 degrees when upright, they were now in the water! We were healing so much the water level was rushing into the cock-pit, which is situated at the centre of the boat. I’d never seen Esper lean over so much, and we’ve sailed in some pretty strong winds.

“Just keep pointing into wind”, I shouted, the rain slashing at my face. Liz, a hunched bundle of waterproof oilies, just nodded and kept her eyes fixed on the wind instrument.

The winds were getting stronger, now gusting Force Eight. A gale. With vicious rain there was no visibility and Liz could only steer by the wind instrument. I had to let the mizzen sheet (rope) go, which de-powered the sail somewhat.

“You need to reef the front sails!”, Liz shouted, without turning. As if I didn’t know that!
“Just keep that boat into wind!”, I replied, trying to figure out how to let out a bit of sail in order to then furl it away.

Normally the stay-sail (this is a smaller, inner sail at the front that helps steer a boat when going into wind) is easy to reef, but as Esper smashed through waves and tipped over further, I struggled to furl anything. Instead I attempted to furl away the front sail, which was already reefed.

I spent the next half an hour, slowly creeping around the deck, first one side, then the other, to bring that sail in. Hundreds of tons of water washed down the decks and half the tow-rail disappeared under the sea. Getting into a safe position to winch was hard enough, let alone trying to furl away a sail tight as a drum, but Liz and I had done this before and knew that, if nothing else, Esper would look after us.

The battering lasted over an hour, though exactly how long I’ve no idea. Esper did indeed look after us, but we didn’t look after her:

Initial Damage

The squall had ripped off our port-side jerry can board and taken two full cans of diesel over the side, and of course the bar that holds up our solar panels took a pounding and bent.

Broken board and two missing jerry cans. The remaining cans refused to stay upright.

Bent solar panel support… but still operational. Unlike the solar panels themselves!

The floor. Ruined.

The hatch in the saloon had a broken catch and was letting in sea-water by the bucket-load. Salt water was running across the ceiling and down our walls, soaking our books, pictures, shelves, sofas, cushions and floor.

A broken automatic bilge switch meant the bilge pump wasn’t coming on, and were filling so quickly that oily water was rising up through the floor, staining and delaminating our beautiful oak boards, making walking slippery and dangerous.

The rear heads (toilet) were letting in water from somewhere and the floor was filling with brown liquid. Lighting circuits were getting wet so the galley lights flashed intermittently. Finally the water that had run down our walls was literally peeling away our oak laminate like wall-paper. Esper’s interior aged ten years in two hours.

Esper’s beautiful English oak walls, peeling like wallpaper.

The Bigger Problem

Esper’s interior wasn’t top of our minds, however. She’d been pushed into the One and a Half Degree Channel, which is roughly where the Northern Equatorial Current begins. Now we had bigger problems. With a west wind pushing us east, we had a current coming from the west also pushing us east.

The current alone travels at three knots or more, whilst the strong winds had us sailing at over six knots. Basically we’re heading nine knots in the wrong direction, and when I mean wrong direction I mean out into the open sea, away from the lee of the atolls and away from our destination. Below is a screen grab of our track, which had us sailing in a perfect south-easterly direction throughout the squall.

(Click to see bigger image)

The Moment Of Terror

Now imagine this: you’ve been knocked off course so you need to steer the boat roughly south-west, which would be approx 210° on the compass. Moving the boat round to point in this direction (your ‘heading’), you notice your course over ground (actual direction of movement) is reading 080°. You’re pointing south-west and moving east. You move the boat round to counter this so your heading is 270° (west), and now you’re moving south-east. Now add in the wind factor and at certain points on the compass we’re travelling at over 3 knots, sometimes 5 knots, in the opposite direction we want to go in. Basically, we’re moving backwards. The radio crackled into life:

“Esper, Esper, this is Divanty. Are your instruments ok? I seem to be having problems with some of my readings.”

This was the moment of terror. The heading of the boat bore no relationship whatsoever to the actual direction we were moving in. The current we were caught in, combined with the winds, were so strong we simply could not steer anywhere on the compass between 180° and 000°.

I almost threw up with the sudden realisation that the squall had knocked us so far off course we were now, essentially, adrift.

Hell: Day One

After the squall died down (it continued with confused seas and strong winds) our immediate reaction was to get back into a close-hauled position and point as south-west as possible, but that eastern current just kept pointing us south-east.

We tried every angle of wind, every sail combination, and tried using the engine to power us through the current. Watching our course-over-ground and our speed over ground, the display would flash up “140°, 3 kn”, which was not what we wanted to see. One hundred and forty degrees would have us sailing past the south west tip of Australia! Often the display would show “060°, 3kn”, which would have taken us to southern Sri Lanka. By sheer cunning and clever helming we occasionally saw us heading “190°, 0.5kn” which, if we could hold that course, might have us hitting the southern tip of the next atoll in five days time. We simply couldn’t hold it and the display once again flashed up “080°, 4kn”.

From here on in we were hand-steering, taking it in turns to battle with the helm. This was an exhausting process, especially when you know it will not change for a while. The last forecast I’d downloaded had sustained winds of 20 knots for the next five days. Despite this, your body naturally kicks into survival mode and starts to draw on energy from adrenalin you never knew you had (and fat stores you knew you had).

The first few hours were spent trying to reach North Huvadhoo atoll, but we were motoring hard and only making 0.5 knots against the current. Then the next Force 8 squall came. We smashed into the waves, taking more water on board and trying hard to hold a course, riding over rising seas, but it was a losing battle. We continued to move south east.

The most heart-wrenching thing was this: for every hour of hard motor-sailing in some kind of south-westerly direction, every squall that came along pushed us back to the same spot. The squalls were relentless, one after another, and the situation was getting desperate. I managed a grimace when I thought of people’s comments on Facebook, jealously reminding us we were sailing in paradise. With no land in sight, miserable skies and a large, dark swell in seas 2km deep, it wasn’t what I had in mind when setting out to sail the Maldives.

A close-up of our track (click to enlarge). This screen shot shows a distance of approx four miles and shows what happened over a four hour period.

One squall had all the lines on the foresails left in a knotted, frayed mess. Seeing the next squall approaching I had to untie it all in order to use the foresails for some kind of stability. Not thinking of the consequences I clambered forward without safety harness or life-jacket and spent half an hour trying to untie it all. Liz, meanwhile, was in the cockpit screaming at me to come back and, when eventually I did, she shouted at me never, ever to leave the cockpit again without my life-jacket. It was a desperate situation because had I not untied those knots we’d have probably ripped the foresails altogether, so safety went out the window, but that was the last time I left the cockpit unharnessed.

This screen-shot, over approx. 24 hours, demonstrates perfectly our dilemma. Coming in from the top we made some progress south-west, albeit erratically. At the bottom left we’re hit by two squalls, that takes us back and beyond our progress.

We knew that to head anywhere south was completely futile, so we made the difficult decision to turn around and head back to one of the northern atolls and maybe try again. Liz checked in on Millie, who wasn’t exactly pleased with the situation either. She vied for Liz’s attention, nuzzling her and looking for comfort, but she soon settled once she’d been fed and hid under the pile of clothes spread across the cabin. The clothes rail had come down and it was a mess, but it provided comfort for Millie.

The skies darkened and choppy 4-5m waves turned a murky green. We looked for glimmers of hope. A cargo ship, perhaps, or a radio mast on an island. There was nothing. We were in no-man’s land and we were moving deeper into it.

Hell: Day Two

The next twenty four hours were probably the worst. We had been motor-sailing hard into the wind and current in order to make any progress, but we were being pushed further away from land. Now we contemplated changing course altogether and maybe heading for Malaysia. We’d probably have enough provisions but we had no charts of this area. Sri Lanka could have been possible too but we knew that the weather system there was pretty terrible. We’d even thought about heading south to reach the southern equatorial current that would have pushed us west again, but the last weather report was showing south-westerlies down there too. Heading over the equator from the point we were heading towards would have been stupid. No, we had to head back to the closest possible atoll.

The storms kept coming. Every squall brought winds of 36kts and just pushed us further back. Each time we achieved some vaguely northerly progress, another squall pushed us in the wrong direction. We’d lost contact with Divanty after the first night, making broken radio contact with them in the morning to agree that we would continue to head south. We had no idea where they were, thinking that with a bigger boat and bigger engine they’d probably be on Huvadhoo atoll by now. We were happy for them but it depressed us further to know our 60hp Perkins engine had failed us. Unbeknown to us Divanty, with their 135hp engine and larger boat, were stuck in the same situation.

The sea-state was untidy: rolling easterly swells with wind whipping up spray across the deck, we’d smashed through the waves and continued with some kind of slow and frustrating north-easterly progress, hoping that the winds would change. As night drew in we were hit by yet another squall. At this point everything tied to the deck had slipped, moved or gone overboard. Our folding dinghy was now sliding into the water, scooping up gallons of sea and threatening to take out all the stanchion posts on our starboard side. I had to go forward and lift it back on deck, so with Liz screaming at me once more, I found myself on a bucking bow, drenched by every wave Esper rode through. It was tough work but I managed to secure the Portabote, but not without more cuts, bruises and bangs to my already battered body.

The next squall created problems with the foresail. It was stuck and we couldn’t furl it. About a quarter of it remained unfurled and was actually quite useful in providing a little forward drive, but it was going to prove dangerous at some point.

Hell: Day Three

The foresail stuffed in the forepeak

The next hour, leaving Esper to drift further east, Liz and I battled with the sail. She’d lower the halyard a little as I tried with all my might to not let it fall into the water. It came down eventually, but now it was twisted around the forestay (forward cable that the sail is attached to), and the lines were knotted and wrapped around it too. It took us an hour to get that sail into the forepeak and we count our lucky stars that the sea at that point was not coming over the deck and into the open hatch. Not that it would have made any difference to our now soaking interior.

Seeing Stars And Other Things

I was fit to collapse. I cannot describe the level of exhaustion I was feeling and I needed to rest just for five minutes. Liz, who had gone down below for a pee, came up in floods of tears. I thought something terrible had happened to Millie and felt sick in anticipation of what she was going to tell me. Liz, however, had slipped on the oily floor as Esper lurched sideways, and banged her head so hard she saw stars. She was thoroughly pissed off.

Auditory hallucinations had started two days ago but now we were getting visual hallucinations too. Staring at a red-lit compass, concentrating on not allowing the boat to deviate any more than thirty degrees in twisting seas, takes its toll. Liz started seeing other worlds in the floating, illuminated globe, and the wind indicator was turning into a clown’s face. Meanwhile I could see the cockpit floating in an aquarium with fish and coral, and Christmas tree branches grew from the floor. People were running across the horizon, imaginary islands appeared in the distance and, at one horrible point, another boat, unlit, came along side us. When the dark, cloaked spectre appeared above Liz I knew it was time to get a grip.

Jamie getting a grip

We just needed an hour to rest, but the next squall came. This one lasted all night. It ripped the bimini (our cockpit cover), smashed off the forward navigation light and had our spare dinghy sliding around the foredeck. It had been lashed down with cargo straps and tied at six points. Meanwhile, down below, I had to empty the flooding toilet by hand, regularly pump the bilges to prevent more oily water drenching our floors, all the while checking our track on the computer to see our progress. It just depressed us further.

At no point did we ever give up, but I realised I hadn’t written a log entry for two days. It was a subconscious way of forgetting the past and dealing only with each new situation as it presented itself to us.

Dawn arrived but daylight offered little comfort. I cranked up the satphone and called Divanty.

“Hi, Anthony, how’s things? Where are you?”
“I’m not exactly impressed with the situation but we’re all well. We saw your AIS track flash up on our computer and saw that you were heading north. We’re doing the same.”
“You mean you’re not on Huvadhoo?”
“No! We had her in our sights though. We could see lights on the island but we never got closer than 16 miles away, no matter how many revs I put on the engine.”

It sounded like a Hitchcock film. If Divanty, a well-found S&S designed 52ft Nauticat couldn’t make it, what chance did we have? It was mildly encouraging that they had had a similar experience to us, minus half the mishaps. Not that I would wish this scenario on anyone.

One of the next problems we had to contend with was that the winds were coming round to the north west, precisely the direction we were trying to head in! I’d had enough. I pushed the throttle forward on the engine, taking her close to 3,000 rpm (I rarely go over 2,300), and started to move forwards at a rate of 1 knot. That’s slow walking speed and land was over 40 miles away. Four days of smashing our way through erratic, lumpy seas, only to be pushed back with every squall? Give me strength.

We continued like this the whole day. We were burning through fuel at a ridiculous rate but inch-by-inch we were heading behind the lee of the atolls once more and slowly, gradually, the sea state settled.

Day Four: Leaving Hell

Liz and I settled a bit. I ate a whole tin of tuna and together we came up with a great screen-play based on our experience. It was good to keep the spirits up, but despite the ever-presence of the Maldives to our left, we were not out of danger. As the winds continued to come to the north-west our progress towards land was not as enjoyable as it should have been. We were hammering through gallons of diesel but still only travelling at 2 knots. Still, 2 knots in the right direction was better than none, even though we were only ever so slightly steering just west of north.

The squalls continued. By now we were used to them and prepared for each one as they arrived, and we were able to ride with them and point ourselves in the right direction.

It wasn’t until the morning of day four that we could say we were safe. We had enough power motor-sailing, and enough lee from the atolls that we could, if we wanted to, duck in west to a western atoll for respite. It was tempting but getting back to Male made more sense.

Millie emerged. Jumping up the companionway and into the cockpit she sniffed the air, surveyed the passing, familiar atolls, and appeared to approve of our progress.

Summary

As I write this it already seems so trivial. I look at the screen shots of our track and it doesn’t seem so bad now. But it was. Making that progress west was the biggest struggle I have ever undertaken. I never once doubted Esper’s ability to keep us safe, Liz’s helming skills or my own stamina, but there was a long period when both of us were fearful of what would happen next. Exhausted, being stuck in an open sea with no control over the boat, with no other boats in the vicinity to come to our aid (this is an empty part of the Indian Ocean) and the only option to sail on a damaged boat in a direction vaguely towards land over 1,500 miles away without charts, was terrifying.

We didn’t even come close!

Esper’s Damage Report

Fortunately most of Esper’s damage is cosmetic. Liz and I had always planned to completely refurbish the boat at some point, so we remain philosophical about the destroyed wood. The foresail furling mechanism, however, needs to be sorted immediately, no matter where we head next.

• broken foresail furling mechanism
• navigation lights over-board
• two jerry cans over-board
• frayed lines
• bent solar panel arm
• ripped bimini
• leaking saloon hatch
• no automatic bilge pump
• floor boards destroyed by oily water
• laminate peeling off the walls
• rear heads flooded
• furnishings soaked in salt water

Frayed lines

Missing from this picture is a stainless steel plate and the navigation lights mounted on it. It was ripped clean off on day three.

Personal Damage Report

The human body is an amazing thing. In survival situations it switches onto auto-pilot. Even so, we aged as much as Esper did during these four days and received some harsh, physical punishment for our efforts.

• stomach cramps – Jamie
• bum-wee – Jamie
• sailor’s bum (spots caused by salt water) – both
• heavy bruising – Liz
• cuts, nicks, welts, sores from bare-footed salt-water existence – both
• bump on head and resulting lock-jaw – Liz
• lower back problems – Jamie
• ripped hands – Jamie
• ruffled fur – Millie

One of a number of bruises Liz sustained

Food Consumed by Jamie

I do not recommend this four-day diet.

• Day One: pasta salad
• Day Two: a few mouthfuls of tuna and two chocolate biscuits
• Day Three: two mouthfuls of noodles and a chocolate biscuit with coffee
• Day Four: whole tin of tuna, tea, coffee, biscuits

Lessons Learnt

If nothing else we learnt loads these last few days. Not just about tactics but about ourselves too. I can’t be bothered to turn this into a lessons-learnt article, but here’s a couple to get you going:

• reef for the night, whatever the conditions
• always wear sailing gloves
• beware currents and their effect when combined with changeable wind
• don’t buy a boat

Finally, don’t ever tell a yachtsman they are sailing in paradise!

After her ordeal Millie is instructed to plan our next passage

(If you received this post by email and would like to comment, please go here: http://www.followtheboat.com/2013/05/17/worse-things-happen-at-sea)

The Maldives comprises around 1200 islands. I say “around” because each source I have checked comes up with a different figure, and I can’t be arsed to count them all on our navigation charts (which, in any case, aren’t that accurate). They stretch from 7º N (roughly on the same latitude as the southern tip of Sri Lanka) to 0º 41′ S (just south of the equator). That’s thousands of nautical miles of sailing around “sun-kissed”, “palm-fringed” little pieces of paradise. But more on that another time.

Jamie hard at it

Thilafushi was originally a sandbank, so not classed as an island. A few years ago it may well have been a destination for the well-heeled lover to impress his current amour with a spot of secluded silver service dinner as the sun went down (these days you can’t take a dip or stroll at dusk without a butler thrusting his canapés at you). But now, the Mordor-like flames and black smoke would put you off your appetiser. For Thilafushi is commonly known as “Rubbish Island”. If you saw the BBC Simon Reeve documentary, you’ll have an inkling of what I’m talking about.

It cannot be classed as an inhabited island because no Maldivian lives there. But with plenty of foreign workers (south Indians, Sri Lankans and Bangladeshis) housed in multi-storey concrete dorms, and really stupid twits who thought that hauling out their yacht in the Maldives might be a good idea, it is full to brimming with people. It doesn’t count as uninhabited for the same reasons. And it’s as about as far removed from a resort as you are likely to get.

No longer a lily-white sandbank, Thilafushi has been reclaimed and bulldozed into an industrial and waste disposal island. It bubbles and boils throughout the day and night, belching and farting the excreta and detritus of neighbouring Male’ and surrounding islands. Shaped like an elongated horseshoe, there is a dredged channel which allows vessels into its “lagoon”. On one side is a commercial strip, containing boat yards, warehouses and myriad service centres. The waste area, with Sauron’s unblinking fiery eye dominating the scene, sits opposite.

“This isn’t as bad as I expected,” I said to Jamie, as we sat on Esper in the slipway, waiting to be hauled out.

He didn’t bother to reply. We were coming to a rolling boil in the midday heat, and any attempt at conversation or movement was painful. Millie lay on the floor in the saloon with ears twitching. She began to pant and stared up at me through the hatch. What hell-hole have you brought me to now? she seemed to be saying.

“What fresh hell is this?”

After being carried by crane from the water to our new home on the hard-standing, Jamie and I negotiated a home-made wooden ladder, straight out of a Tim Burton horror animation, down to terra firma. We hadn’t seen the complete underside of Esper for four years.

“Well, that serves us right for not hauling out for so long,” Jamie finally spoke. “We’ve got osmosis all over the hull.”

The term “osmosis” is one which strikes fear and dollar-signs-with-lots-of-noughts into the hearts of all yacht owners. Your boat won’t sink when the blisters appear, but it is a protracted and expensive process to fix the problem. Many cruisers sail for years, grinding, sanding and filling every time they haul out. So it seems we will be joining their ranks until we can rustle up the dosh for long-term repairs.

I felt like sobbing, but was so dehydrated the tears wouldn’t flow; sweat ran down my face in their place. And my neck, back, front, arms, legs, toenails and everywhere you’d care to imagine.

“Oh well, we’ll sand and patch till we get to Richard’s Bay or Durban at the end of the year,” I suggested.

“Yeah,” said my fatalistic partner, “sounds like a plan.”

We began scraping the barnacles from the hull. Taking pity on us, or perhaps bemused by the presence of a partially naked woman in the boatyard (I was in long shorts and a T Shirt, pretty risqué for these parts), workers on other boats came to admire our handiwork, and to chat to us.

Liz in sexy gear

“Where you from?”

“Where you go?”

“How long in Maldives?”

It was very nice of them to take an interest and all that, but the wilting heat meant I could only manage one function at a time, and conversation was beyond me. Jamie valiantly answered their questions and was rewarded with offers of help and the use of their power tools.

The days quickly fell into a pattern, dictated by the temperature. Up at six, with only a coffee for breakfast (neither of us could face the effort of chewing solids), we spent the next six hours of hard labour in, on, under and around the boat. At noon the whole yard shut up shop for a two hour lunch break. Not even those born to these climes attempt to do any work in the middle of the day. Then back to work until the sun fell out of the sky, as it does in the tropics, at 6pm. A shower was followed by a cool 28º evening in the cockpit recovering with an alcoholic refresher.

The good news was there was no sign of rats or cockroaches (a healthy community of cats saw to that), but the bad news was that another healthy community, this time of flying insects, played tag in and around the boat for 24 hours a day, every day. At dawn, the flies appeared, infiltrating every nook and cranny on the boat and ourselves. They were impervious to the sprays I had brought from India and in the local shops. At dusk (and during the day in the shadows under Esper) the mosquitoes came to feast. We lit coils and slavered on the anti-mozzie cream, but the coils just made the place smell nice and the cream slid off our sweaty skin. So we covered up with long trousers and long-sleeved tops. And sweated more. At night, even with two fans on full blast in the cabin, midges munched on our bodies. So we covered ourselves with sheets (pyjamas were out of the question in the heat) and carried on sweating. In the morning it would start all over again as the flies joined us for our morning coffee.

Even Millie couldn’t be bothered to move much, despite the enticing calls of the boatyard cats. A few small forays at night were all she managed before realising it was just crap out there. She spent most of her time asleep under the saloon table in the shade; I wished I could have joined her.

Osmosis

When you stay on your boat on the hard-standing, you can’t use your loo (unless you want to fill up your holding tank, which is a pretty hideous thought). So, no matter what the time of day or night, you have to get dressed, negotiate the ladder-from-hell in the dark, cross the yard and use whatever facilities are on offer. In the Med we’ve had 5 star shower blocks which have been scented, offered hot and cold water, complimentary hair dryers, shampoo and soap, and have maintained lavatories so clean you could eat your soup out of them. On Thilafushi, we shared the office staff’s one loo. The walls and floor were covered in white tiles which offered thought-provoking Rorshach stains on every surface. It was basic, but it worked: the loo flushed, the hose for washing your bum was so fierce it took off the top layer of skin if you directed it the wrong way, and the shower spray was powerful and plentiful. There was no hot water, but who needed it? Several times during the day, Jamie and I stood fully clothed under that shower just to wash the filth, sweat and heat from our clothes and bodies. In the evenings we gloried in the shower waterfall, letting it exfoliate our insect wounds and ladder-scraped shins. Bliss. We never had to worry about traipsing across the yard for a pee in the middle of the night after all, because any excess water in our bodies exited through our pores.

The heat was a hunger suppressant, but we managed one cooked meal a day in the workers’ canteen next door. It offered south Indian dishes set out buffet-style on a check table-cloth, beneath a group of plastic penguins. We never asked about the penguins because we were too busy heaping the Keralan fish curry (made with limes, coconut and curry leaves, our favourite dish in Cochin) onto our plates. Each day, once we started eating, we realised how hungry we were. That chef deserves a Michelin star.

The other thing which kept me going, and allowed the sweat to run smoothly, was the copious amounts of cok I had. Yes, “100% cok” (juice to you and me) mixed with soda water during the day, and enlivened with a shot of vodka or rum under darkness, is just about the best way to survive the hot and hellish island of Thilafushi.

Cok ‘n’ sweat

Cheers.

Note: We stayed at Gulf Craft boatyard. The service was professional, friendly and faultless. We couldn’t have asked for a better team to help us. Thanks guys!

Rubbish Island, Thilafushi

Sitting opposite the smoking garbage on the northern strip of the island is Gulf Craft, which offers some apocalyptic views of this phenomenon, especially at night. Our week at this location was made insufferable by both pesky flying insects, and the fact we chose the hottest week with no wind to haul out.

Fortunately we were in good hands: the people of Gulf Craft really looked after us and made our necessity slightly more bearable with their expertise and willingness to help out at any occasion. Prevailing winds also kept the worst of the smoke from the pyres away from the north side of the island.

Even satellite and aerial photographs show the dominance of the burning rubbish. Source: unknown

Here now continues a breakdown of our time there, which is really a document for our own records. Liz has written a more personal account of our time here, which we’ll publish soon. It makes for rather amusing reading.

Entry
Entry into Gulf Craft could not have been easier. Approach from the north through the dredged channel, where the shallowest recorded depth we saw was 2m beneath the keel (we’re just over 2m draft). Sitting in the lee of the lagoon there is no wind or tide, something that had made entry into our previous choice of boat yard impossible. We waited around for an hour as the boat in front was lifted but we pottered around in this protected bay without issue. The slip is around 7m deep.

Click image to view full-screen

Haul Out
It took us an hour to work out where the lift operator was stationed. Normally they sit somewhere on one of the verticals of the 150ton crane, but we couldn’t see anyone on the lift itself. Eventually we realised he was standing in the shade, operating the machine by remote control! Never seen anything like that before. Normally we have to remove the back stay to fit into the crane but this one was big enough to make removal unnecessary.

Unusually we stayed on the crane when we were hauled out (see previous post). A little silent video clip if you’re interested (at the time of publishing this post the video clip is still being processed by youtube):

Initial Hull Inspection

Click on the image to inspect the osmosis on our freshly painted keel

Aheed, the manager, came over to inspect our hull and said that it was something he sees a lot of in the Maldives. He was quick to check the problem and offer some solutions, none of which we could take him up on since we only had five days on the hard.

One of the Sri Lankan workers gets to work on Esper’s rudder. We said we’d do the work ourselves but they insisted!

Fortunately, the nice people at Gulf Craft offered to treat our rudder for us. It was never going to sort the osmosis problem out but they were keen to see us right and so we allowed them to grind out the most offensive blisters and fill them, saving us some time to crack on with other things. There were many more blisters on the hull but since we had just a few days to complete all the jobs on our list we made the decision to leave them until we reach South Africa, where we can attend to the osmosis properly.

Jet Wash
We used over two tons of water for our jet wash! Environmentalists can rest easy since Gulf Craft has its own reverse osmosis plant. It was the most thorough wash I’ve seen and made cleaning the hull a whole lot easier for us. Well worth the little extra we paid for the water, which worked out around a tenner per ton.

Facilities
We made use of the office workers’ shower-cum-toilet. The shower was excellent, perfect for cleansing our filthy bodies of the usual dirt ones body accumulates whilst working in a boat yard.

Next door to Gulf Craft is a great restaurant serving south Indian food all day. Many of the workers here are from India, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, so it was home-from-home for us. On Friday, their day off, men in skirts (lunghis) can be spotted washing and drying their overalls around the yard.

Stores
Within Gulf Craft is a store room. You set up an account and just nip in there whenever you need something. Bearing in mind Gulf Craft builds fibreglass boats from scratch, this store is probably better stocked than most commercial chandleries. This is a nice touch and saves a trip on the ferry to Male for hard-to-find wood screws, hose or sandpaper.

Anti-Foul
Having purchased some International 155 in India at a good price, and bearing in mind that we are planning to haul again in a year, we put just one coat of anti-foul on over the primer. According to the guidelines this should last 18 months, so we’ll see how we get on with that.

Esper in slings

We asked Gulf Craft to put us back in the slings first thing on our last day so we could remove the chocks and paint the gaps. We were woken on our last day by the crane operator positioning the crane around Esper as requested and, once the chocks were moved, Gulf Craft employees started sanding the gaps and then painted them without us even asking. Brilliant.

Conclusion
It was a frustrating time for us, discovering extensive osmosis but only having a week on the hard. The heat and flies sometimes made our time out the water a misery and every evening we’d gaze up to the stars, willing the moment of being dropped back in the water to hurry up. Boat yards can be fun places, but in the tropics under a time constraint this wasn’t one of those occasions.

That said, Gulf Craft was a great place to haul with professional expertise at hand if ever we needed it. I have to say I couldn’t fault their service.

Addendum

Our Maxprop. Had I put the blades on the wrong way round?

We motored back to the Hulumale anchorage, all the while knowing there was something wrong. Since I had taken the blades off the Maxprop whilst on the hard I was bothered by the possibility I may have put them back on incorrectly, which would warrant another haul out to correct my stupidity. Anchoring in Hulumale Esper just wasn’t behaving correctly and again I had little steerage whilst trying to manoeuvre ourselves. With the anchor set I went down to take another look. This time I spotted the dirty great piece of plastic that had wrapped itself between the rope cutter and the P-bracket, which took me five minutes to cut free.

We can only assume that we’d picked it up when we were dropped in the slip which, being on Rubbish Island, was full of rubbish!

Just some of the evil plastic that had wrapped itself round our shaft

Contact Info
Gulf Craft is a ship building company based in Dubai, with a boat yard on Thilafushi, Maldives.

Website: Gulf Craft Inc
Phone: Shuwaida at the Male office on +960 778 5936, or Aheed in the yard on +960 779 5136.
Email: gci@gulfcraftinc.com