I loved the boat. Compact and atmospheric, it was the kind of vessel I’d like to have taken from Nikoi to Borneo. The wheelhouse was panelled in wood and every time we went inside, Joe would be steering. The other end was devoted to the galley - a bench fastened against one wall and a table and couple of stools. Outside on the poop was the fridge, and a hatch that opened on to a ladder leading down to the propeller. At night we’d sit and watch the most amazing flashes churned up in the wake - a kind of phosphorous green.
Tony reckoned the hatch was where Indonesian sailors traditionally took a poo. We, of course, had a small toilet (though you had to be careful with the flush) and a shower cubicle. Whenever the hatch was open someone had to be there to make sure no one else fell through. Not falling overboard was the only really hard and fast rule on the boat.
‘It’s boring,’ Tony said. ‘We have to turn around and come back to look for you. Interrupts the journey, mate, and that’s a real bummer.’
They made the journey regularly and carried various cargoes. On the trip over they’d brought a whole load of building materials for an Australian who was constructing a house, as well as giving passage to an Irish kid and an English girl.
It was great fun and very relaxing. We took our time, stopping now and then for a swim and rolling out a 400 lb line in the hope that passing tuna would bite. I’d check it occasionally for debris - plastic bags mostly. But no matter how many times I rebaited it we didn’t get so much as a sniff.
It took a little while to slow down to the pace of the boat - we were trundling along at about six or seven knots and things just happened when they happened. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I spent a lot of time up front resting against the upturned tender, with my gaze fixed on a flat and brilliantly blue horizon. There was nothing ahead save a pod of dolphins surfing the bow wave. I’d never been up close with dolphins before and I leant over the rail to watch them darting ahead and leaping out of the water. Warwick told me it was quite unusual, dolphins were pretty shy of boats up here.
After dinner Mungo and I went forward again to watch the same flakes of phosphorescence we’d witnessed at the propeller. Every now and then the shaft of brilliant green would be criss-crossed by jagged lines created by dorsal fins that told us the dolphins were there although we couldn’t see them. It was a strange phenomenon and in complete darkness with the stars above and the wind in my hair, it was really quite magical. Warwick showed us the Southern Cross, a crucifix of stars that southern hemisphere sailors use to find south at night, using the twin pointers that accompany the constellation.
Sunday dawned a little cloudier, but with calm seas and no hint of any real weather we carried on with land on the starboard side. I was feeling pretty happy, looking forward to crossing Australia and finally seeing my family. I’d slept well last night, we stuck to a beer at sundown and I was in my bunk by nine and awake by six. The day slipped by and as we went to bed on the second night the sea was still calm.
At one a.m. I was jerked upright by the most incredible bang. I was out of my bunk and staggering to stay upright as the whole boat seemed to roll to one side. Mungo was on his feet and the pair of us crabbed our way to the steps then out on deck where we stood gripping the rail and staring into absolute blackness.
For a moment it was terrifying: I couldn’t see anything and all I could hear was the straining diesel engine and the thundering of the sea. This was as black a night as I’d seen; no trace of light, not even a hint of grey. The wind was like a banshee and waves were crashing against the hull. I realised it was a wave that had woken us.
‘Jesus, Mungo,’ I yelled. ‘This is incredible.’
He threw up, ‘blew the chunks’ as he put it. The movement of the boat had taken all sense of balance and he just ducked his head and chundered into the wind - bad move: it all flew back into his face.
Turning back to the wheelhouse door I could just make out Warwick in the glow of the GPS screen, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
‘You all right, Charley?’
‘Yeah, Mungo fed the fish but we’re fine. That wave just now woke us up.’
‘Better get used to it, mate, we’re coming into some weather.’
‘It feels big.’
‘It’s big enough. I reckon we’ve got about three metres. She might swell to four or five before we’re done. We just have to roll with it.’
He was different. For the first time I could see a serious side to him; the set of his face, the expression in his eyes and the calm, quiet way he was speaking. ‘Best go below, mate. Don’t want you going overboard, do we?’
Back in my bunk I felt easier, the light-headedness I’d experienced on deck was gone. I looked over at Mungo.
‘Are you all right, dude?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be fine.’
Everything seemed accentuated by the darkness: the sound of the waves, the engine . . . it really did seem to be straining but that might have just been my imagination. There was only one engine on this boat, no back-up other than an outboard which wouldn’t get us anywhere. Shifting onto my side I peered at Mungo where he lay prostrate with one foot on the floor.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Charles. Since when did you care so much about me?’
‘I don’t know, since we shared that room together in Borneo, I think.’
He squinted at me. ‘Look, I know the trip’s almost over and your wife is on her way, but stay on your side of the cabin, all right?’
‘Good to see you didn’t lose your sense of humour along with your dinner, eh?’
‘Ha-bloody-ha.’
Warwick had warned us that when we came out from the shelter of Timor all the currents converge and that probably accounted for the savagery of the wave that woke us. I hadn’t really had any idea what he meant, but I did now and I was just a little nervous. I had images of that old boat where water flooded the hold. This was a much smaller boat and like the other boat it was made of wood and if the same happened here . . .
It didn’t bear thinking about.
I couldn’t sleep, so I went back up top. Warwick was sitting with his arms folded, Joe ghosting the wheel.
‘That is so weird,’ I said, watching it shifting sharply from side to side. With the swell it was harder to stay on course and the wheel was spinning quite violently. ‘Pity about the weather,’ I added. ‘I was really enjoying myself.’
Warwick made a face. ‘The weather report says it’s getting worse.’
‘Worse?’
‘It can always get worse, Charley.’
I did sleep again, though I had to get used to the see-saw motion, the shudder as we climbed massive waves then dipped into the troughs. The noise was incredible: the engine, the wind, the sound of a boiling sea.
As dawn broke on Monday 7 July I was on deck holding the rail and feeling more than a little seasick. I hadn’t vomited but the thought of food wasn’t good and the way this boat was yawing there was every chance that I’d throw up. What had been a great little boat trip was now something else altogether. The seas were mountainous, the swell beyond four metres, and we were struggling to make progress. Up and down, side to side, torrents of water rushing over the bows and slapping the sides before pitching us into cavernous grey troughs that I was sure would swallow us up.
The day wore on slowly. Yesterday and the day before had flown by with the sunshine and the sails up. There had been lots of laughs and banter. Now the world was different and I had a feeling of trepidation that I knew would be with me until we hit dry land. Already we’d had a couple of bad experiences on boats and I had a nagging concern that I was tempting fate. But this was the penultimate leg of the journey and by far the most treacherous: we had to do it and if we made it safely the sense of achievement would be monumental.
Mungo came up to catch some fresh air and we stood together at the rail. ‘This is still only the Timor Sea,’ I said. ‘We’ve got at least eighteen hours before we get to Australian waters.’
He nodded.
‘Stunning, isn’t it?’ A little rush of adrenalin caught up with me and looking out from that tiny, wooden deck I was overtaken by the sheer power of the sea.
‘Are you worried?’ Mungo asked. ‘I mean, this is serious weather, and we were told that Warwick’s the only guy who’d risk crossing at this time of year.’
For a moment neither of us said anything.
‘We’ll get there,’ he added, as if to affirm his own convictions.
‘Your life in his hands,’ I reminded him. ‘That’s what you said when we talked about it in Bali: if he’s a confident skipper, you’d be happy to place your life in his hands.’ I held on tightly now to the rail, my whole body at forty degrees as another wave hit and the boat shuddered into yet another massive trough. ‘Well, here we are, dude. Your life in his hands, and mine too.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ he said.
‘Of course we will.’
Still we stood there, the wind tearing my hair and peeling the skin on my face. ‘Did you ever see
The Perfect Storm -
George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg? Everyone in that bar praying they’d just make it home. It’s a true story, you know.’
He looked sideways at me. ‘Let’s go below,’ he said.
The weather closed in. For hour after hour it was nothing but crashing waves and the guttural rattle of the engine, the moan of the wind and the tearing sound of wood as if the hull was going to give way any minute. Lying on my bunk I could feel spots of water leaking in from above. Everything seemed stifled; we couldn’t stand up or move around, we couldn’t go outside. We were confined both physically and mentally and that stopped conversation. The mood on board was serious - we were alone with our thoughts, either lying prone or holding on to something in the galley or wheelhouse. As the hours ticked by my mood got darker and darker.
‘God, I’m pissed off,’ I said, sitting upright. ‘Right now I’d rather be anywhere in the world than out here.’
Mungo smiled. ‘Me, too. Fickle fuckers, aren’t we? When the sun’s out and the sea is flat we’re happy as pigs in shit.’
‘And when the shit hits the fan all we do is run for cover.’
‘Human nature, I guess.’
‘My wife is flying out on the nineteenth, Mungo. I can’t believe I’m actually going to see her. I haven’t seen her or my kids for three months and now it’s only just a few days. It’s been really hard for her this time - this idea came up so soon after Long Way Down and that wasn’t in the plan.’ I stared at the floor, the confines of the cabin closing in so hard it was as if I couldn’t breathe. ‘Jesus,’ I muttered. ‘What the fuck am I doing on this boat?’
Mungo didn’t say anything further and I slipped into silence. I was feeling queasy and alone. The world had stopped: there was only the vulnerability of this little boat and the vastness of the ocean. I was as far away from my family as I think I ever could be and for a moment or two I was tearful. Then I thought about how my sister Telsche is always with me. I’d felt her presence when we rode through the rain in Cambodia, and if I thought about it I could feel her now. I was aware of the St Christopher around my neck and I was so glad Olly had had it blessed before she sent it out to me. Lying back I gripped it hard, staring at the wooden panelled ceiling, water dripping on my face.
As it got dark I was in the wheelhouse once more with Warwick. Mungo was below talking to Lena, and Tony was having a kip.
All of a sudden we heard a thud, a real bang on the roof directly above our heads. Eyes wide, Warwick rushed out on deck. I could see him through the windshield peering up at the roof of the wheelhouse. He stood there for a moment then crabbed his way to one side of the boat and then the other. He went aft to the poop deck and came in through the galley door, his eyes hunted and his brow furrowed. For the first time since I’d met him he looked a little freaked out.
In the wheelhouse he slid down the stairs. ‘Where’s Andreas?’ he said.
Mungo looked up. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Lena, where is Andreas?’
She was on her feet, her face white. Stepping past her Warwick took a quick glance into his cabin then came back up the steps. He went outside again, the boat rolling so viciously he was staggering the length of the deck. The wind was horrific, flapping his shirt so hard I could almost hear it. We tipped into another trough and surf boiled over the side. Losing his footing Warwick had to grab the mast to avoid being washed overboard. And beside me, as if to accentuate the madness, the ship’s wheel was spinning left and right.
He was facing the wheelhouse now. Glancing up, a smile of relief suddenly creased his face. Moments later, and soaking wet, he was back inside.
‘He’s in the bloody Zodiac. He must have slipped over - that was the thud we heard - and when I went out the first time he was flat on his back and I couldn’t see him. Jesus Christ, Charley, that was a fucking moment. Man overboard in this weather. No chance, mate, no bloody chance at all.’ With a shake of his head he grabbed a cigarette from a crumpled pack stuffed into the netting above the dash.
I spent the rest of that night and the next day lying in a clammy heat on my bunk. The weather was so bad we hardly ate - certainly not a proper meal anyway. If we tried to move around we felt sick or kept bashing into things, and it was too dangerous to go out on deck.
Tedium and fear, that would be my abiding memory I decided, as I lay there watching Mungo with an arm across his eyes.
‘We’ll be glad we did it when we’ve done it.’ I was trying to sound encouraging.
‘Pretty hairy with Andreas last night, though. God only knows what would’ve happened if he had gone overboard.’
‘He’d have drowned, Mungo. There’s no way we could’ve turned the boat and found him in time.’
Mungo tried to sit up but then thought better of it. ‘Bit bloody stupid being up on the roof in the first place.’