From Darwin to the Big Blue

It's a long way to far-away

The Dream

Three weeks before my sixteenth birthday, 2 November 1981, my sister Anna died. Years later, in October 1993, I wrote a poem to her memory. She was twenty three when she passed away. I was twenty six when I wrote the poem.* (In Finnish)

Some years after writing the poem, I had a dream of Anna. It was one of those extremely vivid and life-like dreams. I was back near my childhood home, in Finland, walking past our flat. On a little bench around the corner, sat my dead sister Anna.

I was overwhelmed with emotion. "You're back!" I cried and ran towards her. It was real. She was really there. This was no dream, this was real. I cried and cried with joy. Slowly I approached her up close. She looked sad, her head was hanging down. With tears flowing down my cheeks, I extended my arm toward her and touched her face. "You're back" I said softly. "You're alive!" I felt her skin. She was really there. Anna raised her saddened face, looked deep into my eyes and said: "But do I dare to live? Do I dare to live?"

Dusky Dolphin became the norm in the open sea. They jump harder and higher than others. Sometimes they stayed by the yacht for so long that we lost interest at looking at them. That's a long time.

The dream started to fade away and in that twilight moment of waking up, I heard myself repeating her words. "But do I dare to live?" "But do I dare to live?"

I had that dream on the night of 16th November 1999, almost two years after buying yacht Aliisa. Six nights later Sonya, my wife, left a letter on the saloon table and moved away. Two nights after that I turned 33. Since then I've been trying to answer the question. Do I dare to live? That dream provided me part of the determination to sail around the world. To go and see. To live. To dare. Every time I feel doubt or fear about anything, I remember that dream. And I dare to Live. Well, sometimes.

DEPARTING DARWIN

I'm not worried, nervous or scared about leaving Darwin even though I know that heading out to the Indian Ocean marks the point of no return. Next stop, Christmas Island, is 1500 nautical miles (2800km) west - almost directly downwind into the deep Indian Ocean. Soon the cyclone season would press on and continuing up across the equator is imminent. Paula and I have spent ten days in Darwin, mostly tying up loose ends, painting, tidying up and making little improvements on the boat. (Mostly trying to find more holes to hide all the gear that is still floating in milk crates on the back deck or sloshing under the saloon table.)

I cancel my bank account and credit card. I try to do my tax on the internet but three hours of effort ends when... - excuse me - the fucking assholes won't let me submit my tax return because I can't enter a document number from my last years tax. I've lost the paperwork. Excuse me again but those fucks will take a tax return from a tax agent without questions, they will take it in mail, on paper, without questions, but the new fantastic e-tax will not work unless you have some stupid fucking reference number that THEY created in the first place, and which THEY have on file. Sorry guys, I digress. Tax office can go to hell. Back to departing Darwin.

All is good, but not wonderful. There is tension and arguments. I go with the flow. Never mind. Whatever. Lets just go. Apart from a quick visit to local markets and the museum, we don't see much of Darwin. The ten-day visit is a continuation of our re-fit in Cairns. Paula does a great job sanding and painting rust off the decks. Rust already? Yep. I'm still scratching my head about an oil leak from the back of the engine.

On 30 August we load in the Duty Free; Vodka, Tequila, Scotch, Red wine, White wine, Beer and Tobacco. Food is already in, water tanks full, diesel topped up and clean sheets on the bed. At 8am on the 31st of August we motor through the locks of Tipperary Waters Marina and the seven-meter Darwin tide sweeps us out to sea. I have three big cups of coffee and feel the sun on my once again naked skin. It's convenient to be in a marina but I hate not being able to piss over the side - at least during the day - and not being able to run around naked. Well, at least during the day on the deck. Good to be out at sea again.

We're aiming at Ashmore Reef, 450 miles from Darwin, to break the 1500 mile voyage. We settle into some sort of routine where I stay up until midnite, Paula does zero to four am while I have a four hour sleep and I stay up for the morning and then have another sleep during the day. We arrive to Ashmore Reef seven days and seven nights later, sailing slowly towards the entry of its lagoon at the first light of the day. There has been very little wind.

ASHMORE REEF

Ashmore Reef is a Federal National Park and a bloody well guarded one too. Thanks to the steady flow of both wanna-be new Australians from troubled regions around the world, and the persistent fleet of Indonesian fisherman who don't have a GPS and a chart to find out the limits of Australian territorial waters, there is now an Australian Customs vessel permanently stationed in Ashmore Reef. Indonesia is only a few hundred miles to the north. Funny how the Australian fishing zone pushes so far beyond the half-way mark between the two countries...

Australian customs fly low and close. Almost every day.	Customs vessel moored at Ashmore Reef. Shift change every two weeks. Not much to do.
Customs chase boat pulls alongside Aliisa for a cup of coffee and a yarn.	I fill in your paperwork. You fill in mine. That's the deal. Customs Officer scribbles in Aliisa's guest book.

The boys in the Customs boat spend their days looking at the horizon (of their radar) and looking after a single old manual water pump on the reef's only vegetated sand island. (I'm sure they do other stuff too, but what?) There is a well marked channel zigzagging into the inner lagoon and the Australian Government kindly provides a large number of moorings for visiting yachts. Well, the truth is that the moorings are set for traditional Indonesian sailing vessels who, under a special agreement, have a right to collect water and visit the handful of old grave sites in the area.

We are kindly met by Customs' chase boat. We have already been overflown by Australian Customs coastwatch aircraft for four times since Darwin. For the fifth time I assure them that I have no drugs, firearms or pets on board. Funny enough, my assurance is always enough. Nobody ever wants to investigate. Like the question on my citizenship application: "Are you a terrorist?" "No" "Good, welcome to Australia". Aussies are pretty fair-dinkum about these things. If you say you're not a terrorist, well, I suppose you're not, then.

We are guided to a mooring nearby and two officers come on board. They refuse coffee and we fill in a quick form. No, I still don't have any firearms. The following day we criss cross the reds and greens into the inner lagoon. Customs have advised us not to go ashore on the sand island. They will come and give us a tour, to make sure we stay in the "permitted" area.

They never do the tour and finally, a day later, we drive the zodiac ashore to have a look. Half a dozen grave sites from mid eighties, two crabs on the beach, a few badly rotten remains of Indonesian boats and a rusty old pump that produces a trickle of dark brown liquid from its well after a dozen or so pumps. But it is nice to walk on the beach. I take a photo of one of the crabs and some of the graves. We head back to the yacht for an afternoon session of backgammon and vodka-lemon-limes.

Indonesian vessel departing Ashmore Reef. Under the agreement, only "traditional" vessels are allowed to visit. In other words, the vessel must not have an engine. Makes sense, to the bureaucrats.

Customs visits us three more times. The crew has done a changeover and we fill the paperwork again with the new crew. I still have no firearms, drugs or pets on board. I try to sell my duty free tobacco but they've got enough smokes on board. Wouldn't that be neat? - sell my duty free to a Customs officer before being legally out of the country!

I make every customs officer fill in my visitor's book. The visits become purely social; coffee and a yarn. The boys are friendly and courteous and they obviously enjoy a break from the daily routines. Why they don't stop for a coffee in any of the other four yachts, I don't know. I guess we are the grooviest yacht on Ashmore. We play music and talk about this and that, you know, world travels and their jobs and so on. At the end Paula and I decide to apply for a job in Customs, as soon as we're back in Australia, 2009.

THE DEEP OCEAN

On the 8th September "Pangaea", a Swiss yacht with mom, dad and three little girls on board, invites us for afternoon coffee. Home made cookies and all. The yacht is large but not luxurious. We have been bumping into the lovely Manhart family since Thursday Island but this is our first visit inside. Everything is home-like and cozy, with two of the older girls playing in their roomy 'castle' in the front. Susan is the master chef, Christoph is the geek, usually found behind his lap top, inventing more pages for his web site*. Sounds pretty much like myself. Christoph gives me new ideas for spending money. He shows me the latest weather fax captured with a HF radio through a modem. I want one too. Not the weather fax, but the HF radio and modem. He promises plenty of wind for tomorrow onwards. I believe him and that evening Paula and I get Aliisa ready for departure.

The September sun is hot. There is not a ripple on the ocean. At noon, Paula and I are sitting in the cockpit waiting for a breeze. Never mind. Whatever. Lets just go. As we motor towards the lagoon exit, or the starting line for the 1050 nautical mile (1944km) sail to Christmas Island. Christoph calls me on the VHF. "You've decided to go?" Pangaea's plan was to depart too, but sailing is not very easy in 2 knots of air. "There's no wind here" I say, "So we might as well go and see if there's any somewhere else".

Paula peeping out of our little cave in the back of the boat.

We motor for an hour. 1045 miles to go. The wind eventually arrives and for the next week or so we quietly sleep, eat and stare at the horizon. As the ocean turns deeper blue and the swell grows to its proper form - the kind you get when the depth is over 5000 meters and the swell originates from thousands of miles away, I'm starting to feel a strange emotion of anxiety, excitement and achievement. The depth and size of the Ocean that I'm on is becoming clear in my mind.

I look at the partially inflated zodiac on the foredeck - our only excuse for a liferaft - and quietly pray Aliisa not to break down. There had been an unseasonal cyclone near Cocos (Keeling), just 500 miles from Christmas Island, just a few days ago. A cyclone? First I didn't believe it but then Christoph showed me the chart. There it was, a fucking cyclone in the southern hemisphere in early September! At the same time when Caribbean was still blissfully unaware of the mayhem coming their way. Bloody hell. I hope that's a one-off. I look at the barometer, 1013Mb. I look at the sky. Fair-weather puffs of cumulus. (Cumulus humilis) We'll be right.

Nine days and nine nights go by. There is no severe weather and we make it safely to Christmas Island. From Australia to another Australia. We fly the Q-flag and clear customs first time, like really overseas. I still have no firearms, pets or drugs on board. I'm starting to hope I had. The nine days would have been more interesting with some pets, drugs and firearms. Could have been shooting at empty beer cans instead of ripping them open and letting them sink into the abyss. Maybe let the dog fetch them. And then spike my drink to take advantage of myself... Boy it's good to be back in civilization!

Next page...And what about Christmas Island?