There’s something magical about sailing. Life is simple… You go by the speed of nature, and little by little, you end up far, far away. The horizon is endless.
After finishing my seasonal river job in Iceland, I sat down to consider what route to take next. My head said to work another rafting season, but my heart had other plans; I needed to go sailing.
So I kept my eyes open for an opportunity, and then, one ordinary day, I found my golden ticket – while reading a thread on Cruisers Forum about piracy in the Gulf of Aden. The sailors were damning the stupidity of those who would consider such a voyage, between the vicious jaws of Somalia and Yemen. But amongst the noise I noticed an interesting post. It read: “I’m going that way soon. If anyone wants to live a little and crew with me, let me know”. I let loose a message, and soon enough I was shaking hands with Zac at Phuket airport.
We spent a few weeks stocking the boat with food, drinking beer at beach bars and waiting for the trade winds to set in. And then, up came the dinghy – our only connection to land. We weighed anchor (confirming it was heavy), hoisted the mainsheet, and off into the open sea we sailed.
Water World
On our journey to the Red Sea, Sri Lanka would be the next point of land out of Thailand – 2,000km away. For nine days, we sailed west; though time soon becomes irrelevant. There is nothing in the world outside of our infinite and empty horizon; nothing to worry about, at least. And with all that space around you, being the only ones in the world, it’s easy to catch yourself standing in epic poses upon the bowsprit, looking out at the freedom.
We slip into a rhythm. Daylight is mostly spent in the cockpit; listening to music, trimming the sails, reading, napping, chatting, and casting a casual eye around for ships that have invaded our view. Sunset is when the work starts. We stand four-hour watches through the darkness, scanning for lights and monitoring the radar. To the cargo ships, we are ants, and to fishermen, we are a curiosity that they gravitate towards like flies to a lamp. Their common sense is not to be trusted.
Fishermen are the first sign of approaching land – the modern equivalent of the floating branch. They are also your first cultural contact of a new land. Watch is taken most seriously when navigating through the minefields of crazy fishermen, for they may decide to stop dead-ahead of you in the darkness. I say, they are not to be trusted!
The Sweet Smell of Sri Lanka!
It may seem odd, but when you pass into the lee of land after a long voyage, an enticing smell comes to greet you; simply, a whiff of foliage, damp earth, dust, decay, and diesel fumes. My first whiff of Sri Lanka was of sweet, floral perfume. “My, they must be very clean!”It was as if the ladies were all along the shore waving their dresses. Unfortunately, it was just Frangipani flowers that beckoned us in.
We dropped the anchor and slept – a calm, uninterrupted sleep – without watch duty, or the constant rock and roll of the ship.
In the morning we awoke to the colonial paradise of Galle Bay. A white Portuguese lighthouse and church stood at the bay’s entrance, nestled between swaying palms. Surrounding this, fortified Dutch wall defences and cannon emplacements guarded against a time gone by. Though evidently, they hadn’t done their job against the British. It was time for a cup of tea.
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel
There was another yacht within the industrial fishing harbour where we moored, and so we struck up a friendship with Morris, a mild-mannered South African. Additionally I found that Anne, an old family friend from Dubai, was living in Galle. She had previously sailed around the world, so the four of us arranged to meet at a hotel for drinks one evening.
The Closenburg was on top of the hill overlooking the bay. It had been a grand old manor house, and was built in such perfect colonial style it felt like walking into a movie. The restaurant was empty, yet full of character. Beneath the vaulted ceilings and high arches sat ornate wooden tables that seemed to be missing their cross-legged, pipe-smoking, handlebar-moustached explorers. Sri Lankan waiters, so neatly dressed I should call them butlers, were waiting to greet any drops-ins with their ever-present broad smile and sincere welcome. They lead us through the arches and into a wide, open-air veranda that flowed out into the gardens. As we sat down, the heavens opened – and so did the roof. Amusingly, the head butler held out his hand to catch the torrent, which immediately overflowed. Still smiling broadly, he upheld his self-sacrifice until he was struck with a better idea. Noticing that the fan above us was not working, he returned with a long broom and began to manually revolve the blades. I thought he was jump-starting it, but really he was stepping in happily as our punkhawallah. The other waiter looked at him a little bemused. We decided it best to move to the next table, in a dry spot under a working fan.
The conversation flowed like the drinks. We discussed the Red Sea, which delighted Anne in reminiscing of her life at sea. We discussed storms, and piracy, and the real dangers in life – like flying on Air Tanzania. These rich topics inspired Anne to assemble some of the colourful characters she knew in Galle for lunch the next day.
Afternoon Tea
Anne’s house was a more homely version of the Closenburg, with its high vaulted arches and cooling veranda, perfect for sipping tea under. The new guests certainly had stories of their own; Heather had sailed across the Atlantic and been shipwrecked at the mouth of the Amazon; and Dom was an ex-SAS, ex-pirate hunting adventurer, who had been rescued from the perfect storm of Katrina and her following hurricanes while trying to kite across the Atlantic. While Dom shared his experiences of the storm, I remember Morris commenting that “there are very few atheists in a hurricane”. To this, Anne piped up, “…and on Air Tanzania, there are none!”
There was a surprising concentration of interesting people in Galle, with valuable information for our imminent passage through Pirate Alley. We even met an Australian, on the beach with his family, who had just returned from Somaliland having served as a consultant to the Somali coastguard. Sri Lanka seemed to be the hub for Red Sea security. Indeed, every night tugs would dock beside us and unload their mercenaries, laden with 50-calibre rifles and machine guns.
And so the time came to leave the welcoming arms of Sri Lanka. With a final evening of cigars and spirits in the cockpit, we weighed anchor at sunrise and set off toward the beckoning call of the Arabian Sea. We soon picked up the wind and current, making eight knots for Djibouti.
“We’re getting the hell outta Dodge!” said Zac.
“Straight for Dodge.” I suggested.
“Straight for Dodge…” he concurred.
Words + Photos By: Will Pardoe
