Chapter 14 - Across the Indian Ocean to Arabia
Departure
Mist shrouded the hills and mountains of Phuket Island as we raised the anchor and slipped away from Nai Harn Bay. Ahead of us lay what should be the best ocean sailing in the world, the northern Indian Ocean during the NE Monsoon. First, though, a last touch of SE Asia, the Similan Islands.
This group lies about eighty miles north north west of Nai Harn Bay and we hoped to cover the distance in daylight. The breeze was light at first and we motored, passed by a series of brightly painted Thai trawlers making their way back to Phuket with their catches. These boys don't hang around and don't keep much of a watch either, so we kept a sharp one ourselves and made several course changes to avoid collisions.
The wind filled in and we sailed for a while, fished a bit too but caught nothing. Maybe the trawlers had exhausted the fish stocks. As darkness fell we reached Ko Miang, one of the larger of the Similan Group. Already there were a number of dive boats and we were pleased to take the last available mooring, sheltered from the wind and sea by a tiny islet. The moon rose and we turned in, expecting a peaceful night but it was not to be. Around midnight the land breeze set in with a vengeance, blowing around our shelter and soon ALIESHA was rocking and bucking in 25 knots of wind and a wild, short sea. To make matters worse, the tide held her across the wind and we kept bumping the mooring buoy. There was little sleep until dawn came and we dropped the mooring, set the jib and sailed onwards.
A mere ten miles north was Similan Island itself, distinguished by the huge boulders perched on its cliffs. On the northern side we fond a sheltered bay, no swell, free moorings, a largely deserted sandy beach and gin-clear water. It was the haven we wanted to charge our batteries for the ocean crossing ahead. We snoozed the day away, interrupting our lethargy with the occasional dip and a little snorkelling. A small green turtle came to see us and, while the coral was all bleached (the result of the tsunami in 2005), the fish were huge and colourful and quite tame.
The next day we departed. Take a look at the chart. The Indian Ocean north of the equator (which runs just south of the southern tip of Sri Lanka) divides into three parts. First there is the Andaman Sea, quite narrow and bounded on the west by the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. These belong to India and you need a visa to visit the Andamans while the Nicobars are off limits to cruisers at all times.
Then there is the Bay of Bengal, bounded on its western side by India and by Sri Lanka. We had debated the merits of visiting Sri Lanka and in the end decided not to do so, partly because of the political troubles there, partly because Galle Harbour is not a very safe place to leave your boat while you take a tour and mostly because we were among the last yachts to leave Thailand in 2007 and we wanted to catch up with the crowd before we got to pirate alley, as the run down the coast of Yemen is called.
Then there is the Arabian Sea, bounded on its northern side by Oman and Yemen, on its western side by Africa, notably Somalia and Kenya and with the jewels of the Maldives offering a safe haven on the south eastern edge.
To the Maldives
It's about 1500 miles to Uligan, a small island at the very northern tip of the long chain that is the Maldive Islands. It turned out to be the ideal ocean passage we had dreamed about, with the odd exception to keep us on our toes.
Leg one took us 260 miles south west to pass through the Sombrero Channel in the middle of the Andaman Islands and was unremarkable except for some of the lumpiest waves we have ever encountered. The cruising guide talks of upwelling currents - whatever the cause, the result was most uncomfortable. Once through the Sombrero the seas settled down to the long rhythm of the ocean and the winds picked up to a decent trade wind breeze which gave us our second-best day's run ever, 167 miles.
We
caught a yellow-fin tuna which fed us for four days. A furious squall, 35
knots of wind and torrential rain, caused the fastest spinnaker drop in history
and had Dick literally soaked to the skin for he had stripped off before going
on deck. It was so warm it didn't matter.
The southern tip of Sri Lanka is a busy place with shipping from the Suez Canal and some from the Cape of Good Hope converging to negotiate the corner. Since we weren't going to stop there we set a waypoint about thirty miles south and so avoided the worst of the traffic, which was as heavy as that in the English Channel.
At last we saw land, a Maldive Island, then another, then a third. This chain is very low lying, the average height above sea level is only two or three metres and when the sea levels rise, as we believe they will, then these pretty places with their delightful, shy, private peoples will be among the first to be submerged.
We dropped anchor in the lee of Uligan Island, along with half a dozen other yachts who had arrived before us. Before long a small boat brought out four officials, Quarantine, Health, Immigration and Customs. All were immaculately dressed, spoke good English and were most pleasant in welcoming us and explaining the rules. No visiting other islands without a special permit, not easy to obtain. No being ashore after midnight. No alcohol to be taken ashore, nor given to locals. No locals to be invited on board. No books, DVD's etc to be given to locals The islands are staunchly, but not fanatically Muslim and they wish to maintain their traditional way of life and to avoid corruption by outsiders. We were happy to respect their wishes.
Next morning we went ashore in the dinghy, beaching it by the
one and only pier. A young man, Muaz, came up and introduced himself, bade
us welcome and offered to
be
our guide. He showed us around the village, its houses built of coral
blocks and mortar, roofed with tin and palm fronds. The streets were sand.
There was a mosque, a school, a hospital and offices for the officials we
had met the day before. There were four small shops, one run by Muaz's family and the one we were told we could use to obtain provisions.
The place was immaculate. Later we were told and indeed
we saw how at least once
a week the women and girls sweep every square centimetre of public space and
remove all litter. The women were modestly dressed and wore the
headscarf we had got used to seeing in Malaysia and Indonesia. There
weren't many men of working age around and we gathered many had jobs elsewhere,
perhaps in Male, the capital 400 miles south or else on the deep sea tuna
boats.
One of these boats was being constructed under a palm-thatched shelter on the beach. It was 35 metres long, very beamy and had a long low fishing deck aft, broken by openings into the compartments below. Some of these would be filled with ice and would hold the catch, others held live baitfish which would be released when a school of tuna were sighted, to provoke the feeding frenzy which allows these boats to land thousands of kilos of fish a day, each fish caught on an unbarbed hook at the end of a short line attached to a stout pole. We were proudly told that there were no plans. The master shipwright and the owner agreed the general outline and then experience took over. The boats we saw at work looked stunning and the tuna they caught, canned locally, was amongst the best we have eaten.
One night we and some other cruisers went for a Maldivian "feast" at Muaz's family home. We sat in their courtyard at small tables, ate barbecued red Snapper with a slew of mild curries to complement the fish and drank warm black tea. The food was good, as was the company but somehow the evening failed to catch light. Maybe we do need alcohol.
We went snorkelling several times in different places. Although Uligan had escaped the 2005 tsunami their coral was in poor shape, due to overly warm seas. By contrast, the fish were wonderful, brightly coloured and without fear. We saw turtles, rays and one small shark as well as a host of familiar tropical fishes.
A week flew by. Paradise palled, Arabia called and so we set sail once more.
To Oman in Arabia
It is about 1200 miles from Uligan to the port of Salalah in south west Oman. See chart. Cruisers go there to shorten the journey to Aden, the next logical stop and also to form convoys. The coastline of Yemen has seen many pirate attacks on yachts in past years and so yachts tend to group together for self-protection.
After clearing the wind shadow of the Indian sub-continent we expected to find the NE Trades blowing us steadily towards our destination. Sadly they had taken a break. We had little wind for the whole passage and resorted to heavy use of the engine. Some nights it was so still we could see the glitter path of individual stars and planets on the glassy water. Once, during Dick's watch, a pair of dolphins came briefly to play under the bow. The phosphorescence flowed from their backs like drops of liquid fire.
Ships did not ply these waters so fishermen from Iran and Pakistan lay long drift nets, some five, some ten, some twelve miles long. It was very hard to spot these, especially at night. Sometimes we would see a blip on the radar, presumably the fishing boat but as many of them were made of wood even this was not certain. Sometimes the boat would call us on the VHF radio. "Captain...Captain...Captain..", followed by a position in Lat and Long. Some had enough English to tell us if they could see our lights. Some had none, or no VHF and a number of our fellow cruisers announced on the morning radio net that they had become entangled and had had to free themselves by diving over the side to cut the net away or by waiting for the fishermen to do this for them. It made watchkeeping interesting, that's for sure.
So it was with some relief that we started to see ships again, mostly huge tankers going towards the Gulf in ballast or heading SW for the Red sea fully laden. Then, early one morning, nearly eleven days out of Uligan, we raised the cranes and other installations of the Port of Salalah and arrived in Oman.
Oman, city of contrasts
The approach to Salalah is much like the approach to any
modern port, huge container-handling gantries, oil tanks, large modern ships and
a few rusting old coastal
traders.
There was even a British Royal Fleet Auxiliary, in port for some relaxation for
the crew. There was much new construction going on, indeed we nearly
missed our way as there is a whole new breakwater to seawards of the present one
which will double the capacity of the port in a few years when all is finished.
We motored slowly past all this activity into the basin designated for craft
like ours and anchored among a dozen or so yachts, many of whom we had
met earlier on in the voyage.
Shortly after the anchor went down we were boarded by the
officials, smart in British-style uniforms and headed by Mohammed, the yacht
agent. He was resplendent
in white dishdash robe and round hat, a style of dress we had not encountered
previously. Many forms were offered for signing and the application of the
ship's stamp and we received copies, all incomprehensible as they were written
in Arabic. In next to no time we were cleared and could go ashore.
But what exactly was there ashore? We were in the outer reaches of the docks, miles from anywhere. Enter Christine, New Zealand-born partner of Mohammed, who offered us a hire car at a good rate. We joined up with Kathy and Werner from Legend 2, a Kiwi boat we had first met in Rebak Marina. The next day we went for a quick tour of coastal SW Oman and it was an eye opener.
First, the land is desert, flat, stony and totally barren. Large villas, newly built and standing in two or three acres of walled grounds, are dotted around, connected by modern well-paved roads. It was a huge, wealthy suburb we had entered, with no pedestrians but a steady stream of modern cars. Among the houses were the camels, as common as dogs in an English suburb, wandering around at will and crossing the highways with impunity. The harsh sun beat down and the air was full of dust. It was more alien than anywhere in SE Asia.
We had been given some directions by Christine and soon turned off the main coast road in search of an oasis. We found it eventually, a small lake surrounded by strangely-eroded sandstone rocks. Our chums went for a dip, encouraged by a few locals who had arrived to swim and take their lunch. The water was clear, fresh and very cold.
For our lunch we wimped out and sought an American hotel where we ate an "Arabian Mixed grill", very spicy and washed down with cold beer! It was our first real touch of civilisation since leaving Thailand and we enjoyed it.
In the afternoon we got more adventurous and drove well
inland to a place called Wadi
Darbat.
This is a valley running inland from some hills behind the coastal plain.
It was a wide slash of green vegetation in the midst of the barren desert.
Trees, bushes, flowers and grasses all grew
profusely, even though for some miles there was no sign of water. Camels
were everywhere, among them a few donkeys. All were in beautiful condition
and there were many foals. We passed three encampments, presumably the homes of
the Bedouin owners of all these animals, but modernity had arrived and their
tents were walled and roofed with plastic tarpaulins and not the traditional
blankets woven from camel hair.
The next day we set off in the car to get provisions. Salalah boasts a very large, modern supermarket called Lu Lu's but we had heard of another place which catered for expats and was located near the main Air Force base. There we found an Aladdin's cave and bought bacon, pork sausages, Marmite and even steak and kidney pies to have for lunch. Oman, you are wonderful.
Diesel was cheap and delivered to the quayside in a tanker procured by the indefatigable Mohammed, who also arranged our outward clearance. He and Christine then drove a bunch of us into the town centre where we wandered through the souk (food market) and the bazaar (Ordinary shops) More frankincense and myrrh was obtained but we declined the wicked curved knives which most of the locals wore in a wide belt around their middles. To round the evening off we went to an Omani restaurant and ate a traditional meal, sitting on the floor in local style. It was delicious.
Next morning we sailed with our chosen partners, Vagabond
Heart and Legend 2.
Ahead
lay the 600-odd miles to Aden and the risk of pirates. It
reall
y
is a worry. As we write the couple on the yacht moored ahead of us are
living proof of the dangers. Making the same journey in 2000 they
were approached by three boats who opened fire with automatic weapons.
Gail was shot in the leg and suffered a broken bone. They were boarded,
robbed and allowed to proceed with their lives and their boat but little else of
value.
We did not intend the same fate to befall us.
