We Got Lucky

We got lucky. We made it in and out of Sorong in 24 hours. We have never succeeded in fueling, checking in and out of a city, hung out with new friends and reprovisioned in one day. Like I said, we got lucky.

Passing rusty dilapidated wrecks, Philippine fishing fleets with outstretched arms, and local dugouts equipped with the familiar "putt putt putt" of a very powerful lawnmower engine we motored into Sorong's outer harbor following our friends' waypoint to the "fuel barge" on Sunday. We passed a village with over a hundred people lining the beach and searched for the rusty black wreck across from the fuel barge that was supposed to be our marker.

A man lingered in the doorway of a very new white vessel with what looked like barrels on deck, so we did a drive by. "Bagi. Solar?" I enquired hopefully. "Solar," (diesel), the man pointed across the shore. We motored to what we thought was the fuel barge. "Solar, hari ini?" Today, I asked hopefully. "Ya, Ya," came the response as more and more young men poured out of the barge onto the deck. The sky over Sorong city darkened as cumulus clouds began to ascend higher and higher yet somehow they never reached the scorching sun above us. Boom, Boom, the thunder roared. Still we were cooking.

Our friends had gone through this routine a couple of weeks ago and warned us it would be a really messy fuel because of their high-pressure hose. But it was cheap at 6000 rupies a liter equaling about $2.40 US a gallon and we needed to top up. So after using our rudimentary Bahasa and consulting with one of the young guys working at the barge we negotiated the price of 6000 rupies a liter, communicated we wanted 270 liters (giving us 5 extra gallons of space for overflow with the high pressure hose), found a small hose fitting to work with our deck fill, got to inspect the amber clean looking diesel and then, finally, fuel. The guys were thoughtful, making sure Gar knew the meter was at zero when they started and they did an excellent job making the connection between huge fuel hose and our tiny one. Within 20 minutes, after 15 guys participated or watched the process, we were fueled without spilling a drop, had photos taken of us by them and the other way around and paid with a receipt to prove it.

Next on the list was where to berth for the night. We called our new friends, Dave and Din on Shakti, a live-aboard boat, hopeful they were in town and wouldn't mind moving, or on a charter and their mooring was free. Again we got lucky. Dave's crew moved Shakti to a steel mooring and we took her oversized plastic one. Visiting Shakti later that afternoon we learned we might have fueled from an illegal fuel barge owned by an illegal logger. Well, there was a police boat side tied to it. I guess that doesn't mean much. OOPS. Even when we try to be conscious maybe we aren't. The extra bonus was that we could hang out with our new friends and also a friend I originally met in Palau years ago who now lives in the Bay.

Monday morning started at dark thirty when we woke with the sickeningly sweet putrid smell of fish mixed with oil flowing past our hull and the loud "putt putt putt" of local boats motoring close by. We rocked in their wakes and dressed for the officials. Gar and I were wearing long pants, shoes and button down shirts for the second time in less than three weeks. This time we got smarter though. We motored super dingy directly in front of the harbormaster's office, swirling past plastic, fish, and coconuts and side tied to an old engineless boat. I wished Gar luck while I sat in the sun guarding the dingy and watching kids playing in the water while waiting for his return.

During the hour I waited for Gar the local kids entertained me. Shanti was the bravest. After about twenty minutes of me smiling and all of them staring at me directly or out of the corner of their eyes she finally approached, sticking her wet belly out and shaking her curly hair so I could see the water clinging to her Papuan curls. "Good morning my friend," she blurted out in English and readied to return to her 6 friends watching from a safe distance. "Good morning my friend", I replied. "What is your name?" "Shanti," she said through sparkling white teeth. And then, just like that, we were friends. She sat next to me or did jumps off the pier always looking back for a thumbs up. The boys got braver and started sidling up beside me and we talked about the tiny dried shrimp that sat beside us getting smaller and smaller in the baking sun. Well, we didn't talk really. They talked in Bahasa Indonesian and I talked in English. It worked though and before long Gar returned.

I knew we were good when Gar strode down the dock smiling with a big thumbs up. He narrowly escaped the all day run around to Immigration, Customs, and Quarantine and to play host to the harbormaster on the boat. This was the third harbormaster he had met in Sorong and he wanted to send Gar to do more paperwork and to see DreamKeeper. Luck was still with us as Gar managed to smile a lot, make jokes, sit relaxed in his office and tell him he was welcome to the boat but it was all the way down the harbor. Instead, the harbormaster signed and stamped our exit papers and were clear to leave without more officialdom.

Only two more things on our list: Fill the gas jerry jug for super dingy and provision. We were doing great, it was only 10:30am. Gar sauntered down the pier to the petrol station and returned within minutes. We said goodbye to my new friends after they helped us untie Super Dingy and we were off to find a pier closer to Saga, the supermarket and DK to drop me off on.

Cruising past large fishing boats packed together like sardines, put put boats, and large ferries we found a dock peeking out of it all that had a ladder leading up from the sea. I hoped I could find Saga and return to the same pier with all of the groceries. You see there is nowhere to safely leave the dingy so I was alone on this mission and my sense of direction isn't my strong point. Walking through thirty men lingering on the dirt side road saying "Bagi," morning to all I almost made it out without conversation until a man stopped me and smiled. We shared morning pleasantries and then I asked him where Saga was, hopeful I might be able to walk. Left right right he motioned with his hand. And I was off.

Navigating over pot holes and bamboo poles, passing a motorcycle shop, beauty salon and shops selling everything made of plastic I was distracted, waving to kids in uniform, who shouted, "good morning mister" or "good morning misses" from across lanes of traffic smiling and waving frantically. At last I made it to the salmon pink building that was home to Saga. Shopping was uneventful except they didn't have eggs. Well chicken eggs. They had spotted brown and beige quail eggs and some pinkish eggs and some big blue eggs but no chicken eggs.

By noon I was calling Gar from the back of my taxi on the VHF. He heard me and asked if I was on the same pier. I don't know who was more surprised that I was, Gar or me. The backup plan was that he would just cruise the waterfront looking at all of the piers. No need. So after getting severely ripped off from the cab, two dollars, with help to lug all 12 bags of groceries out of his van we debated returning to town for eggs.

We decided leaving Sorong was much higher on our list. We b-lined it back to Dreamkeeper and a little after noon we were free from our mooring and headed out the channel with the tide. Goodbye Sorong.

Another First

Written at Pulau Wagmag, Southern Raja Ampat, Indonesia

It was another first. In the last 2 1/2 years cruising on DK we have had a full cornucopia of adventures. But every so often something brand new and randomly exciting happens. Today was one of those days.

But first a little background...Anchored at the northern Raja Ampat island of Wayag, almost everyday was about exploration. The island massif and surrounding mushroom-shaped rocks surfacing from the sea are equally dramatic and beautiful. Sandy beaches line the shores of the reef-encircled small bays and lagoons and the channels are alive with thick nutrient-rich currents that support the tremendous amount of life that exists here. This small area in West Papua, Indonesia, is considered to have the greatest coral reef biodiversity of its size in the world. Even though the secret is out and more and more tourists venture here, mostly on live-aboard dive boats, the reality is that Raja Ampat is still seldom visited and only a select few actually spend the money and time to journey to these islands.

There has been a rather sad downside to this gem of a region. Even though we have been at least 40-120 miles away from any significantly sized city, like Sorong, we have seen more trash in the water and on every beach we have visited than anywhere we been in the Pacific Ocean. Slicks of plastic, foam, steel balls, flip-flops, and all sizes of wood and bamboo are pushed and pulled by the strong currents. Every beach we have walked on is practically covered with rubbish and when we do put our fishing lures out in the open water trying our luck for Spanish mackerel or tuna, we mostly just catch plastic. It's been a full time job just pulling in our lures to remove the pieces of trash we hook, not to mention keeping a sharp lookout that DK doesn't ram into a huge log or scary steel whatever. Some locals say the trash is from the live-aboard dive boats and others have told us they think it is the huge fishing or container ships that are heading to Sorong but don't want to pay to have their trash brought on shore, so these boats just dump it before getting close to the harbor. This is all possible; we really don't know where it comes from or why it is so bad. The happy side to this reality is that it sounds like most of the time there hasn't been this problem with trash, but, unfortunately, while we were visiting trash everywhere was our reality.

Back to the present...Nicole and I took off in Super Dinghy for an around the islands exploration tour in an attempt to find a "shady" beach. Did I mention it is really really hot here at the equator? Zigging and zagging through the coral-studded channels of the inner lagoons we soon found ourselves on the outer reef skimming along the top of a shallow hard coral reef. "There's another turtle," I pointed out, one of probably half a dozen we had already seen that day. But as we got closer we could tell something wasn't right. The turtle was clearly struggling and kept surfacing in the same spot. We slowly approached and could finally see the problem. The turtle was trapped in an old fishing net with it bound tightly around 3 of the turtle's flippers and completely around it's neck. Our hearts dropped. This is what you read about; the thousands of old fishing nets and plastic 6-pack rings that float around aimlessly in the oceans entangling anything that gets in their way. But this situation was our first time actually observing this sad reality.

But now wasn't the time to be sad and introspective. It was time to act. 'Bummer', Nic and I thought. No knife. No mask. And we were miles away from DreamKeeper. I looked at the turtle coming up for air and immediately attempting to dive and swim away unsuccessfully. It was scared and it was really stuck. Then I remembered we "did" have a knife with us. A fishing knife I left yesterday under the dingy seat when I was out hunting for lobster. We almost never keep a knife in the dingy, well we didn't, but we all know now that will change.

I jumped in with the knife and struggled to hold onto the turtle. It was a green sea turtle, fairly large and heavy, possibly 2 1/2 feet in diameter and weighing at least 300 pounds or more. It didn't want anything to do with me. It struggled and kept diving down while I attempted to find some purchase with my bare-feet on the hard coral that I could just barely touch beneath me. I finally got a good hold on the turtle's shell and managed to cut a few pieces of the net off. Then the turtle slipped away again and down it went. My fear was that I would cut only part of the net away and the turtle would take off with some of it still wrapped tightly around it's flippers or neck only t0 be killed by it at a later date.

Nicole was circling in the dingy yelling for me to be careful and not to hurt the turtle or let it get away. She was clearly rattled and was just trying to voice her concerns, but for me, as she well knows, it was better to just tune her out and focus on the situation.

Finally I managed to pull the turtle close to me again and this time I held on tightly to it's shell while doing my best not to drag my "white-man" bare-feet all over the sharp coral my toes were clinging too. Thankfully the turtle was tiring and I was committed this time. I carefully slipped the blade between skin and net and slowly freed each limb. I was nervous about the neck, but as I worked the turtle seemed to relax a bit and eventually I cut the last of its bonds. I released my firm grip and the turtle finned fiercely, dove deep, and was gone. It all happened in only a few minutes.

I bobbed in the water and appreciated the moment.

The trash we had been seeing finally had a more real connection. Of course the net probably wasn't just thrown overboard by a live-aboard dive boat or container ship coming into Sorong, but it was "trash". An old fishing net lost at sea wrapping up everything in its path until it becomes caught on a coral reef, beach, or boat prop. In this case it snagged a turtle.

For whatever reason we came upon this situation, it was a first for us, and thankfully, had a happy ending.

Farewell Palau

Our passage was a gift that lead us to an even grander one here on Helen Island. We sailed under double-reefed main and alternately with a reefed jib that unfurled to its full 130% as the wind continued to decrease by the end of the passage. Leaving Koror after a swift check out our sails were filled with wind from the NE at 20-30 knots. The first day and through most of the first night we flew across the ocean on a broad reach sailing at 7-8.5 knots. The swell was small and the squalls sparse. Perfect ocean sailing. The moon filled the sky and threw light across the empty horizon almost as if it were twilight all night long. As the wind decreased we learned to appreciate slowing down as we had to arrive at Helen Reef in good light and favorable tide to clearly navigate the reefs. We have never really appreciated moving at 2-4 knots an hour but riding with perfectly set sails and a small swell with the moon shining through gossamer clouds and the squalls steering clear of us we did. I can't remember loving sailing this much or having a passage so peaceful.

It was a perfect way to come into Helen Reef, 350 miles away from Koror. After being guided through the maze of patch reefs by the Helen Rangers we fell in love with the place and our new friends. The light reveals Helen Reef in all of her beauty; reefs glow from the depths shimmering turquoise from the shallows, terns fly by the hundreds and turtles are everywhere. We spent our days fishing with the rangers who we are now grateful to call our friends, feasting on their catch, walking the beach searching for turtle tracks and watching the light change over the water. When night falls on Helen Island we listen to the black noddy terns and spent hours talking story and sharing meals with the guys, waiting for turtles to come ashore to lay their eggs.

We settled into a comfortable rhythm with David, Hercules and Paul and the island. They quickly became our new friends and the island our home. I could have stayed there for months it felt that good. And then it was over, we were overdue to arrive in Sorong with only 60 days to our visas and the weather looked good to go. It was with tear filled eyes we followed our track through the maze of patch reefs and let Helen slip into our memories.

Watch for a longer update with photos once we have internet connection again. (Unfortunately, it may be months)

***Sorry these last 2 blogs are out of order***

Selamat Datang Di Indonesia

Let me be blunt, sailing a yacht around the world is nowhere near as dangerous as riding in a taxicab in Indonesia. It took us a whole 2 days since we placed our feet on Indonesian soil for us to be involved in our first "agro" taxicab race. Let me set the scene...

Picture a bustling, garbage-strewn, fish-stinking small oil and shipping city flowing with all types of Indonesian peoples. Short black-skinned Papuan locals share the spaces with more lighter-skinned taller Indonesians who have migrated here from Ambon, Timor, and Java. Ghetto shanties mix with concrete first-world shops, temples, and banks, all connected with muddy pot-holed roads and sidewalks trenched by the thousands of sandaled-feet who have trod the muddy paths through the trash and what once could be called grass. Taxis and motorbikes flow into a continuous smoke-belching river of chaos where the only unspoken rule is to go as fast as your vehicle will allow and obey only the signs you choose.

We are on our way to the supermarket, Mega. I'm in the front seat of the little mini-van taxi, torn vinyl seats, windows too low to see well out of, and scratchy Indonesian music blaring from the bad speakers. Nicole is in the very back seat with 2 other women sandwiched in next to her. Our driver guns the engine and attempts to pass another taxi. The other taxi decides that no way is he going to let our driver pass him. We are on a smaller side street with cars and motorbikes coming directly at us. We have to pull back behind the other taxi with inches to spare from hitting his rear fender. Our driver is furious. We try again, same thing. He is livid. We turn the corner and he guns the engine again, do or die it seems. We are neck and neck, inches separate the two steel bodies and the oncoming traffic is forced almost into the ditch. All of a sudden a bigger car is coming right at us, no room, and we are going at about 40 miles an hour now on a busy little 2 way street with no room for error. No way our driver will back down now because he is a winner...he pulls in front of the other taxi, scraping our steel panels together just in the nick of time before we end up in a head-on accident...did I mention I am in the front seat with, of course, no seatbelt. Seatbelts, in Indonesia, what are those??

We pull over to the side of the road. Our driver leaps out and goes over to the other taxi yelling curses with fumes coming out of his middle-aged nostrils. I look back at Nicole and we share an unspoken sigh of relief. Good thing Indonesian culture is mostly non-violent. No fight ensues, our driver returns, and off we go again at top speed. Time for us to change taxis.

So we made it to Sorong, Indonesia. It wasn't easy traveling south from Helen Reef in Palau. It only took us a few days but we had one night of junk full of large confused waves, 30 plus knots of wind, and massive squalls dumping buckets of rain all night long. We intelligently chose to hove-to and I ended up sleeping on the cabin floor in the bouncy conditions for a few hours until the sunrise brought a welcome change of weather and we set sail due south for the equator.

Motoring in zero wind on our last day we crossed the 25-mile stretch of water that separates the island of Pulau Waigeo from the Papuan mainland where Sorong lies. We came across a huge school of dolphins and a few fin whales surfaced nearby before the water slowly started getting more trash-filled and turning brown.

We dropped our hook and backed towards the concrete wall in front of a building in the northern section of the harbor. Our German friends, Harry and Heidi, on the yacht, Alk, were waiting for us. We side-tied next to them and they caught us up on their welcome to Sorong adventures.

A couple of day's prior, Harry had his go at checking in with all the officials: the harbormaster, customs, quarantine/health, and immigration. They gave him the full run-around and it ended taking him over 12 hours and having 8 guys from customs and immigration searching every cubbie on their boat for an hour at 7:00 at night. He had to pay a guy to be his "agent" and ended up forking out around $70-80 to get all properly sorted.

My day took roughly 6 hours, with a few of them spent in taxis and on the back of motorbikes searching for the various obscure offices I needed to find. I spent many hours just talking story in my broken Bahasa Indonesia and their broken English, chuckling, and smiling as I sat in their offices and filled out forms. Only one customs officer wanted to actually walk on our boat and it was clear he wasn't really into it. Total cost for all of it, $15. After that we were officially cleared in and I could take off my sweat-soaked collared shirt, pants, and close-toed shoes I wore to make a good impression. I had even taken out my earrings and shaved my WHOLE face. Nicole was pretty happy about that (but don't get used to it, girl).

We are alone now; our German friends have headed south. DK bobs in the brown, stinky trashy water with a constant parade of on-lookers on the bulkhead 30 feet away from us. The men stare for hours and the kids yell, "Hello Mister", every few minutes. We are truly a spectacle here in Sorong, as this is neither a tourist town, nor a "yachty" place at all. Our boat sticks out like a sore thumb surrounded by Chinese style junks and humungous Philippino outrigger fishing boats. On one side of us the oil tankers dock and on the other side the enormous "love boat"-style ferries tie up that shuttle the masses to Papua New Guinea every few days. In another day we will be off to Raja Ampat, our time in Sorong being the price we pay to get to experience the beauty of our next destination.