6. Through Pirate Alley with the Spanish Navy
Oman to Eritrea
Up and away again, with sadness and glee together. Away past the tree-drenched jetty with the tap of purest drinking water, past the ancient Bolgatty Palace, past the other yachts, blown kisses, waves, honks of horns, away past the grimy town ferries, through the small channel, dredging our way along the muddy bottom, revs up and up and up, engine roaring, scraping our way out into the soupy swirl of the main channel.
Now past more ferry boats, fishing boats, dredges, petrol tankers, navy ships, Customs on our left, mangroves on our right. On and on past the cantilevered Chinese fishing nets, arms up to the sky, past the beaches of Fort Cochin and their poor burnt Santa Clauses, on and on down the khaki-coloured channel – green buoys to the left, red to the right. On and away past the Fairway Buoy and out past the fishing boats coming home, over to the drop-off – one minute it’s forty-five metres of water and then the depth metre stops reading as we pass the plunging underwater cliff to arrive into the deep, deep Lakshadweep Sea . . . and on and on and back into the navy-blue womb of our beloved, clean Indian Ocean.
There’s a smart wind just off the nose, and we set out in great spirits. The Arabian Sea has a reputation for benign weather. We’re headed for Salalah in Oman.
However, the thought of transiting the ‘pirate zone’ of the Gulf of Aden, beyond Salalah, is never far from our minds, and we plan and replan our strategy. We may meet either Yemeni fishermen or Somali people smugglers, both of whom, given the opportunity, have turned pirate in the past. Often they raid yachts with terrified refugees still crammed aboard, huddled in the bottom of the open boats while their ‘saviours’ wave around AK-47s. After much research, we know our best chance of passing without attack is to sail through the danger area – about a hundred nautical miles between longitude of 047 degrees to 049 degrees east – on a moonless night, without lights, without using the VHF radio, mid-week, at least fifty miles from Yemen, and 200 miles from Somalia.
Soon after leaving Kochi we use the long-range radio to join ‘the Red Sea Net’, an informal group of about fifteen boats headed for Salalah and then the Red Sea this season, and start exchanging information each day at appointed times. We hope to be able to form a convoy with two to four other boats for the transit.
It takes thirteen days to get to Salalah, a journey distinguished by twice being becalmed (once for two days), a number of storms, the usual number of maintenance issues, a collision with two small pilot whales who immediately dive out of sight, and some spectacular bioluminescence shows at night. One pod of dolphins that passes us is so vast their hordes of leaping bodies take up the whole ocean as far as the eye can see.
It’s the birds, as usual, that herald our approach to the coastline – white flocks gliding low in the distance. Then, out of a dust haze, immense yellow mountains appear to the north. They’re sixty kilometres away, but they’re so high it looks like six.
In the last few miles, dust falls onto the salt-encrusted deck and cabin top, and the boat becomes dusty-salt-caked all over. Entering the port we can hardly see the other shore for the dust. There’s not a sign of a tree in any direction, just sand-coloured flat-topped buildings against a background of haze.
We already know that Oman, housing around 2.5 million citizens with an extra workforce of around half a million imported Asian labourers, has less than one per cent of arable land, the rest being desert. It’s ruled by a sultan, but it is more forward-looking than many of its Arab neighbours – maybe it’s a necessary forwardness, as its oil reserves are dwindling. Oman produces dates, limes, bananas, alfalfa, vegetables, camels, some cattle and some fish, but must import the balance of its supplies. Apart from crude-oil production and refining it has branched out into liquefied natural-gas production and other industries: construction, cement, copper, steel, chemicals, optic fibre. So it’s not surprising to see that the port is busy with many merchant ships. What is surprising is the number of warships towering above us from the US-led ‘Coalition of the Willing’, the force which patrols the region because of the war in Iraq. We grab binoculars and strain to identify the flags – British, French, Italian, Spanish and, most amazing, not one but four Japanese warships.
We are instructed to go to the small yacht harbour. The rocky bottom means it takes eight attempts before our temperamental CQR anchor holds against a strong pull (1500 revs) in reverse gear. Yes, we are learning . . .
Soon we meet the yacht ‘agent’. Abdullah is a well-built six-foot-six African, his smile a white shock in his very black face. He strides around the dock in a long, flowing, snow-white dasha with head-wrap trailing in the wind, a different colour for each day of the week. From the neck down he looks like an escaped granny in her nightdress, and from the neck up he looks like a pirate, but he makes the bureaucracy soft and easy.
The town of Salalah is seven kilometres away via a six-lane highway almost devoid of cars. Whenever we want, a minibus is organised for provisioning expeditions, and we are able to observe the life here.
In the streets during the day, boys play football in the laneways after school, old men sit in coffeehouses smoking shisha pipes, younger men wander along chatting, or stride purposefully. However, there’s not a woman or girl anywhere. I think about those unseen girls – indoors, all their small lives. What do they think as their brothers race into the street to play? Even the supermarkets are mostly frequented by male shoppers. These supermarkets display lush and exotic goods, but only the occasional ghost in flowing black shrouds drifts silently among the men.
One day I share a coffee with another cruiser in a small restaurant. While listening to the conversation, my attention is taken by the men over her shoulder, all wearing swathes of dirty clothes, who, faced with what seems like a chicken and rice dish, grab handfuls and stuff the food into their mouths. The food dribbles between their fingers as they clutch and squeeze the soft mush, and their mouths, cheeks and chins are smeared with oil. Watching, repelled but fascinated, I find myself gagging.
I grow more conscious of the other diners. There are no women besides us, and there is no laughter – almost as though it were impolite to smile or laugh – and the men eating with their fingers ogle us from time to time surreptitiously. I begin to feel uncomfortable, and am glad that our transport car is waiting outside.
I refocus on our conversation. My friend is telling the story of an Omani woman whom she had met in Europe. ‘It is my dearest wish,’ the Omani woman had said, ‘to marry a European man – any European man. Why? Because in Oman, even if a wife does nothing bad during the day, she will still have a fifty per cent chance of being beaten by her husband in the evening.’
I return to the boat with a burden of sadnesses – for the women I can’t see in the streets, for the Omani woman with ambitions to marry a European just so she won’t be beaten.
We go touring with Abdullah as guide, driving the coast roads dug into high cliffs. They wind around headland after headland, and far below we can see beaches and some grass in the valleys. The mountains are parched, with Bedouin-owned camels roaming wild. Sometimes camels walk with their minders, wizened old men or young boys in shabby robes with crooked sticks in their hands. We visit a camel farm, but the miserableness of the shacks and fences and squalor of the kids with matted hair make it difficult to concentrate on the camels.
We enjoy the experience of hubbly-bubbly or shisha water pipes in a restaurant one evening, escorted by Abdullah and his Dutch girlfriend. Here, as a group of eight, we watch as stern, unsmiling men arrive with their black-robed and veiled women. They sit at a table. Then, when the food is to be served, the waiters scurry to place high screens around each table so that the women can remove their face covering enough to eat the meal. Every other table in the restaurant is eventually surrounded by screens. We continue to eat and laugh alone.
Just outside the security gate of the port, on a hill with a pleasant view over the harbour and coastline, the Port Authority of Salalah has built a ‘club’ – the aptly named Oasis Club – in the middle of this ‘strictly no alcohol’ country. With an excellent Western-style restaurant, Sky TV, outdoor barbecue area and a number of pool tables it is the hangout for the crews of the Western warships and, naturally, for the yachties. Hordes of Japanese sailors play pool as they laugh and drink, but staying vertical is not one of their greatest skills after a few hours at the club. We are slowly getting used to such extraordinary contrasts, taking each day as it comes.
A flurry of boats are to leave on Saturday, us among them. The moon is waning, and we’ll pass through the danger zone mid-week, when the nights will be moonless. The tension between the twelve boats due to leave the port is palpable.
While the prospect of the pirate zone is daunting, we are a more settled team on Blackwattle. I am more confident of my ability to handle the boat alone under most circumstances, and Day 244, when we almost lost the boat, has given us a new unity and more trust in each other.
Saturday dawns like any other dusty morning in Salalah – the mullahs are calling, the roosters crowing, the port is a hubbub of activity. But it’s not like any other morning. For six years we have consciously or unconsciously waited for this moment.
The yachts dribble out of the port and head west for the Gulf of Aden. It will take a day and night of sailing before we get to the danger zone. Soon, contrary to the forecast, we are becalmed, and must motor to keep our rendezvous with the other boats at a prearranged waypoint.
At night the water is like a dark mirror, with every star reflected individually. With stars above and below us, the Milky Way completes its own circle, and sails with us as well. Then there is the phosphorescence. As we throb softly through this all-around sky, the wake we make is brightly, solidly luminous – the colour of white shirts on a black-light dance floor – trailing out like a bridal train. A riffle in the water heralds the breeze creeping in, and the ocean comes alive with luminous small waves, making it difficult, if not impossible, to reliably make out ship lights as they pass. We turn on the radar.
Constantly now we hear Coalition warships challenging every merchant vessel passing through the Gulf. The voice drones on impassively, almost like a recording:
‘Position latitude x longitude y, speed x knots, course y degrees, this is Coalition warship. Do you read me?’
This repeats over and over. If the ship doesn’t answer, it gets more urgent.
‘Position etc etc, this is Coalition warship and we are off your starboard bow, do you read?’
Then, ‘Position etc etc, this is Coalition warship and we are on your starboard bow. We are the vessel shining searchlights along your ship. Do you see us?’
Eventually every vessel answers, and gives the details of its journey.
We have three boats in sight – Destiny, Solara and Free Radical – when, at 1.30 pm, we hear a mayday from American-flagged Klondike, which is far ahead. They are being followed by two boats and are having difficulty outrunning them.
Canadian-flagged Solara has phoned the piracy emergency numbers we’ve been given. There’s no immediate response to the mayday, and soon Klondike reports that she has outrun the chasing boats. They have been sailing alone, so drop their speed now to join our group. As evening draws in we four boats travel without lights, keeping track of each other by radar. By morning Klondike has joined us, shaken by the experience, but unharmed.
It’s around 11 am when the helicopter arrives.
‘This is Coalition helicopter,’ the VHF radio booms. ‘Please state your name, boat length, number of crew, port of registry, last port of call, next port of call.’ They are looking for Klondike, who had called the mayday, but a response twelve hours after the mayday is bemusing. We don’t express our frustration, however. We have chosen to be here. We could all be back in our homes, doing safer things than transiting known pirate zones.
Later, around 3 pm, we notice a warship in the distance. A VHF radio exchange starts up between our five yachts.
‘Well, it’s reassuring to see a warship around here.’
Then, a few minutes later, ‘You know, I think she is going to come quite close – great to get a picture.’
‘She sure is getting close, she’s going to pass right by our convoy.’
‘Ooooh, she’s getting very close, we’ll definitely be able to take a photo.’
‘Hey, I think she is going to sail between us!’
‘She is – how amazing. She must have known we wanted to photograph her.’ (Giggle.) ‘Anyway, she’s slowed down, so she won’t give us a wash.’
‘That’s considerate.’
She is so close we can see the crew on the decks, and we wave like maniacs.
‘But she’s not passing us.’
‘Well, what on earth is she doing now? She’s travelling at the same speed.’
On Channel 16, we hear: ‘This is Coalition warship,’ and the captain takes our details again, just as the helicopter had. We hear no more for a while, but the warship keeps pace with us.
Then, ‘My God, they’re putting down a rubber duckie – what are they doing, conducting exercises?’
‘Why would they be conducting exercises in the middle of a bunch of yachts?’
‘Well, look there – they’re definitely putting down a rubber duckie, right near us on this side of their ship.’
We watch, fascinated. ‘Maybe they’re going to pay us a visit.’
‘Sure – coming for a cup of tea.’
And so it happens.
An inflatable with twelve seriously spunky Spanish sailors visits each of our boats. Three come on board, while the inflatable hovers close by. They say they will be watching us all the coming night through the danger zone. They will fly helicopters over us, they are ‘here to protect us’. To prove it, they present us with a bottle of ‘very good Spanish wine’, to ‘make us feel better’. Then they scream off to join their ship, which immediately departs at speed, leaving five very stunned boat crews behind.
By dusk we reach the waypoint that signifies we are about to enter the danger zone, and decide to motor in chevron formation, Klondike ahead, then two and two behind, 500 metres apart. We all have radar, and will run without lights. Like migrating geese, we fly through the long, long night, diesels purring. Eyes are riveted to the radar screens, staying in formation. It’s boring, it’s not sailing and it’s not fun, but the sun rises without a whisper of trouble.
Realisation comes slowly. We’re through, and unscathed! After talking about it for years, we’re through! We still need to be careful, and may not run lights tonight, but we’ve made it through Pirate Alley.
Three yachts in our convoy go into Aden for fuel and a rest. Two of us, Canadian yacht Solara and Blackwattle, don’t need fuel, and we’re keen to get the next infamous hurdle – Bab el-Mandeb Strait, entry into the Red Sea – behind us.
At night now the phosphorescence is increasing, along with the wind and wave action. Sometimes the sea is glowing white to the horizon, a million heaving glow worms dancing under the night sky.
Soon we receive a report on the radio that a French boat, Notre Dame, has been attacked by pirates with automatic weapons and robbed of everything saleable, from computers to spectacles, cash to radar equipment. They’re heading into Aden and our colleague boats there are ready to support them.
Solara and Blackwattle pass deftly through Bab el-Mandeb Strait into the Red Sea under bright moonlight without incident, and sail on through the heavy ship traffic at the southernmost end of the Red Sea. We’re heading for Eritrea.
It’s different in the Red Sea. The salt haze is even thicker than it has been, the sun a bleak thing, easily watched with the naked eye. I feel as though we have entered some secret other-world. There’s seaweed in the water, big orange floating sponges, and flocks of birds – white birds, black birds, small birds, large groups floating together, elegant single birds swooping above us. The water is paler and brighter green, there are waves but no swell, and the smudges on the skyline – Yemen on one side and Djibouti on the other – are a constant reminder that we’ve left behind the great oceanic spaces. We catch a mahi mahi, big enough to give us ten fillets of fish, small enough to land it on the deck, our best since Christmas Island. We cross the shipping channel, and for a while are surrounded by great leviathans going both ways.
We now have around 1200 nautical miles ahead of us to reach the Suez Canal. What we know about the passage is daunting: it is mostly to windward, a difficult point of sail; it is inaccurately charted and full of treacherous coral; and it passes through war zones. But we survived the pirate zone unscathed, so why not the Red Sea?