Escape Velocity

Lombok, listening to a haunting call to prayer.

As we approach Rinca in the Komodo Islands the excitement aboard Escape Velocity began to ratchet up a notch or two. As the name suggests this island is their island so I’m guessing that it’ll be like visiting the monsters on their own turf. The other concern is that Loh Buaya Bay is either too deep or too shallow and has been known to get overcrowded. We timed our arrival after, we hoped, the day trippers would have already left for the day. It worked. We entered an essentially empty bay, working our way up the shallow starboard side as far away from the landing dock as possible. We should be well out of the fray all the way over here and there’s still time to dinghy into the office to arrange for a guide and a tour time early tomorrow. The pier is sized for large excursion boats which presents obstacles for cruisers in dinghies.

Wildlife is everywhere and I guess this guy is the official greeter.

The first time you see one of these monsters your blood freezes and the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. I guess the shock was enhanced by the fact that we were just buying tickets and not at all prepared for a confrontation, but like I said, it’s their island. They wander, drooling poisonous saliva, wherever they like.

They’re big.

They’re awfully big, and my brain quickly snapped into survival mode starting with a quick physical assessment because, as the old adage says, you don’t have to be the fastest guy in the group, Yours Truly just needs to be a little faster than the slowest! Now I know I’m definitely not the fastest, even in the best of times and what speed my rickety knees haven’t taken away, recent heavy courses of antibiotics has. I’ll have to rely on experience and cunning. In short I’m dead meat.

We woke to a bay filled nuts to butts with every manner of excursion craft displaying only the most casual of anchoring etiquette or technique. Picking our way through the anchored hoards we dinghied to the landing but had no idea the actual park was a long hike away.

As we approached the park we noticed an uncommon variety of medium to large size animals just hanging out around the park entrance.

The island is a very dry, dusty sort of place so I suspect they must feed them, like a zoo. Turns out they’re food for the dragons. All they have to do is catch them, which apparently they’re good at.

These are the personalized staffs of the guides, used to keep the Komodo Dragons away from us slower folks. I would have preferred a ten kilo sledge!

After a slight but nasty altercation between three big males M. is wishing for some running room. Our guide saw the potential for trouble and moved between us and them with his little twig.

This guy has been bitten, gouged by a dragon and the poison is beginning to work so they can just take their time. I understand they like it kind of ripe anyhow.

The madness out in the harbor continued unabated, all evening long, until it was time to go and that’s when the fun began. I just kind of assumed that this craziness was normal and we were surrounded by professionals but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I’ve never seen so many bone headed blunders. Anchors snagging rodes, paint trading, whole crews trying to fend off each other. I couldn’t watch! I grabbed our boat hook but just sat in the pilot chair like our guide trying to fend off a Komodo Dragon with a twig.

Somehow they missed us.

We weren’t exactly confident, as Jack neared the end of his course of antibiotics, that the infection would be completely gone in the next 24 hours. His knee is still warm and inflamed and his whole leg looks as swollen as before. So back to the hospital we went and we’re very glad we did.

Dr. #2 was much more engaged and (we think) knowledgeable. He agreed that even though Jack is improving the antibiotics he’s taking aren’t quite up to the task. We were resupplied with more powerful bug-killers and another round of pain meds, along with packets of electrolytes to get Jack’s system back on track. The doctor also looked at the X-ray and assured us that the infection isn’t in the bones so that worry is gone.

As the doctor was describing the meds he ordered and what they are for, one was designated “for hair balls.” Now this doctor has pretty good English and we both understood 95% of what he said, but this didn’t sound right.

“For hair balls?” I asked, hoping he’d correct me and we’d understand the purpose of the drug. I glanced at Jack, who was suppressing a laugh.

“Yes, hair balls,” he repeated, as clear as a bell.

I nodded. Jack shrugged.

“Ok.” Good to know.

Reminds me of this scene from the movie “Best Friends.”ł

Today was a long day for Jack, even with a car and driver to run us to the hospital, the immigration office, the supermarket and traditional market. We’ll take tomorrow off and I’ll park Jack in the cockpit again with a soft cushion under his leg and a good book. We hope to be able to move on by the end of the week, but only if we’re sure there’s no danger of a relapse.

Dragons await.

Labuan Bajo, Flores, Indonesia

First let me thank everyone who sent good wishes to Jack. It means so much to us, believe me.

Jack has improved a lot in the past two days. After our initial Night of Hell the antibiotics started to work their magic and we think the fever is gone for good. Along with that Jack is back to his old talkative self but is understandably still weak and below par in energy. A couple of good nights’ sleep has helped but we think it will take a bit longer before he’s back to 100%. His knee is still swollen so obviously the infection isn’t quite kicked and we’ll be keeping an eye on that.

We can’t believe our good fortune that this emergency happened after we arrived in a town. For the previous week we’d been slowly making our way along the north coast of Flores Island, mostly alone and mostly stopping at quiet anchorages with no village nearby. On top of that, our phone and internet hotspot ran out of credit and we had no way to top them up until we got to a town. That meant our communications were limited to VHF radio and our Iridium devices, certainly enough to summon help if we needed it, but definitely limiting our options for immediate nearby assistance. Being in a crowded anchorage with tons of nearby help within hailing distance made all the difference.

Here’s how you know you’re not in Kansas anymore: At the hospital, the nurse gave me the rundown on the meds Jack would be getting and told us they would be sent up from the pharmacy shortly. I went to the front desk to pay our bill while we waited but the clerk told me I had to wait until the meds were actually delivered before she could take payment. I asked if I could use a credit card and she said yes.

When the meds arrived I went back to the desk to pay and found a man with an IV in his arm and an IV trolley beside him sitting behind the counter at the sole computer. I handed the clerk my credit card and she passed it to the man at the computer, who proceeded to generate our final bill and process my payment. He explained the procedure to the clerk at each step, and when he was finished he stood up, wheeled his IV trolley back across the hall to the examining room next to Jack’s and lay down on the exam table. I watched this mouth agape, then turned to the clerk.

“Is he a patient?” I asked. She looked up sheepishly.

“Yes,” she said, and that was all she was going to say about that. She handed me the final printout and receipt and we were free to go.

Most of the boats have left Labuanbajo for Komodo National Park, about 20 miles away. We aren’t going anywhere for a few days, and anyway I don’t think Jack is well enough yet to take the two hour walking tour we had planned at Komodo. We’ve applied for our visa extension and need to go into town tomorrow to complete the process and we hope we can start to plan our departure soon after that. We’d also like to get some diesel fuel because the unreliable wind in these parts means more motoring than normal and we don’t want to be caught out with no backup fuel. Our next scheduled rally destination is 200 miles west.

Today I have Jack parked in the cockpit with his leg up. I’m doing laundry and trying to get the boat cleaned up and back to normal. We hope to catch up with some posts about our great experience at Pasarwajo on Buton Island and share some wonderful photos now that we’re topped up and back online in the normal way.

Thanks again for hanging in with us and for all the good healing thoughts. They worked!

We have plenty to write about from the last two weeks and some great photos to share. But in the moment I want to tell you about how real life still happens even when you live on a boat, and how much we rely on our community of other cruisers and the people whose villages and towns we visit along the way.

Yesterday we motored about 16 miles to complete the lovely but long and mostly windless journey along the north shore of Flores Island. Several of our overnight anchorages were scheduled stops in previous years of the rally but this year none are on the itinerary. Even our next destination isn’t really a rally stop, but rather Labuanbajo, the tourism gateway to Komodo National Park, giving us a fairly generous break in the schedule so we can each plan our own way to explore and enjoy the UNESCO World Heritage site. Jack and I were really looking forward to meeting up with the other boats, restocking in a real supermarket, maybe eating out a couple of nights before we ventured to the land of the Komodo dragons.

We arrived at the anchorage about 10:30am and Jack lay down for a quick nap. Two hours later he was still sleeping in the cockpit, unusual for him, an experienced catnapper. We’d both been eager to get into town so I woke him, then woke him again a half hour later. He couldn’t seem to come fully to consciousness and as I pressed him to get up, it became clear he was foggy and not comprehending what I was saying. Then he tried to go to the bathroom and couldn’t get his legs under him and stumbled down the steps. My normally alert and surefooted husband was confused and unable to control his body. I was terrified.

It took some doing but I got him back into the cockpit but as I pressed him to tell me what was going on he remained unresponsive, unable to put words together. I waved our friend Mark over when I saw him pass by in his dinghy. “We have a problem,” I said. Mark came aboard and immediately saw the condition Jack was in. He asked if we have a blood pressure monitor. Of course, why didn’t I think of that? But our monitor is on its last legs and while it seemed to be working properly, the readout was illegible, even with fresh batteries.

Mark left to get his own monitor and came back a few minutes later with Craig from another boat, who brought a monitor and an oxygen sensor. Jack’s O2 level was fine but we couldn’t get a BP readout on Jack. And both Craig and Mark agreed that Jack needed to get to a medical professional ASAP. While Mark set about working on logistics, he and Craig suggested it might be worthwhile consulting Dr. Sandra on another boat. A few minutes later Sandra came aboard and proceeded to do a routine neurological evaluation. She didn’t think Jack had had a stroke, but of course couldn’t rule it out, and thought perhaps his symptoms were the result of an apparent high fever from a two-week-old injury to his knee that looked to be infected. She also urged us to get him to a hospital right away to be sure and to get the appropriate meds to treat it.

Once that decision was made our circle of sailor friends shifted into high gear. While I gathered passports, insurance info and cash, the others arranged transport from a local hotel, rallied more help to get Jack safely ashore in a dinghy and me ashore in another. Susan was designated our point person and communications link and came with us in the taxi.

Within about 20 minutes we arrived at the hospital and a nurse listened to the onset of symptoms and took Jack’s bp and pulse (both normal) and his temperature (high.) We had a bit of a wait before a doctor came and he was immediately concerned with the look of Jack’s knee and ordered both blood work and an X-ray. While we waited for those the nurse started an IV of saline, electrolytes and paracetamol for the fever.

An hour later the IV and air conditioning had brought down the fever to almost normal and Jack was once again able to respond to questions, although it was a while longer before he could recall his own birthdate.

Susan was good company, keeping us both distracted and entertained, as well as keeping the boater community back at the anchorage informed by phone about Jack’s condition. Eventually the doctor came back, and as far as I could discern from his excellent but accented English Jack’s infection has affected his knee bones and we’d be going home with a fistful of various meds to treat the infection, reduce the fever, alleviate the pain and support his immune system. Total cost for everything was 2,640,000 Rupiah, or about $185 US, well below our insurance deductible.

It was difficult to find a taxi to take the three of us back to the waterfront until an HR employee at the end of his shift offered his own car and driver to transport us. When we got back to the hotel, the manager who had arranged the original taxi and helped Jack to the car made sure we knew he was at our service for whatever we may need. We are so grateful to the complete strangers who stepped up without hesitation to help.

We realized Jack hadn’t eaten since breakfast, adding low blood sugar to his woes, so we quickly ordered food at the hotel bar, but three bites into his burger Jack developed violent hiccups that he couldn’t shake and we wrapped up our food and rallied the transport teams to get Jack and me home to Escape Velocity.

Back onboard Jack continued to hiccup for hours as we tried every remedy in the book. Finally they stopped but then his fever spiked again, higher than before. I was afraid I’d have to get him back to the hospital at 3 am. I spent about an hour sponging him down to cool him off and that brought the fever down, but then the hiccups started again. This went on all night until, completely exhausted, Jack finally fell asleep and the hiccups stopped.

This morning I waited as long as I could before waking him to eat a few bites so he could take the next round of meds. And wouldn’t you know, the hiccups came back. Curses!

It’s now 10:30am. The hiccups are gone again, at least for now. The doctor from the other boat just stopped by to check on Jack. She’s a rehab physician from the Netherlands and we know another Dutch rehab doctor, Monique, whom we met along with her neurologist husband Pieter in Panama back in 2014. Monique and Pieter were at Isabela in the Galapagos when we limped back after our dismasting and were part of the Schulz Cocooning Team that soothed and comforted us in those first weeks of emotional trauma. As fate would have it, they know each other! So twice in our sailing adventures Dutch rehab doctors came to our rescue. What are the odds? They are both special people.

Jack is asleep now. We’re hoping a few days of the antibiotics will show improvement and Jack is taking the doctors’ advice to rest and recuperate. I feel like we dodged what could have been a very serious bullet. My job now is to figure out how to repay the generosity and kindness of so many people who pitched in when we needed it most and continue to offer help. The world is truly a beautiful place.

Making ready to raise sail.

Leaving Pasarwajo, Buton Island.

This will be one of those loosey goosey kind of passages that depend on wind, weather, how many fishing nets and FADs we see, and how lucky we feel. Day hopping along the Flores coast, we are trying to avoid sailing at night because of these unmarked obstacles.

Fish Accumulation Devises (FADs) like these fairly elaborate unmarked models, are everywhere, even in deep blue water. Running into one of them would just ruin your day. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked up from a book or chart only to see one of them close aboard as we glide by. After your heart rate slows down and you begin to trust your legs again, you go out on the side deck and scan the horizon. Nothing. Doesn’t mean there aren’t any. It just means you can’t see them. Our radar apparently can’t see them either. With this in mind, in addition to the constant threat of fishing nets, we set a course for a way station where with any luck at all we will find a safe harbor for the night.

Tomorrow’s goal is the fiords of Bajawa and as we approach the mouth of Teluk Damu, we run into old friends Erie Spirit and Il Sogno snorkeling the outer reef but we are keen to have the detoxification of Escape Velocity alone with nature, sans panga kids.

Later our friends came by for a spot of exploration and then we were alone with our thoughts.

After you’ve wound your way up into a river or fiord you find you’ve got to unwind your way back out, and that can take some time which meant that a stop near Toro Baso would mean the panga kids would be on us again, before we could even get the anchor down.

We’re running out of the apparently disappointing pencils and, whenever a rally has been through, the kids’ expectations are a little high. Cute as they are, they will not leave you alone. We have so much and they have so little but…there are limits. “My wife is sleeping” is fairly easy to pantomime but is no longer working. They could care less. I think I’ll switch to “my wife is praying,” which we’re told works better.

We’re off to a tiny island called Gilinodo for an overnight anchorage, and that should leave a short sail to Labuanbajo the following day. 

We have a short sail today, and after a little tricky piloting between tiny islands, we have an easy harbor anchorage and splash down near some friends. We’ve been hard on it, sailing every day, and Labuhanbajo looks really promising but first a nap.

Lingeh Bay, Flores, Indonesia

On the morning of our day at the Festival of Traditional Culture we cruisers were briefed on our schedule and the events. We were warned (as if we needed it) that we’d be asked to pose for “selfies” all day, and assured that escorts would always be close by and if we needed a break or protection we need only give a high sign and we’d be rescued. I don’t think any of us mind posing for photos at all, but our hosts were afraid we’d be mobbed to the extent that it would inhibit our ability to enjoy the festival.

The festival celebrates four specific aspects of traditional Indonesian culture. One event is called “natural immunization” and involves anointing babies with herbs and oils. Unfortunately we couldn’t get anywhere near the area where this was happening so we don’t have any photos.

Under a huge tent a hundred women were weaving the traditional sarongs we’d seen on our road trip to the weaving village.

It was here that we noticed a number of official photographers and television crews following us tourists. One of the cameramen approached me and asked if I would try the weaving. “Sure!” I said, and I handed my stuff to Jack and submitted to the women who strapped me into the loom and tried to teach me the pattern. I was hopeless at it. I have great respect for how they can keep the sequence of moves straight in their heads. The sarongs are beautiful, and they were also for sale. Jack and I chose one we could use as a day cover for our bed.

The third major event is the ritual circumcision of young boys. We’d been told that the procedure had been done medically a few weeks ago, but on the day of the festival they would undergo “another little nick” (ouch!) during the ceremony.

We didn’t see the actual Ceremony of the Nicking, but we did take this photo of the mohels.

On the female side, girls are “secluded” on the occasion of their first menstrual period, and the coming out ceremony is a celebration of their womanhood. The girls are dressed in gorgeous costumes, and it seems that all of them want to take selfies with the cruisers. Jack was more than happy to comply when it seemed that older men are particularly good catches for photos.

By this time we were starving, and we were squired from place to place by our handlers through the crowds toward where we would eat lunch. We haven’t been in this intense a press of humanity since the San Sebastián festival in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Lunch was a ritual affair called “Eating Together” we will come to know well during our time in Indonesia. It involves sitting opposite a woman behind a large decorative dome. We tried to make ourselves comfortable while we sat through at least an hour of speeches by all the dignitaries. The TV crews roamed the crowd and did interviews of some of us for the evening news. Again I was chosen — I don’t know why; I’m terribly self conscious on camera — but I muddled through.

At one precise moment the covers are lifted revealing a variety of dishes we are to share with each other and the hosts. Each platter is slightly different because the women had actually made the foods themselves, and while they explained that most of the dishes are traditional, there are variations from each region, village or family. This isn’t banquet food, folks. It’s good old home cooking, although we don’t really have a handle on what most of it is. We appreciated the guidance of the few English speakers near us.

It was brutally hot, and while we were at least sheltered from the sun, the close quarters contributed to the stifling temperature. I don’t know how the women, dressed in layers and layers of heavily embellished clothing and full makeup, manage to stay so cool looking. I was dripping.

After lunch we cruisers were guided into the municipal building to a blissfully air conditioned room where we could sit in real chairs, cool off, and relax our facial muscles from the constant selfie posing. After a while our hosts came in with piles of sarongs and we were all dressed for success in traditional fashion.

Susan and I are the late August birthdays and our hosts and fellow cruisers serenaded us with a couple dozen rounds of “Happy Birthday to you!”

Finally it was time for the Big Event, the dancing by thousands of men and women, boys and girls, from all over Buton. We had VIP seats overlooking the field, with tables of snacks and delicacies provided for us. The sun was brutal but the dancing was fun. Again, this is a performance style we will come to know well. The Indonesians feel that if ten dancers are good, then a thousand doing the same thing will be so much better. Only in Bali did we see riveting performances by a single dancer.

After the performance we ran the gauntlet of selfie takers and made our way to the shelter of the buses to reclaim a little personal space on the ride back to the anchorage. It was an exhausting day, full of intense color and happy smiles all around. We thank Pasarwajo for hosting us and treating us as honored guests.

Susan of Erie Spirit read that Buton Island is famous for its traditional weaving so a few of us women arranged for a car and driver to take us to one of the villages known for the quality of their work. It would be a daylong jaunt and we looked forward to getting away from the crowds gathering for the coming festival.

As we drove along the cliff overlooking the sea we passed fish traps that extended well out into the bay.

On the way to the village we stopped to admire a beautiful river and a local school boy jumped in the water I’m pretty sure just so he could be in our photos.

The village was tidier and cleaner than anywhere we’ve been in Indonesia. Turns out there’s a government program that rewards communities who get control over their waste stream and keep their buildings in good nick. This is one of the winners. I hope more places follow suit, because sadly, most of Indonesia is losing the Battle of Single Use Plastic.

We may have mentioned once or twice that Indonesia is hot. Really hot. So the wise women do their weaving under their houses where the shade makes a big difference and there’s no barrier to whatever breeze there is.

They do sometimes still spin their own yarn but more often these days they can buy it cheaper, so the finished product is not quite as authentically produced with vegetable dyed home spun as earlier times. An older woman was happy to demonstrate her spinning technique but we got the sense the younger ones aren’t really learning this part of the process.

The colors and patterns are traditional, and most pieces are made to order. It takes a week to set up the loom and up to a month to weave the full length of what almost always becomes the traditional wide sewn tube of yardage worn as a sarong.

The work is done on a backstrap loom, which means the width is limited by the arm span of the weaver. The plaid designs are only worn by men, the stripes by women. We learned later this rule is inviolable, when one of our number chose a pattern meant for the opposite sex and was promptly corrected and steered toward the appropriate choices.

A local school teacher heard the buzz created by our visit and was happy to model some of the finished products. There wasn’t really anything for sale since it’s all to order.

As always, our presence attracted an audience.

When we left the village we asked our driver if we could visit a floating village. Within a few miles we arrived at this settlement attached to land only by a narrow causeway.

I guess you wouldn’t really call it a floating village because the buildings rest on pilings but watching people deftly scramble from house to walkway on narrow and deeply flexing boards you have to remind yourself that these are teetotaling Muslims who won’t be overdoing it on Saturday night and end up in the drink on the way home.

Our final stop of the day was a quiet watering hole used by local women for washing laundry but which suited us perfectly for kicking off the shoes and cooling our feet before the final drive back to the anchorage.