Escape Velocity

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.

Our rally scheduled four different stops on this one island, but many of the boats, including us, decided to skip the other three. The one destination we were interested in we could visit by land and so we hired a car and driver to take us across the island to the city of Bau Bau, site of one of the largest forts in the world.

It’s a massive walled fortress high on a bluff overlooking the city and the view was spectacular. We spent the usual amount of time posing at old cannons and reading gravestones, then descended into the city where Mark from Erie Spirit wanted to chase down some boat parts. Even in a city this size, and with lots of guidance from helpful locals, he eventually admitted defeat and we turned back toward Pasarwajo.

We heard through the grapevine that there was a moonshine still hidden in the woods someplace where prohibited spirits were distilled from coconuts. Our driver was reluctant to go, I suppose afraid he’d get into trouble in this Muslim country, but we persisted and after more poking around and asking suitably nefarious looking characters for intelligence we found a young man willing to lead us behind a village and into the forest.

The still was up and running and they described how it all worked. The good stuff was already bottled and gone for the day and what we were seeing was the grade B output. But out of the kindness of their hearts they sent a runner to fetch a liter of primo and we got to taste the freshest product we’ve had since the paint removing rum of Grenada.

It was, as you can imagine, an eye opener. We bought the liter and split it between our two boats. Later Susan and Mark poured their half down the drain, afraid they’d go blind if they drank it. We had no such fear and set it aside it for an appropriate occasion.

The unfortunate part of the story is that since a couple of gringos traipsed in to the site, they had to dismantle the operation and move to another secret location overnight to keep one step ahead of the authorities. Sorry about that, mates. but thanks for the welcome.

It’s a big deal that our group of cruising boats is visiting Pasarwajo during the festival, and to welcome us the mayor and his wife invited the whole gang to their home for a buffet lunch. We made an effort to dress according to the occasion, which, for many of us, is not too easy, given our limited wardrobes. We did the best we could.

We were herded into buses and driven to a dramatically decorated house where we were welcomed and served traditional foods on the cool veranda.

Afterward we were encouraged to tour the house. Some rooms seemed hastily set up so we weren’t sure whether they had just moved in or the house wasn’t quite completed yet. Nonetheless the family were gracious to let us poke our noses into the various living spaces and were very proud of their digs.

Naturally there were speeches and the obligatory photo ops, where the family and officials were as eager to take photos of us taking photos as we were to take photos of them. It reminded me of a hall of mirrors, reflecting our reflections back to us. This became our pattern during our entire stay in Pasarwajo. I’ve never been so photographed in my life. By the end of each day our cheeks hurt from all the smiling, which in the grand scheme is not a bad thing.

Back at the hastily constructed and dicey dinghy dock during a change of tide swell we learned we would need to share rides to shore to reduce the number of dinghies tied up at a given time so none gets lost or damaged. Getting on and off is like an old funhouse challenge, often requiring the hands and knees belly flop maneuver.

Pasarwajo is meant to be one of the Must Do stops, as our visit is timed to the annual festival. More about that later, but the hosts made elaborate plans for us including laying about 40 moorings in the very deep anchorage, which we all appreciate, as did the local boats.

We got tied up and went immediately ashore to check in with the organizers and get the lay of the land. One of our hosts offered to take us for a drive to show us the town and we happily accepted. A ride in a car is always treat for us, especially if it’s air conditioned.

Rusdi started us off at the 1940’s era home of his grandparents, which he says is a typical house on this island.

We continued on a whirlwind drive to some of Rusdi’s favorite places.

Rusdi insisted we stop into the municipal hall to meet the head of tourism (that’s him next to Jack) who is Rusdi’s boss. It was obviously a hectic time, what with a big event coming up and the rally arriving, but he was gracious in his welcome and sat with us for a few minutes before posing for photos for the benefit of the staff, who all took turns shooting us with their cell phones. We also posed for about 20 selfies with individuals. This was a harbinger of our time here in Buton — nonstop selfies with every passerby.

We asked if we could go to the market, which we found out is nowhere near the anchorage and difficult to get to without arranging a car and driver. We were glad we’d provisioned well before we left Banda. Still, any market is fun. Ok, maybe not this particular vendor.

Our gravest concern about joining a rally has already reared its head. The host committees at the destinations work very hard to plan welcome events, dinners and tours, but in scheduling the stops the rally organizers have not taken into account that we aren’t arriving by relaxing Metroliner but are sailing from island to island, often on one- or two-night passages through waters that require constant vigilance to avoid the fish traps, fishing nets, deep water platforms and other low-lying hazards to navigation, all unlighted. Even daylight navigation is stressful, with all manner of floating dangers that often require quick maneuvers to avoid collisions. We understand how delighted some of these communities are to see tourists arrive by boat — and for some it’s the first they’ve ever been visited by yachts — but we barely get the anchor down before a welcome committee starts to circle, wanting to know everything about us, urging us to come ashore right away, reciting all the things they have planned, and always wanting to pose for selfies with us. We’re often tired, hungry, disheveled and in need of a shower and a nap before we can truly appreciate the warm welcome. We’re only a few weeks in but already we need a break.

We decided to skip the next scheduled stop and point Escape Velocity to the one after, stopping on the way for a little R&R at an interim island. My birthday was coming up and spending it without the constant cell phone paparazzi sounded good.

We left Tifu at dawn with the six remaining boats expecting a two-night passage but the wind was at the exact angle EV loves best and in 30 hours we arrived at the reef entrance to Wangi Wangi Island at the northern end of the Wakatobi group.

We had great waypoints and a satellite photo chart to follow but to our surprise a dinghy approached driven by a local man who said he was a pilot and he would guide us in. Ok, sure. He asked our draft and led us to a spot between two other rally boats who’d gone rogue and pointed to where we should drop our anchor. No, I said to Jack, and we chose our own spot better suited to the depth, our size and the state of the tide.

As we were still completing our anchoring and arrival routine the man boarded our back steps and, despite my asking him to please wait until we’d secured the boat, he proceeded to ask for our paperwork, enumerate the services his people could offer, pointed out his office and the dinghy dock and generally distracted us from our immediate tasks. It turns out this used to be a rally stop in previous years and either they weren’t told they were off the schedule or they just assumed (correctly, as it turned out) many of the boats would stop here anyway. So much for a relaxing break.

When we went ashore we were swarmed by a squadron of hyper-excited high school age students who all wanted to assist us onto the dinghy dock and with whom we performed the now familiar welcome ritual, straight out of a standard language phrase book.

“Hello, my name is ___________. What is your name?”

“My name is Marce. Nice to meet you!”

This is followed by often hilarious attempts by both parties to pronounce each others’ names and a handshake.

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from America.”

“Oh wow! America!”

This is repeated with every single person and also involves a selfie and various group shots. There’s a lot of giggling involved. This has become the standard every time we step ashore.

At Wangi Wangi, after these formalities they asked us where we wanted to go. We really just wanted to stretch our legs and explore the area but they pressed us to be more specific and even led us into the office, seated us at a desk where the head of this hyperactive welcome committee prepared to guide us to our heart’s desire. The rest of them surrounded us and eagerly awaited our answer.

“Well,” we said finally, “we’d like a café and a market.”

This prompted rapid chatter and eventually a map and the assurance that they would get us to these places. We tried to get the map but were assured instead that they would escort us there. So two of their number — I couldn’t figure out how this was decided — became our minders/guides/escorts and we were walked about a half mile to a café, all the while being peppered with questions.

They were adorable, spoke good but heavily accented English and were delightful to be with. At the café we told them to get whatever they wanted which excited them to pieces, and they ordered what looked like chocolate sodas.

After nearly an hour of conversation we convinced them that we could manage the market on our own and they returned to the office while we explored the town, eventually ending up at the market to replenish our fresh supplies.

The swarm event was repeated when we got back to the dinghy dock because by then the shift had changed and it was all new kids minding the landing. More handshakes, more introductions, more selfies, more assists into the dinghy.

We’re happy they’re happy, but boy is it exhausting! And that was pretty much my birthday. Not exactly the quiet break we were hoping for.