Shooting Stars and Flying Fish: Swapping the boardroom for the seven seas Read online

  Ted came out of the study. ‘Put all that food away. We’re meant to be at the Mixing Pot for dinner.’

  I swung round from the stove, wok in hand. ‘No we’re not. Who with?’

  ‘It’s okay. They won’t be there until 8.30.’

  ———

  The fact was that despite three years having passed since that day in the anchorage in Broken Bay, we were living in an apartment, not on a boat. We still worked full throttle, cramming in theatre, functions and dinner with friends where we could. We were the typical inner-city Sydney couple, running as fast as we could to keep up with all the other rats in the race.

  I knew that the conversation over every dinner party would be the same: what was going on in Sydney’s CBD, how much our real estate was now worth, our new cars, the newest restaurant, a different wine to drink. I had worked half my life to get where I was; but where was that? Over dinner my mind was always only half present, smiling, chatting; the other half was yearning, wanting to be out on the boat, away from it all, sailing.

  So what had happened to our dream? At first it had grown by itself like a living thing, a wild vine out of control. We would leave our adult children, our family and friends, stop work completely for a year, take the dog and sail away. We didn’t know where this improbable adventure would take us. But the longer we delayed the more remote it seemed. We’d agreed this break was a fantastic goal, but breaking the millions of tiny invisible strands that bound us to our city lifestyle seemed so hard.

  We had made a little progress. We had sold our terrace house in Paddington and bought a tiny flat on Blackwattle Bay in Glebe. It had little upkeep (compared to the terrace with its leaves clogging the gutters, constantly failing plumbing and a pool that had to be cleaned and plants watered) which meant more time on the boat, and was easily rentable when the time came. But ‘life’ kept getting in the way.

  For some time, Ted, ever the adventurer, had been learning to fly small aeroplanes, and announced that while waiting for me to be ready to go sailing, he was going to fly himself to London and back. I had to take a breath before answering. He had flown a mere 400 hours. ‘Right, Ted, fly yourself to London and back. Why not?’ I couldn’t help thinking, Most people would do more sailing, read a few books, mow the lawn. Not Ted.

  And so it happened – and it kept him busy for a few months. I was glad he was occupied doing something he loved, but his next idea was even more crazy.

  ‘I’ve been talking to a few people and I think we’ll hold a London to Sydney air race.’

  ‘A London to Sydney air race?’ This time I was gobsmacked. ‘You’ve got to be kidding! What kind of organisation would that take?’

  ‘A little bit,’ he conceded. ‘But why not? There have been three races already: in 1919 and 1934, then one in 1969. It’s about time we had another. If I talk to the government, we could run one to coincide with Australia’s centenary of Federation in 2001!’

  I sighed and giggled at the same time. ‘Sure, Ted, why not?’

  And so that happened, with a large cast of organisers, and was enormously successful, attracting some forty tiny aircraft which had to make twenty-three stops to get from Biggin Hill Airfield in London to Sydney Harbour. Just what is wrong with a 747? I couldn’t help thinking.

  While all this excitement was going on it was sometimes hard to remember our sailing aspirations. Sometimes I despaired that they would stay, forever, merely frustrated yearnings. So to keep the dream alive I’d begun to read every book I could find about people who ‘went sailing’. I read everything from Joshua Slocum’s tales to Joanna Hackett’s The Reluctant Mariner. I read Peter Nichol’s A Voyage for Madmen, then everything available on heavy-weather sailing. I read books on sea anchors and disasters at sea, on how to protect a boat during a 360-degree capsize. As I read more and more about sailing oceans, currents and winds, cyclones and seasons, something started to dawn on me.

  One weekend on the boat I was in the cockpit studying charts and sailing books, and Ted was polishing the top of the cabin. I called out to him.

  ‘Ted, when we leave here, the best way to go, according to the winds, is west.’

  ‘Yes – keep the wind behind you,’ he answered.

  ‘And when we get to Darwin, the wind is still from the east. So best to go west.’

  ‘That’s right. Just wait until you get into the trade winds. Beautiful sailing.’ His eyes took on a faraway gleam.

  ‘To get a wind to come back, we’d have to go down into the Southern Ocean.’

  ‘All the way – unless we go north to Asia.’

  ‘We’ve already agreed we’ve both spent enough time in Asia. But no, not the Southern Ocean. It’s too cold down there.’

  ‘We could go to Patagonia, then around the Horn.’

  ‘Around the Horn? Do you think I’m crazy? I’m a warm-water girl. You get seventy knots across the deck down there.’ I thought for a moment. ‘So that means we’ll just have to keep going –’

  ‘West,’ said Ted smugly.

  ‘And that means –’

  ‘That’s right. We’ll have to sail around the world.’

  ‘But we’ve only allowed a year. I can’t be away from the office longer than that.’

  ‘It won’t take us longer than three and a half years,’ said Ted, and then he went back to his polishing.

  It took me a few weeks, but I began to realise that I would either have to give up the idea altogether, or start seriously planning to sail around the world. Every morning when I woke, in that dreaming moment before the hated alarm rang, the idea seemed more real, and less insane. Why not? Why not?

  Friends, however, could not believe we were serious.

  ‘You wouldn’t do it,’ said one. ‘I know you, Nance. You’ll never leave your children for three and a half years.’

  ‘But they’re all grown up and doing their own thing,’ I said, though I could hardly bear to think about leaving them. I would miss them so much, this pair of adorable miscreants that my whole life had been wound around. Both Kassandra and Simon had moved away from home and were making their own successful lives, Simon as an actor and Kassandra as a sculptor. They were articulate, well travelled, and established in the Sydney arts scene. When we broke the news to them, they seemed both aghast and delighted.

  ‘That’s great, really great,’ said Simon, but he kept staring at me for a while with his mouth open.

  ‘What a wonderful thing to do!’ said Kassandra. ‘It’s about time you stopped working so hard. But –’ and now she looked worried ‘– how on earth can you leave the company?’

  Yes, how? I thought to myself. My daughter knows me too well.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said my ninety-four-year-old mother when I first broached the subject with her, then she refused point-blank to discuss it any further.

  ‘How will you ever leave the dog?’ asked another friend.

  ‘We’ll take her,’ I said.

  ‘What about your business? You’ll have to sell it.’

  ‘I’ve already sold the travel company. Only the tour company is left, and I haven’t worked out what to do with that yet. Remember it’s a public company now – I floated it. So I only have a shareholding. Someone else will manage it.’

  Despite my blithe assurances I sometimes had difficulty convincing myself that we really would go ahead and do it. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to cross an ocean, let alone sail around the world. The longest I’d been at sea was three nights – and that had been with a large crew.

  I didn’t share my doubts with Ted though, because by now he was telling friends it had all been my idea.

  But what was I to do about my elderly mother?

  Over the ensuing months things began to take shape. Most importantly, we had at last found the right boat to take us around t
he world.

  After scouring marinas for weekend after weekend, poring over advertisements and looking at hundreds of different boats, Ted remembered a great boat he’d sailed on during a tough ocean race from Sydney to Vanuatu. During the race the fleet had encountered high winds and had had to deal with wild, dangerous seas. Most of the boats in the fleet sustained considerable damage, one even lost its mast. Yet while the other crews were reporting horrific difficulties on board, the Peterson 46 on which Ted was sailing, Mercedes VI, remained smooth and unruffled no matter what seas she encountered. They were even able to cook and eat a roast dinner in the middle of the gale!

  We started searching in earnest and finally found a boat for sale in New Zealand and loved her immediately. She was the same Peterson 46, a long-keeled cutter-rigged sloop, called Enchantress. The long keel under the boat, as opposed to the ‘dagger’ keel on modern racing boats, meant that she rode very steadily in the water. And although as a sloop she had only one mast, the cutter rig gave her two smaller sails before the mast, rather than one large one. These smaller sails are easier and lighter to handle than one large sail, especially for a yacht with only two people on board. She was ideal for any kind of ocean.

  As well as her strength and sea-going capabilities, below decks her sleek lines and warm cedar panelling were elegant and snug. She was well designed and compact and offered almost every home comfort. With separate cabins both forward and aft, each with their own ensuite, we could envisage having friends sail with us without anyone being cramped. We could even seat ten for a dinner party.

  Given my work schedule, taking time off to sail her across the Tasman was not an option, so we employed a crew to ferry her from Auckland to Sydney’s second yachting playground, Pittwater. Once in Sydney we started to spend all our weekends on her, and I felt the dream coming alive again. Whenever I looked around her lovely warm saloon I would try to imagine being at sea in her.

  We still did not sail together much but spent our time renovating and upgrading Enchantress for our journey. She was only 13.14 metres long and a mere 3.84 metres wide, but she might as well have been the Queen Mary given the drama that accompanied every aspect of her preparation for our trip. Ted was so thorough that by the time he was finished it would have been easier to name the parts of the boat that were original rather than those that had been replaced. Apart from replacing almost everything replaceable, such as rigging, electrics and sails, we installed an inverter to give us 240-volt power. We put in a deep freeze, a microwave and added more storage space. Neither of us had special mechanical, engineering or electrical knowledge, but Ted applied himself with fervour and fairly glowed as he worked. There was a new warmth in his smile.

  Only one thing bothered me as our plans continued – the name written on the topside of the boat. Enchantress might work as the name of a man’s boat, but this was our boat, both emotionally and financially. Fustratingly, we couldn’t agree on a new name: Ted was drawn to names like Resolution and Deliverance, while I fancied names like Hobo and Swish. We were at a stalemate.

  One Monday morning we were rushing to get back to shore and on to our workday routines. I was wearing an old shapeless tracksuit as I stumbled to the bow in the dawn light to free the mooring while Ted took the wheel. The elastic in my tracksuit pants was a little loose and I hitched them up as I leaned over the mooring lines, half asleep, my long, uncombed hair falling over my face.

  Another sailing boat glided by with a lone sailor, trim and silver-bearded, at the wheel.

  ‘And is that the enchantress on the bow?’ he drawled.

  I stood up at once, arms stiff by my side. I turned to yell with as much dignity as I could muster: ‘That’s it! We’re changing the name of this boat.’

  Driving home that morning, we passed the warehouse containing old artists’ spaces opposite the Anzac Bridge on Blackwattle Bay. The sign out front said Blackwattle Studios. Blackwattle. We’d found a name we could agree on.

  When my mother died suddenly after a short illness, I realised that although I hadn’t really admitted it to myself, the idea of leaving her had been troubling me greatly. Not long after, we were faced with another delay which couldn’t have been more unexpected.

  In December 2001 I was told I had breast cancer. My first reaction was indignation. Me? I’m healthy. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. During the testing process something happened which shocked me almost as much as my diagnosis. I was sitting with other ‘second recall’ women on a long flat bench, our backs to the grey and white wall like schoolchildren, waiting for good news or bad. Muffled sounds from the woman next to me told me she was in tears.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. ‘Have you had bad news?’

  No, she told me. Her cancer had been caught early. They would be able to operate to remove it. Her English was limited and it took me a while to understand what she went on to tell me.

  ‘I have three children,’ she finally got out.

  ‘You mustn’t worry. You said they told you there’s a good chance of full recovery.’

  ‘But –’ between sobs ‘I – will – lose – my children.’

  ‘No – you’ll get better, the doctor said,’ the woman on the other side reassured her.

  ‘My husband. He take the children. After the operation my breast ugly. My husband leave me. He does not like ugly women. He told me. And he take the children.’

  The other woman and I exchanged glances. We explained that in Australia he was not allowed to take the children.

  Her ‘Hah!’ was sharp through her tears. She and the other woman went off for coffee together.

  Incidents like this made me more determined than ever to live each day to the full. The horror of her situation contrasted with how lucky I was to have a secure family and true soul mate in my life – one I could even go adventuring with.

  When, after several months of treatment, I was given a clean bill of health, I knew that absolutely nothing would stop us sailing out of Pittwater. I would find anchorages where there were mammogram units to monitor my health for the required five years. Our preparations continued, and I now had a new resolve.

  But would we ever get away?! There were other changes: our British bulldog, named Tootsie for her nature not her appearance, died at the age of thirteen. Mingled with my sadness was a small feeling of relief. She would probably have been horrified if she had known what we were planning – she sank like a stone in water without a life jacket, and her short legs and ungainly body had made her sailing adventures with us a matter of love rather than desire.

  Finally my treatment was finished, and our preparations began to pick up pace. The racing sailor in Ted wanted the boat to be as light as possible, but thinking of all the remote places we would visit, we had to consider what would happen if our equipment failed. So we bought two of everything. We got a spare dinghy and a spare outboard motor. We installed a water-maker, a bigger bank of gel batteries, solar panels, wind-power and a trailing generator. We replaced the heads (the toilets) and the showers. We collected hundreds of charts of the world, cruising guides for all the countries we might visit, with courtesy flags and flag-making material in case we had to make unplanned stops. It went on and on. Gradually we watched the boat sink lower and lower in the water.

  All the time we were organising, I continued to agonise over whether or not I was skilled enough to sail over long stretches of ocean with only one other person. However much I loved the sea, all my experience in ocean sailing had been on boats with several crew members. I had never even stood watch alone. All those stories I had been reading contained accounts of wild seas and incredible danger. Could I handle it?

  By November 2002, we had arranged to rent out our flat and I had appointed others to run my company. Ted had wound down his architectural projects. We anchored the boat next to our flat in Blackwattle Bay to load it before moving onto it oursel
ves.

  I had sorted my huge book collection. I wanted to take all my favourites, those I wanted to read a second time. I stored them on the edge of the terrace, ready to go on board.

  ‘What’s that pile of boxes?’ asked Ted.

  ‘They’re my books for the boat.’

  He looked aghast.

  Sometimes you have to think quickly. ‘I don’t know how many will fit. Let’s see how many do, then we can take the rest off.’

  ‘There must be 400 there,’ he said, still looking sceptical.

  ‘Well – only about 370.’

  Ted’s mouth went crooked for a moment, but he started loading the boxes into the dinghy.

  The books in fact fitted in quite nicely, running two deep in the bookshelves around the stern of the boat in our double cabin. Blackwattle might have sat even lower in the water but from then on we slept surrounded by some of the world’s greatest creative minds.

  As we slept on the boat for the first night, knowing this was now our only home, we knew we had stepped across some invisible border between life as we knew it and our new adventure. While terror sometimes lurked in the back of my consciousness, there was also a high, pure excitement. Ted was like a young colt with a new life ahead of him, and we planned and dreamed constantly.

  We decided to start in March 2003, sailing straight up the east coast of Australia, over the top to Darwin, directly west across the Indian Ocean to the Chagos Archipelago, then north to the Maldives, India and Oman. We would move through the dreaded pirate zone of the Gulf of Aden, up the Red Sea and into the Mediterranean. We planned to reach the Med by May 2004 and spend the rest of the first summer crossing it to Italy, where we would winter the boat. In this dreamed journey, that winter would give me time to work on my primitive Italian, maybe by taking some lessons.

  In the second summer we would sail to Gibraltar then cross the Atlantic Ocean in November 2005. We would spend a few months in the Caribbean, then cross the Pacific, arriving home three and a half years after we had left. We planned to be travelling in all the right seasons to avoid cyclones.