Trying Not To Get Eaten By Komodo Dragons

My mom is in town, and we're trying to show her a good time. And what better way to entertain a guest than put her in harm's way?

Being in the Komodo islands, it would be silly not to try to see the Komodo dragons. And if you are going to bother travelling to see the dragons, you might as well go in the early morning when they are feeling frisky.

We anchored off Rinca, and headed off bright and early to the ranger's station to pay and collect a guide. The guides are there not only as experts, but for protection. Not only are the dragons huge, their saliva carries all sorts of horrible bacteria and they have venom glands under their teeth to inhibit coagulation. They bite their prey (deer, buffalo - little things like that), hang around for a couple of weeks waiting for it to die a horrible death, then they eat it it. Charming. So I was expecting our walk would be rather like it is on a Kruger National Park walk: a couple of rangers with big guns in front and running sweep, and tourists in the middle.

Reefs and Mantas aka Komodo is a Dream

Yes, we went back for more, and it was even more amazing than the first time. I am becoming concerned that the girls have a completely skewed view of how life should unfold. On second thought, maybe not.

(Actually stories coming. For now, enjoy the photos.)

My Yesterday Was Better Than Your Yesterday

Komodo is the stuff, people. I can't believe you're missing this. Book your ticket right now and get over here.

Here is a selection of  photos I took over a three hour period. A selection. Three hours. Neither the entire day nor all I saw.

I mean, look at this:

It's going to be hard to leave when the time comes, and that's a fact. Take it from this satisfied customer:

You Are Likely To Be Eaten By A Grue

First, a very happy belated Star Wars Day to you all. May the Fourth be with you! We celebrated by watching The Empire Strikes Back. (We try to observe the most important days in the calendar. Raise the kids up right.)

Once again, I've been slow to blog. And I have heard your complaints. I submit two reasons for my poor performance, namely a) we have been working nonstop to get the boat ready and I just don't have it in me to write after ten long hours of manual labour, and b) I have been following the principle of If You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say, Don't Say Anything At All. We have spent the last two weeks wandering through the valley of the shadow of death. Everything broke. Nothing worked. A horde of tiny biting flies invaded. I reached epic levels of crabbiness. You would not have wanted a blow-by-blow.

But now, finally, we're getting there. Sure, the cockpit is still cushionless and full of junk, but Erik has built new shelves to stow all that stuff and new cushions sit below, awaiting only a clean surface on which to rest. The salon overflows with milk crates, but the new tool bench will absorb most of that. And so on. We have reached that point in the refit journey when we can crack open one eye to peak at the future. To ponder sandy beaches, clear snorkelling and our next port of call. To break the seal on the guide books.

The Ants Go Marching

Boats are rarely pest-free zones. There and just too many places to hide. And even if you do get rid of an infestation, you can count on a new crop of eggs sneaking aboard behind the labels on your tins, or in the bananas, or on cardboard anything. We do our best to keep Papillon neat, tidy and bug-free, but it is a case of constant vigilance.

You would think it would be easier on land. Everything is open and accessible in a house - there is nowhere to hide a nest that won't be easily discovered. And, sure enough, when we moved into our place last September we found it pretty bug-free. Our major concern was the malaria-carrying mosquitoes in the area, but the air conditioning keeps them outside where they belong. So while I still tried to keep the house crumb-free and an untempting target, it didn't seem as mission-critical as once it did.

And then we went away for six weeks at Christmas. When we got back, I discovered an army had invaded our territory.

The ants had arrived.

Whale Watching in Baie du Prony

"You want to go whale watching?" I asked.  "On someone else's boat?"
"Heck, yes!" said Erik, rubbing his hands together.  "The season has started; there should be humpbacks in Prony by now.  Come on, it'll be fun."
Fun Daddy was back in town.  We only see Erik for a few days every month, and he is always keen to make the most of his time with us.
I looked over the brochure. With Papillon due to get hauled out and checked over in a couple of weeks, we weren't going to make it down there under our own steam.  It would be kind of fun to be purely a passenger for once.  And, let's face it, I'm a sucker for marine mammals.

The day was clear but cold.  By six a.m. we had boarded the catamaran, because early is how these New Caledonians roll.  The dozen of us scrunched around the table as the captain began his departure talk.

I leaned over to Erik.  "My money is on this being 50% about not breaking the toilet."

Meet Our Neighbours on the Reef

There are days I think that we moved onto Papillon not to sail the seven seas, not to give Erik endless tinkering projects, not to spend family time - but to visit every coral reef on Earth.  We are reef peekers.  I feel no shame in that.

Erik and I used to do a lot of diving back in the day, but now we are snorkelers because it lets the kids get involved, and there is so much to see in those first twenty feet, anyway.  Now that Indy has joined the ranks of strong swimmers, it is all the easier.  Not that I didn't enjoy towing her along by her lifejacket strap or carrying her on my back.  But sometime over the past few months she made the switch from child to fish, just as Stylish did when we were starting out.  And now we are a well-oiled snorkeling machine.

How Wild Is Your Wildlife? Part II: A Campsite Full of Snakes

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I travelled to Indonesia to do some research for my undergraduate thesis.  I was working with a prof who did coral research, which meant our group spent all day every day on the reef.  It was a sweet gig.  Our fearless leader, Dr R, was unflappable.  He had a thousand stories of things that had gone wrong here and there in his travels, but, since nothing really fazed him, somehow those stories never came across as scary.  So when he told me in all seriousness that I should be afraid of sea snakes, I was afraid of sea snakes.  Investigating the matter supported that point of view.  The very pretty sea krait (genus Laticauda), or tricot rayé as it is called in New Caledonia, is more poisonous than a cobra.  Oh, and did I mention there is no antivenin?  Right.  Not good.

So let's get down to business on sea snakes.  Here I am, all blasé about sharks, but I'm afraid of a wiggler hardly the length of my arm?  In a word: yes.  Not terrified, not panicky - I just intend to give sea snakes a very wide berth.  Luckily, the tricot rayé is with me on that.  They live in the rocks ashore, hunt in the reefs, and don't want anything to do with you.  Once again, our "don't be an idiot" advice applies.  Don't bug the snakes, and they won't bug you.

This is sometimes easier said than done.

How Wild Is Your Wildlife? Part I: Fins in the Water

Q:  I'd like to go cruising, but I'm not so keen on sharks.  Do you see many?  Are they a problem?

A:  Ah, sharks.  On my list of Things People Worry About On Our Behalf, they sit second only to pirates.  And I understand that.  They are strong, fast, and have those excellent triangular teeth that just scream out "higher predator!"  The media doesn't help this image.  If you go watching shows with names like Ten Deadliest Sharks, then you are feeding your fears.  As my mother would say, don't put beans up your nose.

Short answer: you do not need to curtail your cruising plans because of sharks.  We have two issues to deal with here: what am I looking at? and how do I behave?

Tuesday Turtle Break

We have visitors aboard, and boy, have they gotten a look at the sweet side of cruising life.  Perfect weather, good winds, reefs, fish, sharks, sea snakes... the good ship Papillon has been a walking advertisement for chucking it all and setting out to sea.

And what happened five minutes ago?  Two huge turtles swam by.

Taking Care of Number One

Looking back through my photos, I can see that we on Papillon are animal junkies.  Sealions, birds, dolphins, fish - all of these things get far more play than the landscapes we visit.  Only pictures of the girls on the beach outrank the animal world.  So it is no surprise that we went to visit to Kangaroo Island last weekend.  We have a mere handful of days left in Australia, and, although we have seen a lot of birds, we are running a major marsupial deficiency.

So, that means I saw all sorts of adorable animals, right?  Yes.  And.

And I saw every restroom on Kangaroo Island.  Because Indy is four.

It is a well-known fact that a child "needs to go" in direct proportion to the ickiness of the toilet facilities.  No kid will deign to do their business in a pristine, just-cleaned facility.  But if the only thing going is a murky bucket in an abandoned warehouse?  It is clear-out-the-pipes time.

A Fish Story

Twelve days and a quick hop over the International Date Line behind us, we made it to Tonga.  Thank.  Goodness.  Of course, the boat was so strangely still in the anchorage last night that neither girl could sleep, and we were packed like lemmings in the V-berth.  It was, shall we say, somewhat warmish and squishy.

Nevertheless, we must have slept at some point, because around dawn there was an earthquake (Richter 5.5) about 40 km away, and none of us felt a thing.  Another boat reported that, about fifteen seconds before the quake, all of the fish started to jump out of the water.  At least they were paying attention.

I've always liked fish, both to look and and to eat.  And, really, one of the best parts of passage is fishing.  Not for me, personally - Erik is the fisherman in the family.  But I am an enthusiastic consumer of fishy goodness, and the excitement of a catch provides some much-needed entertainment.  The girls especially like to watch Erik clean the fish.

I was spoiled on fish at an early age.  My grandfather was a diehard fisherman, and supplied the family at large with trout on a steady basis.  On the domestic front, Grandpa held sole responsibility for all things fish-related.  In this, he was the Little Red Hen: he caught, cleaned and smoked his fish himself.  (I figure my grandmother had more than enough to do already without adding in fish and I think he liked the job.)  This led to small case of culture clash when Erik caught his first tuna.  He caught it, killed it, and turned in my direction.  I raised my hands and backed away.  It had never occurred to me that I might have to do anything but eat the fish. 

Because I am pathetic at deboning a fish.  This brings me back to my Grandpa.  In all the years I ate his trout, I never found a bone.  Never.  Not ever.  The man was an artist.  But what this meant was that I grew up fully lacking any training in the teasing-fish-from-a-skeleton department.  The closest I came was doing dissections in university, but that was another matter.  Many years ago, Erik and I visited his grandmother in northern Germany.  She took us out for lunch, and, being northern Germany, we went to a fish restaurant.  I ordered a Maischolle – pan-fried sole – which, unknown to me, is one of the boniest fish in creation.  I suspect someone actually inserted a couple of extra skeletons in there during preparation.  It was a boneyard.  A bone puzzle.  And I decimated that fish.  The parts I was able to encourage away from the bones were delicious.  But, let’s face it – my plate was a warzone.  It was mortifying.

But here we are, eating fresh fish all the time, and I can't cling to my old excuses forever.  So, I've learned.  The girls and I, all amateurs in the art, can now figure out where bones will be, and which way they will point, and we slowly drag the flesh along the fish and eat it without getting a mouthful of prickles.

Day 10 of our crossing, Erik got a hit on his line in the late afternoon.  The familiar Zzzzzzz! rang out, and all of us in the cockpit started shouting, "Fish! Fish!"  The team swung into action.  Erik pulled on his lifejacket.  I grabbed his belt and chest harness (which, no joke, you need, even for the little guys.)  As he clipped in and started to reel in our supper, I prepared the spray bottle of vodka (spray it in the gills and stun the fish - insert your own joke here), the gaff, and the killin' knife.  And we all waited, with varying degrees of impatience, for Erik to reel in the fish.

Normally, we are travelling a ridiculous 9 knots when we catch something, and have to slow down, or Erik will never get it aboard.  This time, we were travelling a leisurely 4.5 knots, so we thought he'd have no trouble.

"This feels heavy," said Erik.

This caused some excitement.  The girls had visions of 200 lb swordfish flashing alongside the boat.  I heartily wished for none of the same.  Slowly, slowly Erik brought it in.  And there it was, a beautiful bonito.  The lure in the photo below is about 8 inches long, so we guessed the fish was about 20-25 pounds.  Hooray!  We are started chattering happily about making sashimi in coconut milk for dinner.  Erik brought it alongside, and started to lift it out of the water.

I am so delicious!  And not at all unhappy to be your dinner!

Then, plip!  A moment after this photo was taken, the boat shifted, the fish wiggled, and it fell off the hook.

Gone.

There were a few moments of silence as we all mourned the loss of dinner.  Recriminations were few, although Erik is kicking himself for not just using the gaff.  Ah, well.  Next time.

Alas, we had no further luck on the way to Tonga.  But we'll certainly have the hook out on the way to New Zealand.  And the gaff will be ready.

Swimming with Sealions

I took 127 photos today.  I know, I have a problem.  And I know this doesn't constitute a proper post, but these are my two favourite pictures from the beach this afternoon:

Tell me that doesn't look like fun.