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.

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:

Micropost 1: Lady Musgrave

We've had an exciting few weeks aboard Papillon. Sadly, the internet here is shocking and our normally-reliable SSB has decided to pack it in, so I am rather behind in my updates to you, dear readers. To that end, I'll post a few quick snippets over the next few days to get you up to speed.

After the rain (rather RAIN) we experienced in Mooloolaba, we were dying to get to Lady Musgrave. It is a lovely little coral cay at the southern end of the Great Barrier Reef, with a small island, a zillion turtles, and some nice snorkelling. Perfect for the tropics-loving Papillon Crew.

Park It

I spend a lot of time with the kids at the park. But I'm the first the admit that "going to the park" isn't always as fun as it sounds. On a good day, it means the kids and I trek out to New Farm Park for a half day playing in the two-storey spider web among the banyans. On a bad day, it means we steal half an hour on the sad scrap of undeveloped land squeezed between the dock, the parking lot and the marina office.

Lately, Erik and I have been beset by Guilty Feelings regarding the kids. For although one of our family mottoes is "You Get What You Get and You Don't Get Upset,"* let's be fair. We're six weeks behind schedule. The girls are stuck in a marina with a total lack of other children, an excess of biting flies, and two increasingly cranky parents. The odd outing to New Farm isn't really cutting it anymore.

And so Erik hatched a Cunning Plan.

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.

Up And Down Mountains Named "Beer"

I huffed and puffed my way up the trail. I had forgotten how little I like walking uphill. I assume this is some sort of self-preservation mechanism, because I get marched up mountains with depressing regularity. Erik and I, sadly, are walking-incompatible. I can walk forever on flat or gently rolling terrain. And I enjoy it. But when things get steep, the fun factor drops dramatically. Erik, on the other hand, hates walking on flat land.  This is because he is secretly a mountain goat. The steeper the grade, the happier he is, and he will gladly spend a day (or weekend, or month) skipping from crag to crag, pausing only to land in the odd cow pat.

We were exploring the Glass House mountains north of Brisbane. The mountains are old lava plugs, exposed when the softer sandstone around them eroded away. Which is cool - who wouldn't like to hike on a hunk of frozen mantle? We tried to get the girls excited about going to the mountains, but whether they were jaded from years of visiting impressive landscapes or just tired after yet another weekend of birthday fun, they played it cool.

Accounting For My Time While Waiting For A Visa

Waiting for our visas to Papua New Guinea is taking forever.  So, what have we been doing in the meantime?

1. Swimming.

When the Army Runs a Carnival

One of the first rules of cruising is: accept every invitation. (This is also one of the first rules of life, especially for an introvert like me.) So, when a friend invited us to the local military open house, I said yes.
"It's lots of fun," said Camille. "They have lots of activities for the kids."
I nodded, and wondered what that meant. I was a little surprised that Camille, of all people, was suggesting this outing.  This is a woman who steadfastly refuses to let her kids watch violence on television, play mock-battles, or otherwise engage in any aggressive activity.
"If Camille thinks this is a wholesome family activity," I thought, "then it must be okay."
So, on a cloudy Sunday morning, we headed out to Camp Broche, more properly known as Régiment d'Infanterie de Marine du Pacifique Nouvelle-Calédonie.

We have seen a lot of signs of the military over our four years on the water.  As we travelled down the East coast of the USA and through the Caribbean, we saw Coast Guard ships, aircraft carriers and submarines. We heard notices on VHF 16 warning us away from certain zones while exercises were being performed. As we sailed down the ICW toward Norfolk, Virginia, a very polite young man on the enormous warship behind us asked if they might sidle past. 

Ma'am, would you mind if we passed you?

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."

Frozen

One of the much-vaunted benefits of travel is that it makes you open to new things.  It is supposed to be a growth experience.  Spending time with new people, living life in different ways, seeing the beautiful places of the world as well as the desperately sad ones - all of these things are supposed to make me into a wise old crone.  By the time I move home, I should be so full of the Wisdom of the Earth that people will run from my smug face at a hundred paces.  But today, I have learned a different lesson.  Hold on - let me adjust my flowing robes, put on a mysterious smile and gaze into the distance.  Ready?  I have learned... that I can longer tolerate the cold.  Not even a little bit.  I know this because I am sitting bundled up in a long-sleeved shirt, blowing on my fingers in Brisbane, Australia.  A place that will climb to 30 C today.  But, compared to Noumea?  I feel like someone has set me out to drift on an ice floe.

I've never been a cold weather fan.  This is no secret.  But this new development does worry me just a little.  It is not a good idea for my body to turn tropical.  For one thing, my home is back at 43 N.  I remember the scritch-scritch of snowpants and wearing two layers of grandma's knitted mitts.  I dread and respect black ice.  I know that when half a meter of snow falls overnight, you don't call in the army - you just trade head-shakes with your neighbours, send someone to Tim Horton's for a round of double-doubles, and get shovelling.

Get Off My Lawn: Learning to Share Space

When my parents decided to visit, I was happy for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the prospect of exploring New Caledonia from the land side.  All too often as we sail around the planet, we stick to strictly water-related activities.  Sailing.  Snorkelling.  Swimming.  The three "S"s.  So this was a chance to try something new.

And over the past couple of weeks, we have been out almost every day.  We explored the reef off Ile aux Canards.  Toured the aquarium.  Hit the beach.

Hmm.  Okay, I guess we haven't completely broken free from our water-based activity schedule.  Even our trip into the mountains to visit Sarramea centered around - you guessed it - swimming in the trou feuillet.

Another family left just as we arrived.  Hot dog!  We had the place to ourselves.  The girls wasted no time in getting into the water.  And after enduring the same safety lecture from me and both of their grandparents about not getting washed down into the next pool, we all had some fun.

Until...

Super Bowling in New Caledonia

The girl at the tourist information center blinked at me uncertainly. “Pardon?” she asked.
“The Super Bowl,” I said again. “It’s a big sports event. American football?”
“You mean rugby?” she asked hopefully as she twisted her hands together. I felt sorry for her 21 year-old self - they clearly had not covered this eventuality in training.
“Not quite.” I looked over my shoulder at my father. He smiled at me hopefully. I hated to burst his bubble, but even if I spoke French like the President of l’Académie Française, there was no way I was going to find him the Super Bowl on TV in Noumea.

A good host should be prepared for all eventualities, but, I have to admit, this request caught me by surprise.  I've always been of the opinion that sports, like most things in life, are better played than watched, so these major viewing events aren't really on my radar.  Before my parents arrived in Noumea, I did what I thought was sensible: I prepped the dinghy for water excursions, saved the car rental number in my phone for land trips, and had a list of ideas at the ready. But after a couple of lazy days of reading, adjusting to the time change and having the girls crawl all over them, my dad decided it was time to take care of priority items, and in the number one spot was: where was he going to watch the Super Bowl?

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.

Welcoming Visitors Aboard

October was Visitor Month aboard the good ship Papillon.  And it was really fun.  But I am really tired.  Having friends and family around is always a treat, but it also carries a responsibility.  Not only are we trying to entertain the people we care about in our piece of floating aluminum, we are also trying to reassure them that a) we aren't crazy for living on a boat, and b) see point a.  This isn't inherently difficult - anyone willing to visit us has either already wrapped their head around the peculiarities of onboard life, or they like us (read: the kids) enough to overlook the less comfortable bits. But still - we make the effort.

You never know how things are going to play out.  Sometimes you get lucky.  My parents visited us in the San Blas islands in Panama, and enjoyed two weeks of blue skies, warm days, and easy sailing from island to island.  Sometimes your luck runs out.  Erik's parents spent last Christmas with us in New Zealand, and we had a gale for five solid days.  We rolled in the fetch, drinking tea and wishing we could escape to shore.  Soon the dodger saturated, so it was full-on raining in the cockpit.  There we were, huddled belowdecks beside the diesel heater, with two wild-eyed kids high on pre-Christmas-excitement and gummy bears.  Unsurprisingly, this year my in-laws have elected to give us a miss and visit Mexico instead.  Lesson: don't invite people to stay aboard anywhere with a good chance of bad weather.

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.

Beer Tomorrow, Beer Yesterday, But Never Beer Today

We've got company coming - it's time to buy some food.  (Didn't we just go grocery shopping a month ago?  My goodness, these chores are relentless.)  Off to the store!

We trundled the cart up and down the aisle, restocking cookies and corn, pasta and peppers, while the girls tested how far they could slide on the tile floors without hitting anybody.

Erik stopped short and started cursing.
"What's wrong?"
He looked at his watch and swore again.  "It's after twelve o'clock.  And today is Wednesday."
I swore, too.  Because everyone knows you can't buy alcohol after noon on a Wednesday in New Caledonia.  Or after noon on Friday, Saturday or public holidays.  Or the day before or after public holidays.  But, good news!  Monday, Tuesday and Thursday?  No problem.  Get your drink on.  And as for Sunday?  Well, my friend.  You aren't just out of luck for alcohol on Sunday.  You're out of luck on everything.  The whole city is closed.

Sending Missives From the Front

As a kid, I was a mail hound.  I loved getting letters.  I had pen pals all over the place, and a good chunk of my allowance went into buying fancy paper so I could write them back and get more mail in return.  I still think getting mail is fun.  And now that we are in a warm place again, Mom has been on a Postcard Mission.

The girls and I sat down and made a list.  Some friends, some family, some school - anyone we thought might smile to get a colourful picture in their mailbox some misty, moisty morning a few weeks from now.  Then off to the Tabac.

The shopkeeper stared at our stack of cards.  "Vingt-cinq?  You want twenty-five cards?"
"Yes.  No.  Stylish, I forgot someone - go grab another card.  Vingt-six, s'il vous plait."

In-transit Interlude: Q&A

Q:  What do you do when your parents take a breather from dragging you around to tourist hotspots?

The Sniff Test

After a delightful month of sailing, traveling, eating, and fixing the boat, my in-laws have bid us goodbye.  And while I know they will miss us, there is one thing I know they won’t miss.   

And that is stinky feet.

After the forestay failed, we settled Papillon in Whangarei , rented a car and hit the open road.  First stop: Rotorua and the hot springs at Waiotapu.

Steamy and sulphurous.

We walked around all day.  It rained a little, so the kids (inevitably) jumped in some puddles.  We got back to the car, and the girls peeled off their wet shoes.

A cloud of toxic stench filled the car.  “Put your shoes back on!  Put your shoes back on!”  We rolled down the windows, gasping and coughing.  When we reached the hotel that evening, we left the shoes outside the door in the open air, in the vain hope that the situation would improve.

I’d only packed the girls one pair of socks each, so something had to be done.  Erik eyed the plastic bag that held the offending articles.  “I’m going downstairs,” he announced, and he was gone.

So it was up to me.  A mom’s life is a glamourous one, after all.  I boiled some water in the kettle, decanted the socks into the bathroom sink, added shampoo, and stirred the mixture until the water turned black.  Drain and repeat.  Here is a photo of sink #3.

There's nothing I like more than stirring a sink full of stinkwater.

Yep.  It was still that brown.  And when I was done - four washes and two rinses later - I had to clean the plastic bag, because it had taken on the offensive odor.

The next day dawned, rainy and cool.  And what was the first thing that Indy did when we went outside?  Jump in a puddle, of course.

“Indy!” I cried.  “Why did you do that?  You are going to have wet stinky feet again.”

She blinked at me.  “But I wanted to splash in the puddle.”

Well, what can you say to that?

Over the next few days, we saw the sights, from waterfalls to volcanoes to hot spring beaches.

Gollum's Pool (Gollum not included)

 

The most New Zealand-y landscape ever.

Dig, dammit!  Dig for your lives!

Ahhh, sitting in burning-hot water makes all that digging worthwhile.

And the shoes never got better.  Hopefully the marina washing machine can sort them out, because they aren't welcome aboard in their current state.

Plans Subject to Change Without Notice

Was it really only a week ago that we were in Mimiwhangata?  Indy lost a shoe, Erik lost a beloved hat (side note: Tilley hats sink like a stone.  Like a brick laced with lead weights, seriously.)  The girls became expert boogie boarders at the beach, and even Erik and I had some success. 

But the day came to move along, and move along we did.  We waited for a gale to pass, and set out the next day for Great Barrier Island.  Inevitably, no wind, no waves.  Just the Perkins 135 chugging along, and Erik’s sour mood at having to motor.

A few hours in, the wind came up.  Up went the main.  We tried to put out the jib... but it wouldn’t go.  Erik checked the bottom.  Nothing.  We hauled him up the mast to check the top.  Nothing.  And then the whole thing started to sag.

Our forestay had parted.

For those of you unfamiliar with sailboats, this is a really, really bad thing.  It means the big giant cable holding our mainmast forward was gone.

Goodbye, dreams of Great Barrier Island.  Hello, sharp right turn, destination Whangarei.

Luckily, we have a running forestay that we moved forward, and, as I said, we had no wind, no waves, and it was daylight.  An almost unimaginably lucky set of conditions.  We made it to the marina without a fuss, and there sits Papillon.  The rigger is busy ordering parts, and we are busy trying not to think about the cost.

And so, old plans scotched, we decided to take a quick inland trip.  Erik parents have to fly home on Saturday, so here we are in Rotorua, visiting hot springs and bubbling mud pools.  The girls, while less than enthusiastic about the long car ride, were ecstatic about the motel.  We have a little two-bedroom unit with a small hot tub in back, no doubt fed by a hot spring somewhere.  Indy has designated the tub “her pool”, and spends every motel-related moment  in the water.  Even sitting in a hot spring-fed pool in the woods today couldn’t compare; as soon as we were back in the water taxi, she was talking about her pool.  Chacun son gout.

Tomorrow will be colourful hot springs, and visiting the park.  Unless it isn’t.  As we’ve found, flexibility is the key to a happy life, on the water or off.