April 17, 2009 - Crossing the Bay of Bengal

I usually update this blog daily, or at most every other day, when we are offshore. But during the first few days of our crossing of the Bay of Bengal, sitting at a computer to type was just not possible. We were bashing to windward and having to constantly shift gears to adjust our sails to deal with violent squalls and the lulls between squalls. The seas were big and messy from the combination of swell, high wind, and unpredictable currents. Then to add insult to injury, we had to tack back and run away from a developing cyclone. When things finally settled down and we were once again on the right track, albeit to a new destination, I was too exhausted to put a coherent thought together, let alone try to make it entertaining. Now, just a few days later, it is hard to recall the details or sequence of events.

The only thing I can think of is to encourage any of our readers in New England who are keen to know what an upwind passage in a sailboat in terrible conditions is like to get themselves down to Fan Pier in Boston when the Volvo Ocean Race boats arrive later this month. http://www.volvooceanraceatfanpierboston.com/port-stopover Climb aboard The Ride, a virtual reality pod that tilts and shakes and sprays mist all over the passengers to simulate the experience of beating to windward in rough seas. But here is the thing, you're going to have to ask the cute girls running the ride to leave you locked in there for at least a week. In offshore sailing, no matter how much you want to get off the ride, there is no escape hatch.

Our second night out, the folds in our double reefed main filled with rainwater and blew out the bimini

So while you are trapped in your shaking pod for days on end, getting soaked by squalls and waves, a few things are going to happen. First, you are going to need to go to the bathroom. No problem, your pod will come equipped with a toilet or two. The only trick is to get down the companionway ladder, through the galley, across the aft cabin, and into the aft head without slamming your hip or shoulders into any cabinets or doorjams as the boat accelerates off of a wave and down into a trough. Now, you've got to manage to get your shorts down far enough to sit on the toilet (even for boys standing up and peeing offshore is a very bad idea - accidentally spraying down the head will make you very unpopular with your crewmates) while the boat pitches and rolls. I recommend standing with your legs spread apart to lower your center of gravity and using one hand to hold onto the doorjam while unbuttoning with the other. Once you've got them down, sit on the head and brace your feet against the opposite wall. Sliding off the toilet mid duty is never pleasant. Once you are done, you're really only half-way there. You've still got to manage to get your shorts back up and make your way back to the cockpit, without incurring any more bruises. You will want to avoid using the head forward of the mast like the plague. If you thought the aft head was tricky, the forward one is a regular torture chamber.

During the passage I put 30 hours into restitching the bimini by hand - blowing it out turned out to be the best thing that could have happened - restitching it kept me sane - sort of.

The second thing that is going to happen is that you are going to get hungry. No problem. This is why we make passage food ahead of time. The only trick is managing to get it out of the fridge without the fridge door slamming into the cabinet front, or having the top of the fridge launch itself across the salon. Now, place your containers on top of the gimbled stove, and dish the contents out into bowls. Plates are for rookies. You can always spot the rookie - they are the ones with pasta stains on their foul weather gear. Now, you've got to get the bowl in and out of the microwave without spilling on yourself. Depending on which tack you are on, this is either a simple task or the utmost test of your reflexes. Lastly, you've got to get the food up to the cockpit, because nobody can stand being down below too long. When you are done, dump the bowls in the sink to be done the next time the sink is to leeward. Trying to wash dishes while bracing yourself against the sink with your elbows dug behind the fiddles is a fools errand. Of course, after two days on the same tack there is no more room in the sink and you are out of bowls, so someone has to be the fool - even more the fool if a freak wave happens to pour down through the companionway hatch and give her a cold salty shower while she does dishes.

Now that you've eaten, one of the crew is going to have to go off watch. Notice that I didn't say to sleep. Sleep is futile. But in order for you to be coherent enough to keep watch for ships and react to wind shifts and squalls fast enough that you don't put the boat in irons or have an accidental tack or jibe, you've got to take turns resting. Don't try to be a hero and stand watch forever. You won't be any use to anyone when the shit hits the fan, which it eventually will. So you go back to the bunk and attempt to rest while the bed drops out from under you and the piece of local hardwood that your spouse stored under one side of the mattress tries to jump up and smack you. After a few hours of that, you will get up soaked with sweat from the exertion of trying to hold yourself in one place long enough to catch a few winks. The bed will also be soaked. This is why the crafty crew member will always volunteer first to be off watch. Much better to lie in your own sweat rather than someone else's, even if the other person is the love of your life.

Sten, tell us how you really feel about upwind passages

By day three you'll be trying to figure out how this fatalistic person who keeps talking about how you might not ever get to your destination and might need to turn back and spend another season in Asia ever became the love of your life. You will be wondering where you took the wrong turn that led you to find yourself in a boat, in the middle of the Bay of Bengal with Eeyore. But then Eeyore makes roast chicken with garlic and vegetables flavored with white wine and thyme in large pot on top of the stove for Easter Dinner and you find yourself wondering what you would ever do without him. And with one bite of that delicious dinner, all is right with your world. Despite the sleep deprivation. Despite the rail rash (a fancy yachtie term for diaper rash) from sitting in a wet cockpit for days on end. Despite the need to pop another Stugeron every time another squall hits and within seconds accelerates the wind from 15 knots to 40 knots and veers 100 degrees. Despite the lightening that flashes around you so frequently that you are anxious enough about getting hit to store your handheld VHF radio, GPS and Satphone in your Faraday Cage (aka, the microwave). Despite the fact that trying to head southwest across the Indian Ocean at the beginning of the Southwest Monsoon is perhaps the stupidest thing you've ever done together. Despite the fact that you can't head anywhere near southwest because the sea is so rough that your boat will only go perpendicular to or away from the wind. Despite the fact that cyclone season is just around the corner. Despite the fact that the low pressure system to your north is deepening into the danger zone. Despite all that, you can not help but love a guy who will make you comfort food in a storm. You even offer to let him have the first off watch in the still dry bunk.

40 knots, on the way

Day four brings the frustrating realization that the seas have become so big that you can't possibly make progress to the southwest, even with the assistance of the engine. You have three options. You could turn tail and run back to the Andamans to try to convince Immigration to let you back in to wait for a better weather window. You could turn west northwest, which would keep you moving somewhat towards your destination, but it could lead you to be trapped in the northwest corner of the Bay of Bengal, an area that in the months ahead will be swept by numerous cyclones. It is still early for cyclones this year, but the conditions are becoming more favorable each day. Or, you could run east southeast, adding miles and miles to an already long passage. A horrifying, yet beautiful sunset tilts the scales. As you look a sky filled with too many different types of clouds to try to identify them all, you make the decision to run for it.

The morning of day five brings affirmation from the U.S. Navy's weather forecasting service of your decision to run. A tropical depression and area of convection is developing just to the north where you turned around the the night before. You are relieved to have made the right decision, but concerned about the potential for a cyclone to develop. For the rest of the day and night you run east southeast, away from the developing storm, but unfortunately also away from the Maldives. Meanwhile the Navy upgrades the potential for the the development of a cyclone from poor, to fair, and eventually to good. But you are now hundreds of miles away from the developing storm, and feel that it is safe enough to turn west. Your destination is no longer the Maldives. You've decided to motorsail your way out of this mess, and hopefully reach Sri Lanka before you run out of diesel.

By the afternoon of your sixth day at sea, the tropical depression has become a named storm, Cyclone Bijli, but it is now 450 miles away and tracking north. Meanwhile, you've recovered enough to venture forward of the mast to see what a week of pounding has done to the fresh food stores in the v-berth. Just as you feared - your carefully selected and stowed tomatoes have become tomato sauce that has oozed all over the mattress. And what's that smell? Oh nice, rotting cucumbers. Your spouse can see that this is the last straw and volunteers to help you pick through the mess to sort out the salvageable produce. He spends the afternoon squeezing dozens of fresh limes before they rot.

On the seventh day, the weather is improving and you are making progress towards your new goal of Sri Lanka. You should be excited about a new and unexpected destination, but instead you've got a case of the mean reds. You've had it with this godforsaken boat and being wet and having rail rash and trying to move without getting bruised and sleep without battling for every wink. You want off. You're miserable and you don't care who else has to put up with it. It becomes Eeyore's turn to play Tigger and try to cheer you up. He tries to bribe you with candy and an offer to change the sheets when you get to port, but nothing is working. And then you rediscover baby powder. Since you haven't actually used the stuff since, well, since your mom was regularly patting you down with it before pinning up your diaper, you have no idea what a bottle of it is doing on the boat, but, ah, what a difference it makes. Once your bum is more comfortable, somehow everything seems a little brighter and more manageable. You are still trapped on a boat in the Bay of Bengal during cyclone season, but at least you can sit comfortably while you keep track of the ships in the shipping lane just to the south.

Unfortunately, even after a week in your simulation pod you still really won't know what it is like to do a truly miserable upwind offshore passage. That's because you won't get to experience the euphoria of digging your anchor into a new harbor at the end of the passage and the excitement of exploring a new country. The intensity of those pleasurable feelings is only heightened by the struggle you go through to get there. Arriving someplace by airplane never feels as satisfying as getting there on your own boat. And after a week in the pod, the cute girls running The Ride will not be at all impressed with you or what you've done to their pod. So you'd better just go on it once, then head over to the Dome to check out some sick race footage, before making your way over to play with the remote control boats. And if you can, sign up for the pontoon tours to check out the living conditions on board an offshore racing machine. Compared to the guys on the Volvo boats, we're traveling in the height of luxury. We have a door on our head and everything.

April 9, 2009 - Port Blair, Andamans, India

After three weeks of fending for ourselves, our first order of business upon arrival back in Port Blair on Monday was to go find somebody else to make us a meal. We wound up at the Lighthouse, whose reputation is much better than its food, for a late lunch of westernized versions of some of our Indian favorites. After we stuffed ourselves, the next order of business was to get online.

For the past three weeks, as we have analyzed GRIB files (weather files that we download over our HF radio), we have been growing increasingly concerned about the potential for tropical storm activity in the Bay of Bengal on our upcoming run to the Maldives. We tried and failed to find decent tropical forecasts for the Indian Ocean in Saildocs (publications that we can download in text format over the HF radio). So finding a good tropical forecast that we can receive in text format was at the top of our pre-departure checklist. After several hours of internet research, Sten found a good resource, which Sailmail users can download in text format by sending a Saildocs Query with the request "send http://metocph.nmci.navy.mil/jtwc/ab/abioweb.txt".

The rest of that first afternoon back in Port Blair was filled with what would be the first of three runs to the gas station to fill jerry cans with diesel and a stop at the bakery to load up on more bujah mix, one of our favorite happy hour snack foods.

The next morning, Ravi (the best agent who isn't an agent) brought us a treat for breakfast when he stopped by to drop off a battered looking FedEx package containing the world's most outrageously marked up set of watermaker brushes. Thin, flaky roti was dipped in a mild tomato and roasted pepper curry. It sounds like an odd thing to eat in the morning, but I was so into it that I managed to get it all over my shirt and skirt and had to change before we headed into town to search for more reasonably priced backup carbon brushes just in case the OEM replacements wear out again. After finding some brushes that Sten can modify to use if he needs to, Ravi took him back to the boat so that he could install the OEM replacements. Meanwhile, I was hanging out at an internet cafe loading pictures to the blog. When I finished, we picked up Sten and headed back to ASM Hotel for a tasty lunch with Ravi and a crowd of local men. I'm not sure where all the women who work in Port Blair eat lunch, but we haven't seen any women in any of the restaurants unless they are with their families.

On Wednesday morning, Ravi took Sten off to get his bad Thai haircut, which had not improved with age, modified into something less bushy and startling. Meanwhile, I was at the hospital, restocking our medical kit at third world prices. An appointment with a generalist, consult with a specialist, and getting three prescriptions filled cost a grand total of $12. Once again, skipping the international health insurance has turned out to be the right call.

Sten, who has a reverence for wood, has been admiring the local hardwood. It is beautifully figured stuff and could be turned into heirloom quality furniture. When the guys picked me up, there had clearly been some decisions made in the absence of my womanly influence ("and just where do you think you are going to store that?"). And with that, I suddenly found myself once again among piles of wood with sawdust at my feet as we searched at local cabinetmakers' shops for a suitable piece to take home.

Now, the boat does not have an infinite amount of space. And we keep acquiring things like big pieces of PVC pipe (don't ask) and the occasional souvenir. For months now we've had a running joke whenever we bring something new onboard in need of a place to be stored. "Oh, I'm planning to put it on your side of the bed," as where we sleep seems to be the only unoccupied space. As we were trying to figure out how to wedge this six foot long, 18 inch wide board into Ravi's cab, Sten preempted the obvious question by saying, "I'll put it on my side."

Rush hour at the local package store - Ravi is peeking through the low, barred windows trying to determine whether there is any beer available.

We are only planning to make a quick stop in the Maldives before pushing on to Chagos, where we will spend two months. The fresh fruit and vegetables in Port Blair are so inexpensive that they are practically being given away. So over the past few days we have loaded up on several kilos each of onions, peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, limes, bananas and apples. The only thing that cost anything at all were the apples, but they are imported from Washington State, so I can understand why they cost 50 cents a piece. We'll top up in the Maldives, an arid place where the veggies are likely to be much more expensive. We also found walnuts at the local "supermarket" (a one room store with three short aisles stocked with basic dry goods and cleaning products) for about 1/3 the price I paid in Singapore. Between pancakes and oatmeal, we use walnuts in our breakfast most days of the week, so we can never have too many on board.

Our last full day in Port Blair was filled with clearance formalities. First, I spent a sociable two hours at the Harbor Master's building in a corner office, equipped with two desks and six chairs, that seems to always have at least two occupants, but more often six. Over several short, sweet cups of coffee, our fees were tallied. For thirty days of cruising the Andamans, our Harbor Fees totalled $44. The officers were almost apologetic about how much it came to, but then they did say that we had covered a lot of ground. "You've seen more of these islands than any of us."

With a piece of paper from the Harbor Master in hand, it was time to visit the Customs office. But silly me, a megayacht had arrived that morning. With so much potential booty to be had, why would any of the officers stay at the office? So we picked up Sten and had lunch while we waited for them to return. The day before we all gorged ourselves at the buffet at the Megapode Resthouse, a charming government-run (isn't that an oxymoron?) guesthouse. We managed to show a little more restraint during our last restaurant meal for a while, but only because we were planning to take anything leftover with us as passage eats. We would also make one last stop at the bakery at the end of the afternoon to stock up on curry puffs, cookies, cake and chips for passage.

After lunch we returned to the Customs office, but the officers were still out, so we did a few more errands before finally catching them back at the roost. After Customs, it was a quick stop at Immigration to drop off a letter requesting outwards clearance and a copy of the paperwork that I received from Customs. I made an appointment for the officers to come down to the dock the next morning to stamp our passports. All in all, outwards clearance was straightforward and easy (with Ravi taking me around and telling me what to do), but then Forestry wasn't part of the equation.

When we were done with the paperwork, Ravi insisted that we visit the Cellular Jail. The jail was built between 1896 and 1906 and was in use until 1945. During the struggle for independence from British colonial rule, the Cellular Jail housed revolutionaries, many of whom had been given life sentences of hard labor. Exhibits depicted the uniforms that prisoners and guards wore, the backbreaking work that was performed by prisoners and the punishments that were meted out. Some of the dioramas were pretty gruesome. One block contained a gallery of pictures of freedom fighters who were incarcerated in the jail and told the history of some of their deeds and how they came to "court martyrdom" within the walls of the prison, often as a result of force feedings during hunger strikes. The compound had the hushed atmosphere of a temple or cathedral. We saw several Indian families taking pictures in the doorways to jail cells. At first the practice seemed a bit macabre, but once we began to understand what the place meant to the history of the people of this nation, we realized that it was just like any American family taking a group photo in front of the Liberty Bell.

April 5, 2009 - Chiriatapu, Andamans, India

[After a morning spent in a smoky internet cafe bobbing my head to the beat of the Indian Top 40, our photos from the past month of exploring the Andamans are now uploaded. Scroll down to see the latest pictures. At the bottom of the page, click on "older posts" to see the remainder.]

We've been eating fresh fish every day, but they have been single meal size fish that Sten has caught by rod or by speargun. There are plenty of fish here, but our trolling lines have attracted very little interest. The highlight of our motorsail north from Little Andaman to the Cinque Islands was catching a big King Mackerel on our marlin lure. Gutting and steaking a big fish once to produce many meals worth of protein was such a nice change for Sten from having to catch and clean a fish for every lunch and dinner.

While parked in front of yet another endless stretch of white sand beach at South Cinque, Sten spent the morning in the engine room installing an alternator cutout switch while I cleaned Mata'irea's waterline. Then he took a turn in the water, cleaning growth off of the prop and strut, while I did some cooking. We've been covering so much territory (our route has now taken us through about 3/4 of the Andamans) that we haven't been paying as much attention to routine boat maintenance as we usually do. But with a long passage ahead of us, our focus has shifted back onboard as we tackle pre-departure projects.

From South Cinque, we made a short hop to North Cinque, where we did a little snorkeling and spent some time tracking down our replacement watermaker brushes via satphone. After just one night at North Cinque, we headed for Chiriatapu, a lovely little protected bay, just 12 miles from Port Blair. I spent our day here tackling a mountain of laundry, rinsing our snorkeling gear, cleaning out the fridge and making pancake mix for passage. Meanwhile, Sten installed a padeye that we've been carrying around with us for two years in the cockpit for the watchkeeper to attach his or her harness to. Then he installed a hold-down latch on the companionway ladder, so that it can't migrate in big seas. After that, he created a plug for the transom shower and sealed the hawse pipe on the bow to reduce the number of ways that water can get into the bilge. Finally, he installed a latch to allow us to lock the companionway hatch from the inside, to keep it from sliding open if we get pooped by a big wave. Before lining the v-berth with baskets full of fresh provisions, we dug out the storm jib. If it seems like our pre-passage preparations have taken a more drastic bent than usual, that's because we are, quite literally, battening down the hatches.

The weather patterns across the North Indian Ocean are very predictable. For centuries Arab and Malay traders relied upon the the well-defined nature of the monsoon seasons to safely ply their trade across these waters. But, as Jimmy Cornell wrote in a 1992 article on Indian Ocean passage planning for Cruising World, "the flip side of this regularity is that plans have to be adhered to strictly or one risks having to fight winds and current to reach the desired destination." As usual, we are way behind the rest of the yachts heading across the North Indian this season. The transition season to the Southwest monsoon is now upon us. As a result, our next passage is going to be anything but boring. Stay tuned.

April 1, 2009 - Little Andaman, Andamans, India

Things have been going so well lately that we were clearly due for some suckage. We headed south from Rutland Island to Little Andaman in search of surf. However, not only was Sandy Point not working while we were there, but the wind always seemed to be against us. We ended up spending three days listening to the engine burn our cash into fumes as we pounded into wind-generated chop, just so that Sten could have the privilege of getting attacked by flying ants as he tried to cook dinner and I could experience the feeling of sheer horror when realizing that I'd just dropped our anchor and fifty feet of chain into a field of tsunami debris (in my defense, it was twilight, and Hut Bay Port Control had radioed and asked us to move to that location to make way for a passenger ferry; I didn't see the shadowy grid of the old pier below the surface of the water until the anchor was well and truly stuck within a maze of concrete and steel). The only good thing I have to say about our Little Andaman experience is how very well we worked together in a very bad situation. Our communication skills have come a long way in the two and half years that we've been out cruising.

----------
radio email processed by SailMail
for information see: http://www.sailmail.com

March 30, 2009 - Rutland Island, Andamans, India

We've seen a lot of beaches around the world, but this one takes the cake. South Rutland Bay is a perfect, deep turquoise half moon bay, spilling onto a crescent of golden powder, backed by a forest sculpted by the stiff breezes of the southwest monsoon. While trekking along the shore, we have come across orchids growing out of fallen tree trunks, 16 nautilus shells, turtle tracks and nests complete with shells from hatched turtles, deer tracks, montior lizard tracks, and tracks that looked as though they might have been made by jungle cats. The combination of spectacular natural beauty, a comfortable anchorage, clean clear water for swimming, and interesting snorkeling and walks ashore is rarer than one would think. But South Rutland Bay is the whole package.

This afternoon, while I was occupied along the water's edge beachcombing and swimming, Sten took a hike up a hill to get a different perspective on the area. A few minutes later I heard a whoop of joy from above me. Now, Sten is a pretty reserved guy, not taken to public displays of . . . well, of anything. Only among the rest of the faithful at Fenway have I ever seen him get rowdy. He claims that he used to participate in primal screams to blow off steam during exams, but I'm not buying it. However, the sheer gloriousness of this place moved him to shout for joy.

And the amazing thing is that there is nobody here. We haven't seen another yacht in two weeks. Currently, based on the twice daily radio check-in with Port Blair, we believe that we are the only sailboat in the Andamans. Imagine showing up in the Bahamas or Fiji and having it all to yourself. Just a few hundred miles to the east of us there are approximately a thousand yachts who have spent multiple seasons in Thailand and Malaysia, but very few of those yachts make it out here. We estimate that a hundred more boats passed right by this chain of islands this season enroute to the Red Sea or South Africa, but only a handful of those yachts stopped in the Andamans. This place is paradise, but it is empty.

The combination of expensive visas, unnecessary 15 day special endorsements, high fees for national park anchorages, inconsistent application of regulations (due to a revolving door of officials stationed in the Andamans on two year hardship postings), twice daily radio check-ins, and the cruiser rumor mill (which is so phenomenally good at disseminating and exaggerating negative information), seems to be keeping the crowds away. Which is a shame. I'd encourage cruisers to put the Andamans on their list of places to visit - not only for the opportunity to explore an unspoiled and uncrowded paradise of pristine natural beauty, but also for the potential of hearing someone they love so overcome by their surroundings that they have to shout for joy. And that, well, that is worth slipping those docklines for.

March 28, 2009, Twin Islands, Andamans, India

We finished our overnight passage from Interview with a day stop at the Twin Islands. We originally dropped anchor at the edge of the channel between the two islands, in the middle of a cranking current. We had heard that manta rays feed in the current, and we wanted to hang out and have a look for them. We haven't been swimming with these wonderfully graceful creatures since French Polynesia. We were looking forward to seeing them again. But the current was causing us to bounce around so much that we decided to anchor elsewhere and come back in the dinghy. So we hauled up the anchor and headed around to the north corner of the East Twin.

We dropped the dinghy in the water and took off to snorkel the edge of the the reef. After being surrounded by all that raised dead coral at Interview, it was a relief to be diving among such healthy coral again. We continued down to the southern point of East Twin, where we spotted our first manta ray. Actually, all I saw was the uplifted fin of a manta pivoting, but it was enough to make us scramble to pull back on our masks and grab the camera and dive in. But by the time we splashed, the ray was long gone. We were disappointed, but figured where there is one, there are sure to be others. So we continued west into the channel.

In the channel, visibility was reduced, due to lots of particulate in the water. But that is what the mantas feed on, so it was a good sign. While looking for the mantas, we spotted several turtles, but they were very shy. They took off as soon as they saw us. By early afternoon we were getting hungry, and we were a bit rundown from the overnight passage. So, we climbed back into the dinghy and headed back to the boat. We'd almost given up on seeing another manta when we saw the broad, coal black back of one cruising the current line. It turned back towards us and we could see its gaping white mouth, straining food from the current. As it headed towards us, we were shocked by how big it was - much bigger than the ones we'd swum with Rangiroa. Its wing span was at least six feet wide. We stayed and watched him for a while, but eventually we had to get a move on if we were going to get to our anchorage for the night with any daylight left to find a sandy patch for the anchor.

March 27, 2009 - Interview Island, Andamas, India

The charts for the west coast of the Andamans are basically a joke. Coming north from the Homfray Strait we passed entire islands that are not on our charts. The poor charting was compounded by the earthquake off of Sumatra (Indonesia) that caused the 2004 Tsunami. This far north in the Andamans the damage didn't come from the Tsunami itself, but rather by a massive aftershock that originated under the Andamans and tilted entire landmasses six feet. When sailing, if an area is six feet deeper than expected, that's no problem. But when navigating shallow, reef strewn waters, the combination of poor charts and waters that are six feet shallower than you expect could be tragic, especially for a keel boat with a six foot draft. I've spent a lot of time the past few days standing on the pulpit (the stainless steel structure on the bow of the boat), gripping the forestay, peering down into the water ahead of us, and shouting "Port!" and "Starboard! Hard!" as Sten steers and calls out the depths shown on the depth sounder.

Interview Island uplifted during the aftershocks of the Tsunami. As a result, the huge coral reef surrounding the island, which used to be submerged at all tides, is now exposed at low tide. Anchoring in the natural harbors created by channels in the uplifted reef is a surreal experience. We looked around and felt like we'd landed on the moon. All those coral structures that we regularly snorkel around, over and through, surrounded us, above the water. We decided that in navigating these waters it is best to arrive at a new anchorage at low tide when the uplifted reef is dried out. The water is just too murky to clearly see the reef edge or rocks at high tide.

The murky water made snorkeling more challenging. I'm happy as a clam floating around in clear water, but when I can't see what might be coming towards me until it is very close, I get anxious (particularly in saltwater croc territory!). Sten has no such fears, and was thrilled with the sheer numbers of large (even for the Andamans) snapper, grouper and crayfish that he encountered.

One of the challenges of cruising the west coast of the Andaman Islands is the distances between acceptable anchorages. Much of the land along this coast is tribal territory, and anchoring is not permitted. Therefore, to get back south, we were faced with the options of either a) going back through the straits to the east coast, b) transiting the west coast during the day and arriving after dark in a strange anchorage, or c) doing an overnight passage. Because of the iffy charting we decided that a night passage, well off the coast, was our best bet for an uneventful passage. How wrong we were.

An hour after Sten went to bed, our radio crackled to life. A warship from the Indian Navy (which had been shadowing us for several hours before sunset) announced that it was about to commence live fire exercise. They advised all vessels to keep a distance of 8 miles away and aircraft to maintain an altitude of greater than 15,000 feet. I didn't quite get their coordinates the first time, but they sounded very close to us. I wanted to call and confirm their coordinates, but I was hesitant to bother a warship. So I was relieved when they hailed the vessel five miles to their north and gave coordinates that were very similar to our current position ("Hey, they're talking to me!" - but then, I don't know who else they would be talking to as we hadn't seen another vessel in days). I responded with our actual position. We switched to channel 12 and commenced a discussion about how much distance we should keep from them during their exercises. I asked if we should alter course to the west, but that suggestion was turned down as that was the direction in which they would be firing. ("Right, west, bad idea.") The radio officer suggested that I turn around and head back to the North. I responded with an offer that we just slow down instead. Sometimes I shock myself. Here is a warship telling me to stay away because they are about to blow stuff up, and I'm thinking, 'well, I don't really want to alter course, so how about if I just slow down'. Surprisingly, the Indian Navy was fine with the suggestion, and asked me to keep 5 miles away from them.

When I woke Sten (U.S. Navy Lieutenant Ret.) up to tell him what was happening and what I'd done, he was not amused. Then the fireworks started. A big flare lit the night as red tracer fire arced out into the western sky. For the next half hour there were intermittent bursts of light from the warship. Then the show ended with another round of red tracer fire. Never a dull moment on board Mata'irea! (Okay, actually, there are lots of dull moments, especially on passage, but the exciting ones more than make up for any tedium we experience.) When the fireworks were over, the warship contacted us again to let us know we could resume our course and speed and to ask us some questions about our vessel (registration number, tonnage, recent ports of call) and crew. I responded with the requested information and thanked them for an impressive show. Again, the U.S. Navy was not amused, but the Indian Navy was. After a cheerful farewell, we switched back to channel 16, the listening frequency.

March 25, 2009 - Homfray Strait, Andamans, India

After several idyllic days among the Button Islands, it was time to turn west for an inland adventure. From North Button we had a quick hop to Long Island, a destination known for its plywood factory rather than its iced tea. As soon as we dropped anchor and turned off the engine, we could hear the loud hum of a power plant. Only a few miles from deserted paradise, and how different things were! Ashore, we were confronted with old, unpainted wooden clapboard buildings lining either side of the road. We felt like we had stepped back in time into the wild west. But the plastic litter coating the ground assured us that we were still in 2009.

Near the Forestry Office (Forestry seems to run the show around here), men were gathered by a tea stand where a woman in a bright blue sari and lots of gold jewelry was making cha. We were welcomed by the men and joined them for a cup of tea before continuing our hunt for some fresh fruit, veg and eggs. After completing our shopping we were on the way back to the boat when a Forestry officer stopped us and asked to see our paperwork. We hadn't brought any ashore with us and we weren't excited about making a trip back ashore just to present papers. Luckily, our passport numbers and boat details are permanently emblazoned upon my brain after filling out countless clearance forms, so we supplied those instead. The funniest thing about this encounter was the way the Forestry officer kept calling Sten "boss." Was this some vestige of British Colonialism?

This morning we left Long Island just after dawn to head for the entrance of the Homfray Strait, a narrow lane of water that separates South Andaman from Middle Andaman and which provides access to the islands to the west of Middle and North Andaman. The strait is uncharted. To navigate the strait we relied upon the GPS waypoints provided in Tui Tai's Andaman Cruising Notes (which is available on s/v Crystal Blues' website) and the mudmap in the Andaman Sea Pilot. Perhaps without one or the other, transiting the strait would have been a challenge, but with both at hand, it was a fairly straightforward exercise. Our adventure wouldn't begin until we were nearly out of the strait.

Navigating the strait only caused us a few moments of anxiety. The first was when we found ourselves too close to the edge of the channel with less than 2 feet of water under the keel. The second was when we were just about to pass under the power lines, which, contrary to what the Andaman Sea Pilot says, are very much in existence. Mata'irea has a fairly tall rig, so passing under anything makes us anxious. But luckily for us, Tui Tai is also a Tayana 48. If they could make it under the power lines, well, then we should be able to as well. At least that is what we were telling ourselves as we stared up at the power lines passing overhead. But from our vantage point in the cockpit, they looked like they were only inches from the top of the mast.

Just west of the power lines is a pier. As we passed by, one of the men standing on the pier called out to us to ask if we had a permit. We called back that we had permission from the Harbor Master in Port Blair. He pointed down at the ground in a gesture that seemed to indicate that he wanted us to stop and show him our papers, but the current was sweeping us by so quickly that pulling up to a concrete pier hung about with old tires simply wasn't an option. We just waved and called back that we were passing through without stopping.

After the pier, we had a few miles to go to the exit of the strait. Along this stretch, we kept company with several small fishing boats, some powered by the ubiquitous single cylinder diesel, but many were powered by men, standing up to row with a single oar resting in a chest-high Y-shaped oarlock. After a few miles, the fishing boats all turned south into the Andaman Strait and we continued west into tribal territory.

At the Anthropology Museum in Port Blair we learned that the six indigenous tribes of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands are classified as either Asiatic or Negroid. It is easily understandable how the ancestors of the Asiatic tribes, such as the Shompen and Nicobarese, might have migrated up from Sumatra, Malaysia or Burma (Myanmar) by canoe. The distances are not that far and the currents and winds are favorable for such a migration (at least during some of the year). But anthropologists (and we) are completely puzzled as to how the black tribes of the Andamans, including the Sentinelese, Andamanese, Onge, and Jarawa came to arrive in the islands. Africa is simply a very long ways away.

Of all the tribes, only the Nicobarese (30,000 strong), who have adopted western ways and converted to Christianity, are thriving. The populations of the other five tribes have been decimated by their contact with westerners over the past two centuries. There are currently approximately 380 Shompen, 270 Jarawa, 250 Sentinelese and 100 Onge. And sadly, from a population of 7,000 in the 1800's, there are now fewer than 40 Andamanese left. The surviving Andmanese have been forcibly resettled on an island designated as a breeding center in an effort to keep them from becoming extinct. Loss of territory and access to hunting grounds and freshwater due to forest clearance and settlement programs continue to have a detrimental effect on the ability of each of these tribes to thrive.

The remaining members of the Jarawa tribe live along the wild west coasts of South and Middle Andaman and the land surrounding the western terminus of the Homfray Strait. A history of threats from outsiders have made them hostile. In the 1950's, the local commissioner requested that Jarawa settlements be bombed. In the 1970's, the main road connecting the central islands cut them off from hunting grounds and access to freshwater. In the 1980's and 1990's loggers, road builders, settlers and poachers encroached on Jarawa land, only to be met with fierce resistance. In an incident involving 11 Burmese poachers, six limped out of the jungle with horrible injuries, two bodies were recovered, and the remaining three were never found. Jarawa raids on nearby settlements during the 19990's culminated in an attack on a police outpost in March of 1998. Since then, the local government has implemented policies to minimize contact between the Jarawa and outsiders. Nobody is permitted inside tribal areas. When traveling roads that boarder tribal land, buses are usually escorted by armed guards. Knowing all of this, we were humbled that the Harbor Master trusted us to pass through tribal territory without bothering the Jarawa.

As we approached the exit of the Homfray Strait, the first indication that we were in tribal territory was a large thatched roof among the trees along the northern bank. Then, we noticed a group of men walking along the shore. Some were carrying baskets. Others had bows and arrows slung over their shoulders. The first Jarawa to notice us motoring past his village was a naked young black boy standing on a rocky outcrop. He notched an arrow into his bow, lifted it towards us, and simultaneously raised a cry to alert other members of his tribe. A trio of men, dressed in a variety of colorful shirts (including one anachronistic Mets jersey) and shorts, two of which were wearing thick white headbands, and one of whom was sporting a pair of electric blue sunglasses, ran out onto the next rock ledge carrying bows and arrows. They hooted and hollered. They waved. They demonstrated their accuracy with their weapons by shooting at fish with their bows and arrows. One stripped off his clothing and jumped in place. Several marked our passing by taking a leak. Perhaps as members of a tribe that has been deprived of so much of its former territory, they were marking it. Their behavior was alternately welcoming and threatening. We couldn't decide if they wanted us to stop and visit or if they were making sure we moved on. However, if our promises to the Harbor Master hadn't been enough to deter us from stopping, their reputation and obvious skill with their weapons was. So we continued past them, headed out of the strait and turned north towards Interview Island, completely thrilled at having had a brief glimpse of such a mysterious people.

March 23, 2009 - North Button Island, Andamans, India

North Button Island is an insanely beautiful place. The intensity of the colors and quality of light is so overwhelming that sometimes we just have to close our eyes. There are turquoise reefs hosting thriving coral beds, full of colorful tropical fish. There are giant hardwoods, whose glossy dark green leaves shade an undergrowth of bright lime green pandanus bushes. There are brilliant white sand beaches littered with the silver trunks and twisted root systems of fallen old-growth trees. There are golden sandstone cliffs whose striations attest that these islands lie along ancient and active fault lines in the earth's crust. This is life in Technicolor. It is vivid and invigorating.

We spend our days snorkeling, spearfishing and cowrie hunting along the reefs and beaches. Whenever we need a fish for lunch or dinner, we head over to a patch of reef that we nickname "fish town," as Sten can always find something for us to eat there. We feast on grilled grouper and Thai fish cakes. We find plenty of shells. Although the map cowrie continues to elude us, I score an argus cowrie.

As always, the weather has a huge impact on how we experience a place. Because we were so late arriving in the Andamans, the Northeast Monsoon and the attendant strong northeasterly breezes have petered out. We are now firmly in the transition period to the Southwest Monsoon. We have sunny weather and gentle cooling breezes. Each afternoon we watch the clouds build over South and Middle Andaman. Lightning flashes in the distance, but no rain falls on us. It is perfect weather for exploring by yacht.

The only events to mar an otherwise prefect idyll are continuing problems with the watermaker and the failure one of my replacement fins after only a week of use. I can stitch up the foot pocket on the fin, but the watermaker is proving to be more problematic. It is functioning, but our production numbers are way down. We are going to have to order brushes from the States to bring it back up to full capacity.

March 21, 2009 - North Button Island, Andamans, India

We departed Inglis early this morning, before the radio check-in with Port Blair. We only intended to go five miles and spend the day and night at Outram Island, snorkeling and maybe surfing. But once we were in the water at Outram, we realized how silty it was, possibly from the mangroves at either end of the reef. We spotted a turtle but the combination of impaired visibility and little stingers made snorkeling less fun. Sten watched the break for a few minutes, but the waves were too small to ride. With limited snorkeling and surfing potential, we couldn't see much reason to stick around, so we hoisted the dinghy and the anchor and headed west towards the southernmost of the Button Islands.

We arrived at South Button, which is known to divers as Swiftlet Rock, by mid-morning. From a distance we could see half a dozen daytrip boats out of Havelock dotted around the island. South Button is a small island, which rises straight up out of the deep. Even fairly close to it we had to anchor in 110 feet of water as we didn't dare put our heavy boat on the moorings to which the little dayboats were tied.

We wasted no time dropping the dinghy and having a look. The coral along the east coast of the island was absolutely gorgeous. Sten spotted two Napoleon Wrasse and a big banded sea snake. Although rationally we know they are harmless, we kept our distance anyway. There were also lots of little reef fish to check out, including several saddleback anemonefish, which is a dark red version of Nemo with a black circle on its back and a variety that we hadn't seen before as they are found primarily in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands.

We were both doing some fairly deep freediving, exploiting the increased range provided by our new weight belts. While checking out a small cave along the southern wall, Sten spotted a gigantic grouper. I dove down to check it out too. As I surfaced, I noticed some divers coming towards us from the western wall. I dove down again to see what they might be coming to look at. After I surfaced, Sten went down and hung out with them a while. He was down there so long that one of the divers offered him a hit of oxygen off of his spare regulator. Showoff. All that deep diving is exhausting, so Sten hung out in the dinghy while I cruised the northern wall, following a Napoleon Wrasse around for a while.

South Button offers no protection at all, so we decided to haul up the dinghy and anchor and head 3 miles north to Middle Button. While Sten drove, I made lunch. We drifted around for a few minutes to eat our omelets before dropping anchor. It was only 1:00 so we set off to snorkel the reefs radiating from either point of the long thin island.

The reefs off of Middle Button were teaming with small reef fish. We also spotted a stingray. When we got back to the boat around 3, we were both so tired from all that exercise that we were tempted to stay the night at Middle Button, but it wasn't on our approved itinerary, so we weighed anchor for the fourth time today (love that electric windlass!) and pointed the boat towards North Button. While underway, I showered and made us each a mango lassi from the last of the local yogurt.

Anchoring at North Button half an hour before sunset was tricky, as it was hard to distinguish the coral from the sand, even in such clear water. Sten dove in to find a good spot for the anchor while I ran back and forth between the windlass at the bow and the steering wheel and throttle in the cockpit. We eventually got the pick set in a sandy patch between the bommies. By sundown, we were both beat. It would be an easy dinner of cheese and crackers and an early night for us.

March 20, 2009 - Inglis Island, Andamans, India

Before leaving Henry Lawrence yesterday we took a walk on the beach. The only tracks, but for ours, were of hermit crabs scurrying around trying on new shells for size. The only sound, other than the whisper of lightly breaking waves, was the cooing of birds in the trees. It was an idyllic spot, but without being able to go for a swim, due to the jellyfish three deep in the bay, we were ready to move on.

Shortly before lunch we dropped anchor at Inglis Island. We were pleased to see that the jellyfish weren't in evidence, so we piled in the dinghy with the spear gun and went off to find some lunch. After a tasty lunch of snapper, and a frugal dishwash, we were off again to see what the reef would yield for dinner.

The weight belts that we bought in Havelock make getting down to depth so much easier. Rather than using up half the oxygen in our lungs working our way to the bottom, we glide down so easily, with plenty of oxygen left to cruise around for a while before resurfancing. Neutral buoyancy is a beautiful thing. We spent all afternoon freediving in ideal conditions along the reef edge and shallows. We saw lots of nice grouper and snapper, but we were hunting crayfish. We found a few, and managed to bring one home for dinner. These guys have huge antenna compared with their body size, something like a three foot spread on a small lobster. Imagine our disappointment when we pulled the little crayfish at the end of those big antennas out of his hole! While I prepared dinner, Sten went off to have a surf in the small but nicely breaking waves on the point.

After a full day, meagre showers, evening radio check-in with Port Blair, dinner, and a few episodes of Six Feet Under, we were both ready for bed. But Sten's second shift was just beginning. It was now 8am on the West Coast of the US and it was time for Sten to talk to Spectra about our watermaker problems. Spectra's suggested solution was to swap out the pump head (no problem as we have a spare, but would be a bit disappointing as we replaced the pump head only 250 hours ago when the inner magnet on the old pump head failed after an initial 550 hours of service). If that doesn't work, he is to check out the brushes (pieces of carbon, which ride on a spinning part of a motor called a commutator, and transmit electrical current; if they have worn down too far, they do not make good contact and do not transmit enough electricity) in the feed pump motor (a bit more of an issue as we don't have spare brushes for this motor).

The next morning, Sten got right into the watermaker work. Anything involving this critical bit of equipment is quite disruptive as it is installed under the salon settee. All the cushions have to be removed just to provide access. Once the tools and parts get spread out, the salon is rendered one big workshop. The initial step of changing the pump head would be fairly simple but for the fact that the pump is built into a larger subsystem including a heavy metal frame, the electronic brains of the system, and a hidden accumulator and sensors. This whole thing has to be disconnected from the other components in the system before it can be lifted out for service, a fairly major job but much easier the second time around (the first was in Vanuatu).

Sten changed out the pump head. While he had had the pump and motor out he tried to access the brushes for inspection. There were two plastic plates threaded into the side of the motor housing which are meant to allow inspection and in theory replacement of the brushes. However, these would not budge. The shallow screwdriver groove just disintegrated under torque. Spectra does a really good job of their service documentation with the notable exception of the feed pump as they purchase this component from an outside vendor (Bodine Electric Company - type 42A7BEPM for the Spectra Catalina 300 - 12V - MPC) instead of manufacturing it or packaging it in house, like many of the other components in their watermakers. Anyway, the possibility that the plastic bits were brush carriers instead of the typical brush cover, initially precluded more aggressive action on their removal. The whole situation is compounded by the fact that any unfixable misstep would conceivably require a trip back to Thailand and potentially jeopardize our entire plan to cross the Indian Ocean this season. In general, this is not a good situation.

With the brush covers proving impossible, Sten next tried to remove the two phillips head machine screws recessed into the motor top-hat. These also proved recalcitrant, with the metal in the screw head starting to yield under torque before before the screw broke free. Again, not wanting to cause unfixable damage, we decided to put the whole system back together to see if changing the pump head solved the problem.

With the entire system now reassembled, Sten restored power and gave it a go. We could hear all the relays clicking and solenoids operating but the one sound we did not hear was the feed pump running. Not even at the reduced capacity it had been at when we shut it down. Sten opened up the box housing the electronics and found that the motor was getting power as it was supposed to but still it was not running. This narrowed down the problem to the pump motor, which had been his primary theory going in. So out came the whole feed pump subsystem again.

Sten tried more dramatic measures to extract the brush covers. He tried to pry them out. When that didn't work, he drilled a couple of holes on opposite edges of the cover, and inserted a large pair of 90 degree snap ring pliers, which allowed him to apply significant torque. Unfortunately, again the plastic yielded without the covers budging. At this point, the frustration level was high and things were not looking good. So we took a break for a banana lassi made with local yogurt (thankfully the blender is more reliable than the watermaker!).

Upon returning to the job, Sten had another go at the machine screws holding the two halves of the motor housing together. He was eventually able to free them up. As it turned out, these are very long machine screws, going from the top cover all the way down through the bottom bearing carrier of the motor. What had been happening was that due to their length the screws had been twisting under torque, but not loosening, giving the impression that the material in the head of the relatively low grade machine screws was yielding when in fact this was not entirely the case.

With the motor cover finally off, all was revealed. After 755 operating hrs, the brushes were entirely gone and apparently no longer making contact with the somewhat grooved commutator. The motor housing was filled with fine black carbon dust, which immediately started to spread itself throughout the salon. The plastic brush carrier is held in by two small machine screws and easily removed to provide good access to the brushes and their springs. After removing the brushes, Sten dug through our electrical spare parts and Spectra parts kits on the off chance that we might have a set of brushes that would fit. Last year, when our initial feed pump head failed, Sten asked Spectra about the brushes and was told they lasted a very long time and were rarely a problem. So he ended up not purchasing them. Relying on that representation turned out to be a mistake. We do not have any brushes on board that are even close to fitting the watermaker motor. And for the want of a $50 part one of our major quality of life appliances (which cost us $8500) is useless.

The boat came with a quantity of parts, some old and used and some new, that we have never discovered the use of. Some parts are for equipment that has been replaced or removed over the years but without knowing exactly what some of these parts are for, Sten kept them on board. As part of this collection we have several sets of alternator brushes. Sten eventually decided on machining down a set of new alternator brushes to fit the brush holder of the feed pump motor. Out came the hack saw and then the file and after an hour or two we had a mostly serviceable set of brushes to dimensionally match the ones that came out - at the expense of much more carbon dust spread around the salon. Courtesy of one of Sten's electrical maintenance books from the Academy, we learned that, as you might expect, not all brushes are created equal. It was basically a crap shoot as to whether this fix would be effective. Having the motor mostly apart, Sten disassembled the motor entirely, removing the armature and bottom bearing carrier from the clutches of the extremely strong set of permanent magnets in the main motor housing. After all the carbon dust was cleaned out, the motor was reassembled. The brush covers on the top of the motor eventually had to be chiseled out piece by piece. This is a very poor design for these particular parts.

With everything finally back together and the day drawing to a close, we test ran the system. It was a feeling of relief as the feed pressure built and we started to get close to expected production, around 11 gallons per hour with the generator charging the batteries. We did our best to clean the salon of all the black carbon dust, showered, grilled some steaks and cracked open a bottle of Woodcutter's Red. As nice a trick as it would be to be able to turn water into wine, we're quite content to be turning saltwater into freshwater again.

March 18, 2009 - Henry Lawrence Island, Andamans, India

On the way to Henry Lawrence Island from Havelock, we were motoring, so we decided to run the watermaker. Within just a few minutes it was clear that it wasn't working properly. After we anchored off of a white sand beach, capped with limestone pancake rock formations, Sten spent some time troubleshooting the problem. After running a few tests and before tearing apart the feed pump, he decided to make a call to Spectra in the morning to get some input.

As pretty as this anchorage is, we're in no hurry to go swimming. The water is so thick with jellyfish that we can't flush the toilet without sucking one into the intake line. Around sunset, Sten went out in the dinghy, trying to catch us some dinner. A coral trout promptly stole one of his brand new lures. So it was cheese and crackers for dinner.