Sailors, like fisherman, can be a little boastful. Fishermen are better at it â complete with battle reenactment, culminating in outstretched arms indicating size. Sailorsâ stories arenât much different â a battle against the elements and with photographs! Of course, photographed waves appear small, so you have to double or triple the size to be accurate. Everybody knows this, reallyâ¦ Sometimes a boast smarts: like those from sailing purists, so called because they sail everywhere.Â Mostly.
Our sailing purist friends in Seychelles didnât intend the slight in their boast, âwhy didnât you just sail her in. We sail into the anchorage all the time.â We had radioed for a dinghy tow into the anchorage Â½ mile away after our oil filter burst, rendering us engineless. I pointed out that wind oscillating between 0 (zero!) and 30 knot blasts on the nose made a very long Â½ mile! They shrugged. I couldâve added a counter boast about our passage to Seychelles from Chagos. Roughly 1,031.27 nautical miles that we did in 6-days with the aid of 1 pint of diesel. Their trip was near to three weeks because their route put them into 0 (zero!) wind; and motored so many hours that they had to flag down a passing ship for more.
Another crew that inquired as to why Totemâs diesel appeared to be running when the wind dropped below 8 knots. In a light catamaran they remained unglued in ghosting air. We get sticky and usually find 3 knots of boatspeed isnât enough. On another day when navigating through a coral strewn atoll, they radioed ahead asking incredulously, âis your engine on?â âOf course,â I said, âso we can maneuver around uncharted bommies.â A chuckling reply came back, âweâre sailing around them fineâ. Easy when youâre following, I thought, but didnât say.
Perhaps my favorite was the crew that boasted of cruising so long that they found a simple approach to cruising is most satisfying, âjust like Lin and Larryâ without all junk new cruisers have. In that moment, I really wanted to ask if their gas generator was running any better, but it was hot. They switched on navigation electronics, started the diesel engine, and engaged the transmission. Not exactly like Lin and Larry.
A boast at its core is an expression of prideful accomplishment. As such, I confess to boasting now and then too, being a sailor and all.
In Indonesia, itâs illegal for foreigners to purchase diesel fuel. The sole purpose is to be daunting, to weed out sailors with less fortitude! No, it isn’t really, but I recall hearing a sailor making this point in a silly boast. Mostly the quirky diesel law proved a minor inconvenience. Fishermen, with outstretched arms, were always happy to sell us diesel from their onboard supply. One exception was in small city of Jayapura on the north side of New Guinea. Itâs a conflicted area with an ongoing, hidden ethnic war. Foreigners arrived there fall into one of the three Ms: mining, missionaries, or mercenaries.
We didnât fit the script, which made clearing in a tedious and involving military interrogations. Once cleared a Navy vessel patrolled Totem at anchor. Fun as that was, we were keen to get diesel and move on. The first guy we approached said okay, okay, okay, come back in two hours. When we met the fellow again, he had a change of heart and told us to go away without making eye contact. We had showered, so didnât understand the disconnect. This pattern followed with other suppliers over a few days. It turns out that secret police were following us and terminating any questionable business. There was one other cruising boat with us, and a little desperate, John and I dinghied around the harbor of wood and steel working vessels and found the only fiberglass recreational boat. After asking the crew about diesel, they got the boss to speak with us. He was an Indonesian businessman that understood our predicament. After boasting of his friendship with the son of the Minister of Energy, he assured us diesel would be waiting when we came back â just after dark. Without knowing if diesel would be there or if this was a sting, we found the fading twilight was just the veil needed to get diesel flowing. Oddly, gasoline was straightforward to acquire. Dinghy into the fishermanâs dock and wait in line with other fisherman, all smoking. When itâs you turn, saddle up to a 500 gallon open tank of fuel. Using a 5-liter scoop, an attendant plunges elbow deep into gasoline, then funnels it into jerry cans. Easy!
Brunei is a tiny country situated along the northwest coast of Borneo. Little about Brunei is inviting to cruisers â mucky water and a more restrictive interpretation of Islam than its neighbors. Dirt cheap diesel is what lures cruisers in. While there and interested new cultural experiences, we booked a tour of the capital city. Though a local guide seemed logical, Zahir, a jovial twenty-something from Qatar was very persuasive, boasting that he was better. âThe local people are lazy,â he said.
At the end of a satisfying tour, we employed Zahirâs help in a diesel fuel run. Strictly speaking, it was illegal for foreign sailor types to buy diesel, but this was unenforced â until recently it turns out. Zahir and I set off to the station in borrowed van loaded with jerry cans enough for 125 gallons. Pulling in, station attendants recognized Zahir. The moment wasnât like seeing a friend, more like spotting a pickpocket in the crowd. They began waving us away and cursing when we didnât pass. A wee bit nervously I said to Zahir, âI donât want to cause trouble.â He looked at me with a big smile saying, âNo problem, donât worry.â
With a bundle of Brunei dollars in hand, in a van of unknown origin prepared to carry a lot of flammable fuel, assisted by a jolly Muslim Qatari man was weird enough. Then Zahir dropped to his knees to beg for diesel on my behalf. The outcome was in play: would it be simple shove off was there to be police. Out came one attendantâs cell phone. Then unexpectedly, the employees turned away in disgust. Zahir yelled for me to open the back quickly as he grabbed the diesel pump. In perfect synchronicity, we filled, capped, and loaded 25 jerry cans in a time that would make an Indianapolis 500 pit-crew envious. The money exchange was awkward for me, but persuasive Zahir never stopped smiling.
Totemâs recent Panama Canal transit marked the homestretch to complete a circumnavigation. As much as we donât like schedules, we had one. Our stop in Costa Rica was to wait for weather andâ¦ to take on a little diesel. The customs agent was a courteous, tedious i-dotter and t-crosser that couldnât accept Behan as co-captain, being a woman and all.
Intending to be there for a day or two only, we cleared in and out at the same time to expedite the process. For fuel top-up, we intended to use the taxi-to-fuel station supply chain. More work than the one fuel dock in the area, but price per liter is considerably less. The taxi-diesel supply chain snagged on a technicality weâd not foreseen. Taxi driver asked for our papers and upon seeing our clearance he said the fuel station could not sell to us. Our supply onboard wasnât too bad, but with average windspeed of approximately 0.00 (zero!), a little more diesel meant we might reach Chiapas, Mexico with more than vapors in the tank.
Our anchorage neighbors were stunned at this news and quickly surmised our predicament. âHow much do you need?â they asked. Twenty-five gallons was all; they offered to sell us some of theirs. Out came the jerry cans once again. The next morning, we were northbound ready to sail, motor-sail, or just power along as conditions allowed. Thanks to the cruising community; specifically, the fine people on a boat named Liquid.
One final boast.Â On April 7, 2018, the Gifford family, Jamie, Behan, Niall, Mairen, and Siobhan, motored Totem in 0 (zero!) knots of wind into the bay at Zihuatenejo, Mexico to complete a circumnavigation…mostly by sailing.
Jamie originally titled this article Liquid,Â in homage to the 50′ ketch Liquid and her crew and an irresistibleÂ pun with the liquid (diesel) they provided us; it ran in 48 North this spring. We look forward to seeing Marc & Laura again when they sail north to Mexico; below, anchored near Totem in Playas del Coco. The only true purists we know? Impressive navigators in Papua New Guinea, like the family from Brooker island in the picture at the top.