Webmaster's Latest Note: Today (July 19th, 2007) I was walking down the dock to the clubhouse, when I saw a boat with a familiar name - SV Mist. Yes, they've arrived home. More news later...

Many have written inquiring after our regular letters to you which of late have been a little less than regular. Our unfaithful I.B.M. has at last completely expired with the results that our correspondence is no longer reliable, our spelling consistent, our grammar grammatical or our veracity unquestioned. We apologize for these trifling concerns, but remind you all that "worse things happen at sea".

Readers of these missives will recall that our previous offering concluded with the writer slipping on a well greased tree root and breaking his right leg. We had traveled from Campbeltown Scotland on the midnight bus to London town to visit Tess and Alf and to enjoy in their company the flesh pots of the great capital. We were doing just that on the second day after our arrival when the leg met the ground with a fair thump.

The Middlesex hospitable attended quickly and the victim was shown a set of X-rays which showed in addition to an earlier fracture (reminding the leg of an unpleasant days' skiing) a fresh ankle fracture which the two doctors advised was the cause of the days discomfort. A bit of a plastic was strapped to the back of the calf and the leg was told to take it easy and to come back in two weeks.

Plans for fleshpotting were canceled for all hands and the leg laid out on the chesterfield to enjoy the twin delights of Alfs' bookshelf and British television. Reporting as ordered two weeks later to the Middlesex Hospital the leg was introduced to a new doctor. The original X rays had been lost so the leg was sent stumping off for a new round of filming.

When the leg was called into the good doctor's office imagine, dear reader, its surprise at being shown an X-ray of the upper leg with a clear spiral break of the tibia. "That's not my leg" says the leg, "I'm here with just a wee ankle fracture." (The leg having just come down from the Isle of Skye). The Doctor examined some script at the bottom of the picture. "Your name J.B. Gallup?" Now that was a coincidence. Two legs (well four I suppose) with the same name in the Middlesex hospitable.

The Doctor tutt-tutted the leg for walking about on this obvious break and encased the whole assembly in plaster with instructions to stop walking around and come back in a month. We phoned the town wharf in Campbeltown and informed that our return would be delayed.

Tess and Alf and Lina all lead active lives yet in selfless acts of solidarity with the leg they were indisposed to go off fleshpotting while the leg lay sniveling on the couch. Solidarity as everyone knows is an activity which suffers from over exertion so in time normal life might have returned to 120 Monks Park except that Alf had a leg living in front room and Lina a lame partner. For everyone it will probably be remembered as the winter that wasn't.

Undaunted, for my own amusement I wrote a letter to the "Times". They didn't print it for reasons which shall become obvious.

"To the "Times"
My wife and I are Canadians presently visiting the U.K. As you are doubtless aware our nation is the only Constitutional Monarchy in our Hemisphere and indeed both our form of government and our Royal Family bear a striking resemblance to your own.

When I was doing a little learning my professors taught that a Constitutional Monarchy had proved through its division of the institutions representing the State from those representing Legislative functions, to better able serve the needs of democracy. Republican structures which place both functions in the hands of a single President tend to be more abusive of power. Most who have made the comparisons or experienced both systems recognize the impressive and potentially dangerous power of a President who represents both the State and executive branch. compared to the more limited power of a Prime Minister who after all is only that. Republics which try to get around this problem by having both a President and Prime minister do little better.

Should members of the Royal Family or the institutions of the Crown not meet with society's minimum standards then citizens are entitled to a little "hoof pawing". Our institutions are accountable to whom they serve but the Crown is just that, an institution. If you agree with its existence then there comes a point at which it is counterproductive to continue to throw eggs. Once destroyed, institutions are tricky to rebuild.

For some years we have observed the tribulations of the House of Windsor. You may appreciate, nevertheless, there is some Canadian commitment to our structure of governance and its institutions. We wonder if many in Britain aren't getting a little close to throwing the baby out with the bath water. We live next door to the "Great Republic" and we have no wish to be copy cats.

The message to the Windsors has been given and received. After about a decade under the cane enough is enough. Recent discussions on the suitability of Tupperware containers for storing "Royal" breakfast cereal are be a compelling enough hint concerning the levels many have reached. Perhaps now it is the time for leadership from the broad sheets who could bring greater attention to those who remain with their snouts well into the journalistic hog trough. Maybe the gluttons feet should be held to the fire for a change.

Yours truly,
"the leg"

The day finally arrived when all other amusements might be dispensed with and the excitement of a visit to the Middlesex Hospital and the possibility of yet a new diagnosis of the legs miseries enjoyed by all. Those in the gallery were not to be disappointed.

Yet a new Doctor looked at the X-rays, looked at the leg, paced his office and became quite agitated. Under the circumstances you will appreciate that this agitation tended to be contagious. "Ah, what's up doc?" the leg confirming -again- the overwhelming influence of American popular culture.

The spiral break at the top of the leg didn't concern this doctor at all. It was the ankle fracture that was upsetting him. He seemed to think that it ought to have been pinned on the first day in order that it would be stabilized so that the membrane that holds the fibula and tibia tight to the ankle might heal. (The membrane had a French sounding name but I can not recall it.) Otherwise said he, agitated like, the leg could look forward maybe to being a lame duck for the duration. Like we said, agitation is contagious. Too late to pin it says he, can only plaster it again in the hope........ Come back in two weeks. A flurry of letters to friends who claimed to have graduated in medicine confirmed this idea of the pin. One who shall go nameless (Susan O'Reilly) suggested that should the leg slip again with similar consequences it was becoming "tres chic" among the Channel and Vitton crowd to specify titanium pins. Whether this was to prevent setting off security alarms or to ensure a certain lightness of foot she didn't say. Doctors tend toward the secretive. Hard not to speculate why.

About the end of February we packed to return to Scotland. With an understandable interest in seeing us as far away from London as possible Alf offered to drive us to Campbeltown. This was much appreciated as we had accumulated a great load of kit for the boat and Lina might have experienced some difficulty getting all this and the leg loaded on the same bus. Probably had there been a land bridge from the U.K. to Europe just to be on the safe side Alf would have deposited us in Vladivostok.

When we returned "Mist" had been well cared for by just about everybody in Campbeltown, and to celebrate the legs return we were invited to a "Friday Night" at the local yacht club and told to present slides and give a speech. We chose Patagonia thinking the similarity of climate with Scotland would appeal to the locals. This it seemed to do.

Following our contribution the locals began to sing various Scottish songs which they did very very well. At last one Michael Foreman was asked for his contribution. In spite of some protest including a few from the crowd Mike agreed and said that he would sing "Young Street" but because it was a very long song he would only sing a portion . We sensed a collective sigh of relief from those assembled. Michael began and frankly although his delivery was not at all up to the standard of earlier offerings it was nevertheless spirited. For the sake of interest our recollection of the song follows.

"One night I went down to Young Street,
one night I went down to Young Street,
one night I went down to Young Street,
one night I went down to Young Street,
one night I went down to Young Street,

We began to yearn for the relief of a visit to the Middlesex Hospital.

one night I went down to Young Street,
one night I went down to Young Street",
then at last, "As I said 'Young Street' is a very long song so that's all I'll sing tonight."

Tucker, was courtesy -mainly- of Chris Hughes who is to cooking what Michangelo is to whittling, a skill in which she is followed closely by husband Rod. The future was to often see the leg and Lina hanging around the Hughe's house at supper times. Club Commodore Tom Grant gave Lina and the leg Campbeltown Yacht Club tee shirts and as the evening drew to a close Scots did what Scots often do at the end of evening of celebration. Its a simple ceremony, but touching. Everybody drinks half a bottle of Scotch and then the revelers try to figure out who has left the room. When we finally escaped we had collected 70 invitations to dinner. A fair round number considering the far fewer number in attendance. It would have been vulgar to refuse any..

The Town Police Sergeant Dougie Ried and partner Bev, the local R.N. took a special interest in "Mist" as they plan in a couple of years to move aboard their 50 some foot Hartley designed yacht and head for the sun which we take to mean south. Few who live as far north as Campbeltown consider sailing in any other direction. (Michael Foreman and many of his friends in the club are an exception. They sailed Mikes' 28 foot Twister to the Faroes the next summer a place we gather is right next to the North Pole.)

Dougie and Bev to be completely honest, (something I don't usually recommend you to be in the presence of a policeman) own two yachts. The second "Smoky Bear" is a "redhot" racing design with which they have collected a fair load of silver. Dougie is also a minor motor car enthusiast. For the sake of interest the following is -to my best recollection- a partial list of the contents of Dougie's garage. Three Reliant Scimatars (a fiberglass GT much favored by the Royals particularly Princess Anne), one Triumph Stag, a Cobra Ace (Carol Shelby's modification to the English Ace. Good old boy "Shel" shoehorned in a Ford V8 and the rest is history.) Two range Rovers, one diesel, one gas (petrol if English is your second language) a BMW motorcycle or two and I think a big Japanese one too. And a Jag XJS.

(In another garage one day after sponging a superb meal off Michael and Moira, Mike was showing me his new BMW touring bike, a beautiful mass of machinery and electronics. "My", I said somewhat philosophically, "That's a beautiful mass of machinery and electronics" "Aye" said Mike somewhat whimsically, "We only get to pass this way once you know")

Bev's Mom "Johny" is a Canadian lass and a nurse too. She had once nursed for the second most famous China surgeon Doug Mclure. (I make Norman Bethun out to be the most famous. After all he invented the "M.A.S.H. Unit and where would we all be without that film and T.V series?) Mclure went on to be the moderator of the United Church of Canada, a largish group of mellowed out Canadian Presbyterians. As a surgeon Mclure is famous for using bicycle spokes when the surgical wire ran out in China. As moderator he is famous for saying "No one anywhere is frightened when they go to bed at night that the Canadians are going to bomb them". Which is probably true, but we digress.

Bev thought it might be fun for us and her Mom to spend some time together talking Canadian and so we piled into one of Dougies' cars (the diesel Range Rover) and drove through the Highlands to eastern Scotland to a very pretty area where her parents run a bed and breakfast.

We noticed among a pile of magazines an Alberta road map and it was explained the not only had Johny nursed for Mclure in India (did I already mention that?) but she had also nursed for Albertans at Cold lake Alberta. Small world, and we did have a grand visit and were given a days tour of the area by Bev's dad Stanley who besides being a super guy was one of the best drivers we have ever ridden shotgun for. The leg envied him on both counts.

We returned to "Mist" just as an east-southeasterly storm we blowing out. Just in case you have never been there that is the only wind that can push a sea into Cambeltown Loch. The locals, mainly Rod, had taken very good care of "Mist" The storm was over, but a walk out the bouncing pontoon was not only a wee thrill, but illuminating. Tied to the seven or so yachts were a forest of lines. On "Mist" alone I counted nine fenders and fourteen lines. The winds I recall had exceeded 70 knots, it must have been pandemonium. In Rod's words: "We were fairly busy for a while." The man overboard pole had come adrift and mixed it up with the wind generator which must have been having a gay old time. The batteries were just packed with amps.

The top of the pole had come off second best and bits of it were scattered about on the pontoon. Some of these bits of shrapnel had interfered with the wind anemometer which must have its own tale to tell and two of the three cups were missing. The rub rail was rubbed but there was no other damage. "Thanks guys" said the leg. "Weren't nothing" said the guys.

These minor diversions aside, life in Cambeltown was grand. We walked modestly during the day and pestered our friends. In the evening we strolled the Strand and chatted up the locals usually commenting on the favorite U.K. topic which is a favorite Canadian one too. The weather. Scots are given to commenting in the driving rain "Ach well it will soon be over", in the same way Canadians refer to 30 below weather as "cool". The yacht club, never to let a week pass in complete sobriety laid on a tour of the local distillery courtesy of Frank, yacht club member and distillery manager. Frank had spent his life at the trade and there can't be much he doesn't know about the distillation which takes its name from a nation.

The distillery, "Springbank" is a family owned one and I believe it is the only distillery in Scotland that does the whole thing, from grain to labeled bottles on one site. You've probably never heard of "Springbank" because they don't advertise and don't have to. They sell all they want at the price they want with no difficulty whatsoever. The appearance of a bottle of "Springbank" on a table in a popular American movie caused some shortages in the warehouse, but this inconvenience has been weathered and "Springbank" continues to produce at a volume which suits them. Charming. We might add that the yacht club tour was likely the second time in the distilleries history that there has been an alarming run on warehouse stores. Frank has built a new distillery for "Springbank" to make a new whiskey which has just opened in Cambeltown, but you'll have to wait a few years for their first offering. Line forms on the right. It was typical of Frank's kindness that as we were leaving the wharf in Cambeltown he ran up and passed over a bottle of "Springbank". "Just a wee souvenir to remember us by."

We began to feel that it was time for another circumnavigation and as we had done Aran in the fall we felt we could tackle it again which we did. This time we included Rothsay which we are also glad we did, because here we met another Canadian boat from Vancouver and had a great gam. We also watched the only remaining Clyde paddlewheel steamer still in operation, the "Waverly" dock and undock in what Scots might call a "wee breeze". The skipper must have enjoyed the whole drama, as he was given to some laughter at various points in the proceedings It struck the leg that being the skipper of a side paddlewheel steamer must require a sense of humor. (The odd bod out there may not realize that the rudder of a paddlewheel steamer doesn't work when the steamer slows down. Rather like having the steering wheel of the bus disconnect every time you slow up. Just the thing in a crowded harbor.)

The leg slowly improved. Hard to believe I know. On a spring tide we laid "Mist" up against one of the harbors stone piers and gave her a scrub. One has limited control over tides and their timing and as we had just squeezed on to the wall by digging a trench on the previous low tide we were anxious about getting off on the following high tide which was three or four inches shy.

Typically, the time of high tide was about 12.30 at night, but a couple of locals showed up anyway to help. This was in spite of our urging the whole gang to stay away as we preferred to experience our disasters in private. Engine at full power reverse and a dock line wound bar taut on the winches "Mist" just slid off the sand, no doubt giving the antifouling on the bottom of the keel a final polish.

The time had come for us to leave once again, and I don't think it has ever been more difficult. What a classy crowd of people. We are determined to one day return.

The plan was "do" Ireland at a brisk pace, "do" Spain and Portugal likewise, enter the Med and plug away towards Turkey where we hoped to spend Christmas. A full dance card. Accordingly we set sail for Northern Ireland on April 27 and carried a fair wind to Bangor just outside Belfast. There we were met by Michael Foreman who was visiting his Mom and sister.. Mike's brother in law Ronnie is a plastic surgeon just retired in Belfast. A town with a steady trade for plastic surgeons. Michael very kindly showed us around his yacht club, the Royal Bangor, one of the oldest in the world, and one with some mighty fine digs. We were also invited up to Ronnie and Denise's home for sup. It would have been vulgar to refuse. It was a great evening. Ronnie and Denise own a Nicholson 42 which was built for them new. She has been so well maintained that although I think over 20 years old she hardly looks that many months. The owners felt it was time to sell her and she had been advertised by Ronnie in "Yachting Monthly" at what I thought was a very modest price. Ronnie was appalled that he had received some interest in her by people who had done little or no sailing and had felt that it was his responsibility to point out to these people that a 42 footer was a little much to start off a sailing career in. We piled on Ronnie a little saying that he had to resist being the good Doctor. Something more like, "she is only 42 feet long, and fully sorted out. Just the boat to start off in and anyway you could work your way up to a 70 footer in a couple of seasons." Ronnie really entered into the spirit of all this with "Yes, and she's a ketch, perfect for a beginner, and plenty of electronics too. They'll practically do the sailing for you and anyway she has a big engine. You'll never need to raise the sails." Suddenly it was past time to sail, and we were especially sad to have say goodbye to Mike for he is the very best sort of person and had done all that he was able to make our stay in Scotland enjoyable. He may never, like so many others there, completely understand how successful they were.

A couple of days later we entered Strangford Loch and tied up to Denise and Ronnie's mooring buoy in beautiful surroundings. That delayed us another couple of days. Mike had given us his "cruising log", an account he had written of the previous summers circumnavigation on Ireland in his Twister, a heavy displacement 28 footer with a proper pedigree and a very good reputation. We were already relearning what seems to be a "sailing constant". People in smaller boats go further faster than people in bigger boats. For sure we weren't going to be able to keep up to his timetable or our own for that matter. (Mike has subsequently entered this "cruising log" in a "Yachting Monthly" cruising log contest and received a second prize. In the modest way they do things in Britain these days I think second prize was a BMW motorcycle or something like that.)

A few harbours on found us in Dublin, tied up to the town pontoon. People were very nice.
"How do we check in?" asks the leg.
"Good question, I shall make some inquiries" A few minutes later I was handed the telephone. "Yes, How can I help you?"
"We are a Canadian yacht in transit and have just arrived in Ireland (well about a week ago, but never mind) and would like to check in."
"Ah, and your calling me to announce yourself, well thank you very much and enjoy your visit to Ireland." Then there was one on those long silences which was vaguely familiar to one experienced when we checked into England the previous year.
"That's it?"
"Yusir and thank you for callin."
"Just a moment please. Suppose by chance we meet another Customs person, we hardly have any proof that we have done the right thing." Two years in South America has trained us well. (Are Equador, Chile, Argentina and Brazil of all places really being overrun by illegal immigrants???) "Ah yes I can see your problem. Well don't you worry, I'll give you my name and phone number and if you have any such problems you just have the officer call me and I'll tell him."
So there it is. We know her name, but she still doesn't know ours. A very civilized place.

Dublin is a cracked on city, full of a young population and reveling in its recent history, the likes of Joyce, Wilde and the Irish Revolution. Indeed as we have seen in many young republics, there doesn't seem to be any history at all prior to the revolution and independence which in Ireland is as recent as 1922. In Britain during the Big Two most of the Georgian to the Edwardian ironwork was torn up by the ever busy Canadian beaver, Lord Beaverbrook, to be turned into tanks and tin hats and things. Southern Ireland was spared this indignity and so all this marvelous iron work is still in place. Just one small reason to visit Dublin as is the Pub where the "Dubliners" started their singing careers these few short years ago. Its all a matter of taste.

More anchorages and coastline, deserving of months, not days attention found us looking for a place to park in Cork. Marinas and mooring fields like so many harbours in Europe had just about filled the place. We muddled about until we noticed something was missing. Our chart of Cork harbour. There was a decent breeze about and we guessed our chart had scampered. This presented a obvious difficulty but was a double irritant because it was one of those old British Admiralty Charts with marvelous cartography and I imagined it one day being hung on the wall of my imaginary den with something inscribed like "Kilroy was here". Then the Admiral, she of the sharp eyes shouts, "Over there, something in the water." About one hundred yards away was our chart. That thick durable Admiralty paper would probably have floated for weeks. We've dried it out and its as good as new.

Consider for a moment young moderns sailing about with their electronic charts on their electronic laptop. Suppose a laptop had blown overboard. How long do you think it would have floated? Can you see one in the water at a 100 yards? How do you dry one out after its had a good saltwater soaking? Have you ever seen one hanging on the wall in a den or a yacht club? Would Kilroy care? These are all weighty questions to be considered by upcoming generations of sailors. Hopefully they will reflect on the experience of their elders.

Point is (if you were wondering) all this milling about had attracted someone's attention. A small boat pulled up.
"Can I help you?"
"Where in hell can a Canadian Gentleman anchor in this effing harbour?"
Always believed in dealing with the natives directly.
"There's a strong mooring right there, just a minute, I'll make a call,. 'Mabel I'm going to put a Canadian couple on your mooring', how long do you want to stay here?"
"One or two days." (When discussing such things, we've learned that at such times it is always best not to alarm people.)
"'They'll be here a week or two, that OK?, right thanks'. There you are, you'll be right then. My name's Mike and that place is my house (and he pointed to something that looked like a parliament building) and that yellow building over there is the yacht club. When you get squared away come on up for a jar."

Which we did. And it was several days later when we at last sneaked out Cork at midnight, mainly to save our livers. You may be interested to learn too that we were anchored in the lee of a large pharmaceutical factory owned by Phizer and home of what the locals called the Phizer Riser. Viagra.

Yet more appealing coastline, delightful whitewashed villages each sporting at least one example of the most curious of Irish curiosities, that is the pubs come in threes. Just like London buses, which Alf explains is because they leave the factory that way. The harbours were all sheltered, easy to anchor in, and venerable. Each evening we would rush ashore to do a "recce". Not once was the shore party to return disappointed. Well actually we once did.

Most will remember David Leans film "Ryan's Daughter" Not one of his best, but like all his work beautifully filmed and set in a Irish village which was nothing if not photogenic. I knew where the village was. I knew because someone, in a pub as I recall, had told me where it was. This important information placed the village was some miles distance from the anchorage in Dingle so we disembarked in addition to ourselves, our trusty Ralieghs. Its a good thing we started early in the morning.

After some considerable pedaling and failure in which all we saw were modern holiday homes and the like and none of it at all photogenic, we began to question the locals. "Yes I remember the film, and I think the village is just around that headland, or down that lane, or up that hill, more pedaling anyway. That took up most of the afternoon. Finally at a pub (one of three actually) we spotted some "Ryan's Daughter" memorabilia in the window. Turns out the whole village was built as a movie set and afterwards dismantled and the stone sold. It never was a village and anyway it is gone. The only real building in the film was the school house -you will remember Robert Mitchum was the village school master, not a brilliant bit of casting- and we were told how to find it, which we also failed to do to. At least we did see it from a distance, but just couldn't get the various lanes to connect. The ride, nevertheless had been a decent one so I suppose no one ought to be cynical about what you hear in pubs.

The coastline was now open to the Western Approaches and the North Atlantic and we had some bouncy days. For the first time since the Patagonian caper, "Mist" dipped her boom in the water. No matter, ever the tourists we sailed around and photographed the Fastnet Rock. We worked our way north with one eye on the chart and one on the calendar until at last at Glengariff Bay and 51 degrees 45 minutes north latitude we turned regretfully around. Turkey was still some distance off. On the 15 of June we hauled sail from Castletown Bere for the Bay of Biscay and La Coruna.

Before leaving Britain, we'll indulge in what has become a minor tradition in these letters and pass on some of our observations. Travel with "Mist" had offered us the realization of a lifetime dream. We had lived and toured for more than a year in Britain. So what of it? Jim had first visited the island in 1971 and had been back half a dozen times since. During those years there have been some changes.

Massive immigration to Britain, most of it from the third world has irrevocably and permanently changed "British Culture". Nearly half the folks who live there now came from somewhere else and their settlement is concentrated in the cities. Many have come under circumstances and with motives which have not resulted in them becoming "instant" Brits. Their numbers are so large now that assimilation or adjustment in a couple of generations to the "British way of life" is not likely in part because the "British way" may no longer exist

Additionally out migration of retiring native born Britons has become a national pattern. These people are not just drawn to the "sun belts" they are abandoning their homes because they no longer feel comfortable living there. Of the very large numbers of immigrants and asylum seekers, many are neither understanding nor committed to a modern secular democratic society, and British citizenship processes have not done a good job in preparing these folk for the responsibilities of British citizenship. Native born islanders do not seem amused.

There is a lot of hand wringing and double-talk locally about this. Much of the debate is muddied by the requirements of "political correctness" which as everybody knows is just the latest in a string of tyrannies we often inflict on ourselves. Whatever your views, background, or politics, the island has changed, and is going to stay changed.

The other major impact on British society in the last quarter of the twentieth century is the E.U. On this we have a firm opinion. If you thought the E.U. was just about free trade and a rationalization of things like labour mobility then you are in good company, because it looks now like that's what many, perhaps the majority of Brits thought too. If you think that democracy among other things is about decentralization and division of power, (and a thousand years of British history can hardly leave one with any other opinion), then the E.U. is the biggest power grab since Adolph put on a brown shirt.

Present directions have to do both with the way Europeans view themselves and the failure of European leaders to explain to their citizens the nature of the "European Federation". Some leaders have openly admitted they have "slid in" political union behind citizens backs. This should bring a smile to the face of any practicing skeptic.

Since Charlemain, running on through the Hapsburgs, the Holy Roman Church, Napoleon, and even A. Hitler, Europeans view themselves at their best as highly organized, highly structured, highly centralized and highly regulated. The English see their system at best to be decentralized, individualistic, intuitive and perhaps even a little chaotic, giving all due regard for the islanders love of understatement. In thinking about this as you probably wish you weren't isn't it interesting that the only other continuously running "old" democracy in Europe is Switzerland, and they have stayed out of the E.U. The upshot is the fragile progress of democracy in Britain taken a few good body checks and Britain has become a great deal more "European" both in thinking and in legislation much of which comes from Brussels. (The British Parliament rubber stamps some 3000 E.U. bills a year to comply with the European Parliament) Britain's' most politically "successful" P.M. since "Winnie" or maybe "Maggie" is often described as "European" and "Presidential". Very few these days anyway are calling Tony "British"

The thing to moan about is that the A.E.C. Routemaster (double-decker bus to you) and arguably the best urban bus ever has been taken out of service.

Some things haven't changed and we thought them marvelous. The first is that "humour" continues to thrive. Most visitors are aware that when two Brits meet the first order of business is to get off a few one liners and have a good laugh. Even before football, it's the national pastime. A BBC journalist, "I've been trying to buy a pair of camouflage pants and I can't find them anywhere." A builder's van driven by an Asian goes by. Written on the side is the Asian's name, and "If you have had it with the cowboys, why not try the Indians."

A weekly news review program moderated by a sitting Member of Parliament and including a bunch of tabloid and broadsheet editors spend their time "slamming" each "the news" and each other. Its off the cuff and these "guests" are both funny and clever. Can you imagine such a program in the country you live in? To our eyes the entire society is more prolifically funny than anywhere we have been. If it is true as some shrinks and do-gooders claim (doubtful pedigree I know) that humour is at the root of physic good health the Brits should be putting it in a bottle. (Probably the Scots would claim that they are!)

The Canadian thinker John Ralston Saul (hands up, did anyone recognize his name. Certainly no one in Canada!) calls it memory and he claims that if we lose our memory -that is an understanding of the influences of our collective history- then our society is lost. Probably a defensible notion. In Britain the natives are completely head over heels in love with their nation's history. . Take an evening of T.V programming. The leg knows. Not an evening goes by without at least one program dealing with "History".

"Time Team" muddle about on archeological sights, "The Antiques Road Show", you already know about. The incomparable Fred Dibner does steam engines and the Industrial revolution, somebody else looks at traditional English gardens, Capability Brown, and that sort of people. A young man gets a chance to fly the only remaining two place Spitfire meanwhile learning about the Battle of Britain, in "Learn to Fly a Spitfire". A present day R.A.F. Crew have a shot at the "Dams Raid" in a Lancaster simulator. (They crash and "died" practicing low flying, but later went on to paste the target???. In another series the host explains and replicates great inventions using bits of plywood and cellotape. (Some out there may be getting a bit skeptical, but its pretty good.) You're tripping over first rate "costume dramas" all the time. They'll even preempt "E.R!

"Pick the Most Important Briton of All Time" ran a good part of the winter the leg spent on the couch. People voted in the hundreds of thousands to sweat down some 100 names to the top ten who then had their case presented by leading T.V. personalities. "Winnie" took the flag, and who would argue (much). Newton, Shakespeare, Liz 1, Cromwell and Co. all made the final cut, but who do you think took second place after Winnie? Isimbard Kingdom Brunnel. That's who. Brilliant, and a great call. I'd also call it a choice of some very savvy citizens.

(I'll bet you're afraid to admit it "Isimbard who???)

Its pretty obvious we loved the year there and we can hardly wait to get back after a respectable period of recovery is allowed our friends. "The times they are a changing" or so claims Bob the minstrel so if you still want to see the old version of the Island, better move quick.

It is a minor sailing tradition to get nailed in the Bay of Biscay and of course we were wary. The story the Dawn Treader ites tell of crossing the bay is sobering but then they did it in winter. We had two days of mild sailing and two days of mild motoring. In our experience it pays to worry a lot.

Of La Corunia and the Galacian coast we will say little except it was the best Mediterranean experience we had, and its not even in the Mediterranean. We had traveled this coast in our Rover 100 about twenty years ago and found it little changed. Most of the towns and harbours have marinas now yet for once this seems a solution. When Dawn Treader went through almost 30 years ago (Egad!) they found the anchorages full. Today they are for the most part empty and my only explanation is that the marinas have "sponged" up the yachts. We anchored safely in clean water off sandy beaches. The Spanish coastal towns which were once such a treat but now have been desecrated by the building booms on the Mediterranean coast remain an even more valuable treasure in Galacia. The town square with its beckoning sidewalk cafes where you can watch the "boulavardiers" watching you watch them remain a ready attraction.

Families come out to promenade in the evening, children squeal with delight at the inevitable fireworks and the boulavardiers watch you watch them as another cappuccino slides down your contented throat. Sadly, time and tide are relentless and so we bolted south..

Bayona gave way to Viano do Costello which in turn gave way to Leixoes, then Aveiro, then Figueira da Foz and Nazare. Oporto was great fun and little changed. The great Port Houses allow a modest sampling of their wares, but then there are so many great houses of Port and so little time. Peniche which we didn't think we would ever forget, but hardly remembered. We spent a few days in Cascais and Lisboa where we had spent some time long ago. To our minds Lisboa remains one of Europe's most appealing and enigmatic capitals and our return was fun. Sadly the marvelous fire station in Cascais with its mosaic pavements and at least a dozen Land Rover fire engines has alas been replaced by a gaggle of discotheques, something the town hardly needs more of.

Southward to Sines then Sagres, then at last west to Lagos where only English and German voices were to be heard on the night air. Next Portimao famous for the rudest fishermen in Christendom and at last Olhao a small village reached through a maze of channels and sandbars. Few tourists, a big farmers market, and a fabulous Chinese restaurant. It really takes so little to make us happy. Did we mention the free marina?

In Galacia we had begun to travel with a couple of British. boats. One singlehanded by John Carr was very well equipped and as we observed before uniquely British, which is to say by today's standards she is small. John is a retired civil servant and was bound for the Med. The other, owned by Dave, and crewed by friend Steward and strangers Jim and Dennis must at time have made John appreciate his small crew. Dave liked to go to bed early, arise earlier and make of it a full days sailing. He is experienced. Jim liked to party very late, and spend the following day in the happy contemplation of the evenings possibilities. He had never sailed but was an "A" type personality and would nail anyone who referred to him as anything else. Dennis was a most gentle soul but also clearly of the night owl persuasion. He had been very sick and in his own words "had left interesting organs in the trash cans of hospitals all over England". He also had never sailed and showed no intentions of giving the game a try. Steward, a keen and experienced sailor like his friend Dave might have been said to have been burning the candle at both ends as it was our impression that in serving in both camps he never slept. They were all good fellows but not to be described as "peas in a pod".

Dave and Steward began each day by starting a race. Dave came honestly to this as he had spent much of his life in motor sport, and Steward's excuse probably would have been that he had spent his life in boats. As the slowest boat, John usually competed by leaving before first light. Dave and Steward preferred to wait for faster game which meant us.

The northerly "Portuguese Trades" more often resolved into a daily cycle of land and sea breezes with a northerly component. Perfectly acceptable for our purposes, but when you have ravenous speed demons barking up the bumpkin it made for plenty of sail and spinnaker work John worked hard not to be passed until ten in the morning, and we tried to be ahead by late afternoon when Jim and Dennis came on deck to shout unkindly at the lagging Dave and Steward whose lack of competitiveness was going to cut into their shore time. Good fun and we enjoyed their company.

Further west we entered the Rio Guadiana anchored on the Spanish side in front of a delightful village, all white wash and delicate. We considered our options. We had driven up the river in the Rover so it seemed we ought to follow in "Mist" although there was some discussion with the locals concerning the comparative heights of the bridge (height unknown) and our mast. This debate continued right up to the time we slid under the bridge. A local fisherman who was watching shouted at us to stop and then at last held his hands to the sides of his head. Its always nice to have the support of your fellow mariners.

Past the bridge we were concerned about the depth of water and soon "Mist" concurred by running aground. The tide was on the rise and we were soon off and away traveling upstream. Following an agreeable journey of about twenty miles we anchored among a number of boats, some seemingly who had spent decades there. There are two towns opposite here on the river, a place on the Portuguese side whose name I don't recall, but it was pleasant enough and Puerto Sanlucar on the Spanish side where we spent three days just watching the river slide by. An agreeable pastime which has the added attraction of being unproductive. We followed the Rover no further as "Mist" is not on wheels and the river becomes fairly shallow.

We returned downstream drifting much of the way on the current. We can think of no better use for an ocean going yacht than to drift engineless down a pretty river on the Portuguese border and urge everyone to try it.

We passed Cape Trafalgar and speculated how such an undistinguished bit of geography came to be named after that most distinguished square in the center of London. We anchored again most delightfully in the Guadalguivir and were treated to a textbook yellow Spanish sun setting over the plains. Birds flew across a silhouetted sky and we voted the river a "someplace" place. Cadiz next was a pleasant surprise as we expected it to be all grotty and industrial like, and definitely a a"nowhereplace" place. Instead it turned out to be moderately Spanish and therefore quite agreeable.

The Pillars of Hercules and the straits of Gibraltar can be vexious to the itinerant mariner. Currents, accelerated by the narrows go this way and that, the winds are capricious, and because of evaporation in the Mediterranean basin there is a constant inflow of water from the Atlantic. Naturally (again!) we were anxious but were mocked (again!) by a complete lack of drama and were soon anchored off the end of the runway at R.A.F. Gibraltar. A slightly famous spot. Jim's uncle, now deceased was in Hudsons here and had some good stories of the place. Although not one of his tales, just about where we were anchored George Beurling -the "Eagle of Malta"- as a passenger in a Liberator bomber felt it starting to stall, bolted for the door and jumped out just as the aircraft hit. He was the crash's only survivor. Unusual man was George.

Gibraltar is fun. It has that "where have we met before" feeling for just about every view looks in life just like the picture. Sure it's filled with touri and discos now not officers, N.C.Os and other ranks, but I suppose that is all a matter of taste. The monkeys are still there, and so are the two great radar controlled guns which can shoot as far as Morocco, however useful that is.

I went in search of my uncle's history but although I knew his Sqd. number neither R.A.F. Gibraltar (maintenance staff only) or the town museum or library had much to offer except some pictures of Hudsons coming or going. This pastime did however bring some order to our wanderings and so stood precariously on its own merits.

East along the Spanish coast we entered a zone of complete devastation. We had been warned by many, not the least of whom was our good friend Ricard of "I am Catalan, not Spanish" fame. The entire Spanish littoral has been covered by high-rise apartments, offering "beach front" property to the suffering masses of northern Europe among whom the British are the clear winners. Many of these conurbations are centered around the preexisting Spanish fishing town which has now been submerged. The tour guides describe some of these gulags as "having interesting examples of traditional Spanish architecture", which they do, on some postcards, the kind that specialize in sepia and black and white "historical" photos 'cause there ain't nutting worth taking a picture of now.

The Spanish have turned the Mediterranean sun into a cash cow. The "resorts" we have mentioned. Where these have -not yet- been built the land from a distance looks covered with snow, yet this seems unlikely. Through the glass one sees thousands of hectares of white plastic green houses. Its pretty much one or the other with the green houses easily leading the resorts in the esthetic run-off.

We crawled up the coast in settled weather avoiding the marinas and anchoring either in unused E.U. harbours or open roadsteads. In 1971 I had spent two perfect weeks in the perfect small fishing village of Motril. We found Motril. It was easy enough. They were loading some dusty bulk industrial product into big ships where they had built a big harbour. Well, you can't halt progress.

I remembered many of the names from my drive up this coast in 71, Motril, Mazzaron, Torreveija. All is decay and ruin. And high-rise apartments. We anchored under a headland at Playa de los Corrales and a stiff westerly wind plastered the boat with red dust from the Sahara. The next morning we rounded the cape, thought better of it and raced backed to the anchorage.

An overnight sail on the first of August took us off the coast to Ibiza and the playground of the rich and famous. The Balearics were high camp in the seventies and are still a "somewhere" sort of place. Unfortunately the hippies are aging, the drinks too expensive and the beaches crowded although this is mitigated by the leg's observation the beaches are crowded with plenty of Europes' prettiest nudes. It is time however for the "hippies" from the seventies to get dressed. There ought to be a law.

We day sailed, and night sailed, and anchored among the swarms. Then one day something remarkable happened. I turned on our V.H.F. ship's radio. One ought to have it on all the time but "Mario" or at least a series of "Marios" were such a nuisance we kept it turned off. "Mario" is "everyman" in the Med a bit like "Kilroy" who at least was real. Well "Mario" is real enough too. When a Med fisherman or whatever is so bored he just can't stand it he shouts "Mario" into the mike and then lets off a stream of pretty boring "expletives deleted". Anyway I must have been bored too because I turned the radio on.

For some months we had been communicating by e-mail with our friends John and Elaine Kirstein who like us had built their own boat in Calgary and left two or three years ahead of us and sailed westward. We knew we would cross paths in the Med. but communication had been spotty and the Med is a big place. Then we heard "Mist" being called. Of course it was John. Isn't that remarkable you might be saying to yourself, but you would be wrong. V.H.F. radios transmit only over line of sight. That's about 12 to 18 miles in our case. John and Elaine in Glooka were 180 miles away. John had transmitted blind on a caprice and we had caught him on a rare atmospheric skip moments after turning on our radio. Now isn't that remarkable.

A couple of days later we anchored in Fornelles, Menorca and for three or four days had a splendid visit. The two couples had shared the same trials of boat building in Calgary, launched their boats, somehow managed to stay afloat and even do some sailing from time to time. Because we had both been where the other was going we were able to pass on the usual stuff. but the real thing was sharing a rare experience with others "cut from the same cloth". A band of wanderers.

We had hoped to meet our friends the Collins in Rome, but constant westerly winds since Gibraltar had confirmed Clauzewits' observation "that the first casualty of battle is the plan." We gave up in the attempt to sail over the north end of Sardinia and now turned south east. A U.N. heritage site and ancient fishing village looked promising and as is always the case with this useful U.N. program we were delighted. A fishing village and market town Cefalu is a rare enough confirmation of how "charming", at least to those from the new world, "old Europe" can be. We are aware that "charming" doesn't necessarily pay any bills but in Cefalu it did for the place was packed with appreciative tourists. We were happy to count ourselves among them for a couple of days.

We sailed the straits between Sicily on a fair current, past a medium town and large harbour said to be a popular place with the Mafia. A few miles on we anchored in a newish, unfinished, empty, crumpling. harbour at the base of a small near dead village. Perhaps this all takes some explanation. New, because it had recently been built with E.U. money. Unfinished because the politicians and contractors involved had never intended to finish it. The harbour was merely a mechanism for diverting E.U. funds into deserving bank accounts. Crumbling, because why waste re-bar and cement on a harbour you are never going to finish, and empty because the village was a nothing and anyway there was already a big harbour five miles away. It is however very useful for the odd yacht in transit. We named these harbours in honour of our near neighbours, "Mafia Harbours". Thank you European taxpayer.

Late in the afternoon we were treated to some minor activity. A number of police cars drew up on the quay. A convoy and the riders were well armed. Shortly afterward a couple of big police patrol vessels pulled in and tied up in front of the cars. An individual in a police uniform and considerable gold braid stepped ashore, shook hands with a couple of the "riders" and was whisked away by the convey westward on the highway towards the "Mafia Town". A couple of hours later, the gold braid returns, shakes hands with a couple of the "riders" and embarks. The two patrol boats leave the harbour as does the convoy. Whada-ya-think? Was somebody made an offer they couldn't refuse?

A couple of more "Mafia" harbours, saw us arrive in Greece. Tenth of October. Turkey was still 800 miles away. First stop was Cefalonica. The setting for "Captain Correllie's Mandolin". A good book but a poor screen adaptation. So it goes, but we heard a sequel. When the Wehrmacht decided to send their former allies up the river of no return a few of the Italians managed to get into the water and swim for Ithica across the channel. One of these was saved and given sanctuary by the Greek fishermen. In the course of time the lucky Italian became the Captain of a ferry between Italy and the Ionian. Everyday until he retired recently, when he passed Ithica he blew the ferry horn in salute to the Greeks who lived there and had saved him. A true story.

Ithica we visited, paying all due respect to the late Ulysses who may have been born here or elsewhere. One modern maritime historian, Sevrin I think, has postulated that Ulysses' journeys rather the covering much of the Med. took place within the Greek Islands and he has identified a number of the islands from the texts. We have no opinion but besides plenty of charter boats Ithica has a number of upmarket Euro bloc tavernas in which the name Ulysses figures. Indeed on Cephalonica Capt. you know who is also well advertised.

Next was Missalonga where as everyone knows Byron (Lord) caught malaria and expired. I recall that he is buried there. The town is pleasant enough and unusual in that it seemed to have more Greeks than tourists but of this we can not be sure. The village is set on marshlands which are no longer malarial but look like they should be. We also enjoyed yet another "Mafia" harbour, or at least the Greek equivalent.

Soon followed the Corinthian Canal which I also recall was one of the wonders of ancient world, although the present facility was built by the Brits something like a century ago and has received little attention since. The Canal charges about $250.00 Canadian (no locks) for about three kilometers of ditch and is said therefore to be the most expensive canal in the world, although this is not necessarily generous praise.

We tied up in Salamis across from Athens where the great naval battle took place, one which despite its antiquity I gather is still studied by young hopeful Horatios. Athens was fun. The city is average and has even been called a dump, but the Parthenon and attachments look just as good as the pictures and so are a reasonable thrill. There are a number of decent sidewalk cafes on the northern edge of the site which offer a fine view and from which one can speculate that once again one has come to a "somewhere" place.

We were also able to renew our Passports which had run their five year course. Most of you will wonder, "how do you find a personal guarantor in a dump like Athens?" To this weighty question, Canadian Foreign Affairs offer a simple solution. You simply pay a "user pays fee" to a senior embassy official and he/she attests that you are who you say you are even though you might not be. Our "senior embassy official's" name was "Wally". I wonder if he remembers our name, but then he didn't give us a hundred bucks to say he was "Wally". {I wonder if that was really his name.)

Of the run across the Aegean a perusal of our log book raises few memories. We moved every day focused now firmly on the far Turkish shore. The weather remained benign so there were no worries but the sailing game continued to provide lessons. In Stavroes the locals waved us to a concrete wharf in front of an attractive village. The water was shallow but the sea calm. In the distance a ship crawled across the glass seascape a couple of miles away. We were content.

About ten minutes later a swell came into the harbour, hit the shallows in front of the harbour wall, built up to about four feet, hit the concrete wall and bounced back. "Mist" was jumping about so badly we thought she might come clean out of the water up on to the hard. The steamer wash! "Oh bother" said Pooh. "How often does that happen?" said the leg. "Often" said the gallery on pier who were obviously enjoying the entertainment. We moved and anchored in another bay.

In Panormittis, Simi we anchored in a perfect keyhole bay, home to a large Monastary and a bakery. At the narrow entrance a concrete bunker and well maintained gun aimed west. We puzzled. Across the water to the east lay Turkey. The next day we took our supper meal ashore in Turkey and the following day anchored in a well protected broad bay. On the headland over the entrance stood the remains of an Hellenic fort. Very large, very well built. The bay was scattered with ancient walls and ruins. Shards lay every where. On a walk a few hundred meters inland we found a shepherdess in a simple lean to. She made us strong Turkish tea. An Hellenic marble urn, carved with figures and in very good nick caught our attention. We hadn't seen anything like it since the British Museum. About 70 cm high and of the same diameter. The only flaw, a small notch of about 10 cm on the rim. It was being used by the shepherdess as a goat trough. This was getting interesting!

A few miles to the east we entered Marmaris Bay and anchored. A large well developed tourist sort of a place, with a small fort set on a hill. Tolerably attractive considering the genre. Our friend Ilse Beatty had come here a number of years previously and regularly returned. In spite of the changes she sang the towns' praises. We liked it on first acquaintance and it has served us well since.

The weather remained settled, for the most part, and so we continued east again to Fethiye laying on a well protected bay. Obviously an all weather anchorage and in the time before marinas in Turkey it had been filled with yachts during the winter. Now there were less than half a dozen. One was flying a Canadian flag. Turned out to be a near mad Israeli who claimed to be hiding from a growing list of sins. Another yacht, "Hydras" belongs to John and Pearl Jenkins of Southend at the mouth of the Thames. We had practically been neighbours.

Fethiye is a boat building town and service center to the surrounding agricultural region. Marmaris looks outward to the larger world and tourism, Fethiye inward to the land and its own citizens. We liked it and returned a number of times.

At John and Pearl's urging although little was needed we set off for Rhodes 30 miles to the south, another Heritage site and once home to the "Colossus of Rhodes" a bronze statue which stood across the harbour entrance. We were now "out of season" and the principle town, "Rhodes" empty. We had it all to our selves.

The main feature of the place was the town's central fort and town wall which had been one of the last holdouts of Christendom against the Saracen. Scattered everywhere lay perfectly round stones of about 35 cm. The "shot" of the Saracen catapults. Thousands of them. The Italians in their enthusiasm had rebuilt much of the damage and should you ever be in the vicinity, don't miss it. Give it a full two days, there much to see.

As the result of a more recent fracas there was a small Commonwealth graveyard with the explanation that many of the dead were from small garrisons in the Adriatic who suffered from the Nazi sweep following the Italian capitulation. Others from Commando raids gone sour, some were airmen "buried at or near this place" and curiously a Corporal of the Long Range Desert Group, that "Special Force" creation of Doctor H. Bagnalls the great Saharan geographer (who got a mention in the "English Patient") Bagnalls, most will recall wrote the "Physics of Blown Sand" which for the first time explained how dunes were formed. The work turned out to be important to Canadians for it turned out the same mechanics applied in the formation of snow drifts."A lotta people don't know that", but to return to grave yard. How did the desert corporal end up in Rhodes?

We returned to Marmaris and on the 12 of December entered the excellent marina at Yat Marine. The following season we would either return westward across the Mediterranean or......

There were a number of boats in the Marina who had crossed the Indian Ocean and come up the Red Sea. We had some research to do. Meanwhile from Campbeltown we had come 4315 miles to Marmaris bringing our slowly growing total to 32358 miles. Stay tuned faithfull reader, will the crew of the aging "Mist" go east or west, with or against the wind. (Everybody knows the answer to that question don't they!).

Terry and the Pirates

"Mist" had sailed from Ireland and crossed the Mediterranean to Turkey in the company of a dilemma. The main goals for our voyages in "Mist" had been achieved. We had visited both South America and Northern Europe and spent almost four years doing it. Pretty small beer but there you have it. New destinations in the North Atlantic seemed fetching yet we were troubled by a reoccurring anxiety. The sands of time were running and we hadn't really come all that far. Andy and Ulla of "Balaena" fame had written from Labrador and suggested that we make the short trip west across the North Atlantic to join them for a summers cruise in Canada! We were tempted but the very idea carried with it salt for our self inflicted wounds.

We decided at last amid the knowledgeable warnings of some friends to try a season or two in the Med. "Mist" was close anyway and as much from a sense of duty as pleasure we set sail with the notion that having ticked off the box labeled "Mediterranean" we would return westward perhaps once again to Patagonia and then home.

Sailing from Ireland to Turkey had been interesting enough, but the oiler was sometimes heard muttering "It's nothing but an aquatic Safeway's parking lot. We're thirty years too late." The dry rot seemed to be setting in and along with it that old old question " Is this all there is?" We needed "a plan". Another summer in the Med., but one of greater attention to detail, perhaps a good look at the Dalmatian and Italian coasts was recommended. We hoof pawed and pondered. Then one day working out for a phone call home the number of time zones from Marmaris to Calgary, the proverbial penny made its proverbial fall. The West Coast of the Frozen Dominion was only a couple of time zones further to the east than to the west. That is 30 degrees or about 1800 miles at the equator. A dawdle.

In Marmaris there is a very successful marina called Yat Marine. We had planned to continue blodging around Turkish waters all winter, but we knew in Yat Marine there would be crews who had come to the Med. from the Indian Ocean. In the marina we could get some questions answered and anyway we had never spent a couple of months in a "proper" marina filled with cruising folk. In mid December we installed ourselves on "H" pontoon and found there over a dozen boats who had entered the Med. through the Suez. As they say in Alberta, "When you hit oil stop drilling."

We were soon joined by our cruising buddies John And Pearl from "Hydras" of Southend just down the Thames from Beckton. and they introduced us to John and Barbara from "Bonus" of Queenbrough just down the Thames from Beckton and sometimes home to "Mist". (We Eastenders tend to swarm). Many boats were from places we had been: Vancouver, Seattle, Falmouth, Queenbrough, Kiel, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Den Helder, and many too from ports which presented a possible attraction, Brisbane, Auckland, Vancouver....

The sailors here were a remarkable group and life in the marina had been well organized. Excursions were set up for local sight seeing, one person gave Spanish lessons, another taught yoga. There was a weekly "Gentlemen's Lunch" and a weekly "Ladies Day Out". Each morning a V.H.F. radio net brought all the news and there were swap meets to get rid of or add to the junk pile in the bilge.. A group of highly musical Dutch, named the "Sea Shanty Singers" regularly entertained aided by British world class flautist Shirley from "Airway."

A retired R.E.M.E. W.O.1 who had spent a couple of terms at the British Army base in Suffield near where we live was a born again Southern Albertan who gave a weekly western music program "Richard's Records" on the marina's low powered radio station. It was about the best western music program I'd ever heard, although it probably benefited compared to commercial programs of the genre in being on only one hour each week. (Richard was just about the only Briton we'd met who didn't mind cold weather although he did say he could never get over having to shake a frozen wrench off his fingers. "You're supposed to put a glove on Rich before you pick up a frozen wrench!")

Other Cannucks were also in the marina. Morris and Maggie had shipped their 27 foot yacht, "Dawn Treader" to the Med. on a freighter and were now on their third or fourth year involved in what Morris said was a project that had got out of hand. Maggie was a real estate appraiser from Calgary and had lived just a few blocks from where Lina and I started out together. Morris had begun work with the Ford Motor Company in the flat head V8 days ("You would get the customer to but his hand on the fender and ask if the engine was running. Most times they got it wrong, as the engine was running. You couldn't sell a Chev that way." You didn't have too Ed. note.) He had ended up running the Ford franchise on Crowchild Trail, not far from where Lina and I started out together.

Maggie organized a number of "progressive dinners". Three courses each one of which provided by one of three boats to three other crews and then everybody moves. Best to have nine boats to make the game. Get it?. A great way to make new friends but it was soon obvious we weren't the only ones wondering what to do next. A number of meetings had been held between aspirants with their eyes looking east and those who had already been there. These gatherings were somewhat whimsically named "The Red Sea and Beyond". Topics such as: route, Suez, pirates, insurance, weather, that sort of thing were being discussed and we immediately jumped in. Another Canadian boat, a Vancouver catamaran creatively called "Toucan Tango" had been keeping and distributing minutes and so we were soon up to speed.

I am inclined now to make rare digression into a field which we will call "anthropological inquiry". If anybody spent a wasted winter at Yat Marine it wasn't for lack of opportunity of things to do or participate in. This "inquiry" is interested in who were the spark plugs in all this and who "volunteered" to make it all happen. For sure it was partly due to a marina owner who did all that he was able in aid of these projects. The marina bus, and all its other assets were at our disposal. It was mainly on account of however what an American friend Rob called the American passion for organization, and I would add the willingness to "volunteer". The Europeans presented somewhat differently and I apologize to those many Europeans in the marina who also worked hard to make everyone's stay there a good one.

Lets start with the British. They could often be heard with their mugs in their pints muttering about the "damned Yanks taking over everything." They probably believed it was safe to let a Canadian hear these utterances knowing full well we would soon be ratting to our American friends which we always did. They like to wind you up don't they. Brits could generally be counted to participate so long as no one could catch them at it.

The iconoclastic French would opt out with something like "We are not being so familiar with speaking zee English so we are not able to be having zee meet. Sorry. Would you care for a glass of wine? Perhaps we might continue our conversation on linguistic deconstruction in existentialism." Germans were full on once something was set up but unlikely starters. Could there be something in the national psyche these days over fears about being pushy? Our Austrian Canadian friend Ilse says there is no word in Austrian use equivalent to "volunteering". We had already figured that out on our own! Folks from the antipodes could always be counted on but they too rarely held the match to the fuse. The Dutch went quietly about their own business happily including anyone who took the trouble to inquire and the Scandinavians were even more subtle but always there to be counted on. So it goes, the difference between the "New World" and the "Old". Good to get that off my chest.

As so often is the case when one is puzzled, we didn't so much find a solution as it found us. A bit like an old canal horse we just found ourselves moving. A summer voyage down the Red Sea would place us at the end to the S.W. Monsoon in the Gulf of Aden with fair wind for the Malabar coast of India. (It was also interesting to learn that in mid Monsoon the Arabian Sea has more gales per month than Cape Horn.) The entrance channel to Cochin Harbour is dredged through shoals four miles out to sea. We wondered if that with a heavy onshore sea a small boat could safely enter the channel. "Gypsy Days" had spent a full Monsoon season in Cochin, but they didn't recall any yachts entering during that period. No one else knew either but we supposed that at the end of the Monsoon when the ocean had settled down it would be possible.

A second Monsoon could carry us across the Bay of Bengal but that would put us out of sync for onward voyages and delay us a year. Our Indian Visa would lapse and without leaving the boat and the country for a new visa we would have to leave against the N.E. Monsoon and there was much discussion in the group about this. I asked people who had crossed the Bay east to west what they thought it would have been like if they had turned around to sail back to Thailand. Most thought it wasn't a great idea. Our solution to that was to stop talking about it.

Travel further eastward of Peninsular South East Asia to the Eastern Pacific and New Zealand raised more questions. Many crews had sailed from Vanuatu to New Zealand. This is a common route for homeward bound Kiwis who have sailed north for a "tropical fix". No one however knew how to get from Singapore to Vanuatu. Torres Straight would be impossible during the southern winter, so going north over the top of P.N.G. seemed the only other way save going down to roaring forties south of Australia. Everyone who had come from to the Med. from the Indian Ocean had sailed west. We were going the other way. "If you're going to sail around the world chum, you do it from east to west". That seemed like a good idea too, but wasn't of much use to us now. At least New Zealand to Canada has a well known route. "Toucan Tango's" crew had done it once So had the oiler.

On the matter of piracy, three boats in the Marina had been attacked as a "convey" and fired on but not boarded due the intervention of a freighter. A map was circulated which showed the "danger area" in the Gulf of Aden. About eight boats had said it was their intention to sail south in the summer of 2005 and I went to visit each to feel out their plans. I was in fact angling for a "buddy boat" or two with whom we might "convoy" as this was -I supposed- a very good thing to do. Remember I was raised on the "Cruel Sea" and H.M.S. Ulysses.

We were tied stern to the pontoons and our next door neighbor was a striking 54 foot Alden Schooner, "Voyager". "Voyager" was striking because she was obviously a 1930.s classic design and one of Alden's best and also she appeared to be brand new. This apparent contradiction had caused much idle chit chat among we idlers on the pontoon.

One day I when I was going to do something important like take a shower I heard Peter, "Voyager's" owner, calling out. His voice seemed to be coming from beneath my feet. Doing some chore on "Voyager" he had fallen into the dock and was now not enjoying a mid winter's swim which from his standpoint looked like going on too long as the pontoon was about four feet out of the water as were most of the smooth boat topsides about him. He was quite happy to have me fish him out.

This act of selflessness earned me the offer of a coffee aboard "Voyager". It would have been vulgar to refuse and here is "Voyager's" story. Peter is a retired architect as is co-owner Jeanette. Peter who has lived aboard "Voyager" for 42 years, refers to his wife as a 'Johnny come lately' she having been aboard only 36 years. They have sailed "Voyager" all over the Atlantic basin an experience which has included a number of hurricanes encounters. I imagined some of these took place when "Voyager" was collecting the considerable amount of silver she has earned racing other more modern boats. Enigmatically Peter only said, "When we were young we were foolish and anyway there wasn't so much in the way of weather forecasts". During this long period of ownership the Phillips have "remodeled" the interior three times. I suppose this is inevitable when a yacht is owned by a couple of architects. The present iteration, an open plan, would be very tricky to improve on.

When they began the present circumnavigation "Voyager" was an old and tired boat and in Peters' words "We knew that if we didn't get her rebuilt somewhere on our travels then probably she would not be able to bring us home." After searching throughout S.E. Asia, they picked a boat building family in Puket Thailand and "Voyager" was stripped of all save her frames and keel. The frames were sistered (doubled up) and her floors improved. The hull was replanked and a new deck and structures built. Peter showed me a -thick- book of drawings he had done for the builders in Puket. "These people were so good I started to throw real difficult stuff at them and every time the answer was the same. "We can do that". The boat building family lived underneath "Voyager's" bare frames while they worked and Peter and Jeanette lived inside the skeleton of "Voyager"

Consider for a moment two people of considerable architectural and esthetic talent who have lived aboard an already legendary design most of their adult lives. They knew all of "Voyagers" secrets and they knew what she could become. The result today is a "perfect" yacht. She is painted black and she really is a 10 and that fellow idlers is how the 70 odd year old "Voyager" became a new boat.

One day Peter hailed, "I've just got an e-mail from a friend in the Red Sea on my radio. You should read it" and he handed me a sheet of paper concerning an event which had happened a couple of days previously. For the sake of interest it is included.

"On 8 March 2005, two sailing yachts, "Mahdi" & "Gandalf", were moving SW 30 miles off the coast of Yemen proceeding to the port of Aden from Salalah, Oman. At about 0900 two outboard powered boats about 25 feet long with 3 men in each one, passed off our stern moving south at about 25 knots. An hour or two later they returned, one coming quite close and looking us over carefully. The second boat passed our bows but quite a ways away. These boats were obviously not engaged in a normal activity such as fishing, etc. At the time we were south of Al Mukalla, Yemen. The area around Al Mukalla is well documented as being a piracy problem area and we started watching carefully for anything out of the ordinary. At about 1600 we observed two different boats approaching us head on from the SW. These boats were abut 25-30 feet long, had higher freeboard and diesel powered. They were coming very fast directly at us. There were 4 men in each boat. The boats separated at about 200 yards, one boat ahead of the other, coming from ahead, more at Gandalf. These guys were shooting directly at the cockpits, and obviously intended to kill us. The first boat swung around behind Mahdi's stern to come up and board us. At that point I, Rod Nowlin aboard Mahdi and armed with a 12 gage shotgun loaded with 00 buckshot, started shooting into their boat. I forced them to keep their heads down so that they could not shoot at us. I am not sure I hit anyone at that point although I could see the driver of the boat crouched down behind a steering console. After firing 3 shots at them their engine started to smoke and I swung around to shoot at the boat ahead. At that point, I saw Jay Barry on Gandalf ram the boat amidships almost cutting it in two and turning it almost completely over. I turned back around to shoot again at the boat behind Mahdi and that is when they turned away from Mahdi and were heading toward the stern of Gandalf. Gandalf was beside us, abut 100 feet away. The bow of the pirate's boat came right up against Gandalf's stern and two men stood up on the bow to board Gandalf. That was a serious and probably fateful error on their part. I shot both of them. That boat then veered away and I shot the driver, although I am not sure of the outcome because they were farther away and I did not knock him down like the other two.

Mahdi and Gandalf kept going a full speed to put as much distance between the pirates and us as possible. As soon as we were out of rifle range we looked back and both boats were drifting and appeared to be disabled.

If Jay on "Gandalf" had not had the presence of mind to veer over into one boat and ram it, the outcome of this attack would have been totally different. All they needed to do was stand off a ways and shoot us to pieces with automatic weapons. We were extremely lucky. We broadcast Mayday calls on all VHF and HF radio frequencies, including two HF emergency frequencies supplied by the US Coast Guard a few days before. The Coalition Forces in the area were supposed to be monitoring these frequencies. There was no response except from a commercial ship in the area on VHF 16 who approached and observed the disabled pirates for a bit, then sailed along side of us for 2-4 hours until dark to make sure we would be all right. The news traveled quickly in the marina and it is said to have caused a run on the shotgun market in Marmaris. A rally of boats down the Red Sea to India was being planed for the following year to celebrate Vasco de Gama's voyage to India. A large number of yachts would be traveling together and "my" eight elected to either wait a year for the rally or changed their plans to go east for something more agreeable. Adventure as been described as an activity involving taking calculated risks and having an uncertain outcome. This was starting to look like an adventure.

A Christmas dinner was organized and about 100 yachties supped and sang together the carols of Christmas. (Song sheets courtesy of "Toucan Tango") It was a lovely moment too rarely felt and I imagined the Turks quietly watching felt a puzzled curiosity. Most times we were not what one would call a highly spiritual community. We spent New Years with friends John and Pearl I suppose finishing up the last of the Greek Red for not long afterwards they made what is known as a pork and booze run to Rhodes about 30 miles away.

The fortress of Rhodes is now a U.N. Heritage site and a must in any Greek island itinerary. (The Colossus of Rhodes the Bronze man who stood astride the harbour entrance and was considered one of the seven wonders of the ancient world has been long gone although I believe some evidence of its construction has been discovered in the harbour.)

The Saracens lay siege to Rhodes and the Knights of St. John firing thousands of about 16 inch stone balls with catapults at the castle. These lay on the ground everywhere. The siege was a long one and the Knights fought until they began to die from starvation. When they finally capitulated the Saracens let them go free out of respect for their bravery.

Today its great fun to visit the place during winter You have it pretty much to your self and all the tourist stalls of summer are shut in allowing a much different presentation to that seen by summer visitors. The best restaurants stay open too, those that can maintain the custom of the local Greeks.

There is a Commonwealth graveyard too with the usual graves of airmen "buried at or near this sight and many Commandos too, lost in the often failed raids on the occupied Aegean Islands David Niven didn't win them all. Buried here too is a young Corporal of the Long Range Desert Group. One of Professor Hugh Bagnold's small crowd. Rhodes is a long way from Libya and the Kufra oasis. There was also the Star of David on his gravestone? A mystery, maybe a story..

Our diet in Marmaris deserves comment. The local market was large and local produce plentiful, fresh and cheap. Good news to any vegetarians out there, although I don't believe I know that many. Only one actually. (Did we ever mention earlier that the word vegetable is unknown in Argentina and fruit is only used to make wine?)

For carnivores Islam is a disaster. Pork is verboten and only available at prices equivalent to good single malt Scotches. Beef cuts appear to have been prepared with a spade and are also expensive. That leaves only poultry, chicken actually, and fish. The Marmaris marina was breeding ground of bad chicken jokes. A year later, e-mails from friends still in Turkey continue to slag the poor bird. One of my favorites goes something like this. "Care to come over to our boat tonight, we've got some new videos and a fresh box of Greek Red?" "No thanks, we just can't face another chicken".

About this time something a little unusual happened. The marina is about three or four miles out of town. Each day the marina runs a free launch ride in and out of town, marina residents for the use of. We usually chose to ride our bikes more form a sense of duty than as a pleasure. Although both the marina and Marmaris are at sea level, well just a wee bit above it, the road capriciously climbs about 100 meters up the side of a local hill.

One day returning from town Lina, up ahead in her usual spot, commented that the climb on this side seemed more difficult than the climb coming the other way. I met this weighty question with some banality or another for as usual I was out of breath. I was making these gasping utterances as I passed someone walking beside the road, but of course only saw their back Nevertheless as I passed the back shouted, "Jim Gallup".The back having seen my back had recognized my gasping. The first thing that struck me was that almost none of us in the marina knew each others last names (ships that pass in the night and that sort of thing) and the second thing was I recognized the back's voice.

Al and Ilse Beatty had worked in child welfare in Calgary from which I knew them vaguely but we eventually pitched up in the same seamanship class on account of both couples having a dream to sell up and sail. Ilse was already a accomplished traveler with a C.V. which included India but she and Al had been going to Marmaris and eastern Turkey for years and were very high on the place. Their dream centered on Mediterranean cruising which they eventually did. Boat life did not please them especially but Ilse primarily remained committed to time and friend ships in Turkey and it turned out Al and Ilse were in town. We had not spoken for perhaps seven years at which time Al had given Lina some very good advice regarding settling her insurance claim, the result of a blind driver clocking her on her bicycle. "Put the boots to them. Its not their money and they don't care to much about the price within reason, they just want to close the file." As a result Lina's award trebled. Did I mention Al is Irish?

It was great fun catching up, and the Beattys are very easy folks to spend time with. These things however are sometimes a little conducive to homesickness. Fortunately, the Beattys who live in and dislike Calgary strongly kept such feelings in check. Ilse also unwittingly added weight to the arguments in favour of a easterly sail for she is a real gypsy.

The Turks provide to visitors a three month Visa. As is the usual case with such matters, you leave the country and the reenter to restart the clock. We had pretty much concluded that we wouldn't remain in the Mediterranean the following summer and so decided a brief tour of Eastern Europe was called for. The Lonely Planets were uncertain of transportation links between Turkey and Bulgaria/Romania/Serbia. There were trains but sometimes the border guards made travel by rail a bore. Maybe at other times you just couldn't get there from here by bus. Travel guides do a great job but where circumstances are quickly changing you may just have to go and see for yourself. Computer updates from various sources can be of help, but as Spike Milligan observed "a lot of knowledge is a dangerous thing". Anyway as everybody knows, excess planning can ruin your fun.

Our friends Brian and Shirley on "Airway" had given us the most current advice. They were doing a real estate development in Bulgaria, were used to traveling pretty close to the ground, and were keen on Bulgaria.

We packed a couple of Planets and a bit of clothing into two smallish backpacks and were off on the night bus to Istanbul. {Why do they always have to travel overnight?} As it turned out we were traveling a little too light

Our bus arrived in Istanbul the next morning at 0400 and it was snowing. We were not moved. We slogged around in the slush looking for a bus to Sofia which we were told existed and which did. We re-boarded about 1000 and a few hours later arrived at Bulgarian boarder. We thought we had seen it all, but this boast like so many others was a little premature. First the Turks cleared us out of Turkey. Then we drove a bit into a forest of barbed wire and were told to get off the bus. The bus drove off empty to the Bulgarian border post and we followed behind for the half mile on foot. Three or four queues and many border guards later we rejoined the bus. About an hour and a half for the whole drama. Obviously a leftover from earlier times. What on earth were the Soviets trying to do? Were people trying to break into the "evil empire? The image of thousands of folk from the West running around loose inside the Soviet Bloc pretending to be Communists seems a little improbable.

By mid evening we arrived in Sofia. The bus terminal was modern and well heated so a little reluctantly we set out in the snow for a budget hotel of the Planet's liking a few blocks away. Off the main drag we entered a dark street. Street lighting is probably a luxury in Eastern Europe. We walked along counting the blocks and reading the Planets' map by flashlight. The sidewalks were lumpy with snow and Sofia looked featureless, deserted and glum. Just like something from John Lecarre.". Wasn't Michael Caine a great Harry? He thought up the glasses on his own to make a sort of anti 007 statement. Brilliant, but I digress. We passed a dimly lit sign. Hotel Press Buzzer. An iron gate -rough- gave admittance to a courtyard -rough-. It looked very "budget" but we've long since learned a bird in the hand....We pressed the buzzer and the gate was swung. A young man who spoke English showed us into his office cum bedroom or maybe it was the other way around. We looked at a room. It was commensurate with the surroundings. "We have B.B.C. on the television". I'd have slept on a straw floor. "We'll take it for three days if we can agree on a price", which we did.

"Where can we eat?" and were given directions of the endless left turn right turn left turn right turn variety. In a triumph of hope over experience we set off. In about ten minutes we were completely lost. We despaired of ever finding the Hotel Press Buzzer again. We found a cafe cum bar. Or it may have been the other way around. It was closing and two young men whom had clearly been generous patrons of the bar spoke to us in English which thankfully we could speak. "Where can we find a place to have a traditional Bulgarian meal?" I hoped I was making it crystal clear we didn't want to find ourselves in the Sofia Hilton. They led us left then right, then left then right. That sort of thing. It went on for a long time but failed to warm us up. We entered a second establishment which although it resembled the first was filled with people and open.. Our trek companions slurred that it was the best place to get traditional Bulgarian food in Sofia. We placed ourselves in their hands with the stern admonishment that under no circumstances was the best traditional food in Sofia to include chicken. One of our companions spat on the floor. This cheered us immensely.

We ordered drinks for our new friends and drinks for ourselves. An elderly gent with long hair and a pigtail joined us. He made the usual inquiries as did we. We could barely make out his utterances in English reminding us at once of conversations in London. One of the lads kindly translated. The gent was an art history Prof. in the local university. That would be U.S. He was moonlighting now as owner of the bar hopefully cum restaurant. We ordered the Prof. a drink. Hard to know if this had any effect on the quality of the meal but the food was superb. Borsch and stuff and plenty of it. I remember it cost, all of it with the drinks just under $10.00 Can, and the trekies walked us back to our hotel. A very good thing. Sofia is a large city and who at midnight is going to be able to tell you where the Hotel Push Buzzer is. After a dash of the B.B.C. we slept as only the joyful can sleep.

Sofia has a number of interesting buildings and we walked the central sections for a couple of days. The owner of our "hotel" had spent his life in Sofia in the doctor trade and the "hotel" had been a family home for a number of generations. Doctors in the Soviet classless society were paid little and when the walls came tumbling down so did the value of essentially worthless Eastern currencies. Bulgarians were having a tough time as was our host yet he clearly took great comfort from his families long continuity as Bulgars and a life of contribution to his community. He was a happy man and like most we met in Bulgaria, a most friendly and charming soul. We're probably repeating ourselves but it remains humbling how forth coming and kind folk who have so very little can be. Sofia is worth a visit for sure but it is the Bulgarians we thought to be the new republic's real asset. We'd like to return..

We also spent some time trying to figure out how to get out of town. We'd lost interest in buses and were now considering an interest in trains. One train to Budapest ran up the old "Orient Express" track and looked hopeful maybe because it was named the "Budapest Express" Agatha scenarios were coursing through our veins.. The kind lady at the ticket counter ran us through all the permutations of which there where many. Through out she insisted that we travel "first class" hinting as did the Lonely Planet that second class was "unsafe" Following her advice we bought a first class ticket to Budapest.

The train station was of typical Soviet aspect, that is gigantic, full of the usual Soviet icons and grubby with that dreary combination of pompous arrogance and incompetency which only a Soviet public building can manage to evoke.

We turned out to be the only passengers in the single first class car which was probably designed by the same committee responsible for train stations. The porter stank of something alcoholic and was unhappy that we had awoken him to crank down our seats. We only saw him once again when we awoke him to crank the seat back into beds. All he had to do to have an uninterrupted sleep was give us the crank. We had been warned of no dinning car and so had brought our own tucker. So equipped we might have passed a comfortable night except for being constantly awoken ourselves by border guards and policemen who appeared and asked for our passports every time the train stopped. We were crossing both Serbian and Hungarian borders but met so many of these fellows that we imagined our route involved a half dozen more countries.

We arrived in Budapest about 0400, a time constant in these parts and took refuge and coffee in a local Macdonalds where we were likewise the only patrons. Hotels are very expensive in Budapest as the country is on the boil and filled with European business driving prices up to near London levels. The dodge is to stay in private homes, sort of a bed and breakfast without breakfast but the agencies which lent these places didn't open until opening time. It was about minus fifteen and our footsloging around Sofia has left us facing incipient trench foot so we soaked up the B.T.U.s courtesy of Ronnie.

Stupidly, very stupidly we hadn't really thought through the possible consequences of travel to central Europe in February. We'd brought our long suffering Goretex mountain jackets and a sweater and heavy shirt. Wool gloves, socks, and a toques have lived permanently for many decades in our backpacks and these were disinterred. We'd brought no long underwear, but our pjs served in a fashion. Our backpacks were near empty which was pleasant enough but our feet were taking a beating. We had only street oxfords and on the slushy sidewalks our feet were continually wet and with temperatures between minus ten and zero, we were not altogether comfortable. So take a memo fellow searchers of wisdom and truth. If you are going to walk the streets of an Eastern European city in winter, assume they don't have the machinery or inclination to clean the side walks, and take your boots. The locals wear nothing else.

The bed and no breakfast offerings were not irresistible but in one small agency we found a suit overlooking the Danube which turned out to be near deluxe and just downstream from the city's oldest bridge, incidentally built and shipped out by the Victorians. The view from the front balcony was marvelous. A mini market was a few doors away, so we could easily avoid the restaurants and just like that we passed a happy a week walking what some claim to be Europe's most beautiful city- after Prague. Haven't been to Prague so we can't argue with that. Fine museums filled with the bounty or perhaps booty of the Hapsburgs, plenty of history and superb buildings and parks all over the place left us gawking in a state of shock and awe. So to speak.

Museum curators sometimes let a little of themselves show and the museums can be forgiven the odd slip in the direction of the Hapsburgs. My favorite Katherine story was of the day she wanted to go sleigh riding. Unfortunately it was the middle of summer and there wasn't a lot of snow about. Never mind the details, the Empress is to be served and so the call went out for tons of salt to be spread on the palace grounds and all the minions were dressed up and sweating in their winter duds so that Katherine might have her "wish"..

We decided to try the train again, perhaps this time riding the "iron rooster" as far as Istanbul. Considering we were going to be kept awake all night anyway we chose second class. Ignoring the advice of the motherly ticket lady in Sofia proved unwise. We should have known better Our train was scheduled to leave around midnight and after tiring of the Macdonalds we went to the train station and were able to confirm it as a paragon of Soviet architecture. As dirty and drab a pile of rotting concrete as we have ever seen.

On boarding the train, in addition to rows of scowling Serbs we also found an American tennis player, working his way up through the rankings, who like us had chosen to consider the warnings of the Lonely Planet as "alarmist". We were soon joined by a pleasant young Bulgarian Mom and her son. She looked briefly around and realizing she and Lina were the only ladies on the train and thinking too that there were damned few gentlemen about, immediately sat with us. We passed a few words of commiseration around and agreed to keep mutual watch on each others interests.

The first couple of hours were simple enough but late at night and somewhere unknown the train stopped and all the Serbs suddenly scampered. We were left sitting alone in the coach wondering "what the hell". Soon a porter appeared and said this car was to be dropped off and we were to go to an alternative one. We assumed the Serbs had preceded us but instead found the new coach empty and unheated. With the temperature well into the minus something range it looked like a long night. After about thirty minutes the night had become long enough for one sitting and I was dispatched to seek a solution. A couple empty unheated cars away I found a first class Austrian coach looking all spiffy and warm.

Our lost second class Serbs were sitting comfortably in the first class compartments with a couple of very angry Austrian porters presiding. They had been overwhelmed by the Serbs who had got into the compartments but they were composed now and sure as lederhosen weren't going to let us in. I returned to the refrigeration car to report and following a council of war we decided to follow the Serbs and once in the Austrian coach sat in the not uncomfortable aisle way -these things being relative- the tennis player spreading his not inconsiderable luggage about quite freely and Mom looking quite distressed but occasionally winking in our direction to show she was keeping her end up. Eventually the Austrians opened up a couple of compartments for us and we spent the rest of the night comfortably grunting at the shoals of shabbily dressed officials who visited us. We appreciate this story raises some questions, but there you have it, another mystery on the "Orient Express".

In Sofia we decided we were expert enough now on Soviet style train travel and made for the now familiar bus station and in that way proceeded to Istanbul, except of course for a stop and a walk at the Bulgarian/Turkish border where we kept standing in the cold for half an hour in the middle of the night ostensibly for a luggage check which never took place as the guards were inside their bunkers warming their hands over their coal fires.

We established ourselves in a comfortable budget hotel a few blocks from the center of the old city. Each morning we were fed a satisfying Turkish breakfast and set off on our investigations by the smiling staff. Whatever else the Turk is a warm host.

The fabled city where east is said to meet west and where an increasingly Islamist society faces both the secular west and the Republic's secular intent begun by the revered Atiturk just over eighty years ago defied our understanding and our affection. Presently there is a Turkish building boom in mosques and there are places in the city where five times a day the loudspeakers of half a dozen maybe more mosques simultaneously call the faithful to prayer. The fabled bazaar is impossibly cacophonyist and filled with the most rapacious and aggressive touts we'd seen anywhere. Some of the most astonishing constructions in the history of man stand amid scenes of equally astonishing filth and squalor.

It is a city of men, most of the very few women to be seen will be like us tourists. We walked it, we looked at it, we often enjoyed it, but Istanbul remains beyond our comprehension. As Europeans dabble with Turkish entrance to the E.U. they are going to have to come to better grips with this city and country. One thing for sure, the "west' it ain't. After about a week of these investigations our visa run was over and we were back on the night bus for Marmaris.

We began to organize for our voyage to India. Margaret and Brian Howell on the Australian "Gypsy Days" passed on to us their considerable store of knowledge and a set of courtesy flags. We checked the various visa regulations which is easy nowadays via the Internet and made lists and picked peoples brains and made lists. Until we reached South East Asia the sorts of spares that yachts consume would be unavailable to us so the lists had a lot to do with "Mists" continuing good health, and some of course had to do with ours.

Our friends David and Janet, New Zealanders who owned a "Chanticlair", a Salthouse brothers 50 had suggested we join them for a trip to inland Turkey to look at a couple of antiquity sites. We jumped at the opportunity. Making lists is a bore anyway. Our first destination, Parmukule is not only remarkable for its Greek and Roman ruins but also its Spa and acres of lime deposits left on the side of a hill over eons of relatively small amounts of hot mineralized waters trickling down the hill side. The ruins there included a splendid large amphitheater which was little disturbed and a Roman "main street" also largely complete

After a couple of days we moved on to Aphrodesyes where one of the ancient worlds most undisturbed cities remains. Turkey, like so many young republics we have visited, seems to hold the view, probably as the result of an enthusiastically chauvinistic education system, that nothing of particular importance happened prior to the "revolution" which in Turkey's case took place just after the First World War. As a result Turkey's history as "Asia Minor" during Greek and Roman periods and later under the various Saracens culminating in the considerable accomplishments of the Ottomans, goes largely unrecognized. The upshot is you can wander unsupervised through ancient treasures disturbed only by the presence of a few other European tourists. The Turks show absolutely no interest and indeed have just recently just begun to protect these sights. Most of the administration, protection and restoration in the past had been the work of western universities. We walked the stone and marble streets and smiled at the nearly complete temple of goddess Aphrodesyes where in worship of her parties held by her "disciples" are said to have been just super. Later invasions of Christians had turned the place into a church guaranteeing its ongoing maintenance but putting an end to the fun. Could they not have known, churches are replaceable, good times aren't?

We sat in a complete stone athletic stadium by ourselves occupying the best seats in a construction as large or larger than any football stadium. Afterwards following some pleasant strolling of the city streets we sat top row in a small good as new marble amphitheater seating perhaps a couple of hundred and under warm sun made idle chit chat perhaps much like that of theater patrons 2000 years ago. We speculated easily on the likelihood of actors entering the still complete and undamaged stage below and wondered if time could really stand so still. One could not help but be moved by these magnificent works of a society in which beauty and balance were so highly regarded.

In an attached museum which displayed a large number of statues taken from the town we were introduced to something a little more current. Carvings of various Greek and Roman deities and notables which particularly those of the Greek period were "anatomically correct" had seen all breasts and penises receive the attention of Islamic chisels. Many of these statues were so perfect in their depiction of the human form, one at times almost expected them to move off their pedestals or at least shift to a more comfortable posture.

David and Janet returned to their yacht and we traveled again by night bus to eastern Turkey and Goreme in Cappadoccia. This area interested us for besides seeing antiquities we would visit areas where the economy was based on agriculture not tourism. Cappadoccia lays across the caravan routes linking Asia with the West and has witnessed nearly all the important migrations across Asia Minor. Moreover, its easily cut sandstone sediments which once cut and exposed to the air quickly harden have permitted the construction of underground cities and some of the most curious troglodyte cultures the ever adaptable primate called man has created.

These settlements, built several "stories" deep, are thought to have been constructed for defensive reasons and allowed for whole societies to live underground for long periods of time. Corridors were constructed with large wheel doors which could be rolled across to block them. Kitchens with blackened ceilings, granaries, stables, pigeries, wineries, in addition to private dwellings were all in evidence and interconnected by a labyrinth of tunnels. Some of this looked potentially half comfortable, but other aspects were pretty claustrophobic. Clearly a city only a troglodyte could love. For sure their olfactory senses must have been detuned.

Also the valley featured a number of early Christian chapels cut into sand stone cliffs and erosional processes had exposed portion of these in addition to a number of private dwellings both of which were often characterized by carved "mimics' of Roman architectural details. In many of these small churches paintings of Christian icons. Curiously the faces of the Virgin and various saints had been defaced. Only those of Christ and St. Mark escaped these attentions on account, we were told, of these two having some small reputation in the Islamic scheme of things. A couple of klicks away was the small village where Saint Paul was said to have expired and indeed at times it seemed that almost every important figure in Western History had served a hitch in Asia Minor.

Although the troglodyte cities were only accessible through a ticket booth, one wandered freely throughout the rest of it. The only information available to us coming from the ever useful "Lonely Planet". Not a word or a sign anywhere. Some of the churches however sported a Turkish youth making some coin in the guiding game. "That is a painting of Jesus Christ, that is a painting of Saint Mark, I don't know who the others are, they didn't paint their faces for some reason, that is a painting of a Christian cross that will be one American dollar please where are you from".

On one of our wanders we chanced upon a retired couple who had been backpacking steadily in Turkey for some months. This is a long time, and it turned out that Don and Shirley, teacher and nurse from Kamloops were experienced travelers and had backpacked all over the globe. We spent a few days walking together searching out the various attractions and having a grand snivel, passing the time as Canadians are wont to do, cataloging all the collective failures of the Frozen Dominion in its attempts at civility and nationhood.. We hope to be able to see them again when we return.

Yet another night bus returned us to Marmaris where in early March we hauled "Mist" and prepared her for travel. In coming to the eastern Med. we had passed through the Aegean quickly and had not formed a particularly clear impression. In the marina a few boats down the pontoon we had met Roger Brett. Roger's yacht which he had named after his mother, Valerie Jean, was a pedigree classic built by a high class yard on the I.O.W. and she was a beauty. Roger had spent three or four years cruising in Turkish and Aegean waters and was of the "roads less traveled" persuasion. Unfortunately he was forced to suspend these activities each summer when he returned to Britain as the owner of a sort of mobile "Pizza Hut" following the summer music and folk festival circuit of the sunny U.K.

Roger kindly offered during our remaining couple of months is the eastern Med. to squire us around what in his view were the "good places". We were accompanied for bits and snatches by John and Barb on the less than 28 foot Westerly "Bonus" who were making what surprisingly in this part of the world is the unusual trip through the Dardenelles into the Black Sea. This confirmed one again it is often the crews of competent small boats who are seen in the far away places.. John and Pearl too were along for a bit. "Hydrus" was going to Athens where she would sit while the owners returned to the U.K. to see their son safely married off.

Roger started by returning us to Bozuk Buku which careful readers will recall from our previous letter is the bay of the shepherdess and the Greek marble urn "goat trough". It was Roper's claim that he had intelligence of a Crusader castle in the area and probably anticipating the skeptics he pointed to a likely looking hill and added "I think its up there". In a final attempt to add a touch of veracity to all this he added, "you can't see it from her". John who is as we have said an "eastender" (well you can't get much further east than Southend.) and is never very far from his roots could only add, "I wonder if we will be able to see it from up there?"

Like the "grand olde Duke of York" Roger marched us up the hill and then for good measure a couple of more to which he could only add, "I'm quite sure its around here somewhere." Visions of finding bits of chain mail and pewter wine goblets laying around on the ground went unfulfilled but it was a fine day's walk anyway.

Not too surprisingly our next stop was one we all agreed was choice, the island of Simi. Simi was once said to be among the best of Aegean destinations, unspoiled and beautiful, the very embodiment of Aegean perfection. A sort of cruising boats Grecian urn. Normally such pronouncements will doom anyplace and the combined efforts travel agents, tour operators, and yacht charter companies have done their best. It is a credit to the forcefulness of Greek culture that the Philistines have -somewhat- failed. So if you should wish, when the sun goes down, the tour boats have left, and the tourists scattered, listen carefully and you may hear a collective sigh of Greek relief rise up and drift over the island.

On to Bodrum in Turkey again, one of those towns in where most restaurants serve "English Breakfast and most bars give "football scores" you know the sort of place, the Med. is full of them. Mary too is said to have lived out her last days near hear. Did she have a fondness for "English breakfasts"? I also recall that hereabouts the first "doctor" Hypocrites lived and worked. We wondered too if most of his patients had "English Breakfasts" each morning.

Roger then got on form and sailed us up a long inlet to "English Harbour" a beautiful desolate place where the English kept a secret M.T.B. base behind enemy lines. Next Gumusluk where Cassius, he of Roman fame came to hide out after big Julius was whacked. (Would you have looked for Cassius in "Gumusluk"??). Cassius still must have had some stroke Rome wise for he was installed as governor and is said to have begun a tax regime so onerous that locals say the town still hasn't recovered. For sure any doubts anyone may have had regarding the historical treasures of Asia Minor should now have those doubts answered.

In Pithagorion named after the triangle man of -about- the same name who was born there, we experienced a sort of enlightenment. We went for a longish walk and on our return route a dilemma presented itself. The obvious choice of route was a road which went directly to the coast and then turned at right angles to proceed to the harbour. (This is a true story) Mindful of the long history of failures in taking shortcuts our years of walking together had produced, Lina argued for this longer route. My mind however, inspired you might say by "A" squared plus "B" squared equals "C" squared was intrigued by a track admittedly less traveled which led obliquely off. I offered -diplomatically- that considering where we were this route deserved a shot, and "eureka" as Archemedias" was often heard to say, science and Pythagorous were vindicated.

What followed included Mandraki, Plomarion, Bademli, Kardhamila, Volissos, Limnia, Mesta, Embrios, Dhiapori, Skal Patmos, Nisos Lipso, Pandeli, Arkhangelos, Ormos, Palon, Nisos Tilos, Simi (for the third time), Rhodes (pork and wine) and Marmaris to get an alternator repaired and stock up on chicken. Somewhere along "Bonus" continued north for a successful summer's cruise of the Black Sea and Roger flew out to sell pizzas. We had sailed north almost to the entrance of the Dardenelles before time and tide etc. etc. With Rodger's guidance and some good luck we'd visited harbours which time had not harmed. The white blue trimmed villages, with delicate harbour fronts and bobbing fishing boats on a sunlit azure sea, the "Pere" on his donkey, the coffee house filled with old men playing checkers. Two slack jawed Cannucks on an archaic looking yacht. It's there man, it's all there. The Med. can be fun, you just have to give it a chance is just what the oiler has been saying all along.

Then we got the bad news. "Valerie Jean" was stolen by a Turk who turned out to be engaged in his own business too. Smuggling Turks into Greece and Italy, Europe that is. He uses stolen yachts to avoid suspicion then once used, he sinks them. "Valerie Jean" was gone. "Oh bother" said Pooh.

We continued east for our run to India had now begun. We day sailed mostly stopping at the most easterly Greek island, Kastellorizon a few miles off the Turkish coast. When Atiturk forced the Greeks out of Turkey a division of the spoils took place and an unusual deal was made over Kastellorizon. The nearest bit of Greek territory is about 60 miles to the west and Turkey about 5 to the north. The arrangement was (you'd have to have bought a carpet off a Turk to appreciate this one) that if the Greeks kept the islands population above a certain point, I don't recall the number, then the island would remain theirs. Should the population of Greeks fall below that number then the Turkish Crescent would be raised.

So the Greeks have made sure that has never happened, but neither has the island developed and all who visit it are charmed. Some black and white postcards made from pictures taken by the British when they were there during the Big Two are sold along the harbour front. One shows a Sunderland flying boat in the harbour. It is easy to see where the photo was taken and equally easy to identify today every building in the picture. Sadly, the Sunderland is absent.

We anchored in a small bay half a mile east of the main harbour and each day to reach the town walked up an agreeable cobbled street to a low saddle before descending down to the main harbour. On the northeast flank of the saddle was a monastery of some architectural success which was best viewed from outdoor tables of a cafe set under a trellis of grape vines among the eucalyptus trees. When we had concluded our daily shopping and stroll around the harbour front, an activity which felt as timeless as the harbour itself we would return to the cafe amid the trees and take coffee in surroundings which I hope you can appreciate were near perfect.

Above our anchorage a well developed stone path and steps led up a steep hill about 200 meters high to pasture land and some 5 klicks away another monastery and church. We went for the stroll and although the monastery was closed the walk was most agreeable. The path was well developed and venerable and this gave rise to good feelings so that I am inclined to recommend -short- pilgrimages to suitable monasteries as mildly therapeutic.

In the pastures sheep grazed and here and there a figure would wave from a stone farm cottage. Like I said, it was all most agreeable. Along our route I noticed an old bomb about a meter long laying in the grass and marked it out for more investigation on our return journey. Some sorts of good feelings are best not interrupted by playing about with old bombs.

The monastery done on investigating the bomb it was clear that Britons and the Luftwaffe had been at it again. Obviously the bomb hadn't gone bang, I guess even the Luftwaffe ones aren't perfect but this bomb also had about a 3 inch shell hole going into it. Obviously the shell hadn't gone bang either.. Whada ya think?? (This is a true story, but unlike others has no point)

While walking around in the grass looking a bit puzzled I noticed I was as much walking on pieces of shrapnel as Greek soil. They must have been going at it hammer and tongs. When I was a -wee- bairn most of the European and British kids whose families had immigrated to Canada after the war had their own personal shrapnel collections. As shrapnel was impossible to come by in Canada, it was equally impossible to trade these kids out of their collections.. You'll be relieved to hear I now have my own small but interesting shrapnel collection. It augments nicely Lina's several tons of collected beach stones and shells stored in the bilge. (Do these people have too much time on their hands? Ed. note)

From Kastellorizon to Paphos Cyprus. More "English Breakfast on Special" and "football scores". A day sail later to an open anchorage off R.A.F. Akrotiri. You have to admire them. They still have "stone aircraft carriers" at each end the Mediterranean. Finally an overnighter to Ashkelon Israel just north of the Gaza strip and our jumping off point for the Suez Canal. At last we had come to the eastern shore of "Mare Nostrum". We had "done" the Med. Once over, very lightly.

Our first contact with the locals was telling. We noticed a very high speed patrol vessel approaching and in moments we were called on the radio, greeted, and informed that the patrol boat would do a large circle around us (I guessed at a range outside a shoulder fired rocket) and that they would then call us again. The looky see done we were given permission to proceed to Ashkelon harbour. I said we had plans to transit the Red Sea and would they consider a trade of boats. The Israeli called back and said it's a "done deal" (a lot easier than buying a carpet) and would I like them to include the two gunners on the fore deck. I naturally agreed to this too but was then told that budgets were tight in Israel and we would have to fill the diesel tanks ourselves..

In the marina we were led to an isolated berth and four young people boarded and explained who they were and that they would be doing a security check of the yacht. They were very professional and friendly but mighty through. They weren't dumb either. Any idiot could see we weren't anybody's problem but there was a very careful review through us of everyone who had been on board and the possibility of persons unknown getting on board. Moreover had we made known our intentions of coming to Israel? They were so courteous that when the time came to swab the boat down for traces of plastic explosive Lina helped the young lady doing this work to identify likely hand holds a stranger coming aboard would grasp. At one point while dipping her swabs into the identification chemical the lady was heard to mutter "the things a girl has to do these days to make a living." Being jumped over the fences by officialdom is never a pleasant experience and how many of you have had the drawers in your home rummaged? We have, plenty of times. Yet in comparing these pros making the best of a bad job to all the two bit thugs in all the two bit countries we've experienced it wasn't hard to say to these guys, "you can search us anytime you want". Which of course they can. Anybody in a uniform who wants to can.

We were on schedule with our meeting of the final gasp of the S.W. Monsoon in the Arabian Sea, and so decided to go a bit walk about. First Jerusalem. As the bus descended into the valley which holds the ancient city we noticed along a line of old trucks all painted the same colour. About half of these were Canadian Military Pattern -C.M.P.s Chevs and Fords. Made in Canada. (Its true, once upon a time long long ago, some things were both developed and made in the Frozen Dominion. "A lotta people don't know that.") Later we were told this was a sort of a memorial/museum to the night convoys which crept along forest tracks keeping the city both fed and fighting during the siege of Jerusalem in the '49 war.

Jerusalem beyond the obvious attractions is an attractive place in its own right. Ancient here, Eastern there, Roman here, Victorian there, Modern here..... high marks as a city to walk in and unforgettable as the birthplace to three of the worlds great religions.

The wailing wall is a moving enough place but perhaps because it has been so much photographed one is prepared. What you cannot be prepared for however is the feeling of immense devotion the place and the people here evoke. What you probably will not be prepared for too unless Biblical Scholarship is your métier and in the writer's case, not to indulge in hyperbola, such is not the case, follows.

As you walk down a narrow street which exits a bazaar, on the left amid some hawkers selling biblical memorabilia you will probably see a small church faced by a small square. A suitably small sign announces "The Church of the Holy Sepulchre". Many people will be taking pictures as well they might. Inside the small church opens out into a vast structure which encloses another small church, the whole arrangement covering not only the sight of the Calvary, but the stone Christ was laid out on after the crucifixion and Christ's tomb and sight of the Resurrection inside the second smaller church. We just strolled in the have a look at the wee Kirk and we were suddenly bang in the middle of the whole thing. Christians most sacred place. We really should have realized.

Outside as you walk around the various narrow streets you come across signs marking the Stations of the Cross, the "Via Doloroso" although many can only be seen at certain times as they are in the Arab quarter. I remember the "Ninth Station", in a sort of a back alley, something like "Here Jesus collapsed for the third time within sight of the place of his Crucifixion. Poor guy. What a story. What a place.

Then Tel Aviv. A very cosmopolitan sort of town.. Clean, well run, and most people here came from somewhere else. Just like a Canadian city except with a dash of history. We liked it, we applied for an Indian Visa and we rented a car. Off to the Sea of Galilee, the Goland Heights, all up country Israel wise. Kibbutz country. We come from "New Country". Canada has been mostly built during mine and my parents lifetime. From Wilderness to Whatever in two generations and although I have assiduously avoided any part in all this it is obvious a lot of people have been working pretty hard. In Israel they have built a country in even a shorter time and it is obvious here too that many people have worked hard and have done a good job. Things are well designed, made and maintained. Nothing slipshod. We admire good work (no giggling in the ranks there) and we admire what they have done. It would be just a fantastic little country save for the "distractions".

Because everything is only about half a days drive from anything else, it is hard to find lodging. One evening in our travels near the Goland Heights it was getting late and we were batting zero. A fellow in a cell phone shop took the time to make a number of phone calls and he came up with a B.&B. in a once Kibbutz and now cooperative a few miles away. Our hosts there had started their married lives on the kibbutz about 40 years previously and had lived their lives "on the front lines" under Syrian artillery. Like nearly every Israeli we met these two were worldly wise with a non ideological humanist view supported by a disarming tendency for candidness. We know that the couple of dozen folk we talked to do not represent every point of view, but we'll just tell you what this couple said and note that they were essentially representative of the others we talked to.

With independence Palestinians living in Israel were offered a choice, they could of course immigrate anywhere that would take them and many went to neighboring Arab lands. Or they could stay and be offered Israeli citizenship which many did also. Those who stayed drew the short straw for not only were they economically isolated (and anyway if you have been in the Arab world can you imagine these guys competing with the highly, very highly motivated, educated and competent Jews coming out of Europe and America to build their new Jewish state?) but the state discrimination was directed at them too. For example, although ostensibly citizens they were not given access to passports so although this meant little to most it irritated the elites among Palestinians and that is always a stupid thing to do. It seems that in the haste to build Israel the Palestinians where a forgotten minority. It can happen.

Inevitably Palestinians started to wake up in the morning feeling a little unhappy. They looked at their small paychecks, and "high density" housing and with the Arab equivalent began to say, "Shit we're not citizens here we're just serfs. Moreover, there are plenty of "lovelies" surrounding Israel who were happy to stir the pot. The upshot is Palestinians who once chose Israeli citizenship are now choosing plastic explosive.

The Israelis we talked to are tired of war. They are a smart bunch and they know it can't work. They want to try something else and it was for that reason that the old warrior Sharon was uncharacteristically starting make concessions but the game is well on and many despair.

Most we talked to felt American foreign policy although ostensibly pro Israel is in fact counter productive, skewing and polarizing political processes in Israel. In a general sense concerning the tensions between the Arab world and the west, most would agree and as is also becoming apparent, America's serious current account deficit and unresolvable energy dependency means this is a game played at many many levels and not all are what they seem. Ironically Israel and its once Palestinian citizens are caught within this "truth wrapped up in a bodyguard of lies". Possibly one of the less obvious causes of the tragedy of the very worthwhile experiment called the nation of Israel.

When we left Israel we also left Europe. Recently we had been in Turkey during one of the "surges" in European discussion regarding E.U. inclusion for Turkey. A Dutch lady in the marina who had lived in Turkey for some years said, "they have no interest in anything we stand for, they only want the money", and some historical figure or another said "The Turk only likes the Turk." All that said the gist of these comments would probably disqualify most present members of the Union. But then its a matter of degree isn't it.

We also watched Europeans vote on their first Union Constitution. Two European friends whose opinions are always worth listening to carefully, wrote the writer with their pro-Union views which were based in part on the Unions role in the peace and civility of modern Europe. These are weighty arguments so as "Mist" leaves Europe the old oiler will make one last parting slapshot.

When the "fathers" of the E.U. were first "nailing their thesis to the church door" Jean Monnet and Robert Sherman (I recall that was his last name) said something to the effect that "because Europe is not united we have war." In those days no thinking European ought to have been thinking about anything else. There are altogether far too many unnecessary graveyards in Europe. Probably, even in those early days these two visionaries, meant by "united", politically united for Europeans - I have claimed- have an historical tendency to see the processes of power at their best "united" and although everyone from the beginning has seen this European "union" as a federal one the Union remains a political centralization of power. Democracy on the other hand is just not about voting. Voting is only one of the democratic trappings, like freedom of speech, universal enfranchisement, universal education, and so forth. Looked at, each of these are at the base are about the decentralization or defusion of power. Agreed, this is often messy and often creates irreconcilable tensions. Sometimes too I suppose, at least in the short run, it also means spotty administration. European political history has never been able to reconcile itself with these conundrums and I remain doubtful those days are yet over. That aside, I am persuaded the many powers which have been transferred to Brussels and the present momentum to form a "political union" are for these reasons essentially anti-democratic and that many citizens of the European nations sense this. I remain skeptical that "union" is wise, or if agreed to that the resulting federation will be able to manage itself.

Modern Europe has been an immense human success, particularly within the context of the previous say three of four centuries. Once upon a time long before I became the oiler on a very minor vessel I spent some time studying a body of knowledge which some don't even believe is a body of knowledge. Economics. (That experience may have left me with somewhat theological in case anybody has noticed.) My mostly -late- professors however would be most pleased to hear me echo the claim that this undeniable success of Europeans in resolving the tensions of the past are because they have become "united" economically, not politically. When Europeans knocked down economic borders and people could make free economic choices demagoguery was nailed. Hitler wasn't the cause of W.W.II. Everyone knows it was a retributive peace (and other bits of economic bad luck) which destroyed the economy of Germany and gave an evil little man like him just what he needed. Those twerps will always be among us. The miracle of Europe is that at last no one like him is today likely to be listened too for long. "Everyman" and "Everywoman" have too much to lose and their world has grown too large. On to India.

The Suez Canal would be a pleasure if anyone other than the Egyptians ran it. Well almost anyone. They alone turn the transit into something which for some is merely a small adventure but for others has been a nightmare. We met such a boat on Port Suez and they had been very roughly handled. It might be cheap entertainment but it would be trite to recount the stores of the endless appeals for bribes, shorted diesel, abusive canal pilots, and the inflation of "Mists" registered tonnage to increase canal fees. Resolution of most of this anyway took place within the context of a laugh for we had been told and it is obviously true that next to getting something for nothing, Egyptians like a joke. As the Planet says, and it has pages of warnings, you will get done with great charm and humour. I hope the Egyptians are saying the same about us. We think we gave as good as we got.

Half way along the canal you stop at least one night in Ismalaia. It is not an unpleasant place. Some rambling British tropical buildings which are falling down now, helped on by years of Egyptian "maintenance", pleasant people and accessible services. The young fellow who owned the Internet cafe might not have agreed. He was desperate to get out of Egypt, in part because as a member of an opposition group he was coming under the hammer. Egyptians citizens may not cross their own border outbound without government permission and the Egyptian Government was punishing this fellow with what we all agreed was their most severe penalty, they were keeping him inside Egypt..

We traveled to Cairo for a few days and checked into a hotel. Lina answered all the questions on the registration form including home address (Edmonton) and occupation (teacher). Then we informed the desk we were off to the national museum a walk of about 10 minutes away.

As we came up to the museum a well dressed gent popped up and asked if we were going to the museum, adding that it was closed for a couple of hours for some reason or another. We started to walk away but he hastily added, "I'm not a tout I'm a teacher". He had us. "Where are you from, (the universal tout's question) I taught school in Canada". "Where in Canada?" "Calgary." "We live in Calgary." On reflection this seemed to throw him. Obviously when he was briefed by the hotel they picked a city out of the atlas which looked like a safe distance from "our" city Edmonton. "Where'd you live in Calgary?" "Ah.... central" and this I recall was the point I began to realize he had never been out of Cairo, because no part of Calgary is described by someone who has lived there as "central". "How did you like the weather?" "It was fine". We started to walk away. "Let me get you my card, my car is parked just down here" and like sheep going to slaughter we followed. Thirty meters down the street our teacher friend sort of evaporated and a salesman from a shop selling fake papyrus art scooped us. "Where did our friend from Calgary go?" "He had business" and but by now we were rolling but not where the salesman wanted to go. We wasted his time for a while to the point he was happy to get rid of us and of course the museum housed in an impressive British public building had been open all the time.

Often when we were standing consulting our street map an Egyptian would come up and ask politely if we needed help. Often too these were ladies, yet we knew no Moslem lady would approach a stranger on the street. Each time the offer of assistance came we soon realized it came from a person wearing the cross. Coptic Christians, themselves a persecuted minority. We tried to reciprocate courteously and sincerely. Until. One night we were out on the tiles picking up the vibes when a fellow approached and asked, "Where are you from?" I replied with my standard answer and standard glare which almost always never works, "Where I am from is none of your business."

"Sorry" and then we noticed the Coptic Cross. "You are a Coptic Christian." "Yes." "I apologize for my rudeness but Cairo is not always a friendly place." "No need to apologize, I know exactly what you are going through here." We had a coffee together and as one ought on a lovely tropical summer's night in a street cafe and we enjoyed each others friendship for a time. Serendipity and travel seem to ride a bicycle built for two.

Visiting Giza and the Sphinx we chatted to an academic 'attending" some restoration work on the Sphinx. We commented on the once idea that the pyramids had been built by "slave labour" but that it was obvious in seeing them that the present archeological view they could have only been built by a devoted and committed population seemed more likely. He said the former impression was one which was perpetrated by the Jews trying to embarrass the Arab peoples. It was fun to walk off on him in mid sentence.

In Ismalia we met a yacht going northbound which had begun its cruise in Australia. They had been in Ismalia about two weeks and already knew the place from top to bottom. They were very savvy people and helped us a lot. They also had a couple of disturbing tales from the Gulf of Aden. Unusually we shan't give their names for in our telling their story they may prefer to remain anonymous.

Near Oman a large dhow cut in front of them blocking their course. They waved and made the usual friendly signs which is the drill in such cases but there was no response from the dhow. It was looking like trouble so they dropped the sails on deck. Their yacht is a steel boat with a pilot house from which the boat can be steered. They locked themselves up inside. Each time they changed course the dhow -they are usually from about 25 to 35 meters long- changed course to block them. The crew were obviously safe and secure inside their steel pilot house but "X" said the game went on for some time before the dhow broke off.

Sailing through the Bab el Mandeb that narrow passage at the bottom of the Red Sea which separates it from the Gulf of Aden a skiff with a new Yamaha on the back came directly out from the Yemeni shore. There were about a half dozen guys in the boat and there was no fishing gear visible. "X" is a very cool guy and an ex-farm boy. I judged him to be a very good man "to go into the jungle with". "These guys were not fishermen" he told us. The boat came along side and a couple of the Yemenies made up to jump on the yacht. "X" fired his Winchester into the water in front of the boat and then into the water off the stern. The boat took off. "You had a tough decision to make" I said, "why into the water and not into the boat?" "Well that's the question, and it went like this. I didn't like wasting two rounds in the water if I was going to run into real trouble, but I couldn't see any arms in their boat so I made my decision. Our "southbound convoy" wasn't getting any larger but anxiety levels were increasing nicely.

The marina, just a wharf actually was inside an enclosure. Each time we entered or left one of the about a dozen soldiers at the gate, guarding only us really, asked to see our passports and as for a Coke or some cigarettes. One day a dirty sweating sergeant took our passport and without looking at it passed it to a kid/conscript saying to us "You're visa has expired". I snatched the passport out of the startled conscripts hands, fixed my bloodshot eyes on the sergeant and said, "No it hasn't". Then we walked out. We wondered it he had ever got away with that trick, but we never gave them our passports again either.

In Port Galib, a large European standard resort with a deluxe marina well run by a Welshman, Philip Jones we left "Mist" to travel by local bus to Luxor and the Egyptian archeological sights on the Nile. Tourist buses going to Luxor had been blown up and of course the bombing at Sharm el Shiek had just taken place. Our thinking was that a local bus would be safe enough and anyway our view usually is when in doubt take the cheaper option. Certainly it was hard to image our bus being a target for anyone save a scrap metal merchant and an Egyptian one at that.

The archeological exhibits at Luxor are worth every lousy encounter with every lousy tout and every lousy shop owner in every lousy joint you pass by. Walking back to our hotel about the tenth horse and buggy outfit in ten minutes stopped. "Carriage ride very cheap blah blah" it was only about four blocks but it was getting mighty hot. Why not? "How much to the street so and so. Just name rank and serial number never, give your hotel name or address. We were learning. "Five Pounds" -Egyptian Pounds that is about $2.00 Canadian-. Pricy but "Ok"

About five minutes later ride done we handed over the fiver, "You owe me five American dollars". Lina told him to go and pound salt and we walked off. He wheeled the carriage in front of us, we did a zig zag just like in the "Cruel Sea". He blocked again. The language on both sides was getting reasonably entertaining for a hot afternoon. We bolted, he blocked. I jumped up on his carriage. "You do that again to my wife again and I'm going to stuff your head up your horses ass" although in truth I hadn't really worked out how I was going to accomplish this improbable task.

Pay him the money some helpful shop owners shouted at us. "You pay him your money, he is trying to cheat us". Then an Egyptian miracle happened. Never underestimate an Egyptian shopkeepers skill at acting in his own self interest. Immediately the shop owners heaped enough scorn on the trouble maker head to drive him off. Then, "Perhaps you would like to come into my shop" as a chorus from half a dozen voices. "Yes of course that would be a pleasure but we are very hungry and will go to our hotel first for some lunch so that we may enjoy a visit with you this after noon". Much hand shacking and smiling all around. We were careful not to go down that street again.

Our favorite day was spent in the "Valley of the Tombs" Here the Egyptians have done a very good job of excavating and displaying the tombs of the various Pharaohs. The artwork and artifacts, roughly 4000 years old are no less than staggering in their beauty and impact. With "Pharaohic art", you know the stuff, body squared up directly at you, head turned impossibly to the side, it is so easy to say, "4000 years old, no wonder it looks primitive". Not so fast, in context this art takes on an "Expressionist reality" at once both more beautiful and "real" than any other form you can imagine. This is stuff becomes compelling and others we talked to felt the same transformation from yawn to wow. The drawings are obviously very "sophisticated" and may even be said to mock modern arts' attempts. The colours were still sharp, and the infinitely repetitive forms seemingly infinitely individual. We never got tired of looking at it. It put the hook in us every time.

About five kilometers away from the tombs there are the ruins of the town where the workers and artisans who created the wonders we viewed lived. Each day they walked the track over a low ridge between the town and their work Although about 4000 years old the path is well established and in its own right a decent enough stroll. Our advice is after you've seen the tombs, walk the path. Our hunch is this walk will become part of the experience.

Back in Port Galib we were told that only one other southbound yacht had been through, a Russian catamaran bound for Africa and that had been over a month previously. It looked like we were on our own.

In summer winds in the Red Sea are said to be northerly and indeed we had a couple of days on near gale northerlies which sped us on our way. Mostly however as we have discovered in most hot countries prevailing winds do not prevail. Rather it was the daily cycle of land and sea breezes so that each day the winds boxed the compass, first blowing from the land and then slowly backing to the south before going calm for a time. Then in the afternoon and into late evening the winds blew more strongly from the east as the desert heated and drew the cooler sea air in. Sailing was moderately busy work. Sometimes we sailed all night but more often we anchored. In Sudan we picked only uninhabited bays or "marsas" with only the desert as a backdrop. The Sudanese like most others in this part of the world require that you check into each port, taking about $100.00 Canadian off you each time. This wasn't a particularly popular idea with us but more than that we weren't going to making any financial contributions to a regime who where murdering their own citizens. We preferred to travel incognito.

It is said that in summer the southern Red Sea is one of the hottest places on earth on account of the combination Saharan heat meeting the humidity of the Red Sea. We had read of this but we had no idea what it meant. When the sun beat on us like a hammer we thought it best to be fully robed Bedouin like, but we both sweated like water fountains and in time this was to cause unanticipated problems. We developed dandy red rashes and Jim (we thought) exhibited signs of "prickly heat" Then as we approached Eritirea, Jim started to "go down". We cleared into Massawa at the bottom of the Red Sea and ashore I couldn't make more than 100 yards with out having to sit down. I thought that I really must exercise more often. Slowly we dragged ourselves around this sad bombed out town for a few days arranging for fuel and water. It was too hot to sleep in the boat so we laid out foams and a plastic tarp and sweated on deck.

All the way down the Red Sea we had experienced a dry rain of red dust. All became filthy. The cordage and sails were brown and attempts to wash the boat down with sea water didn't help at all. The dust mixed with salt to become a kind of cement. In harbour it was hotter still, they said up to 47 C. and we would awake from our half sleep covered with a sticky plaster of desert dust. Water was short and the harbour water filthy. This was getting slightly like work.

The Eritirean folk are absolutely splendid. Sometimes for relief we would go to the bank which although not air-conditioned had big fans running. We would sag down on the wooden benches and one of the staff without saying a word would set a big floor fan in front of us. Gasping like a landed fish we would empty a couple of quarts of bottled water in moments and wish that we would never have to move again.

The locals weren't having that much fun either. The only action in the harbour was the occasional unloading of U.N. Aid cargos of American flour by lethargic sweating stevedores. Wreaks were strewn throughout the port and none of the bombed out buildings had been repaired in the five or six years since independence.

People would walk so slowly along the streets moving from one side to another where ever shade was offered by a building. Massawa, largely built by the Italians must have once been a dandy with squares and arches leading off down white cobbled streets but a good bombing and years of poverty and neglect left a lot to the imagination. Probably we weren't seeing it at its best.

"Prickly heat" is said in one of our references to be only curable by moving to a cool place. Asmara, 100 kilometers away and 2500 meters high in the mountains had been recommended by friends as a "good place" and with "Mist" attended to we were desperate to see it. We ascended steeply from the coastal plain into the mountains, dry and desiccated. As the kilometers passed the vegetation increased and the air cooled. Three degrees C. per 300 meters I kept repeating to myself like some sort of mantra. We stopped at a roadhouse and had a bite to eat. Further on roadside vendors sold prickly pears. The bus stopped for them too. Then the we descended a little, past yet another Commonwealth graveyard and into Asmara.

We found a good budget hotel and flopped down.. The attached restaurant passed muster in a city of good restaurants. The Italian influence here was obvious and the city pleasant and well cared for. Massawa was Moslem, Asmara, Christian, but apart from the large Cathedral in Asmara we could see no difference. All were as kind and courteous as strangers can or ought to be. Sidewalk cafes and pleasant aspects abounded but there was clearly no money in town. Very few people were eating out and most in the cafes were drinking bottled water, the cheapest item on the menu. Many wore jackets and ties and looked quite "proper" especially considering what was going on. People seemed to be in the cafes meeting and chatting because that was the "proper way to live" rather than "going out" We were sympathetic.

The market was very large and the first in the east that didn't feel like a stroll through a lions den. You could have been in Harrods. "Can I help you?", or "May I be of assistance?" or maybe just a smile. Mighty civilized. We liked Asmara and we began to feel better especially Jim who had further to go in this regard. There was a kind of unspoken inclination that married folk can form without passing a word that we really ought to stay here quite a long time but time had become a tyrant and our appointment with the S.W. Monsoon loomed. Sooner than we wished we returned to the delights of Massawa.

Some Danes who were in town and teaching teachers how to teach gave some gen. The revolutionary government, successful in war had become a disaster in peace. Incipient democratic processes has been suspended and the war with Ethiopia over some worthless acres was devouring the counties population. We had noticed a paucity of males aged say 16 to 40. The Danes said they were all in the front lines. Eritrea was something like 3 million, Ethiopia 30. Tens of thousands of Eritreans had died in the fighting and everybody knew it was for nothing. No wonder people had been hinting they might like to come for a sail on "Mist" or had been asking to meet us in a cafe where we were inevitably asked, "Can you help me get to Canada?"

A polite young lady in a shop in Massawa, just a slip of a girl, told us her story when we asked her about her schooling. It was appalling. Youth are drafted into the army for three years in grade eleven. If they "pass" their military training after three years they may leave the army and return to school. If they fail they are kept in the army. We gathered the conscripts were highly motivated to become good soldiers. Except that the Danes said that as military requirements and losses went up fewer were being "passed". The girl said, "I am a very small person, I have never been away from home, I know I will fail as a soldier." Then she broke down. It seemed impossible that this fine child was going up the river of no return but that is just where she was going.

Energy wise Jim was tanking again but with more research came another diagnosis. Too much sweating ergo salt deficiency. Lotsa salt later and eureka Jim was back on stream. Lina didn't think there was that big a difference. Never mind, time to put the spurs to "Mist"

Our plan courtesy "X" was to transit the Bab el Mandeb at night. Much of the piracy had been the result of dhows which moved refugees from Somalia to Yemen across the Gulf of Aden hitting yachts as targets of opportunity. It was said that although dhow captains weren't particularly religious their passengers were and an analysis of events showed that Thursday, Friday, (holy day), and Saturday were largely pirate free. Accordingly we would pass the danger area on these days. Also we chose our timing to coincide with new moon and we planned to sail down the geometric middle of the Gulf. No lights, no pack drill. We weren't going near Yemen.

All this we did and of course we saw nothing. In within a few days either way the B.B.C. reported that an U.N. Aid ship taking aid to Somalia had been captured and was being held for ransom and a dhow running refugees had spotted a possibly troubling patrol boat had dumped all 136 refugees into the ocean. Some had survived. to tell the tale. It had been a busy week in the Gulf.

Then it was our turn. After Cape Horn and the North Atlantic we were finally nailed albeit only briefly. In the Gulf of Aden of all places. If you look at an atlas you will see a strait between the island of Scotra and the African mainland. The S.W. Monsoon resolves southerly in this strait and accelerates. In retrospect we should have been a further 50 miles north. About two in the morning we were in about force 6 maybe 7 winds on the beam with a little too much sail up. We were going like the proverbial train and starting to throw a lot of water. Lina was asleep off watch. I went on deck to adjust the self steering gear to turn the boat about 30 degrees off the wind and reduce the pressure on the sails. I was wearing my safety harness, but I don't believe I had clipped in as I had just arrived in the cockpit and grasped the latch string to the steering gear. Then I heard the hiss. I'd heard it once before off the coast of New Zealand in a gale and I had got a good soaking that night too. It is the sound of what sailors call a "rogue wave" one of those statistically large freak waves which in storm conditions have regularly been measured at over 100 feet high. We were in what at most could be called a near gale so that our rogue was just a ripple, but never mind. That hiss I mentioned is best heard when the wave is just breaking over your head which is what this one did.

I was under the waterfall about five seconds which seemed at the time to be long enough. Of course I was hanging on pretty firmly as "Mist" was laid on her side and I recall being thankful for the safety strap on my glasses and unhappy I had not closed the hatch. The waterfall passed on and I heard a crash as "MIST" gibed which meant the mainsail had changed sides of the boat by slapping across and now rather than being headed east with the wind on her side she was running north with her jib out one side and her main out the other. She was still going pretty fast and. my first reaction was a degree of puzzlement over this gibing business. The wave had thrown 17 tons of boat through about 90 degrees like she was a feather. I couldn't see the compass but thought this was so because my face and glasses were streaming with water. I'd turned the deck light on when I came out but now couldn't see the wind vane either. Basically blind (were talking seconds here after the event) I was clicking away on the latch string hoping to bring some order back into my life when Lina who had come to the hatch said something like, "the steering gear has gone". About this time I realized my glasses had too.

It took about half an hour to get the jib down and reef the mainsail. Here is the damage report. The wind vane had broken off (we had a spare), The collar which attaches the steering oar to the wind vane had broken and the oar was banging along behind on its safety line. At least something was working. (We had a spare collar too) The connecting link between wind vane and the gears which work the steering oar was also broken and gone. (No spare.) The man overboard safety equipment must have thought their time had come because pole, life ring, drogue, strobe light, whistle, and shark repellent which everybody knows doesn't work any way had been swept away. If I had gone in at least I'd have had company, but there is no way Lina could have got the boat back and found me.

The dingy had been bounced out of its chocks and one of the chocks broken. I would have thought this unlikely, but Andy O'Grady who had seen his dingy destroyed on deck during a storm off South Georgia knows otherwise.. I guess its just a matter of experience. About 15 or 20 gallons had also come down the hatch. Remarkably and considering the damage all around it the canvas dodger over the hatch it got off Scot free.

We hand steered 100 miles north to Salalah in Oman, bought a pair of glasses and ordered a new link from the ever attentive Helen Franklin in Falmouth. We also remembered in Salalah that as part of our "pirate strategy" we had stored our valuables including Sony cam corder, $500.00 U.S. and the Nikon and lens among other nick nacs in a safe dry place in the bilge where they got a good soaking too. At least we were able to dry out the money.

A week later we moved out into the last of the S.W. Monsoon. After a slow start with light winds the Monsoon came up just ahead of our beam and "Mist" ran off 405 miles in two days, as if trying to shake herself free of the Gulf experience. Although the current was just on the beam or a little ahead to we reeled off the 1367 miles to Cochin in seven and a half days. If only we'd had a decent mainsail.

"Mist" flew through Nine Degree Channel in the Lacadives and a day later entered the fairway to Cochin harbour in light winds and slight seas. Past the old Portuguese fort, past the palm trees, past the churches, past the Chinese swinging nets we anchored in front of the customs house. It was all damned impressive. So was an entry process of such complexity that it has assumed among travelers a legendary status. At one point as we waited in a largish room with thousands of files stacked to the ceiling, all wrapped with red ribbon and yellowing with age I asked the Indian clerk, "Do these go back to British times?" thinking Vasco de Gama's entry might be wrapped in red ribbon somewhere there. "No sir", he proudly replied, "they are all ours." On a board in another room I saw a list of yacht entries for the year. We were the last in 2005 and all 48 save us had come from the east or the south. We alone had come from the Red Sea. Well, there was no point to a convoy anyway.

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Searchers of the Seram Sea:

We have interrupted what was a single voyage from India to New Zealand for not only was our arrival in Thailand cunningly timed to coincide with year end, but some of our readers have refused to read any "letter" of over 20 pages. Most in fact limit them selves to about three.

The following short note then may be taken to be chapter two of that voyage.

Chapter one saw "Mist" just arrived in Nai Hairn bay Thailand. The bay was filled with about 20 yachts, and it was presumed we had returned to the main stream. We had heard stories that Thai customs and immigration were a tricky bunch and besides the usual tricks charged heavy overtime fees during holidays which went directly into the back pocket. As Christmas would no doubt be counted as a Buddhist holiday we decided to lay low for a few days as the "federalies" where located some distance away in Puket.

Just before New Years we moved to Puket harbour and there made our number with the officials and were given a three month Visa which is standard for these parts. The bay included at least a couple of Canadian boats, one from Alberta, and another from B.C. We were immediately invited to a bay up the coast for a new year's party on one of the Cannuck boats. Canadians are such nice folk, so it was in the company of about 20 yachties most of whom were country men and women, that we ushered in the New Year.

Our mainsail which had started giving trouble when less than a year old resulting in us being favourably known to a large number of sail repair people from Valdivia to Marmaris was at last binned and a new sail ordered from the Rolly Tasker loft in Puket. The writers first sail boat had been a self built 8 foot pram and fitted with Rolly Tasker sail ("You'll go faster with a Tasker"). I recall it cost $54.00. The loft in Puket is said to be the largest purpose built loft in the world, run by a fit and active 82 year old named, Rolly Taskerand. When I reminded him I was a regular customer and hoped my next sail would be as economic as the first he was amused. The new sail was delivered within two weeks at a price roughly half that of the sail delivered in Canada 6 years previously. It has proved to be far more satisfactory than the first too. Boy aren't we the stupid ones!

At the same time we started the process of applying for our Indonesian visa and cruising permit. Initially our own bank proved lethargic communicating with us regarding transferring funds to Indonesia. After three weeks of this nonsense Lina's sister back home got evolved and the wheels of commerce began to grind forward. Slowly. Our life became one where the days come and the days go -sort of thing- and plans to travel up country to the Burma border never materialised. Were we going a bit tropo?

Puket was agreeable enough. We had friends, the town was pleasant if not inspiring and we did make some progress on the chore list. The Indonesian Visa caper continued to amuse when the agent in Bali claimed he hadn't received our payment. So the days came and the days went.

We had hoped that once in this part of the world we might find voyagers who could shed some light on the problem of sailing east over the top of New Guinea down through the Solomons to Vanuatu where we would find fair winds for New Zealand. Nearly everyone we talked to (and they were a very travelled and savvy bunch), had come up through Indonesia sailing west but nobody knew anything about going the other way. About all we could surmise was that we ought to get into the area as close to the monsoonal transition period as possible after which the South-East Trades would increase every day. As a result of a two month delay spent on the visa process we were already running a little late.

We could have taken a short cut across the top of Borneo, through the Philippines and down through the N.E. Trades to the Solomons, but that would of meant scrubbing the trip to Bali and meant yet another passage through troubled waters pirate wise. We were rather painting ourselves into a corner, but in the absence of any firm information we adopted the "Scarlet O'Hara Option", that is "I'll think about it tomorrow". I recall at the time measuring off the distance from the Seram Sea to Vanuatu, about 3000 miles. It would be a long haul if turned out to be heavy sledging.

Although the agent was still claiming he hadn't received the money and the bank was still claiming that he had we decided to hit the road and move south into Malaysia. The trip was a little frustrating as it confirmed what we were already suspecting, that this part of the world is one of the most interesting and we were "shooting through". In Lankawi we found agreeable circumstances and sailing folk. Roger Brett a friend from Turkey with whom we had joined in a splendid spring cruise of both Turkey and the Greek islands had replaced his stolen yacht with one purchased in Malaysia and we had a reunion with Roger too.

We continued to hammer away on the visa problem and so did our bank by hiring a detective firm who confirmed that our funds were indeed in the agents account. Shown this evidence the agent backtracked and sent us the visa. "East of Suez", S. O. P. (Standard Operating Procedure!) That behind us we re-visited Thailand a few miles to the north and entered a river and after a few bumps motored to a boat yard (rustic, very) a few miles upstream. We hauled and attended to everything we could think of including a new stern bearing and a repaint of our bulwarks.

A village about a mile from the yard, Chebalong, was very basic, no hotel, very limited food stores and a Mosque. We were about 25 klicks north of the Thai border town of Satun. Malaysia is Moslem as are the very southern regions of Thailand. There an Islamic separatist movement locally which gets jumped on regularly and spectacularly by the Thai Army. The Chinese owner of the yard said that the Islamists came to Chebalong to hide out. - if he knew this why wouldn't the Army, so why would you hide there???. A S.E. Asian mystery. He had concertina razor wire laid around his rather grand house and guards on the perimeter. He asked that we "not go into town at night" but the local food was so good and anyway cooking on the hard under mosquito nets is boring anyway. There were three other yachts there, all French, and two of which were anchored in the river having an "up the river" Joe Conrad sort of lifestyle experience which actually didn't look too bad. We all went into town together every night to eat, presenting I suppose, "A target rich environment." but everyone we met in the village was superb. We wore long pants as the place was a touch malarial and into my big pocket went the "bear scare" so anyway we were "armed"

We had unlimbered our bikes and one day were in town getting a little fresh bread, about all we could buy in the village. I was separated from Lina momentarily and rode down a side street about 100 feet arriving at the Mosque just as the call to prayer was "broadcast". I was just turning the bike around when about 5 of the brothers walked up and asked what I was doing "Just looking for my wife fellas." "Are you American or British?" Opps, not hard to see what is on their minds. "Nope I'm a Canadian. Sorry I don't have time to chat, got to go, see ya later." Furiously back pedalling the oiler exits stage left. (I suspect "Canadian" meant about as much to them as "Vladivostok".)

Haul out done we bumped out over the river bar and returned to Langkawi, a free port. We loaded "Mist with the necessities of life including a life time supply of crog for our pal Ricard in Bali who fortunately is not a heavy drinker. Then we said goodbye to our pals and Lankawi which really deserved from us a much longer relationship and headed south for Singapore. We couldn't resist a stop in Georgetown Pinang and that turned out to be wise. There we found a successful coherent society and a well maintained and attractive old colonial city.

Our investigations included a tour of a leading Chinese merchant's home by a local academic. For the first time we began to hear some foot shuffling concerning Japanese behaviour in the area, "years past" and now. More usefully we had a good look at the practical application of "feng shui" as of course the house had been built according to this entirely sensible school of architecture. Malays have taken very good care of their colonial history -and architecture- as they feel very well served by the Brits who during the "Emergency" hung in there for eleven years not leaving until Malaysia was up and running.

The Municipal Marina we stayed in three or four days was perhaps the best we have stayed in. Near enough to magnificent. All marble and nice people and the best bathrooms I will ever see unless someone we know builds a mansion with particular attention to the "heads". Unlikely. Only three yachts too so it wasn't crowded. Actually they had made some wee mistakes. Much ferry traffic from the ferry pier at the south end of the marina washed in enough silt that all the births save for the most northerly ones where near uninhabitable and anyway no mooring ropes in the world would stand the guff unless you did a four way tie up in the middle of the birth and took your dingy to the pontoon. Some bodies head must be on the block.

Didn't stop at Kelang, (Kuala Lumpur), or Port Dickson, or Melaka. Another time perhaps. Very early in the morning "Mist" entered the Singapore Roads. Ships were all over the place. Scads of them. You all know the story. Singapore was the idea of Sir Stamford Raffles who saw it as a sort of cross roads place and an entrepot port, but he could have had no idea....really. Our charts didn't make much sense because "land reclamation" activity had pushed the shore line out so far at one point our chart showed us to be about three miles at sea when we could throw a rock ashore. We checked into another new marina recommended by our friends and were made comfortable by a very cracked on staff.

Friends Terry and Mala back home had put us in touch with a pal of theirs who lived in 'pore and we were subsequently given a through tour and briefing. The "partnership" between the remarkable Lee Kuan Yew and Co. (President) and the city of Singapore is well enough known and at one time had a reputation as one of the seven wonders of the modern world. Today it is at the least a global merchandisers dream all chrome and glass and boutiques and shops and shops and shops. Everything is spick and span with $5000 fines for just about everything and I am told eyes everywhere. A freebooters paradise for sure, especially for the obsessive ones.

The old godowns and shops along the river have been left untouched, sort of, (they haven't been chromed over yet.) It's just all so over polished and yuppefied that it presents the same over the top antiseptic look as the rest of the downtown. The Raffles is still there and sacrosanct as is the Cricket Club. We didn't get into the latter, but former is wrapped pretty tight and the bar where the "Singapore Sling" was invented had been moved up to a distant second floor corner. Empty and so scrubbed that we felt a little uncomfortable that we might import some dust particles and so declined what I had been saving for years as potentially one of life's little pleasures. The suburbs are still allowed trees although we have no idea who pays if a leaf drops.

The city looks like it might be a set for some futuristic otherworld sc fi movie and you can't help at times but feel that you are looking at some Orwellian future. It was pretty horrid actually. They should get some dirt and a bunch of Brazilians and import some chaos and fun.

We visited the Indonesian Embassy and after showing them the world's most expensive visa were given a "Cruising Permit". Then we went into yet another glass tower and picked up an electronic steering gear for Ricard. That done we hit the road. Again.

The transition season had begun and the Monsoonal wind dormant. Completely. We motored for 10 days and only shut down to check fluid levels. Absolutely flat calm for over a thousand miles. Then we crossed the Java Sea just south of Kalimantan, Conrad country, and headed for the Lombok straights and Benoa in Bali. As were tying up at one of the better know dumps of the sailing world otherwise known as the Benoa Marina, Ricard pitched up. He had come down to check a friend's boat and although this was entirely accidental we were much cheered as you cannot help but be when Ricard walks into your life.

Ricard suggested we move into his digs in Kuta as the maid had just made up our room and she would be distraught should we not appear. We took one brief look at the dump and agreed that it would have been vulgar to refuse. We were off our faithful "Mist" and headed the five miles into town before the engine had started to cool.

"Indonesia" is several hundred islands, one hundred and fifty million people spread over 2400 miles, and all components flying in a very loose formation. Very very loose. There are hundreds of ethnic groups, most not even thinking of themselves as "Indonesian". Most of the world's religions are well represented although Indonesia is also the world's largest Moslem state. The Government exercises very little control out side of Java and the cities The ruling culture is the culture of corruption and the ruling class practice very little else. It is a major mess and it will be a very long time before it is anything else. That anything worthwhile comes out of the place at all and an immense amount does is a triumph of human competence over corrupt government.

Bali's population is mostly Hindu and its considerable charms have made it a favoured tourist destination to which opportunity the local economy is oriented. Two sets of bombings seemingly based on sectarian differences but aimed at tourists and the tourist trade have left the local economy on its collective back foot and the Balinese are struggling. It is also a marvellous place to visit mostly on account of the enterprise of the Balinese.

Ricard and Lila rent a roomy bungalow down a quiet street in the tourist centre of Bali, Kuta, about three blocks from where one of the bombs went off in a restaurant. Ricard has a Catalan's view of this. The only way forward is to show the sick puppies who pull these stunts that you don't care one bit and you aren't shifting. And that is just one reason we could have never sailed by this part of the world without dropping in to say hello to our pal.

We were set up with a Honda motorbike from a rental place down the street, a little less than a couple of bucks a day as I recall. After a couple of days of getting our feet down we decided to take a ride up country. Recard was in the midst of getting a jewellery order off to Spain, for this is what he is doing for a living, and it was a good time to go and see some country.

Bali is volcanic and mountainous. Nearly all the tourist development is on the littoral and rural Bali is "uphill" so that's where we met. A Hindu festival was in progress and the villages and villagers were in full dress. Along the road the roads tall poles about seven to ten meters high were bent back towards the ground to within a couple of meters and wrapped with colourful decorations terminating at the end of the pole in a sort of starburst. This we were told symbolised wo-man's (and man's) reach for heaven and heaven's return to earth. Something like that and a pleasant sentiment for sure. About the most spectacular road decorations we had ever seen.

The homes in the country are small but detached, often fronted by a stone wall, a fine gate and a shrine. The masonry work was "done with love" and the stone carvings intricate. The roads were lined with all manner of cottage industries servicing both the local tourist trade and the export market. They tended to be grouped according to "genre". One seemed to do nothing but carve wooden cats we guessed for the European and American trade. Much of this work was quite "New York" and I guess if you want a cat this is the way I'd recommend going. Another village was doing tobacco store wooden (North American) Indians. Our readers from the nether regions may not know that it was once an American tradition to have these life size wooden Indians in full head dress and smoking a pipe standing outside tobacco shops. (remember, it was the North American Indian who introduced tobacco to an unsuspecting world). An American icon and just the thing to stand beside your Harley, -or Indian if you can find one.

Those painted wooden pub and rumpus room signs you see every where are done here too. Totem carvings, figurines, door chimes, wind chimes, bamboo furniture, garden furniture (teak), garden decorations and fountains (stone). And a lot more, most of it easily of "export quality". In some shops it was difficult to control the impulse to salivate.

Part way up the mountain was a Hindu Temple referred to in English as the "Mother Temple". The religious complex covered several acres of land some buildings dating back over 2000 years. An impressive expression of a people's faith. At the top of the climb we rode down into the caldera which held a pretty lake a few small villages. We found good lodging at a little under $10.00 and stayed for three days riding about and looking around. One day as we stopped to look across a sun bathed valley with its glinting terraced rice fields. Lina summed it up, "Bali looks even better than the photographs".

Back in Kuta we visited, explored, typed out our previous "Terry and the Pirates letter" and re-vitualed "Mist". Galley stores would never again be as cheap. We bit Ricard goodbye and reminded him that it was his turn now to visit us and that he ought to be prepared to bring a snow shovel. For once he did not appear to our eyes to be enthusiastic.

In light winds we sailed east through the Flores Sea almost as far as East Timor and then turned northeast across the Banda Sea towards Ambon. There is much to see here, Komodo dragons, a sea borne culture of friendly folk and some interesting topography but we had indulged and now had to move quickly on.

Ambon has experienced its share of sectarian bloodletting between Moslems and Christians. We anchored out side a Christian village in the only suitable the anchorage. The city of Ambon is a dirty ramshackle place which looks like it has been bombed which it has not.

We went into town to fetch several jugs of diesel and after paying a bribe at the only station in town, the Indonesian State owned enterprise sold us some. Ambon is the sort of place where the young when they walk by you on the street, scowl, and whisper nasty things. We wouldn't recommend a holiday there.

We were nearing the equator and the weather was continually squally and in one particularly persistent run of squalls we heaved too. These squalls were filled with lightning and the occurrences of lightning strikes on yachts is common between Singapore and the Pacific. At the very least you are going to lose all your electronics. At the worse.... We were often surrounded by this entertainment, sometimes watching the lightning strike the water "not far away". At these moments there was a tendency for those aboard to become quietly philosophic

In time we found and crossed the Seram Sea, turned around the northeast corner of New Guinea and sailed into our home ocean, the Pacific. The winds and currents now faced us directly and our most pessimistic speculations of what we might find here were easily exceeded. We could only make progress by motor beating, which is the motor aiding the sails to drive the boat ahead very closely to the wind. We stopped in Jayapurna on the Indonesian side of the Papua New Guinea border a couple of miles from where General MacArthur took the Japanese surrender in New Guinea. Indonesia rule of the "up country" ethnic minorities is not particularly gentle and much of the population had been moved in from Java to "Indonesianise" the locals. Nobody appeared particularly happy. We paid a policeman a bribe this time and were sold more fuel.

We moved down the P.N.G. Coast as far as the Sepik River. The guide book recommended against stopping, but this was probably a bit cautious. We didn't have a visa for P.N.G. anyway so we set off to the east north east again now crossing the Bismarck Sea. Because of the change of direction we were now able to sail, but one morning the wind dropped and when we turned on the engine the gearbox failed to engage forward gear. For years we had listened to tales of Hurth gearbox failures but hoped because ours was generously sized to be spared the experience. We rarely used over 30 percent power for reasons of fuel economy and had treated the whole arrangement like it was made of glass, which it turned out to be.

We were a very long way from anywhere but the guide book suggested that there might be a marine railway (boat lift) in Kavieng, a village, at the eastern end of New Ireland about one hundred miles away. The winds were light and fitful and it took four days and nights of hard work to sail the distance. One morning we gibed the spinnaker four times as we chased the wind. The current was about one to two knots against so there was no respite.

The officials in Kavieng made no fuss about the lack of visa and gave us an emergency entry. The local expat community was very supportive, but of the railway, there was no hope. It was busted like most things in this part of the world. We couldn't remove the gearbox without taking the boat out of the water, and we weren't going anywhere with out forward gear. "Mist" however has a feathering propeller and this can be taken apart to reverse the pitch so that when the gearbox is put in reverse the boat would go forward. We would lose reverse in doing this, but no matter, retreat was the last thing we wanted to do.

I had taken the propeller apart two or three times during our first couple of years to get the prop pitch just right. It was a tricky job and under normal circumstances the last place I would want to do it was under water. Fortunately we were just coming in to spring tides -full or new moon- and that meant about two feet of tide. If we grounded "Mist" at exact high tide, the propeller would be about a foot under water at low tide. I estimated up to three hours to do the job. As plans go, this one was slightly flawed ..If the next one or two tides didn't come up to the same level we would be stuck until the next round of tides, two weeks or a month away. More if we got unlucky. Beggars can't be choosy and there was just time to make the last tide before the highest spring twelve hours later. This tide could provide a second chance if we ran into trouble.

We warped "Mist" in against a derelict pier and at low tide standing chest deep and wearing swim goggles the deed was done. Lucky us. The local fuel agent sold us fuel at cost, and took our credit card against cash. Goodo Auzzies. Colin Clayton in Auckland was later to e-mail and note, "Mist", not content with sailing around the world the wrong way is now doing it in reverse. The only problem now is that we were now driving the propeller through reverse gear which is more fragile than forward gear and of course we had no idea how long it would last. We resolved not to use more than 25 percent power, 1500 R.P.M., at which point the 'box was starting to make complaining noises.

In Kavieng, in spite of our preoccupation with matters nautical, our brief stop was not without general interest. WW11 had not been a pleasant experience here. When Japan attacked most of the women and all children were evacuated. Some women stayed on, nurses and the like. At the end of the war when the Australians returned and inquired of the Emperors' Officers "What have you done with our civilians?" "We put them on a hospital ship so that they would be safe, but you sank the ship." sang the officers "Not so", from the locals; "Those officers herded all the whites on to the pier, garrotted them, and threw them on a barge which they unloaded over by that island. You'll find their bones there." This is just what the Australians found. The locals had a complaint too. In the liberation of P.N.G. many places were bypassed in order to "roll up" the island chain quickly as possible. Kavieng was such a place, and being effectively cut off supplies the Japanese Army included islanders in the mess menu. Tough times. The wreckage of war, Zeros, B-17s searchlights etc. were said to be scattered everywhere, but we did not tarry.

We learned later that the tropical western Pacific was experiencing a period of accelerated trade winds. This caused an increase in the rate of the west going current and for the next three months the pace was pretty slow. With the current of at least two knots we could not tack against it nor could we motor against current and wind of about 20 to 25 knots. By running the motor at 1500 r.p.m. and sailing close hauled "Mist" would point high enough into the wind that we could advance at an average of two, sometimes three knots.

After a couple of days we left the coast of New Ireland and sailed into the straight separating it from Bougainville. We suspected the north coast of Bougainville to be the slightly sheltered one. Most will know of the civil war begun in part by the behaviour of a mining company, Rio Alto. Like Somalia there was no longer any central government and the AK-47 ruled. In Kavieng we were advised to stay well offshore so shelter there would be little of anyway. Approaching the north side of the island the opposing current went up to an estimated 4 knots. Tides are slight in this part of the world but we head butted the thing for about 4 hours to see if it would moderate which it did not. We turned south and 30 miles off the south coast punched into increasing winds for three days. About 80 miles north of the most westerly of the Solomon Islands we heaved to as the winds went up to about 30 knots. For two days we bobbed about in a moderately rough sea drifting back to the north end of Bougainville where we turned west, set sail and in 10 hours ran downwind 75 miles to Nissan Island off the coast of New Ireland. In six days of steady slogging we had progressed exactly nothing.

Nissan is a vegetated atoll with a decent entrance and a small population, subsistence fishing and gathering. It will come as no surprise to learn that we arrived just about the same time as a weather front with its attendant reversal of wind, so we worked hard to repair some damage, and set sail the following morning into a choppy wind against current and for the third time we sailed down the southern coast of Bougainville, all the time wondering if we had finally caught the locals attention.

In two days we covered the miles to Gizo in the Solomons where we made a convoluted entrance though the reefs to the town which was your picture book -sort of-decaying tropical island place with beached rusting boats, left over this and that, and the locals strolling around with nothing to do chewing betel nut and covering the sidewalks with red spit. That is it had taken twelve days and about 900 miles of difficult sailing to come 500 miles. That is an average of about 3 m.p.h. This should please anyone who believes that speed kills.

Albert Camus referred to Melville as the "Homer of the Pacific". Fair enough. Yet perhaps there is another candidate from our times who may also be considered. We turn to James Michener, "Tales of the South Pacific" to set the scene: "I wish I could tell you about the South Pacific. The way it actually was. The endless ocean. The infinite specks of coral we called islands. Coconut palms nodding gracefully towards the ocean. Reefs upon which waves broke into spray, and inner lagoons, lovely beyond description. I wish I could tell you about the sweating jungle, the full moon rising behind the volcanoes, and the waiting. The waiting. The timeless repetitive waiting."

There is a bar in Gizo called the PT 109 and therein lies a well known tale which we shall repeat anyway. A mile or two away sits "Palm Island", now Kennedy Island, where a future President swam through "shark infested" waters to save the crew after the PT 109 was run down at night by the "Tokyo Express". From a sailors standpoint the "Express" is due some respect. After losing a couple of sea battles, the American Navy eventually prevailed and the only means left to the Japanese to bring in supplies was by using special light weight high speed destroyers at night down through the "Slot" to Guadalcanal. The Slot is about a mile wide and a bit zig zag. We can't claim any particular difficulty in a daylight transit but on a moonless night at 40 knots it must have taken steady nerves. It was just such a hot rod that nailed the "pres" one night, and the rest is history.

The battle here was a very near run thing. The medical advice was that because of the tropical conditions which included malaria the American Marine Corps could not be kept in action for more than three months. Because of the early American naval setbacks the Marines could not be re-supplied, and their advance was slow. Until they were able to take the hills behind the airport, Henderson Field, air support wasn't possible. The Americans have built a war memorial on the lower hill, "The Galluping Horse" so named because that is what it looks like on an air photo. The higher hill, "Mount Austin" having been seen as more or less as sacrosanct. The memorial on the "Galluping Horse" has about ten large granite walls, on which are told the story of the battle. The writers did a laudable job of avoiding any jingoism.

The Solomon Islands are a country in some trouble. Inter tribal rivalry and violence mostly and the only money around comes in the form of aid and/or bribes. In the later category the Japanese have secured fishing rights to the area which isn't especially bright of the Solomon's Government, because the big Japanese trawlers are fishing out the area and devastating the local subsistence economy. This follows on a general pattern of Japanese "generosity" on fishing rights throughout S.E. Asia and so one might well think that their wartime dream of a "Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere" has come true. The deal in the Solomons had a separate wrinkle however and that was the permission to build a giant Japanese war memorial on Mount Austin. Transportation difficulties prevented us from seeing it but a couple of days later we ran across something which kinda made us think. In front of a public building is a small plinth which reads. "This memorial is erected in memory of the fallen American and Allied service men that died in the liberation of the Solomon Islands". Three feet away is a new and larger Japanese memorial. It says:"This is to the memory of the Japanese Army which was defeated here by vastly superior American Forces. No bullets to shoot, no rations to eat, they suffered untold miseries." Possibly the new edifice on Mount Austin would have been worth what ever trouble we might have taken to see it.

We also met two New Zealand couples in the Solomons. Simon and Charlotte Cave are farmers from the Gisborne area and had flown up to see the Solomons and were doing a very good job of getting around. Eddie and Jenny were seeing the country from their 54 foot Roberts yacht. Petty theft is a problem in these areas and their boat had been boarded in their absence and some valuable equipment taken. We agreed to travel together and to keep an eye on each others interest. Also between the two boats we had one reverse gear (them) and one depth sounder (us). A match made in heaven.

Anchorages in the Solomons are not always perfect, most are too deep for a yacht's anchor gear and most are surrounded by mangroves which we were warned hid alligators. "Eat dog, sometimes people". So much for finding my own WW11 souvenir. Neither boat had adequate charts of the lagoons, -they pretty much no longer exist- and so we were careful to limit our sightseeing. One day acting as "depth sounder" I zigged when I should of zagged. At about 2 knots we went aground which is no particular disaster except that the current flushing out of the lagoon over the reef well and truly pined us on the reef. Eddy, operating in what must have been only inches of water under his keel (sometimes its best not to know) and pulling on a long rope attached to a mast head halyard used a good portion of his 175 H.P. to extricate us. And that earned him a spot on our Christmas card list.

We spent the rest of our time plugging away against current and wind. After one day of this bashing and having felt our way into another doubtful anchorage and having chased off a couple of canoe loads of potential pickpockets and setting out the mosquito nets and wondering if today is the one that you will catch malaria, the oilier picked up on his appointed rounds as the fleet sniveller with "Ya know Eddie, we're not having much fun." Eddies response was that of a good and supportive cruising buddy "We're not having any fun!"

In time we made our way past Savo Island, down the Slot and over Iron Bottom sound where so many sunken warships lie that the compass is deflected, to the capital Honiara. There was enough evidence of the previous troubles and violence and just a few weeks previously the locals had burnt down the Chinese section of town because of the usual jealousies. New Zealand squaddies and Australian policemen were keeping the whole thing glued together, but a permanent fix was obviously some distance off.

More diesel and a bit of tucker then on for four days and the last 100 miles to the most easterly island of the chain, San Christobal and a splendid anchorage at Star harbour. The local village was spotlessly clean and the children well looked after. The local economy was entirely a subsistence one, and probably the few dollars we had in our pockets was more than existed in the entire village. The local lagoon was too small for the big fishing trawlers to get into and the fishing was good. It wasn't Michener's "Paradise" but it was better than most of what we had seen. Strange that in so many places, the further you are away from head office, the better life is.

Local weather forecasting held the hint of an approaching front which in a day we caught and so were carried almost to Espiritu Santo Island in Vanuatu. We anchored in front of Vanuatu's, second "city" Luganville, and there issued the crew a two week pass. Phillip and Jacqui Clayton were scheduled to fly up for ten days of "Mistifying" around the islands, and we had a few wounds to lick. The "Busted List" was growing. After six years of constant use one battery bank had failed. Nothing could be done about this although we did fill some of our empty hours speculating if the remaining two banks would get us to New Zealand. More seriously our fridge quit and although this turned out to be very simple in the end, it required a number of consults with our man in New Zealand -Colin Clayton- to put us on the right track diagnostically.

Luganville is a pretty civilised place for which we were ready. We anchored in front of a "hotel", a clutch of grass huts, run by a helpful Aussi and we took a breath. Up the street a Seattle lady ran a first rate coffee and hamburger cafe. Paradise at last. The hotel was established on the sight of a wartime Catalina base. Bits of the steel pin wall and seaplane ramp are still here. I did some desultory digging around on the beach in the hopes I might find a "Cat" to play with, but no luck. Most of you will know the place. Especially if you have seen the movie musical "South Pacific" That's what the movie is supposed to be based, the Catalina base in Luganville. Sadly Mitzi Gaynor and Ella Fitzgerald had decamped.

When the "war in the Pacific" got chugging right along, the Americans decided that the French colonial village at Luganville with its magnificent natural harbour would be just the thing. Far enough "forward" to be close, but just out of range of the Japanese dive bombers at Henderson Field. As is usual, within a few days, the Yanks built a city of about 100 thousand folk and 30 movie theatres. The locals still do a good trade at selling empty wartime Coke bottles (the supply is unlimited) to tourists at about five bucks a bottle. Smile included.

One of the Yanks was a journalist for the army named James Michiner and he wrote a story, among others about a magical mist enshrouded island nearby called Bali-h'ai. Enshrouded that is except at sunset when it is bathed in a red glow. But the movie is a fake. You all remember the cast sitting on the wing of the Catalina, watching the sunset on "Bali- h'ai" ("Aoba" actually) as Ella sings as only she can the song of the same name. From where Michiner wrote the story, north in the town you can see the island of "Bali- h'ai. The mists and the sunsets and everything, just like in the movie. It's all true. But from the Catalina base a couple of miles to the south, another island on the eastern edge of the harbour blocks the view. Ella couldn't see the island from were she is supposed to have sung the song! And neither could of anyone else. It's a fake, (probably because the movie was made in Moorea 3000 miles to the east.) I hope I haven't ruined anything for any one.

One day a giant passenger ship called the "President Coolidge" sailed into L:uganville harbour bringing thousands of G.I.s and thousands of jeeps and stuff to the "big two." Then she hit a mine and sank. An American mine actually. The G.I.s all got off and went ashore, had a Coke, and presumably saw a movie. The Jeeps and stuff went down with the Coolidge. Turned out the mine wasn't such bad luck after all. Irony of ironies. Tourist dives on the ship is one of the biggest businesses in Vanuatu.

We were told a cute story by a dive guide. The Coolidge and the Jeeps and stuff are all coral encrusted now. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. However. On the back of every war time Jeep in the centre of the spare tire there is a red reflector. Years ago someone unknown started a tradition. They cleaned the coral off one reflector. Ever since every group that goes down to the Jeep gives the reflector a wipe so that it is still clean. Another bright spot in paradise.

R and Rs come and go so that soon we were making the overnight beat to windward to pick up our friends Phil and "Jac" near an airport on Ile Pentecote home to those famous land divers who jump off towers a hundred feet high with vines tied to their feet to break the divers fall just before hitting the ground. Think of it as bungee jumping with a biodegradable rope. These guys only display during high tourist season which we were out of so we were spared the sight of this particular affliction. We did however find the Claytons on the beach at Lotong bay just as planned and you couldn't ask for better shipmates. Phil and "Jac" are both unrepentant "water bunnies". Phil is a diver and anywhere anytime fisher, and Jacqui who makes her way around Auckland in a Porsche Carrera, likes her sailing too to be at speed. We worked and swam our way south with them through three of the islands of the Vanuatu chain when all too soon they flew away to New Zealand, leaving us to follow in the slow lane.

They had thoughtfully brought us a New Zealand "survival kit" of charts, nautical almanac, cruising information and a cell phone. With respect to the latter we were probably the last people on earth to have to be shown how to use one.

Yet another front brought foul weather and fair winds and we made the last lunge to the southeast by a 24 hour sail from Port Sandwich to Villa, the capital of Vanuatu. The harbour was filled with yachts who having either sailed up from New Zealand in the fall for a winter season in the islands, or Europeans and North Americans (and Canadians) that had sailed across the Pacific and were now staging for the final lap into New Zealand prior to the cyclone season in the tropical South Pacific. Some like us planned to visit one more island before moving on the New Zealand, New Caledonia.

Besides the usual curiosities we had another reason to visit. "New Cal". Our friends from Patagonian days Corine, Gerard, and dog Chewy of the yacht "Millennium Falcon" where living in Noumea, the capital city. Since leaving them in Porto Montt Chile, they had sailed north to Canada, then across the Pacific where they had decided to settle in New Caledonia. To our eyes this looked like a very good choice. New Cal unlike most if not all other South Pacific nations is financially viable as a modern state on account of nickel deposits. The island is politically stable, financially developed, and it must be added to its credit, a region of France. Everybody likes "New Cal".

It was fun seeing Corine and Gerard again and they drove us about the island including to a magnificent plot of land they had bought north of Noumea where Gerard plans to self build a house, hardily unrealistic considering he and Corine had also built "Millenium Falcon". One day we went south of Noumea into the hinterland which was interesting enough, but on this day we were joined by one of Gerard's French air force buddies and now Twin Otter pilot and his partner. Very nice folk Besides the great company, conversations and views, the whole day culminated in what is know by the truly shriven as "A FRENCH PICNIC", and as any damned fool knows, no picnic anywhere can compare with "A FRENCH PICNIC". Nothing else even runs a close second, and we consider ourselves to be knowledgeable judges of the genre.

Like Villa, the harbour in Noumea was filled with yachts hoof-pawing for the run to New Zealand.

As N.Z. is in the mid latitudes one can expect to be treated to the usual mid latitude pleasures of gales and changeable weather. The "hoof pawing" included much talk of weather windows and the like, a topic which properly belongs to the field of mythology. The requirement is to leave the tropical cyclone zone during the cyclone season which can begin in late November. The weather news from New Zealand Met included the usual discouragements, and there was much talk which I am told takes place every year to the effect that the cyclones don't really come until January.

This is often true and by then you can have an easy trip south during New Zealand summer. We much prefer heaving too in a gale than enduring these silly conversations and were somewhat cheered to hear while in mid voyage and safely to the south that a late November tropical depression was forming in the New Cal Vanuatu area and could become a cyclone. That would have got the dreamers attention.

We weren't disappointed either in heaving too for a few hours in mid voyage for one near gale then getting a proper force eight (45 to 50 knots) just as we approached New Zealand. We "jilled along " under double reefed main and reefed staysail quite comfortably. The seas were not large as New Zealand was about 40 miles to windward and the winds did therefore not have a long "fetch" which is a sailors way of saying the winds did not have sufficient distance to heap up the seas to their full potential. Then we heard a sound which was close to "thunk" This was a new sound to us and not particularly welcome. "What the hell was that" as we piled on to deck where it was neither dry, nor especially inviting. At first nothing seemed amiss but then we noticed the staysail luff was slack and it was immediately discovered the staysail stay rigging turnbuckle had broken. The stay had not gone flying taking the sail with it, because I had in rigging the boat arranged the sail pennant of suitable dimensioned wire in such a way to prevent such an event. Lucky.

It took almost a couple of hours of wet work to get the sail down and stowed, make a failed attempt to repair the turnbuckle, secure the stay and then set the storm jib on the forestay. A day later we arrived in Opua and after clearing with the famously courteous New Zealand officials (what a pleasure after so many jerks in so many countries) we learned that our turnbuckles contained a known flaw and that the breakage was one day inevitable. This turnbuckle was one of nine tensioning the rigging to hold the mast up. Had the breakage first shown up in any one of the others, the mast would have fallen into the ocean, performing what sailors call a "gravity storm". Lucky

A couple of days later we sailed south. About ten miles north of Auckland we were treated to one final indignity. While slowly motoring in a light, a puff of wind filled the mainsail and the mainsheet tightened up just nipping our autopilot and flinging it into the ocean where it did not long remain floating. Oh Bother. Near Auckland and were met outside the Tamaki River by our pals Dianne and Colin on their yacht "Delta Tango". We were shown to a mooring they had arranged in the river and in the debriefing of our wounds which followed Colin said "don't worry, you are our project for this season." Although we had taken the previous season as "grist for our mill" and always tried to abide by Johnson's dictum, "those that go a pleasuring shouldn't expect their comforts too" I remember suddenly feeling an immense relief. No more pirates, no more threatening thugs, in uniform and out. No more uncharted reefs and week after week of contrary winds and currents. We were safe among friends and perhaps the greatest technical problem solver known to modern man, one Colin Clayton had just said "don't worry".