Tom and I are currently in Bundaberg, Australia, after yet another adventuresome year.  We had Karaka in mexico for six months – six months of couchsurfers and ex-karakites returning, tequila and a flotilla of like-minded young sailors around us. We had many memorable parties, with almost more musical instruments than people.. and we had at least thirty folks on board each time!

During these six months of debauchery, we hatched the master plan! We saw how many cheap and abandoned beautiful boats there were in La Paz, and challenged ourselves to fix one up all by ourselves, sail her across the Pacific Ocean and sell her in Australia. Hopefully making some money for Karaka’s next refit and for Tom and I. Anyway, we did it! We joined up with a neighbour sailor and our crew member martin, bought a 1987, 40 ft van de stadt cutter, named her ‘Orianne’, spent three intensive months refitting her ourselves: changing the rigging, overhauling the engine and windvane, re-painting, upholstering and installing all electronics..

We had a lot of help from local mates, couchsurfers – especially Jamie from Australia who ended up couchsurfing for three months with us- and ex- karaka crew Tara,  Lauren and her friend Saiya. We left Mexico for Marquesas in July, a 33 day crossing, then went on to Tahiti, Moorea, Suwarrow in the Cook Islands, Vanuatu and Australia. Lauri from SY ‘Alissa’, -  linked on the homepage- was our own personal meteorologist for the whole trip, even as his wife Anina was pregnant. She gave birth to healthy baby boy Luka in the last leg of our trip! Congratulations and many thanks to them both!

Anyway, we survived the trip! We arrived last week in Australia on ‘Orianne’, and are currently trying to sell the boat so we can get back to karaka, who is still sitting in the shipyard in La Paz, Mexico.

All in all it’s been one hell of an incredible year.. I”ll get busy and post some photos and ramblings immediately. thanks again for all the support, stay fancy free..  barefoot.

  stats: 2631 nautical miles. 394 games of solitaire. 140 hours of watches. Thats 70 hot chocolates. 25 books. 16 films. One crocheted beanie. Forty sunsets and sunrises. Sailing from costa rica to mexico.

Day 1. Set sail for mexico!! having trouble getting out of the bay, indecisive winds. I am full of enthusiasm and great plans. Saw a flock of devil rays, maybe 80 or so from up the mast, smoked my last ciggarette listening to ani difranco. Still bobbing around, moonlight and my favourite stars.

Day 2. Almost died!! The black box full of firewood (maybe 50kilos) wasn’t lashed down and it came crashing through my hatch last night and missed my head by three centimetres. It’s heavier than i can lift and would have killed me, or tom, if he was beside me. Spooked..

 A day turned around. Sunset watch. Popcorn and instant coffee make an instant party on deck. Jack Johnson croons and sails flap, a speedboat passes, a strange reminder that we are not alone. This morning I had the grumps, the boat becalmed as I sulk without a cigarette. I spot three massive dorado circling the boat, tom grabs his new speargun, I shimmy up the mast to spot them, he dives in and catches a 5ft fish, enough to feed us all twice. Incredible watching it from up the mast, sheer power and beauty. We cook fish all day, hard to imagine just how shit the last few days were. We see a school of 20 or 30 spinner dolphins, they do about four or five 360s in the air one after the other. It looks like dolphin patrol or a hightway as they cruise right past us and off into the horizon. We drift two knots in the right direction, the other two dorado stay with us into the night. Someone just yells out dorado poo glows!

When everything feels so achingly beautiful. Songs have sillhouettes – imprints of meaning against the background of it all. Life holds promise and I vow I will never be complacent again. I will stand inconquerable, breathe deep and shake this world to its foundations. Doors will open, my perceptions broaden.. never again will a moment pass by unoticed. Soundtrack: wagon wheel and the smiths.

 Day 3: Phosphorescence and sharks, beautiful morning, 6-8 watch, bluegrass music… it is fresh like waking up to a gray dawn on a beach somewhere, so clear and bright and full of promise. Wind in our face as we contemplate fixing the ripped jib. Just saw a massive marlin jumping four times in a row. Soundtrack: yonder mountain string band. Ndidi Onokwulu and Bedouin Soundclash.

 Day 5. Amazing living in this circle of sea– hard to percieve distance when you are always at the centre of all horizons. Truman show skies, it almost seems we could swim to them. Can’t believe its only day four. This is going to be a long time at sea, 350 miles since coco. Everyone is addicted to the shark game on alex’s iphone.

 Day 6. missed a lunar ecplipse, got a 300pd/140kilo marlin on the line, got to see it flip before the line broke.

Day 7. Water like oil paint or licorice. Blood red moon. Wolves eye in the clouds.

Day 8. highlight of my week, washing hair in algae water with dish soap. Seriously.

Day 10. christmas. Supersonic squid and dolphins. Up the mast, symphony of crazy fireworks spiraling and lighting up this nightime aquatic galaxy. Soundtrack: when the night hears my song by bedouin soundclash

 Day 11. Did a five and half hour watch, swept away by dreams and inspiration. Tania aebi book. My first day without a nap. Big ground swell, very rolly. 2-3 knots. Martin asked me to clipper his back hair. Yuck.

 Morning. Flock of about 15 birds just floated by us like ducks, strange all this life around us. Ground swell getting bigger, bright clear day, heading downwind, swell behind us, rolly as hell only doing 1.5k. Turtles.

 Day 15. shit day. Chipotle soup. wish it would stop rocking…

 things i miss: family, friends, wine, jacarandas, the west end market, land, knowing my way around, freedom of space, people who say ‘jumper’, clean sheets and ovens that work, gardens full of vegetables and herbs, mountains, family dinners, dancing.

 Day 16. becalmed. Make cookies. Canasta. Tom and Zack take kayak off the boat and paddle around in the middle of the ocean, get close enough to a turtle to tap it on the shell.. it opens and shuts and lazy eye and carries on sleeping. Current crazes on board: canasta, instant noodles with an egg in them and the soundtrack to 500 days of summer (if i hear it one more.., Personal addictions solitare and instant coffee/chocolate with extra powdered milk.

 New years eve. Started crocheting beanie. Accidently caught a turtle on the lures, let him go. Got out party hats and poppers. Everyone a little stir crazy.

 Day 21. days slipping by, hardly even notice the time now, realised its day 21. Almost don’t want to stop at the islands. I like our mini society, everyones quirks and oddities. Weather is getting colder as we head further west, wind has picked up the last few days. Barnacles slowing us down, only doing 4 knots when it feels like we should be doing 7 or 8. current crazes on board are spanish lessons, a mix of chocolate powder and condensed milk heated up on the stove. Personal addictions pepermints and coconut cookies. Soundtrack lesson 18 michelle thomas spanish

I can’t say exactly much happens, I mean we sleep, eat, read, talk, watch a movie once a week and the days fly by. Every day is different though; grey sea, blue sea, green sea, choppy waves, molten oil waves, large swell, clear skies, wispy cirrus skies, grey blue skies, quarter moon, full moon, the slow march of the stars across the sky every night. Soundtrack: house of tom bombadil, nickel creek

 For all we could know, with this great big dome of sky surrounding us – our little boat could be the centre of the universe – sometimes the absence of landmarks makes it feel like we havent moved, we are still in the same spot in the centre of our horizons. Watching our slow progress on the charts, it all seems slightly abstracted from reality. Seeing the fishermen yesterday was bizarre, I think we had all forgotten another world even existed. How did they find us in our dome of sky. I wonder if when we get to land everything will seem just a little close, a little crowded. We will have to adapt to a new perspective of space. Right now the idea of things between me and the horizon, or smells other than the sea seems impossible..  Soundtrack: yann tierson the music from amelie

 Run out of drinking chocolate, peanut butter, peppermints, cookies and condensed milk. ‘Good things’ cupboard now contains an old packet of seaweed, a year old packet of tea and asparagus instant soup. current addiction eating iced tea mix with a spoon. Soundtrack Tom waits ‘we sail tonight for singapore’..

Day 24. I’m sick of this f== boat. Boredom. Hurting myself countless times within minutes of waking up. Tossed around and slammed into waves. Sick of worrying about food. Sick of feeling weak. Sick of having no food to eat but instant noodles. Sick of greasy hair. Sick of not getting anywhere. Sick of banging noises. Sick of dishes in the sink that doesnt drain. Sick of dirty sheets and clothes. Sick of martin stomping! GAH! Soundtrack: against me

Day 25. I love this boat. I’ve never felt so alive and free in all my life. Current addictions: horizons, the smell of salt water, wind and the pleiades.. Soundtrack Brassens.

 27. mizzen halyard broke! Used topping lift as a makeshift halyard.. see how its holds up. Looks like we’ll miss the island ’socorro’. we are 900 miles west of acapulco, going to try for another little island west of socorro, called clarion. Do some repairs, scrape hull and check weather. Do WASHING! Might make land tomorrow. Washed hair with dish soap, amazing what that can do for the mind. Soundtrack : la rue ketanou

29. The sea has the colour of charcoal and ice, slate and the blinding white of the cold winter sun, large choppy waves, a low sky of fluffly cumulus clouds make the space between us and the sky recede. The wind freezes my wet hair and the sun makes the hairs on my cheek stand on end – slowly parting- like a cat by a window in the winter sun. Soundtrack : Sigur ros.

 To be continued.

We arrived today sailing along the coast of Panama – a moment of realization – and we are alive and here and now.

Within five minutes of dropping anchor in this remote corner of Kuna Yala, a canoe is alongside, and our new friend inside, within ten minutes we are ashore and on the crazy mission through the village to find a dugout canoe for sale. Shy smiles and noisy handshakes..

All the canoes are stunning, lean and long. Masterpieces. Word of mouth has given this island a reputation that truly does them justice. Tom inside a canoe – children who learn to paddle here at two and three years of age, split their sides laughing and giggling – que loco

This villiage has no concrete, here it is bamboo and woven leaves that provide superior protection and stand up to the 45knot winds that can tear through the islands. They are passionate about preserving their culture, and often spend nights inside a communal building listening to their chief – saila- sing the songs of their history, to be in the world, to give back and not take too much. There is no hunger, no crime, no animosity.. decisions are communal, knowledge is handed down through the generations..

We duck under washing lines, dodge kittens and weave through the smoke of afternoon meals – passing two boys recreating the world cup with a ball. We eye each other off… ESPANA we yell at each other. Cultures crossed, a small bridge between us from one sticky grin to another.

We find the master canoe maker and plans are underway.

Next thing we are back on the boat being guided to a better anchorage by our friend. He accompanies me up the mast and guides us through the tricky unmarked shallows, past the river and the edges of this jungle they call the Darien, to anchor in sweet protected mud.

Ashore to meet the Saila and pay respects, the next day all the villagers have communal work, collecting bamboo for a new house, so it is decided that we start the day after.

There is conflict between the four surrounding islands concerning tourists going upriver, but since they have prohibited the trips we are the first boat since june. They tell us it is unlikely we will be able to cut the tree, but we will be able to go to the rivers edge to float the log back home.

Right now the days stretch ahead like an endless summer and plans are thrown about – drying and preserving fruits, a solar fridge, pineapple wine…

we eat our homemade cheese for dinner with soft crusty Kuna bread.

The village is full of life and dusk sounds – pipe music, men laughing, children playing, fish jump.

The boat is quiet and in awe. As the sun hides behind the mountains and it becomes too dark to write…

I sit in silence with the moon on my back.

Kuna Yala is the autonomous region of the Kunas, about 350 km along the northeastern Caribbean coast of Panama it’s the only region in the country populated and governed exclusively by Indigenous people.

Almost all the Kuna live on the San Blas Archipelago, 400 coconut palm tree islands, from which only 48 are inhabited. Coconuts grow everywhere and until recently were the official means of exchange, their currency. Every coconut palm is owned by a tribal member, even on offshore islands. Consequently, as enticing as it is, all coconuts including the ones lying on the ground are not for the taking, as that would be as mugging them! Some of the islands are highly populated, others have a single family living on a narrow sand banks, something like caretakers of the highly appreciated coconuts, which they now mostly trade with Colombia.

It has been amazing to come back here, our third time, and have the opportunity to be amongst the unique culture and lifestyle of the Kuna again. They originally came from the mountains in Colombia and later on the Kunas’ forefathers lived in the Darien Mountains in Panama. They were gradually driven onto the north coast by war with the Spanish finding the lack of insects and wild animals coupled with better protection from invasions a definite plus. Besides the obvious, the fact that surely if you google “paradise” a picture of Kuna Yala must pop up in your screens! It’s true!

After decades of war against the Spanish they signed a treaty that guaranteed a measure of independence, but in the early twentieth century authorities of newly independent Panama initiated efforts to “civilise” the Kuna, sending police and missionaries to the islands. Kuna felt their culture and autonomy assaulted and their natural resources exploited (there is gold in the deltas of the rivers) and rose up, with the help of the Americans, in what they still proudly refer to as “the Revolution”, in a massacre in 1925, slaughtering all mixed blood Kuna’s and all foreigners. The Panamanians were forced to grant them a degree of autonomy and the final recognition of Kuna Yala as an independent region under Panamanian sovereignty.

Kuna society is regulated by a system of highly participative democracy: every community has a casa de congreso where the village meets almost every day. Each village has three Sailas or chiefs who hold the highest authority at village level. Three caciques or high chiefs rule the nation as a whole, each one representing his part of the land and of these one is elected supreme leader of the Kuna Nation. Sailas are much more than political leaders. They are also holders of the Kuna spiritualism, poetry, medicinal knowledge and history. Every community has a casa de congreso where the saila sings their history and the voceros interpret the singing for the rest of the community. Usually it will be a respected elder who carry on with the tradition of oral history and sings in an older language that has to be interpreted into contemporary Kuna language for all to understand. This plays an incredibly strong function within their societies, playing an important part in decision making and maintaining their collective identity. Their beliefs and knowledge are passed by word of mouth at home by mothers, and at big reunions where all problems of the village are discussed and an unanimous agreement reached, often stretching the congreso meetings to five or six hours of talk, or until all women, men and youngsters are happy with the decision taken. There is no crime or hunger here, justice is dealt out by each autonomous community, and usually entails something like collecting coral to build up the fast disappearing islands, as the sea level continues to rise higher year after year threatening their way of life.

As a matrilineal society, the woman controls the money and the husband moves into the women’s family house and island if from a different community, they do not marry at a fixed age but when they are considered mature enough and feel ready to raise a family and be of help to the community. Women often chose the husband and although it is forbidden for Kuna’s to marry any foreigner, we have heard of two cases, and then they just had to pay a fine.

Kuna believe in the Great Mother Earth and respect for the environment they inhabit. Their doctors treat soul or spiritual affections, while rely on western medicine for common illnesses.

When talking to a Kuna, they always stress to us how they use western ways when they feel them useful, like western medicine for physical wounds but keep their traditions where they think suits best like Kuna medicine for spiritual illnesses (maybe depression, sadness…)

Not all communities are the same, some are very traditional and others pick and chose different parts of Panamanian mainland culture and that of their own. One village may have a generator and a store, another only bamboo, prohibit alcohol, wear only traditional dress or tiny tank tops, another a bank, another a hostel and a mix of outboards or sails for their canoes. Each village is also autonomous, and choose how they want to interact with the tourists and how much are they ready to accept from them and westernized culture in general. Having this in mind their laws and rules, as to what is permitted and what is not, are very flexible and might change often or depending on a one of set of events. We heard about one french guy who sailed up river, without taking a guide, and took a lot of photos of women washing their clothes in the river upset the villagers last summer, since then no foreigners are allowed up river to the high villages anymore in that region. Whereas just a few islands away, there are outboard motors shipping tourists up river left, right and centre.

Eva and Sergio heard that the Kunas don’t have a universal creation myth like other cultures, however they have an original couple of brother and sister that taught the Kunas all their knowledge together with 12 grandfathers (quite similar to the apostles in Christianity) each teaching one craft (agriculture for grandfather mountain, fishing, basketing, canoe making…) while the original couple taught the Kunas the way of life (how an when to marry, about puberty rituals, sawing the molas and other social skills…), the sister focusing on female affairs and the brother in manly tasks. They descended to the earth from heaven in a flying artifact halfway between an UFO and a coach, and carried animals… again the resemblance with Noah and the Arc seems curious and Eva and Sergio thought that this might have come to evolve as a mix between Kuna religion and foreign ideas from the pressure of missionaries in the last few hundred years. Kuna acknowledge and allow 12 other religions, as these were accepting of kuna practices, including catholic, evangelists, mormon and others. Although Jehova’s witness is not accepted anymore as apparently they were too intrusive.

They carve pieces of wood into “Nuchus” – little peoples shapes that will have a ritual and be insulated with good and protective spirit by the “neles” (doctors). These mystically represent the owner or the house they belong to, but also have a character of their own. This figures are taken to the shamans when someone gets ill, so he can try to find out about the bad spirit and sometimes join forces with a more powerful natural healer from a different island if the spirit is particularly strong.

The land is not divided into individual properties and fences are absent, rather the fincas surrounding the many rivers are for all Kuna to use, log the wood for making new houses and cultivate for private and communal usage.

They are very accepting of visitors in their communities and we have been invited to several chicha parties, where the whole community gets completely wasted (literally!) on a highly alcoholic fermentation of sugar cane or corn prepared whenever a girl comes off age and becomes a woman. She will get her hair cut and will be able to choose if she wants to dress in the traditional kuna clothing style of printed fabrics and beautiful and really intricate fabric designs that they saw by hand with a very fine, close stitch on many different colour fabrics in reverse applique fashion creating traditional designs that explain their history. These are called “mola”, and are part of their traditional attire for females, complemented by bright red headscarves and coloured beads that cover their forearms and calves in intricate designs.

They are physically small, we heard that rivaling in tribal shortness only by the pygmies. The men are amazing free divers and always leave us astonished and a bit embarrassed to see how quickly they dive down 25 – 30meters, with no apparent fuss, to grab the delicious lobsters, crabs and concs that live in the depths. Serg has provided some lobsters and crabs, Eva and I go for the concs, and Tom is the main provider of fish and so we are definitely well fed.. eating paellas, jamblaya, conc chowder, curry crab, thai fish cakes, grilled snapper, marinated grouper, cerviche, raw tuna…… and a lot of rice, just so you don’t go getting to jealous!

Colombians seem to be the ones trading in most of the supplies needed (stores are not what you would expect, maybe if you are lucky you find some evaporated canned milk and crackers though we mainly buy coffee, bread and eggs off them) and the rest is cultivated in the mountains by the men who rise shortly before sunrise and leave the islands to row upriver in their dugout ullu (canoes) to tend, and collect food for their families from their fincas. There are around 30 different types of bananas (to cook, to powder, to grate, to eat raw, you name it) as well as yams, cassava, taro, yuca, papaya, pineapple, cocoa, limes and coconuts…

 The rest we’ll just have to find out ourselves….

hi all,

we leave Cayman Brac in the Cayman Islands today after a rocky week in a windy anchorage.  We hope to head south to San Blas islands in Panama until early July, so we will be out of internet range until then.

We won’t be taking any more crew until later in the year, after we cross the Panama Canal and are on the Pacific side. However, get in touch if you are interested as we are already talking to people about our planned South Pacific crossing.

If you have written to us in the last 4 months and we have’nt replied, please send your mail again, we have lost a lot of mails. It doesn’t mean we have forgotten or overlooked you. Please send them again.

Cheers and happy travels,

catch you on the flip side.

kim and karaka crew

Pass the scene of last years dramas but only clear water remains. The ghost of memories and shadows of fears. No blood to be seen. Catch a barracuda.
Revenge tastes like fish.

Cayo largo – old friends.
Free meal of everything.. as we moonlight as tourists in the all inclusive resorts. Party hard, whiskey, mojitos and a stage show. Drinks taste better when they are free. Truly libre Cuba libres. Manana finds us with hangovers and sore legs. Oye. madre mia. salsa is a sport.

Dancing one / Karaka nil.

Off to the islands..
Iguana and monkey reserve. Cuban biologists.
Scattered conversations evolve into something more.
Friendship is the juxtaposition of two souls
and what springs from the space between.
We feel blessed.
We feed them  music and rum.
They share their food and secret locations of sunken galleons
Whispers of gold.
Gifts and laughter as they try to give us aphrodisiac tea.
Wink wink.

Rats are our dinner.
Very well cooked.
An island of pythons and crocodiles
and lobster lobster lobster.

The next day we wave furiously to each other.. precious details clenched in our hands
pieces of paper hold so many
promises.

Off to this magic spot. Young brown things exploring, beach combing, hiding hidden messages in dried out crab skeletons. Search for the galleon but find shoes instead.

 Oh handstands and cartwheels form perfect peace.

We want to stay forever.

Big groper. Lobsters. Bonfire. Candles in sand.
Drums into the night. Suicidal crabs.
Pineapple wine.

I wander off down the beach alone
lie on my back.. arms spread out
hang off the side of the earth to watch the sky.
Spot the southern cross
it scars my heart.
Homesick is more than an adjective .
.

We lose the canoe. Sadness hangs around our necks like our hangovers. Heat is stifling and
the place just doesn’t seem the same.
.
we leave and find the perfect reef. stalked by barracudas. That joy of diving . we metamorphose into fish..held onto coral, lay on our backs and watched the clouds drift by 20 ft deep.

back in cayo now. busted at hotel. Twice. Salsa 2 / karaka nil.
tentative hope – another boat had spotted the canoe drifting the seas.

last supplies.
more goodbyes.

We leave tomorrow.

A long long sail.
Let those fine winds prevail.

See you in Jamaica.

The folk festival was the perfect send off. Hats and suspenders, street performers and satay sticks.
a festival of fabulous fools. Playing fiddle at the session bar till the wee hours of the morn.
The joy of a kransky sausage after drinking mulled wine all night is almost unparalleled.
dancing like a madwoman to a bunch of gypsies in wigs. Meeting kind strangers in red dresses.
wandering this way and that. the long midnight walk across the dew covered field,
shoes in hand, wet stockings and moonlight. teenagers sitting in groups playing drums.. a couple kissing.
a hermit but not alone.. i have coffee in my caravan at 5am. watch the sun rise. Exhale.
 

The madness of missing my life by a day.
you mean my flight is tomorrow?

Canberra – Sydney – Las Angeles (a beautiful sojourn with my cousin) – Mexico city (you have lovely shoes) – Cancun (taxi taxi taxi?) – Havana .56 hours.

That Cuban plane. wow.
A cold war giant, a split tail, propellers behind the wings, four rows of folding seats
a fiesta aboard. Beers and clapping, returning Cubans -dressed in elastic finery -
platform shoes and mustachioed gentlemen.
Candy for all. A cargo of flat-screen tbs and replacement bicycle tyres, dolls and generators.
This plane sounds like my dads old kombi, three cylinders and stalling mid air.
Applause. We arrive.

We embark on cross country journey. Havana to Cienfuegos by car.
Under cover taxi driver..dodging checkpoints, the Cuban handshake (fist full of pesos) eases our way. Dana and i keep grinning at each other. ‘can you believe this?’.  A pig on a roof.

Arriving late afternoon, kisses and excitement, unloading of gifts. a fistful of glenfidditch.
New additions to the boat, familiar things, tom, kat.. its home.
Feels good. Feels good.

for the moment its all under construction.

cheers

DON’T TELL GRANDMA!

But I think my life is like a quentin tarentino movie. Or at least the boat’s is.

A little bit of background. This year we have been in high seas in Jamaica. My partner Tom almost died after being mauled by a barracuda in Cuba. We were in the middle of an open sea drug chase in Isla Providencia. Our crew-mate Chris just missed being attacked by crazies on Basitmentos Island in Panama and had to have a police escort. We got lost up Rio chagres in a crazy ‘heart of darkness’ scenario with everyone fighting; a rapidly deteriorating situation as we hiked endlessly through knee-high, crocodile infested mud at dusk. We’ve seen men come past our boat with machine guns and bags of white powder in San Blas Islands in Panama. In the middle of the carribbean, we were surrounded by four high speed boats at deep sea, packed full of balaclavad men and though we were done for. We got through ok, cracking Johnny Depp jokes, only to be attacked by real life pirates of the Carribean a few hours later. They boarded with guns and machettes, tied us up in the light of a blood red, rising full moon, took control of the boat and ransakced it in the entrace to the harbour in Cartagena, Colombia. In Jamaica we were in the middle dancehall concert when the entire crowd of 10, 000 started running and screaming towards us, as firecracker sounds went off, and people went haywire. We got hustled into the boot of a car and commenced to flee the scene doing 160kmph going around blind corners at 90kmph.

We arrive in Haiti a little nervous. When some fishermen start yelling at us and trying to follow the boat, I am nervy for the rest of the trip. We feel the earthquake tremors while sitting down to a goat dinner. The island of Ile a Vache is not affected but every single individual is. They all have family who have died in the tragedy. No one can get food, fuel or water from the mainland. The prices are up 2000% and US aid has deflated the Haitian currency so no one can buy anything they need. The situation deteriorates and boatloads of refugees start to arrive in Ile a Vache. We stand out like a sore thumb. And although we give everything we have, we need to leave. Another few days, they predict this idyllic island will be in a lot of trouble and we won’t stand much of a chance. We leave early afternoon and sail south towards Colombia under the cover of a new moon, we keep double watches and all ears are tuned for engines. We hear reports of thousands of boats fleeing the country and have heard some very terrifying stories of boats who encounter Haitian pirates or ran aground in front of villages. We make it back ok. And begin working with Oceanswatch to organsise aid to take back.

And then yesterday: 

I was alone on the boat. Sitting in late afternoon sunlight, a cake in the oven, doing dishes on the deck and singing to myself. Watching the fishing boats arrive in port with their catches and the birds flying home through those rainclouds that forever sit on top of the town of Port Antonio like great big gods in the sky.

 All of a sudden a coast guard boat noses out of harbor, then throttles up and veers to shore. There are shouts and confusion, a Panga, a long fishing dinghy with large engines, packed full of angry men in ripped and dirty shirts careens off the shore. The coast guard followed at full speed. And although it’s late afternoon, good readers, my day is just beginning.

 Shotguns and machine guns ring out. My heart stops. Frozen for seconds above my dishes, I scamper inside. Mumbling frantically to myself and peeking out the window, I catch glimpses of what is happening. The chase is on, It seems as if some of the coast guards have been hurt. The fishing boat has landed on the Errol Flynn Island just across the way, and its crew are making a stand by the dock, shirtless and shooting fast and hard.

 I hear a grenade. I can’t take this, I am frightened and furious and sick to death of being in life threatening situations. I shut the hatches and windows bunker down inside. In our steel boat the shooting sounds louder and closer. Peeking outside I see a new boat has joined and it is coming dangerously close to our own. I crouch next to the oven, absentmindedly check on my cake and wondering if this is it. I had no dinghy, I couldn’t get to shore. We were anchored the furthest out, no one else was home, it was a remote but frightening possibility that they might use this boat as a shield between them. What if they came on board? . Oh boy. Shots are closer.

 I was getting frantic now, time to turn off the oven and look for a hiding place. Under a bunk? Too obvious. In a cupboard? They might check. I decided on the big locker in the v-berth. It looks like a flush wall and is full of sails and line. I dug out some wetsuits, clambered in, layered the sails on me and pulled the wetsuits on top, shut the door, and, with my ear to the hull… waited.

 Sounds were distorted. I could hear constant gunfire. It sounded closer. I could hear their engines come close and go away. I could also hear the trucks from town and other daily sounds. I thought I heard someone scream. I didn’t know where the shots were coming from, I’d lost my sense of direction. Were they coming from the marina? Was that a crew-mate screaming? I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t just wait here to die, I had to know if they were OK, I would swim if I had to.

 I got out of the sweltering locker and peeked through the window. Masses of people lined the shore watching the chase.. The boats were back over near the island, though still doing loops that took them 50 foot from our boat as they reloaded their guns and headed back for more. I decided to take a risk and swim for it. If I could get out of the boat without being seen, and swim the 500ft to shore, I would be fine, right? They weren’t heading that close. Yet.

 I went into panic mode. Found the closest bathing suit I could find – it happened to be a 50′s polka dotted one piece with a frilly skirt – and went into action. I stealth climbed out of that front hatch, commando rolled to the bow of the boat and monkeyed my way clumsily down the anchor chain. Once in the water, I held my breath, dove deep and swam like a maniac. Half way across, I surfaced and it looked as if they were heading straight towards me, high speed. I ducked under and just about killed myself swimming as fast as I could, vowing never to smoke cigarettes again. I made it to the dock.

I was safe. My heart was pounding. My legs were like jelly. I climbed up and staggered down the dock. Unable to talk, for breathing. My eyes crazy, my chest heaving. I came up to some friends, a few of the masses lining the marina dock. ‘Hey Kim! What you doin’ swimmin’ to shore in that get up mon! Did you check the coast guard doing their military training over on the island!’.

 Do you laugh or cry? I am officially a fool. Back to the boat, oven back on, and a stiff drink as we laughed the night away imagining the sight of a commando rolling blond in a 50′s polka dotted bathing suit.

COMANDO CAKE

Preheat oven to 350F or 180C.

Cream 1 stick of butter ( ¼ pound or 125g) with one cup sugar. Add 2 lightly beaten eggs, 2-3 mushy bananas, 2 finely grated carrots, a handful of nuts or sunflower seeds with pinches of vanilla, nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves.

Disolve 1 tsp baking soda in 2tbs scalded milk. Add to mix.

 Sift ½ pound, or 250g, plain flour with 2 tsp baking powder. I usually substitute ¼ of this amount with shredded coconut, oats or rye flour.

Mix all ingredients well, until the mixture is bubbly and drips slowly off the mixing spoon. Pour into a greased cake tin and place in a moderate oven.

Then halfway through, have the scare of your life. Turn off the oven and run away. Come back a while later, when all is safe, cook cake for 40-45 minutes, and serve with a very stiff drink of Appleton rum. Maybe a cigar. Here’s to you and your commando cake!

Back to Kim:

Whew. So that’s that. I’ve just got one more thing for y’all..

‘Why are pirates so mean?’

‘Because they arrrrrrrrr!’

(giggle)