I’m Sailing an Ocean and Everything Is New and Awesome!

Wyn rushed into my cabin on that first morning after leaving Australia and shook my leg violently. It was 6:30am and I had been awake half the night keeping watch for other ships and changes in the wind. I jumped up fully alert, concluding this urgent awakening must mean a big problem. Were we sinking? Pirates? A storm? “Sorry to wake you. You have to see this. Come quickly. It’s… It’s…” he hesitated for a moment, struggling to find the right words, “It’s beautiful” he said at last, “Bring your camera.”

He rushed outside and to the front of the boat. I struggled to keep up. At the front, we clutched a rope, lent out over the nose, and he was right – it was beautiful. Flying through the sapphire water just beyond our boat was a pod of dolphins, perhaps as many as 15. The window of clear water allowed us to see them playing beneath the surface; they were chasing each other, spinning and spiralling. Sometimes they’d leap from the water and release a jet of spray.

I asked Wyn why they had come to us, wondering if we provided some shelter or made their swimming easier. “Actually, I’m more spiritual than that. I think they just came to say hello.” he grinned. And he was right. It had been a performance, a precious and privileged display for the three of us, as if to say ‘Welcome to the Ocean. It’s GREAT!’

The first few days continued in similar, intoxicatingly exciting fashion; I had never been at sea like this, and I observed my new surroundings with the fresh eyes and curiosity of a child. Everything I saw filled me with wonder. Ant and Wyn were both hardened sailors, and my novelty and exhilaration seemed to amuse them. They sat inside reading, watching films, or doing jobs, but I was glued to the helm’s chair observing a view more addictive and entertaining than any film I’ve ever seen.

A snake with a tail flattened like the oar of a rowing boat, slithered across the surface of the water. It was clearly built to swim, but we were now hundreds of miles from land; did it live its entire life at sea without ever seeing land? I was cleaning my teeth one night, when something hard smacked against the side of my head. I looked around and saw a fish convulsing on the deck. These are fish, but they have wings. We see hundreds of them every day, springing from the water like a bullet, soaring over the crests of a few waves, before plunging into the water. They fly with such elegance - tracing the contours of each wave, gliding effortlessly for a few seconds – but they have yet to perfect the art of landing. At full speed, they careen into a wave in a similar manner to a bus driving into a wall. They seldom pierce the water without first doing a few cartwheels, aquaplaning across the water, and eventually slamming into the face of a wave, dazed and short of a few more brain cells (which is exactly how I felt after it hit me on the head too!).

We passed a spot where a school of tuna was feeding, and their frightened fishy food leapt from the water in evasive panic. Jumping from the water may have momentarily escaped the ravenous tuna, but any celebrations must have been short-lived for capitalising on this chaos was a flock of equally-ravenous birds who encircled the violent splashing, before pitching themselves head-first in a steep dive into the confusion, emerging gripping a fish in its beak. Spanning an area of several football pitches, we sailed through the middle and watched the carnage unfold around us, a thousand tiny battles for survival, the game of life and death. A metaphor often used is ‘caught between a rock and a hard place’, but after what I witnessed, that seems delightful compared to being stuck between a school of tuna and a flock of birds.

On the fourth day, quite suddenly, I felt claustrophobic, and the boat became a prison. It wasn’t that I wanted to get off – there was nowhere I’d rather be - it was the disturbing realisation that I couldn’t get off. I was trapped. In that classic contrary aspect of human nature; if you withdraw someone’s ability to do something, that ‘thing’ becomes more tempting. If you tell a child they can’t have chocolate, all they want is chocolate. And all I wanted was freedom. And to stretch my legs.

As so rarely happens in life, freedom presented itself in the form of a tropical island. We had begun to see birds in the morning long before we arrived, but by evening the sky was thick with birds flying back to their nests and it was clear we were getting close. When we had dragged enough of the horizon towards us, we began to reel in a distant island with it. It was the quintessential, tropical, desert island. You know that one you imagine when you dream of escaping the normal 9-5 grind, and fleeing to live a remoter, simpler life. Well this is that island, and it’s the perfect escape; literally hundreds and hundreds of miles from the nearest place to check your emails or get a call from your boss.

The island of golden sand jutted only a few metres above sea level and was less than 1km long, 500 metres wide. A single, lonely coconut tree stood like a lighthouse gazing out to sea. The waters that lapped its shores were clearer than I had ever imagined possible, so as we approached the reef, we begged Wyn to let us swim. He acquiesced. We threw a rope off the back of the boat, jumped in, donning a mask and snorkel and clasped the rope for dear life.

And we flew over coral reefs teeming with colour and life. I use the word ‘flew’ which may seem incorrect, but if you have ever been snorkelling or diving you will understand; this is the closest you can get to flying without actually flying. We could see the sea-bed 15 metres below us with startling clarity, to the point that I suffered vertigo as if I might fall at any moment. A constant traffic of fish soared beside me heading in every direction, and that underwater congestion reminded me of the chaos of cycling in Vietnam where a handful of collisions seemed to be narrowly avoided every second. There were fish of every colour, most I don’t have the words to describe. There were bizarre creatures which have doubtless inspired scores of Sci-Fi writers. By angling our bodies we could control our flight, banking left and right, or letting the water flow over our back to force us metres underwater. My favourite was to glide over giant clams the size of dinner plates, and watch them snap shut.

I had joked with Ant that all we needed was a hook and we’d be human shark fishing, but that joke became drastically less humorous when two sharks swam past. I love sharks. The power and the arrogance they command as they power through the water is mesmerising. They know they’re king of the water, and they are unabashed to flaunt it.

We continued on past turtles and sting rays, and I could go on and on and on, but this blog post is getting long now, and I don’t know if anyone except my Mum and Grandma will read this far, so I’ll save the continuing adventures for the next one. And it’s going to be good, because next up, is Christmas Island. See you there!

Small baby bird leans out of nest on Ashmore Reef Island

Ashmore Island, a remote outpost in the Indian Ocean, uninhabited except for birds.

Turtle Tracks leading to a Nest.