The fleet is starting to suffer, and so are we. One yacht, a catamaran, has had one of its rudders sheared completely off after hitting something in the ocean. Normally such an event would be very serious due to flooding of the hull but somehow this has not occurred fortunately. However, the steering system has been badly damaged and the boat is now in a relatively remote place needing to do major repairs, which will be very trying. Another yacht had a forced entry with locals breaking a window with a winch handle to gain access to the interior whilst the crew was ashore. A UK flagged yacht is aggressively hassled to give diesel to a local fishing boat and are forced to up anchor precipitously to get away from the demands. An unplanned overnight sail to another island results. Diomedea is subject to a corrupt demand for money by a harbour master in Hila. At least four boats have had net entanglements. And the rally is only beginning.
After a guided tour of Hila during which we taste a local sweet wine made out of palm flowers (possibly) and buy local honey, the crew of Diomedea readied for the trip to the island of Wetar. There are only two anchorages known on this big island, with the first being rather tenuous. The second is more than 100 miles away necessitating an overnight sail. After a romping sail across the paddock the SE tradewinds are replaced by northerly sea breeze for some hours into the night before a total glass out. Diomedea motored around to the tempting Hot Springs anchorage on the west coast. A blood red waning gibbous moon rises at midnight, made so by smoke haze. Labuan Air Panas( 07 51.177S, 125 49.59'E) is quite pretty with clean white sand and good holding, against a rugged mountain backdrop. Sadly, our desires for snorkelling were thwarted by the presence of a large crocodile cruising the beach. We dinghied ashore to inspect the fairly desperate village. Some boats are being built on the shore using very traditional methods in a design that has probably not altered for centuries. Water buffalo loaf in billabongs, goats scamper about and dogs give early warning of the crocs approach. The houses are all elevated on platforms as they are barely back from the high tide mark. Why the croc has not been turned into handbags is unclear. Of course, this day was supposed to be one of gaiety as Indonesians celebrated Independence from the Dutch, declared by Bung Sukarno in 1946. Our chosen village remains semi-comatose. Not even a flag out.
So, without fanfare it was on to the next island, Pulau Alor. The trip was hell. Good tradewind sailing was complicated by massive currents pushing us south as we tried to crawl to the north coast of the island. Soon, vast areas of overfalls ensnared Diomedea making real sailing impossible despite good breeze. Diomedea bucked and reared through the maelstrom as we approached Tanjung (Cape) Babi. The island is gargantuan. It rises to 1800 metres altitude from depths of 4000 metres just off the beach. Of course the tradewinds are blocked by the massif. We fought our way around the cape against 2.5 knot current only to find that the promised anchorage was completely untenable. After 60 hard-won miles, we were bitterly disappointed, angry, and already very tired as dusk settled. We started talking about a good sailing angle to the west coast of Australia. It is amazing to think that this country of islands has very few useable anchorages. The next one was 50 miles away in Kalabahi and it is to there we headed as the sunlight vanished.
Nets!! By midnight we found ourselves trapped inshore of a 10 mile long line of nets. Marked with hard to see party lights, it was impossible to determine how close they were. Fortunately, we were in a small convoy of yachts led by Robbie in his gorgeous Nordhaven motor boat. It has fantastic imaging systems, a spotlight that can pick up satellites in space, and a very elevated view of the world so they plugged on ahead of Diomedea. We plotted their course with AIS and clung to their wake precisely. The wind eventually faded away, but the adverse current remained and we motored into the inky blackness of the constricting Selat Pantar, along the west coast of Alor. I took the luxury of five minutes of sleep only to be awoken by Andrea as a maniac fishing boat closed with Diomedea. The final run up the narrow gorge to Kalabahi was complicated by fish traps at irregular intervals. By the thin moonlight of 4am we were at the anchorage only to be greeted by wildly gesticulating locals in a fleet of fishing canoes. Their calls sounded aggressive and we hesitated, shattered and demoralised. What to do? To our rescue came another cruiser already anchored. He told us of a reef nearby and it is this that the locals were probably warning us about. Finally, our anchor went down in 28m, and a whiskey went down shortly afterwards. The muezzin's calls to prayer from the nearby mosque went unheeded as the new day dawned.