We celebrated our forty first wedding anniversary last summer. A good bunch of our cruising friends joined us in an anchorage somewhere in Indonesia to commiserate, sorry, celebrate, and one of the many topics up for discussion that night, other than the availability of beer, was just how on earth did we manage to stay together for that amount of time, especially living in a confined space all day, every day for years on end - including the ten years we worked together, eighteen all told, living in each other’s pockets 24/7.

Well, dear readers, if you’re interested or indeed in need of some expert advice, one of the keys is delegation; a clear separation of responsibilities. At work, I did all the right brain stuff. Anne did all the left. On the boat, coincidentally, I do starboard and Anne does port. That’s right and left for the non yotties and those yotties that have forgotten. Getting to and from the family, Anne does the packing and I fix the travel.

And these days, that’s quite challenging, unlike packing a bag full of stuff we have to pay extra to cart from one side of the globe to the other and back again but never use. Back in the good old days, if you wanted a holiday or to fly somewhere, you’d tell your travel agent what you wanted and bingo, three days later you’d have your itinerary, tickets and a bill for thousands.

Nowadays, now that the Interweb has made things so much easier, you spend these three days fiddling about on a tiny screen, comparing about a hundred alternative routes from A to B and finally, after you’ve registered with enough personal details to allow any half competent hacker to access your life savings, you might just have made a booking.

In doing so, one should always keep in mind current affairs. Unfortunately, that’s a subject I find rather distracts me from my pursuit of pure enjoyment. Anne can’t do without her daily fix of BBC news. Personally, I can do without knowing what stage of the Brexit fiasco we’re at, how the Green Pound is faring (whatever happened to the Green Pound?) or whether Harry and Meghan can oust the Kardashians from their top TV rankings.

Consequently, in my usual state of blissful ignorance of world affairs I timed our mini break in Hong Kong to clash, if that’s not a poor choice of phrasing, with the present unpleasantness over there and to compound the problem, on Sunday we fly back to the boat via the Middle East. Perhaps not the best choice of routes right now.

Anyway, we had a great time seeing old friends, holidaying with the kids and much as we love the grandchildren, although I couldn’t eat a whole one, we are looking forward to resuming our life in our little microcosm, where things do seem a lot less complicated. And somewhat warmer.

I won’t say the weather has been terrible here in Scotland, in fact, it’s not been that bad, all things considered - the deluge in Indonesia, the winds and raging fires of Australia, minus 15c in Canada for example but when I turned on the radio the other day and they played a song by the Scottish band, Wet Wet Wet, I couldn’t help but smile.

Which hopefully this post has made you.

It’s 2020 and we’ll be heading somewhere. Maybe east, maybe west or just fiddling around out here - right now we just don’t know. So many options. Too few brain cells. Follow the Blog to find out and, if you’re so inclined, subscribe to my rubbish videos on YouTube at SV Time Bandit.

Happy new year and thanks for following.

Joyeux whit?

"Hey Tonto. Ride to town and get the sheriff" said the Lone Ranger sitting astride his white stallion.

"Go the Hell" said Tonto. "Every time I go to town I get the shit kicked out of me."

And back when I was working class, that's largely what happened to me every time I went to France. I'd a customer there who was a complete prat and who took a sadistic pleasure out of making my visits a complete nightmare. Consequently, I grew to hate going to France. Heading for the Alps each summer holiday I'd drag the kids on a massive detour, driving through Belgium, Luxembourg and Switzerland, all just to avoid spending time in France.

So, imagine my surprise when, driving into the Canadian ski town where we'd booked a place to spend a family Christmas, the first person I meet as we gaze mystified out the car windows, says, "Vous etes perdu?" Surprised and confused, I hesitatingly replied in my best pigeon French, "Whee. Noo shershon le zooper marsh ay". Fancy coming all this way across the world to Canada and the first person you meet is French!

Then it dawned. Deep down I knew Quebec was a mini France but I'd never really thought they actually spoke Frog. I mean, we were in the middle of North America where they speak English. Or as close to it as they're ever likely to get, yet here we were, surrounded by french speakers. The good news is, unlike native French, they know how to queue. Which is just as well because if there's one thing I hate about skiing, apart from the aching legs, sore back and frostbite is queuing. Especially when it's cold. And it is. The temperature difference between here and the boat is forty to forty five degrees centigrade. I'm like the baby polar bear who keeps asking his dad if he really is a polar bear. " Dad, dad. Are you sure I'm a polar bear?"

"Of course you are son. You're all white fur. You've got big white furry claws and a big white nose. What makes you think you might not be a polar bear?"

"Cause I'm F-F-F FREEZING."

Minus ten yesterday on the slopes. The only guy out there skiing with six layers of Wonderful Indonesia T-shirts and still chilled to the marrow.

Wouldn't it be nice if we had a wee boat in the sunshine?

Happy Christmas, or indeed, Joyeux Noel to all our readers.

Phew! What a relief only a 35° difference in temperature between the boat and here in Toronto. And only a mere 15° to 18° when you’re indoors such are the iceboxes that our offspring choose to inhabit.

Unfortunately, before we left Malaysia, somewhere up the coast I picked up a severe dose, indeed, my annual dose, of Man Flu. It seems every year I get this. Usually fairly soon after my flu jab. Doh!

Our last couple of flights have therefore been quite interesting as with every gut wrenching bout of my coughing every Asian in hearing distance frantically searching for their face masks until by the end, it looked as if I was a patient in a flying operating theatre populated by a hundred nursing staff. It might come to that yet though.

Consequently I’m now bed-ridden, languishing in the basement lying under a pile of sheets, blankets, fleece and pillows that wouldn’t be out of place in a Mongolian yurt.

Next up, assuming I make it through the week, it’s off to Montreal where, yippee, it’s even colder.

Ever heard this? It's an American country rock song about the mayhem and madness as working folk launch their pick-up trucks into the evening rush hour to get home in time for the kids soccer, hockey, line dancing or whatever you do in a Stetson and cowboy boots. Well, here in Malaysia, it seems they have a seven AM version. Except it's waterborne.

After a reasonable sail up the reasonably boring, muddy seas of the Malay coast we'd anchored up for the night off one of the few small islands. If you can't find a small island you anchor in about four or five metres off the coast. Usually about a mile or two off the coast but technically, still off the coast and still in just a few metres. It's all pretty shallow. Anyway, after a decent nights kip we were rudely awakened by the sound of screaming Yamahas powering the pointy bowed, flat bottomed fishing boats that are common as muck around here, all thrashing past at full throttle, off to murder as many tiny fish as they could in the early morning light.

Now, my mother-in-law was renowned for spending much of her church attendance hours not listening to the minister drone on but counting hats. I've developed a similar habit except I count fishing boats. This morning, we had fifty two between us and the horizon all chucking nets and weedy flag poles flying an old pair of knickers into our path. The fishing fleet has been a challenge from day one of this trip. From Thursday Island in Australia five months ago, we've had to keep our eyes peeled for boats and nets. One of our number didn't; crashed into a ton of timber and lost their main beam, being a cat, and consequently their mast. The first story to hit the rumour mill was that they'd been at anchor, in the dark and a fishing boat had ploughed into them. So, next stop, everyone is queuing up to buy flashing LED lights to string around their boats at dark. The pitch black nights of all the anchorages are now lit up like a cheap Chinese Christmas tree. Quite nice actually, especially as it is nearly Christmas. However, the fact you can't see anything now for being blinded by green, blue and red strobes is a bit of an issue.

We wandered up the coast via Malacca, with its colonial past, in fact, being Malaysia, much has a colonial, or perhaps more descriptively, a trading hub past. The Dutch and British "colonisation" of SE Asia brought wealth and prosperity to Holland and Britain. Less so to the locals. But they did leave some nice buildings and probably scurvy, flu and rickets among other things......or I guess, they traded these nasties for malaria and yellow fever.

We knocked off the stops up the coast in short order reaching our final resting place for this year in Rebak Marina resort, off Langkawi Island, parked the boat, tidied things up and hopped on a plane for KL, Hong Kong and Toronto.

Something like a forty degrees Celsius difference.

Haud me back.

We stopped in a cafe yesterday here in Penang, an island city of nearly two million off the west coast of Malaysia. We stopped to catch our breath and escape from the oppressive, steaming, equatorial heat and humidity by strolling through the air conditioned shops and Malls. In Starbucks, after I'd unfortunately told the attractive young waitress that, while pointing at her badge, I thought Barista was a lovely name and ordered my mocha choco cappuccino, no froth, with sprinkles, moy caliente, no straw, in a mug, I got to wondering what is actually going on here in Malaysia. A former British colony, after we'd no doubt bled it dry, we, the Brits, very generously granted them independence. That was back in 1957. Since then, under their own steam they've created an economic powerhouse. The Silicon Valley of the east. It's certainly light years economically from pretty much all the Indonesian islands we visited. Quite a culture shock. That and the baubles.

You see, for us, obviously, it's the run up to Christmas. Anne has had the Lifeboat cards shipped out and spends the evenings interrupting my busy schedule by asking "should we keep sending to the Bloggs?" and other folk I'm afraid I've long forgotten.

Anyway. It is clearly Christmas here. Gaudily lit giant plastic trees, giant Hello Kitty snow scene balls - like the ones you shake and snow falls down over the Empire State Building or such like, only here, Chinese kids and their grannies are inside. There's all the festive drinks at Starbucks......Winter Warmer Gingerbread Coffee...... it's thirty five flaming degrees outside and they're peddling Winter Warmers for goodness sake. The malls are playing all the kitsch Christmas tunes although I have to say, old Noddy has yet to be heard.

It is all a bit weird though. According to Wikipedia, 62% are Muslim, 20% Buddhist and yet, with only 9% Christian, Christmas is absolutely huge.

At least, for the retailers.

Happy Holidays!

What do you get if you throw unlimited millions of dollars at a small Asian island?

Singapore apparently. All shiny, glittering architecturally splendifferous buildings sat on pristine streets, some oxygen giving green spaces and its cooling, bar lined river. New York or London......... but without an atmosphere. Sterile. Sorry to the majority who loved it, but I'm afraid, we just didn't "click". All just a bit too clinical, but maybe I should have given it more than the few hours we had. Or maybe not. Caviar before swine and all that. Or maybe I've not got used to being brought back to earth from our exhalted, Indonesian super star status. I mean no one, not a single, solitary person in Singapore asked for a selfie with me. Outrageous.

We were berthed across the Johor Straits, a few hundred metres of dirty brown river, from Singapore in Malaysia's equally shiny Puteri Harbour Marina. The Puteri Harbour marina was surrounded by tower blocks comprising, we were told, fifty thousand apartments, all empty, all silently awaiting the completion of the rail link from oop north Malaysia to Singapore. Malaysia's grand plan to get a share of the Singapore dollar was, or is, to create the opportunity for folk to "earn in Sing', spend in Ring". Ring being Ringgits, Malaysia's currency. All that was needed was a slick commuter rail system. Only problem is, the rail link, depending on who you talk to, is either stuck in a political siding somewhere or been totally shunted off the "to-do" list. Somewhere there's probably a Fat Controller making a few bucks maintaining the status quo, keeping the dosh in Singapore. Gotta keep the funds coming in to keep the chewing gum ban enforced.

Getting to Singapore from Indonesia was interesting. The nautical equivalent of making a dash across a six lane freeway. On crutches. We made an early start. However, we might as well have been teleported as, after four months in the Indonesian archipelago where things were, shall we say, a bit rustic, landing amongst the high rises, neon lights and restaurants where you got such fancy things as a knife and fork and where beer cost more than a few baw-bees, it was quite the culture shock. Nice as it was, I'd take Debut, Bau Bau, Tifu or most of the other amazing places we visited in Indonesia over modern city life anytime. All these poor folk in blue suits, the uniform of the oppressed, striding purposefully, iPhone in hand, no doubt doing all these incredibly important, mission critical things that once seemed so important.

Ha! Try squeezing into a slot between a bunch of bulk carriers all doing fifteen knots. None with brakes.

I loved my old granny. She was a bundle of mischief. "Gran" lived with us for a number of years while I was in my teens and during that time she'd impart her years of wisdom in bite-sized, manageable and understandable chunks that parents somehow couldn't manage. Like how to wash your hands. I can still feel her cool hands on mine as she scrubbed of the muck and nicotine stains of an adolescent. Probably younger now I think of it. Things like how to thread a needle. Invaluable now we've hundreds of square metres of sail above us.

When I'd get back from the school dances (for background, check our "Secondary Waltz" by Mark Knopfler") Gran would ask, " Did you get a click?" which I trust is self explanatory. If not, c'mon folks.....work it out.

Well, Sail 2 Indonesia has been a series of "clicks", (and snips but we'll not go back there)......what, with the people, the kids, the locals, the village elders, the government dignitaries, the volunteers and the hard core rally bods who've made it to the end it's been one long series of clicks.

The difference between this dance, Indonesia, and those of my youth is that I finally got a "click". As I've said before, I didn't much want to come to Indonesia. But how wrong was I. We clicked. I really can't think of anywhere else where we've felt so welcomed.

It's nearly four months since we kicked off in Thursday Island after slogging our way over two thousand miles from Tasmania, three thou if you include our lap of the place, We set off for our cruise through Indonesia way back in July heading out for the islands, All seventeen thousand islands of them. Fortunately we skipped a few. I don't think either my waistline or my liver could have handled more than those we touched. And I didn't even want to come. Alaska had been an idea but it was too far. News Flash - In the end, we've covered about as much ground anyway. Indonesia is a big country. So much for passage planning. But at least it's not cold. Quite the opposite in fact. It's absolutely sweltering and hitting mid thirties most days. So hot I've gone Asiatic and have taken to wearing a man-skirt. Short and al-fresco if you get my drift. Very Scottish. It's highly practical from an air flow perspective. Less so from a climbing into the dinghy perspective.

If you don't hear from me for a while, please arrange bail money.