Surviving the watery graveyard of the Rotinese

By Helen Tainsh

ROTI, East Nusa Tenggara (JP): I watched the swirling gray green watery grave from the stern of our small fishing boat and wondered how long it would take to drown. I thought about my two daughters in Sydney and decided if I lived through this I should give up my adventurous life and go home to babysit the grandchildren. I thought about putting my passport in my buttoned pocket so I could at least be identified if my body washed ashore.

The swell was long, wide and steep; the look on our young skipper's face was stony. He stood on the tiller with his body protruding through the hatch and studied the sea as he surfed the crests of the swells, steering with his feet. When I saw these huge waves breaking on top with white caps I understood of our skipper's concern. I fumbled with my life jacket, struggling to sort out the mess of strings, putting them in some order before pulling it over my head and securing it tightly. The spray was drenching; everything was wet. We tried to protect our cameras by storing them under our knees.

The boat was rolled and pitched relentlessly as we were heaved to dive into the next oncoming sea. Waves crashed over the boat; water splashed through openings, hitting us in the face and then rained through gaps in the rough sawn timbers of the cabin roof. From behind, the wake raced forwards, catching up with the stern to spill over the deck and disappear straight into the bilge: What about the water level around the engine? It was now too rough for our small boy in charge of bailing out the bilge to do much but shiver with fright.

The penetrating tat, a tat, tat of the piston-fired engine was deafening; I could not speak over the noise. The vibrations from the engine went through my body like an electric current, while the smell of diesel fumes puffed directly into my face. I listened intently to the tat, a tat, tat of the engine, listening for the faintest falter, as if it were my own heart beat, for if the engine failed I knew we would founder.

Following advice, we had left Kupang at 2 p.m. on a small fishing boat that would take us to Ba'a on the Island of Roti. We had been assured it was only a four-hour trip and the sea was calm. We were trying to catch up to the Sea Safari II, a traditional Phinisi schooner, now awaiting our arrival in Ba'a. A group of 24 people were on board the ship making a trip around East Nusa Tenggara intending to visit a different island each day. Four of us had missed our connecting flights, arriving in Kupang too late to reach the Sea Safari II before its departure. The two Indonesian tour guides who had helped us hire the fishing boat had decided that they too would join our mini-cruise. The boat's crew consisted of the skipper, his mate and a small boy, making a total of nine people on board.

The sun was now very low in the sky and on the horizon we could see the faint outline of the island of Roti. It looked so far away. There was a smaller island much closer and our skipper headed for it, hoping to take shelter before nightfall.

Eventually we reached the lee of this rocky outcrop. We sheltered from the driving wind and away from the turbulent sea. It was a relief when we dropped anchor and the engine was shutdown. The deafening machine-gun noise of the engine was replaced by the surrounding sound of the surging sea that rolled and pitched us sickeningly to and fro. The sun had already set; the night was black.

Checking on a map by torchlight for our position, we guessed that we were sheltering behind Bibi Island; and from bird calls that persisted all night it could well have been a sanctuary. The skipper was hoping that at high tide the sea conditions would improve and we could move on, but after two hours he decided we should wait for the moon to rise. But the sky remained full of heavy clouds and darkness.

I didn't feel like eating; the others shared the remainder of the biscuits bought in Kupang. All I needed was the security of my plastic bag.

For twelve hours at anchor the boat rocked back and forth, slapped by the relentless motion of the sea. The skipper made a space for himself to sleep in the cabin by removing the tiller. He tied a piece of rope to it and threw it overboard.

"That's great," I thought "we'll lose it for sure and then we will have no steering."

The others on the open deck took refuge under a heavy tarpaulin that had covered some luggage. Five of us were jammed together side by side in a semi-sitting position in the small cabin. By the early hours of the morning, I was getting toilet desperate and wondered what I could do about it. My best opportunity was over the back. For some time I lay turning the problem over and over in my mind. Suddenly, I found myself on my knees unbuckling my life jacket, taking off my fanny pack, undoing my shorts and dropping them. Holding a borrowed sarong in front of me for decency, I pushed the sleeping skipper aside, to sit overhanging the stern, desperately holding on to the cabin structure in case I might overbalance and fall backwards into the sea. I was thankful for the darkness -- I wouldn't have dared do this in daylight.

To reclaim my share of sleeping space from the skipper, I bent his knees but couldn't move the rest of his body. I had no alternative than to prop my legs over his head, resting them on the opposite wall for the duration of the night.

Uncontrollable tremors shook by body. I don't remember feeling cold, however. The tremors finally stopped and the long night passed. At the first light of dawn the mate woke the skipper, and the small boy bailed out the bilge. The engine was refueled and started, they pulled anchor and we crept out from behind the shelter of the island into heavy seas once again. We could do nothing but give ourselves up to destiny. We headed for Pantai Baru, a ferry terminal on Roti from which operated a daily service to Kupang. Three hours later our unnamed boat chugged into the safe waters of the narrow harbor of Pantai Baru. We berthed alongside a groin built of loosely-stacked stones. The ferry terminal was deserted, except for a lone fisherman who told us, when asked, that the ferry had been canceled for the next three days. We did not want to believe the news.

For some moments I was unable to move. The others had immediately scrambled on to the rock embankment, but I had to find my boots and put them on. I hoped the nightmare had ended, as I slowly crawled out of the cabin where I had sat for the past nineteen hours. My equilibrium was shattered; staggering as I stepped ashore, I found a place to sit on the rocks and rest my head in my hands and weep.

Weep for the frustrations and dangers we had encountered in getting this far, only to realize that we had arrived too late to reach Ba'a in time to join up with the cruise. The Sea Safari II would have sailed without us. Weep for the foreseeable frustrations and hopelessness that seemed to spread before us. Weep giving thanks to God for our safe delivery from the watery graveyard of the Rotinese.