Surviving the watery graveyard of the Rotinese

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.