Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
in waterways. It is a fact worth knowing if you are a sailor, as several wrecked yachts and
owners can testify. I was extremely lucky to have been aware of this; it was pointed out to
me some time before, and I now negotiated this channel with the knowledge that everything
was in reverse. The green markers were to be taken on the port side. I kept repeating the
little verse, “Red, right, return.”
“Wait a minute, how come you are going right at the green then?” asked Gavin in confu-
sion.
“Well, it's because the channel marker will be on your right when you return to harbor.
Therefore, the green will be on your left when you return, so that's why I am steering past
it on the right, right?” I grinned, giving him the old weasel look.
“Gaanders!” he said in a jovial mood.
We were at the entrance to the anchorage and were shocked at the very size of the place,
the number of boats large and small, and the contraptions that were floating about parading
as boats. There were several options to go to, and we were very confused. I slowed down to
a crawl and hugged the left side of the channel. Dinghies and boats roared around; people
were up and about going to work or going sailing or off to their fishing grounds, and there
was a general air of a busy, noisy harbor.
We saw someone rowing a little skiff manfully towards us, and when close at hand, we
hailed him over. We asked him where the visiting yachts usually tied up, and he suggested
going over to the Keehi boatyard. We told him we were looking for work, and he again said
the boatyard was a good place to start looking. Thanking him, Déjà vu puttered off in the
general direction of where he had pointed.
We were amazed at the general state of the boats and junk that festooned this backwater.
Rusty, old trawlers and fishing boats had been dragged here to die. Some lay half sub-
merged, others lay grotesquely on their sides, their ribs rusting dead red or bone white in
the sun. There was junk everywhere; car tires and industrial trash lay scattered about on
land and on the little island off to one side. This, we later learned, was “slipper” island,
because of all the slip-slop sandals that ended up on its shores. Indeed, if we ever needed
any slippers, we would row across to slipper island and “shop” for a matching pair.
What amazed and depressed us at the same time were the dwellings that some desperate
people had put together and had called home. Floating barrels lashed together with a crude,
wooden platform onto which someone had put an old, rusty truck or crane cab as a place
to live; there was even a little beaten up dinghy tied merrily to it with a frayed rope. Old,
decrepit yachts and boats that would never go to sea again were converted into dwellings.
