May 12, 2020. 60 days down, 30 remaining on our Maldivian Tourist Visa. It's been a couple weeks since the Radio Transmission to Scare the Ink Out of Me, and our anchor is still nestled in the Maldivian sand.
For a brief moment, we thought we might be turning back. After all the worried contacts made, the US Embassy in Colombo, Sri Lanka thought they had negotiated a deal with Sri Lanka to allow us to re-enter the port in Trincomalee and shelter in place indefinitely there. “Be ready to lift anchor," our Embassy contact had said. Two days later: “Just contact the shipping/entry agent and he will work with you to gather the paperwork they need."
After explaining the weather is dangerous on the route between here and there, and that a good weather window will need to be chosen if we do decide to come, I ask the embassy contact if he can send me something in writing from Sri Lanka confirming the arrangements. “No, don't worry about that. Your entry agent will know.”
He didn't know.
Emails ping between myself, the agent, and the embassy: “Borders are closed." “Negotiated a deal." “I’ll ask the Harbormaster." “Yes, ask the Harbormaster." ….
Things fall into radio silence.
In the meantime, things seem to brighten in the Maldives, again. The one man who fell ill here in Uligan has recovered, and can soon return to his family. No one else on the island got sick. We have not had any more scary radio transmissions asking us to leave, and our agents assure us the government will allow us to stay. We settle into place on the other side of Uligan’s atoll, using a tiny uninhabited speck of land and palm trees as some protection from the new Northwest and West wind and swell. The little island glistens under noon-time sun, tantalizing us with temptation, until one day our Maldivian agent sends us great news. “You have been given permission to go ashore - with no limitations on the hours of the day you can stay there!”
Our anchorage echos with audible cheers. We all dropped our dinks in the water and made a beeline to the soft, white sand. Jen aboard Steel Sapphire immediately spearheaded a campaign to clean up and burn all the plastic garbage ashore, and she built us the start of a lovely little “beach bar,” with logs for couches, and a hole in the sand to contain our drift wood beach fires.
If our lives can continue like this, we will be fine waiting here.
But, nothing ever stays the same. Offically, the Maldives has twenty-six! different weather seasons, each bringing their own unique quality of wind, waves, rain, drought, or lightning. We can feel the seasons changing.
The sky, which up until now, has offered only sunbeams or star shine, has become changeable and moody. Often reading or tapping away at a boat repair project down below, both Andrew and I will pause as we feel the energy shift. Our skin, so used to exactly 92 degrees, will note the slightest drop in temperature for the breeze blowing down our hatch. We jump to deck, and see dark clouds brewing. We sweep across the deck removing the shade canvas - each of us taking one side to meet in the middle and lash it all down to safety just as the wind hits. Whitecaps roil across the anchorage, Sonrisa bucks and rolls with waves and swell as the squall comes in. A waterspout (a.k.a. sea tornado) forms and makes its way across the horizon.
We are reminded that the weather controls a sailor's destiny as much or more than the geopolitical mess surrounding us. That doesn't stop me from trying to control the situation. I squint and lean closer to the computer like a sorceress analyzing her tea leaves while I attempt to divine meaning from the latest article posted on the Maldivian Immigration website. I’m trying to figure out the likelihood the Maldivians will extend our visas once they expire.
"I think it says that though the rest of the government is closed, immigration is receiving requests to extend visas via this email address.” I point and show Andrew the website.
“Mmmm, hmmmm....”
“But then right after that, it says those holding tourist visas need not make any application for extension, so long as they plan to depart once air travel becomes possible again. So long as the visa expired after the declaration of emergency, all you must do is fill out a form at the airport confirming the reason for the overstay - the reason obviously being Covid 19.”
“Okay...." Andrew says and puzzles over the exact same concern I am puzzling. “So where does that leave us? We hold tourist visas, but I don't think we will leave by air travel. And I suspect air travel will resume to take people home long before borders open to traveling sailboats."
“Yes, yes...” I say and continue to wonder. “The US Embassy spoke with immigration police and they pointed him to this provision.”
Andrew nods.
“Susan spoke to our agent in Male, and he told her not to worry."
Andrew nods again.
“Let's just not worry.” I say this waving my hand and flopping my computer screen closed with conviction. Andrew chews his lip. We both wonder what the repercussions of a visa overstay are in normal times in the Maldives. In some countries, it can result in deportation with permanent black mark on your passport, the forfeiture of your boat, and/or thousands of dollars in either taxes to “import” the boat or fines. I flip my laptop lid back open to resume further research. “It really seems to me like the Maldivian government understands the predicament." I say, articulating my wishful thoughts for leniency while the world's borders are shuttered.
“Dinner's ready.” Andrew says as he places before me a steaming bowl of coconut rice topped with diced tomatoes and flakes of fish tinged golden brown. Just this morning Andrew successfully invented a fish smoker from our rail barbecue and a pile of old coconut husks.
We set the visa discussion aside as I loft my fork to nibble on my dinner. Andrew pours a glass of chilled white wine, our wine rations holding out for now, but barely. I immediately reach for and sip the wine while it is still cold and bites my lips. I have to enjoy the chill while I can. Inevitably the heat will draw condensation sweat through the walls of my glass and my wine will settle into the same tropical temperature that holds everything completely still on this windless night. 92 degrees. 92 degrees inside Sonrisa, 92 degrees out on her deck, 92 degrees in the water below her hull.
Burbling like a lava lamp inside me, thoughts boil and steam. I want a plan to grasp onto. The plan can change, but I need at least the skeleton of a plan to hold my hand. Recently, Andrew became more invested in turning around and sailing back to Asia if they open their borders in time to safely sail that route. He likes the idea of restocking supplies of spare parts there, before trying to push West for a second time. I, on the other hand, struggle to accept a proposal to turn back in all but the most dire scenarios. “Let’s think this through again. I still want to continue to push West if we can. How can we push West?"
He chews and puzzles. “I don't know. I really don’t. There's just too much time to kill between here and South African Summer. And will it ever be safe to traverse the coast of Madagascar this year?"
I mourn the possibility of missing Madagascar’s boabab trees.
Andrew's point about seasons is key. This year’s route was carefully timed to see us safely through various cyclone seasons. We planned to sail across the Northern Indian Ocean (February - April) before the cyclone risk started there. Then, we would to drop into the cyclone-safe equatorial zone (where we are now) to explore Maldives Southward. We would use the British Indian Ocean Territory as a safe stopping point to finish waiting until the Southern Hemisphere cleared of it’s cyclone season. Then, we could spend a few months enjoying Mauritius, Reunion, and Madagascar (July, August, September, October) while the weather is good there. Finally, just as cyclones started to return in the tropical Southern latitudes, we would sail even further South just in time to reach South Africa during its temperate summer. Just this week, a cyclone built up in the Bay of Bengal, sucking heavy winds and squalls over us here in the Maldives and making transit between the Maldives and Sri Lanka very, very dangerous indeed.
The problem is that these countries along our path are closed. They are not issuing tourist visas anymore; therefore we won't be allowed to sit and enjoy their shores for the month it will take to stay in the right weather seasons. These countries may allow us to "bunker,” but that likely isn't enough to get us through. “Bunkering” is an International Maritime term that means these countries will allow us to stop briefly (a maximum of fourteen days, but usually much less time than that) to obtain food, water, and fuel, then send us on our way. "Let me think...” I say as I count on my fingers, doing math in a cloud above my head. Presuming we could stay between 3-14 days using the bunkering method in all our countries enroute to South Africa - can we delay that way long enough to get to South Africa’s safe sailing weather? Mumbling...
“Stay to end of Maldivian Visa June 9
+ 5 Passage days
+ 28 days in the British Indian Ocean Territory
+ 7-10 Passage days to Mauritius
+ Bunker 3 - 14
+ 5 Passage Days to Reunion
+ Bunker 3 - 14
+ 3 - 5 Passage Days to Northern Madagascar
+ Bunker 3-14...”
”Hrrrmmmmggg. You’re right. Best case scenario, we will be forced to cross to South Africa in September, worst case scenario, we will run out of bunkering countries mid-July, i.e. the dead of South Africa winter.”
I sigh.
To put this into perspective for American sailors, imagine trying to round Cape Hatteras in the dead of winter with those East Coast winter storms blowing salt water chilled beyond freezing temperatures. Now, multiply that trouble by several orders of magnitude for the size of Cape of Good Hope (much larger than Cape Hatteras) and the strength of the Alhugas current (approximately twice as strong as the gulf stream current). No, thank you.
"We just need time.” Andrew says. If we can wait here in the Maldives until borders on a reasonably safe route open with normal visa procedures, we can carry on West.
With dinner finished, Andrew passes a stack of two decks of cards over the dinner table, and I shuffle. I flop out the cards, and Kitty takes her position on the table monitoring the situation and helping Andrew play because she is always on his side.
I fan my cards out until I can see the hand that has been dealt. I organize the cards in my hand to maximize my strategy and to be able to see where I need luck to help things come together.
I draw my first extra card.
Does it tuck into these cards, here, to make a set? What if I used it to complete this series? No...that requires too many other variables to fall into place. I make my choice, and move one step further into my strategy. I toss the card I don't want anymore and I wait for Andrew's luck to play out. We swap back and forth, and I muse about how much Scottish-Australian Rules Kalookie resembles a sailing circumnavigation.
To win at this game, you have to get organized, pay attention, avoid errors, and move and shift with the luck you are dealt. There is skill, but there is also luck. And sometimes, there just isn’t anything you can do but wait until your next draw.
So, we wait.
