Bryan writes...
We got a routine call from the Indian Coastguard last night, asking vessel, crew and route details. This kind of call is quite standard although I always get a bit nervous for some reason. I thought that they might demand to know why we are in the territorial waters of India, and more pointedly, why were we so close to the strategically located (even more so after the Pakistani attacks against Mumbai last year) Indian controlled Lakshadweep Islands. The VHF officer was extremely professional, and ended the call with a note that a Sri Lankan fishing boat had sunk in the area, and one crew was still missing. It was a fairly bumpy night, so we didn’t like his chances, but kept and ear out just in case.
The last four days have been pretty bumpy, and with our busted foresail, we have made very slow progress at the expense of lots of engine hours (and Niks appetite).
When the Coastguard called back twenty minutes later to ask more details, Joff and I thought we’d try our luck and ask if they could spare some diesel. Sure enough, the professional chap on the VHF was amenable to the idea, and after checking sulphur content and price (“No charge. We will give it to you”) arranged a rendez-vous. At this stage, we were almost three hundred miles west of Cochin in a moderate swell, so I wasn’t too sure how we would manage this. Would we come along side? Would they launch a boat? Would they expect us to launch our dinghy?
We furled our mainsail and circled off the stern of the stationary coastguard boat. We’d only seen their lights up ‘til now, but up close it was huge! They launched a small inflatable and came along side as I maintained a little way into the wind. On the dinghy floor were two machine guns and more importantly, a hundred litres of diesel in plastic containers. The coastguard crew and in particular the chap in charge didn’t seem at all pleased to be sent on this errand in the middle of the night, and the resulting barked instructions resulted in considerable diesel spillage, but we had our extra fuel and the peace of mind that that gives.
The guy in charge urged me to sign a form (“quickly, quickly [my jelabi’s getting cold...]!!) stating that we’d received “technical assistance”. They piled into their inflatable (one guy slipped on the diesel-oil-lubricated side deck and landed on their machine guns), and they were on their way.
We swabbed the diesel off the decks (and Joffs legs) and set off on our way. The friendly VHF officer came back on the radio and wished us a “safe voyage”.
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