Thailand by sea

Lucky seven set sail for some wondrous sights

Author: By Deborah P. Jacobs, Globe Staff

Date: SUNDAY, October 18, 1998

Page: M1

Section: Travel

``Coconut milk is great for curries,'' said another as she plucked three containers from the store's shelves.

``Each one of these equals lunch for two days,'' said a third, brandishing a thick packet of salami.

Weighing the advantages of different foodstuffs in a Thai supermarket certainly didn't fall under any of the categories of activities I'd been expecting from this vacation. But here, in the Tops supermarket in Phuket Town, I and eight several fellow travelers and I were debating our alimentary options as we prepared to embark on six days of sailing around Phang Nga Bay, an inlet of the Andaman Sea midway down the Malay Peninsula.

Like many other aspects of this adventure, provisioning involved more than I'd expected. Although I consider myself a capable cook, I found myself paralyzed by the prospect of providing for the dietary needs of the seven people who would spend nearly a week on our boat.

In the end, my fellow provisioners and I abandoned logic and marched dumbly down the brightly lit aisles, loading carts indiscriminately with Oreos, beer, muesli, Doritos, soy milk, mustard, mangoes, baby corn, yogurt, and Nescafe. The glossy, air-conditioned supermarket in Phuket Town could have been built on an American model, except for the more delicate proportions (smaller aisles, carts, and people); items like cuttlefish, bird's nest soup, a confusing assortment of eggplants, and Thai black chicken; and, amid the signs directing shoppers to soft drinks, stationery, and toys, one that promised offerings to the priests.

By the time our group completed its predations and corralled its loot in front of the cash registers, two hours had passed and the store had nearly run out of carts. Another hour ticked by as the bewildered cashiers rang up our purchases and we feverishly shoved them into shopping bags, initialing each one so later we could identify which boat each belonged to. The total, for five boats carrying 34 people: 55,000 baht, approximately $1,400 -- a mere $6.86 per person per day.

While the midday sun beat down like a sledgehammer, we dragged some 120 achingly heavy bags and dozens of cases of beer and water into a waiting minivan and dispatched it, loaded to the gills, to our marina; the human cargo followed in the three-wheeled, open-air taxis known as tuk-tuks. Hot, sweaty, and almost insanely thirsty -- a state that would soon become familiar -- we unloaded the van and lugged the provisions down a ramp to the boats that would be our homes for the next six days.

Gingerly, my boatmates and I came on board Spargi, our twosailed fiberglass sloop, for the first time. Because the main challenge for sailors in Phang Nga Bay is shallow waters, the boats provided by our charterer, Sunsail, were small, ranging between 35 and 39 feet, with shallow drafts. Below deck we found a surprising number of miniature rooms joined with the precision of a master puzzlemaker, all seemingly within arm's reach of one another: three two-person cabins, a head, a galley, and a saloon, where another one or two people could sleep on padded banquettes. Like 8-year-olds exploring a playhouse designed especially for them, we oohed and ahed over the tiny closets hidden behind the sinks, marveled at the teak shelves lining the cabins, the stove cunningly set in a swing. We quickly filled up all the storage areas in the saloon with dry goods and packed the top-loading refrigerator chest to the brim. All our personal gear, chosen so economically, we thought, had been dumped onto the sleeping platforms in our dollsize cabins, where the duffel bags and knapsacks seemed to magically double in size.

Up above, beer and drinking water were stowed beneath the seats in the cockpit, along with masks, snorkels, and fins. Our 80 liters of fuel and 300 liters of water (for washing and cooking) had been loaded. Spargi, outfitted with speedometer, depthsounder, VHF radio, compass, and anchor on a 30-meter chain, and trailing behind her a dinghy and outboard motor, was ready to go. Once our skipper, Rob, and the other four commanders had received their briefing from the Sunsail operators, we could leave the land behind.

The island of Phuket dangles off the western coast of Thailand like an earring, roughly midway between Burma and Malaysia, about eight degrees above the equator. Its languorous temperatures and stunning beaches make it a magnet for travelers from Japan, Australia, and Europe, and many parts of the island are as tacky and boisterous as any stretch of the Jersey Shore. Our trip promised to transport us from the clutter of overcrowded resorts to the unspoiled panorama of Phang Nga Bay, a 250-square-mile area declared a marine national park in 1981.

This aquatic adventure was the brainchild of Diane Edwards, 36, the director of Seascape, a Seattle-based firm that has been offering sailboat tours of the Greek islands and western Turkey for six years. Enchanted by southern Thailand during a 1991 visit, and seeking a different playground for repeat customers, Edwards decided on the Land of Smiles.

Sailing experience was not a requirement. For the five-boat flotilla, Seascape provided three of the skippers (among them Edwards), who would have the ultimate responsibility for the boat, including navigation; the other two were knowledgeable volunteers from among the paying customers and received a slight discount in return. Of the rest of us, all that was expected was to pitch in on winching, anchoring, and raising and lowering sails, and to refrain from wearing shoes, littering the common areas with our sunblock and towels, and grabbing the wheel as we clambered around the cockpit. It seemed like a small price in return for the unfettered access the sloop would give us, the freedom to dart from island to island as we pleased, far from the reach of traffic, pollution, and other tourists.

By the third day of our journey, the world had shrunk to three elements: the fierce, unfeeling sun; the tepid ocean that was our only release from the heat; and the surreal gallery of limestone outcroppings we floated past.

The northern region of Phang Nga Bay is mostly uninhabited, and during the trip's first stretch we found ourselves mostly alone as we wheeled slowly to the northeast, stopping often to swim or snorkel during the day, anchoring for the night shortly before dusk.

The crew of the Spargi -- myself and my friend Betsy, and two couples, Greta and Kevin, and Kat and Kyle -- had reached an accommodation with the marine environment. After suffering painful sunburns within the first 24 hours, we had learned to drape ourselves in sarongs and hide from the sun under the cockpit awning or in whatever shade the mainsail offered. We had grown accustomed to the motion of the boat, so much so that we could successfully read while hunched up like crabs on the foredeck during a rocky 15-mile sail. We could distinguish between the sharp but benign bites of sea lice and the stinging of a jellyfish. The chief provisioner had even managed to prepare sandwiches while her knife was thrown from one end of the counter to the other as the boat keeled over.

A night spent in the suffocatingly compact cabin, I discovered, was like sleeping in a utensil drawer. Kevin and Betsy claimed the two benches in the cockpit for their sleeping quarters, but even they had trouble drifting off in temperatures that rarely dipped below 80. The galley was also rendered virtually unusable by the heat, and we managed only a few meals that involved using the stove or oven. Of the horrors of the marine toilet, suffice it to say that its Lilliputian proportions made an airline lavatory look palatial in comparison.

But we had also witnessed numerous wonders: during nighttime swims, phosphorescent plankton exploding in waves from every stroke of our arms; a bloody moon rising as the flotilla rocked at anchor; the exquisitely mottled purple and blue crabs we bought mid-sail from a local fisherman; seahawks and herons cruising against the ocher- and gray-streaked cliffs; and the eerie karst formations that rose from the sea, some arrayed like so many witches' hats, others misshapen pillars looming frighteningly high, still others mere knobs.

One of the few breaks in our isolation had come early one day when three longtail boats ferried us to Ko Phing Kan, or James Bond Island, where parts of the 1974 movie ``The Man With the Golden Gun'' had been filmed. These crude 30-foot wooden water taxis felt exhilaratingly fast after the sedate Spargi, and with their outboard motors wide open, churning up waves and ripping a hole in the milky calm of the morning, they carried us alongside jutting overhangs of rock and thick vegetation, and through caverns hollowed out of eroding limestone.

Our first clue to what awaited us on the island should have been the massive pier appended to the shore, clearly built to accommodate a large number of visitors, but it didn't register as anything beyond an organic part of the otherworldly whole. The longtails from our flotilla pulled up to the pier alone, and like so much else in the last few days, this exotic piece of real estate seemed like our own private property.

A rough path crept along the hillside. As we climbed over roots and rocks and ducked below trees, a shaggy, top-heavy monolith -- the island's signature landmark -- came into view, standing like a sentinel at the mouth of a small cove. Suddenly we heard a low hum, insistent, like the engine of a distant airplane. Following the path around a curve, we found ourselves on the beach facing the monolith, along with some 50 or 60 other souls, who were taking pictures, buying film, sipping from green coconuts with a straw, and haggling over necklaces, shells, and sequined souvenirs at the score of stalls ringing the cove. The hum we now recognized as coming from the generators powering this remote mini-mall. The other tourists -- mostly Japanese and Chinese -- were among the hundreds delivered daily at the island by longtails leaving from Phang Nga Province.

The enterprising vendors on Ko Phing Kan were not the first to try to exploit this fantastical setting. The creators of ``The Man with Golden Gun'' had reduced that monstrous upended drumstick guarding the cove to yet another gadget so beloved of the 007 genre: In the climax of the movie, the monolith sprouts a row of solar panels, collecting enough power to allow James Bond's enemy Scaramanga to dream of bringing an energy-starved world to its knees.

Continuing our circuit around the bay brought us increased contact with civilization. On Krabi, a narrow strip of restaurants, bungalow resorts, and bars pumping out '80s American pop music was hidden behind a curtain of palms. At Phi Phi Don (Big Phi Phi), where we anchored among many more, and more ornate, vessels than we had seen before, tourism had reached an even higher pitch: Within sight were a multistory hotel, and a long pier and its salutation, ``Have a Good Trip.'' Having adapted to the primitive rhythms of daylight and darkness on the boat, I felt an unfamiliar shock as I walked onto Phi Phi's garish main drag of souvenir shops, as if I were a Neanderthal plunked down in a Wal-Mart housewares aisle.

It was on Krabi, whose wide bay was ringed by towering green-clad cliffs and a tether of gigantic mounds marching out to sea, like elephants roped together trunk to tail, that the temptation of modern comforts proved too strong; some of our crew abandoned ship for the first time. Kat and Kyle told us they were spending the night onshore, in an air-conditioned bungalow they had found for about $40.

I certainly felt the lure of air conditioning and a shower. The provisions for cleaning up on the boats were limited -- using the freshwater hose next to the ladder in the stern required a certain dexterity, as well as a disregard for modesty; the hose in the claustrophobic head wasn't even an option -- and now to the accumulated layers of sweat and sunblock had been added a fine layer of sand from a morning spent on a shady beach at Ko Hong.

Yet the rest of us dithered. ``I'm afraid that if I take a shower I'm going to want to get on a cruise ship,'' said Greta. We had grown used to our grime and grit, wearing it like a hard-won badge of honor that could be destroyed in an instant. One toe in the shower, or in a frosty hotel room, or between the sheets of a standard bed, and the adventure would be over. We would stick with Spargi for another night.

We did not scruple, however, to deny ourselves the other modern pleasures of Krabi that evening: a lavish dinner of barbecued tiger prawns with lemongrass and chili, pad thai, and the ubiquitous tom yum soup at a beachside eatery; a walk around the paradisical grounds of the $400-a-night Dusit Rayavadee resort; and an ice cream bar from the freezer case of a convenience store. Yet as we padded barefoot across the beach to our dinghy and headed back to Spargi beneath an upturned bowl of glittering stars, gazing at one of Krabi's mini-Sugar Loaves lowering in the distance, we felt grateful for our decision and pure of heart.

The next morning we all took showers in Kat and Kyle's bungalow.

The Phi Phi Islands, reputed to be among the most beautiful island groups in the world, were our final stop, and a focus of the trip for the divers and snorkelers among us. While most of the group spent the second day on seven-hour expeditions arranged by the Moskito dive shop, I made it my mission to secure a hotel room for Betsy and me that was worthy of our long-delayed gratification. At $65, it was among the most expensive options to be had, boasting a corner view over the harbor (rarely glimpsed, since the drapes had to be drawn tight to give the anemic air conditioning any chance at all) and a spacious patio (too hot for any human to stand on, but an excellent spot for Betsy's snorkel gear to dry).

Eventually the novelty of lounging like a pasha in these surroundings began to pall, and I ventured out to sit beneath an umbrella on the broiling beach and explore the warren of winding lanes clogged with miniature open-air video stores, Thai massage parlors, travel agencies, and convenience stores. By the entrance of seafood restaurants, vast tin trays held breathtakingly fresh mako, grouper, jackfish, red and white snapper, squid, tiger prawns, crabs, and lobster on ice.

The next morning I was lucky enough to see a little of what the divers and snorkelers had experienced. For our last day, the plan was to leave Phi Phi Don early and pass an hour or so at Phi Phi Le (Little Phi Phi), which the Moskito outings had visited, before heading west to Phuket. Raucous techno Thai music boomed from a nearby fishing boat as we threaded our way through the crowded harbor, past a few million-dollar sailboats and a score of power boats and pleasure craft, including one -- the gigantic Sea Sedan -- that bristled with communications antennae and held up proudly for display on its upper deck a gleaming emerald helicopter.

Phi Phi Le is composed almost entirely of cliffs, indented by a few clefts and caves where swiftlet nests are harvested and used in soups, much prized by the omnivorous Chinese. As we approached silently, the towering limestone bastions offered themselves up for inspection slowly, one by one, sliding by like the battlements of a fortress. Between a pair of them we slipped into a small, and temporarily empty, cove where the water shimmered in shades of unnatural mouthwash-green.

Quickly my boatmates began pulling on their fins and masks, eager to explore the shallow waters that had yielded so many wonderful sights the day before, and for the first time I joined them, encouraged and coached by the kindhearted Betsy and Greta. Beneath me floated treasures: beds of cerebrum-like coral and streams of tiny darting fish. But my landlubber's brain could not reconcile breathing -- albeit through the snorkel -- with having my eyes open underwater, so after a few sputtering, futile attempts to override its logic, I contented myself with using only the mask and lifting up my head when I needed air. Parrotfish, sea urchins, and clams that could be induced by tickling into closing were spotted by the others, and Rob, an Australian, said later that the snorkeling equaled anything he'd seen off the Great Barrier Reef.

While we were blissfully paddling along, our attention fixed downward, the cove had been filling with other vessels, some private craft, a few double-decker tour boats carrying visitors from Phi Phi Don. The final indignity was the arrival of Sea Sedan's green helicopter, which buzzed angrily over our heads and with a great deal of noisy ceremony settled itself fussily on the small strip of beach, only to take off moments later.

That was our cue to lift anchor and begin the four-hour sail to Phuket. There was time for only one more meal on board (salami and cheese sandwiches, followed by Oreos and Chip Ahoys), one more mid-sail swim (off Ko Rai, which boasted a small golf course), and one more small miracle: three dolphins springing out of the sea just beneath Spargi's bow and then arcing away.

All breakfasts during the land portion of the trip were included, along with a full-day tour in Bangkok that made stops at a salt-mining operation, an orchid farm, a furniture mall, a gem factory, a floating market, and an elephant theme show and zoo.

The cost of provisioning was picked up by SeaScape -- this covered all breakfasts, most lunches, and a few dinners while on the boat -- as were all costs connected to the boats, such as fueling and mooring.

For more information, write to SeaScape Adventure Travel, 11708 134th Place, NE, Redmond, WA 98052; or call at 425-827-5501; or e-mail at info(at sign)seascape-sail.com.

Those interested in arranging their own cruise from Phuket can write to Sunsail (Thailand) Co., Phuket Boat Lagoon, 22/1 Thepkrasatti Road, Ko Kaew, Phuket, Thailand; call 66-76-239-057; fax 66-76-238-940; or e-mail www.sunthai(at sign)phket.loxinfo.co.th.

They have a fleet of 18 sailing yachts, ranging from 32 to 44 feet, and one 42-foot Grand Banks motor cruiser, and offer bareboat (no skipper or crew), crewed, and sailing-school charters.

Other charterers on Phuket are Thai Marine Leisure (write to Thai Marine Leisure, 70/76 Paradise Complex Patong, Rat-U-Thit Road, Patong Beach, Phuket, Thailand; phone 66-76-344-261; or fax 66-76-344-262) and Phuket Yacht Service (write to Phuket Yacht Service, PO Box 77, Phuket, Thailand, or phone/fax 66-76-238-943).

The most important items to bring are sunglasses, hats, lightweight T-shirts or shawls to use as cover-ups, and plenty of sunblock.

It's also critical to pack as lightly as you can, given the limited space on the sailboats. Sunsail did allow us to leave luggage in its office at the marina, but even so, it's better to bring the minimum.

Sunsail provided towels and sleeping linen, and a well-stocked galley, including plastic dishes and glasses, flatware, pots and pans, and a few knives.