Duyong
It hit with a thud
Shuddering
What could be euphemistically called
A wharf
As the boat slowed
But did not stop
I leap onto the bow of the traditional Malay river boat
Dipping
As I staggered to sit
It swept in a broad arch
Towards Pulau Duyong
Nodding thanks to the helmsman
As we chopped our way through the muddy, brown soup
Pregnant with soil after a heavy rain
The invitation had come from
Steve
A sarong wearing, American yachtie
who was living on Duyong
who had gone native
which was not a complimentary term in the expat community
meeting over drinks at a party
Steve was an emaciated, leathery skinned, long haired blonde
With striking blue eyes
Popping roll your own smokes
One after the other
While juggling a beer
with exaggerated gestures
Spilling more than he drank
punctuating his stories
about sailing around the world delivering yachts
strapped to the helm
with aqua lung equipment
just to breath
in a huge, mid Pacific storm
as the yacht ploughed through the top of waves
the water laminating over the deck
his body
was a living testament to each story
Steve
Was first introduced to Kuala Terengganu
When he picked up a Pinas
A two masted, junk rigged schooner
For an American client
Then sailed it to the west coast of the States
The international yachting fraternity paid a lot of money
For traditional timber yachts
Which gave Steve the idea of building his own
The gossip around town
Was that the venture was financed by Steve’s drug dealing
Usually doing the circuit from Thailand
Down to Singapore
Living on Pulua Duyong with the boat builder’s
Speaking good Malay
after three years of living on the island
The ebb and flow of construction driven by the flow of his elicit funds
As the boat slowed
Sweeping close to the wharf
I jumped out
Giving the high sign to the helmsman
As he turned
Heading back to market wharf
On the southern bank of the Terengganu River
Steve
Meet me
Bent over in obvious pain
He had had one hell of a night
With a wry, sad smile
We walked through the shadowy, meandering laneways
Slopping in mud after the rains
The suffocating smell of the mud flats
Thick in the air
As we walked past the village hut Steve was staying in
Towards the boat building yard
There were possibly only four or five traditional Malay boat builders left on Duyong now
Pakcik being the most revered
Introduced
Steve seemed to straighten up
As we walked around the shell of his yacht
A 20m Pinas
is an amalgam of a traditional Malay and European design, with Chinese Junk riggings
which evolved during the nineteenth century
Some say from the French Pinasse, for a small two masked vessel
With three other boats of various sizes and stages of construction in the yard
It was certainly not a hive of activity
With only two boat builders chipping away
It had been three, hard years for Steve to get to this point
It usually takes this long to build an entire yacht
A lot of his money went in upfront
To buy all the Chengal timber, an indigenous hardwood
Which had to be cured underwater for one year, then seasoned in the shade before use
Then cut into planks the Chengal was bent using fire
The traditional method
then timber dowelled together
With Kulit Gelam, a melaleuca paper bark, as caulking
Blow torches were sometimes used to bent the planks, but it was not preferred
As it stressed the timber
The cast lead ballast keel was just being cast and laid
The masts, bow sprits and spars being made of Chengal Kampung
Grown in the wetlands
Sitting
In the shade for a smoke
I popped open the beer I had brought
Steve
slumped over his knees
Fag in one hand
beer in the other
continued
They would have to wait until the monsoon floods before they could float the hull out for fitout
Steve
Coughing
said it had been hard
Learning the language, gaining the trust of the Malay boat builder’s
Living hand to mouth
In abject poverty
Putting everything he had into the boat
His parents
Came out once
Concerned over his situation
Helping out financially
enabling him to limp on
Steve was 28
He looked 58
Desolate
It had obviously taken its toll
Shuffling back to the wharf
As the sun escaped from the heat to the west
I hailed a river boat
This time
Dexterously jumping into the bow
Feeling a glow of accomplishment
Watching Steve
Talking to some Malay villagers on the wharf
I waved
But he was already back in his world
Seemingly lost
It was the last time I saw him
A year later
I heard he had died
Alone in Thailand
The Pinas
is still sitting there