Ali and Ibrahim limped onto a wooden deck, and down a ladder into a wooden hull crammed with people. People sat like sardines, their knees close to their chests, to make more room so that everyone could fit in. At the back sat some families, with children, nursing sleeping children laid across various laps. Ali and Ibrahim had joined a couple of hundred Turkish and Iraqi asylum seekers in the smelly hold of the tiny boat. By the time they walked up the ladder, it became clear that this was no luxury liner, but it was too late. They had given all their money to the smugglers, and this was now their only chance. And so they set sail in the darkest hours of night in a tiny, smelly, leaky Indonesian fishing boat, tossed to and fro on the wild and open ocean.

Ali's stomach was empty, he had contracted "Bali belly" three weeks ago and had been living with severe stomach problems ever since. White faced, skeletal, and now with hollows under his eyes, he sat quietly through the night, drifting in and out of consciousness as the boat titled, rolled and heaved from side to side. Water gushed down from holes in the clapped out old vessel, an old fishing boat that like Ali had seen better days.

Ali's head rested on Ibrahim's shoulder, a tendon in the left side of his neck rigid like concrete, carrying a sharp deep pain from his shoulder to the back of his head. His shoes were sodden, feet wrinkly, sitting in water that washed around the floor of the boat, up to the top of his ankles. Morning came and with it some relief in the thought that, as promised by the people smugglers, they would get to Australia soon. However on the first morning the boat's engine broke down. They were stalled, becalmed, left to be buffeted by the currents and waves of the sea, as the boat slowly filled with water. Each day became a nightmare of fear, recriminations and mounting despair as those on board frantically bucketed out the stinking water from the hull.   For many long hours and then days they were packed into the hull of the boat, sitting in rows with their knees to their chests, to help make room for everyone. Below deck, the hull was thick with the odour of petrol fumes and vomit. Full of holes, the water washed in and out, and the salt water mixed in with the stinking petrol slick and body wastes. The waves were so fearsome that the boat continually lurched onto its side and back, people were gripping onto the deck, floors and walls of the boats, and to each other.

The boat was marooned and was slowly filling with sea water. There were only two buckets and one was being used as a toilet. The other was used to continually bucket out the rising water in the hull of the boat. Tensions on the boat were pushed to the limit. People prayed, cried, and wailed to the open skies. Those who could no longer stand the stench downstairs went up on deck for fresh air. There, they could smell fresh air, but clung to the boards at the sight of enormous waves tossing the boat like a toy and washing across the puny deck. Few remained on deck for more than a few minutes. Most were too frightened of being washed out to sea and stayed below deck, keeping to themselves, waiting and hoping that something or someone would save them all from sinking into the vast, ferocious ocean.

The boat drifted for what would become twelve long days and nights. The hull was slowly filling with water, and the travelers were now up to their waists in water. Children were being cradled in arms by weary parents. Twelve days of tense exchanges, of prayers and desperate cries to the heavens for help, of crying children, and of diminishing food supplies. What saved them was an Iraqi car mechanic. Without any plans or proper tools, he slowly pulled the boat's engine apart and examined its rusting parts. By the tenth day, he had it back together again, and there were cheers and sobs when the engine heaved, choked and started up again. It became clear that the Indonesians had no idea where the boat was. One of the Kurds took command of the boat, using the position of the sun and a rough hand drawn map, took charge of the wheel and set the boat in the direction of Ashmore Reef, a tiny outcrop of rocks and sands in the Pacific.

By the time they arrived, twelve days from when they first left Indonesia, the hull of the boat was three quarters full of water, and everyone's belongings, including clothes, passports, papers, letters, and photographs of family members back home had dissolved into the wet, stinking water in the hull. The asylum seekers walked, crawled or were carried from the boat to the rocky outcrop, Ashmore Reef. They gripped the land like they had gripped the heaving boat, and walked or lay disorientated and swaying on the solid, unmoving ground.

They were there for four days, hungry, thirsty, and without shelter. The boat was so dilapidated that it looked like an ancient wreck on the shore. On mass they lay or sat, burning, sweating and steaming under the hot sun. Some still had food, which they shared with their family. Others watched hungrily, parched, starving and aching with exhaustion and bitterness at their fate.   On the fourth day they heard a distant buzzing, and stood waving their arms, jumping and shouting to a tiny airplane which circled the reef a couple of times and then flew on. A few hours later an Australia navy ship arrived, complete with water, food, blankets, toilets and showers.

(from a book i'm attempting to write about refugees) - freda