Great Sandy Straits

25/6/2016 

 

The time to leave Tin Can Bay finally came.  I was beginning to almost regard it as home, understanding the admonition not to get caught there.  It is a place of unspoilt beauty and tranquility. I was especially enjoying early morning walks along the waterfront, the spectacular sunrises and sunsets from the best ringside seats of Shanti's cockpit. There was an almost jellified torpor around that could creep up on one unawares, perhaps spread by the ubiquitous caravan parks on every corner. Such an easy place to sit easy. 

Heading back out to sea is the perfect remedy.

 

 

And what a brilliant welcome back the Great Sandy Straits gave me.  It was an unexpected thrill to be able to sail most of the way through the 40 or so nautical miles I expected to have to motor. Fortunately a fairly steady 10-15 knot SW was on the beam or behind.  Working the flood and ebb tides gave speeds of 6-7 knots over ground. This could have been very nerve-wracking, flying with committed abandon through the shallow spots.

What boosted my confidence was tailing “Solo Bob” who had been through here 8 times before. If his Swanson 32 touched bottom, I had at least 30 seconds warning before meeting similar sticky halt.

Also, both C-maps and Navionics charts were inaccurate in places, showing us sailing over the land. Where local knowledge came in really handy was crossing the shallows to the anchorage at Big Woody Island. 

After dropping the pick and Bob rowing over for an “arrival survival” drink we were joined by Claus from the 30’ catamaran anchored nearby.  A larger than life, thick accented Swede he entertained us into the twilight with his wry humour. Another verbose single-hander, whose excuse was that these fleeting meetings demand tightly packed condensed histories. It seems as if sharing histories is de rigueur. I am becoming more of a Cheshire cat listener, thoroughly enjoying all these “talking books” but glad of my own quietude after.

An altogether fantastic day.  The only near mishap was when I went up the bow to check the foot of the furling headsail which has been chafing on the pulpit. I noticed the split ring was missing from the upper lifeline and the barrel was close to falling out. Had this gone it could have meant a WOB disaster. I pulled the boat apart down below looking for spares, broke a nail trying to get the tight split ring through the tiny barrel hole (now there’s a girl thing) and then dropped it overboard with a few rare expletives (boy thing?)  All sorted out but a timely reminder to do regular checks of EVERYTHING.

 

 

"Solo Bob"

23/6/2016 Tin Can Bay Marina

Marinas are well worth the occasional stopover for the power, water, shopping, and hot showers. An added bonus is the interesting people one meets in passing.

Today I encountered a 68 year old single-hander named “Solo Bob”, a self-professed recluse who couldn’t stop talking.  This is not uncommon with single-handers (I am no doubt leaning the same way) -  for whom it is as if they have all these pent-up words waiting to tumble out.

Solo Bob’s tales were long-winded and dramatic, re-enacted with all the gusto of the original event.  The longest and most spine-chilling story was of a time, some 30 years earlier, when he had a head-on collision with a coastal cargo ship.  He recollected:

 

It was night time when I first saw it – a small black shape in front of me with its two white lights lined up.  It seemed to be a good way off so I went down to check for shipping lanes.  (Perhaps an odd first move I thought).   I never knew ships could travel at over 25 knots, like overgrown speed boats.

In actual fact, doing such a speed, the ship was only 2 minutes away.

When I came back up on deck, all I could see was a massive black cliff-face looming above me. I remember I could see white water behind it.

I didn’t know what to do.  In total panic I grabbed the helm and turned it one way, but it was directly into the wind.  The boat stalled and I tried turning it the other way, but it was too late.  Nothing I could have done would have avoided collision.

I never thought I was facing death, even though it was almost a certainty. My thoughts were more of curiosity, wondering what’s going to happen now.

I have no memory of what did happen after the explosive thunder of the crash.

In hindsight I could piece some things together. I was gripping the tiller with an iron grip. Next moment I was inside the cabin. The companionway entrance was very small and I usually entered backwards. I must have been thrown through it as the (steel) yacht buckled in half and slid up the square bow of the ship.  They suck you in you know; they don’t spit you away.

As the yacht was sucked along the side of the ship it filled with water.  I must have taken a deep breath just before I found myself under water, not knowing which way was up. Eventually I came to a pocket of air in the cabin and drew breath. It all must have only taken a few seconds, but it seemed an eternity. I half expected to be smashed up by the ship’s props but somehow escaped that.

Watching its stern recede into the darkness I was astounded by its obliviousness. Surely there would be lights and crew or some slowing or a rescue attempt  – but it just continued on its way with no awareness of the collision at all. Of course it was far from over for me.

I managed to get into my inflatable dinghy before the yacht sank.  Thinking I was only about a mile offshore, I was in fact about 8 miles, with wind and current against me.

I rowed for 18 hours. That’s beyond Olympic athletes you know. Every so often I would stop in absolute exhaustion, then ask myself “Bob, do you want to live or die?” and straight away I’d start rowing again.

It was winter and I knew about hypothermia.  All feeling had gone from the lower part of my body.

Eventually  I closed the shoreline but saw there were 3 big surf breaks. I knew I wouldn’t survive long if tipped out into the water. I managed to surf in on the first two, then got tipped out.  Luckily a local fisherman had seen me and came to my aid.  He gave me dry clothes but I was shaking so much I couldn’t put them on, so he had to dress me.  Then I was taken to hospital.

My first thought after I’d recovered was 'now I need to get another boat'.  Straight back on the horse.  I never had any nightmares about it.

They tried to trace the ship that hit me but in those days foreign ships didn’t have to report their position in Australian waters.  That has since been changed because of what happened to me.

TV crews came and interviewed me and even flew me over the scene of the accident but there was nothing to see.  One good thing they possibly influenced was getting the insurance claim paid out on only a cover note, no questions asked.  They reckoned I must be the luckiest man alive that day.”

 

 

TinCanBay Melb Coffs

On Saturday 28th May I parked Shanti in the marina at Tin Can Bay and flew back to Melbourne to see family & friends & help celebrate my grandson Felix's 2nd birthday. 

From there I flew back to Coffs Harbour to help a friend sail his boat up the coast to Southport.

It was raining heavily when I arrived & one of those nasty east Coast lows was forming. It was like stepping into a war zone.

Not long after getting on board police closed off access to the Marina. 

The next 3 days were intense with very little rest.

Huge waves were crashing over the northern rock wall, most of them above the 30' high lamp posts. Forty ton concrete blocks were being hurled over like missiles, smashing the walkways and closing off any access to or from docks. A trimaran was impaled on the broken pontoons and smashed. 

Despite the torrential rain it was necessary to be out in it, as pontoons broke away and tipped upside down, threatening to hole boats with their barnacle encrusted concrete undersides.

It was up to the boat owners who stayed aboard to protect their boats by righting pontoons and tying the dock together. Only the piles provided some secure points to lash boats and dock to. The power posts sank and power leads had to be cut from them, giving one man a bit of a shock.

Another man jumped from his boat and collapsed on the dock, where he lay in the rain for quite some time before a dinghy could transport him to an ambulance.

It was surprising there weren't more casualties. 

 

The aftermath. Concrete pontoons broken up.