"Walking" up the coast

 

Wednesday, 17/5/2017

Sailed from Svenson’s beach on the north side of GKI to Port Clinton, a distance of 44 nM.

A strong wind warning with heavy rain was forecast for the rest of the week, so I opted to make the break while it was still fine and sail north to shelter in the inner reaches of Port Clinton, somewhere new to me.

If no one else is leaving, it’s questionable whether to follow the herd mentality and stay, or sail one’s own course.  On closer inspection there are often reasons why others choose to remain where they are, such as engine problems, fear of leaving the flock, or simply plain inertia.  Many of those clinging to their anchors have no other places to be, or any time constraints.  I have both, and a fine day in which to put another 40 miles behind me is not to be lost.

So at 0600, I weighed anchor (still 16kg) and continued north.  It turned out to be one of those glorious day’s sailing that are so few and far between.  The wind never went above 16 knots and stayed comfortably just aft of the beam.  Only later when it backed further to threaten a gybe did I take over hand-steering. Then I really got into the zone.

I can understand why many sailors have written of the great advantages of tiller steering, not the least being the direct feel of the boat and its responsiveness.  Also it’s possible to sit side-on with tiller in hand for hour after hour without the fatigue that those standing behind a wheel suffer.

So what does it mean for me, to be in the “zone”?  When I sit for a few hours hand-steering it does have an interesting effect, almost mesmerising.  It’s a feeling of eternal now, an immediacy and connection to the wind, the waves, the motion, without distraction of mind.  It is a sense of being completely alert and tuned in to the present moment with no strain; being at one with everything, being here and now.  An endless now.  This is what I love most about being out here.

In Port Clinton I anchored near a sleek, magnificent looking sloop of 60 plus feet.  We chatted a little on the VHF radio, it being far too wet and windy to cross the distance between us by dinghy. They were leaving soon, heading to Mackay to sort out a dental problem. Strong wind and rain were no deterrent to them in that fully enclosed yacht. 

It occurred to me how we all are having such different experiences out here on the same water. Some are very much more protected from the elements than others, have water-makers and washing machines.  I might envy those creature comforts for a minute, but then I think of the richness of my proximity to the environment, so much so that I am almost a part of it.  At times it stings and bites me, but I would not trade that for a hot shower. Perhaps in another ten years.

19/5/2017  Island Head Creek

Woke at 0700 to a rainy, windless day.  Batteries were low. I had turned the fridge off overnight to defrost it and save power, but needed to run the engine if turning it back on again on such an overcast, no-solar power day.  Decided to motor out of Port Clinton to the next stop. 

I followed my track in from last year.  This is proving to be such a great help to me, relieving a lot of the anxiety and stress I felt last year when approaching unknown territory.  Having traversed this section of the coast before, up and down, gives me a lot more confidence, knowing what’s ahead.  I noticed a big difference in myself.

The entrance to Island Head Creek is a fairly narrow channel, with breakers washing over the rocky outcrops and shallow shoals on either side.  Add a heavy broadside roll and it’s not easy to hold a straight course in.  I hoped that the thin yellow line on the Navionics chart showing last year’s track was accurate.

Sunday, 21/5/2017

One week since leaving Bundaberg.  Feels like a lot longer.  Departed Island Head Creek at first light (0600 these short days of winter) and made my way to Hunter Island in the Dukes.

 

 I hadn’t originally planned on anchoring off Hunter Island after my awful experience there last year with the strong tidal race, but I followed the herd instinct and joined three other yachts, which appeared peaceful enough. 

Big mistake!  I foolishly thought to myself, it’s not full moon so should be alright; I’ll give it one more go here. The new moon neap tide was just as ferocious and I got into all kinds of strife with my inadequate chain/rode situation.  A restless night of dragging and re-setting rope that kept kinking, knotting and jamming in the rope/chain gypsy was followed by a dismal dawn, with nearly an hour of fighting to get the anchor up. The circuit breaker kept tripping out against a howling cross-wind and tide that had us riding forward with the rope back under the keel.  It took several goes with rolling hitches led back to a primary winch to take the load off, and lots of running back and forth between cockpit and foredeck before I was finally off.  As with last year, I again envisaged myself being stranded on Hunter Island forever.

The next stop was Curlew Island, where there seemed to be an interesting magnetic anomaly on the approach.  The entrance to the northern lagoon is on the far right, or Eastern side of the island.  Despite already sailing further East than my rhumb line, the island appeared too far West, looking almost as if I would miss it entirely. 

 

 

I kept on going without changing course. Then, with less than a mile to go, the GPS showed a sudden Westward deviation, lining the chart up with what I was seeing.

 

 I quickly altered course and the eyeball and chart concurred.  Of course one should always prefer the eyeball, but it was interesting to observe this phenomenon happening right before my eyes. 

Last year, Curlew was a relatively quiet stopover, with an encircling reef and shoal water breaking the swell.  Perhaps due to the bigger tides, this year it was one of the rollier anchorages. 

En route from Curlew to Mackay, I was speaking to youngest daughter Shoni, telling her how fortunate I was to be having positive tidal influence with me all the way, enabling an average speed of 5 knots.  Shoni was rather bemused by this, commenting that it seemed slow, in fact, even slower than walking. 

Yes, I am travelling at a slow walking pace up the coast.  I have 2000 nautical miles to go to get to Darwin.  It’s like walking 2000 miles over the next two months.  Never really thought of it like that before.  Shoni asked if I don’t get very bored and frustrated  by going so slowly.  Not at all; it’s necessary to slow down in oneself.  But yes, part of the frustration is in having to “walk” 2000 miles up the coast  before I even kick off to begin crossing an ocean.  I guess this coastal passage is part of it, but not too many long distance cruisers begin their journey in such a manner.

Mackay Marina, 24^th May.

Even though TC debbie skirted Mackay, there were still signs of her passing nearby.

 

 

 

 

Extremely low tides make the ramp soooo steep for legs that haven't walked for 10 days!

 

In Mackay I did all the usual marina stopover chores: refuelling, filling jerry cans with diesel, refilling gas bottle, taking the bus to town for provisions, doing the laundry, putting on a new fan belt and topping up fresh water tanks. And most enjoyably, taking a few hot and cold running water showers.  I allowed myself two days instead of the one that I usually try to cram it all into, which made it much less hectic.

Friday 26/5 I departed at the respectable hour of 0900, considering I only had a short run of 20 miles to Brampton Island at the beginning of the Whitsundays.  As it turned out, the ebb tide was so helpful I decided to continue on to Goldsmith, an island I haven’t been to before.  I anchored rather too close to exposed rocks which looked like crocodile’s eyes peering at me as the tide dropped and more emerged.  It was another rolly night and the chain was growling, telling me it was more rock than sand on the seabed.  Day-hopping up the coast like this is full of little anxieties, when my mind often runs down the “what-if” trail.  So far, that important element of luck has been with me.  I do my best with the knowledge and skills I have, but never fail to appreciate the hand of fate that guides the uncontrollable.  Every time I leave a potentially tricky situation in one piece I take a moment to give thanks. 

Saturday 27/5.  Another fortuitous tidal assistance today, covering a distance of 32 miles in 8 hours, with very little wind and no motoring.  The first half of the passage was slow until the tide changed at midday. As I approached Whitsunday Passage, boat speed was less than 3 knots, but SOG was up to 7.2.  Anchored in favourite spot at Sawmill Bay, Cid Harbour, Whitsunday Island.  The water is a bit milky but still a beautiful pale jade with sunshine shimmering over the ripples.  There are signs of TC Debbie’s visit.  The treetops are bare, looking as if a bush fire had denuded them.  The general feeling is of recent carnage, but the charter boats are still aplenty, so business as usual.

I wanted to hike to the top of Whitsunday peak but the trail had too many obstacles with fallen trees and branches. One of the loose rocks, slippery with recent rain, toppled me and I landed heavily on my left hip, which is now very sore, despite Arnica.  I have noticed I am not as sure-footed yet as I should be, but it’s early days, so hopefully soon I’ll stop knocking myself about so much.

 

 

 

Dugong beach on a magic day.

 

Trusty inflatable kayak makes going ashore so much easier.

Mother's Day Departure

Great Keppel Island, 16/5/2017

Finally the weather settled, all imminent cyclone threats headed off to NZ, and there were no other excuses not to leave.  Well, there's always at least a dozen, but sometimes prevarication is the mother of perversity.  So Sunday, 14th May, Mother's Day in the land of the land, seemed an auspicious day to leave, it not being a Friday, which non-land dwellers consider tempting fate to overturn everything.

This time I opted for an overnighter up to Great Keppel Island, without stopping at Pancake Creek for pancakes on the way.  The reasons behind this were partly to cover some distance, in case I changed my mind, and also to test the possibility of being able to cat nap for 20 minutes at a time, without the usual nervousness  that something was about to run me down, or I was about to bump into something hard.

It's a common occurrence that there's either too much wind or not enough.  It seemed like a good idea to start the journey without getting hammered too much at first.  Later on, fine, if it has to be that way,  but not right at the outset after months of quiet Marina life.  The old mal-de-mer is still lurking not far away on those first few days before I get my sea legs.

Bundaberg Port Marina doesn't bother dredging the small boat end of town, so Shanti sits in the mud at low tide, which means it's only possible to vacate the berth at high tide. The plan was to slip out at 10 am then head to the slightly deeper fuel dock, do some last minute preparations, scrub the starboard side of the hull, and fill the empty jerry cans with diesel.  Only setback was a sign that read, "No fuel until Sunday."  Hmmm, which Sunday I wondered.

An early start would have been better, in hindsight.

By 1330, I finally cast off.  My plan was to actually sail all the way, meaning to use those white bits of cloth hanging off the big white stick, without running the engine if possible.  I was really over "driving up the coast", which seems to be a necessary evil in order to enter the desired anchorage in daylight hours.  Well so what if I slop about at only one or two knots?  So what if it takes 90 hours to go 130 nautical miles?  Others have done it.  Surely I can too?

Half an hour of motoring out of the river, I puristically cut the engine and commenced a few miles of glorious sailing, before the wind dropped to 6 knots.  I persevered for a few more hours.  It was quite pleasant, and nice and quiet.  I was contentedly bobbing along at 3 knots of boat speed.  Later, only 2.  The night grew darker and colder, and longer.

I'm not sure what exactly it was that seduced me into turning the key.  Perhaps the thought of another couple of nights without sleep.  Perhaps the slight queasiness.  Perhaps the desire to be going somewhere.  Perhaps the fact that on a long distance ocean passage, time is less important because you're going to be out there for months anyway, and making a daylight landfall is a distant nicety, and you can sleep all night long if you want; but it's different on the busy coast.

I ended up motoring for 19 out of 28 hours, and just made it into the southernmost anchorage on Great Keppel Island as total blackness obliterated it from sight.  Then I gratefully slept like the dead.

This morning, I once again turned the key and drove round to a more sheltered anchorage on the northern side of the island.

The water is crystal clear, so I dove on the hull with scrubber in hand to clean off the rest of Bundaberg slime.

For lunch, I ate a salad with the Morton Bay bugs that one of the local fishermen at Bundaberg had given me.  Funny looking critters, but taste delicious, rather like baby lobster or crayfish.

I plan on making an early start from here tomorrow, heading to Port Clinton.  Hopefully with more sailing than motoring!

Weather window

Bundaberg,

May 4th 2017  (Or as someone so astutely observed, Star Wars day) - was to be departure day, in an ideal world without weather.

However, words of wisdom from my son in law, Dr Andrew Watkins, meteorologist at the BOM, suggested the cyclone season may not fit so neatly within its usual parameters of November to April this year, and patience could be the more sensible course.  Clearly Mother Nature doesn't watch the calendar as closely as we sailors do.

After three weeks living in the protected environment of a house in Melbourne, it is easy to forget the weather.  Mostly it was sunny, quite mild for autumn, occasionally rained and blew a little. Nothing of any great concern.  So it seemed perfectly reasonable to come back to Shanti with a departure date in mind.  Wrong!

Looking at the forecast for the coming week - gales of over 40 knots and 2-3 meter seas, with potential for another low forming within the monsoon trough that could develop into another Tropical cyclone Debbie - staying tied up in Bundaberg Marina seems somewhat more appealing than going sailing.



This forecast shows a low approaching the Queensland coast this weekend.



Forecast to slide down the coast toward Bundaberg next week.

TC Debbie left a trail of devastation through the Whitsundays last month. After tracking inland she re-emerged at the coast near here, bringing torrential rain and winds up to 55 knots.  During this deluge my life raft self-inflated.  It was stored in the well under the cockpit floor, which ordinarily is reasonably watertight. It was quite an odd sight to find the floor lifted to a 45 degree angle, as if some subterranean iceberg was surfacing!  Fortunately it could be relatively easily repacked with a new gas cylinder, (after evicting a resident cane toad) and a memo to store in a drier spot.

While in Melbourne, I bought myself a second-hand sextant, just for fun really, but you never know when those satellites that we take so much for granted might be shut down.  I'm looking forward to learning how to use it, kind of like learning a foreign language.  I also bought some bluetooth wireless headphones and scraped together a collection of audiobooks. Should keep me amused for months out on the ocean.

Till then, it's a waiting game ....




Disuse begets disorder.

16/3/2017  Bundaberg, still ....

 

If you stop too long in one place, boat jobs catch up with you.  A boat that you might have thought completely seaworthy and ready to set off around the world, begins to demand further attention.  This was one of the objections I presented to those who argued the irrelevance of delay.  The longer you delay, the more the peak of preparedness slides toward the slippery realm of entropy. 

Of course, some delays, like some boat jobs, are necessary, some perhaps less so.  It was important to get the leaky rudder post repaired, the pintel bearing restructured, the alternator and solar panels charging.  And who could resist the luxury of a working fridge?  It seems that turning back last year from just south of Cairns to the relative cyclone-proof haven of Bundaberg was a wise move.

 

Time out in Melbourne for Christmas and in NZ for my father’s 99^th birthday in January was originally planned to be from South Africa, not Bundaberg, and I followed the blog of “Blue Flyer” as she crossed the Indian Ocean with some envy.  

Returning to “Shanti” at the beginning of February, I was keen to get out for a sail, partly to test everything and partly to escape that other insidious trap, the long-term attachment to the dock. So, early one morning I cast off, very pleased to find the engine fired enthusiastically into life at first key-turn.

A minor job still on the to-do list was to take the near new headsail to a sail maker to have a protective strip of leather sewn along the foot, which had been chafing on the life-lines.  I decided to drop the sail, (for the first time since it was made) which ordinarily would be a simple, quick and easy thing.  Not so. The sail jammed half way, and would go neither up nor down. Fortunately, there was very little breeze, so I was able to half furl it in and return to my marina berth without creating too much of a spectacle. 

One of the great things about the cruising community is the willingness to help one another.  We each have our strengths and weaknesses.  I’m useful on the other end of nuts or bolts but no good with heights. (I realize that one day I may have to overcome this fear).  I have built a plywood mast-climber, which allows someone (other than me) to “walk” their way up the mast while I merely take up the slack on the supporting halyards.  This could be used by a single-hander in an emergency, using mountain-climbing equipment (https://www.thegorgeoutdoors.co.uk/petzl-ascentree-double-handed-ascender ) to grip the ropes, slide up and lock.  Or, a simple friction hitch, like a Prusik knot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On this occasion, someone with less fear of heights kindly volunteered to try my new mast climber. Once at the top of the mast, he swung out and attached himself to the forestay, then slowly slid down the hypotenuse of the fore-triangle. His discovery was that practically every single grub screw securing the sections of the foil was loose.  Hence the foil had been able to shift slightly out of alignment, preventing the sail from sliding freely on its track. It appeared as if the grub screws had not been bonded with “Locktight”, so each was removed, (taking care not to drop any), treated and tightened.  Then the sail tracks were washed out with detergent and rinsed by hoisting a hose aloft. 

 

My current job-list has 14 items on it, including things like sand and paint the aluminium hull of the dinghy, bolt wheels on it, affix a clever lifting harness for ease of launch and retrieval.  I’m also working on making fly screens, rearranging and inventorising stores and provisions, securing extra jerry cans of drinking water down below.  The battery charger that was installed in Townsville died, so a replacement needs wiring in.  Only really needed on rainy overcast days, of which we have had one so far this year.

An ongoing concern is what food I need, how much to take and in what form.  I have looked into freeze-dried meals but they are expensive and most seem to have flavour enhancing nasties added.

One of the more time-consuming necessary/unnecessary jobs has been playing with the fresh water plumbing, which seemed to be leaking.  A largish puddle appeared in the bottom of the tight little space that is home to most of the water inlets and outlets. Of course it’s always a very tight, scarcely accessible space. 

It took several extremely hot and humid days to pull it all apart, remove defunct hoses to a non-existent hot water system, etc. All accompanied by blood, sweat, tears, bruises and a few well chosen words of encouragement; then to install a new Whale gusher foot pump, new hoses, joiners, reducers, T intersections, clamps, etc.

The end of the nut had been burred so had to be hacksawed off with my neat new flexi tool.

 

 

Some of the old hoses that were removed. Not so easy, as they were gooped in solidly through every hole.

 

I guess you might call it ironic, or just plain annoying, but the water in the bilge turned out to be condensation from under the fridge. What can I say?  Not much, other than it’s a far neater layout now than it was before, with all those superfluous hoses gone. 

While I was at it, it seemed like a nice addition to install a new electric pump and salt water tap in the galley.  I already had a hand pump fitted, but more water seemed to come out of the base of it than the spout and it often required an old Beatles song worth of pumping before any water surfaced.  

An added bonus - with another T intersection, the electric pump could do double duty as a deck wash.  I remember how muddy many of the anchorages were last year and how many buckets’ handles parted while trying to gather up water to sluice the chain, anchor and deck.

Now that’s got to be a superfluous nicety surely?  It must be time to go...

One more trip to Melbourne in April for imminent birth of youngest daughter, Shoni, and Pierre’s second child, then cyclone season should be over and the great migration North resumes.

 

 

 

 

The Walk to Wateva

Bundaberg 16/12/2016

 

A  trek alongside the Burnett  River goes  past a solitary windswept tree, which could be a fir or a she-oak,  or any other riverfront genus (I’m not much of a flora or fauna identifier - suggestions invited). 

I call it the whispering tree.  The wind sets up a constant whooshing sound through its foliage, something like the magical sound you hear when you put a conch shell to your ear – the sound of the sea.  It’s EAR-ily beautiful and I appreciate the fact that I have time to stop and listen.

Further on, there’s a bridge across the creek with a metal grated fence, which also sets up its own chorus of harmonic vibrations.

Next there are a few towering Acacia trees (perhaps) with flame red flowers in full bloom. The irridescent green and crimson parrots hide amongst the colours.

Less pleasing are the birds that divebomb me as I walk; (“Plovers”, I’ve been told), making a strident, chattering screech of warning to stay away from their hatchlings. They swoop up close to my face, then veer away at the last minute, before coming in again from the rear. I’ve been told they have barbs on their wings and could do some damage if they make contact, so my heart skips a few beats on each attack.  A suggestion is to wear sunglasses on the back of my hat, but I doubt the effectiveness of this, given that the forward facing sunglasses don’t seem to deter them.

Across the field, Mike keeps his catamaran, “Wateva” tied back to a tree.   He is the friend whose industrial sewing machine, hot knife, and other useful gadgets I occasionally get to use.

At all but high tide, he  sits high and dry near the grassy bank in his own private little hideaway.  A herd of kangaroos protect him from intruders – another potential danger to avoid – the kangaroos that is. 

 The big bucks are quite territorial and can bound faster than a speeding car.  Apparently they can lean back on their hind legs and claw you to shreds if they don’t like the look of you.  Mike says they only come out before rain so there haven’t been too many around lately. 

I can always hide behind tall Mark, the now-famous “Shagger” interviewed for the “Creek to Coast” TV coverage of the Shag Islet 2016 Rendezvous (mentioned in one of my earlier blogs.)  Mark was the one weilding the paint roller, doing a stirling job of antifouling Shanti when she was up on the hard.   I can never express enough gratitude for all the help received since I have been here in Bundaberg.

In fact, it reminds me of the willing workers who contributed their time so generously in Melbourne to help see me on my way last year. I just hope I can live up to it.  Someone asked me recently if my passion was still as strong for this venture of circumnavigating the globe and I was pleased to find the fire in the belly was still alight.

 

But now it's time for a necessary interlude, shaking out a few more of Shanti's glitches and waiting out the cyclone season here in Bundaberg before starting north again next year. 

Only one more day here before I fly  to Melbourne and then over to NZ, so last chance to tick off a couple more boat jobs.

When I was in Townsville, my electrician friend, Colin Grazules, fitted a 7 stage battery charger under the quarter berth.  This is a great way to keep the batteries fully charged while plugged into shore power at a marina, (not something I had planned on doing a lot of).  It does tend to get quite hot in that enclosed space, so I cut a hole in the fibreglass bulkhead to fit a plastic vent.

 

The other hole that I had ‘inadvertently’ cut in the ceiling still caused me grief.  The small piece of wood made to cover it should have been varnished like its mates, but I thought it would be less conspicuous if painted the same colour as the ceiling.  Wrong again.  Even the slightest mismatch of shade and it stands out like the proverbial, so I bought some paint stripper and scraped it back to bare wood again.  It seemed like a good opportunity to varnish the teak around the companionway at the same time, which was looking very weatherworn.  Be good if I had a couple more days for a couple more coats - maybe when I get back.

 

Another small job was to re-seal around the chain plates.  Keeping water out of boats seems to be a perrenial process.   

 

I had gooped these down when I re-rigged in Melbourne, but one had started to leak again.  I say “small” job because it only took me an hour to scrape the old goop off from underneath, whilst sitting out in the 35 degree heat. 

Did I mention how hot it is here?  Quite consistently so, unlike Melbourne.  Generally around low 30’s during the day and mid 20’s overnight.  Fantastic really, so long as you don’t want to do too much work outdoors.

 The local watering hole has become a bit of a regular destination, which for a non-drinker like me, is rather surprising.  But it’s airconditioned and I’ve discovered pear cider in a glass full of ice goes down well.  Mike, Mark, and a few other bods spend a few dollars there and enjoy a few laughs.

 Next week it will be the Sandy yachtie, now that I’ve learned how to drink.  I look forward to seeing some familiar faces.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She floats!

Bundaberg; 4/12/2016

It turned out to be exactly two weeks up on the hardstand, with the usual mad panic and time-compression over the last few days.  Each morning I'd write another list of at least a dozen jobs then prioritize them like some crazed project manager. 

Small things can so easily get overlooked, or get done wrongly, and throw the train off the rails.

Assumptions abound (I'm sure you've all heard the saying about making an ass of u & me), like the stainless steel rudder stock being a stock standard size - bu-boom; wrong!  The boat was built in South Africa where 31.9mm (not 32mm) means the new rudder bearings don't quite fit.  So it's take the whole lot back to the local engineering shop for adjustment.

And then there's the order of things to get in order. No matter how many times I checked with the shipwright that the rudder going back on was just going to be a "dry fit", to be removed again later, giving me time to antifoul the subsequently inaccessible bits, that was not the way it went.

Quite understandably really.  The major effort of digging holes in the ground, stacking blocks of wood, aligning, manhandling, jacking and forcibly encouraging the rudder back into place was not something to be repeated.  So homeless barnacles can once again make their home on the back edge of the skeg.

Then there was the epoxy filling and fairing, then painting with "Interprotect", a two pack epoxy paint, each of which needed curing time before the next stage in the process, so jobs like the priming and antifouling had to stand patiently in line.  It was often very frustrating to hold things up for the sake of a half meter of bog going off.  I entertained myself in the meantime by cutting and polishing the hull, a job which I would have liked to have done back in Melbourne but never quite had the time.

It seemed like a good idea to raise the waterline again.  This had already been done in Melbourne, but was higher at the back than the front of the boat, and patches of thick black weed were continually creeping up the topsides.  With a bit of guesswork, we added an extra 50mm at the bow. which was graduated gently back.

I was delighted to find she now floats along a perfectly even line from bow to stern.

Being back in the water is fantastic!  Even if the undredged marina has me settling into the mud on the bottom at low tide twice a day; an eerie feeling as she creaks in her bones in the middle of the night.

I had briefly contemplated leaving Shanti out on the hardstand for a few weeks while I am away but changed my mind about that.  It would have meant continuing to live aboard in that noisy, dirty environment, which was not at all appealing.  It took hundreds of litres of water to hose and scrub her clean once back in the marina, a very satisfying job.

There are still about another dozen or so jobs to be done before I leave.  It took the best part of the last three days and many trips to the Laundromat to clear all the fibreglass dust out of the boat.  It's nasty stuff that gets through the tiniest cracks and causes awful itching on the skin. Luckily the shipwright lent me his vacuum cleaner so I could get most of it off the squabs and anything that couldn't be washed. The cockpit locker especially was thick with it, and every single item had to be taken out onto the dock and hosed off.      

 

This morning I painted a second coat of Interprotect on the new fibreglass rudder post.  I'm happy to report not a drop of water to be found in the lazarette.  No more leaks - yay!!  Well worth the hard hit to the credit cards.

 

While I still had a little paint left, I put some on the old, crazed sink in the head (bathroom).  Both will need topcoating tomorrow.

 

I was mistaken about the leak over the stove that I had previously thought was coming through the deck organizers, requiring a hole cutting in the ceiling. Bu-boom, wrong again!  Another job to cover the unnecessary hole .....  Turns out it was the vent above the stove after all; the closest and most obvious place in hindsight.  This morning I gooped that down, so hopefully no more leaks from there.

 

 

While on the hardstand, the wind blew the companionway door over, breaking the Perspex in half, so I had to get a new one made. This one is thicker, tinted and made in two sections, so I can have the bottom half in while sailing, adding some protection from any big ugly breakers that may decide to join me in the cockpit. 

 

I also got the idea for a canvas cover with a couple of battens in. This affords a more convenient protection from rain or following seas, making it easier to more quickly enter or exit the cabin.  A friend here has an industrial sewing machine which he kindly let me use yesterday.  I recycled the canvas from my old bimini, which had just enough material for a pair of sailor's pants.

 

 

In exactly two weeks from today, I fly to Melbourne, so had better get on with finishing off my list of jobs (who am I kidding?)

 

Life on the hard

Bundaberg; 23/11/2016

For those of you who were wondering if I had sailed to the edge of the world and fallen off ...

The number one priority was to haul out and fix the leaks as soon as possible, so Bundaberg it was. Also there are a few good newfound friends here with good contacts for the job.

Being slipped here is nothing like Melbourne.

For starters, you remain aboard whilst being lifted sky-high in the travelift slings; rather a shaky experience.

Secondly, you don't get handed the high pressure water blaster to do your own washdown; it's an extra $108.80 for a 32' boat. You can't do a wet and dry sand in the slings so must dry sand later.

It's another $100 to set up the cradle.  There are additional environmental levies, despite the lack of too many rules or OH&S regulations.

There's no safety induction process; no fleuro orange "Visy" vest to wear or enclosed footwear necessary; thongs are just fine.

You can live aboard, do your own work and make as much mess and noise as you want. In fact, the daily jack-hammering, grinding or sandblasting of nearby steel fishing boats is quite brain juddering. Ear muffs are the latest fashion accessory. It's been a week so far and looks like being at least one more.



The view from my back door.

 

 

A pleasant luxury is the airline style stairs available for hire at $50 pw, rather than having to climb up and down a sheer vertical ladder a hundred times a day. Makes going to the loo in the middle of the night less challenging.

 

But that's the easy part. 

 

The task of trying to locate the source of the leak has been a far greater challenge, involving many great minds, much exploratory grinding in confined spaces, great muscle power and ultimately, throwing a few bucketloads of money at it.

 

It was soon obvious that the rudder needed to be removed, a simple enough sounding job, rather like one of those "just do that ......" type injunctions, where the word "just" implies no more than ten minutes of sweat.

 

 

 

The rudder is hung on the back of a triangular shape of fibreglass, called a "skeg".  At the bottom of the skeg is a bronze shoe, or "pintel", which has a bearing which encircles the rudder post (albeit with a rather misshapen and sloppy grip).

 

Before the rudder can be dropped the pintel has to be removed. Theoretically by just undoing a couple of bolts, only it's not that simple.  It's not just bolted, but glued on with fibreglass resin.

 

After a great many thumpings, bashings, hammerings, prisings, cussings, willing helper, Mark, goes off to just borrow a crow bar to forcibly encourage the parting of the ways, ushered in with a great shquwking/tearing/breaking sound as the resin reluctantly lets go.

 

 

 

The local shipwright, Colin, declares this to be a bodgy 5 pm Friday afternoon shortcut that should never have been put together in such a way and was basically an accident waiting to happen. It's nothing to do with the leak, but it's potentially a show-stopper that needed to be fixed.  Always good to find out these things in advance before losing a rudder mid-ocean.

 

The fix for this is to just grind back a section of the skeg, just make up a plug out of solid fibreglass (not just resin) with a protruding tongue to attach the pintel to and just fibreglass it all back together.

 

 

Back to the leak ....

 

Once the rudder was off, the stainless steel tube that the rudder stock went through could be cut in half and removed.  Then the surrounding area inside the boat ground back.

 

 



 

The hole in the centre is where the stainless steel pipe was.  The other hole is where the cockpit drain through-hull fitting goes (also leaking).

 

It soon became apparent that the fibreglass had never bonded properly to the stainless steel and was allowing small amounts of water to leak in.

 

A preferable material for the new tube is fibreglass.  The tube has bearings top and bottom (new ones will need to be made) which hold the rudder stock snugly in place.

 

It's great to have made all these discoveries and to be getting them fixed now.  Just as well I've been living off lettuce and lentils for the past few months' cruising. :-)

 

While out of the water, it's always a good idea to just paint the bottom with fresh antifoul, so that's next.

 

Shanti will stay here in Bundaberg while I fly back down to Melbourne for a month over the Christmas/ NY period, then over to NZ for my father's 99th birthday.

 

Looking forward to catching up with old friends again soon.