Boon or bane?

30/7/2017, Darwin.

 

I was wrong when I thought day hops were over.  This was because instead of sailing non-stop over the top of the Arafura Sea for a week, I chose to go via Gove.

Seisia to Gove is only three days and nights, and I discovered how tough sleeplessness can be.  The first day was virtually windless, so it was a reluctant key-turning, diesel burning time. (I was very conscious of my limited diesel capacity, but thought at least I could top up in Gove if need be.)

The next two days and nights were a battle-ground, with washing machine confused seas throwing Shanti about like a cork.  Sleep in that? Forget it.  I was hanging on by the skin of my teeth (and had already broken one of those). Everything down below was getting thrown about as if by some petulant giant sick of his toys.

Attempting to put a reef in the mainsail at midnight as gusts topped 30 knots I wrenched my shoulder – quite disarming (if you’ll excuse the pun). The electric "Winchrite" that Shoni bought me has long since died. 

Friends on “Hard Yakka” received only half of my VHF transmission and were unsure whether to turn back (to windward into 3 metre waves – don’t think so).  Anyway we all made it safely and Gove was well worth a visit.

The old disused bauxite processing plant. Now shipped raw.

Ric convinced us to stay until Thursday when the GYC opened and I have to say the meals were extraordinary.  None of this nouveau cuisine, fancily decorated half empty plate for them.  The free shower facilities were greatly appreciated too.

We hitched into town and learnt more of the local culture, which I found fascinating. I have never seen such a predominantly indigenous population, no doubt the reason behind the need for a liquor permit to buy alcohol and then only after 1400. And Leanne is only allowed to drink in the presence of Ric, the permit holder.

But the Gove detour really digs you into a bit of a hole. If you look at a chart of the area, you will see a string of lumpy bits – the Wessels - bar the way west. So back to day hopping, threading my way through them all, at times through some narrow and shallow slices in the terrain.

Nail-biting, butt clenching, nerve-wracking stuff going through inside of Croker Island, with unsurveyed shallows.

The so called “Hole in the Wall” is another such adrenaline surge. With currents running up to 12 knots it’s important to time the tide right.  Only trouble is, opinions on when exactly is “right” differ. “Dream Catcher” and “Mikado” were given information by a local fisherman, which surely should be right.  One would think.

I fell into line and tagged along behind them for the 1630 tide, only to get a last minute VHF radio call from the leader warning me their powerful engine could scarcely give them 1 knot of boat speed against the flood tide. No way known my little egg-beater would make any impression there. I didn’t want to risk having to wait until dark for slack water, so peeled away and sailed another 10 nautical miles down the coast to the nearest shelter for the night, arriving just on dusk.

Early next morning, Hard Yakka and Shanti punched back to windward to make the 0800 tide, a time recommended by Andrew Garret, President of the CYAV (thanks Andrew).  This time it was right.  No turbulence, just a smooth, very rapid transit, with a top speed of 10.5 kts SOG (Speed over Ground).  Very exciting.

Once on the other side of that bit of the island chain, there were more day sails; in fact, potentially dozens if one chose to meander and explore at a more leisurely pace.  But I was keen to push on to Darwin, so left our little fleet, to set out for another couple of overnighters.  I figured these were like mini tests for me, seeing if I could indeed sleep at sea.

This one was only 256 miles to Cape Don, the final stepping stone before the last 100 miles down into Darwin. But again, the wind was fickle, at first stranding me with not enough to stop the sails from slatting, later slamming me with the same force as before, making me question if I’d made the right decision.

I received one hugely special bonus in choosing to go out to sea, a real gift.  I was lying down below listening to Eva Cassidy singing about happy little bluebirds flying when I could hear a shrill chirping sound.  “How clever,” I thought.  Never noticed that  before.  When it continued after the song finished I thought some real birds had come to roost, as they often like to rest (and poop) on my solar panels out at sea.

But no.  What an unbelievable sight met my eyes,  Shanti was surrounded by dozens of the biggest, blackest dolphins (or Minke whales) that I have ever seen. Some were almost as big as Shanti, and close enough for me to touch.  I wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or freaked.  More and more joined in from afar, slipping alongside effortlessly, diving, surfacing with huge spouts from their large blowholes, splashing the water with their tails and breaching right in front of the boat. They stayed and played for well over an hour, an unusual length of time for a pod not to grow bored of a slow moving boat.  Down below, the hull reverberated with their chittering song. What a privilege! 

 

One of the things I love about Shanti is her proximity to the elements.  Of course, all boons also have their banes. The bane is she is so close to the elements as to almost be a part of them, at times rather too much so.

So, at last, Darwin! The Holy Grail. I have made it.  And this is where we rest.

Sitting on anchor in Fannie Bay, the city skyline in the background, I reflect on this journey and all that I have learned.  This blog would be even longer than it already is, were I to include even half of these things.

For the most part Shanti has been brilliant.  There have been some issues around self-steering gear (quite critical for single-handing) and at times I question her diminutive proportions.  I know that lots of people sail across oceans in even smaller boats (often they are younger with something to prove, or older, with a death wish).

I am neither, and have to admit that single-handing is damn hard – and a tad unsafe.  This small boat bites.  It throws me about like a rag doll; it brings out old symptoms, such as shoulder bursitis, backaches and, more scarily, debilitating attacks of vertigo (not a good thing on a boat). I’m sure my system is overflowing with adrenaline, cortisol, norepinephrine, glucagon and enough other stress hormones to sink a ship.

It may just be time to put my childhood dream back into the toy box. Or at very least to take some time out to consider practicalities, such as having extra crew, water/fuel supply, safety, comfort vs hardship.

So what now?

Serendipitous synchronicities as usual pop up.  Ric, off Hard Yakka, gave me a contact in Darwin for a cheap marina berth, $100 pw.

A couple of friends are doing a delivery of a cat from the Seychelles back to Darwin.  At the last minute the third crew member pulled out, and they asked me to replace her.   4,500 nautical miles, against wind and current – hmmm, not an easy decision. Air fare, marina berth, all food and drink covered. Is this jumping out of the frying pan into the fire?

End of Shanti transmission.