Vulnerabilities

June 10^th 2017 Horseshoe Bay, Magnetic Island

Cape Upstart found me laid up with some kind of tummy bug.  At first I thought the nausea was due to having lost my sea legs after the Bowen interlude, but when it developed throughout the night into some serious evacuation of my insides to the outside, I knew it was different. So another lay day was necessary, feeling quite wretched, with thoughts of the perils of life at sea.

I have been giving some consideration to contingency planning in relation to possible vulnerabilities from breakdown, loss or damage.

Last year, it was the inverter, which converts 12V battery power to 240V. Its failure would mean there would be no way of charging the laptop, on which I run my main electronic navigation system, using Open CPN with C-maps charts.

I thought about buying a spare inverter but chose instead to get a 12V DC charger, the kind that plugs into a cigarette lighter. This uses a lot less power than the inverter.  I also bought a second, larger iPad that runs Navionics.  And in case all that fails, a sextant and paper charts.  I think all bases are covered there.

Vulnerability # 2: “Tilly” autopilot. (We have an all-girl crew on Shanti – the tiller pilot is nicknamed “Tilly”, the Fleming windvane “Min”). Min is the main hand for long distance passages, but doesn’t work so well up the coast with wind directly behind. So Tilly gets to have most of the fun, whenever I let her have it.  We have a kind of co-dependency and I rely heavily on her unerring support when I am otherwise occupied.

Solution: buy and wire in a back-up tiller pilot, an oversized Simrad TP32.

Tilly was overheating so needed a damp cloth and microtowel shade, courtesy of Rosy Patole, France

Vulnerability # 3: reading glasses. It suddenly occurred to me that if lost, I would literally be lost without them.  Easy fix to that one.

Vulnerability # 4: Me.  Hmmm.   Stay safe, stay well, stay on board.

A new motto occurred to me recently: “Everything is fine until it isn’t.”

So I am learning to stay more in the present moment, not letting my mind run so freely down those “what-if” tracks, trusting that I will deal with things as they arise.

The passage from Upstart to Magnetic Island, near Townsville, is a long one, around 70 nautical miles.  It requires an early morning start, and even though I didn’t really feel up to getting up at 0330, it needed to be done. The full moon was very welcome in helping me avoid the few other boats anchored nearby.

On my “lay day” I had set up the whisker pole, ready to pole out the headsail on the opposite side to the main if need be. 

 This goosewing effect allows both sails to remain effective, instead of the main blanketing the headie.

Not the first time I have poled out, but the first time with the new dinghy taking up much of the foredeck.

Have had to remove the baby stay because of the dinghy on the foredeck.  Found this double-sided Velcro is fantastic for so many uses round the boat.

It was interesting to note that I made this same passage last year on my youngest daughter, Shoni’s birthday, 14^th July. This time, it was on Misha’s birthday, 9^th June, a very different experience to the black night, pouring rain and howling gale of last year.

I am more than a month ahead, which gives me a better chance of getting to Darwin by the end of July.

Was wonderful to be welcomed to "Paradise" at dusk by Cam on "First Contact", who baked a tasty veg lasagne for our dinner. Thanks Cam!

I have been reflecting on how different things are this year.  Shanti is far sounder, with her rudder post leak and other things fixed. The engine (who used to be known as “Mary, Mary, quite contrary”) is less of an unknown quantity. It was very disconcerting, never knowing which inopportune moment she would choose to stop.

After a year’s “shake-down” I have much more confidence in both boat and self and can relax a bit. Last year I was constantly vigilant, feeling that if I wasn’t standing in the cockpit watching everything, every second, things could go horribly wrong. Every wave that rolled us beyond the point of gybe, every slat of the sail that thwanged so violently it seemed as if the mast might come down; it all required me to be at the ready. 

There never seemed to be a point at which I could leave Shanti to her own devices for a moment and trust that she would be OK. I couldn’t even force myself to lie down and rest for 10 minutes.  Of course, such vigilance is sometimes required, as for example in a storm, but cannot be sustained constantly, without burnout.

So I am learning to pace myself and not suffer unnecessarily. There will be time enough for that.

“A voyage is a problem to be solved with your mind and body.” (Webb Chiles, on his 6^th circumnavigation).

Blowin at Bowen

Bowen  31/5/2017

Had a brilliant sail from Airlie to Gloucester Passage, the scene of the annual Shaggers Rendezvous in August, which was such fun last year.  Of course, passing through in May this year was a much quieter, solitary affair; basically just another overnight stop.

The weather forecast was for strong winds for the following week and I really didn't fancy a repeat of the beating I took last year sailing up to Townsville.  So I opted to park Shanti in Bowen Marina for the duration of the blow.

There were two windows of opportunity for ease of manoeuvring in the tight confines of Bowen. - either slack water low at 1000 or slack water high at 1600.  It's about 12 miles across, and I allowed 3 hours sailing time. The current flows westward with the ebb tide, so I would either have it with me in the morning or against me in the afternoon.  When I awoke at 0630 the wind was already whipping up whitecaps so the decision was made for me to up anchor and go.

It was hard to slow Shanti down enough to get there at 1000.  Even with the headsail half furled in, she was still doing over 6 knots SOG. (Speed Over Ground).

I had rung ahead and been given the number of someone who could be there to take my lines.  The berth I was allocated could scarcely be given the illustrious title of Marina berth, being more like a narrow gap between the rock breakwater and the floating plastic walkway.

The leads in are narrow and shallow and a strong crosswind was blowing when I arrived at 0930.  Half a dozen people were standing on the end of the dock, yelling instructions at me.  The trick was to turn immediately toward the shallower mangroves (0.2 metres below keel), then reverse back toward the rock wall, then do a last minute pirouette to parallel the pontoon, all the while avoiding the barnacle encrusted piles and moored boats.

I had three quite respectable goes at it, after which it was obvious Shanti just didn't want to go in there. Can't say I blame her.

The helpers agreed and yelled out a change of plan - apparently there was a proper berth available, a lot easier to get into.  It was the spare berth belonging to a man called Kerry, who perceived that my need of it was greater than the others who had said they were (possibly) coming.  I was soooo grateful!  He even told the club not to charge me for the larger size, just the 10 m I had requested.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ugsZTmKy2XI

Airlie sunset

"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.