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.

Over The Top!

12/7/2017   Seisia

Continuing on from Yorkeys Knob .....


As suspected, there are some stunning anchorages north of Cairns, many of which are little more than a coral reef with a smudge of yellow sand on top, but boast crystal clear water, birds, and plenty of black tipped reef sharks.




 Low Islets - picture postcard holiday destination.

No swimming with these guys today.

From Low Islets my latest stalker, son Baillie, picked it right; yes, Hope Islands. How could I not go there, being my name-sake?

The pass between the islands may be fine for boats with more than one person on board, but for me on my own, it was a potential hit or miss. 

The tricky part is spotting the “bommies” - kind of vertical ant-hills of coral upsurges ready to take the bottom out of your boat if you unsuspectingly go over one – which I did, luckily with a couple of inches to spare. Hard enough to spot from the bow or half way up the mast – impossible from the cockpit. 

Again, luck was on my side.  (Occasionally my more superstitious side thinks about cats and their nine lives.)

Some of the yachts en route to begin the Indonesia rally, enjoying Lizard Island

Lizard Island is a wonderland with magnificent scenery and best of all, a sheltered, swell-free anchorage. I spent 6 days there, relaxing, hiking, snorkelling over colourful coral gardens with giant 100 year old clams and made new friendships over bonfires on the beach. This is the cruising lifestyle at its best.

At the next stop, Flinders Island, a rescue helicopter airlifted a French single-hander off his boat with suspected bowel haemorrhage.  He was totally distraught at having to leave his yacht on anchor in this remote spot.  We heard later that his insurance arranged for a boat from Cooktown to return him to his boat, so it ended better than it might have.  Made me realize just how vulnerable we are out here. What was interesting was that another French couple alerted the rescue mission via France.

Very fortunate that there was an area of flat land for the helicopter to land.

For me, the sailing inside the reef has been excellent, with mostly flat water and tail winds up to 20 knots.  It requires constant vigilance to dodge the myriads of islands and reefs and the odd container ship, but has been mostly enjoyable.  There seemed to be a favourable current assisting me in doing the 75 mile leg from Morris Island to Escape River in 12 hours, quite a record for little Shanti.

Over the top end, Cape York was a significant milestone for me. 

Coming up to the top of Australia, strong tidal flows pushed boat speed up to 9 knots at times.

Of course the final hoorah of self congratulation wasn’t going to pass unchallenged, so from Escape River on, the wind increased a lot and I ended up in a difficult predicament.

Sailing back south on the other side of the Cape, the seas were high, the wind gusting up to 40 knots, and when it came time to turn into the approach to Seisia, my little “egg-beater” of a prop was unable to drive the boat into wind and waves. Couldn’t even make one knot of boat speed and it wasn’t possible to try and tack, because the channel was very shallow on either side of the leads.  I gave up and ran with the wind until the next island, (Parau)which was little more than a large rock, but gave some shelter.  Dropping anchor there at least gave me some time to take stock of the situation.  I knew I couldn’t stay there, so plotted a few possible courses out. 

I finally managed to up anchor and claw my way back to windward, sailing across some very shallow waters, trying to stay in close to the shelter of Red Island. 

You can see from this screen shot of my approach that I entered the leads about half way down the channel.  The wind was so strong it took me nearly two hours to cover the short distance in to the anchorage. I felt so, so relieved to make it safely in. (Another cat’s life?)

 

Lifting the dinghy stops the crocs from using it as a teething ring.

The gorgeous crew of Hard Yakka and I took the ferry across to Thursday Island on Thursday.

Going to miss these lovelies when we go our separate ways.

I realized yesterday that I may have just had my last day sail up this reef strewn Coral Coast.  From here across the Arafura sea to Darwin is about 750 miles of virtually open water.  No more day-hopping, pushing to reach the next anchorage before dark. 


Of course, this also means no more sleeping through the night. I’m not sure yet which is the harder.  I guess I’ll find out. 

The essentials of life

22/6/2017

Yorkeys Knob (just north of Cairns)

Interesting the way things can change, from absolutely perfect to all messed up.  The morning sail from Mourilyan was glorious, flat seas, beam reach, light SW wind up to 12 knots.  The coastline was spectacular with layers of gentle hills fading to a backdrop of steep mountain ranges. 

One forecast was for nothing over 15 knots; another had it getting up to 25.  Always confusing that.

As the wind increased and the seas mounted, Tilly (autopilot) decided it was all too much for her and let out a long, plaintive squeal, meaning either “I’ve had enough” or “I need a rest”.  So I gave her a rest for a couple of hours.  Then I needed a rest.

But the waves were getting bigger, lifting the stern and throwing it off at wild angles, requiring a strong grip on the tiller.  I started wondering what to do.

Reduce sail was an obvious thing, but I was hoping we could just hang on for another hour and we’d be in the lee of Fitzroy Island, which would make it much easier to deal with.

As invariably is the case, the time for me to act was overpassed and it was taken out of my hands.  One of those infamous “double the average height” waves hit us hard, slewing us sideways down its face.  The force on the tiller was uncontrollable.  The boom dipped in the water as we broached, the lee cloths were ripped off and water poured into the cockpit.

Down below, the cutlery drawer flew open, spilling its contents; everything that could move from the starboard to port side of the cabin did so.  OK, a big hint that time to slow down was overdue - much as surfing down the backs of waves at over 8 knots was thrilling.

I let us round up into the on-coming waves, lashed the helm and dropped the main.  Luckily I had furled most of the jib in earlier so there was not too much flogging.  It surprised me how well she sat in that semi hove-to position while I started the engine.  It would have made so much more sense to do it an hour before.  Still more learning required.

Fitzroy Island was only a mile or so away and provided welcome shelter for the night.

Sailing from there the next day, the wind again was up over 30 knots, but I was prepared for it with hardly any sail up.

If I thought the entrance to Bowen was scary, coming into Yorkeys Knob was terrifyingly heart stopping.

 Entering the marked channel an hour before low tide, the depths below keel went rapidly from 0.6, thru 0.5,4,3,2,1 to 0.00m!  With a strong cross wind, had I grounded, Shanti would soon have been on the rocks.  It’s hard to believe they don’t have a warning attached to this place.  When friends of mine enquired about depth at the entrance later that same day they were told there was no problem.  How totally irresponsible is that?

Nonetheless, I have enjoyed a 4 day respite in the muddy, croc-infested shallows of Yorkeys and am preparing to depart tomorrow morning.

 

 

From here on up, some things get a bit tighter, like easy access to shops and bowsers and water taps.  So it’s been number crunching time, trying to calculate how much of everything vital is necessary over the next few weeks of relative unavailability.

Water is probably the biggest concern.  The trade winds should blow consistently strongly from the SE, obviating the need for too much diesel (of which I carry around 100 litres – sufficient for about 70 hours of motoring). 

I have been experimenting with water rationing, seeing if I can manage on 2 litres per day.  My water tanks hold 160 litres, theoretically enough for 80 days, which other cruisers find amusing.  I decant 2 litres into an old vinegar bottle each day, only to find I’m short by about a cup in the evening when I feel like a cup of tea. This is partly due to the fact that things like rice, pasta and lentils are also thirsty and can’t be rehydrated in salt water.

Newfound friends on a cat called “Hard Yakka” have been very kind and supplied some scrumptious freshly caught fillets of Mackerel.  Ric is sailing up and over the top and on to the Kimberleys with his all girl crew, one of whom happens to be an ex work colleague of my daughter, Pandora’s.  Small world.

From here on up, outside contact with the world becomes a bit more rarified. There are two more possible stopovers, Port Douglas and Cooktown, but I will most probably by-pass those.  I have reprovisioned with enough food for Africa, filled up with water and diesel, done the laundry, scrubbed myself clean, and am as ready as I’m ever going to be.

From here to the tip of Australia at Cape York should take about two weeks, with nightly rests in some apparently stunning anchorages.  The town of Gove is the next civilization if I choose to go there.  Otherwise it’s a non-stop run of around a week across the top of the Arafura Sea to Darwin.  So blogging may be on hold for a while until then.

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.