A bleak grey day to match our feelings.
With the weather looking reasonable for the next few days – thankfully - what we really needed was a good sleep before putting to sea. We would have 4-5 days out there at best, and we would be taxed, possibly as never before. In reality, we got little sleep, as by late evening the wind swung flukily to the North-East and we drifted back over shallower water and the depth alarm screeched its strident warning. We thought we would be ok, but having no motor to re-anchor we felt vulnerable throughout the night, and rest, not sleep was fitful at best. Just before dawn a rain shower swept over us and when a pale light emerged in the eastern sky, it showed curtains of rain squalls to the south, the direction that we would be heading. With all that had happened, and all that we were feeling, we were in a situation where physically, we would be more at risk of sea-sickness than ever before. This is something that we could not afford.
Paul alongside towing us out of the anchorage.
Paul, to his eternal credit saw us safely out of Gilia. He came over in his tinny with 15 more horses that we possessed, and once tethered alongside helped us manhandle up our anchor, as with no motor to support the winch, the drain on our batteries would be intolerable. Out in the Coral Sea, our battery / power budget would have to support our critical systems of radio and chart plotter, leaving a bit in reserve for some auto helm if we really got stuck. Our anchor would have to come up by hand. With Paul providing motive power, he headed us for clear air in open waters where we could hoist a main, and make for the nearest passage south to the west of Bagaman Island. As we departed Gilia we passed the stern of Insatiable, and although Chris was on the stern to bid us farewell it was clear that she felt too awful to speak. To the east emerged the islands of Blue Lagoon; so near and yet so far. Soon it was time for Paul to cast us adrift, with a promise that apart from our regular Shiela Net sked, he would set up a support group of cruisers to call us at 1800hrs daily to follow us on the lonely miles home. This network would include boats both sides of the Coral Sea, just in case interference blanketed one side of the ocean. Once our plight was known it was clear that many boats were monitoring HF for our calls, including Derek who provided weather updates, to save our power on board. The support of this group of fellow seafarers, many of whom we had never met was a heartfelt experience for us, and there was more to come.
Approaching the Sunken Barrier. A local sailing canoe behind us.
Beyond Bagaman a local sailing canoe swept past our stern with its eager lateen sail gripping the light Nor-Easter. It was like they were bidding us farewell. Our passage led us east of our original arrival point in the Duchateau Group, and according to Bruce on Swaggie we could safely make our way over the Sunken Barrier, some 20 miles away, to the open sea beyond. From there it was 603nm to Townsville, as the shearwater flies. If the last few days had been soul destroying, there was more excruciation for us to endure. For days swirling Sou Easters had shrouded the islands in mist, and now as we were leaving, the skies became clear and the islands of the Louisiades lined up in crystal clarity with Misima standing sentinel-like in the distance. With the wind as it was we were forced to tack our way to the south, and with each manoeuvre, the Louisiade Islands lay prominent to the north, seemingly within reach, taunting, taunting and taunting. They would not disappear. Then to cap it off, a dim-dim sail appeared above the horizon and swept towards us for a time before tacking and heading for Panasia. Panasia! This was our favourite island, our island of dreams with its craggy ramparts and lagoon beyond description, and yes there it was, proud and majestic, just a handful of miles away. The visitor, the last vessel we would see for days, would be anchored there by nightfall while we inched our way south in light airs and unending tacks, the zigging and zagging of which drove us to distraction. As night on Day1 fell and we met the 1800hr sked, Kel on Mojo later conveyed to us that we conveyed to those listening and to those “on the side” that our tedious path over the map was “like that of a ruptured slug”. With our last sight of the islands fading, and winds too soft to engage the Fleming Wind Vane (the self-steering device), it was time to settle into overnight watches and hand-steer on through the night with the golden orb of a near full-moon rising. On another occasion the beauty of it all would be captivating. Sadly, our thoughts were occupied by making ground as best we could, and as the new day dawned the zigs elongated with the wind easing to the East and by morning sked we had made 96 nautical miles on our path to Magnetic Passage through the Great Barrier Reef. So far so good; we just needed a bit more wind.
Dawn day two.
Into day two the breeze eventually lifted, and mercifully Calista was now on course, headed for our first waypoint, off the lonely Moore Reefs, an eternity from the Barrier Reef proper. We had 15-20 knots on our beam, and although the sea had built, we were clipping along at between 6-7 knots under conservative sail. We could not afford to press our ship for more speed as to suffer a significant gear failure would be catastrophic. Out here in expanses of the Coral Sea there was no-one to help if things went wrong. By now conditions were ideal for our wind-vane and we longed to set it up so that “Kev” (as in Kevin Fleming the designer) could take over the steering. Then to our utter dismay, we discovered that a fitting was loose in the centre of the device, and that whilst we could fix the problem in a half hour in port, leaning out over the back of the boat in the plunging ocean made a repair beyond the realms of possibility. We were stuck with hand steering, some two hours on, two hours off, and that is how it had to be. By the end of our second morning sked, we had added a further 131 miles to our total.
Now Calista was in her element. Wind on the beam and romping over the billows. The next two days saw us cover 159 and 160 nautical miles as Australia drew closer and our bums, and everything else got sorer. We grabbed food as we could, and sleep where it was possible. Eventually exhaustion sees to this. The sea was such that the shape of our ship moulded agreeably with the elements, although every now and then one a swell would form that we could not avoid and we would cop a drenching. This was worst at the beginning of a watch. Below, with hatches closed the air steamed and clothes hung out to dry as if we were a Mumbai laundry.
Survived another long night of helming. Time for a sleep and change of helmsman.
Picture this; it is 0230hrs and I have just handed over the helm. Below one lies down and listens to the sound of the sea and taps into the “feel” of the ship. Cookie can instantly tell if I need to adjust sails. I try not to disturb her but always there is a cry, like “don’t you need to ease the main?” or “have you got too much headsail?” from below. This time I felt the ship under me for a time and then thump! A big one had hit us and a torrent had come on board, sweeping the helm. Just as quickly a torrent of another form was returned from the helm and we sailed on. “Are you ok?” I called out. “Just go to sleep!” she calls out. Like this we trundle on through the night, and the next day, and the next night…
We left Gilia on Sunday morning and by Thursday morning we were drawing abeam of Myrmidon Reef from where we would harden sails for Magnetic Passage that lay beyond. We were still beyond the reach of Coast Guard assistance and we feared that should the winds turn contrary, or fade altogether we were a risk of drifting onto one of the surrounding reefs that lay malevolently below the horizon. We had even filled the motor on the duck to deploy if desperation warranted its use. Happily, the breeze held sufficiently for us to negotiate the Passage on one tack although we were very close hauled at times. Moreover, with the way our parage had developed, we were negotiating this waterway in daylight, and by nightfall, with a little luck we would see the lights of Townsville. Not far now.
Morning light, day five.
A little celebration marked our last eve at sea. Weary of food a-la catch as catch can, your scribe resolved, against the advice of the helm to construct a vegetarian omelette / slice to mark our return and our salvation. Finding that three of our remaining eggs were below par – a nice term for those readers who may suffer from squeamishness at sea – and a fine powdered product was substituted. The recipe, cooked in a rolling sea with a gimballed stove (one that swings with the sea) is as follows. Take finely diced pumpkin and capsicum (that’s fun!) and sautee in a pan smeared with olive oil. Embellish with lemon pepper, a touch of soy, and dashes of Worcestershire and other condiments to taste. When golden, fold in one sealed vessel (tin) of diced spinach and add the egg / milk blend before sealing and cooking on a moderate stove for a number of minutes, whist bracing and holding. Aficionados of fine foods would point to the desirability of sprinkles of cheese over slivers of tomato to embellish this dish, but their galleys do not cavort as our does. Present the finished product to the disbelieving helm – with flourish!
Our final hurdle was to come, with the myriad of lights marking the Townsville Harbour and the need for us to line up first-time on the lead lights to the Breakwater Marina where Customs and Quarantine officers would see us legally ashore once again. From sea there are lights everywhere, a veritable fairyland, and from these we needed to pick the green and red indicators that would see us in. On our final day sked we received a return call from Nick and Jan Wooler on Yawarra 2 and we had the great fortune to discover that these Shiela Net “regulars” – Jan often runs or manages the sked – were anchored in the “Duck Pond” just at the point where we would have to round up and maybe seek towing assistance over the last 200m into the marina. We have never met these samaritans, but they came up to say where they were and to reassure us that whatever the hour a VHF call to them would see them come out in their powerful tender to see us safely in. So in fading airs, on a drifter, that is how it proved to be, and these wonderful people had arranged for their niece and nephew to be dockside to secure our lines. For the record, we tied up at 2130hrs, on Thursday night, having departed Gilia on Sunday at 0730hrs We were just so thankful, but Nick and Jan wanted none of our gratuities, as they slid off into the night, saying that this is what sea people do for other sea people. “You’ll need some sleep” was their only suggestion. The rest of the world has much to learn from sea people we think.
The Breakwater Marina entrance by day. Note the boats anchored outside in the duckpond where Jan & Nick met us in their duck.
Calista and crew had traversed 623 nm of solitary seas in 110 hours of hand steering and we were proud of what we had achieved. We had returned in safety as planned. We were weary but not beaten although our nether regions were stridently complaining. Back in offshore sailing days Cookie got dubbed “Captain Araldite” as she liked to stick at the helm. Even Captain Araldite was over hand steering for a time.
Curiously, after one crackling cold offering from our cold store, and some nibbles to support, sleep did not come quickly or easily. The levels of concentration over the last few days and the trauma of all that had happened led to a fitful slumber. For me I thought of the indescribable beauty of being alone at the helm under full moon in the broad expanse of the Coral Sea. I could enjoy it now. And, I thought of the box of beautiful bracelets and of the ruddy smiles that they would draw in distant isles. Finally, I thought of Alby’s pumpkin, and of a paradise that we had lost.
With the weather looking reasonable for the next few days – thankfully - what we really needed was a good sleep before putting to sea. We would have 4-5 days out there at best, and we would be taxed, possibly as never before. In reality, we got little sleep, as by late evening the wind swung flukily to the North-East and we drifted back over shallower water and the depth alarm screeched its strident warning. We thought we would be ok, but having no motor to re-anchor we felt vulnerable throughout the night, and rest, not sleep was fitful at best. Just before dawn a rain shower swept over us and when a pale light emerged in the eastern sky, it showed curtains of rain squalls to the south, the direction that we would be heading. With all that had happened, and all that we were feeling, we were in a situation where physically, we would be more at risk of sea-sickness than ever before. This is something that we could not afford.
Paul alongside towing us out of the anchorage.Paul, to his eternal credit saw us safely out of Gilia. He came over in his tinny with 15 more horses that we possessed, and once tethered alongside helped us manhandle up our anchor, as with no motor to support the winch, the drain on our batteries would be intolerable. Out in the Coral Sea, our battery / power budget would have to support our critical systems of radio and chart plotter, leaving a bit in reserve for some auto helm if we really got stuck. Our anchor would have to come up by hand. With Paul providing motive power, he headed us for clear air in open waters where we could hoist a main, and make for the nearest passage south to the west of Bagaman Island. As we departed Gilia we passed the stern of Insatiable, and although Chris was on the stern to bid us farewell it was clear that she felt too awful to speak. To the east emerged the islands of Blue Lagoon; so near and yet so far. Soon it was time for Paul to cast us adrift, with a promise that apart from our regular Shiela Net sked, he would set up a support group of cruisers to call us at 1800hrs daily to follow us on the lonely miles home. This network would include boats both sides of the Coral Sea, just in case interference blanketed one side of the ocean. Once our plight was known it was clear that many boats were monitoring HF for our calls, including Derek who provided weather updates, to save our power on board. The support of this group of fellow seafarers, many of whom we had never met was a heartfelt experience for us, and there was more to come.
Beyond Bagaman a local sailing canoe swept past our stern with its eager lateen sail gripping the light Nor-Easter. It was like they were bidding us farewell. Our passage led us east of our original arrival point in the Duchateau Group, and according to Bruce on Swaggie we could safely make our way over the Sunken Barrier, some 20 miles away, to the open sea beyond. From there it was 603nm to Townsville, as the shearwater flies. If the last few days had been soul destroying, there was more excruciation for us to endure. For days swirling Sou Easters had shrouded the islands in mist, and now as we were leaving, the skies became clear and the islands of the Louisiades lined up in crystal clarity with Misima standing sentinel-like in the distance. With the wind as it was we were forced to tack our way to the south, and with each manoeuvre, the Louisiade Islands lay prominent to the north, seemingly within reach, taunting, taunting and taunting. They would not disappear. Then to cap it off, a dim-dim sail appeared above the horizon and swept towards us for a time before tacking and heading for Panasia. Panasia! This was our favourite island, our island of dreams with its craggy ramparts and lagoon beyond description, and yes there it was, proud and majestic, just a handful of miles away. The visitor, the last vessel we would see for days, would be anchored there by nightfall while we inched our way south in light airs and unending tacks, the zigging and zagging of which drove us to distraction. As night on Day1 fell and we met the 1800hr sked, Kel on Mojo later conveyed to us that we conveyed to those listening and to those “on the side” that our tedious path over the map was “like that of a ruptured slug”. With our last sight of the islands fading, and winds too soft to engage the Fleming Wind Vane (the self-steering device), it was time to settle into overnight watches and hand-steer on through the night with the golden orb of a near full-moon rising. On another occasion the beauty of it all would be captivating. Sadly, our thoughts were occupied by making ground as best we could, and as the new day dawned the zigs elongated with the wind easing to the East and by morning sked we had made 96 nautical miles on our path to Magnetic Passage through the Great Barrier Reef. So far so good; we just needed a bit more wind.
Into day two the breeze eventually lifted, and mercifully Calista was now on course, headed for our first waypoint, off the lonely Moore Reefs, an eternity from the Barrier Reef proper. We had 15-20 knots on our beam, and although the sea had built, we were clipping along at between 6-7 knots under conservative sail. We could not afford to press our ship for more speed as to suffer a significant gear failure would be catastrophic. Out here in expanses of the Coral Sea there was no-one to help if things went wrong. By now conditions were ideal for our wind-vane and we longed to set it up so that “Kev” (as in Kevin Fleming the designer) could take over the steering. Then to our utter dismay, we discovered that a fitting was loose in the centre of the device, and that whilst we could fix the problem in a half hour in port, leaning out over the back of the boat in the plunging ocean made a repair beyond the realms of possibility. We were stuck with hand steering, some two hours on, two hours off, and that is how it had to be. By the end of our second morning sked, we had added a further 131 miles to our total.
Now Calista was in her element. Wind on the beam and romping over the billows. The next two days saw us cover 159 and 160 nautical miles as Australia drew closer and our bums, and everything else got sorer. We grabbed food as we could, and sleep where it was possible. Eventually exhaustion sees to this. The sea was such that the shape of our ship moulded agreeably with the elements, although every now and then one a swell would form that we could not avoid and we would cop a drenching. This was worst at the beginning of a watch. Below, with hatches closed the air steamed and clothes hung out to dry as if we were a Mumbai laundry.
Picture this; it is 0230hrs and I have just handed over the helm. Below one lies down and listens to the sound of the sea and taps into the “feel” of the ship. Cookie can instantly tell if I need to adjust sails. I try not to disturb her but always there is a cry, like “don’t you need to ease the main?” or “have you got too much headsail?” from below. This time I felt the ship under me for a time and then thump! A big one had hit us and a torrent had come on board, sweeping the helm. Just as quickly a torrent of another form was returned from the helm and we sailed on. “Are you ok?” I called out. “Just go to sleep!” she calls out. Like this we trundle on through the night, and the next day, and the next night…
We left Gilia on Sunday morning and by Thursday morning we were drawing abeam of Myrmidon Reef from where we would harden sails for Magnetic Passage that lay beyond. We were still beyond the reach of Coast Guard assistance and we feared that should the winds turn contrary, or fade altogether we were a risk of drifting onto one of the surrounding reefs that lay malevolently below the horizon. We had even filled the motor on the duck to deploy if desperation warranted its use. Happily, the breeze held sufficiently for us to negotiate the Passage on one tack although we were very close hauled at times. Moreover, with the way our parage had developed, we were negotiating this waterway in daylight, and by nightfall, with a little luck we would see the lights of Townsville. Not far now.
Morning light, day five.A little celebration marked our last eve at sea. Weary of food a-la catch as catch can, your scribe resolved, against the advice of the helm to construct a vegetarian omelette / slice to mark our return and our salvation. Finding that three of our remaining eggs were below par – a nice term for those readers who may suffer from squeamishness at sea – and a fine powdered product was substituted. The recipe, cooked in a rolling sea with a gimballed stove (one that swings with the sea) is as follows. Take finely diced pumpkin and capsicum (that’s fun!) and sautee in a pan smeared with olive oil. Embellish with lemon pepper, a touch of soy, and dashes of Worcestershire and other condiments to taste. When golden, fold in one sealed vessel (tin) of diced spinach and add the egg / milk blend before sealing and cooking on a moderate stove for a number of minutes, whist bracing and holding. Aficionados of fine foods would point to the desirability of sprinkles of cheese over slivers of tomato to embellish this dish, but their galleys do not cavort as our does. Present the finished product to the disbelieving helm – with flourish!
Our final hurdle was to come, with the myriad of lights marking the Townsville Harbour and the need for us to line up first-time on the lead lights to the Breakwater Marina where Customs and Quarantine officers would see us legally ashore once again. From sea there are lights everywhere, a veritable fairyland, and from these we needed to pick the green and red indicators that would see us in. On our final day sked we received a return call from Nick and Jan Wooler on Yawarra 2 and we had the great fortune to discover that these Shiela Net “regulars” – Jan often runs or manages the sked – were anchored in the “Duck Pond” just at the point where we would have to round up and maybe seek towing assistance over the last 200m into the marina. We have never met these samaritans, but they came up to say where they were and to reassure us that whatever the hour a VHF call to them would see them come out in their powerful tender to see us safely in. So in fading airs, on a drifter, that is how it proved to be, and these wonderful people had arranged for their niece and nephew to be dockside to secure our lines. For the record, we tied up at 2130hrs, on Thursday night, having departed Gilia on Sunday at 0730hrs We were just so thankful, but Nick and Jan wanted none of our gratuities, as they slid off into the night, saying that this is what sea people do for other sea people. “You’ll need some sleep” was their only suggestion. The rest of the world has much to learn from sea people we think.
The Breakwater Marina entrance by day. Note the boats anchored outside in the duckpond where Jan & Nick met us in their duck.Calista and crew had traversed 623 nm of solitary seas in 110 hours of hand steering and we were proud of what we had achieved. We had returned in safety as planned. We were weary but not beaten although our nether regions were stridently complaining. Back in offshore sailing days Cookie got dubbed “Captain Araldite” as she liked to stick at the helm. Even Captain Araldite was over hand steering for a time.
Curiously, after one crackling cold offering from our cold store, and some nibbles to support, sleep did not come quickly or easily. The levels of concentration over the last few days and the trauma of all that had happened led to a fitful slumber. For me I thought of the indescribable beauty of being alone at the helm under full moon in the broad expanse of the Coral Sea. I could enjoy it now. And, I thought of the box of beautiful bracelets and of the ruddy smiles that they would draw in distant isles. Finally, I thought of Alby’s pumpkin, and of a paradise that we had lost.
hey guys - only just read about your unexpected turnaround - despite setbacks it looks like you are still having a fabulous time - hope all goes well on the southward stretch :)bron
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