Yeppoon - Gladstone 3/11 - 11/11

The leafy gardens surrounding the Keppel Bay Marina .

Our time at the friendly Keppel Bay Marina started on a high note. We had arrived from Great Keppel Island with sumptuous timing, considering the wind and rain forecast for the next day was some hours away, leaving balmy conditions outdoor for the Barbecue – Bistro put on for marine souls good and true, compliments of the management. News of the event had spread, however and the catering for the event was stretched to the limit, with a few participants, we felt, having thin links to the sea! We had a fine night, in particular re-connecting with Paul and Cathy off Jemima, and their friends Steve and Dulcie. Paul was facing difficult times, having to leave the next day with bereavement in the family, but Cathy was a beacon of effervescence, with a smile to light up the night. Dulcie, also from PNG had recently arrived in Australia with Steve, having met whilst he was on managerial duties in Port Moresby. With good food and warmth of company, it was one of those times when it got late quickly.

After a washout the following day when an inch of rain fell on the Marina, Friday dawned clearer and Brian the mechanic was on, board early to complete the 50hr service on the new motor, including an alignment of the drive shaft. Brian obviously knows his spanners, and ultimately we found out that at $110 per hour, his professional services come at some cost! A brain surgeon would have been cheaper, muttered one of our crew!

The friendly Capricorn Coast Cruising Club

Keppel Bay Marina provides an excellent service where marina clients can book a courtesy car for a couple of hours to head for nearby Yeppoon for reprovisioning. Cathy joined us on this jaunt and it was great to spend some more time with her. She has been in Australia for many years, and her trip back to PNG with David was the first time that she had re-connected with family for a very long time. Later, courtesy of Cathy, we had a look at Jemima, an Oceanic ’46 with excellent pedigree. Back on board, the latest weather suggested that the SE might soften in the morning enough for us to make a dash to Hummocky Island some 20nm away. Sue and Tremain off Kool Sid had praised this anchorage which sits on a twin “hummocky” island just a few miles north of the better known Cape Capricorn. As Hummocky would be a new stopover for us, we thought that it was worth investigating. From Yeppoon, craft like ours making south can take the seaward passage to Hummocky and then to Cape Capricorn just beyond, before making across the broad approach to the port of Gladstone with Bustard Head, the Town of 1770, and ultimately, to Bundaberg on Hervey Bay. There is another and unique alternative to the “Cape Cap” route, involving negotiating the sheltered waterway known as “the Narrows”, and when the wind is hard from the SE, this route grows in its attractiveness.

A disappointing retreat from Hummocky Island.

Our passage to Hummocky the next day started promisingly, but became harder as we went as the Sou-Easter piped in, smack on our bow. Closing on the anchorage in the early afternoon with another yacht ahead, we noticed a tidal rip with standing waves sweeping through the bay where we would want to anchor so the effort to get to Hummocky Island was clearly wasted, and the wind swept seas ahead to Cape Capricorn looked equally untenable. Our original plan was to head for The Narrows to the west, after a night stopover at Hummocky, but now with Hummocky a scratching, we had time to bear away and make for the legendary Narrows, prior to sunset.

The mangove lined waterway .. "The Narrows"

The “Narrows” is a thin tidal waterway separating Curtis Island from the mainland, with the opening to the south leading to the industrial port of Gladstone, and the northern exit leading to Yeppoon. Being some 25nm by12nm in size, Curtis Island is a large chunk of land nestling along the Qld coast, with the probing finger of Cape Capricorn spearing into the Capricorn Channel in the east. Lined with mangroves for its greater part, waters from both “ends” meet at the legendary Cattle Crossing, which dries at low tide permitting, for a time, the passage of bovines to and from the pastures on Curtis, whilst at high tide there is sufficient depth for a keelboat such as ours to scrape through, provided all of the crew breathe in! This is the first time that we have plied a waterway that is shared, alternately, with ruminate quadrupeds! From colonial times local users of this waterway have adroitly worked the tides to further both their marine and landed needs, although for newcomers like us, the benefits of the passage came with the fear of a stranding on a falling tide, and a longer than planned stay in the vicinity! Detailed tidal information, advice in cruising guides, and the benefits of on-board chart-plotter technology, gave us a pinch of confidence in planning this passage, although lingering concerns about the waterway would last until we were “through”.

The muddy waters on approach to the Narrows.

In an hour or two from Hummocky Island, we had closed the entrance to The Narrows at Sea Hill Point on Keppel Bay, but long before this we were aware that we were entering a very different environment indeed. Nearing this point, the sea had turned a clay colour, reminding us of our first broad water foray in our first yacht, the wonderful 26’ “trailerable” Crystal Voyager. We had sailed from Goolwa near the mouth of the Murray, and on entering Lake Alexandrina abeam of Point Sturt the lake horizon ahead met the azure of a summer sky in an unbroken line. It was our first open-water navigation challenge, and we fondly recall how first the trees on Nalpa Station became evident and the chiselled shape of Pomanda Island at the entrance to the Murray, confirmed that we were on course. This voyage probably sowed the seeds of our current odyssey and in the cockpit of Calista we recalled with great fondness weekends where we would sail the 40nm to Wellington across Lake Alexandrina, dine at the local Pub, and make our way home to the Goolwa Regatta Yacht Club on the Sunday. At the time we had no idea what we were getting ourselves in to. Now, the low form of Curtis Island to port, and the dun colour of the water, from the mighty Fitzroy River that exits nearby, reminded us uncannily of the Lower Lakes in SA. At sea there is ample time for reflection.

Could this be Lake Alexandrina?!

Our plan for traversing The Narrows, involved us entering the Keppel Bay end, heading up the waterway for a few miles and anchoring overnight in Badger Creek, before making for the Cattle Crossing on the rising morning tide. With a tide nearing 4 metres in the offing, and us drawing under 1.8m, we felt it would be ok to get through. Settling in Badger Creek in late afternoon in a tranquil mangrove lined setting, had us contemplating “sundowners” in the back cockpit until squadrons of mosquitos honed in on us, driving us below. Cookie has been a match for these airborne fiends, as before leaving home she had constructed flexible flyscreens for our main hatch and our main cabin hatch, above, out of screen cloth and the clever use of marine lead rope. In Badger Creek, these wonderfully creative devices earned their keep, and the “mozzies” had met their match.

Another magic sunset... Badger Creek.

Next day our plan involved making for the Cattle Crossing with an hour or so of rising tide to run, using the navigation leads and markers to guide us through. When the iconic cattle yards drew abeam we had 1.8 feet under our keel, and soon, with the passage broadening, we were through. In no time at all, it seemed, the outline of huge ships at wharves ahead, and the towers and gantries of port infrastructure, confirmed that we had reached Gladstone. Our passage through The Narrows, apart from delivering us from a beating off Cape Capricorn, had been a fascinating interlude, so different from all of the other experiences on our journey. As a postscript, we hear that with the discovery of Natural Gas on Curtis Island, a bridge across the Cattle Crossing may be in the offing, and if this eventuates, passage by yachts like Calista may become a thing of the past. We are so glad that we experienced The Narrows, this time around.

The Cattle Crossing with water!

Safely through negotiating the maze of beacons.

There were a number of good things about being in Gladstone, apart from gaining shelter from the Sou-Easters that would not go away! For one, at under $30/night, a pen at the Gladstone Marina, was the most economical that we have found on the coast. Then after lengthy negotiations with underwriters, came the email news that almost all of the cost of installing the new motor would be met by the insurers. This was welcome news because in order to leave Townsville, with a new motor below, we had been forced to finance the total installation plus costs (over $25,000), ourselves. We simply could not wait for the insurance process to undertake its unknown period of gestation. With the great help of Rosshaven Marine, and a pinch of subterfuge, we were done, dusted, and on our way, with the insurers believing that the motor was still in a box in the workshop. Now the ordeal was over and the money was in the bank. The other thing about being in Gladstone was the opportunity to investigate another destination, because we have found all ports to be different and the sense of land based “discovery” has added greatly to our seaborne experiences.

Enroute to the Gladstone Marine past busy shipping wharves.

Ashore, however, we found that downtown Gladstone had not much to offer. A new shopping precinct on the outskirts seems to have sapped lifeblood from Gladstone Central, and although we had looked forward to a meal and convivialities at the Gladstone Yacht Club, we found that as in some other prime locations, a club leasing a prime vantage point to a restaurateur results in elevated, white napkin prices, beyond the expectation of cruisers. The other annoying trait is that of a price of a main course being inflated, if you enjoy a salad, and maybe a sauce to embellish your meal. With free press button barbecues in a fine marina-side setting, and excellent fish available at the local co-operative, we left the Yacht Club minus our patronage.

The local chef cooked up a storm....wouldn't get food like that at the Yacht Club !

Great restaurant with garden and water views!

With the ever nagging Sou-Easter still bearing its teeth, a layup of a few days was inevitable, so we hired a car in order to head for the nearby locations of 1770, and Agnes Waters, and the much anticipated prospect of making it to Bundaberg to see our wonderful friends Audrey and Fred Green. With the weather being so uncertain, we were not sure if a stopover in Bundaberg would be possible, and we were so keen to see Audrey and Fred before heading south.

Our racey hire car.

If downtown Gladstone was a disappointment, then the twin locales of 1770, and Agnes Waters, just south of Bustard Head, were an absolute highlight. Good friend from home Mary-Alice Ballantine, having a charming “Queenslander” set in wooded acreage just out of 1770, had long extolled the virtues of the region, and once we were there we could see how easy it would be to come under its spell. “MA” was right! What at a delight the locale is, with its natural setting of wilderness and waterways being complimented by the first surf to be seen on the coast south of the Barrier Reef. We could have easily spent days, not just hours here, and our impression was not dimmed by the showers that had come in with the Sou-Easters.

Mary-Alices' beautiful Queenslander on 40 acres of scrub. It's for sale so let us know if you're interested.

At last a surf beach... pity it was so wet & cloudy.

Heading south to Bundaberg added another dimension to our day with Audrey and Fred being so welcoming and us being so keen to hear of their reminiscences of their voyages in Coorong around Australia, and around the world. Hearing of our motor-less journey across the Coral Sea saw Fred smile wistfully and share that when he had embarked on his solo voyage from Fremantle to South Africa, he had discovered that his motor was defunct, just one day out into the Indian Ocean. He made landfall across the ocean and somehow found his way into ports under sail alone. His remarkable story again had us putting our own experience in perspective.

Fred in his studio with his great water colour of the Coorong.

Then when we asked about traversing the notorious Wide Bay Bar, that we would soon face in Calista, Fred and Audrey shared an experience in Coorong when with winds and seas in turmoil they faced the bar from outside, following a hard slog up the East Coast. They simply had to get into shelter behind Fraser Island and Fred resolved to use his immense skill as a surf-boat “sweep”, and his innate ability to “read” surf to find a way through the maelstrom. With Audrey sent below and the washboards in (Fred believed that if Coorong was upended in the surf, he had built her with the strength needed to wash Audrey, and yacht ashore!), and himself stripped to surf-boat attire (he reasoned that, if necessary, he could swim in through the surf like he had done in big seas off the Goolwa coast), he examined the backs of the breaking waves to pick the best way in. Then with Coorong in a new guise as a 34’ surfboat, he picked his moment and plunged on through the roaring surf to safety. Just like that! Ashore they discovered that the “Bar” was “closed” due to the conditions; closed that is to all bar the remarkable Fred and Audrey Green. There was much to think about as we made our way back to Gladstone to plan our next leg, heading south in the direction of Fraser Island and the Wide Bay Bar. We had decided to get away early the next day to take advantage of the morning tide.

Auckland Creek .. The Gladstone Marine entrance is at top left.

Townsville - Yeppoon 25/10 - 3/11

Apt words of wisdom carved into a rock on Middle Percy Island......

If our arrival in Townsville in August was filled with a sense of achievement, and great expectations for our voyage to the Louisiades to come, then our departure across Cleveland Bay, holding Magnetic Island to port had us feeling a sense of release, and the eternal thrill of feeling our little ship carve her way through the billows. Kel and Helga, on Mojo just a mile or two ahead, were also making south, and given our circumstances we were keen to put some miles under our keel.

Great to be at sea again......Townsville behind us at last!

Colin in relaxed mode again.

Normal weather patterns see the prevailing SE trades give way to some northerly tending weather by the end of October, but this year the Sou-Easters had a firm grip and showed no sign of relenting. We resolved to push on into the trades, easing the head some 20degrees to the sea to make travel more comfortable and to ease stresses on our yacht. With the wind building to 15 -20 knots by mid afternoon, we were new-motoring with a reduced main for stability. As afternoon faded, Mojo made a heading to overnight at Cape Upstart, while we gambled on the breeze softening after sunset, and pointing a little to the NE. If things panned out in our favour, we resolved to push on through the night, all the way to the Whitsundays. Unfortunately, although most nights saw the breeze fade in the early eve, on this night it did not, so we pushed on in uncomfortable conditions past the coaling port of Abbott Point toward the port of Bowen. Past midnight the breeze finally softened although by this time we had already adjusted course for the anchorage at Bona Bay on Gloucester Island, where we finally dropped anchor at 0230hrs. We had covered 112 nautical miles, and the glow of Townsville’s lights to the north had long faded into the gloom.

Looking towards Gloucester Passage from the anchorage at Bona Bay.

Next morning we arose to stellar conditions that we rarely saw in our voyage north through the Whitsundays. Bona Bay looked as though it had been downloaded from a tourist website, clear, blue and beautiful. In hauling up our anchor, however, the winch completed the retrieve up to the last metre of chain before whirring and loosing all capacity to lift. Plenty of power was reaching the device, the motor and gearbox seemed fully operational, but transfer of lift to the gypsy had ceased to be. More frustrations and another mechanical breakdown! When would this end? It was clear that we needed to find a troubleshooting safe haven where, if necessary, mechanical expertise was at hand. Being only a couple of hours out of Airlie Beach, we decided to seek the maintenance wharf there to solve our problem. Anchoring in Whitsunday anchorages, as planned was off the agenda until we got the winch fixed. The pity was that with the breeze softening to a rare 10-15 knots, here were the conditions that we had long yearned for, and here we were heading for a Marina!

Anchor trouble again! Armstrong winch engaged!

We called forward to Airlie Marine Electrics, and soon after docking, our winch was dismantled and the diagnosis was that we needed to get a slotted sleeve for the drive shaft on the winch as the key on the winch had failed because it did not fit properly. Adam from AME scurried off to source a sleeve and returned, a touch crestfallen, with the news that a device to fit the unit would have to be ordered in the overnight bag from Brisbane, and that yes we would have to overnight at Airlie, either at the expensive marina or by picking up a $6 a night mooring in the anchorage just outside in the bay. We opted for the outside mooring. Once we had the sleeve, it would be just a 10 minute job to fix the problem. Again we were confounded by more delays, more costs and more mechanical irritations.

"Cruising...Going from port to port fixing your boat!"

Next morning we had an arrangement to have our phone at the ready awaiting the late morning courier. No call came, so by early afternoon we returned to the AME office where we found the staff both mystified and apologetic. They had ordered two packages from “down south”, a very large one that would take a day or two to get here, and our tiny one, travelling business class overnight. “We can’t believe it” they declared, “the big package has arrived, but there is no sign of the small one. Maybe the despatch clerk didn’t see the small one? We are really sorry; this doesn’t normally happen”. We nodded, accepted our fate and resolved to try again another day. We are getting used to despatches getting “lost”. The winch gearbox at Mooloolaba, Easy Foods parcel at Townsville, and, believe it or not, a Yanmar engine “disappeared” for four days in transit to Rosshaven, again in Townsville. Really, how does one lose an engine?!

One upside to the delay was that Kel and Helga had arrived in port, also with winch issues, and there would be an opportunity to join them at the Whitsunday Sailing Club for their renowned Wednesday evening carvery and salad bar. Also we would get a chance to get in some laps at the Airlie Lagoon Pool, provided we could pilot our way between the backpackers.
All was not lost, and both the aquatic and culinary opportunities proved to be highly enjoyable, and we made our way back by duck to our tethered ship, replete, sated, and re-energised. Cookie’s diary which declared that it had been “Buffet Night so Colin ate heaps” carried, admittedly, an element of truth.

Relaing on the balcony of the Whitsunday Sailing Club with Kel & Helga.

Following a brace of redeeming laps in the new day, the errant part duly arrived, and by mid-afternoon we were on our way. With the new motor making merry music below, we made for May’s Bay on Whitsunday Island with an intention of seeking a final snorkel at Border Island, and maybe a visitation to the fabled, but elusive Whitehaven Beach, before making our way south. Cateran Bay at Border Island proved to be disappointing. Again we were out of step with the weather. Having “wasted” light conditions whilst in Airlie, sure enough, the Sou-Easters built again and by the time we got to Border, the visibility for snorkelling was less than desirable. Having got there, we were determined to make the best of it, in one of our last snorkels over coral. There was a giant clam to be marvelled at, with its Picasso like hues, and towards the end of our immersion, we spotted a Queensland Groper seemingly half asleep only a few feet below us as we hovered overhead. Normally fish such as these would dart away, yet this beauty seemed to be reluctant to move, and then we saw why. Fussing about were two striped cleaner wrasse, and the Groper was dreamily at ease on the bottom at a designated cleaning station as the little fish delivered a service of piscatorial pampering. We had come on the scene in the middle of an undersea detailing or a marine massage depending on how one saw this symbiotic event. We never tire of observing and trying to understand the myriad of things to be seen under the sea. Oh to have the knowledge of a marine biologist!

Snorkelling time, in the new stinger suit!

Heading back via Hook Passage.

Back on board Calista we resolved to leave Border, and take a look at Whitehaven before heading for an overnight anchorage, somewhere to the south. Leaving the shelter of Cateran Bay, the path to Whitehaven seemed most unfriendly, so we bore away and made for Hook passage to make our way south in the lee of Whitsunday, Hamilton and then Lindeman Islands. Again the wind was contrary, but by nightfall we were snugly at anchor at Shaw Island in time to enjoy a sublime sunset over Burning Point to the west.

Awesome sunset over Burning Point, Shaw Island.

Leaving Townsville, we were scheduled to have the new motor serviced after 50 hours of operation as part of the running in process. Originally, we had fixed on Mackay as a place to get this done, but now just 38 miles away, we did not have enough hours “on the clock” to get the service done there. Nonetheless, we decided to head for Mackay, refuel there, and if possible catch up with friends from a distant past, who now had an apartment overlooking Mackay Marina. When tethered at Mackay in June we decided that we would try go get in a plunge at Mackay’s “surf” beach, not far from the Mackay Surf Lifesaving Club, and just adjacent to the Marina. A regular weekly “event” back in SA has been to join the group of swimmers who ply the waters of our own Horseshoe Bay on a Thursday afternoon, rain or shine, summer and winter. A long tradition of “Icepicks” swimming has been maintained at our club, although your bloggist remains in a diminishing number of those who shun neoprene, and swim “the Bay” in speedos and bathing cap only.
Peering out of their 4th floor eyrie, in June were David Burke and partner Raelene, and they freely admit to making disparaging remarks about the couple they noted, with towels over shoulders, returning, dripping, from the nearby beach. Then, on closer inspection, David mused to Raelene that “that looks like Colin & Cookie…but surely that can’t be…” For us below, it was Thursday, and we were following tradition; besides, the water at Mackay was like a warm bath compared with the 12degrees that might be the grim reality back home. We have been amused by the concept of “winter” in these parts. In Townsville, few people did recreational laps at the Tobruk Pool in August because it was “winter”! We could not believe it.

We had not seen David and Raelene in aeons, so we were chuffed that in spite of the passage of decades (or decadence!), we still retained some semblance of recognisable structure. As a post-college teacher back in SA Cookie had come to house share with “Burkey” via a mutual friend. It was one of those arrangements that “clicked” and many good times were shared in that modest abode in the western suburbs. Partnering for our first overseas foray overseas together, to India, David decided that we needed a celebration of sorts to send us on our way. A “quiet night” amongst friends on the eve of our departure gained momentum and traction, and we fondly recall arriving at the airport on dawn, bleary and weary, with Burkey waving us off, with us not having the foggiest of notions whether we had what would be needed to tackle the Sub-Continent. In more recent years as a Tourism Teacher, covering the unit on “Preparing for Travel” had me fondly recalling that riotous night on Bickford Street, but sharing none of it with students!

After the swim sighting, David let the matter lapse, but next day, with curiosity lingering, he made an enquiry at the Marina Office whether marine souls answering our description were currently at a berth. With the answer in the affirmative he dashed to our “pen” only to find it empty, with us then at sea making for Brampton Island. He called us – it was one of those “out of the blue” calls – and after some fond reminiscence, we agreed to make for Mackay on the return voyage if conditions and contingencies permitted.

Unusual brown algal blooms filled the waters near Mackay.

Now, leaving Shaw and the persistence of the Sou-Easters still causing us angst, we made for Mackay some 38nm away, with the fond outlines of the Smith group, Brampton, Keswick and St Bees, and the distant and aloof Scawfell to port. The Islands of the Whitsundays, the 100 magic miles, were disappearing astern.

David and Raelene had suggested that we drop in for “a bite”, that this left us ill prepared for the gastronomic sware that unfolded. First they arrived with at Calista with a selection of gourmand offerings, compete with a complimentary, and chilled offering from a winery of renown from our local Langhorne Creek area. Then, ushering us up to their lavish “room(s) with a view”, we settled in to a marvellous evening of reminiscence, catch-up, and a meal that would have graced the table of any culinary establishment. In between successful professional lives, Raelene has obviously developed the skills of dine-in into an art form, and David, forever the connoisseur of the cork, dipped into his formidable selection of first-rate reds, and they fell like skittles. It was a long distance from those rudimentary barbies in the back yard at Bickford Street!
Some time after midnight we gurgled our way back to the modest appointments of Calista, with one ear on the sou’-Easter, and an inner glow about the evening just enjoyed. Thin threads!

A great night with Burkey & Raelene.

The only “downside” to our marvellous night ashore, was that we had resolved that if the SE softened in the night we would make a pre-dawn break from Mackay, in the hope that we could reach the Percy Islands, some 65nm offshore on our way south to the Yeppoon area. At 0330, with the pillow still screaming for attention, a “comfort moment” came with the indication that perhaps the SE had softened, so by 0415 the computer was alert and coastal observations on the Capricorn Coast, plus latest weather updates were being keenly analysed. So with David and Raelene no doubt enjoying a richly deserved lie in, we were up, perhaps not bushy tailed, but freeing our lines for the open sea.

Dodging ore carriers on the way to Curlew Island.

As the new day emerged, we were making a slalom path amongst the bulk carriers anchored in the roads off Hay Point, headed for Curlew Island just 20 or so nautical miles shy of the Percy Isles. On our way north earlier in the year, the weather window allowing a Middle Percy stopover did not permit pausing at the many highly regarded anchorages on islands that dot the local chart. Now at least we determined to anchor at Curlew Island, which according to the cruising notes was one of the premier stop-offs in the region. Given our weary state, we were pleased to find the SE to be not too obdurate, and by mid afternoon the outline of this impressive island with its crescent-shaped beach lay before us. In the anchorage, and probably grumbling about our arrival to dash their tropical solitude, was the yacht Jemima with Dave and his PNG partner Cathy on board. We had last connected, via HF Radio when in the Louisiades, and now, hundreds of sea-miles away we had a chance to meet. This was another thin thread. Cathy pointed out the tracks of a likely turtle-nesting event ashore, so we headed for the beach in our duck to see Curlew for ourselves.

The lovely Curlew Island anchorage.

Ashore, and in the process of ascending a beach-side sand dune we realised a serious lapse in our planning. Swarming around us in countless profusion were numbers of tiny flying insects, and we wondered, too late as it turned out, whether they were sand flies. Soon we were beating a retreat to Calista to fetch the repellent, which, in our muddle-headedness we had left on board. We returned to the beach, for a walk, to marvel at the turtle nest (completed the previous night), and for a most enjoyable swim, but in regards to the sand flies the damage was already done and Cookie, in particular, would be faced with days of misery as a result of their attacks.

Turtle tracks crisscrossed the beach.

Curlew proved to be idyllic, and comfortable as an anchorage, just as the guide had recommended it to be. In the morning, however we were again away early, making for Middle Percy, in the hope of completing the hike to the homestead in the centre of the island, a place enshrined in local nautical folk-lore. The forecast was looking poor after the next couple of days, so time was precious. Again, travelling in the softer airs of the morning, we closed on the Middle Percy anchorage by 0900, and were soon ashore, enjoying the longish stroll up the leafy track to the centre of the island. Long a Mecca for visiting yachts, the path to the homestead presented some picture-perfect views to South Percy Island, a chance for some welcome leg exercise, and along the way was posted some entertaining and uplifting slogans, posted on trees and places of advantage, to lift the spirits and the wearying legs.

The scenic walking track that leads to the Homestead on Middle Percy Island

Looking south towards South Percy Island.

Part-way along the path we met the Island ‘ute with Cate and John, current managers of the island together with Steve, who it turned out had spent some of his early years on nearby Pine Islet where his family held the romantic position of Lighthouse keepers. Cate and John were headed for the mainland and although Steve would be returning later, Cate’s cheery message was “go on up to the house and go in and make yourself at home…just see that the goats don’t get in”. This was typical Percy hospitality.

In days of yore mariners would settle in the anchorage and following a long-held tradition would use the telephone line strung amongst the trees to call to the homestead to secure lunch for the crew, all for a modest, seafaring stipend. Island grown fruits and vegetables, local honey and goat casserole were popular on the menu, and for travelling yachtsmen a visit to Middle Percy became a must. In recognition of their passing, seafarers started leaving inscriptions in the telephone hut to mark their passing, a tradition that has expanded to the hundreds of items of nautical memorabilia (see June Blogs) that festoon the nearby “A Frame” today.

The rustic Homestead, Middle Percy.

As instructed, we parted the goats, fowl, and peacocks outside the house and made ourselves at home, before Steve returned; we “put the billy on” and enjoyed chatting about the island, and what was envisioned for its future. We were drawn to Middle Percy because of Derek and Bella’s effusive stories about “Percy life” following the period that they had spent as caretakers-managers on the island. Being at the homestead, we could now see why this place held such a warm place in their hearts. What an extraordinary and special place is Middle Percy Island! How glad we were that we had made the effort to get there! How important is it that, somehow, its “magic” is preserved!

We were reluctant to leave this special place.

Back on the beach with a rare calm prevailing, we reconnected with our good friends Kel and Helga who had just arrived from Scawfell before bidding them the fondest of farewells, and heading back on board to put to sea. Kel was planning to inch Mojo into the adjacent mangrove lagoon, and with winds from the SE forecast to strengthen to 30 knots they would be as snug as a sand fly in a rug in there. In the lagoon, Mojo would alternatively float and dry on the 4m plus tides, and Kel had set aside a fortnight to get some things done under the waterline, that would save an expensive haul-out at a marina somewhere. He also was looking forward to lending his adept electrical hand to works that might be needed on the island. They were weary of bashing into sou-Easters and were looking forward to languid days without a schedule. Hard to fault, really!

The south easterlies found us just after sunset!

For us, with our need to make south, we needed to cover the long leg of over 120nm and get in to an anchorage near Yeppoon before the strong wind warnings were posted. We left Middle Percy in light airs, hoping that contrary winds would not pester us through the night. We knew that from midnight the entire Shoalwater Bay coast was off limits with a military exercise that involved live firing, and that therefore potential refuges like Pearl Bay were decidedly off limits. Then, almost predictably, the SE filled in, to leave us battling these contrary winds through the night. As we neared High Peak Island with its clutch of dangerous islets extending to the west, there was another menace to contend with. Jemima and another yacht ahead were sharing sorrows over the radio re the “knock” by the 4m tides in the area, which for both of these vessels, apart from the SE’s, had cost them 4knots of their boat speed in the waters around High Peak. By good fortune as much as anything, by the time we reached the area, the tides had changed, leaving just the wind to wrestle with through the night. By contrast to the luscious moon that gleamed on us across the Coral Sea, this night was inky black, and careful navigation past the islands and reefs called for very careful navigation with a great deal of checking and double checking between our printed and electronic charts. We were pleased to see the gnarl of nautical obstacles behind us by Dog Watch time.

By dawn, we rounded the headlands abeam of Port Clinton, and with Great Keppel Island forming on the horizon, we hoped that as the coastline dipped to the SW, so, on this new heading, we would make better progress, and might be able head south under sail alone. Then, as we changed course to the SW, so the wind changed – to blow from the SW!! It seemed that for us, following the military theme, that gaining ground for us had been as difficult as the AIF had found in the Battle of the Somme.

Svenden's anchorage, Great Keppel Island.

It was nearly 1.30 that afternoon, with the wind finally abating, that we dropped anchor in Svendens Bay on Great Keppel Island (GKI to the locals). On our way in we had mused again at the curious titles associated with some islands in waters to the East. Alongside Barren Island lay, curiously, The Child, with Husband and Wife Rocks and an islet called The Egg not far away. We figured that they were so named in the embryonic stage of local nomenclature! As we settled on anchor, we noted two familiar yachts nearby. The first was the South Coast ’36 Kool Sid with Tremain and Sue on board.

Kool Sid setting sail.

We had last crossed bows way back in Wilson’s Promontory on the Victorian coast, and here they were again, all these miles away. They were just as surprised to see us but our re-connection gave a fine excuse to catch up over “sundowners” to share experiences out on the blue. Reconnecting with Tremain and Sue was yet another thin thread and a marvellous opportunity to learn from the experiences of fellow cruisers.

The other yacht anchored nearby, Cooee, with single-hander Jill Knight on board we immediately recognised from her numerous contributions to Australia’s Cruising Helmsman magazine. We dropped past to say hello and to thank her for the many fine articles that she writes. A freelance nautical writer, and a vastly experienced sailor, it was nice to get the chance to meet this well known scribe. She seemed to us to be as fine a person as the stories that she writes.

Jill Knights' classic yacht "Cooee".

We have been guilty of a serious omission in this chronicle, and that relates to the extra crewmember that we have had on board, without papers, down the coast from Townsville. Shortly before our release from Rosshaven, we had noted a shipyard gecko scurrying across our decks late one afternoon, and not long after putting to sea, sure enough, there he (she?) was flitting across the cabin sole and into the deep recess of the quarter berth. We appointed our little translucent friend as Officer in Charge of Invertebrate Control, and gave the creature carte blanche to ingest as many sand flies as he (she?) pleased. Periodically we spotted our OCIC, scooting about, presumably in pursuit of shipboard duties. We became quite fond of our little stowaway although it seemed that if we could apprehend the little lizard, we could put it ashore in a monitor-friendly locale, given the shortage of reptilian company on board. Besides, noted Cookie, if it expired in a closet somewhere, it would create a terrible skink.

The stowaway!

Now at GKI an opportunity presented itself, as not long after arrival, our OCIC made an ill considered dash across the galley floor, and Cookie’s sharp hands soon had it apprehended. In putting ashore to explore the beaches on the NE of GKI, we took our little friend ashore and he (she?) leapt in a trice into a bush and disappeared into the undergrowth. There was not a croak, or a blink of thanks, mind you, just a quick dash for freedom. Our little friend certainly had a story to tell!

A very happy gecko.

The beaches on Great Keppel are superb and well worth the rock clambering and the trudge through the bush to reach. Being offshore and presumably away from the nuisance of stingers, the chance to plunge in clear blue waters was one that we relished.

One of the many pristine beaches on GKI.

Back on board however, the weather forecast suggested that the slog from Middle Percy had indeed been a wise move and that a short foray across the 9 mile passage and into the Keppel Bay Marina at Yeppoon would give respite from the weather to come. Besides, it would provide an opportunity to get the required service and alignment work on the motor completed, and just by chance we learned that Keppel Bay management was hosting a bistro style barbecue, and all the trimmings for visiting yachties and the local marine community. Having some bona fides by this time as seaborne travellers we headed for Keppel Bay in high anticipation of a stellar evening amongst nautical friends. Yeppoon was a desirable place to be in a blow, and the Marina at Rosslyn Bay was one of our favourites. For a few days our making of ground to the south would have to wait.

Keppel Bay Marina.

Townsville 24/9 - 25/10

If at the helm one should not whistle, and whilst on board, never extol the virtues of rigging, sail, ground tackle, electrical systems, crew, etc then there is one other to add. As one should not go on stage with animals or children, then anyone contemplating the languid life of a cruiser at sea, should never under any circumstances allow their carefree voyaging to fall in the hands of Insurance Companies or any of their likes and associates. To have your helm gripped by cheerless underwriters in distant and soulless offices, where winds, tides, sunsets and sails are unknown is a fate not to be contemplated. Yet this was to be our fate, a fate that had us climbing the ratlines in the hope of a glimpse of blue horizons.

Being towed to our doom... The Rosshaven Boatyard!

If William Wordsworth penned his Lines written above Tintern Abbey on the banks of the Wye, then this less romantic offering was composed above the ship loader at Townsville, on the banks of the Ross River; on the hardstand (a dry dock for sick ships) at Rosshaven Marine, amidst the mangroves and sandflies, no less. When the great bard returned from his strolls through the glorious countryside to the dreary city; where he was once again “in lonely rooms, and mid the din of towns” he longed for leafy valleys, burbling brooks and “the sounding cataract, which haunted me like a passion”. Alas for the bard, he knew “that time is past and all its aching joys are no more, and all its dizzy raptures”. We remembered during our long passage home hearing cruisers on Shiela Net, waxing about sun drenched anchorages by tranquil lagoons, and how this communiqué reduced our normally staunch and redoubtable helmsperson to tears. We would have more than wept if we knew that we were about to trade a month in the Louisiades for a month in a hot, dusty and industrial boatyard in Townsville.

Being lifted out of the water on the travel lift.

Our fortuitous deliverance to the dock in Townsville, by Nick and Jan off Yawarra 2, after the rigours of the Coral Sea was not to be followed by the hours of slumber that our bodies craved. The quarantine area of the Breakwater Marina doubles as the fuel wharf, and at 0515 the next morn, the heavy drum of a diesel alongside marked the arrival of a charter boat, soon to be filled with eager tourists, headed for a day out on the reef. Lucky them! Happily though, the quarantine and customs officials who were aboard by mid morning were thoroughly reasonable and decent fellows, who were pleased to see that we had got back safely. Later, Murray from Rosshaven Marine called in and his swift diagnosis was that our motor was…how should we put this(?)…in need of attention! What’s more we would have to be towed around to the Ross River, to be hauled out for these works to happen. In no time we had swapped our comfy marina surrounds for the industrial heartland of Townsville, and given the vicissitudes that we had encountered, we were kindly invited to join the yeomen stevedores of Rosshaven in a round of Friday afternoon libations. Never, never, never, in the annals of Neptune have chilled and foaming offerings been gripped and despatched with more alacrity.

Our tropical anchorage on the banks of the Ross River.

Our new surrounds were hardly salubrious in spite of efforts by Rosshaven to apply sucrose to our bitter pill. It was as though a king tide of the ages had lifted our ship and perched it on the riverbank where it commanded premier position over the Ross River. We had a palm tree astern, electricity, running water, and an oozing grove of mangroves on the opposite bank from which issued flights of fruit bats on sunset, alongside squadrons of sandflies that hung in the air around Calista like sprinkled pepper. Your bloggist was spared the worst of these insidious insects, but they honed their attention on hers truly, with their attacks adding a spotted misery to her recent travails. The result left us unable to throw open the portholes to admit a cooling breeze, and conditions on board soon rivalled the steaminess of deepest Amazonia. To their credit, management had offered a can of chemical deterrent for these airborne fiends although in reality, we were the only ones who seemed to be repulsed by it. Seaborne salvation in the river would also not be at hand with strident warnings about crocodile sightings providing a disincentive to water recreation. If the crocs don’t get you, the marine stingers, and sandflies will.

One dead donk!

By Monday afternoon a crane had lifted out our ailing engine, and it lay in visceral disassembly in the mechanical morgue of the workshop. Our insurers had been placed on alert, a report on events leading to its demise had been prepared and an assessor was being flown in for a coronial enquiry. Where we wanted events and processes to unfold in hours, the insurers operated in days and weeks, and day after day we languished on the hardstand under the brutal tropic sun. By late week our detention at Rosshaven was laying heavy on our souls and we resolved to stage a breakout. We have a new affinity for those innocents who are detained without trial!

The Rosshaven facility lies on a floodplain in South Townsville, where railway yards and industrial workplaces hold sway, and although a corner store lay within a waterbag journey, there was no short stroll to pools, eateries, retail outlets, and the recreational nirvana of The Strand, as was the hallmark of the Breakwater Marina. There would be no dockside high living with canapés at five for us! South Australians seeking imagery might see us having transferred our lot from the Holdfast Marina at Glenelg, to the delights of Osborn on the Port River. We timed our break to coincide with lunch at the boatyard – lumbering service vehicles provided gaps in the security perimeter and with personnel focussed on a halt to their labours, we might sneak out. So, armed with towels, bathers, an issue of currency and renewed enthusiasm, we made for it. Our target destination was the Lagoon Pool at the northern end of Strand on the opposite side of town. We just wanted to throw ourselves in some water!

The Lagoon Pool ..... our refuge from the boatyard.

With Rosshaven astern and making our way by foot to connect with the local omnibus, we watched in disbelief as the service scooted past ahead of us, leaving us with fevered brows, and disbelief in its wake. We simply could not trudge back to the boatyard, so with grim determination overcoming a cooler logic, we embarked on the long, hot haul by foot into town, and then through to the Strand by the sea beyond. An hour or so later saw us nearing the pool with towels in hand and rising hopes. Then, just as salvation seemed near, bunting and a droll Public Notice became apparent. “ Pool Closed for Maintenance -we apologise for any inconvenience. City of Townsville”. Inconvenience! If there is a condition called pool-rage, then we had it, to our absolute discredit. It had been one of those days, but at lest nearby there was the consolation prize of an immersion in the sea. The water was tepid, muddy and unappealing but at least we could get wet, and there was an undeniable need to do exactly that.

The next day saw the long awaited arrival of the Insurance Assessor, and in spite of boatyard confidence that his visit would pave the way for a rapid resolution to our incarceration, it soon became clear that the construction of a written report, sharing same with our insurers, and achieving a response from their office would take well into the following week. We wanted some progress, now! We would be disappointed and frustrated at the delay, and could do nothing about it. Our escape to Cairns.

The prospect of a weekend on the hardstand in the burning sun had us calling the hire car company that we had used for a day of provisioning, prior to our departure for the Louisiades. Maybe our luck was changing, because we found that we could score a modern little deuce coupe, with unlimited kilometres for only $35 a day. There were no catches and they would call by the boatyard to pick us up. The delights of Cairns lay a couple of hours to our north, and we could get out of town for a day or two before the insurance details were resolved. There were some interesting places like Hinchinbrook, and Mission Beach to see on the way, so in no time, with a touring pack in the back, we had Townsville in the rear view mirror. It was great to be out on the open road, playing tourist, and doing some new vista analysis as we made our way up the A1. Not far beyond Hinchinbrook and its swanky marina development, the skies thickened and it started to rain. More correctly, it started to deluge. If the weather in these northern climes has been unusual this year, then one of the unexpected outcomes has been the amount of rain that has fallen, prior to the “wet season”. Maybe the La Nina is to blame. For us, by the time we sloshed our way into Mission Beach, it was as though we had driven under the Angel Falls. In theory, Dunk Island with all its tropical allure can be viewed from the beachfront, although for us any chance of a brochure–like experience was literally going down the drain. Heading north the sheets of rain on the highway made driving difficult although with Cookie at the helm of our land ship and with her skill in the Battle of the Coral Sea in recent memory, there was no stopping us. It seemed appropriate to call into Tully, which was living up to its billing as Australia’s wettest town, before squelching our way into Cairns.

The view from the Plaza Hotel, Cairns.

If new vistas in Cairns should lead to a turning point in our fortunes, we were to be disappointed. Although the rain cleared, an early Monday call from our insurers saw us in more disbelief. Despite original assurances that we would be looked after, the news from the insurer was that although we were clearly blameless in the demise of our motor, they were not prepared to help us fix the problem. We were devastated, yes, angry, and yes intensely annoyed that it had taken more than a week to come clean with us. Apparently deep in the fine print of our offshore policy lies a clause relating to mechanical breakdowns, and no we did not qualify for assistance. The miserable creatures were happy enough to take our money, and have been doing so for a decade, but maybe Club Marine are not the company they used to be. Assurances that we would be called by the manager of claims to discuss an appeal process left us waiting by the phone, and waiting by the phone for a call that never came. The really annoying thing is that they must have known all along that we would not be able to claim, and yet they allowed us to build false hopes before now being hung out to dry. We accused them of being like the banks; of lending umbrellas when the sun was shining, and wanting them back the instant it looks like rain. A few days later, we realised that we had only used one month of our three month offshore policy, and that maybe we could cancel the remainder, and at least score a small refund on our initial cost. Another call to said company and…yes…astute blog readers will already have guessed….. after initial platitudes and declarations of empathy, and a referral to the section where penny pinching is an art form, came the following …”ah yes madam (this was Cookie’s bright idea), you can cancel policies and obtain a refund, but with offshore policies this is only possible for policies of minimum of four months duration”. She had reached a Uriah Heep like bean counter, in a windowless office, minus pictures of sails on sunsets on the walls! Herself being sharp of both tongue and mind was quick to retort “ah!.. we would like to extend our current policy by a month to accommodate some additional cruising…” There was a pause, and then the reply; formal, clipped, and dispassionate… “madam, we are unable to extend the current policy and you will need to make a new policy application”…yes, to be sure, there it no doubt was – there in the fine print. Safe to say that in regard to fine print, herself was unprintable. We were learning. You can pay good money to be insured, but are you covered? Don’t go on stage with children or creatures, and don’t place your faith in insurers!

Back in Cairns we felt flattened, disillusioned, and disinterested. This was rare for us. We wandered to the beachside lagoon but an immersion at this excellent facility, and even being surrounded by the lithe and beautiful of the world failed to lift our gloom. A stroll around a marina normally energises our minds, but even amongst the glitz of cruising boat central, that is the Marina, Cairns, we lacked focus. Our minds were elsewhere, and we knew that we had to return in haste to Townsville to take up the insurance cudgels all over again. We were back to square one with no end in sight.

The one thing that our disappearing insurers did do was to outline a path of redress that we would now need to follow. Doubtless, this would mean more assessors, more reports and more time on the hardstand. Time without end. Hundreds of miles out in the Coral Sea we had attempted to inflate our sagging spirits with an audacious plan. If we could get our motor fixed in Townsville within a few days, and a window of weather presented, we were prepared to return across the Coral Sea to the Louisiades, just for a week or two. There was unfinished business there. Maybe we could return to Oz from the islands via Hydrographers Passage out from Mackay and save a few days of time heading south instead of returning to Townsville. It was a crazy plan, but we were up to it. We were sure we could do it. Now as we slunk down the highway, we knew that the glitter of this plan was fools gold. We were not on Eastern Standard Time, we were on insurance time. Just getting the matter of our boat fixed and back on the water would have to be our focus. The islands across the eastern horizon were now as distant as Pluto.

Back "home" to Rosshaven.

Back at Rosshaven we fell into company with our neighbours Brian and Maxine on their excellent catamaran, Kinetic Energy, sharing some consolation drinks and nibbles as the sun set over the boatyard. No chance of anchor drag here. They were up on the “hard” following hitting a rock and holing a hull, in a moment of navigational inexactitude. Earlier that day they had called their broker, confessed all, and were now awaiting news of their fate. Based on our innocence and their guilt, we thought they’d be here for months. As we reclined in their spacious saloon, and mused on matters marine, Brian’s phone rang. It was his broker. “Get it fixed and send me the bill” was the instruction. No assessor, no court of the Star Chamber, no Royal Commission, no written submission, no pleading with mealy-mouthed minions. Not even a quote! It was fixed, as simple as that! In one minute 23, Brian was back with his cool drink saying something like ..”so where were we….?’

Next day, with our all-round assessment of the world at a low ebb, the word from Rosshaven was that we would need to empty and clean our three fuel tanks, a task that meant dismantling the cabin sole (the floor) to get at the inspection port on the central tank above the bilge. With the quarter berths already emptied to allow access to the motor, the boat was in total disarray; gear everywhere, our berth piled high, and now we were ripping out the floors. We offered to undertake these works, just to get some things under way, and maybe to save some money if we eventually had to foot a portion of the bill. The yard supplied an empty ’44, a hydraulic pump and lines, and soon with Cookie monitoring the filling outside at the drum, and me the emptying, with head in the bilge, the pump was clunk, clunk, clunking and we were under way. After a couple of minutes, with levels lowering inside the middle tank there was a scream from outside that might have restored our ailing motor to animation. Stop! Stop!! Stop!!!! She yelled. Noticing that fuel was no longer reaching the drum, she had cast her eyes to the boat above and to her horror, the fuel hose pipe, joined in the middle with a copper sleeve had come asunder and diesel was now spewing directly into Calista’s cockpit. It had sprayed and spurted everywhere. The mess alone would take ages to clean up, and for both of us this was just about the last straw. By late afternoon, smeared with diesel and bathed in perspiration we were heads up in the bilge attending to an errant pump, when our mobile phone rang. It was the front office to say that a parcel had arrived for us, and that it was on its way down to the yard. We could have been floored with a feather, for what arrived was a gourmet hamper, bottle of excellent red and all of the delectable comestibles with the following note “Keep the dream alive – thinking of you both – Bill and Pauline”. We just dissolved, just like that. Our wonderful friends, who originally were going to share this voyage with us, had tracked us down, to tell us that we could rise above these difficult days. Nothing quite like this had ever happened to us, and words alone could not encompass our gratitude. Bill and Pauline, what treasures, what wonderful human beings!

Cleaning out the fuel tanks.

Perspective; getting things in perspective was something that we had been working on to get ourselves back on track, and now we were to hear of events that had us putting things in a new and different light. Our phone had rung and it was Gus off Pampero (see Misima blog) who had just arrived in town from across the Coral Sea with a story to tell. Gus and Gabby had left the Louisiades about a day behind Dave and Lanie on Gypsy Lee a classic Choy Lee ’43, in fair conditions with more of the same predicted. Then, literally out of the blue all hell broke loose. The wind doubled in strength, and then some. Copping a belting on the beam, Pampero’s mainsail was soon shredded and this substantial yacht was left to limp along under reefed headsail alone. Up ahead, ketch (twin masted) Gypsy Lee, was also under a marine assault that had Dave and Lanie confined to the bunker of their pilothouse whilst outside the tempest raged. When conditions seemed to have eased, they emerged into the outside cockpit to get some air and to check for damage. Just then a huge swell hit their ship, laying it low in the water before it rose and resumed its equilibrium. It was Lanie who noticed that the base of the mizzen mast step next to Dave was cracking and yes it was coming down. Although it happened in a surreal slow motion, Dave just had time to duck as the mast crashed past him, taking out rear superstructures, pilot house windows, tender dinghy with davits, part of the binnacle (steering and compass station) and navigation electronics. Gypsy Lee was seriously wounded and Dave soon rushed to cut the mast supports free, lest, swinging like a battering ram, the mast holed the yacht and caused it to founder, hundreds of miles from the Australian coast. With the stainless side stays cut, only a spectra line was left connecting the mast to the yacht. Then in the ultimate act of derring-do, he plunged over the side whilst tethered to the boat, with a sharp blade to cut the last line free. As he later explained to us, he cut the final line with a glance “above” hoping that he would not be dragged away with the debris. Both vessels limped into Townsville, and like ourselves, were relieved to get here in mainly one piece. Only days earlier we had plied these waters, with a similar forecast, and with no motor to save the day should things have become ugly. Meeting Dave and Lanie, seeing their smitten ship, and hearing of their narrow escape first hand had us putting things well and truly in perspective.

Another day dawns at Rosshaven....

Meanwhile back at the boatyard, a new insurance plan was unfolding and a new assessor report clearly outlined what was needed to rectify our situation: a new motor (because reconditioning the “old” motor, although only 11months old would halve its life span, and its operational reliability would be uncertain), and reworking the fuel breather and exhaust systems to new specifications were musts. We were now thankfully mobile, when a liveaboard yachtie, originally from SA, threw us the keys to his “runabout” for use while he was out of town for a while. “Just put a bit of fuel in, and watch the left front tyre” were his only requests. This was great, for now we could get to the lagoon pool for some laps, go to the shops and chandleries for some bits and pieces and get out on the odd evening to the Yacht Club, a very acceptable Indian eatery, and when Kel, Helga, Chris and Gilly returned on Mojo, have an excellent evening barbie on The Strand, sharing our respective experiences. It was great to re-connect with the Mojo crew again.

A great BBQ in the park. Kel, Colin & Chris doing the dishes!

As the middle of October passed, with warnings of the potential of early cyclones in the La Nina pattern, and with us with a long voyage back to SA, we had to take action in spite of the final insurance outcome being unresolved. The new motor, sitting on the workship floor needed to be installed and the other works needed completion, for us to be back in the water and out of Townsville.

The new donk finally installed!

On our way to the water at last!

Friday 22 October saw the Tyrannosaurus – like travel lift finally hoist Calista into the air, and ease us back into the brine. With Murray from Rosshaven taking us out for new-motor sea trials on the next morning, we were ready to go. We were not the only ship to return to the water at this time. Alongside us, the really big travel lift hoisted a Naval patrol boat – just like the ones on TV – from the re-fitting workshop back into the sea, and because we were now well-known in the yard we were offered a guided tour of this vessel before it resumed commission in the Pacific islands. There were a lot of goodbyes to make, including to Keith (and Bev), off Dragon’s Lair, a Peterson 44 Yacht that they had recently bought in the US and sailed back across the Pacific, and to Pete and Irene, local sailors refurbishing their yacht in the yard who had us join them for a farewell barbie at their home on the northern Townsville beaches. Marine people are really fine people!

Sea trials with Murray the head mechanic at Rosshaven.

After four weeks of unplanned challenge and with a number of things still unresolved with insurers, we were ready to leave on the morning tide. If Wordsworth had yearned “for the meadows and the woods” of the Wye, then we two on Calista yearned simply to leave the Ross River for the freedom of the open sea.

Moored in the Ross River prior to our journey south.