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.
No comments:
Post a Comment