Bermagui - Wilsons Promontory 22/12 - 29/12/2010

The Fishing Charter Fleet awaiting the Christmas rush.

With the Yuletide rising, the good folk of Bermagui start speaking of Mexicans; not the gauchos south of the Rio Grande, but rather of Victorians, who because they carry Visa and Mastercard will be allowed, for a time, to invade this little town by the sea. Shopkeepers, accommodation houses and hospitality dispensers alike are eagerly and nervously awaiting the influx to come. For Bermi to survive it needs the Mexicans, and anyone else from the west and the north seeking an escape by the sea. Up in town we have been around long enough for locals to know that we are the yachties from afar, and for them to include us in their grumbles about the weather. We will relate, they think.

With Bermi in that mad dash to Christmas, charter boats all around us in the little harbour were making their vessels shine for the season to come, with stainless fittings gleaming and rods and reels primed at their showroom best. Like Martin and Kerrie on Jannali, we have been poring over the weather information for the period ahead, and finally an opportunity was arising for a passage to Eden to the south and then twenty deep breaths before the “big one”, the lonely track back across Bass Strait to the west. Bass Strait is more than a geographic term; it carries with it a marine aura that keeps most Queenslanders cruising where they do. Mention the magic words “Bass Strait” at a northern yacht club bar and you can see pallor replace their tropic tans.

Leaving the delightful Bermagui.

With a full tide and a light Nor Easter under a leaden sky, we cleared the Bermagui harbour, and after hoisting sail and logging on with Marine Rescue, we made our way around the headlands of Bermagui and headed south. With Horseshoe Bay, the town and the Blue Pool fading to starboard, we left with a tinge of sadness, for Bermi had been wonderful as a place to seek shelter, and even better as a town to discover. Thanks Bermi, from Calista and crew!

South of Bermagui some of New South Wales’s finest coastal localities unfold in a parade of bays, headlands and forested hinterlands stretching all the way to the sea. Tathra, Mimosa Rocks, Merimbula, Pambula and more, they are like finalists in an environmental beauty quest, but today they are without their makeup as clouds in the lowering sky kept the sun well at bay. Our progress south was hindered at first by a contrary tide but later after slack water we picked up the final remnants of the East Coast Current, and made creditable time on the 45 nm passage to Eden. Closing on Eden we debated whether to head for the southern anchorage inside the woodchip jetty, or to make for the town wharf with the weather still holding from the NE. The forecast suggested an overnight change to the south, but with Martin having secured a tie-up for us in good shelter, we opted for the town option that might allow us to access some provisions not available at Bermagui to the north. With Martin there to catch our lines we gratefully tied up alongside a motor cruiser on the town jetty with a plan to “sit out” the change the next day, with everything crossed for the window of weather emerging beyond.



Rafted up at the Eden wharf.

Eden provided a restful night for us and with the change maintaining tolerable conditions in the harbour we opted to hang in at the jetty for some provisioning, to top up our fuel, and to visit the Marine Rescue facility on the hill overlooking Twofold Bay. The stroll up the hill into town takes one past the local museum where the remarkable story of Old Tom is told, and his skeleton is on public display. Tom was a cetacean, a Killer Whale in fact, that developed a remarkable relationship with the original whalers of Twofold Bay. Tom habitually alerted the whalers to the presence of whales in the bay, and assisted in the “kill” by gripping the harpoon line in his teeth. His reward was normally the tongue of the monster, and for years the whale and the whalers were the best of mates. In later years with health failing along with the whale numbers “Old Tom” came back to the Eden wharf to die, and his skeleton is now preserved for all to see. Tom’s teeth show the impact on his incisors of long years of hauling on ropes as part of the grisly partnership that unfolded in Twofold Bay.


A fascinating visit to Marine Rescue Eden with Duty Officer Peter.

At the Marine Rescue Station we met Peter the Duty Officer, assessed the latest weather information which included access to a three-hourly special forecast prepared for Kingfisher B, the outermost of the oil rigs in Bass Strait. This would be invaluable in helping us plan a safe passage across Eastern Bass Strait, to a secure staging point in Refuge Cove at Wilson’s Promontory. Looking out at the stellar view over the bay, the tossing white caps gave little hope for a departure in the morning, although the forecast suggested otherwise. If we worked the forecast correctly, an early morning departure from Eden would see us around the tip of the continent beyond Green Cape and Gabo Island in fair conditions before strong winds from the NE later in the day. Then, with the wind up our tail we could make our way across the Oil and Gas fields to the ‘Prom for Christmas Day before the weather collapsed from the west. Later, back on board, Martin came across with the news that strong wind warnings had been posted for waters from Point Hicks to Gabo Island and beyond, but careful analysis of the timing suggested that if we played it right, we could be well beyond Point Hicks before conditions deteriorated. We recalled what Peter had to say of the weather of late. Every one of his duties in the last few weeks had seen him broadcasting a strong wind warning for ships at sea, and recent times had even Eden locals complaining about the wind.

It was another of those nights where we slept little, hearing the moan of the wind in the rigging and going over and over again the plan for the following day. The wind finally dropped off, on cue, just after midnight and at 0345, we slipped out of harbour before the faint indications of the new day appeared in the East. We had about 36 hours of passage before us and over 220nm of sea to traverse. Martin and Kerrie, bound for Lakes Entrance, departed a couple of miles astern.


Green Cape Lighthouse.

It is some 30 odd miles abeam of the wilderness of NSW’s far south coast, to Gabo Island, and along the way in the early light it was much as Cook saw it back in 1770, apart from the prominent light and weather station on the Green Cape promontory. Cape Howe by contrast is dominated by drifting sand hills, and given the winds that blow in these parts it is a wonder that there is any sand left at all to adorn the headland. Not far from here we crossed out of New South Wales waters into the waters of Victoria where sheltering for small vessels like ours is widely spaced between miles of inhospitable coastline. Soon the tall light tower of Gabo became visible and then, because conditions were thankfully calm we edged in closer than our waypoint to get a close and rare look at this volatile landform where extremes of wind and sea are the norm. We could only imagine what it must be like on the lighthouse parapet when storms shriek in here from the Southern Ocean.

The notorious Gabo Island and lighthouse.

Beyond Gabo Island we made as good speed as we could to clear Rame Head, and then Point Hicks where the coastline heading to Gippsland and Lakes Entrance curved to the North West whilst we continued directly out to sea on a line toward the obstacle course of Oil Platforms that lay somewhere over the horizon. By now as folk at home were putting finishing touches to their Christmas celebrations, we were watching the Nor-Easter build, and because it held from a difficult stern quarter, we hand steered to make the most of this difficult point of sail. To fill the headsail, we were forced to alternately fall away to port and then starboard tack as we made our way to the west.

By mid evening we were relieved to see that, as per the forecast, winds became lighter further out in Bass Strait, and as the first of the platforms emerged above the port horizon, we were under autohelm as Christmas Eve became Christmas Day. With a fading moon rising, and the oil platforms lit like Christmas Trees on an oily sea, it was truly a remarkable place to be as Santa no doubt went about his frenetic, and time honoured labours on land.

Exchanging Christmas wishes at sea.

A crackle on the radio heralded a joyous interchange between two radio operators on ships passing to the south – all shipping in excess of 200 tons is prohibited from passage through the oilfields – and we wondered at the lonely life that these sailors must have as they ply the shipping lanes of the world. Through heavy foreign accents only “Merry Christmas” was decipherable. At 0200 our radio sprung to life again and it was Martin on Jallina, as arranged, to advise that they had safely negotiated the Lakes Entrance channel and bar and were securely tied up inside. Ashore, Coast Guard Stations at Paynesville and Port Albert were to enjoy a well earned day off, and were only available for emergency transmissions. We felt that someone should be listening out for the safe arrival of Jallina. For us our earlier attempts to raise Paynseville by radio had led to Mary of Smithton Radio in Tasmania coming up to say that we should call her in the morning and in spite of the special nature of the day we were to advise her of our safe arrival at Wilsons Promontory. Carol on Kangaroo Island had asked her to look out for us, and it was both welcome and not surprising that she called to lend support for our passage. Mary is one of those truly remarkable souls who have assisted many a sailor through Bass Strait, and her selfless work on the radio over the years is one of the great unsung stories of the region. It was nice to know that we were under her wing.

Dawn light..Christmas Day...Bass Strait.

With the slalom course of the rigs behind us, Cliffy Island of the Seal group of islands emerged from the grey and drab sky ahead and beyond rose the unmistakable outline of Wilsons Promontory. It would be 4pm before we entered the beautiful nook of Refuge Cove to find, that with festivities in full swing elsewhere on land, and with a change gathering, we had this doyen of anchorages to ourselves! With our anchor safely set there was time to assemble our culinary skills and construct a Christmas Night feast that might have graced more salubrious galleys than ours This included a pudding from the ship’s stores that had been procured at the Coffs Harbour markets, which, liberally basted with extract of Scotland, and served steaming with ship’s custard, soon had us sinking in the west. Of all the places to sup on a Christmas repast! A glance around the wooded skyline before we succumbed to slumber, with the plash of wavelets on the granite bulwarks of the cove, and the silver of the moon sliding through the entrance had us again in awe of where we were and how truly fortunate we were to be there. We were pleased, too that we had now left Gabo Island snarling to itself away over the eastern horizon. Bass Strait had been half traversed.



Father Christmas does deliver at sea!



Christmas nibbles at a deserted Refuge Cove.

By Boxing Day the cold front that we had toiled to avoid was now unleashing its fury on the ‘Prom, but tucked snug and secure in one of natures most comfy of recesses, we listed to the wind howl over the headlands whist we lay in perfect serenity in Refuge Cove. We felt greatly for the Sydney Hobart Yacht Crews as this system screamed its way across eastern Bass Strait and prepared to make life dreadful for the yachts headed south to Tasmania. With the Boxing Day test at the “G” making for gloomy listening, we launched our tender and headed for shore with the intention being to revitalise our bodies if not our souls by a plunge off the cove beach. The temperature had now plunged to abysmal levels and it was hard to imagine that we were in the midst of summer.



Our only company for two days at Refuge... he also worked out we had food!


A picture says a thousand words!

Ashore we were surprised to come across three Indian gents who had chosen Christmas as a good time to traverse some of the outstanding walking trails that led to the cove. One, wearing snorkelling apparatus, and a floatation vest, emerged from the shallows with a giant carpet of a black stingray gliding in his wake. Safe from this denizen of the deep, he approached us to enquire whether we had a reef under our yacht. Seeing our curious looks, he explained that he thought that all remote beaches in Australia had coral reefs, and that he had lugged the underwater apparatus all the way to Refuge Cove in a hopeful search for Nemo. One toe immersion in the crisp waters of the ‘Prom should have confirmed for anyone that the tropics were an eternity away from here.

The lush forest on the walking track to Sealers Cove

In April our stopover at Refuge had allowed us to clamber up the walking trail leading out of the cove to Kersop Peak, and this time, with our progress to the west halted by the weather, we opted for a longer tramp, over the coastal headlands to Sealers Cove. This walk is superb with oak-sized tree ferns in dripping valleys giving way to extraordinary views from granite tors perched eyrie like over the sea far below. Sealers Cove is breathtaking in its sweeping beauty rising to forested ramparts that surely have never seen a human footprint. By now the exodus from suburbia in the post Christmas rush had begun and bushwalkers were now the forward scouts of the invasion to come. We were delighted to note that a good number of the walkers were young couples and groups who no doubt were enjoying the majestic environs hereabouts every bit as much as we were. With some 20kms of forest and beach behind us we returned to Refuge Cove after a stellar day to find that our solitary anchorage was no longer solitary, and as the weather improved, more boats joined us in the harbour. By New Year’s Eve it would be gunwale to gunwale in Refuge Cove.

The sweeping panorama of Sealers Cove.

Our focus was now on the unfolding weather which was seemingly conspiring against us. The high pressure system that we needed to dominate the weather and give us safe passage to the east hung endlessly in the Indian Ocean delivering furnace like conditions to Perth and allowing a series of fronts to dominate our weather as they slid up from the South West to march one after the other through Bass Strait. We needed at least 36 hours of stable conditions to attempt our next leg, around the hostile Wilson’s Promontory, before the long haul to Cape Otway which acted as concierge to the coast of the Great Ocean Road that lay beyond. The Twelve Apostles might look fabulous from the Visitor Centre on the headland, but out at sea from here it is easy to feel really vulnerable against this frightening backdrop. This passage, of some 215nm to Port Fairy, has Apollo Bay as the only realistic shelter if the weather turned sour, but the entrance there is swept by surf when the swell is up. SA yacht True Story, the handicap winner of the Sydney-Hobart Yacht race in 2009 had recently fallen foul at this spot, losing their mast in the process. Apollo Bay would only be considered by us in a dire emergency.

A beautiful anchorage... but time to leave.

One feeble high came and went and then, it seemed that with a slightly more robust high approaching, we might be able to leave on about December 29 if the foul weather at the ‘Prom abated – it was gusting above 40 knots at the Lighthouse guarding the peninsula – and the next low did not barge its way past the intervening high to spoil our opportunity. The general coastal waters forecast gave us both hope and misgivings, and because we could not access the more detailed information that we needed via the internet in the cove, we rigged our high gain phone aerial and called Cran in Queensland for help. His experience and analytical help would be just what we needed.

Originally we had planned to depart Refuge Cove in the early hours of December 30, giving us a much preferred passage around the dangerous promontory in daylight. It is a place of Big Ships abeam of a terrible coastline with Skull Rock of the Anser Group as its centrepiece. Now it appeared that we needed to leave earlier to give us as much time as possible to make Port Fairy before the next system hit. Cran was able to analyse the latest timing of the forthcoming change into Port Fairy, give us a three hourly estimate of likely conditions along our passage line, and give us an hourly update on wind strength abeam of the ‘Prom. We set ourselves a11pm deadline for departure, and at 10.15 the news from Cran was that, finally the heavy WSW off the ‘Prom was dropping below 20 knots. With folk on a yacht alongside heavily carousing the birthday of a crewmember, we were in a different mode as we adorned ourselves in our safety gear and prepared to put to sea. We admit to feeling a measure of anxiety as we lifted our anchor, and keeping the light at the entrance on our starboard beam, making our way quietly out of the cove into the black of night. To back ourselves to embark on this passage in the face of the elements around us was one of the most difficult decisions that we have made on this voyage. We had everything crossed!

Our calling card for the "boaties wall " in Refuge Cove.