Sailing Taurus NZ

The last blog concluded with Taurus in a berth at Beauty Point on the Tamar River. We had a limited amount of time to fill because Cara had been asked to cover a colleague’s work roster in Dunedin for a week. The trip home to help a friend and put some money back in the sailing fund happily coincided with our daughter, Abi’s, graduation on the Gold Coast (via a slightly circuitous route) and also meant that we could enjoy Christmas with Cara’s family.

With a month or so up our sleeves we kept a close eye on the weather whilst finishing off a few more of the endless boat jobs — such as installing a new solar panel on the new solar arch, fitting tank senders into the diesel and water tanks, and so on and so forth. As usual, the weather in Tasmania wasn’t particularly helpful, but eventually we detected a hint of a window that would allow us to sail to Flinders Island to the north east of Tasmania.

It may seem odd after all the sailing we’ve done over the past few years, but we both felt a little anxious about casting off the mooring lines and heading out to sea again. This might have had something to do with the rough weather we’ve frequently encountered around Tassie; the fearsome reputation of the seas around Flinders Island itself (the gap between Flinders and Tasmania is known as Banks Strait, a place where the Southern Ocean is forced into a narrow bottle neck); and not sailing for nearly four months whilst Taurus was on the hard.

So, it was with some trepidation that we cast off the lines and headed out of Beauty Point. A twenty knot wind with strong gusts from the north east meant that we needed to make a series of tacks to force our way up the channel of the Tamar. Constantly tacking a yacht in a narrow stretch of water can be pretty tiring, but the new winches proved their worth, and we finally made it into open water where we could relax a little.

The sail to Flinders from Beauty Point takes about eighteen hours. The gusty NW wind meant that we enjoyed a beam reach (the wind coming from 90 degrees to our direction of sail) which allowed Taurus to fly along with comparative ease. The warm weather and effortless sailing was made even better when a large pod of dolphins joined us to play in our bow wave. As usual, everything else stopped so that we could enjoy the spectacle of these incredible animals. Suddenly the nerves were forgotten and it felt fantastic to be out sailing again.

The approach to Flinders Island from the SW is guarded by Badger Island. We chose to anchor here for the night rather than keep heading towards Flinders, and try to navigate the shallow water, strong tides, and rocks in the dark. So it was that we found ourselves at 3am trying to find a patch of sand amidst the weed so that our anchor would have a chance to set. On the fourth attempt we struck gold, got a good hold, and could turn in for what remained of the night.

In the above photo you can see the sand and weed that often forms the sea floor in this region. You might think that a decent anchor should be able to penetrate a bit of weed, but the species here forms a thick layer of material, much like a mattress, that prevents the anchor finding anything to dig into. Later, after we had returned to Beauty Point, a friend gave us an old fisherman’s anchor to try. This traditional design (like that which Popeye has tattooed on his arm) has a reputation for working better than any modern anchor in weeds and rock. If I can organise a second rode I’ll definitely be keen to give it a go.

The following day off Badger was a cracker. Bright sun, warm breezes, and calm conditions. We inflated the kayaks and headed out for a paddle.

We had a fantastic time exploring the rocks, and walking ashore, but the wind was due to change to easterlies next morning. We reluctantly departed, and sailed Taurus to a mooring at Trousers Bay on the western side of Flinders Island. This mooring is one of the free state moorings and has a thick, long line. Over time we have developed a system of pulling these types of moorings up and connecting them to the mid-ship cleat. This limits our potential to swing whilst, more importantly, preventing the mooring buoy from banging against the hull during periods of calm. As it turned out we were to see little of the latter. In front of us lay the highest peaks on Flinders Island, the Strzeleki Peaks. These we thought would give us good protection from the east, but in practice the wind accelerated down the leeward slopes and raced across our ‘sheltered’ bay.

We had intended to walk a track that leads to the top of the peaks, but the strong winds meant that it was impossible to get off the boat. The winds were generally in the 25-30 knots range, but reached as high as 40 on occasion. The thickness of the mooring line became quite reassuring as a lee-shore lay close behind us.

Looking on the ‘No Foreign Land’ app we could see another boat, called Sea Eagle, on anchor further north of us in Parrys Bay. We sent the skipper an email, his address being on another app called Marine Traffic, with our phone number, and he later gave us a a call. The conditions where he was located were little better. He told us that some of his crew had made a herculean effort to go ashore to the local town, boats having to anchor some way out due to the shallowness of the water, only to find that everything was shut as it was a Sunday!

Keen to explore all possibilities, and get off Taurus if we could, we also contacted Luke, the manager of the Beauty Point Marina who had been a long time resident of Flinders Island. He told us that we certainly shouldn’t try to get into Lady Barron in the current conditions, and said that we were probably as sheltered where we were as we would be anywhere nearby. As we were on a secure mooring it seemed foolish to abandon it in the possibly forlorn hope of finding a calmer anchorage, especially as the holding might well be ‘a bit dodgy.’

Keeping a close eye on the weather forecast, we realised that we had one more day of easterly winds before a series of strong westerlies were expected to kick in. These westerly gales were predicted to last for at least a couple of weeks, for the entire fore-casted period in fact, and would effectively prevent us from returning to Beauty Point. So it was that on the morning of our third day at Trousers Bay we woke at 6am. A strange lull in the wind had caused us to wake in a start, and noticing the calmer conditions we raced to deflate our kayaks (stored on the deck) whilst the going was good. We then waited till midday in a bid to time our arrival at the Tamar River for first light, dropped our mooring and headed back to the Tasmanian mainland.

As luck would have it, Sea Eagle had grabbed the same ‘last chance’ weather window and departed the same day. Although we were the only two vessels for miles around we still managed to find ourselves on a collision course as we threaded our way through the islands to Banks Strait. Fortunately, Cara was on the wheel and did the considerate thing by slowing us down and refusing to heed my remarks about it being a race…

The passage back was uneventful and fast. The only real excitement occurred when we came to re-enter the mouth of the Tamar River. This stretch of coast line has some notorious reefs and the entrance itself can be a fairly unpleasant place to be in the wrong conditions. We had timed our arrival to beat the westerlies which were due in the morning, but as we approached, the easterlies picked up to 30 knots plus. We intended to motor up the Tamar to Beauty Point, about an hour away, due to the twists and turns in the channel which would see us heading up wind at some points. We dropped the main as we approached the leading marks, leaving out a scrap of jib out to stabilise us and maintain some speed, and started the engine to ensure that it was nice and warm when we needed it. The oil pressure was giving me some concern and I wanted to know that it was definitely going to run okay.

So, we were all set, and as we lined up our entrance we put the engine into gear… only to find it wouldn’t engage. We tried some fruitless pushing and pulling of the lever, and then when I looked at our course I saw that we were beginning to head towards the Hebe Reef — so named after a ship that ran aground and sank there in 1808, the first of many. I said to Cara that we needed to head to windward, and she replied that she was hard-over! This meant that we had insufficient steerage to sail away from the reef. If we couldn’t get the engine into gear our options were to gybe and try to head back out to sea, or try to sail with the wind around the southern edge of the reef and then back out to sea. Neither option was particularly appealing in the conditions.

I jumped down the companion way and threw everything on top of the engine covers off, dove on top of the engine, which was still running, to reach the gear select lever on the gearbox. With barely any effort it snuck into gear with a satisfying ‘click.’ I sometimes feel that Taurus, if not actively trying to kill us at times, certainly enjoys testing us. We had never had this problem before, and haven’t had it since. Naturally, should such a problem decide to rear its head it would be at the end of an 18 hour sail, following several tiring days being blown around an anchorage, approaching a narrow channel in 30 plus knots of wind, at 3 am, in the pitch dark, surrounded by reefs.

The motor up the channel was child’s play after the fun and games at sea, and we dropped anchor outside Beauty Point Marina, rather than push our luck any further in the dark. We tested the gear select numerous times before attempting to reverse into our berth, and found it to be working perfectly. Bloody thing.

With no time left to go anywhere else, we tidied the boat and faffed around fixing things. Departure day came around and Luke kindly gave us a lift to Launceston airport. After a brief stop in Melbourne we arrived in Brisbane, where old sailing buddy Julian picked us up and took us home. He and Tracey, his wife, then generously lent us a car so that we could drive to the Gold Coast where we caught up with daughter Abi. It was fantastic to be able to catch up and celebrate her big day with her.

Early the next day we drove back to our friends’ place to drop off their car, they drove us to the airport, and we were off to Christchurch. Looking down upon the Tasman from 30,000 feet it was hard not to reminisce about the time we sailed across that sea with friends Dave and Jackie. That had been an epic mid-winter trip with gales, breakages, and a quick dip mid-sea whilst becalmed; our three hour flight with in-flight entertainment, pre-packaged meal, and free glasses of wine was certainly more comfortable, but hardly as memorable. One of the running clubs in Dunedin used to have a sign that read something along the lines of, “I might not be able to run a marathon every day, but having run one once, every day I will know that I have run a marathon.” I know that every time I fly across the Tasman Sea I will look down and know that I sailed across that sucker!

Back in Dunedin, Cara quickly fell into a work routine whilst I did DIY at her mum’s place and caught up with friends. We had agreed to talk about our adventures at our local yacht club’s last get together of the year — which was slightly terrifying, but well received, according to some polite members of the audience. I felt that we had proven the old adage, known in the forces as the ‘seven p’s’: Prior Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance. There had, however, been little time for rehearsal, so we did our best on the day. If any masochists out there want to watch the talk you can find it online at the following address:

https://www.otagoyachtclub.org.nz/newsarticle/161032?newsfeedId=2228401

Like having a toe amputated, I don’t recommend it.

With Christmas behind us we had time for a bit of work at one of our rentals, a bit more catching up with friends, some cat-sitting, and then packing up ready for departure back to Tasmania.

So, it is with some sadness that tomorrow we bid adieu to family, friends, and New Zealand once more, and return to Taurus in Tasmania. Home, after all, is wherever we drop our anchor, and a new sailing season and new horizons beckon.

our last blog post ended with Taurus caught on a foot bridge as we attempted to enter the Seaport Marina. Access to the berth we had been given required that we make a ninety degree turn parallel to the footbridge to enter the fairway, and a second ninety degree turn immediately afterwards. Taurus‘ turning circle being what it is, we had to hug the bridge to have the maximum amount of room to turn and have a chance of getting into the berth. Boats are not like cars when it comes to making three point turns, and trying to manoeuvre a full keel boat in a confined, dark, and unknown space is an experience best avoided if possible.

All was going smoothly. Cara was on the wheel and I was at the bow to ‘help’ with directions. Alas, I thought we were going a bit fast, so I yelled to Cara to slow down. What I didn’t know was that she had already placed the engine in neutral, so in order to slow down she put us into reverse. Propellors in reverse can create a phenomenon known as ‘prop walk.’ This essentially means that the stern steps out (to left or right depending on which way the propellor turns). As we were hugging the bridge this ‘step’ was enough to put us alongside the bridge which caused us to catch our rigging on a steel protuberance that greatly resembled and perfectly functioned as a cleat. The rig bent alarmingly and I had visions of the mast coming down and fouling the bridge — an embarrassing spot on the Tasmanian news seemed to beckon! Happily, however, we had timed our arrival for slack tide, so we were able to push ourselves free without too much effort and gain our berth. It was a stressful end to a long day, and an even longer few days that had seen us race around most of Tasmania’s west and north coast. .

The Seaport Marina is nice enough, cheap, and run by friendly people. It has, however, three serious downsides: the tricky entrance, the hike to the toilets, and the mud. The Launceston end of the Tamar River is gradually silting up, so that at low tide a good deal of the marina is simply a quagmire. Our berth, one of the closest to the river, had about a metre of free water at low tide, so the lower half of the keel sat in a muddy hole. This has the potential to cause a major issue. As the boat cyclically rests in the muck, mud can be forced further and further into the through holes which provide water for things such as engine cooling. If blocked this can obviously cause the engine to overheat.

Of the various options locally available (moorings, and other berths outside of the marina) none apparently have sufficient depth to let a decent sized keeler float all tide round. We had been speaking to the Tamar Yacht Club about using their hard standing facilities, and as the cost of being on the hard was the same as being in the marina, and as there was no-one else waiting to use the cradle earmarked for us, we decided to escape the mud by sitting on the hard for the duration of our stay.

The club’s facilities are much the same as we are used to in Dunedin, with steel cradles lowered on tracks into the water and the boat driven into them at high tide and secured. As the tide drops the yacht comes to rest on the cradle and the whole shebang is pulled onto land by winch.

The bosun of the yard is, a self-effacing kind of guy called Pete. Pete started work at his family’s boat building business at the age of ten, and went on to run his own engineering business for thirty five odd years. As you might imagine, Pete is a mine of knowledge, but without knowing him you won’t know how generous he is with his time and skills. On a couple of occasions he even managed to squeeze himself into Taurus’ engine compartment, something I wouldn’t have thought possible if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes! Getting him out again proved that miracles do happen!

The yard, unsurprisingly. was full of boats, and populated by the interesting characters that own them. Our initial neighbour was a Swiss German chap, a solo sailor with a You Tube Channel who had run his yacht onto rocks entering the Tamar. We were keen to talk to him, but the experience seemed to have dented his sense of humour. He determinedly refused to engage with us, or indeed anyone else. He was so taciturn that after a stay of some months many of the other boat owners thought he spoke no English (his You Tube channel is provided in German and English versions). It seems odd to set out to travel the world and yet deliberately forego opportunities to interact with people, but each to their own I guess.

The Swiss chap left shortly after, and his cradle was taken by a guy called Ken Gourlay, who holds the Australian speed record for a solo circumnavigation. Ken was helping his son, Tristan, get his boat ready for an intended challenge to beat his record. At time of writing Tristan is a few days into his challenge and going great guns. You can follow his journey on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61581996164631

Another interesting guy was Michael, whose boat, Serida, had sunk at the Beauty Point Marina, also run by the Tamar Yacht Club but some five or six hours up river. The fibre glass keel of his boat had badly cracked causing the boat to sink. According to the gossip mill, the stays holding his mast up had been overtightened, which had driven it through the hull. Later, however, the keel was cut from the boat in order to transport it to the tip. It transpired that ferrous metal had been used for ballast, and, as it slowly rusted over many years, it vastly expanded and may simply have burst the keel apart from the inside out.

Once Serida had been condemned by the insurance company, Mike was allowed to sell off what parts he could. The potential for cheap goodies was too good to ignore, and we ended up buying a set of Lewmar winches and all manner of other things that we don’t really have room for. Later the poor old girl became fair game for stripping by whoever had the time and energy to take what they wanted. Cara and I spent a day or two taking out hinges, catches, blocks and such like. The older bronze and stainless steel items are often nicer than the modern stuff (which is uber expensive) and it would be a terrible sin to see it thrown in a hole in the ground.

As usual, the strangers in the yard quickly became a community, friends who would bend over backwards to give a hand. Jim and Angela, A & E nurses and the owners of Malibu, the red steel boat you can see in the background of the above photo, leant us a compressor and needle gun, and even gave us some surplus paint. However, it wasn’t just the sailing community who went above and beyond. Gregg, Cara’s manager at the Launceston General Hospital, leant us a car for the duration of our stay, an act of generosity that saved us hundreds if not thousands of dollars. It’s often easy to be cynical of people, but since we have been travelling we have never received anything but kindness from strangers. Perhaps Jean Jacques Rousseau was right when he argued that people are inherently good and kind — although he did die alone, driven mad by the belief that people were conspiring against him… hmmm.

One of the more unusual aspects of the Tamar Yacht Club’s hard standing is its tendency to transform from land to lake. I was working in the shed on the pillar drill one evening when I realised my feet were getting wet. The tide was rising through the floor boards and kept going until it was several inches above the floor. Another evening I had to take off my shoes and socks to get to the car in the carpark which had become a large pond — complete with swans and ducks. After this experience I tried to remember to keep my gum boots handy!

With Taurus on a cradle it was time to get to work. We had a long list of jobs to do, and a couple of months to get them all done. As is the way with boat jobs, you start one thing and it leads to something else, and something else, and something else, and suddenly the list of jobs you started with is a distant memory. I, for example, wanted to re-varnish the galley whilst we were living off the boat (Cara’s job came with a free apartment), but after several months it sadly looks as shabby as ever. Other jobs kept cropping up and had to take priority.

One day we started emptying the bilge and noticed a line of paint that had lifted at the bottom of the keel where the plates join. This line of lifted paint had led to some minor rust which led all the way to the anchor locker. To gain access to repaint we had to remove the anchor chain, remove the bespoke anchor chain box (happily designed to be removed in several pieces) and the anchor locking lining. Then, whilst working in this tiny steel box we noticed that the deck below the windlass was badly corroded. The beauty of steel boats is that it is relatively easy to cut out corrosion and replace the old material with new steel. The welding part can take just an hour or so, but the headache is cleaning up the mess and repainting. At a minimum we normally aim for two coats of antirust, two coats of primer, and as many topcoats as required for a decent aesthetic finish. As each coat requires a day to dry, the painting can easily take a week — or more if you don’t have decent weather.

We also noticed another small area of corrosion in the bottom of the anchor locker (we were warned about this during our pre-purchase survey) so cut out that out too. It made sense to do the work whilst the anchor locker was accessible and we had access to Pete, a very experienced welder who charged a reasonable price, as well as all manner of paint suppliers, engineers, and so on. Within a few days, all the rust in the anchor locker was replaced with 6mm of brand new cortan steel, and I proceeded to smother it in epoxy paint. Naturally, the process wasn’t entirely straightforward, and weeks of gale force winds and squalls whistling straight down the Tamar River and into the exposed boat yard became a bit of a bore. On one memorable day the wind was blowing over forty knots and I turned up to find the three metre aluminium ladder that we used to get from ground level to the deck trying to take off. As it was tied on at the top (to prevent us falling backwards on the way up) it was flying up and down Taurus’ hull in the gusts. Apparently the weather was exceptional, everyone was sick of it, but finally the painting was done.

Another job undertaken was replacing the spare sureseal seal on the prop shaft (the previous spare having been used to stop the shaft leaking in Recherche Bay) This proved to be a real PITA of a job, due to poor access and the refusal of the universal joint to release from the shaft. After a three day battle with it I eventually found a clamp in an engineer’s scrap bin that was a perfect fit, and by smacking the clamp with a large hammer I was able to jar the joint free. I withdrew the shaft, put everything back together, and then realised I had forgotten to replace the sureseal cap. It all had to come apart again. How I laughed! The bright side was it came apart far more easily second time around.

We replaced the throttle and gear cables, and then thought that the steering cables might as well be replaced too. Should a movie ever be made on this decision it might be called “A Job Too Far.” It was another swine of a project, but one that needed to be done. We found that the sprocket that the steering chain runs on (which is then joined at either end to a cable) was made of plastic, so it had of course worn quite badly over its years or even decades of service. A couple of times when sailing under pressure the wheel had alarmingly slipped — now we knew why. The local engineers made short work of machining a a new metal sprocket to fit the shaft, and we could move on to trying to remove the steering quadrant. Now this particular lump of metal and I have ‘history.’ I had spent about a week trying to remove it when we first bought the boat so that I could paint beneath it. It sits on a tapered stainless steel shaft and had refused to budge despite copious amounts of lubricant, heat, increasingly large hammers, jacks, and anything else I imagined might make the difference. Eventually, wiser heads told me to leave it alone before I broke something, and worry about it when I actually needed to remove it. So, I wasn’t looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with this bloody minded inanimate object. However, with some advice from Pete, the judicious use of a gas torch, and a big hammer it popped apart in less than an hour. I could barely believe it.

With the quadrant removed it was a simple matter to rig a new chain onto the cables and run them through the boat. As luck had it, Cara had a day off when I was running the cables, little people are good for small spaces.

There are various euphemisms associated with working on boats that seek to capture the sheer bloody awkwardness of most boat projects. ‘Boat yoga’ is heard a lot, or the saying that ‘if you can see it you can’t reach it, and if you can reach it it’s only by being upside down and with one hand.’ Boat builders seem to delight in making jobs more difficult than they need to be for future owners. One gem is putting bolts into holes from which they can’t later be withdrawn. When faced with roadblocks like this you can either keep pulling the boat apart or go medieval — we opted for the bolt croppers.

Other jobs we tackled included removing and rebedding the two deck hatches (as well as replacing their acrylic ‘glass’), rewiring the windlass, adding several new electronic goodies that allow us to better monitor boat systems, repairing the dodger, adding a solar arch (taken from Serida) renewing the antifoul, cutting and polishing the topsides of the hull, servicing the engine and (hopefully) fixing a minor, intermittent oil leak, and so on and so forth. We also had a local rigger check the rig after our brush with the local infrastructure. Happily it passed inspection and as an added bonus the chap suggested a different lay out for our inner fore stay. This will allow us to do away with our running back stays, a way of strengthening the middle of the mast when under storm jib (which pulls from mid-mast), but which prevent us tacking, jibing, or heaving to without removing them first, which isn’t always easy in a big sea. We’re still waiting on the new stay to arrive, but fingers crossed it works as promised. So, with everything going on at once it was a busy time. Our apartment quickly became a secondary workshop complete with varnish station and winch strip down area, and resembled a crappy chandlery full of second hand boat bits and a charming bouquet of thinners.

We did manage to take the odd day off. One of our best day trips was to the Low Head Lighthouse on a Sunday when they fire up the fog horn. After a long and interesting chat with the volunteers who run the beast we learnt that this the only operational ‘G’ type diaphone in the world. Who doesn’t love steam, brass, and loud noise?

According to the free leaflet, “The diaphone consists of three parts. The outer casing and two sections making up the piston. The driving and external parts of the piston are machined with annular slots and as the air passes through it is chopped 180 times per second to create the characteristic ‘groan-grunt’ sound.”

For those eager to experience the ‘groan-grunt’ click on the following link: https://youtu.be/HmC4PiGH6hY (remember to turn your volume up loud for a realistic effect!)

Eventually, Cara’s contract ran out, and it was time to finish up the boat yard jobs and get Taurus back into the water. Rather than stick around in the mud (hoho), we headed straight back up the Tamar for a few hours to the Beauty Point Marina. We had previously stayed at the marina a couple of years ago after crossing the Tasman Sea with our friends Dave and Jackie in their Hanse 370e, Hansel. It was nice to return in our own boat.

Luckily, we had time to finish up a few last jobs at the marina while we waited for a weather window to sail to Flinders Island across Banks Strait. Thursday, in two days time, is looking good. We don’t have a great deal of time up our sleeves to explore as we plan to visit the Gold Coast for my daughter, Abi’s, graduation, before flying to New Zealand for Christmas. After so long working on the boat we’re looking forward to actually sailing again. But, that having been said, I’m mindful that after fiddling with so many systems this will be a bit of a shake down cruise. Hopefully nothing important fails, but if so we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, or smash into it — we’re getting good at that!

As we left Sir John Falls to return up the Gordon River, the rain fell and the temperature seemed to plummet. We had grown used to bright sunshine and still conditions, so this grey, damp, and cold new world muted our enjoyment of the scenery somewhat. We were also apprehensive about our batteries’ charge state (with the alternator still providing a weak charge) and the likelihood of meeting the big commercial ferry around some bend of the river.

Happily, we avoided the ferry, and the big wave we received from its crowd of passengers, braving the rain on the exposed deck, made us forget the rain for a while. Eventually, we escaped the river and could raise the sails to enjoy a fast trip back to Strahan. Alas, when we turned the engine back on to anchor we found that the alternator had given up the ghost completely, and was providing no charge at all.

The isolation of Strahan was brought home to us again as we tried to find a replacement alternator for our old(ish), British engine. The search was further hampered by our need for an ‘above ground’ unit — one that doesn’t ground to the engine and cause potentially harmful stray current. To cut a long story short, we eventually found an auto-electrician in Launceston with the knowledge and willingness to help, and we had two units freighted out to us. Why two you may ask? Well, a wise boatey saying has it that “one is none, and two is one,” a maxim that emphasises the importance of having redundancy aboard.

To compound matters, the incredible weather we had experienced for our first week in Strahan soon became a distant memory. The rain fell in sheets, and every night seemed to provide a fresh gale from one quarter or another. Power rationing doesn’t come easy during long, cold, wet days. In the end we got in touch with the local council and arranged a berth on the town jetty so that we could plug into the mains, and walk on and off the boat. The only downside was that the northerly gales blew us against the jetty and the wide piles, designed for large fishing boats, required some creative fender work. Nevertheless, life was much easier that it had been on anchor, and the chap in charge of the jetty kindly decided not to charge us for our short stay.

We used the time whilst waiting for the alternator to arrive (and subsequently, for a weather window) to check out the local tourist trail. One night we attended the play (perhaps pantomime is more accurate) The Ship That Never Was. This fun drama is Australia’s longest running play (at thirty odd years) and recounts the last great convict escape from Sarah Island. Wrap up warm and try not to sit in the front row if you don’t want to participate!

Another day we took the old mining railway along the King River with William from Sea Eagle. It was nice to get a different view of the area, and to again marvel at the hardiness of the pioneers who tried to tame this rough terrain.

An expedition to Queenstown kept us out of mischief another day. We took the school bus to the local ‘big smoke’ to see what we could find. The alien landscape surrounding the town, created by decades of mining, provided mute testament to the power people can wield over nature, whilst the shabbiness of the town itself, now the mine is shut, speaks volumes about the vicissitudes of human endeavour. The ruined land remains, but most of the people and the wealth are long gone.

The wisdom of our trip was looking a bit dicey when we had ‘finished’ the town by 10 am, with the return bus not leaving till mid-afternoon, but then we found the local museum. Its eclectic collection is so large that we ended up spending several hours there and still missed a good portion of it. Cara even found an old operating theatre and anaesthetic equipment to play with!

With the new alternator installed we began looking for a weather window in earnest. However, even the weather guy on ‘Weather Watch’ (a useful internet resource) was surprised by the never ending sequence of storms rolling across South Australia and Tasmania. Rather than risk a nasty Southern Ocean experience we were happy to wait.

Out of the blue one afternoon we received a call from Michael from Sea Eagle. A little cryptically he asked if we had dive gear on board and if one of us could dive. It turned out that the lads had run over a mooring line at Birches Narrows, which had become wrapped around their propellors. Michael had been diving on the boat all morning with a 2mm wetsuit and a dolphin torch, but hadn’t been able to free the boat. Sooner or later anyone who goes boating ends up in this predicament, and we have certainly been in the club ourselves once or twice. We had the gear and were happy to help, so Michael, wanting to get free as soon as possible, hired Sophia, one of the local tour operators, to bring us to them first thing in the morning.

It was exhilarating to race down the Macquarie at 30 knots, a rather different experience to Taurus’ more stately 5 knot average. However, our mission of mercy almost became mission absurdity when my dive regulators began free flowing a couple of minutes after I entered the water. This can be caused by cold water freezing small parts in the regulator, as well as by fresh water such as is found near the river’s mouth. A further factor might be plain lack of use. I last dived in Noumea and the gear was overdue for a service. Anyway, as I was all dressed up with diving thermals and an 8mm wet suit on I felt duty bound to do what I could.

I have to say that I really dislike free diving under boats. Having smoked for many years my lungs aren’t great, and having almost drowned in a kayaking accident I have a residual fear that doesn’t help me conserve what little air my lungs can hold. I can never quite shake the idea of getting caught on something and being unable to surface. The 10 degrees water, pitch dark only a metre or so beneath the surface due to the tannins from the peaty soil, did little to help me relax. The cold seemed to prevent me catching my breath, and all I could manage was lots of short dives.

Even with a decent dive torch I literally swam into the propellors before I saw them. The lack of visibility meant that I used a good deal of air just finding the props each time I dived, and then had to desperately surface before I could really achieve anything. Eventually, I freed one propellor and moved on to the next. The rope was tightly wrapped on the second shaft, but I was able to loosen enough rope to tie it to a fender so I could use it to guide myself back to the propellor, and avoid wasting time and air. After what seemed a long time the rope was finally cut away. I couldn’t help but admire Michael who had been trying to do this with a thin summer wet suit and a crappy old torch. Bugger that!

Eventually the propellors were clear and I had another quick dive to check that the rudders were clear — another bump on the head as I swam into them blind. Michael suggested I check the stabilisers too, but after a couple of dives in which I couldn’t even find the stabilisers I felt that enough was enough. The exercise had been way out of my comfort zone. Of course, being challenged isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and no doubt the experience will be helpful when we next ‘catch’ a rope ourselves. The upshot was a cruise with William, Michael, and Steffani, Michael’s wife, back down the Gordon River before being treated to dinner at the Strahan pub.

Our wait for a decent weather window finally seemed to bear fruit, and a predicted 20-25 knot sou-westerly looked like just the ticket for our 24 hour sail to Hunter Island on the North West corner of Tasmania’s coast. We left Strahan a day early to take advantage of the outgoing tide through Hell’s Gates, and anchored in Pilot Bay. In the afternoon we took the dinghy ashore for the short walk to the Cape Sorrel lighthouse.

We didn’t leave till midday the following day, a Monday, so as to arrive at Hunter Island with the strong tides in our favour. Once clear of shelter the wind and swell increased dramatically, and we were soon flying along with 25 knots on the beam in a swell of 1-2 metres. The wind and swell in these waters can travel thousands of miles before it reaches Tasmania. It’s only obstruction, possibly South America or Antartica. As a young man I printed maps for the army. I recall a course I attended in which the instructor tried to make us understand that the wetness of water can vary. In my ignorance I scoffed at such silliness, but he was of course correct. Our trip up the West Coast made me wonder if the strength of wind can also be tied to more than its mere speed. Can air be more or less dense, a swell be more powerful than its mere size suggests? I don’t know, but as conditions worsened the power of wind and wave seemed way beyond that suggested by the instruments.

As anyone who films the sea will tell you, video flattens the sea, so it doesn’t really provide a true idea of the actual experience. The clip above was taken just after we had left Hell’s Gates. You can see in the footage of the chart plotter that the wind is about 25 knots. In the subsequent video the wind has only risen a couple of knots, 27 is indicated, but there is clearly a good deal more power in the breeze. Taurus is no longer rolling, but is heeled to leeward and we are racing along at 7.5 knots according to the instruments.

The wind and swell continued to increase, and we shortly afterwards furled the jib and raised the storm jib, the orange sail that you can see in the videos stowed in readiness on the dinghy. We hadn’t expected to need it in the 20-25 knots predicted, and the main reason we had it set up was because we hadn’t used it for a while. It was a good job it was ready to go. Decreasing the sail area and bringing the centre of effort closer to the mast allows the boat to better cope with strong winds. And strong they got. Before long the wind was sitting on 35 knots with sustained gusts of forty. If all the predictions hadn’t clearly stated that the wind was going to drop it would probably have been prudent to have turned around. The Beaufort scale offers a useful guide for context: 22-27 knots is classed as Force 6 and entitled a ‘strong breeze;’ 28-33 knots, Force 7, and called a ‘moderate gale;’ 34-40 knots, Force 8, and a ‘fresh gale;’ and 41-47 knots, Force 9, and a ‘strong gale.’ The scale tops out at Force 12 with 66 knot winds and over, classified as Hurricane force. Promised a strong breeze we found ourselves verging on strong gale conditions — and the weather was rapidly deteriorating. You can see why we were concerned.

Happily, sustained gusts of nearly forty knots was as bad as it got. However, the sea state had altered with the elevated wind, and as we were heading north and the swell is predominantly from the west we were beam on to the powerful waves. The strong winds from the sou’ west also created a seperate and decent sized wave train that rose from a different direction from the swell, making for confused seas and short gaps between peaks and impacts. We conservatively estimated the swell at 5-6 metres, which is far from unusual in this area. The current wave record holder for Cape Sorrel was a monster that measured 19.83 metres, in winds of 83 knots (154 km/h), in 1982. Yikes!

Memories of sailing in difficult conditions seem to consist of snatches of images. I recall Taurus being thrown so far over to starboard that the sea threatened to flow over the cockpit coaming, and then another large wave smashed into the port beam, crashed across the dodger windows and seemingly half way up the mast. The sailing conditions were not ideal. Still, when we weren’t being chucked about by the waves we were sailing well, so we decided to maintain our sail plan of storm jib and three reefs in the main. This kept us powered up and moving quickly in the rough sea state. We kept a close eye on the waves to make sure they didn’t start to break, which makes the risk of capsize far higher, and would have forced us to adopt more rigorous storm tactics.

The wind was supposed to drop by midnight, but ultimately it kept us on our toes until about 3am. It was a memorable night and probably one of our worst weather experiences. The big positive was that Taurus swam through the conditions without ruffling a feather — to mix my metaphors, or perhaps she has penguin DNA. We did manage to break a couple of things, such as a solar panel that we should have strapped down. You can imagine what happens when a boat the size of Taurus is thrown onto her beam and tries to sit on a flimsy piece of glass and aluminium — nothing good. In similar fashion our canvas dodger on the port side had its grommets ripped out — the material unable to withstand the resistance of the water as it was pressed against it.

There are several downsides to owning a full keel, heavy displacement, steel boat, but when the pooh hits the fan the inherent strength and seaworthiness of the design more than makes up for them. We have been asked in the past if such experiences put us off sailing. Well, they aren’t pleasant, but they strike at the heart of why we chose to go cruising on a small boat. Robert Pursig, author of Zen and the Art of Mortorcycle Maintenance, and a sailor, explained it better than I can. He said,

Those who see sailing as an escape from reality have got their understanding of both sailing and reality completely backwards. Sailing is not an escape but a return to and a confrontation of a reality from which modern civilization is itself an escape. For centuries, man suffered from the reality of an earth that was too dark or too hot or too cold for his comfort, and to escape this he invented complex systems of lighting, heating and air conditioning. Sailing rejects these and returns to the old realities of dark and heat and cold (‘Cruising Blues and Their Cure,’ originally published in Esquire, May 1977).

The world also used to be frightening and dangerous (and of course remains so for those born in unlucky places). The opportunity to be scared and experience the elemental nature of our world is also therefore something of a privilege. It is far too easy for life to slip away in a blur of work, tv, shopping, and so on. That at least was my experience. One year blurs into another, and another, and another, with little to tell them apart. In the year that we have been sailing we have had so many experiences, high and low, that the difference between our old comfortable existence and our current life is chalk and cheese.

Cara needed to be in Launceston for the Monday coming to start her short term contract. We therefore had to concoct an itinerary that allowed us to avoid the now regular sou’ easterly winds. Having arrived at Hunter Island earlier than expected (we had been sailing at 9.5 knots thanks to the strong winds, almost double our standard 5 knots) we dropped anchor and went straight to bed. We were up at 5am to beat the predicted easterlies and arrived at Stanley mid-morning, we left at 11pm that night to arrive at Davenport at dawn. We spent that night at the Mersey Yacht Club and left the next day for the six hour trip to George Town. The following day we headed down the Tamar River, a full seven hour trip that we ultimately completed in the pitch dark — having had to wait for the strong tide to turn.

As you can imagine, we were pretty tired by the time we got to Launceston at 8pm on Saturday night, and our fatigue perhaps helps to explain our hitting a pedestrian footbridge trying to get into the marina. But it’s past time to wrap up, so that tale will have to wait for the next instalment!

We had arrived in Macquarie Harbour on the 29th of June, anchoring outside the only town of Strahan which is located in the north east corner.

Before exploring the local area we needed to restock the boat and we had a parcel to pick up. Cara is a keen paddle boarder, where as I used to be an enthusiastic multi-sporter (running, biking, and kayaking), so we carry on board a paddle board and an inflatable kayak for our respective uses. Paddle boarding, however, can be difficult in choppy anchorages, so we decided that another kayak would give us greater flexibility to explore bays, rivers, and so on together. I had looked into the various options available before making my initial purchase, and had decided on an American brand called Advanced Elements. This company makes inflatable kayaks that are actual usable kayaks, rather than inflatable toys. Having been very happy with my purchase we quickly decided to buy Cara one of these, though our frugal inclinations demanded that we wait until the kayaks came on sale. When they did we ordered one through Oz Kayaks, who offer free postage, and arranged for it to be sent to Strahan.

With the kayak uplifted from the kind people at Strahan Post Office, we spent the afternoon paddling around Risby Cove, the bay that Strahan is built around. As we mooched around we saw a yacht enter the Cove and kayaked over to say hello. This meeting turned out to be a stroke of serendipity. The sailor proved to be one Trevor Norton, a local legend who has sailed in this area, commercially and privately, for decades. An architect by trade, Trevor took it upon himself to add detail to the local charts and invited us to his home for a coffee and a chat about the local navigation hazards.

Trevor’s ‘man cave’ is an Aladdin’s Cave of sailing memorabilia, and the man himself a mine of information. The hand drawn charts he showed us made our subsequent exploration of the area vastly better informed and safer.

Armed with Trevor’s charts we were ready to leave, but a moment of foolishness stopped us in our tracks. Our gas solenoid, a safety device which remotely turns off the LPG gas that our cooker uses, began to leak stray current. We monitor this carefully, as stray current in a steel boat can cause corrosion issues. We carry a spare solenoid so decided to exchange old for new. However, trying to rush the job as darkness and the temperature fell, I stripped one of the small gas unions. It was at this point that we realised that we had no spare onboard. It is only when you have to source an unusual part that you realise how limited local resources can be. There was no part and no gas fitter to be found in the wider area, so we had to order something from the nearest town, Burnie. It turned up surprisingly quickly, but for a couple of days we had no gas, so no coffee in the mornings and we had to eat out in the evening. It was a timely reminder to carry adequate spares, and not to rush maintenance work.

With the cooker back in service we were finally free to go. In the calm conditions we motored the length of the harbour and picked up the southern mooring in Kelly Basin. There are several moorings available to the public in the area, and all seem to be well maintained. The stillness and tranquility was exceptional.

After a couple of relaxing days we moved to the northern mooring, another beautiful space that was handy to the deserted town of East Pillinger and the Bird River walk.

Established in 1897, East Pillinger was once a thriving mining town with a population of over a thousand people. Commercial misfortune led to the town’s abandonment, with most families moving to Strahan by the early 1920s. The last residents left in the 1940s and since then the bush has been allowed to reclaim the land that had been stolen from it. Today, a few remaining ruins make for a thought provoking walk.

The Kelly Basin walk, also known as the Bird River walk, is one of the great Tasmanian short walks. At about 12 kilometres long the walk takes 3-4 hours return, and follows a generally gentle incline along what was once a railway line. There are a few muddy patches, that can often be avoided, and plenty of slippery roots, so decent boots are a good idea.

The following day we left Kelly Basin and motored the short distance to Sarah Island. Sarah Island was home to the first penal settlement in Tasmania, established in 1822. The prison was a ‘banishment settlement,’ used to punish Australian inmates who had reoffended or tried to escape. That the entrance to Macquarie Harbour became known as ‘Hell’s Gates’ gives some idea as to the places reputation. Starvation, dysentery, and scurvy were rampant, punishment was often severe (over 9,000 lashes were awarded to the inmates in 1823 alone), and one prisoner, known only by his surname -Trenham, killed another man simply to face execution and escape the misery of the place. However, the deprivation and cruelty of the early years was slowly turned around, and eventually the island morphed into a hive of local industry, becoming the biggest ship building yard in the British colonies.

Anchoring some little distance to the south, due to rapid shoaling of the bottom, we took our dinghy ashore only to find that the two closest jetties had been destroyed by recent storms. Ultimately we tied up out of the way on the commercial ferry’s jetty.

The ruins are in poor condition compared to those at Port Arthur, but they give some idea of the what the prison was once like. Perhaps the most poignant building is the solitary confinement block. Here men could be kept for up to fourteen days on a diet of bread and water for infringements such as possessing fish hooks. It seems the fear was that inmates would be able to preserve and stockpile food for potential escape attempts. The walls of the ‘grave size’ cells are half a metre thick, presumably for sound proofing, and so increase the sensory deprivation of the incarcerated. A number of names and initials could be seen scratched into the bricks, but the earliest date we found was 1890, long after the settlement had been closed down in favour of the Port Arthur site.

The tourist ferry turned up after lunch and disgorged its passengers. With the permission of the guide we tagged along to learn some more of the history, which was quite a different experience to having the place all to ourselves.

Once the ferry left we didn’t linger long. Instead we took the dinghy the short distance to Hallidays Island where over eighty inmates are apparently buried. Sadly, we couldn’t find any trace of their final resting places.

Returning to Taurus we lifted the anchor and motored to Birchs Narrows before turning east behind Shamrock Point. As evening fell the mirror like finish of the water was simply remarkable; the two blinding suns making it appear an almost alien world.

The day before, we had yelled a quick hello to a fellow sailor in the channel outside our anchorage, and he had yelled back an invitation for coffee at a hut ashore.

We raised the anchor in a light morning mist replete with rainbow, moved Taurus around the corner, and took the kayaks to a small beach where we could see some chairs set out.

The sailor turned out to be Max, a man who at nearly 90-years old (his 90th birthday was the following week) still takes his 12 metre sloop out solo. Max and a friend had built the hut on the site of an old loggers hut with the permission of the Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife Service. Apparently during the process they had flown an Aboriginal elder all the way down from Sydney to vet the idea, and he had merely said, “this is nice” before being flown back.

Max’s hut is a wonderful space to spend a few days and get away from the stresses and burdens of civilisation. The over-size fire keeps the place toasty, whilst the large windows let in a flood of light and give views through the forest to the beach. All are welcome here, though you may need to bring your own gas bottle if you don’t want to have to cook on the wood burner.

A short walk away Max showed us a dinghy dock that perches over a shallow river which runs to the beach. He pointed out some Huon Pine whose branches hung out over the water. These trees were found to be perfect for boat building due to their rot resistant properties, and so became the focus of a major logging industry in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, which naturally enough decimated the resource. The remaining trees are strictly protected, but growing only 2mm a year it will be centuries, if not millennia, before the Huon Pine recovers.

We regretfully left Max and his slice of paradise and headed towards the Gordon River at the south eastern corner of Macquarie Harbour. The Gordon River is over 170 kms long, and the lower stretches, often 30 metres deep, are easily navigable by boat.

The channel at the river mouth is indicated by pile markers, but once inside there are few hazards. Perhaps the greatest lies below the surface. We had been warned by a couple of locals to try and avoid anchoring in the river. The depth and dark tannin stained water provide few clues as to what lurks below, and should a boulder or submerged tree trap your anchor you may have to kiss it, and your chain, an expensive goodbye. We later had cause to go diving in the Macquarie, and I can testify to the difficulties that the cold water and near zero visibility create. If you head this way, follow the advise we were given and tie up to jetties or trees that stretch out across the water.

After motoring for a few hours we came to Heritage Landing. A well maintained jetty here is used everyday by the large tourist catamaran based in Strahan. We knew that it would arrive at about 10:00 am so felt confident that we wouldn’t be in their way if we left first thing in the morning. A short walk ashore was well worth while. Elevated boardwalks kept our feet dry whilst the information boards introduced us to various local trees.

One issue of note was the failure of our C-Map charts (used on our chart plotter) to provide information that would allow us to navigate the river. Fortunately our backup Navionics system picked up the slack, so that together with Trevor’s paper charts we weren’t entirely in the dark.

Next morning the weather was cool and showery. We cast off our mooring lines before the commercial ferry appeared and headed further up stream. Our destination was Sir John Falls, about 13 NMs or 3 hours slow motoring away. We were about halfway when our engine alarm alerted us to a problem. The alternator, it turned out, was producing a mere 10 amps, down from its standard 40 or 50 amps. We silenced the alarm but there was nothing we could do about the alternator beyond checking for loose wires. We talked about turning back, but ultimately decided to keep going and hope that we didn’t end up stuck up the river without a paddle, or engine in our case, which is much the same thing.

The scenery was incredible and we tied up at Warners Landing, opposite Sir John Falls, to find a launch also tied up. We soon after met the crew, brothers Michael and William, and were invited on-board Sea-Eagle for tea, and later port.

The kindness and generosity of cruisers we meet never fails to surprise and delight, and so it was that the next day Michael came over to offer us the use of his powerful dinghy to head further up the Gordon River and visit one of its tributaries, the Franklin River. The Franklin River is iconic in Australia, due to its un-spoilt beauty and to the fact that it and the Gordon were almost lost to a damning scheme in the 1980s. Public protests eventually scuppered the project, and the Franklin has ever since been linked with environmentalism and the power of the people.

We couldn’t head further up stream in Taurus, and there was no way that we would have attempted the journey to the Franklin with our little 3.3 hp outboard engine (our 8hp Yamaha is currently out of action), so not wanting us to miss out, Michael made his generous offer.

Before leaving we had to visit the Sir John Falls and explore the walk to the nearby Perched Lake. The waterfall was pretty impressive and it was great to be able to take the kayaks there and get much closer than the viewing platform allows.

The walk on the other hand was not so great! The path was very muddy in places, and the markers showing where the path lay were often inadequate or missing. Once we had entered the forest proper we had to detour around fallen trees on several occasions, and it was often a struggle to re-find the path on the other side. When finally we got to the lake the view was decidedly average. My advice to people thinking of doing the walk would be to make sure you have plenty of daylight. It’s easy to get lost and you probably don’t want to spend the night in the woods. Also, wear gumboots and waterproofs! You quickly get soaked pushing through the wet undergrowth!

We said our goodbyes to Michael and William the following morning and turned Taurus about to head downstream. Our engine alarm was still switched off as the alternator was still playing up. We were still getting 10 amps out of it, so could manage our power adequately, and, ultimately, there was nothing we could do about it anyway. The alternator was a problem for another day. Instead of worrying we sat back and enjoyed the views. Que sera sera as Doris Day would say.

Next time: we try to fix Taurus (yet again), we do the Strahan tourist trail, and we go diving to help friends out of a ropey situation.

In the previous episode we were on anchor in Recherche Bay, supposedly relaxing before heading out to sea at midnight for the trip to Port Davey. Then the bilge alarm went off. A quick inspection revealed a startling amount of water in the bilge — perhaps 2-300 litres. Taurus‘ bilge can be measured in feet, so she can swallow an awful lot of water before it makes its presence known.

We quickly worked out that the water was coming in via the stern gland. As I mentioned previously, this is a specialised piece of equipment that allows the propellor shaft to exit the boat and spin without allowing water to come in. Our particular brand of dripless stern gland, Sure Seal, has provision for a spare seal to sit on the propellor shaft ready to be deployed if the one in use fails. However, I had never undertaken this job, and would have preferred to learn with the boat well out of the water. Removing the old seal in situ seemed likely to make a bad situation worse, and if there were any problems with the new installation we could end up with a big leak, possibly exacerbated by using the engine. Being in a fairly remote part of Tasmania I was not super excited at the prospect of ‘giving it a go.’

Still, ‘fortune favours the bold,’ or perhaps ‘fools rush in where angels fear to tread’ is more apt. We decided we had little choice but to try and change the seal. In such circumstances having a Starlink unit on board is a God’s send. Whatever you might think of Mr Musk, it’s nice to be able to watch a YouTube video detailing the process rather than wading in blind.

Access was naturally an issue. But by lying on the engine I could just about reach the stern gland. I was once agin very thankful that I had cut out a section of the bulkhead that sits above the gearbox so that I can gain access to the drive unit. Trying to do this job from the rear access way — which demands balancing on one foot with the other tucked round your ear — would have been a nightmare, and probably decided me against attempting the job in the water.

Much to my surprise, the job turned out to be relatively painless. Water didn’t pour in, and within ten minutes we were done. I wouldn’t hesitate to change the seal in the water next time, though now of course we don’t have a spare seal on the prop shaft. Next time the shaft will have to be taken apart to get a new seal on. That’s definitely a boat out of the water job.

Our big OMG bilge pump (the ‘Oh my God’ pump, for when things get bad) quickly emptied the bilge and we ran the engine to check everything was working OK.

Here we discovered the next problem. I had been wondering why the seal had failed, and it turned out that the pillow block, that secures the prop shaft, had somehow worked loose. This allowed the shaft to slam forwards and backwards a centimetre or so as the boat was put into forward or reverse. This is the kind of abuse that seals don’t take kindly to!

Why should this come loose, and why should it be bolted through a slot rather than a nice tight hole? Well, having replaced the gear box a while ago I may have loosened the bolts and not tightened them up again sufficiently — I don’t remember loosening them but possibly I did. Alternatively, they may have simply worked loose over the past five years or so since they were last looked at and the bearing inside the block replaced. Either way, there was no shaft movement after the gearbox work was done, as we checked everything at the time. Why the slot that allows movement? Presumably, I guess, for fine tuning shaft alignment? The fix was simple. We put the block back in place and I tightened up the bolts as much as I could whilst holding two spanners at arms reach. My plan is to put a rattle gun on them when I get a chance, maybe with new bolts and spring washers, to make sure that they don’t come loose again.

So, with the sea back where it should be, on the outside, and the boat operational again, it was time to resume relaxing. At midnight we hauled the anchor and headed out to the Southern Ocean.

The sail was fairly smooth, with a nice beam wind and gentle swell. A few hours later we had the excitement of threading our way through the islands that sit to the south of Tasmania in the dark. Thankfully, Australian charts are pretty accurate (though locals tell you of numerous errors), so trusting our chart plotter meant that the exercise was straight forward, if a little anxiety inducing. Seeing the vague silhouette of large rocks emerging from the darkness, almost close enough to touch (so it felt) was an experience that focuses the mind.

Other potential obstacles were fishing boats. We could identify them by their bright white lights, which drown out any navigation lights they might display, and of course their masters had chosen to turn off their AIS devices so they didn’t appear on our chart plotter. Thankfully they were close inshore so we were able to keep our distance.

We soon arrived at the South West Cape, arriving more or less bang on time at 9:00 am. However, the predicted shift in wind failed to materialise and the northerly wind kept on blowing, but now it was blowing from the direction we wanted to go in. We experimented to see if we could tack across the wind to make progress, but with the added hindrance of the swell we were making very little ground and decided to turn to the engine, hoping that the westerly wind would soon appear. Bashing into the wind was slow going, we were down to around two and a half knots for a while, but the wind eventually eased and we were able to thump along at four or five knots.

The grandeur of the Tasmanian seascape is awe inspiring. Before it was realised that Tasmania is an island, all the ships destined for Botany Bay or the Pacific would round this coast. With poor charts, unwieldy ships, and often sick crews, it’s no wonder that so many foundered on this wild and unforgiving coast. I happily spent hours watching albatross fly against a background of spume dozens of feet high, thrown up from the sea crashing against the cliffs. If we had been able to sail I would have been a pig in poo.

The wind finally veered to the south west just as we were arriving in Port Davey. It was perhaps a good thing that it came in late because it arrived with a hiss and a roar. We were relieved not to have been caught on that rugged lee shore in the gusts that quickly started to blow up.

Port Davey is about as isolated and wild as isolated and wild gets in first world nations. No roads lead here, and the marine reserve, national park, and world heritage area can only be accessed by boat, an 85 kilometre hike, or by an hour’s flight in a small plane. There are no permanent residents. The area encompassed is substantial, about three times the size of Sydney Harbour. Incredibly, it being winter, it seemed that we had the place to ourselves.

Once inside the protection of the surrounding hills we found a far more pleasant day. We entered Schooner Bay and dropped the anchor to enjoy the peace and quiet. Unfortunately, as the sou’ westerly winds increased outside, gusts of wind, known variously as willywaws, bullets, or katabatic winds, flew down the slope of the bay, accelerated by gravity, and sometimes heeled Taurus over. In these conditions a good night’s sleep depends on the degree of faith you have in your ground tackle. Fortunately, we know our system well, and have never dragged once the anchor has been set (touching wood as I write this). In our fatigue we slept like babies.

We woke next morning to find a white bellied sea eagle had joined us for breakfast. After the hustle and bustle of Hobart, and the work and worry of the voyage, it felt like a weight had been taken off our shoulders as we took in the peace and silence.

We moved mid-morning to get away from the ongoing gusts, and headed to Casilda Cove. This beautifully protected little bay has steel tie back points so that boats can use stern lines to pull themselves back into the bay. From here we took the dinghy across the channel and walked up Balmoral Hill to check out the views.

Note the dark brown colour of the water in the photo above. This darkening, caused by tannins leaching out of the peat soil, creates a rare marine environment. The tannin-rich fresh water overlies the tidal saltwater and restricts sunlight from penetrating further than the top few metres. This limits the normal growth of marine plants, allowing plants and marine invertebrates that normally grow in much deeper waters to thrive. The unusual marine life is one of the reasons why the area was granted world heritage status.

Later in the day we shifted to another bay called Clayton’s Corner. For many years a couple, Win and Clyde Clayton, lived and worked here, creating a home out of the wilderness. Their house is now preserved by a volunteer group, and is open for visitors to use as they will. If we could have worked out how to use the wet back we could have taken a bath.

From here we took the dinghy down a shallow inlet to Melaleuca. A small airstrip there provides access to the national park, a couple of huts provide shelter to trampers on the South Coast Track, and scientists studying the region have accomodation from which they can fly in and out. We actually found three scientists in residence when we visited. They had been fishing for sharks which can apparently provide evidence of the presence of heavy metals in the water. We were all a little surprised to meet, as we all thought that we had the place to ourselves, but they were flying out the following day so we didn’t grumble about their intrusion.

Also at Melaleuca is a little museum devoted to Deny King. A local legend who lived here from 1945 until his death in 1991. Deny was a miner, naturalist, painter, and environmentalist whose work encouraged the creation of the Port Davey National Park and World Heritage Area. Quite a guy.

Recognising that we had another day of good weather in hand we were determined to climb Mount Rugby. This 750 metre high peak dominates the local landscape and promised incredible views. We had to move the boat to another anchorage to access the track. We chose Iola Bay, a fabulous little place entered through a narrow inlet from the Bathurst Narrows.

We had read that the climb up Mount Rugby takes about five hours return, but we wanted to start early because it gets dark at 4:00 pm and neither of us wanted to be blundering around in the bush unable to see. The ‘track’ is maintained by the local wallabies, and often reflects their height and shape, so forming small tunnels for the average human to have to push through. Due to the peaty soil it was also very wet and slippery. The last hundred meters to the peak is a jumble of large boulders and scraggy bush. Walkers are advised to mark their route when ascending so they can find their way back down. Unfortunately, this has resulted in a number of bits and pieces of marked track that converge and diverge, and one has to be careful not to end up getting lost or going the wrong way .

As I boulder hopped the last stretch an experience I had a couple of years ago played in the back of my mind. I had been walking the Tin Range in Port Pegasus in Stewart Island, a remote area in New Zealand similar in many ways to Port Davey. I was trying to find the summit of the ridge, and was bush bashing through scrub high over my head. Finding a rock outcrop I decided to climb it to orientate myself. From the top I could see the ridge stretching away so began to climb back down. In the process, the boulder I was hanging off, shifted and began to fall. I threw myself away from it and landed in a bush with the boulder smashing into the ground about a foot away. It still gives me a cold sweat to think about what would have happened if any part of me had been underneath that rock when it landed. Cara had headed back down the ridge, and any search party would have been hard pressed to find me.

With this in mind, and Cara having decided to stop at the ridge, I was wary of taking any silly risks. Something as minor as a sprained ankle or hyperextended knee could be a major problem in this environment. Cara would have no chance of carrying me in the rugged terrain, and any help is a long way a way. Unfortunately, you could only proceed by taking a few sketchy risks: climbing large slippery boulders, jumping across gaps, and constantly slipping and sliding on the muddy path. It would be an easy place to get hurt, but the views from the top were worth it.

I was glad to get back to the dinghy and Cara. Full time cruising doesn’t keep you fit, so we were both pretty tired and looking forward to putting our feet up.

With the weather on the change we needed to move to somewhere that offered better protection from the north. On the way we stopped at Parker Bay. This somber spot is where the body of Critchley Parker was found in 1942. Parker had been surveying Port Davey as part of an initiative to create a Jewish homeland in Australia. He was dropped off by a local, intending to walk to Fitzgerald, but was forced to turn back due to foul weather. Unfortunately, his matches having gotten wet, he was unable to signal for help and died of hypothermia and starvation after some fifty days alone. His body, and diary, were found five months after his death, and he was buried nearby. Surrounded by scrubby bush his grave seems a miserable place to spend eternity, but I guess he’s not complainig.

As the wind started to rise we carried on up the channel to Wombat Bay. This anchorage is advertised as well protected from the north, and once again there were strong points to tie back to. However, with the extra high tide and dark coloured water we couldn’t find them, so we ended up tying back to some stout looking trees. The protection was passably good, but we still rocked about as strong gusts found their way into the bay. We considered staying for a later sou’ westerly change, but we had a lot of chain out, about fifty metres by the time we’d reversed back to shore. This meant that if anything were to happen to our stern lines in the southerly we could swing onto a lee shore in no time at all. The protection from the south west appeared adequate, but, as we had found out in Schooner Bay, it can be very difficult to judge without knowing the dynamics of a place. Sometimes the hills that you think will provide protection work instead to accelerate the wind into you.

Rather than take a risk and maybe have a couple of uncomfortable days we decided instead to hightail it back to Casidila Bay. The wind in the channel entrance was howling, with spin drift being thrown up from the wild white horses. Heading the opposite way we found that the entrance to Casidila was sheltered.. We anchored and stern tied back, pulling Taurus as close into the bay as possible. The rocks behind ended up a little close for comfort, but we had a metre and a half of water under us at low tide and we sat rock solid for the next 48 hours as the rain pelted down and the wind roared over our heads.

Between a break in squalls I grabbed some muddy clothes, besmirched from slipping and sliding on the Mount Rugby track, and threw them in a large bucket on deck. I added rain water from the dinghy and agitated away with a bare foot. To my surprise, within a few minutes the temperature of the water made it simply too painful to continue. I hadn’t realised just how cold it was; a salutary lesson not to fall in the water!

With the front having passed we moved to the northern arm of Port Davey and anchored in Bond Bay. From here we could take the dinghy up the Davey River about five miles, but as the weather turned again, creating the risk of breaking waves up river, we decided not to risk it. Instead we took a trip ashore to look for the remains of an early settler’s house.

Our last day in Port Davey was spent on the boat again, sheltering from rain and another northerly front. The wind was due to swing to the sou’west and slowly die the following day. This seemed an ideal weather window to get north. We could sail most of the 18-20 hours to Macquarie and pass the notorious entry, officially known as Macquarie Heads, but universally known as ‘Hells Gates’ — the name bestowed by convicts who passed through — in light winds. Due to the lack of shelter from westerly swells and wind, the narrow entrance, and the surrounding shoals and strong currents, cruising guides advise not to attempt the Gates in strong westerly conditions, or in the dark. The Tasmanian Anchorage Guide simply states that in “gale force NW conditions or when there is a heavy NW swell or W swell, there can be dangerous breaking seas anywhere E of Cape Sorrell [the headland to the west of Macquarie Heads]. In these conditions it is most unwise to be in this vicinity.” As the wind at this time of year on the West Coast seems to be a never ending series of Sou’ westerly gales and Nor’ westerly gales, opportunities to enter Macquarie can be few and far between.

We kept a close eye on a weather app that provides real time wind updates. By 6:30pm the wind had swung to the west and it was time to go. It was pitch dark, and I admit to being apprehensive about leaving Port Davey and the conditions we might find out at sea. The power of this place demands respect. Here the Southern Ocean, which has run unchecked for thousands of miles, meets land. The seas pile up as the ocean floor rises to form jagged rocks and cliffs. On the tail of a northerly gale the conditions were unlikely to be pleasant, and we were gong to have to force our way through until we could round the headland. Our modern navigation equipment was a God’s send as our position was constantly updated, but my mind kept returning to the thought of what we would need to do if the engine was to die, and we had to try and sail back between the rocks and islands to a safe anchorage. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

Fortunately, the Lister Petter kept thumping away, smashing Taurus through the waves and swell, and we finally rounded the corner and could retreat from the unequal fight against the elements. Naturally the wind veered sufficiently to prevent us sailing for another hour or so, but finally we were able to unfurl the jib and turn off the motor.

As expected, the waves stirred up by the strong northerly had become confused by the westerly change. These combined to create a violent movement onboard which prevented us from getting any sleep. Adding to the challenge, the wind kept heading anti-clockwise so that our predicted sou’ westerly ended up as almost a sou’ easterly. As the night wore on the wind ended up blowing from directly behind us. We routinely use preventers, which stop the boom smashing across the boat in a crash jibe, so the conditions were more irritating than dangerous: the jib kept collapsing and refilling, explosively yanking on the lines and gear. We needed to pole it out, but feeling tired and nauseous neither of us were keen to attempt the operation in the violent seas and darkness. Instead, I played with different amounts of sail, altered the sheets and cars, dropped the main, but in the end nothing really worked. Ultimately, the snapping of the sail gear grew so wearisome that I furled the jib and put the engine back on. I hate to motor when I can sail, but sometimes you just have to say the hell with it. Come daylight we poled the jib out and raised the main to the third reef, holding the boom amidships to try and reduce the roll. The ride still wasn’t comfortable, but we were moving and it was the best we could do.

Despite the conditions we made fairly good time, passing Macquarie Lighthouse at Cape Sorrell at 1pm. Our timing was near perfect as slack tide was due at 1:30pm, the calmest period to enter the harbour. We avoided the rocks that the lighthouse warned against, watching fascinated as the waves smashed themselves into atoms against them, and rounded the cape to head towards Hells Gates. The swell remained surprisingly powerful, and for a brief moment Taurus surfed along at 10 knots. The entrance to Hells Gates is guarded by a mole on the western side, a wall built in the convict era to reduce the swell, whilst to the east an impressive series of breaking waves give notice of the sandy shoals. In the light conditions we had no trouble motoring in, but it was all too obvious why this place is best avoided in the dark or strong westerlies.

Having passed the Gates we then needed to follow various channels through a maze of sand banks. How people managed to get in and out of this harbour in the age of sail, heaven only knows, but it is little wonder that so many ships were wrecked here.

Finally we reached Strahan, a picturesque little town, dropped the anchor, and unshipped the dinghy. We rowed across to the local pub and ordered some food and a beer. Ah, the glorious benefits of civilisation!

Then it was back home to a boat oddly still and quiet after all the frenetic movement we’d grown used to. It was time for a good night’s sleep.