Sailing Taurus NZ

After two months in the Prince of Wales Bay Marina it was time to go. Screwing our courage to the sticking place, we tossed off our mooring lines and left the security of our berth. Sailing under the Tasman Bridge we headed downriver, back to the public jetties at Sullivans Cove for some last minute groceries. Next morning we were on our way to Kettering.

Our plan was to slowly sail back down the D’Entrecasteaux Channel to Recherche Bay, the closest all-weather anchorage for those planning to head to Port Davey. The sixty nautical mile trip from Recherche to Port Davey involves sailing west for roughly nine hours, ‘turning the corner’ (as they say in these parts) at the aptly named South West Cape, and then sailing north for another three hours or so. Unfortunately, westerly gales are the norm in the infamous ‘roaring forties.’ Indeed, those intrepid souls who race around the world use the strong prevailing winds in these latitudes to blast around the globe in the shortest possible time. We couldn’t leave until the weather decided to play ball, but we had to be ready for when it did.

Naturally, things didn’t go quite to plan. I strained my back carrying jerrycans of diesel to the boat, and the weather did nothing but blow westerly gales and storms. My back injury and the ‘yeah, nah’ weather meant the trip was on hold until both improved.

It was time to reassess. Before leaving Prince of Wales we had met a nice couple from the Ocean Cruising Club, David and Andrea, who also happened to be members of the Cruising Yacht Club of Tasmania (CYCT). They told us that the CYCT was about to have a rally around the Norfolk Bay area, and suggested we tag along. Because getting to Port Davey was our priority we hadn’t intended to accept this kind offer. However, it turned out that our neighbours on the jetty at Kettering, Phil and Julia, were organising the rally. When they also invited us to join them it seemed too good an opportunity to miss given the circumstances.

A few days of lazy sailing seemed like the perfect antidote for my back, and it also meant that we could return to Hobart to see some of the Dark Mofo celebrations, an annual mid-winter arts and culture festival.

In the above photo, I’m not modelling the latest Hobart fashion, but using a back brace to pin a hot water bottle to me. I find the best treatment for a strained back is support (a back brace), heat (a hottie), and a mixture of tramadol, codeine, and alcohol (note the silly smile). Taken in small measure this mixture generally allows me to push through the few days until the spasms stop, and failing that it certainly makes the world a more serene place.

We enjoyed a relaxing sail to Norfolk Bay, pleased to be able to take our time for once. The rally had arranged a bonfire to kick off the celebrations and we were able to catch up with some (not very) old friends and make a few new ones.

One of the crews we particularly enjoyed meeting was that of Southern Explorer. This converted trawler is run as a charity by veterans for veterans, teaching modern seamanship and traditional ‘marlin spike’ rope work. The guys were as generous as Tasmanians always seem to be, lending us books on the Port Davey area and providing lots of good advice for the upcoming trip.

After a fun few days the rally wound up and we headed back to Sullivans Cove. We had a few reasons to return. Apart from the Dark Mofo celebrations, we had decided that the saggy mattresses in our v-berth might be contributing to my back problem. Renewing the foam had become a priority. Last, but not least, The CYCT had arranged to gain access to Constitution Dock over Mofo. This historic area can’t normally be entered due to a road bridge that isn’t routinely opened. In typically generous fashion we were offered a berth if we wanted to join in. It was another opportunity that seemed too good to be missed.

Run by the people who operate MONA, it should come as no surprise to find that the Dark Mofo blends irreverence, art, and hedonism. Even so, I was still a little surprised to see that they had been able to get away with erecting a series of large glowing inverted crucifixes along the waterfront. What, I thought, would the Christians say?

Part of the Dark Mofo celebration is Dark Feast; an enclosed area where innumerable street vendors come together to sell food and alcohol. The festival is very popular with the locals, who all come out to play and enjoy a break in the bleak mid-winter.

After eating and drinking our fill, and replacing our mattresses (thanks to Foam Land in Hobart who really helped us out), it was time to leave our cosy berth. We headed over to an anchorage at Bellerive and next day joined the twelve CYCT boats who were getting ready to enter Constitution Dock together so that the bridge didn’t have to be open any longer than necessary.

It was a bit nerve wracking to sail Taurus into a confined space with twelve other yachts, all looking to moor up at the same time. In a long keel boat, with inherently limited manoeuvrability, it could easily have become a bit of an embarrassing nightmare. Thankfully everything went smoothly and our blushes were spared.

That night we visited another part of the Dark Mofo event. The Dark Park had a number of ‘arty’ things going on. Some were spectacular and some a little bit weird.

The following day it was time to leave Hobart once again. We had, we hoped, a short weather window that would allow us to get to Port Davey in a couple of days time. We needed to get down to Recherche to be ready for the off.

We sailed back down the D’Entrecasteaux Channel over the course of two comfortable days, stopping in Tin Pot Bay for a night and arriving in Recherche Bay in the early afternoon of the next day. The weather window we hoped to take was pretty tight. A northerly wind would allow us to get to the South West Cape, and was then predicted to die away at about 9am to be replaced by an intensifying sou’westerly, which would allow us to sail north and slip into Port Davey before things got too ‘exciting.’ Of course, depending on the absolute accuracy of weather predictions is pretty foolish — predictions being predictions after all — but it was the best opportunity we’d seen for weeks. The Roman god of opportunity, Occasio, was depicted as a figure with a long fringe at the front and shaven head at the rear. The idea was that if you didn’t grab hold of him as he approached, you didn’t get a second chance. So it was with us, if we wanted to reach Port Davey we would have seize the opportunity before it disappeared. To be at South West Cape at 9am we needed to leave Recherche at midnight, so we settled down to try and relax for what was likely to be a bumpy trip.

Then the bilge alarm went off. Opening up the engine compartment we found something like 2–300 litres of water sloshing around. Bugger. It turned out that this was coming from the dripless stern gland seal, a seal that is supposed to prevent the sea coming in from where the propellor shaft exits… Miles from any help, with no possibility of being able to lift the boat, and with little time before a long awaited opportunity to make our next passage, the timing couldn’t have been much worse (though in hindsight, the alarm going off when we were halfway to Port Davey would have been much much worse). On the plus side our ‘OMG bilge pump’ made light work of emptying the boat, but what to do? It didn’t seem wise to head to an extremely remote area of Tasmania in a boat trying to sink…

Next time: what’s wrong with the bloody boat now, and (all together now) “can we fix it?”

The incredible sailing in Tasmania, and innumerable bays and anchorages, naturally means that sailing is a popular pastime. This, in turn, means that there are a number of marinas. An incomplete list of those in Hobart includes Bellerive, Derwent, Kings Pier, Margate, Lindisfarne, Oyster Cove, Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania, and Prince of Wales Bay. Following the difficult experience I had living on anchor for a month in Bundaberg, when Cara headed back to New Zealand last time, I was prepared to spend a bit of money if it meant I could get off the boat easily and have access to such trivialities as food, toilets, and showers. The variety of options made the choice a bit tricky, but, as all seemed to offer more or less the same facilities, we took the obvious course and chose the cheapest: The Prince of Wales Bay Marina.

For once, the path of frugality didn’t end up biting us in the bottom, and staying at the Prince of Wales has been a great experience. But I get ahead of myself…

Leaving the free Sullivans Cove berth in downtown Hobart we sailed up the Derwent River, passing under the iconic Tasman Bridge. When it opened on 29 March 1965, this bridge was the longest pre-stressed concrete bridge in Australia, with a total length of almost 1.5 kilometres. Today, some 73,000 vehicles cross the bridge daily, making it the highest volume road section in Tasmania.

At 60 metres high, the bridge appears almost unnecessarily tall and ‘humped’ (when driving over it seems strangely steep). Another notable thing is that the piers are irregularly spaced. This irregularity is due to a terrible accident that took place in 1975. On a quiet Sunday evening in January the bridge was struck by the SS Lake Illawarra, a bulk ore carrier with a cargo of 10,000 tonnes of zinc concentrate. The collision caused two piers and three sections of concrete decking, totalling 127 metres, to collapse. The vessel sank almost immediately, drowning seven crew members who were trapped below deck. Five more people died, the occupants of four cars which plummeted from the bridge into the river. The disaster split the city in half, forcing commuters living on the eastern shore to drive an extra 25 kilometres to reach the CBD via the next bridge to the north. It took two and half years for the collapsed bridge to re-open.

Happily our transit beneath the bridge was uneventful. We motored into the Prince of Wales Bay, found our berth, and secured our mooring lines.

Cara only had a couple of days before her flight to New Zealand, and before we knew it it was time for her to leave. Her mum, Christine, had asked her to give her a hand as she recovered from an operation. She was due to be away for three weeks, but this would prove to be four as one of her uncles sadly passed away and she stayed for the funeral.

Various boat jobs kept me busy for the first couple of weeks, and then I grabbed the opportunity to go sailing with a friend on his yacht for a few days. We had met Sam and Emma aboard their classic wooden yacht Norla in Tonga, and bumped into them again in Fiji, Vanuatu, New Caledonia, and Bundaberg. Hailing from Hobart they were now home, but Sam was keen to get away for a few days and invited me along as crew.

Sam and I chose to explore the Lime Bay State Reserve area, a park that I hadn’t visited as yet. This region is renown for its great natural beauty and historic significance, especially in regards to Tasmania’s convict past. Eaglehawk neck, on the right of the map below, is the only land bridge that joins the Port Arthur settlement area with the rest of Tasmania. It was famously guarded by savage dogs during the convict period, effectively turning the peninsula into an island that was almost impossible to escape from.

Anchorages Sam and I stayed at — A: Lagoon Beach; B: Ironstone Bay; C: Lime Bay.

Anchoring in Ironstone Bay we took the dinghy ashore and followed an overgrown track to the remains of a convict coal mine, sited at the aptly named Coal Point.

The mine, established in 1833, was the state’s first operational mine, providing a much-needed source of local coal. The site once included a large stone barracks, which housed up to 170 prisoners; punishment cells; a chapel; bakehouse; store; and various quarters. By the late 1830s the site produced most of the coal used in Van Diemen’s Land. However, not everyone was keen on the product. The coal was of a poor quality that emitted showers of sparks when first lit, setting fire to carpets and ladies’ dresses.

The Coal Mines operated as a probation station from 1833 to 1848. The site had a fearsome reputation as a place of gruelling punishment for the worst class of convicts. During the 1840s up to 600 people were held here. To keep them in line, four solitary cells were built deep in the underground workings to punish those who dared to commit further crimes. Those were the days!

Alas, my sailing sojourn with Sam had to cease all too soon, and then it was back to Taurus, trouble, and toil.

The list of jobs carried out included servicing our Lofrans windlass (I wrote an article about this for the Island Cruising group if anyone is interested), touching up paintwork, improving the life raft bracket, repairing the dodger, fixing the sewing machine, and innumerable other chores that find their way onto the never-ending boat jobs ‘to do’ list.

Being at the Prince of Wales Bay Marina made many of these jobs fairly straightforward, as the area is surrounded by engineers, hardware stores, and the like. Had I gone to another marina, such as Kettering, which is far more isolated, I would have struggled to get anything done without access to a vehicle. On the subjects of vehicles, the Prince of Wales Marina has two courtesy cars that cost $10 to rent for two hours. As the marina staff go home at 4:00 pm if you borrow the car after 2:00 pm it’s yours for the night, which is great for visiting friends or takeaways!

After a month, Cara returned, just in time for a cold snap that put an end to any further painting. The weather since has been cold in the evenings and mornings, but beautifully clear and sunny later in the day, and often surprisingly warm. We have only had a couple of days of rain, indeed, Hobart is apparently the driest of all Australia’s state capitals.

In part the lack of rain may be due to the iconic Mount Wellington, which acts as a bastion against inclement weather and can be seen from all round the city. We hired a car and drove up the mountain to take in the views, a trip well worth undertaking and one that Charles Darwin made when he visited Hobart aboard The Beagle in 1836. On the day we visited, survival seemed less predicated on fitness than on beanies and puffer jackets. Perhaps Charles had better weather…

On another day we visited the ‘shot tower.’ This landmark structure, standing almost 50 metres high, was built in 1870 by one Joseph Moir to make pellets or ‘shot’ for shotguns. Basically, lead is melted at the top of the tower and allowed to drip through a steel plate with the appropriate size holes. The lead then falls the height of the tower, which ensures that the droplets become spherical rather than tear shaped, into a vat of cooling water where they are gathered. Today, one can still climb the tower, but it felt far more rickety than the lighthouse we visited recently. Perhaps the thin, creaky, wooden staircase had something to do with the sense that one shouldn’t linger too long — just in case!

Russell Falls and Mount Field National Park were also on the tourist agenda. This area is renown for its beauty, waterfalls, and large trees.

A trip to MONA, the Museum of Old and New Art, was mandatory. The eclectic nature of this private collection, apparently funded from the profits of gambling, is legendary. Much of it seems intended only to shock. The famous wall covered in plaster casts of dozens of vulvas is sadly gone, replaced by mirror finished hanging balls (a win for the guys perhaps, but the spheres didn’t seem to get nearly as much attention). Elsewhere, the puerile remains. For example, Oleg Kulik’s large black and white photo of a naked man on all fours being mounted by a dog, hangs close to a life size sculpture of a dead horse (naturally the mould was taken from a real dead horse) hanging in a sling. Next to these objects an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus leans against a wall. One wonders what the occupant would have thought of the decor of this, his latest tomb. Of course, in these times who can say what passes for decency? The man in the photo might identify as a dog, the dog as a man. Still, if the art is sometimes weird, the architecture is often wondrous, and worth the admittance price alone — disguised as Tasmanian residents we only paid $5 each.

As of today, Cara has been back for nearly a month. We should have left the marina already, but staying for three weeks costs the same as the discounted price for a month. It’s hard to leave somewhere when you’ve paid to be there. Life is comfortable: the showers are hot, the washing machines work, and the toilets are only a five minute walk away. Once again, we have to surmount our reluctance to cast off our mooring lines and take that step into the unknown. Still, if paying for access to showers, washing machines, and toilets means that they can be considered ‘possessions,’ then we must bare in mind the wise words of Bertrand Russell, who declared that “it is the preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else, that prevents us from living freely and nobly.” Who would choose to be a clean slave when they can be a dirty south sea vagabond?

In the next day or two we’ll be back out on anchor and waiting for a weather window that will allow us, hopefully, to sail to Port Davey on Tasmania’s West Coast. Like many stretches of water around Tasmania, the West Coast is notorious for strong winds and big seas, so we won’t be heading there unless the weather promises to be kind. Perhaps we should stay in the marina for another month, or maybe till Summer? A hot shower would be nice…

After a couple of days hanging out in Jetty Bay it was time to move on. We left Bruny Island, again, and sailed across the D’Entrecasteaux Channel in freshening conditions that peaked slightly north of thirty knots. The challenging sail was yet another reminder that you can never take conditions for granted in these waters.

We anchored in the southern part of Southport, in a place called Deephole Bay. We chose that particular spot for shelter and access to a popular walk from the beach to a nearby lagoon.

The walk was pretty hot, so we were keen to go for a dip on arrival at the lagoon. Alas, it turned out to be more of a shallow paddle.

That night we were treated to our first Aurora Australis light show. The southern lights can be spectacular this far south, but they had alluded us so far, probably because we close the boat up at night to keep the heat in.

The following day we upped anchor and headed to the township of Southport. We had heard that Southport was pretty small, but the reality was exceedingly tiny indeed. The only ‘shop’ was a coffee vendor in a caravan. Nor did the amenities stretch to rubbish bins, so the trash we had taken to shore to dispose of ended up being carried back to the boat.

With so many places to visit we couldn’t hang around. The sail back to Bruny Island was one of those fantastic experiences that combine perfect sailing conditions with natural wonders. We witnessed some kind of seal feeding frenzy, frolicking dolphins, and even distant whale spumes.

As we sailed around the southern end of Bruny we were treated to the sight of the Cape Bruny Lighthouse from seawards.

Our destination for the day was Cloudy Bay, an anchorage that proved to be fairly rolly — which shouldn’t have come as a surprise as the bay is largely open to the south. On arrival I had to go for a swim to clear some kelp from the propellor, and whilst diving realised that the screws holding our propellor anode were coming adrift. I had to dive down several times to tighten the machine screws, and then dropped the Allen key multitool, which required more time in the cold water to recover. Even with an 8mm wet suit it took a long time to warm up again.

A southern front was due early in the morning, so we needed to leave early to ensure that we didn’t end up stuck in the bay. Thus, we were up at 5:00 am and heading south.

Once past the headland we turned east and enjoyed a decent broad reach. The waves rebounding from the cliffs made for a bit of a sloppy sea, but soon enough we rounded Tasman Head and could turn northwards for following wind and seas.

We were heading for Adventure Bay, a place I had been looking forward to visiting since I learnt something of its history. Adventure Bay has been graced by the presence of some of history’s greatest sailors, navigators, and explorers.

Abel Tasman was the first to visit in 1642, but was unable to anchor due to severe weather. In consequence, he called the large outer bay ‘Storm Bay,’ a title it still bears today. Tobias Furneaux, Cook’s second in command, visited later in 1773. His ship, The Adventure, provided the name for the bay. Cook had carried on to New Zealand after becoming separated from Furneaux, but he stopped here on his third and final voyage in 1777 — before he left for the Pacific and his date with destiny. William Bligh visited Adventure Bay no less than four times. First with Cook in Resolution, and later as Captain of the infamous Bounty. On his third visit, on the Providence, during his second bread fruit voyage, he was accompanied by a young midshipman by the name of Matthew Flinders. So, for a self-professed sailing and history geek, Adventure Bay was a bit of a ‘must see,’ and Cara patiently tolerated my excitement.

Of course, there wasn’t much to actually see. A concrete post marking the site where Cook had nailed a brass plaque to a tree. A small museum with the remnants of said tree, and a couple of eateries. If only the rocks could talk.

Like most of Tasmania, the real hero of Adventure Bay is the stunning scenery. Cara and I found the Fluted Cape Walk, a 6 kilometre track that gave incredible views out over Storm Bay. The scenery gave us plenty of excuses to stop for a breather, and with the steepness and length of the ascent we needed them!

Cara had a date to travel back to New Zealand approaching. Her mum was having an operation and needed some support. We had to keep moving, so we headed across Storm Bay to the town of Nubeena. The sail to this beautifully protected bay was another highlight, the wind and sea gods smiled upon us, and even sent us a double rainbow.

Once anchored at Nubeena we soon ended up at the RSL (The Returned Services League) for something to eat. Like all of these places it was chock full of historic displays and militaria. The line between remembrance of the sacrifices others have made, and plain glorification of war can be pretty thin, and I personally find many of these places lean a little too much to the latter for my taste. Still, when the obligatory cannon is outside the pub at least it’s not in the playground, like so many are in Australia. I suspect veterans of the great wars would have shuddered to see children playing on these instruments of savage mutilation and death. These things seem intended to groom the next generation for the next conflict, but others, I’m sure, would disagree. At the end of the day, the RSL does good work for veterans and makes a grand feed, so why think too deeply about the attitudes underlying the decor?

Our brief stay ended with a six hour return sail to Hobart. We found a free berth back in Sullivans Cove at the heart of down town Hobart, and that evening headed in for a free concert at the park. The next day would see us carrying on up the Derwent River to the Prince of Wales Bay Marina.

Key:

A: Snug Beach, B: Kettering/Oyster Cove, C: The Duck Pond, D: Peppermint Bay, E: Garden Island, F: Cygnet, G: Eggs and Bacon Bay, H: Dover, I: Jetty Bay, J: Southport, K: Cloudy Bay, L: Adventure Bay, M: Nubeena.

My father was fond of quoting Harry Day, a World War I, Royal Flying Corps ace, who apparently said, “Rules are for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of fools.” It was, therefore, perhaps their fault that Cara and I were playing fast and loose with the rules in Hobart. You are only supposed to stay on the free jetty at Sullivans Cove for 24 hours, but as our windlass was in pieces, making anchoring difficult, and as there were plenty of spaces, we emailed the people in charge and hoped no-one would mind if we stayed longer.

Why, you may ask, was our windlass in pieces? Well, for a little while now the windlass has been playing up; sometimes failing to work when the switch to raise or lower the anchor is operated. It’s possible to anchor without a windlass on a boat the size of Taurus’, in fact the anchoring part is a breeze, retrieving the anchor is the hard part. For those that don’t know, a windlass is a machine that lets anchor chain out, or brings it back in, via a gypsy or chain wheel (which grips the chain through specially cut teeth) turning on a horizontal plane. If the machine should operate on a vertical plane it would of course be a capstan, not a windlass. These devices used to operate by the simple expedient of having a good number of men turning them by hand, pushing against shafts that slotted into holes on the capstan. A fiddler would oft sit atop the turning capstan shaft, playing merry tunes to keep the sailors happy and help them forget the mule hard labour. Modern capstans and windlasses are turned via a powerful electric motor, keeping everyone much happier — until they stop working.

Ten millimetre anchor chain weighs approximately 2.5 kgs per metre. We generally anchor in about five metres of water (if possible) and we work out the amount of chain to let out with the simple formula of 15 metres plus twice the depth. So, we generally sit on about 25 metres of chain, or perhaps a little more as we let out another few metres when attaching the snubber line, the nylon line that reduces shock loading. Say thirty metres, or their abouts. Pulling in 75 kilos of chain doesn’t sound that hard does it? However, if you have ever tried dragging thirty metres of chain across a carpark, you will know that chain doesn’t drag easily. Indeed, one of the reasons people use chain in their anchoring system is because the weight of the chain as well as the anchor stops the boat from dragging.

Of course, the afore-mentioned anchor adds a further 30 kgs of steel, buried in the sand, mud, or whatever muck lies beneath the surface. Anchors are specifically designed not to release their grip on said muck without a fight. Indeed, their raison d’être is to resist all attempts to unseat them. Our 10.5 ton boat has hung off its anchor in winds of about 120 km/h in the past; it doesn’t just ‘pop out’ with a bit of a tug, though to be fair we are pulling it backwards when retrieving it, which makes it less impossible than it would be otherwise. Without labouring the point further, raising an anchor by hand is awkward, back breaking work — involving a long, heavy length of mud slick chain followed by an anchor, maybe with a hundred weight of weed attached. Ultimately, if raising an anchor by hand was easy, sailors wouldn’t spend thousands of dollars on windlasses.

Before going anywhere near the machine itself we of course checked the switch, all the connections, and all the other obvious things we could think of. Finding nothing amiss we sought advice, and were advised to try cleaning the motor’s brushes. Three out of four of the brushes were stuck so this gave us a pretty good feeling and we put the thing back together and crossed our fingers…

We didn’t stay long in Hobart as we visited the city only a couple of years ago, and have to return soon. Cara has to fly back to New Zealand for a few weeks in early April, at which time I will head into a marina in Hobart to try to get a few boat jobs out of the way. We had about a month up our sleeves, so decided to explore the greater Hobart area.

Hobart is a bit of a yachting Mecca, with nature reserves scattered all around, picturesque villages, stunning islands, and quiet secluded bays by the dozen. It is also an area that is notorious for rapid weather changes and strong winds, so we needed to maintain a certain degree of caution.

Key:

A: Snug Beach, B: Kettering/Oyster Cove, C: The Duck Pond, D: Peppermint Bay, E: Garden Island, F: Cygnet, G: Eggs and Bacon Bay, H: Dover, I: Jetty Bay, J: Southport, K: Cloudy Bay, L: Adventure Bay, M: Nubeena.

After leaving Hobart we sailed to Snug Bay, accidentally joining a race for a while on the way, and finding what has become a bit of a weather pattern ever since. We initially had too much wind, then too little, then too much, then some thunder and lightning, a bit of a rain, then no wind and brilliant sunshine. Every day is a hodge podge of a recipe with a pinch of everything thrown in.

Kettering is a lovely little town, mainly composed of a marina, and for those that follow sailing You Tube channels it’s where ‘Free Range Sailing’ spent Covid fixing up their boat. Our friends Robin and Diane, whom we met in Eden, live there, so we went to visit. The facilities in Tasmania are fantastic and once again we were able to get a free jetty berth. Later we found out that the berths with yellow strips are for loading and unloading only, the ones with red stripes you can stay on for up to three days. We were on a yellow berth. However, all the locals told us not to worry about it, so we ended up staying on the jetty for a couple of days. Which was less time than the boat opposite us, also on a yellow berth. When in Rome, and rules and all that…

Catching up with Robin and Diane was great. They are a couple that have lived life to the full and are still going strong. Robin spent years building a sustainable farm in the bush, and is the author of perhaps a dozen novels. Diane spent years sailing the world, and together they found their paradise in Cocos Keeling, an Australian island that they describe as if it were paradise. Ever generous, they drove us into town so that we could do our washing and stock up with provisions. We then got a ticky tour around the Huon Valley, an area renown for apple orchards and wooden boat building.

Leaving Kettering we headed over to the aptly named ‘Duck Pond’ on Bruny Island, or so we thought. We imagined that the near land-locked bay would give us protection from the strong southerlies predicted for the following day. Several other people must have had similar thoughts, and the bay slowly filled up over the course of the afternoon with three yachts of Taurus’ size, a trawler, and three trailer sailors calling it a temporary home. At about 6am we were rudely awakened by our dinghy, which we had angled upwards on the deck to let air in (as per a previous photo), trying to take off in about 30 knots of wind. Luckily we had tied down the front so it couldn’t get far, but as we were securing it we witnessed all the trailer sailors dragging anchor and ending up in a tangle in the northern corner of the bay. Chaos ensured as their bleary eyed crews fought to reclaim their anchors and tried to avoid colliding with one another.

Peppermint Bay was our next stop, because who wouldn’t stop in Peppermint Bay? Here we were able to sneak through the moorings and anchor close to shore in perfect protection from the strong westerlies that were due (you see what we mean about the weather). The local village, Woodbridge, was interesting to explore and had a fantastic cafe.

The following morning we sailed for about six hours, avoiding the numerous salmon farms and small ships that service them, and making numerous changes to the sails as we experienced zero wind to 30 plus knots. Eventually we found shelter behind Garden Island. A slice of paradise we thought, until we came across the “Private Property, No Trespassing!” signs. Time to go!

Moving on, we sailed up Kangaroo Bay, past Tranquil Point, and found ourselves at the town of Cygnet. There is a large mooring field in the river outside the town, and one or two boats on anchor. We decided before anchoring to attach a buoy to our anchor to mark its position. We chose to do this because the windlass, alas, was still playing up. Attaching a buoy to the anchor serves two purposes: where it is busy it can be a good idea to highlight your anchor’s position so that (hopefully) the next person who arrives doesn’t drop their anchor on top of it, or in places where the bottom may be fouled, by trees following a flood for example, it provides a way of pulling the anchor out backwards (which might also be helpful if you are lifting the anchor manually). That evening one of the drawbacks of this technique came home to us. As the wind picked up, funnelling up the valley, the yacht next to us, that seemed to have been left on anchor semi-permanently, began swinging in great arcs. We had anchored a good distance from this boat, but as its anchor rode became taut it came closer and closer, and eventually was merrily swinging right over the buoy attached to our anchor. We watched with something akin to horror. If the buoy became stuck around the other boat’s propellor or rudder it could yank our anchor free — possibly leaving us attached to this other yacht and unable to untangle ourselves. However, I was not about to go swimming in a gale under a strange boat! There was little we could do as there was no-one aboard the other yacht, and we could hardly pick up our anchor with it sitting on top of it. Sometimes the best thing to do is to do nothing. We had dinner and shortly after the wind shifted and we were able to lift our hook and move well away from this other boat. I would guess that it had at least 50 metres of chain out in five metres of water. This amount of scope may give better holding (though I have read that after 7:1 more chain accomplishes little) but it creates a hazard for others who have no idea that a boat in the anchorage is going to swing so far. I’d like to say that this is another lesson learnt, but really you can’t go into every anchorage thinking that someone may have laid out miles of chain. How would you ever anchor anywhere?

The way our windlass had chosen to manifest its ongoing displeasure was by refusing to stop when raising the anchor. The switch failed to obey my increasingly frantic thumb and I could only step back and watch as the anchor slammed home at a great rate of knots. This is probably the most dangerous situation that a windlass malfunction can result in. Researching possible causes later on we read of broken gears, snapped shaft keys, and severed fingers. The likely culprit was a stuck solenoid. This apparently happens with my brand of windlass often enough for charter companies in Europe to junk the brand item and replace it with automobile parts. These, however, aren’t rated for windlass type loads, and no doubt my insurance company would look dubiously on such Heath Robinson practices. We cleaned the solenoid’s connections and vowed to make fixing the windlass top priority.

Heading back down the river we stopped overnight at the wonderfully named Eggs and Bacon Bay. Sadly there were no eggs and bacon to be had.

We travelled south and landed in Dover. This small town shows signs of the economic woes of the region at large, at least if the number of closed shops is any guide. We parked ourselves on another free jetty for the night, yellow striped again I’m afraid to say, but all the red spots had been taken once again by fishing boats that seemed to be permanently settled there. I doubt the public jetty system was intended to subsidise the fishing industry, but as a non-tax payer who am I to complain? Two bright spots of our visit were meeting Wade and his daughters again (whom we had previously met in Port Arthur); and meeting Martin, the Commodore of the Port Esperance Yacht Club, who invited us in for a beer and gave us the code to the club’s hot showers! Cheers Martin!

Not wanting to out stay our welcome on the unloading jetty we sailed across Port Esperance’s Bay and anchored off Rabbit Island. This tranquil spot made a nice contrast to the slightly sad Dover. Many of these small rural towns appear to be kept going by salmon farming, but the number of farms and their ecological impact is causing increasing concern amongst Tasmanians. Adding fuel to the fire, the business has been thrown into some disrepute recently after a disease killed thousands of fish, and some of the corpses were illegally discarded.

With a fine southerly breeze on our beam we sailed in the morning back across to Bruny Island, weaving our way through the salmon farms again, and anchored in Jetty Bay. From here we could walk to the lighthouse at Cape Bruny at the southern tip of the island.

First lit in 1838, Cape Bruny was Tasmania’s third lighthouse and Australia’s fourth. Today, it is the second oldest extant Australian lighthouse, and the longest continually staffed. The lighthouse was built after a series of wrecks in the area. The most tragic was the sinking of the George III, a convict ship that struck a reef which now bears the ship’s name, with the loss of 133 men, 128 of them convicts. An inquiry was held after the disaster as it was rumoured that a number of the convicts’ bodies were found with bullet wounds, and had supposedly been shot by the guards whilst ‘escaping’ the sinking ship. The whole incredible story can be read here: https://www.environment.gov.au/shipwreck/public/wreck/wreck.do?key=7195

The lighthouse itself is 114 metres tall, with walls at the base over a metre and a half thick. It was built by 13 convicts (who also had to quarry the stone) in a space of 18months. Apparently the men were promised their freedom if the work was finished on time!

Cara and I were delighted to find that for a small fee we could enter the lighthouse and be given a guided tour. Our guide, Belinda, was very knowledgeable, and made the experience really worthwhile. In our travels we have visited many light houses, but this is the first time we have been able to access one.

The rest of our stay was spent pulling the windlass apart and putting it back together, kayaking, and exploring. The water is so clear that we could easily see our anchor, five metres below the surface.

Next time: we carry on sailing, and something will probably break and need fixing.

As a quick addendum, someone asked the other day about sailing apps we use, and that could be used to track us. A free app we use a lot is called ‘No Foreign Land.’ We use the app to help decide where we might anchor next, as other sailors from around the world upload anchor sites and provide reviews and information — such as the quality of holding, availability of diesel, food, laundries, and such. The app can also be used to track boats, in real time and to see where the boat has been in the past, using information taken from on board devices, such as our Garmin In-reach. Statistics can be fed back to the crew, such as how many nautical miles have been sailed in the past month. Anyway, if you’re interested have a look. We’re happy to help if you need any help or advice.

Built in 1845, the largest Port Arthur building was originally intended as a flour mill and granary, but by 1857 it had been converted into a prison. One hundred and thirty six cells were available on the bottom two floors, designed to cater for “prisoners of bad character under heavy sentence.” The third floor was a dining hall which doubled as a school, library, and chapel; whilst the top floor was reserved as a dormitory for 348 “better behaved-men.”

Little of the interior of the main building is left after it was devastated by fire in 1897, twenty years after the prison closed. In the photo above you can see how small the cells were (the photo shows two floors). Note the iron hoops in the wall which prisoners would suspend their beds from (as in the photo at the start of the blog).

In better condition today is the ‘Separate Prison.’ This building (the circular structure to right of centre in the image below) provides an eye-opening window into what it could mean to be a prisoner in the 19th century. A visit is almost as oppressive as it is interesting. Perhaps the most jarring realisation of all is that the system, seemingly designed to inflict psychological torture, was actually intended as a humanitarian attempt to encourage reform. Based on the ‘Philadelphia model,’ the American idea was refined in Britain, most notably at Pentonville Prison which opened in 1843, and strongly influenced the Seperate Prison of Port Arthur which opened in 1849. Designed to “tame the most mutinous spirit,” the system was controversial even in its own day. Supporters termed it “the highest state of [prison] perfection,” whilst its opponents called it “an ingenious contrivance for making mad-men.” 

The regulations and routines suggest something of what it would have been like to have served time there. Upon entry the prisoners had their heads shaved and were allocated a number, which was to serve as their only name until after their release. The men were not allowed to speak, sing, whistle, or communicate in any other way. The only exceptions to the rule of blanket silence were permission to pass essential information to a guard, and permission to sing in chapel on Sundays. When outside their cells the prisoners’ anonymity was further enforced by their being made to wear masks. The men also had to maintain a specific distance from other prisoners, and had to turn away from their peers when in the corridors or when engaged in cleaning. The inmates naturally exercised alone, and the desire to isolate them even went so far as to require a specially designed chapel. This ensured, via the use of hinged doors, that the congregation could not see or communicate with each other, and could only stand and peer over wooden screens towards the front of the chapel.

Those who broke the rules were punished by being placed in a ‘dumb cell.’ This tiny room remains, and is entered via two doors that when sealed prevent any sound or light from penetrating. The sensory deprivation is an unnerving experience, supposedly giving the prisoner no option but to think of his misdeeds and repent. The few seconds I spent in the cell reminded me of the medieval oubliette, the dungeon cell where men were thrown to be forgotten. Significantly, Pentonville Prison didn’t feature one of these punishment cells, so Port Arthur may have tried to be enlightened — but perhaps it wasn’t as enlightened as it could have been! Apparently, some men spent up to two weeks in these spaces, fed on bread and water and allowed an hour’s exercise every three days.

As cruel as these spaces appear, it is perhaps arguable that some crimes are so heinous that they demand the most severe forms of punishment. Martin Bryant, a current Australian inmate, can only listen to music played on a radio outside of his cell, is forbidden access to news articles about his crime, and is banned from featuring in the Australian media. His crime was to murder thirty five men, women, and children in 1996 in what came to be known as ‘the Port Arthur Massacre.’ Bryant held a grudge against two of the people he murdered, but the other thirty three were tourists, mostly shot in the cafe and gift shop, apparently because their killer desired notoriety. This he achieved, but the scale of his crime prompted what had long been thought of as impossible in Australia: gun reform. The former sites of the gift shop and cafe are today memorials for his victims.

For all its dark history, Port Arthur remains a beautiful place, almost as if nature is trying to compensate for man’s evil deeds.

A famous Maori proverb teaches the following: “What is the most important thing in the world? Well, let me tell you, it is people, it is people, it is people.” This is certainly true in the cruising world, and the incredible people we meet are the most rewarding element in this, the most rewarding of lifestyles. We happened to bump into Wade and his daughters, Kate and Kelly at the prison, recognising them from the yacht anchored next to us. Naturally, we arranged to meet later than evening for a few drinks and an animated movie. Wade, it turns out, is a paramedic in northern Tasmania, so we had lots to talk about.

All good things must come to an end, and so it was with our sojourn to Port Arthur. Before we left we had the opportunity to catch up with Brice and Nuria on Sabre II and say goodbye. We first met Brice in the Hauraki Gulf, then in Vanuatu, and then again in Eden. Brice and Nuria are now heading north and on to Indonesia, so who knows where, or if, we will meet again?

Leaving Port Arthur we motored into Storm Bay, which, if just for this day, appeared ill named. The winds were very light, as we knew they would be, but we wanted to leave early to ensure that we arrived in Hobart in plenty of time to catch a friend of ours playing a live music set.

As we slowly made our way north we were intercepted by a pod of dolphins who appeared to be almost flying rather than swimming so clear was the water.

When the wind eventually rose we hoisted our light air spinnaker and gladly turned off the engine. We fairly flew along at 4–5 knots, imagining ourselves on the home straight of the Sydney to Hobart race.

Ultimately, the winner was never in doubt, and sailing won on the day. On arrival we dropped our sails and entered Sullivans Cove to pick up one of the free berths in the centre of town. Next to us was moored Lady Nelson, a tall ship that takes tourists for cruises.

After a quick tidy up we were off to the pub to watch our friend’s show. Sam is a professional musician who sails part time. We had met Sam and his wife, Emma, as they cruised in Norla, their traditional wooden boat, in Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu, and New Caledonia, and we had ended up arriving in Bundaberg only a few days apart. Now home in Tasmania they were picking up the strings of their old life.

After a few beers and a catch up it was home for an earlyish night, ready to explore Hobart in the morning.

Having arrived in Tasmania it felt like we should take some time to relax and smell the roses a little. Bryans Beach is part of the Frecyinet National Park, the oldest national park in Tasmania having been created in 1916. The name of the park harks back to the early explorers of Australia. Louis Claude de Saulces de Freycinet (7 August 1779 – 18 August 1841) was a French naval officer who circumnavigated the Earth and published the first map to show a full coastline of Australia in 1811. In this achievement he was aided by the fact that Matthew Flinders, the first man to circumnavigate Australia, the first to discover that Tasmania is an island, and the man who actually came up with the name Australia, had been imprisoned by the French on his return voyage to England. Flinders, a Royal Navy officer subsequently spent the next six years in a French prison. C’est la vie as the French might say.

A short dinghy ride across the crystal clear water brought us to Bryans Beach proper, and there we found a path that led through the bush to Cooks Beach. In 1769 Captain James Cook anchored here to observe the transit of Mercury and carry out maintenance on his ship, Endeavour.

Cooks Beach remains almost exactly as Cook would have known it. The only modern additions are a small cabin, a toilet, and the odd independent camper walking the Freycinet Trails.

We lingered for a few days, soaking up the sunshine, swimming in the clear, cold sea, and tidying up the boat. However, civilisation soon exerted its siren call and we up-anchored to head to Coles, the nearest town. We had actually stayed in Coles when travelling around Tasmania in a camper van a few years ago (after crossing the Tasman in Hansel) so it was interesting to return by sea.

We tried to pick up a public mooring but ended up on someones private mooring. The barnacles on the mooring line provided clear proof that it wasn’t in regular use, so we decided that nobody would mind if we used it overnight.

The next day was warm but we had to wait a few hours for the wind to make an appearance. Then we headed back out of the bay and set sail for Prosser Bay near Orford, some six hours away.

After a great sail we spent the night on a public mooring and the following day contacted Ian, the Harbour Master at the nearby town of Triabunna. Ian kindly arranged for us to use the berth of an absent fishing boat, and later gave us a lift to the local petrol station so that we could fill up our jerrycans.

Like many provincial Australian settlements, Triabunna has an atmosphere of being somehow lost in time. The wide streets stretch into the distance with barely a house to mark their progress. The available space is too great for the few people that live there, so the town spreads itself thin and sprawls out, like a mess of gravy on an empty dinner plate.

After restocking the essentials: fuel, food, and alcohol, we headed back to Taurus, stopping only for a spot of lunch with the locals.

Tourism is one of the few things keeping towns like Triabunna alive, although as long as the supermarket and pub remain open it’s hard to believe that its state of suspended animation could ever be threatened. The tourist attraction in Triabunna, the only one we discovered, is that the ferry to Maria Island National Park leaves from its harbour.

Dutch explorer Abel Tasman bestowed the name ‘Maria’ upon the island in 1642. The original Maria was Maria van Diemen, wife of Tasman’s superior, Anthony van Diemen, Governor General of the Dutch East Indies in Batavia. Tasman diplomatically honoured his boss with greater glory, naming the larger land mass ‘Van Diemen’s Land.’ This name remained in use until it was replaced by ‘Tasmania’ in 1856. The change of nomenclature was essentially a PR exercise to attract settlers; the alteration intended to seperate the fledgling colony from its convict past.

Ultimately, the attempt by Tasmanian authorities to forego their history failed. Maria Island, like Tasmania, and some may some Australia as a whole, continues to bear the legacy of Britain’s convict transportation policy. Today, however, they are quite proud of it. The first convicts to be sent to Maria Island landed at a place called Devonport in 1825. These men were deemed hardened criminals, and had been sentenced to hard labour for reoffending whilst serving sentences for other crimes. Today Devonport stills sees ships disgorging human cargo, but the ships are ferries and the cargo is burdened with cameras and backpacks rather than chains.

On arrival we were able once again to make use of a public mooring. The swell coming into the bay had Taurus hobby horsing quite badly, and made unloading the dinghy a little sketchy. We were later told that the ferry passengers had been amused to see me being jerked out of the dinghy and dumped back into it as the waves rolled past and I tried to release it from Taurus’ side. I can’t complain, I would have enjoyed the show too!

The site itself is very impressive, with a mixture of convict era buildings and industrial remnants from various enterprises that were tried, and failed, over the succeeding years. The ruins add a picturesque quality to the island, but the natural beauty needs little assistance.

Although the wind and swell had moderated by the time we returned to the bay neither of us were keen to spend the night. Seeking more protection we dropped the mooring buoy and headed south to Chinamans Bay. This anchorage was still pretty rolly and the following day as the wind shifted to the south we followed suit and moved to the southern part of the bay to find more cover.

Once tucked away we decided to explore Maria a little more. One day we crossed a short neck to arrive at the sea on the opposite side of the island, another we walked all the way round the bay to find another ruined penal site. The highlights of this walk were our encounters with Australian fauna: wombats, kangaroos, an echidna, and a wedge tailed eagle being spotted.

Determined to make the most of a northerly that would help us to continue south, we bade farewell to Maria Island. The temperature was definitely cooler, but this was offset by the sight of Mollymawks, a kind of small albatross with amazing eyeliner makeup, flying around our boat. It was almost like being home again.

As the day wore on the weather improved, and we were soon back to our regular uniform of T-shirts and shorts. After another fantastic sail we arrived at Canoe Bay, a small sheltered spot in the larger Fortescue Bay, with plenty of time to get ourselves comfortable before the northerly wind was predicted to become uncomfortably strong. It was a good job that we arrived early as the bay is small and there were already three boats anchored inside. The best spot, the one that the cruising guides recommend, lies behind a sunken ship, but a big cat was sitting in that space. In the clear water we could see the bottom some 5 or 6 metres below us. It all seemed unpromisingly rocky. We threw the anchor out anyway but weren’t surprised when it failed to grab very well. Deciding that I better have a look I grabbed my wet suit and went for a swim. Far from holding us to the ground, the anchor was lying on its side between rocks as if it was having a bit of a rest. This would not do.

As I was already in the water I swam over to have a look at the wreck, and then swimming back I found a large sandy area, much better for anchoring in. Cara and I moved the boat and re-anchored, getting a good grip on the bottom this time around. With bad weather inbound we had to be confident that the anchor was well set, the alternative being a terrible night’s sleep and worrying about dragging all night.

It was as well that we were happy with the anchor as the gale outside caused a good deal of swell to enter the bay and kept us heaving on the anchor all night. If we’d had cause to worry about our anchor’s grip it would have been a long night indeed!

With the strong winds having passed we sailed out in the morning and resumed our journey south. In the calm weather we had the opportunity to pass between Tasman Island and the mainland rather than going around, a short cut that didn’t save much time, but provided us with magnificent views.

After rounding the south-eastern corner of Tasmania we could begin to head north west, and finding ourselves in the lee of the island needed to motor for a short while. However, as if on demand, the wind soon shifted to a southerly and we were able to raise the sails and sail into Port Arthur. This picturesque spot is famous for its former convict settlement. UNESCO described the area as one of the “…best surviving examples of large-scale convict transportation and the colonial expansion of European powers through the presence and labour of convicts.”

With the wind rising we sailed past the Isle of the Dead, where deceased prisoners were buried, and after sailing past the prison snuck into Ladies Bay, slightly to the north of the prison but better protected. We visited this heritage site when we were here a couple of years ago, but it’s an amazing place and we looked forward to exploring it again.

Next time: we visit Port Arthur and finally arrive at Hobart.

Eden is the southernmost town in New South Wales, sitting at the south east corner of the Australian mainland. This quiet, provincial town of some three thousand souls is the jumping off point for small boats intending to travel to Tasmania. Here they wait for a kindly weather window for the almost three day passage across the notorious Bass Strait.

Sitting at the confluence of the Southern Ocean and Tasman Sea, the Bass Strait is where cold air and water from Antarctica wrestles with the warm air and water from the tropics. Immense bodies of water that have circled the world unchecked are funnelled into the bottle neck that lies between the Australian mainland and Tasmania. The resulting currents are exacerbated by the rapid rise of the sea floor. Within a few short miles the depth of the sea rises from five kilometres to less than one hundred metres deep, much of the rise occurs as a near vertical precipice just off the coast of Tasmania. As the sea floor rises so the energy of the sea is forced upwards and concentrated, causing waves to rise into steep and often confused peaks.

These features mean that the Bass Strait could be described as the perfect location for perfect storms. The most famous to have taken place here occurred in 1998 during the annual Sydney to Hobart yacht race. An unusually intense low-pressure system developed, which built into an exceptionally strong storm with sustained winds in excess of 65 knots (about 120 km/h) and gusts of up to 80 knots (almost 150 km/h). The wind created waves over 15 metres tall. In this maelstrom, six sailors died and 55 required rescue; seven boats were abandoned, five of which were subsequently lost. The rescue effort, the largest peacetime operation in Australia’s history, involved 35 military and civilian aircraft, and 27 Royal Australian Navy vessels. Modern techniques have done little to tame this wild place. This years edition of the Sydney to Hobart race saw two further sailors die, and another was miraculously saved after being swept overboard and lost to the sea for almost an hour. You can understand why cruisers wishing to sail to Tasmania wait for good weather. There are few worse places to be in the wrong conditions.

Fortunately, Eden is a nice place to wait. The New South Wales Government has provided four public moorings that lie sheltered behind a modern sea-break. The moorings lie within an easy dinghy ride to shore, where public toilets and a free public shower can be found opposite the chandlery. The town itself lies atop a hill guaranteed to leave the unfit sailor breathless, but who finds him or herself rewarded with several pubs and eateries upon a successful ascent.

Another highlight of Eden is the local museum. Eden is famed for three things: for once having been considered as a possible site for the Australian capital city — due to its being equidistant from Melbourne, Sydney, and Tasmania; for being one of the deepest natural harbours in the world; and for its killer whales.

In the early twentieth century Eden was as a whaling Mecca with a difference. A pod of killer whales formed an unlikely alliance with the shore based whalers, alerting them when humpback and southern right whales were nearby, and herding them into to the bay for the whalers to harpoon. The killer whales were allowed to take the captured whales tongues, a waste product for the whalers, as payment for their assistance.

The leader of the pod came to be known as ‘Old Tom,’ a character that became so used to interacting with humans that he would sometimes tow the whalers’ boats to their prey to expedite their death, and his meal. When Old Tom’s body was found in 1930 floating in the bay, the locals maintained that he came ‘home’ to die, his skeleton was saved and now hangs in pride of place in the museum. Proudly pointed out are the grooves worn into his teeth from pulling upon the tow lines connected to the whalers’ boats.

The museum also has a lighthouse attached, but this is actually a ‘folly,’ a modern recreation built to house an original staircase, lens, and light mechanism. The one hundred step staircase used to be three hundred steps high. The lighthouse keeper would climb to the top to wind the mechanism, raising a weight that hung beneath the light and which would gradually unwind the mechanism causing the light to turn. Apparently, the lighthouse keeper would need to return to the top to rewind and lift the weight every two and a half hours.

The deep harbour allows the entry of cruise ships, and whilst we there a new floating behemoth appeared almost every day, waking everyone up with their tannoyed instructions to passengers and crew. Of greater charm were a couple of tall ships that arrived, heading home after their sojourn to Tasmania for the Wooden Boat Festival. It was disappointing not to be able to make the festival, but still exciting to see these historic vessels being used for what they were intended, and keeping old traditions alive.

We were fortunate to be in the company of a friendly and social group of cruisers who were waiting for the appropriate weather to take them where they were going. In the photo below (from left to right) we have Thomas, a Swedish solo-sailor who had just returned from Tasmania and was heading north; Ian, a professional sailor being paid to take a catamaran to Adelaide; Cara; Dianne and Robin who are from Tasmania but were heading to Lakes Entrance for a survey in the hope of selling their monohull (they prefer their catamaran); me; and Azza, the new and proud owner of the catamaran that Ian was helping him to sail home. Not featured are Brad and Rae (whose boat we are on) who were returning to Perth from Indonesia. As you can imagine, there was a lot of wisdom in the room when it came to local weather conditions, and when to cross the strait. Thomas, emphasised the need for caution, telling us that his passage across the Bass Strait back to the mainland was one of the worst trips he had had in his semi-circumnavigation from Sweden. The main issue we faced was finding a window that lasted three days. The weather in Australia has been very, very changeable, often ‘boxing the compass,’ blowing from all directions, in a single day, and rarely blowing from the same direction (other than south) for more than a day or two.

Whilst talking to more experience sailors and learning from them is incredibly valuable, we have found that the more you talk about options, the more confused the issues sometimes become, and the more you can end up second guessing yourself. Ultimately, every crew has to make their own decision as to when to go or not, and then suffer the consequences. After five or six days waiting, Cara and I thought we saw an opportunity. The weather was due to swing to the north on Friday and blow with increasing strength for three days. On Friday the wind was predicted to be 15-20 knots, on Saturday 20-25 knots, and on Sunday 25-30 knots and rising. In these situations you have to bear in mind that the wind strengths are estimates, they might in reality be weaker or stronger, and that wind gusts can be up to 40% stronger than the predicted winds. So, on Sunday we could expect winds of nearly 45 knots (85 km/h) if the forecast proved accurate. The longer we took to get into shelter on Sunday, the worse we could expect the conditions to get. To minimise our exposure we decided to try and steal a march and leave on Thursday night in light and variable winds, motoring south and exchanging diesel for distance and time.

By Thursday evening we were ready to go but the southerly refused to die. Using a weather app we could watch local weather stations report real-time conditions. We sat, staring at our phones, and waiting for the wind to drop and change direction. By 9:00 pm the trend was finally looking good, so we cast off our mooring line and motored out into the pitch dark night. As we left we met another yacht coming from the opposite direction. Calling them up on VHF we passed on the news that a public mooring was up for grabs. The skipper sounded delighted, saying that he had had a miserable passage from Tasmania and was exhausted. Great, we thought.

As we motored through the night we kept a sharp watch, knowing that the initial part of the crossing can be quite busy with ships travelling between Adelaide, Melbourne, and Sydney. Thankfully, we only saw a few ships, and all from a safe distance.

Eventually the northern wind began to blow and we were able to turn off the engine and raise our sails. The Hydrovane was tuned to our course, and successfully steered the boat 24/7 for the entire trip, using no power, eating no food, and making no complaints. As the day wore on the wind increased, and the forecast appeared to be bang on.

After an easy downwind sail we enjoyed watching the setting sun, and then settled down into our second night of three on, three off watch pattern. Starting at 9pm the night before meant that we were already feeling pretty tired. In the past we have found that it takes two or three days to get into the swing of a passage, so that shorter passages can feel like harder work than those that are twice as long.

Dawn duly appeared, and we found that despite our slow start, we were maintaining our expected 120 NMs per day. This speed would see us arrive at our anchorage sometime between Sunday morning and Sunday midday. Hopefully before the bad weather kicked in.

The wind increased as predicted and we tried various sail configurations to gain speed and reduce roll. For much of the time we had our mainsail raised in the third reef position to act as a dampener, and at one point tried a wing on wing approach, which worked well for a while.

The third and last day began wet and cold, but we were grateful to find that the strong winds we had feared the entire trip had failed to appear.

Checking the weather for the next few days we noticed that strong westerlies were predicted. With this in mind we decided to head to Wineglass Bay, an anchorage well protected from the west, but fairly open to an easterly swell. As we sailed along for what we thought were the the last few hours of our trip I made the mistake of posting on Face Book that we had almost arrived and had experienced a great crossing — counting chickens some might say…

As we approached land a pod of dolphins came to play in our bow wave, but as we enjoyed their company the wind began to rise. The closer we got to Wineglass Bay the stronger the wind got and the larger the waves became. We were now surfing down some monsters that were breaking as they rolled past, and heading straight into our supposed refuge. Knowing that the holding in the bay was described as ‘sometimes poor,’ we were concerned about how well our anchor might hold in these conditions. Given the size of the waves there seemed little chance that we would be able to motor through them if we were unable to anchor and needed to leave. Heading directly towards land in decent following seas and winds that reached almost 40 knots (39.3 knots was the highest I saw) from astern certainly focuses the mind. The greatest fear of the sailor is a lee shore trap, and we seemed to be heading straight into one.

In the photo of the chart plotter above you can see Wineglass Bay (above and to the right of the wine glass tag). As you can tell from the previous photographs the waves were following almost our exact course, straight into Wineglass, and the wind speed captured here is 35 knots. For non-sailors, 15 knots is generally considered a nice breeze for sailing, 15-20 is the goldilocks spot — not too little, not too much. At double the wind speed, 30 knots, the power of the wind is quadrupled rather than doubled, so it’s getting a bit strong. At this point most yachts would be well reefed down (their sail areas reduced to de-power the boat). If we wanted or needed to retreat from Wineglass Bay we would have to beat into the wind (sailing at the closest angle to the wind that the boat can sail) which is slow, hard work, and almost impossible in any kind of rough sea state. Attacked head on the waves effectively stop or slow the boat so much that she flounders and has to be turned down wind. With land nearby the result can be disastrous.

As we got closer to land we were rapidly approaching the point of no return. The temptation to get into shelter was pretty strong, we were both fatigued and the next anchorage was some hours away. However, we were both calculating the risks and I recall looking at Cara, Cara looking at me, and us simultaneously saying, ‘yeah, nah,’ or words to that effect. We jibed and headed back out to sea, following the line of cliffs at a safe distance.

Naturally the wind then dropped and we thought we were in the clear; naturally as we approached land again the wind began to rise. However, Boreas (the classical name for the north wind) was only teasing us, and eased again as we sailed through Schouten Passage and into the welcome protection of land. Bass Strait and the Tasman Sea had given us the merest taste of what it was capable of serving up, and we were grateful to be able to add the experience to our store of knowledge whilst avoiding any real danger.

Shortly after we dropped anchor in a beautiful spot known as Bryans Beach.

It felt like a weight off our shoulders to have arrived in Tasmania. In New Zealand, our home cruising ground is Stewart Island, an island sanctuary to the south of the South Island, an untamed wilderness home to very few people and plenty of nature. Tasmania, sitting at a similar latitude, is perhaps Australia’s equivalent, though much larger. In the nearly empty anchorage it felt like finally we had room to breathe; that the humidity was reduced to the point that there was air to breathe; and the crystal clear waters suggested that even if there are still sharks, at least you might have a chance to see them before becoming lunch.

It is funny how certain events can feel significant, whilst others do not. We had made several landfalls during our trip down the east coast of Australia, but our goal had always been to arrive in Tasmania. As readers of the blog will know, we had previously sailed here with our friends, Dave and Jackie, in their boat, Hansel; crossing the Tasman Sea from Nelson and arriving in the Tamar River after a ten day passage in the middle of winter. That trip had been pretty momentous, but we had been able to lean on the knowledge and experience of our friends throughout. Making the Bass Strait trip in our own boat, and under our own cognisance, felt like a different beast, and worthy of a congratulatory beer.

Next time: we start exploring Tasmania.

We arrived at Batemans Bay Marina a little after midday on Monday the 3rd of February. Owen, one of the marina staff, and his wife and two children met us at the jetty to take our lines, give us keys, and tell us where the showers and toilets were. We later met the manager, Mitch, who was another decent guy and helped us out as much as possible with lifts to the local hardware store and so on.

The marina is owned by the d’Albora Group, who own thirteen marinas throughout Australia. The companies mission statement reads:

At d’Albora, we believe every experience on the water should be lived to the fullest. Our extensive end-to-end marine and hospitality services are carefully designed to create effortless boating lifestyles for our members.

Of course, the gobbledygook corporate speak really means:

At d’Albora, we seek to extract every possible cent from our customers whilst giving them the bare minimum that we can get away with in return.

We knew the double speak routine well enough. But sometimes it can be fun to act like you naively believe such nonsense. Cara and I challenged the company’s zeal for their customers’ “effortless boating lifestyle” by having the temerity to ask for another key to the gates that give access to the berths. With only one key you either have to go everywhere together, someone has to wait on the boat if the other has gone out, or you have to co-ordinate arriving back at the marina at the same time to avoid someone having to wait outside the gate like a school kid whose mum has forgotten to pick them up. Two keys, for two adults, is much more convenient, and allows for a measure of (gasp) independence.

We didn’t know at the time but the great Victorian author Charles Dickens had previously been a guest at a d’Albora marina. He later altered the subsequent conversation to appear in one of his novels:

‘Please, sir, I want another key.’

The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupified astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.

‘What!’ said the master at length, in a faint voice.

‘Please, sir,’ replied the paying visitor, ‘I want another key.’

The marina staff member aimed a blow at his head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

The d’Albora board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said,

‘Mr Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! A marina visitor has asked for another key!’

There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.

‘For another KEY!’ said Mr Limbkins. ‘Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for another key, after being given the allotted one?’

‘He did, sir,’ replied Bumble.

‘That sailor will be hung,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ‘I know that sailor will be hung.’

To be fair, poor Owen to whom we addressed our request is far from fat. But to our surprise he did express something very much like Mr Bumble’s shock and awe. He told us that even the permanent live aboard couples only get one key (and he should know as he and his family are live-a-boards) and added that a fishing competition was taking place soon (after we were due to leave), and that all the spare keys were needed! After the week we had had these all sounded like not our problems, and we politely pointed out that for $107 per day we would like two keys. Apparently, the giving out of two keys doesn’t gel with d’Albora’s ‘effortless boating lifestyle’ vision, so Owen, being a good guy, smuggled us another key under the counter. Sadly he couldn’t do anything about a second key for the toilet block, but a win’s a win and Cara and I could co-ordinate our bowel movements.

Our ‘impertinence’ vis-à-vis two keys stemmed in part from the feeling that d’Albora were taking us for a bit of a ride. There was nothing great about the marina (apart from the staff who went out of their way for us, sometimes in direct opposition to d’Albora policies), little that was good, and quite a lot that was kind of average or crappy. Given the price we were paying the experience left a bit of a sour taste in our mouth. I won’t go on about it, but if you are thinking about heading there send us a message and we will fill you in. Unfortunately, the d’Albora corporate experience seems to be becoming normalised in Australia. Hopefully people will vote with their feet so that the law of supply and demand swings back into the users favour.

Of course, we were in the marina for a reason, to fix our gearbox, so our priority was to get it done as soon as possible and move on. We certainly didn’t want to have to pay for another week.

Imagine our delight when we found that our gearbox was waiting for us when we arrived. We picked it up that very afternoon and brought it back to Taurus as gently as if it were a sacred relic.

Our best access to the broken gearbox still installed came from lying on top of the engine and reaching down and behind it. Our plan was to disconnect the Constant Velocity (CV) joint and lift the engine just enough to be able to take the weight from the rear engine mounts that form part of the bell housing. We had to remove the bell housing as the gearbox was bolted onto it from the inside. We had discussed lifting the engine further so that we could get better access to try and fix a minor oil leak from the engine, but getting this extra access required the removal of the water maker, the batteries, the battery boxes, and a good deal of the engine’s plumbing. Ultimately we decided against it because it made what we needed to do a much bigger job. This might well bite us in the bum later on, but sometimes you just have to cross one bridge at a time.

Thankfully, when we removed the engine a few years ago we cut a head sized notch out of a steel brace that lies above the gearbox. This is the white steel panel above my head in the photograph above. This notch greatly improves access, and without it the entire job would have had to be attacked from the tiny space entered from the rear of the engine. In this hole one has to balance on one foot above the prop shaft and be careful not to stand on the dripless seal that doesn’t take kindly to such treatment and squirts sea water everywhere to register its displeasure. Stand on it too much and the sea water might not stop squirting in, so best to give it plenty of room.

We were able to release the forward part of the CV joint fairly quickly, but the aft portion was unwilling to come apart, no matter the blood, sweat, and strong language employed against it. I’m reluctant to say that I’ve grown older and wiser (which is only half true), but I can safely state that I have broken too many things by trying to force them to automatically reach for a bigger lever or hammer. In this respect I am a great believer in the Hippocratic Oath, which starts with the advice, “First do no harm!” This I take to mean ‘when trying to fix something don’t break anything else!’

After having spoken with a marine engineer friend in New Zealand at some length (cheers Luke!) we were pretty happy that the prop shaft wouldn’t disappear into the sea, and that the dripless seal was secure and wouldn’t start letting the ocean in. With one side of the CV joint released we could now move to the second stage and try to raise the engine. This was as far as we got on the first day, which, if you remember our last blog, had been pretty long and eventful.

For those who aren’t diesel mechanics or marine engineers, in the above photo the blue bit on the left is the bell housing, which forms the aft part of our engine. The silver block behind it is the gearbox, the egg timer looking thing attached to the rear end of that is the CV joint. The prop shaft joins to that, and runs through a pillow block (the black thing) inside of which is a thrust bearing that keeps the shaft running true and doesn’t let it disappear out the back of the boat. Beyond that, the blue bellows thing is the dripless stern gland that allows the prop shaft to exit the boat without letting water in. Simple innit?

What we now needed to do was lift the engine so that we could take the weight off the engine mounts and bell housing, and unbolt it. To do this we ran a nice thick rope under the engine and tied a good knot. This was attached to a ‘come along,’ a handy device which provides heaps of mechanical advantage, which was attached at the other end to a lifting point above the engine. Pretty soon we had the engine swinging like it was the 1960s again.

In the above image the engine sits in its rope cradle. You can just see my belly on the far side of the engine where I am balanced on one foot whilst trying to undo the bell housing. Before taking out the last bolt out I made sure another rope was attached, so that as the weight came on there was no way I could drop it — remember Hippocrates! The other end of that line was attached via the rear companionway to the boom (in fact we tied the boom off and used the main sheet as a handy billy which we attached to the line attached to the gearbox). One of the few benefits of doing this kind of work on a boat is there is normally plenty of rope around. As Cara would tell you, I really like rope. As a young sapper in the Royal Engineers we received a lecture on basic engineering principles, and I remember the lecturer telling us that the simplest machine in the world was a rope. I’m not sure I agree today, it depends on your definition of ‘machine,’ and perhaps a lever is simpler? Anyway, I remember it fired my imagination and the more I learnt about the various systems that allow a rope to provide mechanical advantage the more enamoured I became of it. Rope is great!

It was a bit of a squeeze getting the gearbox and bell housing past me, but in short order we had the pair sat in the cockpit for inspection.

With the old and new gearbox side by side we could compare the two units. We had been warned that the new one might be some 25mm longer than the original, and that the shaft might exit 25mm lower. If this had proven to be correct we would have had a big headache and all sorts of issues getting the new gearbox in and aligning it with the prop shaft. Thankfully the units proved to be identical as ZM, the manufacturer, had promised.

All we now had to do was remove the bell housing and attach it to the new gearbox before reversing the dismantling procedure. By the afternoon of the third day we were done. You beauty!

On the fourth day we gingerly tried forward and reverse on the dock, and when nothing went BANG! we cast off and motored out to the river for a quick run up and down. So far so good. Having paid to stay in the marina for a week we now had a few spare days to put Taurus back together. As if to remind us that work on a boat never ends the galley foot pump chose this moment to fail. We didn’t have a spare pump and couldn’t buy a new one, so we had a nice afternoon taking our old, previously failed, pumps apart to try and bastardise a working one. Eventually we succeeded and water returned to the galley sink. We were on a roll!

On the seventh day we departed Batemans Bay Marina and returned to Maloneys Beach, where we had anchored when we first arrived without an engine. On arrival the public mooring was free, so we hooked up to it without really considering the odd design (photo below). Apparently, the mooring rope is supposed to be draped through the horns, but in practice the horns prevent the mooring being pulled in tight because they catch on the anchor, pulpit bars, and whatever else they can grab onto. We let out plenty of slack and hoped that the swell would be sufficient to keep us a safe enough distance away.

The following day it seemed like that might be an opportunity to leave as some meteorological models had the wind swinging from the south to the east. As we watched, the wind moved from 180 degrees to 110, so after a while we headed out, only to see the wind switch doggedly back to 160-180 degrees. With no possibility of sailing to Eden, about seventeen hours away, we turned round. Once ‘home’ we ignored the mooring and dropped our anchor, so no more buoy horns to worry about. Friends who were watching us via AIS commented that we seemed to be doing the Hokey Pokey. We had to laugh, and there is certainly some truth in the remark. We have made a habit recently of putting one foot out, one foot in, one foot out and spin around again (apologies to creator of the Hokey Pokey). After leaving Pittwater we had turned around because the wind was much stronger than predicted; we turned round after leaving Jervis Bay due to our failed gearbox; and we had now returned to Batemans Bay when the wind didn’t change direction for us. Still, As JRR Tolkien said, “not all who wander are lost,” and who said a journey has to be made in a straight line?

With another day to wait for the wind to shift we took the dinghy to shore. To our delight there was a ‘mob’ of kangaroos, lying round scratching themselves in the sun — yes, ‘mob’ is the collective noun for kangaroos. ‘Shore’ turned out to be part of the Murramarang National Park, home to a large number of eastern grey kangaroos, amazing bird life, and a number of tracks through the bush and along the coast.

The following day the wind finally swung into the east and we left Batemans Bay to head south. The wind played ball for the first few hours and we enjoyed decent sailing, but as it eased the speed of Taurus in the current caused the sails to flog and collapse. Ultimately we had to motor for several hours, a test for the engine and gearbox which we seemed to pass (I’m still touching wood that I didn’t do anything wrong in the rebuild).

Shortly after dawn we arrived off Eden and watched as a cruise liner raced in ahead of us. The wind had finally built and we could sail easily, so we headed towards the public moorings just outside of town.

There were a number of boats on the other public moorings, belonging to cruisers intending to go in various directions. Pretty soon we had arranged to meet over a few drinks, but that tale will have to wait for another day.

Next time, we meet our neighbours, we explore Eden, we plan our three day journey across the notorious Bass and Banks Strait!

We departed Sydney on Australia Day, the 26th of January, and sailed south, still hoping to get to Tasmania for the Wooden Boat Festival, starting in Hobart on the 7th of February. Our next port of call was Jervis Bay, some eighteen hours sail away at a speed of 5 knots.

Once again we raced south with the help of an easterly wind and a benevolent current, and arrived earlier than expected in the early hours of the morning. Target Beach, an anchorage in a small bay close to the heads, had been recommended as a good place to stop, so we slowly motored the last mile or so, feeling our way in the dark to the spot where our chart showed people had anchored before us.

Next morning we were glad we had been cautious in our anchoring as there was quite a swell running that turned into surf not far in front of us. A handful of surfers had camped on the beach and were out enjoying the waves. The swell wasn’t particularly uncomfortable and as the wind was blowing thirty knots outside we happily sat in the shelter of the bay. However, around midday the tranquility was shattered by a ‘gang’ of jet skiers, there’s really no other word you could use to describe them. As usual they raced around at max speed and max noise before performing a trick we hadn’t seen before. Taking these powerful and heavy machines through the surf, they turned and accelerated back towards the incoming waves, which caused them to take off and fly several metres into the air before crashing down again with a great splash.

The scene was chaotic. Several skiers would take off at the same time and land close to one another, whilst others raced around just outside of the surf line. Looking on we watched as fishermen on the rocks packed up to go home, and the surfers were forced from the water to avoid being run down or crushed. I must admit that I watched these selfish adult children with the secret hope that one of them might get hurt, which is very un-Christian of me and clearly demonstrates room for self improvement.

As the day wore on the swell increased slightly and we noticed that according to AIS (the system that allows us to see where other boats are on our electronic chart, and them us) several other boats were anchored round the corner at a place called Long Beach. Thinking that perhaps this was a better spot to wait out the wind we decided to up anchor and head around the headland, only to find that ‘the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.’

Getting to the new anchorage turned out to be a long and arduous struggle against a strong headwind, that made the engine and gearbox strain, and probably encouraged its later demise (more on that later). After an hour or so we finally crawled back into protection from the wind and dropped anchor in conditions very much like those we had left earlier.

That evening the wind finally eased and we were treated to a gorgeous sunset for sundowners.

Our move to Long Beach was fortuitous in one way as next to us in the anchorage we saw a ketch that looked familiar, and it later turned out that we had briefly met Ambrosia and her crew in Vanuatu. Guy, Cassie, and their daughter, Rona, hail from the States but had emigrated to Tasmania and were on their way home. These guys would later save our skin.

Next morning a light breeze was blowing from the north and as we had plenty of room we took the opportunity to sail off our anchor. Yachts don’t really ‘need’ engines, and people like Josh Slocum, Lin and Larry Pardey, and many others, have circumnavigated the world without one, but as engines became cheaper and more commonplace so skills have degraded, and as the average boat has increased in size, and the average crew aged, so modern sailor’s reliance upon them has increased. It would be a rare yacht today that ventures out without an engine, and many people look upon the lack of one as irresponsible and unsafe. Certainly engines make it much easier to manoeuvre a yacht, especially one of a decent size, at slow speeds, and can be a massive boon to safety when the wind pipes up and a lee shore lies nearby. Without one you have to be much more careful about where you go and when, and yet the ambivalence they encourage can be misplaced, because engines can fail.

We sailed south enjoying the light winds, but strong gusts of over 30 knots suddenly blew up making us scramble to reef and maintain control. At one point when trying to ease a sheet I succeeded in creating a riding turn, a situation in which a line (rope) wraps around itself on a winch so that it can’t be released or eased. The solution is to take the strain from the line, normally by attaching another line with a rolling hitch to the first and taking this to another winch which takes the burden. However, in light winds one can often manhandle the line oneself, which is much quicker. As the gust died this is what I tried to do, but as I took the load and released the riding turn the wind suddenly picked up and ripped the line through my pudgy fingers. In this situation if one doesn’t immediately let go a friction burn is the result. Despite knowing this my automatic reaction was to try and grip the rope harder. We seem to be hardwired to think that because we could hold a rope we can continue to hold said rope, the fact that the line is suddenly under two or three times the load takes a critical moment to register. As so often in life, pain is an excellent teacher, making evident lessons that we really should have known already.

The treatment for burns is to cool them, and friction burns are no different. Luckily, due to Cara’s good management, we have an ice pack in the fridge and this was soon put to use, followed by numerous ice cubes that had to be constantly renewed to keep the stinging away. One handed crew members in gusty conditions are not of much use, but we managed to make it safely to our anchorage and happily dropped the hook.

Later that day, the crew from Ambrosia came to visit and offered to take us to shore in their dinghy, ours still being lashed to the deck as we planned to leave the next day and were too lazy to undo it. We tootled into Vincentia and wandered into town to visit the supermarket before being given a lift home.

In the morning the weather looked kind for a southerly sail, so we packed up Taurus and preceded to head out of Jervis Bay. The wind was about 15 knots from the east sou’ east (changing to an easterly later) and we were happy to sail in the company of a tall ship leaving at the same time, no doubt also heading to Tasmania for the festival. As we left there was also a couple of naval vessels departing (the Royal Australian Naval College is based in Jervis Bay) and even a Hurricane C130 overhead. The radio chatter made it clear that that there was a big Search and Rescue training exercise taking place.

Trying to sail we headed off shore to get a better angle to head south. We then turned and had a fairly narrow angle of sail which we would have to carefully manage until we got past a nearby headland. As we approached the wind died and prudence dictated that we run the engine to keep a safe distance from the rocks whilst maintaining our heading.

With the engine running I thought I heard a ‘funny noise’ and whilst I was listening to see if I could identify the issue, Cara pointed out that though the engine was on and we were in gear, we weren’t actually going anywhere. With the headland looming we made the call to about turn and sail back into Jervis Bay with the aid of the easing wind. Once again, prudence reared her head and we decided to call up the NSW Marine Rescue chaps to let them know that we didn’t need assistance, but that the situation might change if the wind died completely. It is generally a good idea to open channels of communication early if situations start to head south, so that if they really go pear shaped response times can be much faster.

Before long we were back in sheltered water and making progress to an anchorage. Cara was ‘steering the cutter’ (well sloop) as I lay on the hot engine fiddling with the gear select lever to make sure that forward gear was actually being engaged. This was about all I could think of as an immediate action to try and remedy the problem, and it didn’t work. My next step was to phone a mechanic friend in New Zealand, and here I found one of the problems with activating the good services of Marine Rescue. Whilst I was talking to my friend they tried to call me so I declined the call. They then called back, and back, and back, and back until I had to end my call to my pal in New Zealand to tell them that we still didn’t require assistance and were still under sail. The nice man told us that a boat was coming to meet us anyway. A few minutes later a powerful launch with about six crew members arrived and took station off our port side. We continued to try and work out our issue, but our speed was painfully slow, and the resource that we felt we were tying up made what wasn’t a problem feel like a problem. We looked at the Marine Rescue staff and they looked at us as we ghosted along at a knot and a half. Ultimately, we kind of got peer pressured into asking if they wanted to give us a lift. To be fair, if the wind died completely before we got to the anchorage we would have needed a lift, but at this stage we were still moving.

The first thing the Marine Rescue guys yelled back was ‘do you accept all liability,’ which seemed an odd thing to say at the time. ‘Sure’ we replied, not knowing what we were letting ourselves in for. Rather than tow us from in front, the launch came along side. We lay our fenders out and made bow and stern lines fast, at which point the launches skipper, possibly late for lunch, increased his speed and we took off. As the speed grew a bow wave was created which encouraged the boats to ‘work’ against each other, and caused the fenders to move and pop out from between the boats. This led to the rough rubber surface of the launches inflatable hull rubbing against our paint. We struggled to get the fenders back in place, realising too late why liability had been an issue. Still, as I said, we might well have needed this lift had the wind dropped further, and I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth if it hadn’t been for what transpired later.

Marine Rescue deposited us on a public mooring off Huskisson, a touristy town named after William Huskisson (1770-1830) who was destined to be run over by The Rocket, thus becoming the first person to be killed by a train. The fortune of the town’s most famous son could perhaps have been taken as an omen.

The moorings at Huskisson are only protected from the south, and a long swell almost continually rolls in from the bay’s entrance to the east. The public mooring buoys are quite large, perhaps a meter in diameter and a metre deep (photo below). Normally with mooring buoys the thing to do is to pull them up nice and high so that they are under tension and can’t rub or bang against the hull. However, the depth of the buoys and size of the swell meant that even when hauled up as far as possible they were lifted by passing waves and then dropped back down with an almighty yank and a crash — over and over again. Having tried, and failed, to sleep through this constant jarring and noise the first night, we let some slack out the following day and were woken in the early hours by a different crash. As the swell subsided the buoy floated around Taurus’ hull and smacked against it. A boat’s hull acts a bit like a drum, so the noise created by a fairly mild knock can be pretty loud and alarming, and the force, if not gentle, can chip paint or even dent steel. This alternate pulling up and letting out of the mooring buoy to try and find a semblance of peace was one of the hallmarks of our stay at Huskisson, one of the most uncomfortable anchorages I have ever had the misfortune to visit, and this in pretty mild weather. Only one other boat stayed for a night whilst we were there, and they disappeared first thing the next day. Should I ever have to have to stay there again I think I might follow William Huskisson’s lead and throw myself in front of a train.

Of course, we weren’t at Huskisson for giggles, but rather to try and work out what was wrong with our drive, and if possible fix it. The problem was pretty clearly the gearbox, so we phoned up a few places and found that overhauling our existing unit would cost about $3,000. Another phone call to the manufacturers elicited the information that a new gear box would cost us $4,000 delivered. As the old gearbox probably dates to 1995, when the engine in Taurus was last replaced, the new option seemed the obvious way to go. Thankfully the manufacturers had a new gearbox on the shelf in Sydney, so we only had to work out where to have it sent. Fiddling with prop shafts in boats (the gearbox is attached to the prop shaft) whilst they are in the water can result in terrible things happening. In the worst case scenario the shaft can back out of the boat, letting in a deal of water and potentially sinking her if the hole can’t be blocked. Because of this (and other issues like stability, ease of access to hardware shops, and so on) most people would prefer to tackle this kind of job on the hard. However, putting a boat on the hard is not an easy proposition in rural Australia where small tinnies are the general rule, and if the facility exists using them comes with some pretty stiff financial costs. In the past we have been quoted $450 for the lift out, the same again for the lift back in, and up to $250 per day for a cradle.

In Jervis Bay, however, there were simply no facilities for us to access. It was not only impossible to get Taurus out of the water, but also to find a berth, or indeed anywhere with decent protection from more than one direction. As we discovered that we would have to lift the engine to remove the gearbox (the gear box is bolted on to the inside of the bell housing, which also features the rear engine mounts) there was no way in hell I was going to try and undertake the job on our super rolly mooring where just living was tough enough. After making more enquiries we found that Batemans Bay, about twelve hours to the south, had both a marina and a haul out yard.

We next had to wait for a weather window that would allow us to sail to Batemans Bay, and work out how best to get off the mooring. The latter was challenging because we would probably have to leave in a northerly, a wind that would create a lee shore behind us. Nearby to the west were shallows, a bar, and a reef; to the east lay space, providing we could get beyond the rocks that curved northwards from the end of the Huskisson beach. Adding to the complexity were moorings and the potential of boats being moored to either side of us when we wanted to go. Essentially, we had to be able to gain way immediately we left the mooring. Otherwise we would have to turn downwind to gain speed and steerage, almost certainly having to slip behind a fishing boat on a mooring to the east, a course that would take us perilously close to the beach and rocks and that would give us little in the way of a Plan B if things didn’t go well. Our confidence wasn’t boosted when we were told that the ground in the area was shale over rock, so that our anchor might not hold if we needed to deploy it.

Ideally, we thought, we would get a tow for the few metres required to see us past the moored boats and the rocks to the east. A mere hundred metres or so. With this in mind we mentioned it to the chap at the Marine Rescue base when we popped in to thank them for their help. We also wanted to enquire about becoming members of the Marine Rescue service. We have been long term members of the NZ Coast Guard, which assures free assistance if needed, where as non-members are billed. Australia’s Marine Rescue is a different beast. Far from being a national service (as it is in NZ) Marine Rescue is state funded but functions via individual bases. This, we were told, means that if one base has an excess of volunteers they are not allowed to help out at another base that might have too few, or might have been hit by sickness. To those cruising the coast or country this approach might seem less than ideal, but as the service is state funded and free to the user it doesn’t really matter, apart from making membership a bit pointless. We have since been told that membership can confer a better quality of service, but this is far from guaranteed.

The Marine Rescue guy we spoke to was helpful and told us that we should be able to get a lift on either Saturday or Sunday as the patrol craft would be heading out anyway. Relieved, we did a few jobs, like fixing our 8hp outboard motor, and then a few touristy things, like visiting the Maritime Museum.

The maritime museum turned out to be excellent, especially the display of antique survey gear, sextants, and Napoleonic War weapons. For a fan of Patrick O’Brian, C. S. Forester, and Frederick Marryat, the latter was very interesting and right up my alley.

During our fact finding sessions regarding where to go, and how to fix our problem, Cara had made contact with local sailors who, after offering advice and assistance, kindly invited us to dinner. Dan and Liz, and Ross and Janet, have been building their own catamarans for several years, and whilst we won’t hold that against them, we hope that they see the light and get rid of an extraneous hull each. Five minutes with an angle grinder should do the job perfectly — two monohulls for the price of one cat, and an immediate boost in street cred and aesthetic appeal.

But seriously, those interested in boat building, especially the process of building a cat, should check out Ross’ You Tube channel, ‘Life on The Hulls,’ for great tips and advice.

Having checked the weather we revisited the Marine Rescue centre to tell them that Sunday looked good for us to leave, and to ask what time might be convenient for them to help us. Our reception seemed much frostier this time around. We weren’t allowed in the building, and the person we spoke to on the phone said he would have to talk to his supervisor about our request. When we phoned back later we were told that they couldn’t assist us.

Next day dawned fine with a ten knot breeze from the north. We got ourselves ready to go, by which time the wind had increased to 15 knots. Working out our tactics it seemed a good idea to keep the Marine Rescue guys abreast of what we were doing. We spoke to a new person who encouraged us to wait so that he could talk to his supervisor to see if they could in fact help. We were reluctant to delay as the wind was increasing, which would help us gain way, but also increased the risk of being blown onto the lee shore. We were promised that he would have an answer within quarter of an hour. Fifteen minutes later we were told that the supervisor was on a boat coming out to see us.

A short while later two Marine Rescue jet skis turned up. We had no idea what they wanted but they asked us the standard questions that Marine Rescue always ask, length, draught, and weight of vessel, number of persons on board, and so on. Having answered these questions a launch appeared with the supervisor, and we had to repeat the same information all over again. On hearing our weight, 10.5 tons, the supervisor said, ‘we can’t tow you, our maximum is 7.5 tons.’ As we had provided this information at least four times to local staff we weren’t too impressed by having been asked to wait for the supervisor to announce what was obviously a foregone conclusion. If the conversation had ended there we would have retained more respect for the guy’s judgement, but unfortunately he kept talking. He informed us that if they tried to tow us we would drag them onto the rocks. How this would happen is difficult to imagine, we only wanted an assisting tow to get going, and surely if the critical situation he described should arise they would be able to cut the tow line? The decision having been made it didn’t seem worth pointing this out. He then said that the jetskis could hold station with us, and if we were swept on to the beach we could jump into the sea and be rescued by them. I was so shocked by this vision that I think my jaw literally dropped open. Then, seeing our 8 hp outboard on the rail he asked why we didn’t attach it to the transom instead of asking for a tow. Trying to hog tie an outboard to a yacht’s transom is a good way to have a nasty accident, and almost certainly lose the motor in the process. The man suggesting this was the local Marine Rescue Operations Manager, standing on a launch with two massive outboards, providing, I would guess, something like two or three hundred hp. Somehow he had arrived at the conclusion that whilst his boat didn’t have the necessary power to help, our 8 hp motor could be jerry rigged to do the job. As if to prove that he knew absolutely nothing about yachts or sailing, the guy then asked why we didn’t wait for the wind to die — ‘because our engine doesn’t work’ we said in bemusement. More prosaically he then asked why we hadn’t booked a mechanic or a tow from a commercial operator. We replied that we had tried to speak to several mechanics, only one of whom had gotten back to us, to tell us he couldn’t look at our job for months. We added that we hadn’t investigated a commercial tow because we weren’t sure we needed one, and we had been told on Friday that Marine Rescue would be happy to help. The conversation clearly wasn’t going in a helpful direction. Having asked where we were heading the Ops Manager said something to the man at his helm and in a fit of what appeared a lot like pique he zoomed off, taking his jet skiers with him, and leaving us to face the peril of being ship wrecked alone.

Having messed around long enough we hoisted the main, pushed it around so that the boat was pointing in the right direction, let out the jib, and began to sail. Running forwards I released the mooring line and we were off and sailing. It was just as easy as it sounds. Though very slow to start with we were able to maintain our direction, and as our speed increased we knew that we were perfectly safe and really shouldn’t have bothered with all that Marine Rescue palaver.

We repeated our trip out through the heads, turned south and enjoyed another fast ride in the 15-20 knots and strong current, arriving at Batemans Bay at about 8:00 p.m. just as light was fading. Getting into the anchorage, behind a reef, was a bit of a game, involving some stressful tacks in light winds due to the shelter of the headland. Taurus needs some speed and momentum to tack (turn the bow across the wind), and if she doesn’t have it she’ll go so far and refuse to turn any further. The danger of this situation is that the boat can end up ‘in chains,’ that is head to wind and stalled without steerage. Once again, the need to practice anchoring and slow speed manouvering without a motor was brought home to us.

To anchor without an engine one simply has to reduce sail to slow down and then turn into the wind to effectively stop the boat. When the boat stops the anchor is released and the boat is blown back by the wind. More chain is released until the desired scope is out, we use 15 metres plus twice the depth of water, and then the chain is snubbed off. Job done.

Anchoring without an engine isn’t then particularly hard, in good conditions with plenty of space, but being able to do it accurately takes practice, and I’m sure doing it in less than ideal conditions would be an entirely different kettle of fish.

Northerly winds had been forecast for the next day, but they failed to appear. The marina booking lady had told us that the marina staff would be able to assist us with a tow to get in, but after we spoke to them this proved not to be the case. We were a mere 2 NMs from the marina, but between us and it was yet another bar. The bar on the Clyde River is particularly shallow and we needed to cross it close on high tide, which was just after midday. Given the lack of any wind and the very calm sea state we decided to try and tow Taurus with our newly fixed 8hp outboard. Towing a boat of Taurus’ size isn’t inherently difficult. You aren’t after all trying to pull ten and a half tons, most of that weight being supported by the water, so in calm conditions it is pretty easy for an individual to pull Taurus around by brute force, say when moving her forward or backwards on a jetty. We have heard of boats being towed by someone swimming (that guy or gal must be a hell of a swimmer) or by a row boat. So, whilst we knew the practice wasn’t impossible, it was a technique that we had never had to learn. Essentially the outboard goes on the dinghy which is strapped to the beam (the side) of the boat. The engine provides power and is locked in a neutral helm position whilst the boat is steered from the main wheel. Like most things, practice makes perfect. Our first attempt saw Taurus swinging in circles that we were unable to control, possibly due to a current. We then tried towing in the normal car-like-fashion, but whilst we started in a straight line the boats kept diverging onto different paths that were difficult to realign. We then went back to having the dinghy tied to the beam in a slightly different configuration and found moderate success!

As time was critical, due to the tide, and it looked for a while like we would be unable to tow Taurus adequately, Cara called the Batemans Bay Marine Rescue to see if the staff there were of the helpful or unhelpful variety. As soon as she began to explain the situation the person on the end of the phone cut her off, telling her that there was a note on their desk from the Operations Manager at Jervis Bay stating that they were not to help us. It appears that the Manager in Jervis Bay had asked our destination not out of any concern for our wellbeing, but to forestall any request for assistance we might later make.

Having got Taurus moving we decided to keep going. The unknown bar was ahead of us and if there were any waves we would be completely stuck, so we found the number of a commercial tow operator and gave him a call. He reassured us by telling us the bar was like a millpond and suggested that we keep going if the boat was moving. He added that he could be with us in twenty minutes and that the fee would be $350.

Now, I understand that some people would say that we should just stump up for the services we need, but we, like many cruisers, do not have unlimited funds. If we had gone the way of commercial operators for every difficulty our latest escapade would have looked something like this: to get off the mooring in Jervis Bay – $350; to get into Batemans Bay Marina – $350; to go onto the hard for a few days – $2,000; for a mechanic to swop the gearboxes – $2,000–$2,500 (diesel mechanics charge around $100 per hour, the job took us three days). Time is a seperate factor, but also expensive. The wait for a mechanic is several months long at the moment (and many mechanics simply can’t or won’t work in the tiny space around Taurus’ engine), as such we would have had to stay in the marina at $107 per day for however long it took for them to do the job, say three months – $9,500. You get the idea. Paying someone to fix our problems has to be a last resort, and, to be frank, often the job you pay someone to do turns out to be poorly done.

We struggled on, and it was at this point that Guy from Ambrosia appeared in his dinghy with his 10 hp outboard to give us a hand. Tying this onto the opposite beam more than doubled our available power, and we shot ahead at around 3.5 knots. The bar was as described, very flat and shallow, but no great hindrance. Our next challenge was to turn ninety degrees into the marina, and then make a second ninety degree turn to access our berth, whilst more or less simultaneously getting Guy and dinghy out of the way before ‘landing.’

Our first attempt to turn into the marina failed due to the strength of the current, but whilst I thought we would have to anchor and call the tow man, Cara simply swung us around 270 degrees, entered the marina and had us lined up with the jetty. Guy was rapidly released and just like that we were tied up and safe. Looking down the jetty we could see two Marine Rescue boats, once again with horse power to burn. We had towed ourselves with a total of 18 hp, so it was hard to credit that one of these boats with several hundred horse power couldn’t have helped us.

Now let me be clear. I can understand that the NSW Marine Rescue stance might be that they will only respond to situations in which lives are at risk, and that operations of a non-critical nature should be handed off to commercial operators due to cost, issues with manning, and so on. If that is the case the position is not advertised, and was never stated to us. In New Zealand if you need a tow then the Coast Guard will provide it, to ensure safety of crew and craft, avoid environmental issues, and so on. I presume it’s the same here. The reason we had been refused help in Jervis Bay was because we were ‘too heavy,’ not because our request fell outside the service’s remit. The reason why we were refused help in Batemans Bay is unclear and I have written to the service to clarify their position. It appears that our decision to keep the service informed of our intentions, as a responsible safety measure, served to preclude us from being able to access assistance because the Operations Manager in Jervis Bay took a dislike to us. If this is the case it’s hard to imagine a more irresponsible and unprofessional act. Intentionally excluding a disabled vessel from being able to access assistance, without knowledge of the circumstances in which aid has been requested, goes against every tenet of the sea, let alone the duty of a manager in ‘Marine Rescue.’ Hopefully we will be able to avoid any further need of Marine Rescue’s assistance, I would certainly be loathe to ask for it.

That afternoon we began stripping out our gearbox, but that tale will have to wait for next time!

Having to sail without an engine was an interesting, if stressful, experience, and certainly demands greater awareness and skill. I hope that when our engine is fixed we won’t forget the need to keep practicing the skills required when an engine is unavailable.

We arrived in Sydney on Friday the 10th of January at about 10:00 am. Regular readers will know that we had been trying to arrive on this day or before because our good friend Eugene was visiting Sydney for a few days, giving us an opportunity to catch up with him.

Eugene is a solo-sailor from Bulgaria whom we met in Tonga, and ran into again in Fiji. He is one of those inspiring souls who would give you the shirt off his back, and spends his time sailing around the world, and learning languages. When not doing one of these things he inspires others to have a go at them.

We met Eugene at Rose Bay, fresh off the plane so to speak. After running him out to Taurus to deposit his luggage, we took the ferry to Circular Quay for an internet guided tour around The Rocks, the original site of the Sydney settlement.

Our first call was the Museum of Contemporary Art. I often find modern art a bit hit and miss. The recent sale of a banana taped to a wall for an astronomical $6 million highlighting, in my admittedly ignorant opinion, the absurd pretension of some so-called artists and their aficionados. It seemed telling that as we wandered the galleries we found that many people seemed to find whatever was happening outside of more interest than the art.

After coming to the unanimous decision that modern art is a bit rubbish, we wandered down to Cadmans Cottage which, built in 1816, is one of the few buildings left from Sydney’s early days.

Next on the tour was The Rocks Museum. This small building houses a host of interesting displays that informs the visitor about life in Sydney two hundred years ago.

After the museum we headed towards the Sydney Harbour Bridge, making sure that we didn’t end up on the side reserved for cyclists. On my first trip to Sydney, almost thirty years ago, I made the cardinal mistake of walking on the cycling side and was given a real Aussie dressing down by some irate chap.

Having worked up a thirst we headed to Sydney’s oldest continually licensed pub, the Lord Nelson Hotel, which has a nice atmosphere and a great range of beers.

After so much excitement it was time to go home for a lie down and a wee nap.

Not having abandoned hope of the civilising influence of one of the world’s great cities, we headed to the Art Gallery of New South Wales to see what we could learn.

I have always admired the work of René Magritte (1898-1967), whose art blends skill, humour, and surrealism. So it was with great delight that we found that an exhibition of the great artist’s work was being held at the gallery when we visited. Less delightful was the A$35 dollar fee, but having screwed our wallets to the sticking place we sallied forth to pay. At the counter we met a young Maori-looking-girl who was taking money and collecting data. When she asked for a post code we replied that we were from New Zealand, to which she responded, “the best country in the world, you go in for free.” Who doesn’t love a free visit to a René Magritte exhibition?

Magritte is of course the artist who infamously painted a picture of a pipe and added the sentence beneath, “Ceci n’est pas une pipe,” or in English, “This is not a pipe.” I remember showing this picture to my kids when they were young and their subsequent confusion, but of course a picture of a pipe is not a pipe, it’s a picture. That famous image, The Treachery of Images, was, alas, not part of the exhibition, but a subsequent image, with the words, “This is still not a pipe” was present and correct.

For Magritte fans, and who isn’t, here are a few more images from the exhibition:

After the gallery we headed back to Circular Quay and took the opportunity to have a look inside the Sydney Opera House. Here architecture, rather than art, is king.

Widely regarded as one of the world’s most famous and distinctive buildings, the Sydney Opera House is a masterpiece of 20th-century architecture. Designed by Danish architect Jørn Utzon, the building was formally opened by Queen Elizabeth II on 20 October 1973, sixteen years after Utzon’s 1957 selection as winner of an international design competition. The government’s decision to build Utzon’s design is often overshadowed by the difficulties that followed; cost and scheduling overruns, and Utzon’s ultimate resignation from the project (Wikipedia).

Next day Eugene had to leave to fly back to New Zealand to where his boat is currently on a mooring. Hopefully, somewhere in the world, we will meet again. This typifies one of the best and worst aspects of the cruiser lifestyle, you constantly meet incredible people that become great friends, and then you say goodbye to them.

Sans Eugene we had to get back on with life and all its chores, big and little. Staying at Rose Bay we had quickly worked out that we could sneak into the local yacht club for showers (we had asked if we could make a donation for access but had been told it would be fine if we were discreet) but had yet to find a laundrette. The nearest self-service laundrette we were able to find, much cheaper than serviced types, was at Bondi Beach, fifteen minutes away on a local bus, so we dragged our laundry bag out and headed off to visit this Australian landmark.

Like many tourist meccas, the beach was a bit sad and tawdry in ‘person,’ and not wanting to take our giant bag of newly washed laundry onto the sand we didn’t hang around.

The weather forecast boffins were warning of a storm from the north, followed by a storm from the south. We considered moving, as Rose Bay is a bit open to the north, but after a week or so on anchor we knew the anchor would be well bedded in, and we had plenty of room to swing, there not being many boats around us. With these factors in mind we decided to stay put, chucked the dinghy on deck, lashed everything well down, and let out extra chain until we were hanging off about 50 metres in about 5 metres of water. we also added a little extra length to our normal chain snubber, which bears some explanation.

A boat held in place by a chain in rough seas can experience strong jerking as waves act against her. These jerks, fairly continuous during bad weather, can exert massive forces that make life on-board unpleasant, can break equipment, and can encourage dragging by jerking the anchor out of the ground. One solution is to use a snubber: a bridle made of nylon line that is attached to the boat’s forward cleats on either side and extend forward where they are attached to the chain some distance from the boat (about 2-5 metres is our standard, 10 metres our maximum). The weight of the boat is then eased onto the snubber by letting out more chain, which slackens as the line takes the strain. Nylon is used because of its elastic properties which absorb the shock loads. The trick with a snubber is to use as thin a line as you think will hold the boat (with some longevity) and as long as is convenient — the longer and the thinner the more elasticity available, and thus the less shock loads the boat and anchor receive.

So, hunkered down we waited for the storm. We really had no idea how bad the storm would turn out to be, and were really more concerned with the southerlies to follow. As it turned out, the initial storm, which we watched slowly building on the horizon, was easily the most spectacular we have ever experienced. Headlines the following day reported 737,000 lightning strikes within 100 kms of the Sydney CBD, almost 9,000 of those struck the ground. One man was killed (when a tree fell on his car), 100 mm’s of rain fell, and 300,000 homes and properties were left without power.

Below are three videos, uploaded to You Tube, which show the storm’s progression (clicking on the images below will allow them to play). They give a pretty good idea of what the experience was like. If you watch the second video you will hear an alarm at the end. This was our anchor alarm, which is intended to warn us when the boat moves a prescribed distance. Despite the scare it turned out that we weren’t dragging, merely swinging on the anchor a good way. Still, you can imagine why I stopped the video pretty hurriedly!

After an hour or so the worst of the storm had passed, though the lightning continued for some time afterwards. A little stunned and awed we went to bed, only to wake in a southerly gale. After the night before the 30 odd knot gusts of wind seemed pretty mundane, but they did prevent us from being able to leave the boat for the next three days. Incredibly, Taurus was held without any issue by our snubber, two 10mm lines of nylon (with 10mm chain as a back up of course) throughout. Modern rope is pretty amazing.

Once we could safely take the dinghy to the beach we decided a day out was in order, so we went to the zoo. Taronga Zoo sits on the harbour and enjoys spectacular views. The animals were pretty cool too.

Of course, as ever, there were a few jobs to be done. We set to installing new solar panels and cleaning our blackwater pump —everyone’s favourite job.

The next day we decided to shift to a new anchorage, and headed under the Sydney Harbour Bridge to Birkenhead, the site of a major discount store. At six the following morning we were rudely awakened by a crash and the sound of screaming. Thinking we might have dragged anchor into one of the super yachts in the marina opposite we jumped out of bed like a couple of released springs. We hadn’t dragged, rather a racing scull had powered right into Taurus’s bow, breaking one of their rowlocks and splitting the head of one of the female crew. Cara swung into action, and whilst I inspected Taurus she inspected the lady’s head. Then, the row boat being damaged and the injured party slightly hysterical, we took her in our dinghy back to the rowing club. Unfortunately our 8 horse power engine is currently on the blink so we had to take her some way with our small 3.3 hp run about. This has a small tank that ran out of petrol on the way home — luckily within rowing distance. All this before our morning coffee!

Our next destination was Manly, a popular beach area and playground for Sydney’s young, beautiful, and wealthy. I don’t fall into any of those categories, but Manly is a good jumping off point to leave Sydney. We snuck in, did some more clothes washing, and had fish and chips with wine out of plastic cups that we blagged from a yogurt store. How very sophisticated we are!

We had planned to leave at 5 am the next day to head to Jervis Bay about 12 hours away, but the wind remained absent until the early afternoon. This was fortunate in a way as we could watch some of the Australia Day celebrations, including a flypast and helicopter with a massive flag.

After lunch the wind finally appeared. We raised our sails and left Sydney, heading south for new horizons and new (gulp) adventures.

Next time: We sail to Jervis Bay, we break the boat, we get a tow from NSW Marine Rescue….