Port Stephens to the RMYC Broken Bay; The Final Saga.
Another of those will we, won’t we mornings. Over a fantastic one month anniversary, Indian meal the night previous, discretion had once again triumphed over valour and we’d collectively decided that Twin Spirit should enjoy the comparative comfort and safety of the D’Albora Marina at Port Stephens and wait for kinder winds before heading south on our final leg. They didn’t just have showers here for God’s sake; they had ‘Personal Care Units.’ This struck the crew as the best epithet they’d encountered since the bouncer at ‘Panthers’ Port Macquarie had described himself as an ‘Attitude Adjustment Officer.’
The knowledge that Sparrow and Hoover needed to jump a dodgy (I hope they’ve checked the oxygen bottles) Qantas flight to Hamilton Island on the 15th, brought some small pressure to bear but we all felt it best to wait out the relentless series of fronts moving through the ‘Tasman.’ If the situation didn’t improve, we’d hire a car to ensure Nick and Pam’s time frame was met. The Admiral and Lil thought they might even leave the boat in Port Stephens and use it as an excuse to come back and make a ‘nice’ little trip back to Pittwater at a warmer and calmer time.
Ah but the day dawned fair and bright and the strong wind warnings had been unreliable in the past, hadn’t they? It couldn’t blow as hard as yesterday could it? Hey it would be great to see the kids again and if we did get caught out in it, there were places to hide. Holes in the wall to duck into; Newcastle was only an hour or two away and Lake Macquarie not much further than that. There was always the dingy if the boat sank; we’d only just topped up the two-stroke. And if all else failed we could just step from whale back to whale back; “the fuckers are everywhere!” quoth The Admiral. It seemed we were all in the mood for the comforts of home.
We were out of the spectacular, almost Hawaiian, entrance to Port Stephens and heading south by 8.00am with a light, favourable Nor-Westerly breeze blowing across the beam and the engines pumping away happily to get us there that little bit faster. ‘8-Knots’ was well pleased with 9.5 and Sparrow gloved against the cold was grinning fit to burst at the helm. Lil was knitting ‘fingerless gloves,’ presumably for someone with no fingers and Hoover was searching the TV for another replay of the Olympic Games Opening Ceremony. It was looking good for a great run home.
We could smell Newcastle by 10.00 and we’d passed it by 12.00. Lake Macquarie’s trade mark power stations came over the horizon not long after and though the breeze was beginning to build and come round to head us we decided at around 1.30 as we reached Moon Island at the entrance to The Swansea Channel to press on.
By the time we made the Norah Head light it was blowing like the Admiral after two flights of stairs and we struck the headsail. At Bird-Rock we gave up on our remaining mainsail and punched into a very strong South Westerly wind sometimes gusting over 35 knots with bare poles. At Cape Three Points with only an hour and a half to run the chop set the auto-helm into panic mode again, Beeeep, Beeeep, “S-Talk Fail, S-Talk Fail.” “Hand steering again I’m afraid old thing.” Said The Admiral as Sparrow slipped on his ski gloves and assumed the position; head up and eyes watering in the freezing wind.
“Your fucking auto-helm is a Fag. You should call it fucking Nancy-Marine not RayMarine.” The plucky but irascible Sparrow shouted down to us. Lil who would at no point in the remaining journey have to expose herself to the cruelly cold wind or the sleet which was now whipping the boat, giggled, not a thing she often does, then helpfully suggested ‘Gay-Marine.’ The Admiral who loves his boat didn’t speak to her for the rest of the trip, save for a grudging “Thanks,” when presented with bourbon laced coffee during his last stint at the helm while passing beneath the lighthouse at ‘Barrenjoey.’
Our heartfelt good wishes to all the funny, fascinating and helpful folk we were fortunate enough to meet and spend time with along the way.
Pam and Nick,
Thank you for allowing us to high-jack your blog for a month. We respectfully hand it back enriched by the experience and the joyful collaboration.
Special thanks for your time, your talents, your strong livers, your good humour and your patience. Four definite and different adults in a confined space over four weeks, some would consider a dangerous social experiment at best, perhaps even punishment should things go wrong.
We’ve had the time of our lives and Lil, Nancy-Marine and I hope you’ll both come sailing with us again just as soon as we’ve re-stocked the fridges and fixed the auto-helm.
Dougie M
Admiral (retd.)
So the four sailed away for a month and a day on what happily turned out to be,
A fantastic escape from the ordinary on a whale infested sea!
Monday, August 11, 2008
Friday the 8th of August Laurieton Lay Day
With a strong wind warning current we planned a lay-day for Friday with a nice sleep-in to look forward too but lack-a-day it wasn't to be, our morning started instead at 3am with all hands nimbly up fending off a rogue catamaran which had arrived like a ninja in the middle of the night whilst we slept. It was dragging its anchor and perilously close to us as the tide surged down the dark and beautiful Camden-Haven River. It missed us on its first pass by a metre or less, settling only inches off our port bow; so close in fact it allowed us to bang on the hull and awaken the slumbering inmates. A few muffled grunts and they fired their engines and moved away to re-deploy their ground tackle. An hour later they were back, cozying up to us again. Captain Sparrow now sleep deprived and uncharacteristically disheveled once again went topsides and suggested volubly through cupped hands that he might rearrange tackle of an entirely different type if it happened again. Fortunately in the darkness, the crew of the other cat wasn’t able to discern Captain Sparrow's diminutive (but perfectly formed) physique, only the hostility of his tone. This time, doubtless terrified, they buggered off we know not where.
A lazy morning of unproductive fishing was followed by an excursion ashore to get a few things (in bottles.) We then rewarded ourselves for successfully repelling borders with a light lunch at the club. Another hearty dinner aboard after a little blogging and a relatively early night in preparation for the early off and a long run to Port Stephens.
It should be noted that the Admiral feels he may have come up with a strong title for the final published edition of our collective story; "Guzzlers Travels."
Saturday 9th of August Laurieton to Port Stephens
Up at 6am and away at 6.30 heading south when everyone else was heading north, always a little disconcerting. We were the only vessel departing Laurieton that morning whom the Coast Guard wished luck!
OK, not ideal conditions but The Admiral and Cap’n Sparrow had Twin Spirit close hauled and zorfing along, albeit protesting, at an average 8.5 kts in not unreasonable seas for at least 2/3ds of the days journey. We rounded Seal Rocks and turned directly into the south westerly chop about 1.00 pm at which point it all turned ugly. After a very unpleasant half hour of losing sail, powering up the ‘Yanmars’ and bashing into wind and water, the auto-helm spat the dummy and no matter how often we rebooted the bastard another wack on the underside of the bridge and it would beep its warning “S-Talk Fail” and shut down again. The boys had to hand-steer for the remaining 5 hours of our journey standing out in the freezing wind which was howling in our faces at 25 kts plus and throwing salt water over the whole boat, particularly the unlucky helmsman. A couple of forehead hatches began to leak after repeated greenies smacked over the bow and the bedding in the main cabins required protection with towels laid out and changing every half hour. All this might have seemed a trifle more dramatic had ‘Hoover’ not discovered that she could pick up the Olympics on the salon TV.
“Hey Nick come here and see how tiny the Aussie female beach volley ball costumes are.” She screamed above the wind.
The Admiral was aghast.
“How could any one watch TV in conditions like these?” He asked Sparrow, but he was talking to the wind.
As we slammed into the waves a new theory emerged; a theory to rival ‘Truswell’s Special Theory of Relativity.’ (See earlier blog.) On no less than three occasions that difficult afternoon, we had to take evasive action to avoid whales, whales that not only appeared to deviate from their northward migration as we passed by but seemingly to pursue us as we altered course. A glint in their eyes might have been difficult to detect at a distance of 200 metres but the Admiral swears he saw it; either the look of love or a ‘get-the- fuck-out-of- my-neighbourhood glare.’ Old ‘8 knots’ proposed that the slamming of the underbelly of the catamaran in difficult conditions like these replicated the noise made by a rogue male Humpback smashing into the water after breaching. (An awesome sound I can assure you.) He further proposed that whether the sound of our slamming hulls suggested, from the whale’s point of view, a dispute over territory or the possibility of a serious rogering, they were fit and well up for it, charging toward us from various quarters. Either way none of us was keen to find out if The Admiral was on the money; we took a vote, (without ‘Hoover’ who was absorbed with the Olympic Dressage events on Channel 7,) and decided to try and fool the whales by running with the swell for 5 minutes, stopping the slamming and throwing a can of sardines into the sea as a distraction for good measure. Whether it’s a monumental breakthrough in marine biology, the answer to an ancient conundrum or just rampant paranoia we’ll leave you to decide dear reader.
A few more hours of punching into disturbed seas and a few more waves down the back of the neck saw us safely into Nelson Bay with the promise of a secure berth, a steaming hot shower, an Indian meal and a good nights rest improving everyone’s mood.
By the way ‘Hoover would like you to know that Australia is doing very well in the Equestrian Events thus far.
With a strong wind warning current we planned a lay-day for Friday with a nice sleep-in to look forward too but lack-a-day it wasn't to be, our morning started instead at 3am with all hands nimbly up fending off a rogue catamaran which had arrived like a ninja in the middle of the night whilst we slept. It was dragging its anchor and perilously close to us as the tide surged down the dark and beautiful Camden-Haven River. It missed us on its first pass by a metre or less, settling only inches off our port bow; so close in fact it allowed us to bang on the hull and awaken the slumbering inmates. A few muffled grunts and they fired their engines and moved away to re-deploy their ground tackle. An hour later they were back, cozying up to us again. Captain Sparrow now sleep deprived and uncharacteristically disheveled once again went topsides and suggested volubly through cupped hands that he might rearrange tackle of an entirely different type if it happened again. Fortunately in the darkness, the crew of the other cat wasn’t able to discern Captain Sparrow's diminutive (but perfectly formed) physique, only the hostility of his tone. This time, doubtless terrified, they buggered off we know not where.
A lazy morning of unproductive fishing was followed by an excursion ashore to get a few things (in bottles.) We then rewarded ourselves for successfully repelling borders with a light lunch at the club. Another hearty dinner aboard after a little blogging and a relatively early night in preparation for the early off and a long run to Port Stephens.
It should be noted that the Admiral feels he may have come up with a strong title for the final published edition of our collective story; "Guzzlers Travels."
Saturday 9th of August Laurieton to Port Stephens
Up at 6am and away at 6.30 heading south when everyone else was heading north, always a little disconcerting. We were the only vessel departing Laurieton that morning whom the Coast Guard wished luck!
OK, not ideal conditions but The Admiral and Cap’n Sparrow had Twin Spirit close hauled and zorfing along, albeit protesting, at an average 8.5 kts in not unreasonable seas for at least 2/3ds of the days journey. We rounded Seal Rocks and turned directly into the south westerly chop about 1.00 pm at which point it all turned ugly. After a very unpleasant half hour of losing sail, powering up the ‘Yanmars’ and bashing into wind and water, the auto-helm spat the dummy and no matter how often we rebooted the bastard another wack on the underside of the bridge and it would beep its warning “S-Talk Fail” and shut down again. The boys had to hand-steer for the remaining 5 hours of our journey standing out in the freezing wind which was howling in our faces at 25 kts plus and throwing salt water over the whole boat, particularly the unlucky helmsman. A couple of forehead hatches began to leak after repeated greenies smacked over the bow and the bedding in the main cabins required protection with towels laid out and changing every half hour. All this might have seemed a trifle more dramatic had ‘Hoover’ not discovered that she could pick up the Olympics on the salon TV.
“Hey Nick come here and see how tiny the Aussie female beach volley ball costumes are.” She screamed above the wind.
The Admiral was aghast.
“How could any one watch TV in conditions like these?” He asked Sparrow, but he was talking to the wind.
As we slammed into the waves a new theory emerged; a theory to rival ‘Truswell’s Special Theory of Relativity.’ (See earlier blog.) On no less than three occasions that difficult afternoon, we had to take evasive action to avoid whales, whales that not only appeared to deviate from their northward migration as we passed by but seemingly to pursue us as we altered course. A glint in their eyes might have been difficult to detect at a distance of 200 metres but the Admiral swears he saw it; either the look of love or a ‘get-the- fuck-out-of- my-neighbourhood glare.’ Old ‘8 knots’ proposed that the slamming of the underbelly of the catamaran in difficult conditions like these replicated the noise made by a rogue male Humpback smashing into the water after breaching. (An awesome sound I can assure you.) He further proposed that whether the sound of our slamming hulls suggested, from the whale’s point of view, a dispute over territory or the possibility of a serious rogering, they were fit and well up for it, charging toward us from various quarters. Either way none of us was keen to find out if The Admiral was on the money; we took a vote, (without ‘Hoover’ who was absorbed with the Olympic Dressage events on Channel 7,) and decided to try and fool the whales by running with the swell for 5 minutes, stopping the slamming and throwing a can of sardines into the sea as a distraction for good measure. Whether it’s a monumental breakthrough in marine biology, the answer to an ancient conundrum or just rampant paranoia we’ll leave you to decide dear reader.
A few more hours of punching into disturbed seas and a few more waves down the back of the neck saw us safely into Nelson Bay with the promise of a secure berth, a steaming hot shower, an Indian meal and a good nights rest improving everyone’s mood.
By the way ‘Hoover would like you to know that Australia is doing very well in the Equestrian Events thus far.
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