nis24: return pt2
By comparison the very buoyant, lightweight Sharpie is not pitching and she is dry, just sailing easily over and on top of the water's surface. Her appendages below the surface are minimal, which means the turning effect of breaking water is reduced. In addition, with her theoretical 143° self-righting, her flared sides and the ability to withdraw rudder and centreboard, she will simply slide sideways in a breaking swell, should she get caught that wway. We had deliberately tested the theory at sea in the big blow coming down the coast; we could have put the kettle on!
I was pleased to get to the lee of the top end of Freycinet Peninsula, at the entrance to the woodchip export and fishing port of Triabunna before darkness set in.
I motored the last mile or so up the winding channel that leads to the town dock. Was delighted to see Doug and Sandra Williams on their boat Freycinet 2 already tied up and asked permission to raft up alongside. Doug and Sandra greeted me warmly, and asked me where I had been hiding all day, since they had been in harbour for the past 24 hours, and had not seen my boat. Then, hang on, you were not out in that...?!'
I sailed the next day around to Wine Glass Bay, following the fleet that had been holed up in Brian's Corner and Coles Bay the previous day, and Freycinet 2, who motor sailed out ahead of me from Triabunna.
It was another inspiring day, light air and spectacular scenery. I deliberately sailed close in by the big cliffs of the eastern side of FreycineC Peninsula. 1 saw what looked like a dead whale, floating in a bed of floating 'grape' kelp. As I drew nearer what I had thought was its prone tail and flippers, it weirdly sprung to lazy and disjointed life; it was group of seals apparently sleeping in the floating kelp, their 'hands and feet' held up akimbo like comical sails.
A couple of hours before daylight we made the decision to take advantage of shelter behind Prime Seal Island, in Peacock Bay, west of Flinders Island and to our north. lan checked the charts, and we plotted our course in to known holding ground, made easier to access for us because we could choose to run in very shallow. This was the first time we had consciously taken shelter and it was very rewarding. The Danforth anchor held well, as the chart said it would, we had around five hours of sound sleep, while the wind built to a fury over and around us.
As lan puts it, "It blew from the west like a mad thing until about 2pm then by 4pm it was blowing lOkts from the south and at 7pm a huge rain squall came at us from the east."
The next day, fully refreshed, and with a spring in our hearts we set off for Deal Island, the major
island in the Kent group.This was one of those runs to die for. The wind was from the south now, the seas smooth.The boat almost sang along, frequently hitting lOkts over the ground. The Kent group seemed to rush up over the horizon at us.
lan suggested we approach from the south west, and sail carefully into the tricky Murray Passage to Eastern Cove, where we would find good shelter for the next few hours.
Like Banks Strait earlier, this waterway was superficially smooth, but punctuated by small standing waves, ominous ripples and swirls, the effect of endless tide over uneven bottom. We made Eastern Cove, with its little lighthouse keeper's jetty, a remnant from era of manned lighthouses.We ran the boat at full sail right up onto the beach, and into a cloud of the most tenacious and annoying blowflies I have ever experienced.
I was pleased to get to the lee of the top end of Freycinet Peninsula, at the entrance to the woodchip export and fishing port of Triabunna before darkness set in.
I motored the last mile or so up the winding channel that leads to the town dock. Was delighted to see Doug and Sandra Williams on their boat Freycinet 2 already tied up and asked permission to raft up alongside. Doug and Sandra greeted me warmly, and asked me where I had been hiding all day, since they had been in harbour for the past 24 hours, and had not seen my boat. Then, hang on, you were not out in that...?!'
I sailed the next day around to Wine Glass Bay, following the fleet that had been holed up in Brian's Corner and Coles Bay the previous day, and Freycinet 2, who motor sailed out ahead of me from Triabunna.
It was another inspiring day, light air and spectacular scenery. I deliberately sailed close in by the big cliffs of the eastern side of FreycineC Peninsula. 1 saw what looked like a dead whale, floating in a bed of floating 'grape' kelp. As I drew nearer what I had thought was its prone tail and flippers, it weirdly sprung to lazy and disjointed life; it was group of seals apparently sleeping in the floating kelp, their 'hands and feet' held up akimbo like comical sails.
As I passed, the seals drowsily lifted their heads, looked the passing apparition up and down, and then, with seeming indifference, returned to their comical slumbers. Dolphins joined me, as the wind increased from the north-east. I never tire of watching these slippery mammals, and the excitement of the whispered hints of their eye contact, their play and intelligence never ceases. I also saw penguins appearing to be asleep, sometimes far out of sight of land. As we approached, they would look up, but unlike the seals, dived out of sight quickly.
Wine Glass Bay surprised me. It looked to be a forbidding, narrow granite walled gulch with only a threatening rocky bay at the far western end, a real trap in an easterly blow. I could see that swells from the east could pump up against the walls and my boat would surety be smashed to pieces. I sailed warily all the way in. I felt the boat lifting on some of the more ominous shoulders of swell, uneasy hints of what could be.
I should not have worried. As I reached the end of the passage, it suddenly opened up to the south to reveal a sheltered, long white sandy beach, ringed by scrub, backed by beetling cliffs and high escarpment. Six yachts were swinging on their anchors in the turquoise waters; people swimming and walking along the beach.
Jo jak was there too. and pretty soon I was invited aboard to join them for pepper squid, brilliantly cooked by Maleolm Murfitt, a local fisherman, who later elected to join me for the run north, the next day up to St Helens.
Malcolm ('Bushy', as the locals know him) is one of those guys you meet sometimes who hides under a joking facade, lest someone actually realise how good he really is. For he is. He has amazing local knowledge, and his suggestions about the ways to handle the coast were valuable to me, then and later on the journey.
He talked about changing directions in his life and whether it might be not be too late to go back to study, for example.
I really hope he does.
It was a glorious run up the coast, swooping over confused seas ahead of a tail wind. To our delight we managed to overtake the 35' Jo Jak, though their version of events was that they called in at a coastal pub for a drink, showers, a massage, a game of pool and a meal while we were looking the other way! Special thanks to Andrew tor taking the picture that you saw on last AABB cover, as we overtook jo Jak.
Wine Glass Bay surprised me. It looked to be a forbidding, narrow granite walled gulch with only a threatening rocky bay at the far western end, a real trap in an easterly blow. I could see that swells from the east could pump up against the walls and my boat would surety be smashed to pieces. I sailed warily all the way in. I felt the boat lifting on some of the more ominous shoulders of swell, uneasy hints of what could be.
I should not have worried. As I reached the end of the passage, it suddenly opened up to the south to reveal a sheltered, long white sandy beach, ringed by scrub, backed by beetling cliffs and high escarpment. Six yachts were swinging on their anchors in the turquoise waters; people swimming and walking along the beach.
Jo jak was there too. and pretty soon I was invited aboard to join them for pepper squid, brilliantly cooked by Maleolm Murfitt, a local fisherman, who later elected to join me for the run north, the next day up to St Helens.
Malcolm ('Bushy', as the locals know him) is one of those guys you meet sometimes who hides under a joking facade, lest someone actually realise how good he really is. For he is. He has amazing local knowledge, and his suggestions about the ways to handle the coast were valuable to me, then and later on the journey.
He talked about changing directions in his life and whether it might be not be too late to go back to study, for example.
I really hope he does.
It was a glorious run up the coast, swooping over confused seas ahead of a tail wind. To our delight we managed to overtake the 35' Jo Jak, though their version of events was that they called in at a coastal pub for a drink, showers, a massage, a game of pool and a meal while we were looking the other way! Special thanks to Andrew tor taking the picture that you saw on last AABB cover, as we overtook jo Jak.
The best of times!
A couple of days followed in the surprisingly attractive town of St Helens, once more waiting for the weather window. lan rejoined the ship, and we sailed out again across the notorious St Helens bar, homeward bound. By now we were sceptical of the forecasts: and were also more confident about the boat's ability. The four day window we now regarded as academic.
We ran north up the coast, then west around Eddystone Light in a fading breeze.
By the time we readied Ranks Strait the wind dropped altogether. Our progress into the strait had been slower than expected.
We now had the worry of clearing the strait before the tide turned. For the first time in our travels we decided to motor the distance.
The little motor, a 3.5 Tohatsu of indeterminate age initially had us running over the ground at up to six knots. lan had gone down to his bunk, with the stern instruction to be left sleeping, no matter what. Late in that afternoon I saw the most unexpected sight of our travels. I had no choice. I woke him up, saying, lan, you have got to see this. The grumpy head peered out of the companionway.
I'm glad you woke me.
Malcolm had told me of giant 'rafts' of mutton birds that were known to form in Banks Strait. I had imagined that they were mythical things of the past, not to he seen any more.
Just as lan came up from his bunk our boat was nearing the edge of the biggest group of birds I have ever seen. The water was black with them, as far as the eye could see.
I had been watching the raft tor some time, thinking that the birds would disperse as we drew nearer. I became curious about their lack of obvious business out there, out of sight of land. They did not seem to he actively feeding. They seemed to be just sitting there, silently as far as 1 could tell.
The 'myth' was real.
Floating in front of our eyes. How many? Hard to tell, maybe 200-300,000?
We were about 20 metres or so into their raft, when in one incredible beating of wings, they panicked, splashing across the water in take off. Whizzing, flapping, close over our heads. Noise of wings and water, but no calls or cries. Ghostly in its unity and epic in its dimension, the frenzy lasted for about 10 minutes. When it was over, they had all but vanished.
I turned in, and lan took the helm till night fell. By this time the tide, as we had feared, had turned. We were slowed to two knots over the ground, and still not out of Banks Strait. Tojo was starting to misbehave, just a little. Not quite full revs.
The wind was starting the west.
The forecast prediction, received at St Helens and borne out by Sea Rescue Tamar was 15 to 20kts of westerly in the evening. I was woken from my sleep by wind noise and vigorous sea motion. The 15-20kts, as -we had seen so often before was now 35+ and north-westerly, and in the early part at least tide; was against us. We beat into the night. It was the roughest part of the voyage. We were sometimes being thrown off breaking waves, but apart from a slight thumping as we hit the next wave, no pounding at all.
I noticed that as we were being thrown off the waves we were also falling off by the head, and this was disconcerting because we were as a result struggling to clear the rocky tip of Goose Island. This was the first time I had experienced the boat being knocked off course. Seemed to me we needed more 'air rudder'. So I shook out one reef from the mizzen and snapped on the mizzen sheet. Reliably on course again!A couple of days followed in the surprisingly attractive town of St Helens, once more waiting for the weather window. lan rejoined the ship, and we sailed out again across the notorious St Helens bar, homeward bound. By now we were sceptical of the forecasts: and were also more confident about the boat's ability. The four day window we now regarded as academic.
We ran north up the coast, then west around Eddystone Light in a fading breeze.
By the time we readied Ranks Strait the wind dropped altogether. Our progress into the strait had been slower than expected.
We now had the worry of clearing the strait before the tide turned. For the first time in our travels we decided to motor the distance.
The little motor, a 3.5 Tohatsu of indeterminate age initially had us running over the ground at up to six knots. lan had gone down to his bunk, with the stern instruction to be left sleeping, no matter what. Late in that afternoon I saw the most unexpected sight of our travels. I had no choice. I woke him up, saying, lan, you have got to see this. The grumpy head peered out of the companionway.
I'm glad you woke me.
Malcolm had told me of giant 'rafts' of mutton birds that were known to form in Banks Strait. I had imagined that they were mythical things of the past, not to he seen any more.
Just as lan came up from his bunk our boat was nearing the edge of the biggest group of birds I have ever seen. The water was black with them, as far as the eye could see.
I had been watching the raft tor some time, thinking that the birds would disperse as we drew nearer. I became curious about their lack of obvious business out there, out of sight of land. They did not seem to he actively feeding. They seemed to be just sitting there, silently as far as 1 could tell.
The 'myth' was real.
Floating in front of our eyes. How many? Hard to tell, maybe 200-300,000?
We were about 20 metres or so into their raft, when in one incredible beating of wings, they panicked, splashing across the water in take off. Whizzing, flapping, close over our heads. Noise of wings and water, but no calls or cries. Ghostly in its unity and epic in its dimension, the frenzy lasted for about 10 minutes. When it was over, they had all but vanished.
I turned in, and lan took the helm till night fell. By this time the tide, as we had feared, had turned. We were slowed to two knots over the ground, and still not out of Banks Strait. Tojo was starting to misbehave, just a little. Not quite full revs.
The wind was starting the west.
The forecast prediction, received at St Helens and borne out by Sea Rescue Tamar was 15 to 20kts of westerly in the evening. I was woken from my sleep by wind noise and vigorous sea motion. The 15-20kts, as -we had seen so often before was now 35+ and north-westerly, and in the early part at least tide; was against us. We beat into the night. It was the roughest part of the voyage. We were sometimes being thrown off breaking waves, but apart from a slight thumping as we hit the next wave, no pounding at all.
A couple of hours before daylight we made the decision to take advantage of shelter behind Prime Seal Island, in Peacock Bay, west of Flinders Island and to our north. lan checked the charts, and we plotted our course in to known holding ground, made easier to access for us because we could choose to run in very shallow. This was the first time we had consciously taken shelter and it was very rewarding. The Danforth anchor held well, as the chart said it would, we had around five hours of sound sleep, while the wind built to a fury over and around us.
As lan puts it, "It blew from the west like a mad thing until about 2pm then by 4pm it was blowing lOkts from the south and at 7pm a huge rain squall came at us from the east."
The next day, fully refreshed, and with a spring in our hearts we set off for Deal Island, the major
island in the Kent group.This was one of those runs to die for. The wind was from the south now, the seas smooth.The boat almost sang along, frequently hitting lOkts over the ground. The Kent group seemed to rush up over the horizon at us.
lan suggested we approach from the south west, and sail carefully into the tricky Murray Passage to Eastern Cove, where we would find good shelter for the next few hours.
Like Banks Strait earlier, this waterway was superficially smooth, but punctuated by small standing waves, ominous ripples and swirls, the effect of endless tide over uneven bottom. We made Eastern Cove, with its little lighthouse keeper's jetty, a remnant from era of manned lighthouses.We ran the boat at full sail right up onto the beach, and into a cloud of the most tenacious and annoying blowflies I have ever experienced.
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