nis24 sailing down east coast tas
A big swell lifted us and we knew this was special. lan had said it's okay if you don't look back. Fifteen, 15,15.5 15 holy moley, 17.5 17.5: how are you handling this?!
No problem, but I admit to trepidation, for the first and really only time on our voyage. We were to see 17.5 several more times, as we surged down that coast.
Seventeen and a half is very fast, I have never seen such speeds in my little boat, in fact never in my sailing experience. I don't really know what the strains are and this is all new. Where will it end? We are 15 miles or so off shore. Helicopter, from here? Don't think so. Water. Cold, too.
Someone said 40 minutes max. Then you go to sleep. It's called hypothermia. Not nice, I think.
Imagination runs.
Does the bow panel open up? Masts snap off? Are the pintle bolts strong enough?
After about an hour of this glorious mayhem, lan stuck his head out. 'Never thought I'd hear myself
saying this. This little boat is very competent!'
Bram's yellow drogue sat in the cockpit, I swear it was winking at us, saying, you don't need me yet!
One hour of trepidation, the last seven hours delirious pleasure realising that A we were not going to die and B this really was fun!
We never looked like broaching, surfing down four to five metre swells and across confused seas. We tried bare poles, found a steady seven and a half knots, lan decided it was not brisk enough so up with the jesus reef rag. Then, because we could, we tried all sorts of things like lying a hull, board up with sheets slack. Amazing. Quiet, even though seas were breaking round us. Just like the old Egret stories.
I had been on the tiller during that rush down the coast for about six hours, at first in trepidation, then heady with the pleasure that comes out of confidence in the furiously fast ride we were experiencing. In sight of Schouten Island I had imagined that we had an hour or so before we could take a breather behind Maria Island, but lan informed me that was still two hours away.
Two more hours on the helm. I suddenly felt very tired. In that instant I realised that something was seriously wrong. I started to shiver, and the adrenalin that had sustained me, now let me crash. I had trouble staying awake. I started seeing things aberrantly. I called lan to take over, and kept repeating that he should put in his warm gear. He did; came out, and I went into my bunk and wrapped myself in everything warm I could find. I shivered for nearly an hour. I could barely move.
Then, near disaster.
lan again. "The moderate northeriies had turned into a 40kt blow as we roared down the east coast of Tasmania. After we had finally rounded Schouten Island we encountered the weirdest change I have ever seen. We were about 10 miles to the north of Maria Island when the wind went dead calm, then after about 10 minutes turned instantly into a 40kt southerly. This blew for about 30 minutes, then it went calm again for 10 minutes, then another huge southerly for about 30 minutes, then calm again for 10 and so on, through maybe six repetitions before it settled down to a 10 to 15kt southerly. Afterwards I realised it was probably eddies and rotors coming off the 2000 foot high mountain on Maria Island.
All the while lan was handling the boat by himself. I was too stressed to move myself, and unable to help lan should he need it.
l now know I had the beginnings of hypothermia, exacerbated by tiredness.
My mistake began when I came out to relieve lan in the cockpit off St Helens. It was quite warm, hot even, at that point. I did not worry about putting my warm gear on under my excellent Helly Hansen wet weather gear. As the day wore on, the combination of fine spray, physical effort and cold caused by growing cloud cover conspired to chill me without being very conscious of it.
From that time, no matter what the weather, we started each watch with ALL our warm gear, plus our wet weather gear, plus our life jacket plus our safety harness. We never had that problem again.
Having survived the fun with the rotors, we sailed through the night relying now entirely on the GPS to get us into Oyster Bay on the south-west side of Maria Island. It's a little sandy anchorage, a favoured place to wait the weather and tide for yachtsmen heading back to Blackman Bay and Hobart. This was significant for us because the waterway was littered with hazard and the bay itself a narrow entrance. lan had not so totally relied on the GPS to feel our way in to such a tight spot before. The accuracy was a revelation for him.
Refreshed from a night at anchor, after three days and three nights of continuous sailing we crossed the Marion Bar late in the afternoon and made our way to the village of Dunalley, at the entrance to mile long and fascinating convict dug Dunalley Canal, which provides a considerable short cut to Hobart, avoiding most of the rigors of Storm Bay.
Then Hobart. Midnight. Warm welcome from the Royal Yacht Yacht Club of Tasmania. When we woke up in the morning we heard through sleepy ears, from the dock above, 'They came from where, in THAT?'
We arrived at the very welcoming Royal Yacht Club, Sandy Bay at midnight, on the Saturday night.
We woke the next morning to the sound of yachtsmen's voices through our cabin roof.
"They came from where, in that?!"
Over the next couple of weeks these same yachtsmen came to revise their scepticism.
The crew of yacht Charlie Fisher cannot thank the Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania strongly enough,
with special mention of the interest and encouragement of Bosun Ron Blake and his mate, Bosun Danny Ryan. Royal yacht Club of Tasmania. (ryct@ryct.org.au ph: 03 6223 4599)
We stayed for the event that spurred our journey, the world recognised Hobart Tasmania Wooden Boat Festival.
Director Andy Gamlin seems to have been the driver, supported by his committee of a remarkable festival best described as the Brest of the Antipodes. Seven hundred boats registered, for starters.
It was the best three days I can imagine. All the right bits, starting with the boats themselves, but also including a wonderful Dutch contingent, including a Music Boote,Tjotters, Betters and more, all brought out for the Festival by the Dutch Consulate.
Music on the wharfs, fine food, wine and very friendly ambience all around. This is a small colonial era city, richly steeped in history, and a very worth while destination in its own right.
The festival was a great success, with Roy Barkas's
NIS31, Malcolm Scott's 29 and Rob and Jo Nolan's NIS23 and mobs of owners from other parts of Australian present.
We had a lot of visitors, including yachting royalty in the form of Tony Bullimore,who had heard of this cheeky little boat and came round to check it out.
lan had commitments that precluded him joining Charlie Fisher for the run up the coast to St Helens, at the top north east corner of Tasmania.
l now know I had the beginnings of hypothermia, exacerbated by tiredness.
My mistake began when I came out to relieve lan in the cockpit off St Helens. It was quite warm, hot even, at that point. I did not worry about putting my warm gear on under my excellent Helly Hansen wet weather gear. As the day wore on, the combination of fine spray, physical effort and cold caused by growing cloud cover conspired to chill me without being very conscious of it.
From that time, no matter what the weather, we started each watch with ALL our warm gear, plus our wet weather gear, plus our life jacket plus our safety harness. We never had that problem again.
Having survived the fun with the rotors, we sailed through the night relying now entirely on the GPS to get us into Oyster Bay on the south-west side of Maria Island. It's a little sandy anchorage, a favoured place to wait the weather and tide for yachtsmen heading back to Blackman Bay and Hobart. This was significant for us because the waterway was littered with hazard and the bay itself a narrow entrance. lan had not so totally relied on the GPS to feel our way in to such a tight spot before. The accuracy was a revelation for him.
Refreshed from a night at anchor, after three days and three nights of continuous sailing we crossed the Marion Bar late in the afternoon and made our way to the village of Dunalley, at the entrance to mile long and fascinating convict dug Dunalley Canal, which provides a considerable short cut to Hobart, avoiding most of the rigors of Storm Bay.
Then Hobart. Midnight. Warm welcome from the Royal Yacht Yacht Club of Tasmania. When we woke up in the morning we heard through sleepy ears, from the dock above, 'They came from where, in THAT?'
We arrived at the very welcoming Royal Yacht Club, Sandy Bay at midnight, on the Saturday night.
We woke the next morning to the sound of yachtsmen's voices through our cabin roof.
"They came from where, in that?!"
Over the next couple of weeks these same yachtsmen came to revise their scepticism.
The crew of yacht Charlie Fisher cannot thank the Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania strongly enough,
with special mention of the interest and encouragement of Bosun Ron Blake and his mate, Bosun Danny Ryan. Royal yacht Club of Tasmania. (ryct@ryct.org.au ph: 03 6223 4599)
We stayed for the event that spurred our journey, the world recognised Hobart Tasmania Wooden Boat Festival.
Director Andy Gamlin seems to have been the driver, supported by his committee of a remarkable festival best described as the Brest of the Antipodes. Seven hundred boats registered, for starters.
It was the best three days I can imagine. All the right bits, starting with the boats themselves, but also including a wonderful Dutch contingent, including a Music Boote,Tjotters, Betters and more, all brought out for the Festival by the Dutch Consulate.
Music on the wharfs, fine food, wine and very friendly ambience all around. This is a small colonial era city, richly steeped in history, and a very worth while destination in its own right.
The festival was a great success, with Roy Barkas's
NIS31, Malcolm Scott's 29 and Rob and Jo Nolan's NIS23 and mobs of owners from other parts of Australian present.
We had a lot of visitors, including yachting royalty in the form of Tony Bullimore,who had heard of this cheeky little boat and came round to check it out.
lan had commitments that precluded him joining Charlie Fisher for the run up the coast to St Helens, at the top north east corner of Tasmania.
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