Waychinicup: the locals swear it is safe, but that's the Southern Ocean just outside that narrow crack.
By the time the Roaring Forties pass under Australia, they have gathered energy from halfway around Earth and are either driving the sea wild or are ready to pounce when next provoked by a depression from Antarctica.
Now imagine two aging flower powers, petals shriveling yet with bright strong hearts, aboard a homemade sailboat crossing this most feared stretch of water. Alone, they must look after themselves and God forbid either be injured or suffer a body malfunction.
With my eyes aglow I have told others about the time we made a winter crossing from Albany to Wilson Promontory, me on the aft deck cudgeling the heavens trying to match Nature’s fury as a black front passes overhead. With that glow replaced by humble respect, I then describe how Banyandah began lifting to a wave that soared high above her masthead. When its top third tumbled and turned white, froth flew from its crest, and roaring like a fast train, chased Banyandah down till it washed over us.
Once again
Eighteen months ago, with little thought of the dangers and difficulties, the Two J’s took on this challenge once again. At that time Banyandah rested peacefully between the towering red cliffs of the Berkeley River gorge in a slender slit in the arid Western Australia landscape. In the shade of her awning we were sitting listening to Matt and Gill relive their adventures aboard Wooshee surrounded by thick Tasmanian rainforest of the mighty Gordon River. We love those ancient silent monsters with branches dripping green mosses, so the thought of living among such grandeur had us put that destination on our must do list while circumnavigating Australia.
But, making a promise is one thing, fulfilling it another. Especially when it involves crossing 1600 nm of the Roaring Forties and then making landfall on a lee shore that has only one safe haven, and it guarded by a narrow gap called Hells Gate.
Months of voyaging and other activities had distracted our thoughts until we began our road trip back to Banyandah, left in Albany during an east coast winter’s break visiting family. In a lifetime of tackling challenges, we have found good preparations lay the foundation to success. With this in mind, we had returned with two new sails and a new safety device that sounds an alarm should the watch keeper fall overboard while the other is sleeping.
By November we were back at Emu Point Slipway where Banyandah stood forlorn like a warrior in tarnished armour awaiting some care. Here we received the best assistance from Darren Russell, a journeyman shipwright and owner of the friendliest slipway in Australia.
Waiting for the moon
Six weeks of steady work had our good ship ready for sea, but we hung around for the new moon’s slender face as there’s nothing quite as grand as sailing an empty sea bathed in moonlight. Two days before Christmas, we cast free our lines and sailed straight into a near gale, thinking if something’s going to bust, best it happens close to facilities. Sailors don’t have public holidays; everyone knows that. So while most were ripping open gifts, our Christmas Day was celebrated by having one of our loveliest sails within cooee of gigantic granite boulders, washed and weathered by white breakers off a sapphire sea.
We gunk-holed along the south coast while trying to find our sea legs again, sleeping well at Two-Peoples Bay, Waychinicup, and Cape Riche. But the night before our departure we slept poorly. Not from nerves, but from a nasty Southern Ocean swell rolling into Bremer Bay. I swore a blue streak all night and into the morning as we packed our disaster grab bag and lashed emergency provisions into the tinny. In a more positive note, we both slept well our first night at sea when usually it takes a few nights before we’re so fatigued we don’t hear the groans, clicks, and sea sounds that stops sleep coming easily.
Whispering easterlies
Leaving with no malicious weather approaching, our first challenge was finding a way through the prevailing summer high pressure cell which contained only whispering easterly headwinds. With the rig in tight, we sailed full and by, increasing the apparent wind which increased our speed to slightly faster than if walking upon that mirror flat ocean. Southing came slowly those first five days while our watch keeping settled into a rhythm. Jude retired at eight, but not before seeing that I’d clipped on our watch keeper’s belt containing personal EPIRB, waterproof strobe, whistle, and a small transmitter that activates an on-board siren if the wearer should fall overboard.
We always post a watch. No exceptions. Dangers materialise when least expected. So, regular as clockwork, at 15 minutes past midnight I wake Jude. Then, if needed, we make any sail changes. This helps me sleep till the eastern horizon lightens. Often, I slip into a bed still warm from my lady’s sleep. In the past we have tried shifts of two, three, and four-hours. But I took so long to fall asleep that now we simply split the night in two. Jude takes a morning nap to gain extra rest.
Strengthening westerlies
Slow, easy miles slid past until one morning when a band of cloud wet our decks. Then presto, like an ace thumped down on a jack, the wind magically swung to the west. At last the sails could be eased, although running from rather light winds actually slowed our progress. But, with each passing day, as the moon grew larger, so did the wind strength until when celebrating one week at sea, it came in strong, forcing us to reef down for the first time. Barreling along at double pace, Banyandah rolled heavily in the increased swell. Tossed one way then the other, sleeping fitfully, I cursed the sudden squeaking of a windvane block until I could stand it no more. Boldly braving a wetting, I clambered topsides, braced my bum on the wet aft deck, clamped a torch between my teeth then tried to lubricate the offending block. Alas, all in vain. Towelling the cold sea off my torso, shivering, I climbed back into bed. Moments later I was shoving tissues into my ears in a futile effort to silence the repetitive squeal that was still driving me insane. Those 24 hours were our greatest run. One hundred and forty-three nautical miles logged. Not our greatest ever, which is nearer two hundred, but a good day’s run nonetheless.
Filled with nature
You might think mid-ocean a boring lonely place, but it’s not. A long voyage like this becomes an intimate passage through time and space filled with Nature. Seabirds kept us company, clouds whisked overhead, and sea swells passed in ever-changing patterns. Early on, flocks of brown mutton birds swooped down behind us after we’d landed a big fish. Greedily they dove deep to retrieve chunks we threw them, using their wings to fly under the sea like cormorants. And if they missed, atop the sea they’d beat their wings and paddle their feet to chase Banyandah.
Further south, when the breeze acquired a real bite, giant albatross soared gracefully astern, effortlessly travelling many miles without moving their three-metre wings. Surely, man’s first gliders were fashioned after them. Some had black slashes like mascara running through their eyes, others had snow white wings edged in the deepest black, and a few had patterned bodies like fine Italian marble. Other creatures were about too. Shearwaters soared swiftly along the swells, and tiny storm petrels no bigger than would fit in our hands, their pink legs dangling, danced from wave top to wave top searching for food among the breaking seas hundreds of miles from land. These creatures of mid-ocean survive in all winds. In fact, the more it blows, the faster they swoop and soar, seeming to enjoy the extra power and challenge as they race one another in magnificent displays of aero acrobatics.
Keeping a log
We keep a log of our journey. Each hour of every day, we record the cumulative miles Banyandah has run, course steered, miles achieved, wind speed and direction, barometric pressure, plus any notes we like to make. Sound like a chore? Not a bit. In fact, when the ship’s bell strikes the hour we relish the opportunity to record our passage. It’d be more than 30 years since we started with store-bought logbooks, which soon proved rather expensive, so we designed our own that also contained a form for reducing sextant sights and noon meridian passages. We recorded thousands of sea miles using photocopies of this mounted in folders, then had a 300 page hardback book printed for peanuts in Sri Lanka. Today we use lined A4 hardback notebooks obtainable from most newsagents that Jude rules into columns. She also beautifully embellishes the pages with creatures we see, while all I can muster are doodles of our sail plan. With additional comments, some humorous, some laconic, a few distressed, they form an informative record of journeys we never want to forget.
Strong winds
When sailing south of latitude forty, strong winds came more frequently and we listened intently to the high seas weather forecasts issued four hourly by the Bureau on frequency 8176. Recording the huge amount of data first on an MP3 player, we then replayed it until we could graphed the highs, fronts, and depressions. At those latitudes, the weather changes quickly. And when, just two days from landfall, a deep 970 mb low developed astern, instead of finding sleep, my mind gnawed on whether to divert to a far northern harbour or try to survive hove-to in strong gale conditions. We were checking into the Seafarer’s Amateur Radio Net, reporting our position and weather, so I asked if they would check out the anchorage on King Island as an alternative. But the next day, when that depression got pushed further south and our area would receive only the cold front and 30 knots, we maintained our course.
Tasmania
Our first sight of Tasmania came soon after that cold front had given us a kick up the backside. Seen between crashing waves, the mountain peaks sent our hearts soaring with pride and relief. By noon we were as close as we dare, just eight miles offshore. It was too late to attempt an entry so we rolled up the headsail, pulled the main in tight and hove-to. As if waiting for us to arrive, the wind eased and King Neptune’s welcoming committee leapt out the sea to race past our bows in the largest pod of dolphins seen since our earliest passages.
The lessening breeze tempted us to make a dash for the dreaded narrow gap of Hells Gate, but we restrained. Later, as the horizon darkened for yet another night at sea and the wind evaporated, I questioned if I’d made the right decision. Jude bedded down, and as we were once again within mobile phone range, I settled into answering our inbox. But the wind gods weren’t done with us yet. While bobbing up and down with a dark hostile coastline now only five miles to our lee, the wind roared back with a vengeance not seen on this passage. Banyandah shook and she rocked. The cacophony was so deafening, Jude roared out. “What’s going on?”
Vexation showing, I roared back, “Get some sleep.” Though I knew she could not.
Staying awake
Hoping she’d find some rest, fearing she’d be clumsy if not, I tried to stay awake further into the night, but even the slatting sail and slosh of sea couldn’t hold back my weariness. Droopy eyed and unable to stay awake any longer, just as I climbed into her warm bunk, the wind ceased as if the gods had shut off a tap. Shaking my head while pulling up the doona, suddenly the wind roared back – from the opposite direction!
All quiet
Exhaustion must have blocked out all noise and violent motion for I woke only when soft shadows crept into the cabin. Stumbling up, rubbing away heavy sleep, I saw Jude sitting in her chartreuse down jacket, ghostly white, staring blankly into a misty sea. The wind had gone, the sea was quiet, and a quick check of the GPS showed Cape Sorell just three miles off. Gulping down a quick coffee, I started the diesel, and through the mist, Banyandah went seeking her destination.
Jude didn’t go back to bed, with land getting nearer her cheeks found their normal blush as she eagerly grabbed her camera. Vapours rose like steam. First through the eerie light came the lonely white edifice of the Cape Sorell lighthouse atop ravaged rocks as Banyandah rode the Great Southern Ocean swell on to her next challenge.
Not that long ago, in January 1822, two British ships set out from Hobart with orders to establish a place of banishment, ‘to put the fear of God and Hell into the most incorrigible of Van Diemens Land prisoners.’ Only one, the Sophia, successfully navigated through the narrow gap into Macquarie Harbour. Landing at Sarah Island, Commandant Cuthbertson, his officials and a detachment of soldiers incarcerated 66 male and 8 female convicts in the most miserable place imaginable. The wretched souls passing through this narrow gap called it Hells Gate.
Free in spirit and commanding our own destinies, as we approached this treacherous gap the sun broke through bathing us in a warmth that added life to the vibrant colours of forest meeting bold rocky shore. Just ahead lay an opening no larger than three houses abreast holding back a 50 km long body of water filled by the rivers draining southwest Tasmania.
Slack water
More often than not, strong currents make this gap untenable and to enter at slack water was one reason we had waited. A strategy paying dividends now because we fought only a few knots with mild swirling eddies. While dancing round the deck recording the scenery, we thought of those poor devils who had spent their last days in this wet lonely place. But instead of leading us into misery, that narrow gap magically opened into an unbelievable expanse of smooth water where, for the first time in weeks, Banyandah ceased rocking. To not have to brace our every step, to not be thrown against bulkheads and doorways immediately lifted a burden that sent our spirits soaring higher still.
With seeing Strahan, a town of 800, appear around a headland came the realisation that we had achieved a dream held since that day with Matt and Gill. We had conquered the Great Southern Ocean. Before us now was the reality of a rainforest retreat. As well, another dream could now be achieved. To our south within easy reach lay the massive waterway of Port Davy; World Heritage, without tracks or roads. We’ll be going there next, to explore and be amazed by the majesty of Earth.
