Feeling True Blue
Australia Day assent up Flinders Peak on Middle Island

Flinders Peak (185 M)  from Goose Island

Clearly Flinders Peak beckoned us. After all, this was Australia Day and she was shining delightfully in the sunlight, bold granite faces of ochres and greys waiting to be walked on. Wanting to be explored, like it had when Flinders and his men climbed to the top to get a better view of the layout of this great archipelago. A view that would aid Flinders navigate eastward.
Just that morning we’d shifted Banyandah into this bay, the closest and biggest to a starting point for our climb, where we’d carefully positioned our anchor to be as close to the shore as we dared, and be out the easterly swell crossing the bay. During the previous night, when parked off Goose Island we’d had northerly winds as expected until mid-morning, causing a rolling sea, but nothing more than uncomfortable, until late morning when it changed to the east and we moved here.
Clearly I have to be the most fortunate person in the world. I say this because who else could possibly be preparing a daypack with water, first aid, a little food so to be about to climb a little known peak named after Matthew Flinders on Australia Day.  Big hugs from Jude

Pink Lake behind our first anchorage

Aerial View

Mermaids tits rising out the mist

Chasing a wild goose

HMS The Investigator

In flickering candlelight, the boatswain’s mate wet the delirious man’s brow as he lay shouting “Mary, Mary, I love you.” Then with a sigh the man’s head slipped sideways into silence. From between darkened decks, a sickly figure ambled forward resplendent in gold braid. “How’s the boatswain,” he wheezed. The mate simply shook his head.

In the dim light before dawn, Charles Douglas, of His Majesties Ship The Investigator was sewn into a piece of old sail, loaded into a long boat then hauled onto the low slopes of the recently named Goose Island. There, before an assembly of his shipmates, Captain Flinders read the eulogy. “Charles Douglas was an honest man who served God and his country. He will not be forgotten.” The year was 1803.

“Hey Jude,” I called forward from my writing desk. “The Investigator’s bosun is buried on Goose Island.”

She joined me in the cockpit and together we looked across the bay. “Any idea where?” she asked.

Overnight, cool air from Antarctica had driven away the heat haze of several days, and now the sand hills surrounding Cape Arid stood crisp white against unblemished sea and sky. On our left, rising sharply against a tiffany sky, Flinders Peak dribbled old blood streaked with sunshine. Between the two, Goose Island emerged, a low emerald from a sheet of sapphire.

“Where,” I laughed. “All the guidebook says is his grave was inscribed Charles Douglas HMS Investigator May 18, 1803 when discovered in 1999.

Instinctively our eyes searched that mile long island as I added, “It doesn’t say where. But my guess is it’ll be close to a landing and probably face the rising sun – that’s where I’d like to be laid to rest.”

“Shall we go and look?” Jude softly asked like a schoolgirl seeking a treat.

“Sure! But first let’s shift Banyandah. What a thrill it’ll be to touch something from The Investigator.”

Beyond the limestone cliffs that ran towards Middle Island, a finger of white sand sparkled beneath bold Caribbean blue, and where sand met sea, a picturesque limestone arch rose. Jude became radiant, a distant memory dancing in her eyes. “Reminds me of Ventotene,” she trilled, and I remembered making love on just such a beach, hidden inside just such a cave while the sea lapped our feet.

“I’ll row now,” she declared. “Those spooky caves and limestone teeth will look great on film.”

So we switched places, and while she pulled the oars, I watched her breasts rise and firm, and that sent my mind back to the cave.

Rounding the craggy headland a perfect white beach ran a hundred metres before reaching the channel between the two islands. Assisted by a low surge we grounded then quickly dragged our dinghy up the hard sand, where I immediately documented our landing by panning from the beach through the archway to Banyandah tugging at her anchor.


“He won’t be buried here,” I declared, looking to Jude brushing sand from her toes, her socks and boots standing ready. “The grave wasn’t discovered for nearly 200 years, so it won’t be next to the only decent landing site.”

D’entrecasteau first recorded these islands in 1792 naming the archipelago after his ship, The Recherche. Later explorers mostly avoided the area because it is littered with 105 islands, and over 1200 "obstacles to shipping" jutting out the sea.  It’s far flung from mankind, without any roads near. No need. The ground is sand or rock; no resources of note. It’s a place for Earth’s other creatures, and boy, do they abound in variety. Each year  flocks of seabirds come here to reproduce. They live underground in burrows dug by beak and webbed feet, and each year they return to the exact same hole.

Flinders wrote of the sky being turned black for hours by their passing millions. However, today, though man doesn’t hunt these creatures anymore, their numbers are greatly reduced. Why? Because we take their food. We harvest whole schools of pilchards at a time – to feed our cats, or the tuna we capture and keep in nets. It might help if we remember that every form of Earth life is connected. What man takes makes another suffer.

Picking our way carefully, we wended past bushy tea-tree and sharp scrub, towards a rock shelf rising up the weather side, avoiding mutton bird burrows that spread ahead like a minefield. Between them on the bare earth we saw tiny shuffling footprints of little blue penguins that also live on the island. Surprising us next; we found large areas of round spoor, and prayed it came from small marsupials. But shortly were disappointed to catch sight of a small rabbit bobbing away.

“Pretty one, that,” Jude exclaimed.

I’m sure she was thinking of her childhood pet, because although this one had lovely black fur tinged rusty gold, we both knew it was a disaster. Memories of totally denuded islands came to mind.

“Wonder how they got here,” I mused, shaking my head. They’re so destructive, firstly destroying the moist refugia around rocky outcrops causing the decline of medium sized mammals and then as their numbers increase, they devour all plant life. Like humans nibbling away, first along the edges of wilderness, little bites till there’s none left.

Along that shelf we travelled the weatherside, watching glorious blue sea bursting white on rocks while traversing higher in the direction of an eagle’s nest. Then as we crested the ridge, the nest became an immense rock cairn atop the island’s peak. Jude added our stone, having to hitch herself up on a big stone to reach its top.

“I see what you meant,” Jude said. “I agree, Charles would more likely be interned on that ridge there, or that one,” she said pointing to two fingers running parallel in line towards our ship. “The Investigator would have parked just a bit further out from us.”

I agreed but suggested, “If you like, let’s first explore that cave. See? High up that rock mass at the far end, and then we’ll search for Charles on the way back.”

Exploring a far distant island turned us retirees into children by energising our spirits. The air carried more vigour; our eyes noticed more detail, our minds asked questions, and we soon forgot our aches.

The cave proved no more than an overhang popular with sea birds. Fish bones littered the earth among a white carpet of excrement and shattered sea shells. But around it and spreading up a shallow valley was a carpet of gorgeous succulents the colour of fire at dawn. Polyps, billions of them. And while filming this grandeur, Jude with her backpack like the hunchback of Notre Dame frightened a massive wedge tail eagle into flight so that the parade of colours and action through my lens made me gasp.

When only three fingers of sky separated sun from sea, it told us to hurry or spend the night surrounded by noisy penguins. Heading home through the low slopes of brush, every step brought new hope of stumbling across Charles. Over and over I imagined how I’d react to finding a direct link to The Investigator, while in my head ran the constant chant of “I’ve found it!”

What would I first see? A headstone? Probably not. More likely a neat pile of stones. The island had had two hundred years of growth. Those trees nearby were not here then. And Charles could lay at rest under them, or under any of the thicker growth.

Finding Charles became hot, sticky work, hopeful, then disappointed. Finding a metal stake set my heart racing. It led to another by some trees and the words of discovery were ready to fly from my lips. But all I found were half buried plastic bins being used for some sort of scientific experiment similar to those we’d seen on other islands. Catching rats I suppose. 

Exhausted, sweaty, thinking of a shower and cold beer, totally spent from our day’s excitement surrounded by Nature’s beauty, we began talking of rowing home. Finding Charles may not have been meant to be. Rest in peace Charles Douglas.

A humorous footnote to this adventure came when we emerged from our communications vacuum here at Cape Le Grand, 25 km short of Esperance. Now able to connect to the worldwide net again we did a search for Charles. He wasn’t easy to find.

He had died of dysentery on board The Investigator as they approached Middle Island and Flinders had named the island nearest them in his honour and we had seen Douglas Island when we sailed away. But his final resting place? Aaah! Our guidebook had it wrong! It was May 1803, the winter seas big, and Flinders’ crew were sick and weak. Even the captain couldn’t land on Goose Island, so Charles was interned behind the third bay of Middle Island. And you’ll be amused to read that we had parked right by him the following day, and had walked within cooee of his grave during our jaunt up Flinders Peak on Australia Day….. What a marvellous wild goose chase!

A Journey Much Feared

Joshua Slocum, the first person to circumnavigate the world single-handed, chose to avoid it. Jessica Watson experienced some of the worst seas of her whole round-the-world journey there. Yes, the voyage across the Great Australian Bight has many perils. Without a single safe haven across 500 miles, the prevailing winds send stricken vessels towards a hostile shore of limestone cliffs. To a shore that doesn’t hold much hope for life - unless you're a skink, snake or rough n’ tough kangaroo. Beyond those cliffs a desert begins that sweeps nearly all the way across the great continent; and in the other direction there is no land until Antarctica, only sea. And that body of water is unique. The only to completely encircle Earth. Swept by storms that build up so much latent energy its surface jumps in peaks even after days of calm weather. And when the wind comes, the Bight quickly becomes a monster. No wonder few yachtsmen attempt this voyage. But we did. Retirees, aboard a homemade yacht.

Leaving the mainland harbour of Streaky Bay, with church bells calling the faithful to prayer, we set sail before a strong easterly that painted the bay steel grey streaked white. So, our journey began under double reefed mainsail and much reduced jib. Swiftly we passed the Point Gibson sand spit, and leaving the bay’s protection, laid a course for the last land before the open bight.

Several hundred years before Captain Cook discovered Australia’s east coast, the Dutch had been regular visitors to its west. But the south coast remained undiscovered until 1627 when the Gulden Zeepaerdt, under the command of Francois Thijssen, sighted the most southerly part of a continent known then as New Holland. They continued sailing east as far as present day Ceduna. On board as a passenger was Pieter Nuyts, a senior executive of the Dutch East Indies Company, and an archipelago discovered near Ceduna was named in his honour.

Our first anchorage in the Nuyts Archipelago, St Francis Island, fifty-five miles out to sea, is the largest in a group comprising twelve islets and rocks. In years past, two homesteads were built upon this 13 sq km bit of limestone, and the ruins were starkly visible on the treeless slopes as we cleared the NE tip to enter Petrel Bay. Before us, scrubby hills fronted by white sand, splodged with needle sharp limestone rock and apart from a slight swell, the bay belonged solely to our ship. We had caught a 10 kg blue fin tuna that afternoon, and against the golden hue of a low sun decorating night clouds, I set to clean him as the sky darkened further with mutton birds returning to the island. In family groups, they soared right above us, squawking the news of their day. And then if by magic, each of them zeroed in on their particular nook, their hole in the ground amongst so many. How did they know which hole baffled us; especially as these migratory birds travel thousands of miles each year and return to exactly the same tiny opening.


Next morning, after launching our dinghy, we landed through surf then walked to the island’s highest point to view the navigation light and radio tower, being very careful when negotiating the mutton bird burrows that numbered many thousands.

Next day, after a working morning maintaining some machinery, changing the raw water V-belts, and getting our ship ready for her voyage, we wandered along the shoreline till under the ruins. These dwellings have been abandoned for more than forty years, since these islands were declared a nature sanctuary. While walking the beach home, a family of dolphins was seen working the shallows, back and forth, obviously herding together a school of fish. But occasionally a frisky one surprised us by racing pell-mell then jumping clear out the sea to leap through an imaginary hoop. Who needs to go to Sea-World?

The following morning, an hour's motorsail brought us to Masillon, the next island south, and to another anchorage recommended by a fisherman we’d met in our travels who’d said these two were not to be missed. Masillon is a strange island, much smaller than St Francis, it rose abruptly from blue sea sporting a white collar that marked the start of pockmarked yellow gold rock. The anchorage we almost missed. It was nothing more than a narrow chasm that ended in an eroded cliff, undermined by sea action, three caves added a bit of mystery. At first Jude thought it not safe to stay as the wind was strong and the sea ran high just beyond the opening. But up against those cliffs we found calm water with a tolerable surge, so I lowered our anchor then stood back agog. Straightaway we relaunched the dinghy to get even closer, and I rowed Jude around investigating each of the caverns we’d seen on entry. But the surge was unpredictable, sometimes sucking us towards a rocky death, while at other times, sudden downdrafts propelled us against our will towards the open sea. So we rowed home to absorb the scenery from the safety of our ship.

Next morning, after a glorious sleep, we packed our dinghy with emergency supplies secured under the thwarts; ten litres of drinking water, several flares and a knife, a watertight drum containing medicines and essentials, then lashed the dinghy down to the deck.

Just the day before Jude had put together our “grab bag” containing more emergency essentials such as dried food, medicines, fishing gear, sealed packets of water, more flares and flotation. That lot, well waterproofed, she now packed in a stout, bright-yellow sail bag with a long lanyard attached to a buoy. The whole affair stored within easy reach inside a cockpit locker, ready to grab in case of a disaster. These are our normal precautions, as well as having an in-date six person liferaft that self deploys. We have sailed too many oceans not to have the greatest respect for its fury and destructive nature. And we whole heartedly support the old sailor’s norm of looking after oneself.

Thus prepared and feeling easy, while a pair of white winged sea eagles soared on thermals rising above the cliff face, we hoisted our admiralty anchor, stowed it, then hoisted the mainsail with one reef. Our video camera recorded one last good look round, and with everything locked in place, I directed Jude to point our floating home towards the open horizon. As Jude wrote in the log, “A well oiled departure.”

0935    Genoa unfurled to starboard, swell more than expected for wind (2 m SW)
1100    Last island abeam, sea routine established, Jack reading. Speed 5.3 kts.
1700    Mobile phone connection! 72 nm to Ceduna. Talked with Ally and Lottie.  1800       Sailing down the sun, orange ahead – silver astern, full moon rising. On a beam reach.

An easy first night, so important when trying to become one with the ship’s motion and avoid injuries. We both found sleep while our baby tracked easily across the sea under brilliant moonlight.

Unfortunately, a cold front was approaching and the calm before the storm arrived much sooner than we’d hoped. Just after sunrise the wind backed to the NE then the NW, and then it vanished leaving us wallowing in an uneasy sea. Jude was below catching up on her sleep, so I started the engine and ran at slow speed to steady the ship. We chugged on for several hours, the sea quieted, lunch was being served when a southerly swell starting rolling in. A bit of breeze came soon after and we were sailing again. But then that party-pooper wind left us dead in the water, rolling. The log entry:

1500    Most of the shearwaters and albatross sitting on the sea.

We had known from the start that the front was coming. But we’d left because another was forecast in four days time, which we hoped to miss by being anchored. The first forecast upwards of thirty knot headwinds, and to prepare for this we sailed south of our course line, thinking we’d lay off when it struck. Which it did while I was below having a cat nap around 4 PM. First came a little drizzle followed by icy blasts. And in quick order we had to double reef the main and roll in the genoa to just a single dot. Even short rigged, we couldn’t hold our course with the sea building up and by darkness our decks were awash.

Picking up weather map via HF / FAX

1600    wind SW 20-30 steering 270

Fronts come in blasts that blow apart wave tops. One moment all is fine, the next our ship gets buried and we have to grip something tightly or go flying. Then every movement must be timed to the sea, with at least one hand on the ship, otherwise injuries happen.

2400    Days run 117 N miles logged

The motion robbed us of sleep. Jude first. She lay in her berth listening to the ship’s clock strike the hours until midnight, then after our change of watch, I lay there listening to the rigging, tensing when it shrieked, hearing the gurgling and sluicing of seawater across our decks and thinking of the sails stretched so tautly, waiting for them to burst, planning an emergency strategy, over and over, until the portholes started to lighten.

0300    Wind dropped out a few minutes, decks less wet.
0400    Conditions easing, wind S 20

By 1100, conditions had eased to a comfortable 12 to 18 knots, and had backed further to the SE allowing us to sail with a single reef and full jib.

1300    Caught a tuna. Shearwaters enjoying feast, not one drop of seawater on their feathers after diving for scraps. Robust chocolate brown.
2100    Moon up – Sweet Ride – slowing down
2400    Days run – 116 N miles

Day four began with a three-quarter moon peeking through 90% cloud and 1½ metres of SW swell, Banyandah rolling along nicely in just 10 knots of breeze from the ESE.

0600    Sun up - a bit more blue sky. Supposed to be 15/20 SE today. Need it to reach an anchorage tomorrow and beat the next front.

When I got up, I immediately shook out the reef. Flying all sail we just covered four miles in the hour.

1200    360 N miles made good since Masillon Is. Another 130 to go.
1300    Sky clearing, wind backing and picking up, now ENE 15 knots

By nightfall it was again blowing 20 knots, and sailing more conservatively in our mature years we reefed the main and rolled in the jib to 3 dots. Setting the staysail poled out to weather helped steady our ship as we ran nearly dead down wind. Still it was too much motion for me to sleep, although Jude says she heard me snoring loudly! Don’t know how she could. It rained heavily on her watch when the wind eased and the heavens opened.

Next morning when the sun should have come up, grey cotton wool filled the sky taking away every vestige of wind, leaving us rolling around on a left behind sea. Again, to help ease the motion, I started motoring, letting Jude get her catch-up sleep.

Bellinger Island - remote - one of the first islands in Recherche Archipelago

0800    Slight breeze - from ahead!
0900    LAND! Vague mountains in thick mist bearing North

We motored until 1 PM then sailed for an hour when the breeze freshened a little from the south, but it left us again.

1500    Bellinger Island well in sight
1545    Anchored in WA. Yellow hulled lobster boat in anchorage. Friendly, and quite amazed that we had sailed in from South Australia. Handed across a 3 kg lobster for our landfall dinner!!!

Bellinger Island, salt tolerant succulents

Our Landfall Dinner !!

Stats:
490 N miles made good in 4 days and 7 hours averaging 4.8 knots (115 N miles/day)
Max speed 7.8 knots.

Streaking along to Streaky Bay

DAY ONE

I am writing from Williams Island just south of Thorny Passage where Matthew Flinders lost 8 men in 1802. It's blowing 30 knots and Jude and I are hunkered down for a rocky rolly night, then we'll be off at dawn for hopefully a fast passage west. We have three days of a cold, strong south wind in which to reach Streaky Bay before the winds are forecast to shift into our face making Australia a dry, cliff lined lee shore.
Day one has gone well. We took a lunch stop in Memory Cove on the Lincoln Peninsula where Flinders' men are thought to have perished. It's a treacherous stretch of water. Rocky shore, fast currents and turbulence with whirlpools. But Banyandah came through Thorny Passage without a hitch.

Cape Catastrophe

Entering William Island

Around noon when the rain clouds blew away, the waters turned an aquamarine you could gaze into for hours. We even caught a fish, making it a perfect day, except that we dragged anchor at Williams, forcing us to change to our Admiralty. Plenty of weed on the bottom, plenty of bold rock along the shoreline, and plenty of white spume cast to the heavens by the southern sea. We left the GPS running all night so we could check if we dragged again with the blasts off the cliffs.

Anchorage Williams - Seals on rocks Wind blasts off cliffs

DAY TWO

Banyandah ran over sixty miles from Williams Island with white caps chasing her today, then she raced up the blunt end of Coffin Bay dodging breaking rocky outcrops.

We dragged two lures and had landed two stinky barracuda that were chucked back in and feel a tad disappointed considering the remoteness. Mind, at these speeds only a fast tuna could catch our lures. So when one hit as we flew along in the lee of Coffins, wind blasts driving our decks into the sea and sending up sheets of spray, I was right onto him.  Hard yakka hauling in our dinner, when suddenly off to our right a pair of red balls whizzed past. Crap! Lobster pots! Looking up, more were coming. A minefield of ‘em.

“Turn a bit right,” I yelled to Jude who was steering the last miles through the wind blasts. As she did, more red floats whizzed past. One passed close to our trolling line and immediately came an almighty jerk nearly taking my arms out their sockets. Then snap! Only our braid remained. Lure, wire trace, and 50 metres of 100 kg mono-filament were gone with our fish.

Anchored tonight in a sandy cove called Sir Issacs with that same wind screaming through our rigging. Buggered, we left the GPS running a second night so we could check the rocks behind weren't getting closer.

Leaving Williams - Ready for a day's work

Hanging on as the white soldiers stormed past

Another big day coming with tomorrow's sun. Flinders Island awaits some sixty miles further to the northwest. Not sure what we'll find there. The pilot warns of a rock bottom and obstructions. But we can be sure it'll be blowing madly like this again tomorrow. If we can't find a secure anchorage there, we'll keep sailing overnight for Streaky Bay, where we plan a few days for a much deserved break.

No matter the weather - there' always Nature's beauty to behold

DAY THREE

Isn't the internet a wonderful tool. While sheltering at Sir Issacs, which is just a shark bite out a sandy coast, we perused the net and found a beaut anchorage just north of Elliston. Timmy and Anna live there, but no-way will we attempt Elliston's wicked barred entry with breakers as big as these. Good thing we had five days on their farm over New Year because we'll not see them on this trip.

Timmy and Anna, expecting, sailors extraordinaire

Catching up - showing photos and having fun on the farm

Easy winds from astern in the morning gave us hours of fun sailing which got faster and faster as the hours after lunch ticked past. By four we were hanging on tightly as Banyandah charged down the wave fronts, her rigging singing to the melody of crashing white water.

Staysail to weather, furler in tight, windvane steers straight

New running backstays

Over winter new hardware had been ordered to rig a heavy weather sail plan and this we set up. With our roller furler in tight and our smaller staysail, that's the second sail back, set out on a pole we ran fast and easy in the near gale conditions. Meanwhile "Brutus," our much loved windvane, hummed a cheerful tune keeping us tracking straight down the wave fronts.

Sailors are technicians today, getting their boats setup just right, which allows us to enjoy the ride while marveling at Nature's power and strength of our ship. At the same time today's navigation is just so simple compared to yesteryear. Scan the digital chart displayed on our GPS until a safe waypoint is discerned, then press a single button to lay a course line and display the mileage and ETA. But boy! It's easy to make mistakes. Prudence requires a close examination of that course line, especially here where rocks jut up from great depths and big southern ocean swells would soon dash a ship into small pieces.

Line of white only sign of flat rock

Our turning point proved a disaster awaiting the unwary. It was just a flat pancake rock that looked on the digital chart just like a tall island. If we hadn't carefully kept our eyes on where the strong wind was driving us, it would have taken only minutes to have been surfing a powerful wave towards certain destruction.

But we survived, and ran behind Waldergrave's lee into a heavenly anchorage. Greeted again by seals and sculptured cliffs of yellow orange limestone, the pure white sand bottom shining up through aquamarine gave our admiralty a good grip. Then once again Jude and I kicked back elated and exhausted at the same moment.

In such a wide bay with nothing but open sea astern, we shut down the GPS and as the sun dipped, closed our eyes to sleep like the dead till the following daybreak.

DAY FOUR

Such a lovely spot behind Waldergrave Island that we dawdled instead of setting sail in early light. Had coffee in bed, listen to the ABC news then had a treat by eating brekkie on a level table. The wind was just finding its strength as our mainsail rose to meet it. And in fine practised form, Banyandah was set up and running towards the small bay called Sceale lying 54 miles ahead that reportedly has 40 permanent residents. Founded in 1888, a jetty once graced its shoreline. Built in 1910 to export wheat, it was knocked down in '72 for lack of maintenance. Today, only a few extra holiday houses mark what is a stronghold of unaltered Nature.


Coming away from Waldergrave, the pink easy light graced us with a breeze that softly filled our reduced sail plan and this created a relaxed mood while the pale limestone cliffs slipped astern. Far ahead white breakers highlighted rocks off Cape Radstock. Everything was so perfect we could have sat for hours enjoying it, but such an easy motion after a sound sleep started us on our work lists. I first rigged our life-ring with a new line to its emergency light. This and another line connect the life-ring to an automatic light and to a danbuoy that floats upright with an orange flag at the end of its tall stalk. Successfully completing that bit of maintenance, I then fashioned a new lure to replace the silver pilchard lost to those pesky lobster pots, this being made from the silver foil of an empty wine cask.

Cheeky Upside-down dolphin

Our morning was slow, but who was in a hurry. We knew, true to form, the afternoon would roar and so we savored the slow miles ticking past, amused by the pods of dolphins that leaped out the swells to race towards us. Poor fellows, Banyandah was too slow for their fun and they soon tired of waiting for her to run.



As our home on the water started moving at greater pace, Jude hard boiled some of Anna’s fresh eggs, turning them into sandwiches for our lunch

Down here, with a desert not far away, the mighty sun heats the land sucking cooler air off the sea producing the powerful afternoon and evening sea breezes that often reach gale force. So, by 3PM our peace was shattered and again our log began recording 7’s and 8’s as distant pale cliffs whizzed past. A perfect speed to fool a fat muscly tuna fish with the silver lining of an old wine cask, and with a bang our bungee cord stretched to its limit. Hauling the brute alongside, Jude gaffed him then we both heaved, bringing a perfect size wiggling tuna fish on board.

Cape Blanche

Clearing the rocks off Cape Blanche, we hardened up our sails, taking bullets off the clifftops that drove Banyandah onto her beam-ends and wet us. Suddenly, the true ferocity of the wind could be gauged and tired by our long days, these last miles to an anchorage frazzled my patience. "This too shall end," kept rolling round my head as I strode forward to bring down our staysail that soon began flogging like a tormented demon. Taking a slap in the face with the metal ringlet in its clew angered me more, and when my red knitted beanie blew over the side, I let fly, cursing Zeus and all his cohorts.

Thankfully our newly altered Admiralty took an instant bite in a small sand patch off the township of Sceale Bay and jerked our bows round. Which released me to the more pleasurable duty of cracking a couple of cold beers. Hooray! Only a short little hop separates us from our destination, one more day, a short one at that, and the weather forecast to ease.

Only 40 permanent residents in Sceale Bay

The sand patch surrounded by pesky weed

DAY FIVE

Four on the trot, windy days, had sapped our energy and it was a good thing this last morning dawned with just a kind gentle breeze. A drop or two of rain helped ease our pain. Day sailing is so much harder than crossing oceans. I know, sounds weird, but getting underway each day, settling into the rhythm and then closing down the boat and worrying about the anchorage sort of drains away your energies little by little. Whereas, when crossing a sea, you setup the boat then settle back for the ride, day and night. Sleeping underway might take a day or so to get the rhythm, but then you can go forever, not wanting the journey to end.

Banyandah fortunately seemed to know her way round Speed Point and the rocks a mile or two off that cape because Jude and I were really pooped, sitting quietly watching the parched land slipping past. True to form, around noon the breeze did pick up, by which time we were ready for a bit of excitement. Rounding Cape Bauer we were startled to see fields of wheat, but then the breeze on our beam got us going real fast. Close inshore the water's kinda skinny, weed and sand patches whiz past as we hold our breath, but the chart shows a steady bottom, so we stuck to our course and let the adrenaline pump.

Soon the yellow sand spit leading to Point Gibson and the entrance into Streaky Bay came into sight. Radio Towers popped up, followed by wheat silos and then buildings. Our destination was in sight.

First discovered by the Dutchman Peter Nutys in 1627, that's a hundred and fifty years before Captain Cook. Flinders came next aboard the Investigator in 1802. He named it Streaky Bay because of the streaks in the water caused by the reflection of sand and seaweed. It lay empty until John Eyre established a camp there in 1839 and used the waterhole on his expedition to Point Bell and Albany Western Australia.



Today, Streaky is a sleepy hideaway for just a thousand people. In the summer, Grey Nomads probably outnumber the residents. At its peak there's a couple of cray boats, two or three shark fisherman on this magnificent wide expanse of completely protected water fringed by wheat fields that extent north to the desert.


We arrived, taking the number of local craft to two, and took up residence off the town's jetty to the cheers of several tourists and a local. Our journey complete, 235 nautical miles in five hard days of sailing. We used 10 litres of diesel to get us south into the wind stream, the rest came from Mother Nature.

Next, the Great Southern Ocean. A 550 ocean crossing to WA. But first, a few meals out, a few cold ones at the local pub, and a few nights of peaceful sleep. Till then, Long life and good health from Jack and Jude

For those who haven't yet got a copy of our book, Two's a Crew, you might want to order one now and read all about our travels around Australia in the opposite direction.