Pumkin C28 to Laurieton
Written by Geoff
Friday, 16 January 2009 22:30
Sailing north - Laurieton, January 2005 - from Tish Ennis
Pumpkin was definitely in cruise mode. The inflatable canoe stowed under the navigation table (aka dining table), coastal charts (from Botany north to… somewhere south of Brisbane..) held in place on the non slip surface; our deep icebox packed tight, the wine and cheese resting securely over our frozen goods; the larger, plough anchor (too big to be stored in the anchor well) was lashed to the pulpit, out of the way of anticipated sail changes at sea.
We quietly left the mooring at Botany Bay bound for “somewhere north” late one afternoon in early January. Jim and I had allowed ourselves almost three weeks of sailing whilst my daughter, Pip, was enjoying herself in the United States. We were unencumbered by the dogs, the pet ferrets, the horse, the ironing board, the washing machine etc. I contemplated the positives – the sense of adventure and the unknown, the beauty of varied seascapes, the lack of necessity to make decisions about fashion (we took minimal clothing whilst we ensured that we had sufficient to be safe both from the sun or cold/wet) or shopping. There would be the inevitable long periods of time spent alone with Jim! I thought briefly about the negatives – I sometimes suffer from seasickness; the weather could change and prevent us from reaching a destination or keep us shore bound when we should be traveling; do Jim and I become bored with each other’s company? I considered the reality – here were two people not in the peak of fitness, Jim had recently had hip replacement surgery and I had a splint protecting a broken finger and a very painful leg. Probably, because of these restraints, we were even more appreciative of the opportunity to be “out there” and have serious fun. We had a seaworthy boat, equipped to support us for at least the next two weeks, the weather reports were favorable, and as we settled into boat life, often one of us would be sleeping, carrying out cabin chores (ie. Navigating, radio watch, cooking) whilst the other helmed. No, we did not intend to be bored with each other’s company.
Much to Jim’s disappointment (and much beard stroking), we were forced to motor for much of the first night as the gentle sea breeze slowly died. The only disturbance in the calm night was the radio contact with Coastal Patrol Sydney – that anonymous voice calling up out of the darkness to check on our progress. The familiar lights of Sydney passed by and shortly the beacon of Barrenjoey showed us the way into the Hawkesbury. Little Pittwater provided a comfortable anchorage and we curled up on our bunk for some welcome sleep.
Waking to the sound of outboard driven tinnies conveying fisherman back from their morning sorties, we found the wind still light, but some puffs encouraged us to put up sail and we headed around the north side of Lion Island, quiet at this time in the morning as the Little Penguins had long since waddled up to their burrows. The variable wind took us slowly up the coast towards the port of Newcastle, navigating as much by the fifty metre depth contour as our GPS and the coastal landmarks. As we neared Newcastle, the numerous tankers sitting on anchor made interesting passage. Each ship was slightly different to her companions. We had made a provisional booking at the Newcastle Coastal Cruising Club Marina. A telephone call to the Marina manager ensured our arrival after dark should not be difficult. It seems to be Pumpkin’s wont to arrive in unknown ports after dark and Newcastle was no exception. After standing off to allow a large tanker to pass between the breakwaters ad listening to advice from Coastal Patrol Newcastle, we cautiously identified which dark shadow was the actual entrance, and which of the myriad of reflected lights were the navigation marks. Quoting frequently from Lucas, and with the map of Newcastle harbor imprinted on my brain, we safely motored up the south side, following the curve of the river around to the marina and a welcome berth.
The dry dock, fishing fleet and marina in Newcastle Harbour
Totally different sounds the next morning form the silence of the night before. (How I long for windows in the forecabin!) – commercial shipping, a bustling boatyard, a large working dry dock, all in close proximity to the marina, as well as the hum of traffic passing along the foreshore road conveying other people (not us!) to their workplace. A wander around the pontoons revealed a varied assortment of sail and motor vessels, and further exploration of the shore facilities revealed the best shower rooms we have found on the coast, so far! Not content with that, I treated myself to a “facial therapy” at the dockside beautician. I relaxed back in the large leather massage couch, idly watching the large cranes swinging over the dry dock. I felt a wave of nostalgia as I recalled my childhood visits to the docks of the Wear and the Tyne in the north of England. I had watched majestic ships accelerating slowly down the rollers, to meet water beneath them for the first time as the champagne was shattered over their bows. Indeed, as Jim and I explored the riverside walks beside the marina, I could almost smell the coal that used to be so reminiscent of those northern ports.
Following a delightful dinner in the restaurant above the Fisheries Co-op, we did not rise early the following day (this was holidays after all!) and our departure was further delayed as we waited our turn to replenish our diesel tank. At the fuel wharf was a large motor cruiser that had just come out of a container from Hong Kong, the owner was somewhat nervous about her first voyage, by coincidence, down to Botany Bay. Both her fuel tanks were to be filled to capacity, 2000 litres each. Kindly. The crew interrupted her demands and let us fill our meager demand of 20 litres. As the wind was forecast to rise later, we rigged our No. 2 jib, but relied on engine to travel down the river, dwarfed by two square riggers that were moored farther down. Passing through the heads at 11am,we turned north for Port Stephens. As predicted the wind increased to a pleasant 15 – 20 knots from east south east, and staying well out from Stockton Beach we sailed briskly up the coast, counting the sand dunes in the distance. I had intended to try some line fishing from the stern of Pumpkin but was horrified to see a large dark solitary dolphin beside our hull. He was probably a Risso’s dolphin, quite different from the more common bottlenose species. A yell brought Jim rapidly on deck to take over the helm whilst I retrieved the line. Sadly, it was already broken, the lure and hook gone. Guiltily. I vowed never again to trail a line without being able to observe it all the time. (Jim becomes agitated when I helm, looking over the stern instead of at the sails and compass!)
After careful scrutiny of the distinctive coastal features (Jim had another period of beard stroking here!), Pumpkin turned her bows towards the gap between Tommeroy and the steep cliffs of Yacaaba Head. The pod of dolphins that seem to check out every vessel entering or leaving that water once again greeted us. Research has shown that the dolphins within Port Stephens no longer associate with this group at the mouth; the group was once unified but has now been fragmented by the incursions of tourist activity and there are fears for the viability of the inshore population. Following the leads and navigation markers, we steered clear of the numerous sand shoals and sailed gently passed the noisy activity of Nelson Bay, passed Schnapper Island and turned to the north side into the sheltered waters of Fame Cove, in plenty of time to drop anchor then enjoy a glass of wine before the sun set. Unlike our visit to this bay previously, there were only half a dozen boats resting at anchor, undisturbed by any strong southerlies. We roused ourselves gently the next morning to inflate our canoe and set off on a short exploration up the mangrove- lined creek. The vigilant grey herons eyed us balefully as we slowly and silently paddled past. Each bird had staked out his piece of shoreline and woe betides any other bird encroaching over the boundary line. As a few clouds began to move more swiftly across the blue skies, Jim stroked his beard a few times, obviously anxious to have Pumpkin back in view. Back on board, fortified by Earl Grey tea, we recalled a chance conversation we had shared with a live aboard family in Botany Bay. Laurieton was their pick of convenient destinations further north in NSW. This piqued our curiosity and we spent some hours looking at charts and Lucas, debating possible problems of access, tides and bars. Coastguard Port Stephens were once again very helpful, providing us with recent weather information.
Breakfast followed a very peaceful night, at a civilized hour (why get up early when there is no wind for sails?). By 11.30am, we could claim no further reason for delay and quietly stowed the anchor (well, Jim was swearing gently as he realized his lack of fitness pulling up the warp) and we sailed back to the open sea, passing the green mounds of the Broughton Islands all too quickly. Our conservative descision the previous evening had been for our next destination to be Forster-Tuncurry, however ideal conditions of a south-easterly wind (strength 12 –18 knots) enabled us to keep a boat speed consistently between 5-6 knots. We amended our destination on our next radio check in with Coastal Patrol to further north. We relaxed and sailed on as the orange purple sunset changed to navy blue and then black, pierced by a large crescent moon and a million stars.
A moment of mischievousness inspired me to call Colin and Dianne (Moonlight Lady) from my mobile ‘phone just to say “Hi, it’s perfect out here!”. As I lay in the port bunk, with water passing smoothly over our hull only inches away from my head, talking on the mobile ‘phone and listening to their reports of travels in Tahiti, the world seemed to be at the same time very large (the inconspicuous Pumpkin was the only boat in a large expanse of dark water) but simultaneously small and connected. This experience is so different from those of earlier days in our sailing career. Pumpkin continued to behave well, and our masthead aerial ensured that we were never neglected by the volunteer voluntary radio operators from Coastal Patrol. Even Jim, who prefers to sit on helm, mesmerized by sail shape and wind patterns, was obliged to talk to them as I took my turn on helm. “Mr Tipley” our autopilot, remained safe and dry in his packing. Actually, he rarely makes his appearance on deck; usually only to reassure us that he is in working order, for emergency use only, if an accident should put Jim or me out of action. For this voyage, he rested snug in his berth at all times.
Further consultation with charts, tide timetables and assessment of our boat speed and weather patterns convinced us that Laurieton would be a reasonable destination. By morning light, the tide would be optimum to allow us safe passage over the bar through the large groynes leading into the river. Apart from one quieter spell, our boat speed was more than sufficient reward for the winter months we had spent improving her hull surface, tensioning her rig (thanks, Paul) and numerous other small adjustments that all added to efficient sailing – and it was so…. satisfying to see the electronic instrumentation functioning efficiently after nine months of chasing faults within the wiring, with the assistance of Tim and Allen from Botany Bay. As dawn broke, we could identify the three masses of the Brothers, so named by Cook during his explorations, Big Brother was watching us as we hove too, furling sails and preparing to motor into the river. Three large cruising yachts conveniently came through the mouth and over the bar,
sailing north out of the disturbed water, and swinging in an arc before turning south again. Following their example, we went well north before turning across into the river mouth. Several wide, deep surges pushed us quickly between the high stone walls, watched incuriously by some morning fishermen. Laurieton lives and breathes fishing, we discovered. Almost immediately, we were inspected by the local dolphins as we slowly motored up the river following the navigation buoys. Large shallow lakes led off between mangroves and man made groynes; useful drying perches for cormorants and pelicans. These still waters seemed to be at least 10cms lower than the active river fed by the incoming tide, now pushing briskly up into the channel.
We had been told about a visitors wharf adjacent to the United Servicemen’s Club, and as this came into view I was preparing lines to attach to our deck cleats; a dolphin lying alongside our bows lazily watched me from the water, four feet below. As I bent down to secure the line, he blew furiously – Jim was highly amused as I wiped dolphin “snot” from my face! Maneuvering in front of the bows of a cruising catamaran already on the wharf, we were able to tie up securely. We played the fender exchange game, as our large blue fenders squeaked some sort of jazz cacophony ( in a high C flat) against the wooden piers each time the water was disturbed by the frequent traffic moving up and down the river. Once we minimized the noise, we explored the toilet and shower (courtesy of the club) and relaxed into that glorious sleep after a night sail. Breakfast happened at 2pm and was delicious- this sort of freedom away from the constraints of the normal workday patterns emphasizes the holiday mode. The leisurely ambience of Laurieton reinforced our relaxed mindset. The passersby in the street or on the wharf had time to smile in the sunshine. Jim was happy with the find of a good baker and an internet café . We checked the ‘BOM’ site and also followed up on a web address “Buoyweather.com”, suggested by our neighbour from the catamaran, “Ultimate Dream”. Both sites indicated some interesting weather in the next couple of days and we were thankful that we had some time to relax at our present safe haven. As we enjoyed our dinner, or was it lunch, in the cockpit of our boat that night, we mused on the antics of the pelicans coming in to check out the nearby fish cleaning table.
The public wharf at Laurieton
As we were unfamiliar with this area, and wished to explore, we arranged to rent a car from the local car dealer (do not believe the NRMA who had been friendly but uninformative about local resources) and become more land orientated. Taking supplies for a picnic lunch, we drove up the small winding road to the summit of North Brother. (?height)The coast and the land fell away on each side; a quilt of sapphire blue sea, golden sands and velvet green bush. We could see our boat on the water far beneath us with her matchstick size mast. The outflow from the river could be seen clearly as a paler streak extending into the ocean, and the sandbars showed up as light blue patches against the dark cobalt of the deeper river channels. A small bushfire sent lazy spirals of smoke close to the dark irregular shapes of Port Macquarie, approximately 20 kms to the north. Fortunately, the smoke lessened in a very short time, and we imagined the sighs of relief from firefighters and local residents.
View from North Brother, looking east over Laurieton and Camden Haven
Having determined our geography from the top of the mountain, we next headed to the south side of the river and walked out to the end of the groyne at the river mouth. The wind had now risen to 25 knots from the north east. Conditions were very different to our experience the previous day. A slim rectangle of water extended for approximately 500 metres out to sea, resembling the surface of a washing machine in turbo mode. There was no regular pattern and the steep troughs and crests were over 3 metres high. A yacht appeared to be sailing towards us and we were a little incredulous that she seemed to be about to try and enter. The drama increased as she turned towards the river mouth and dropped sail, obviously intending to enter. Her furling jib appeared to have jammed and we could imagine the thunderous noise as approximately one third of the sail continued to flay back and forth across the deck. The helmsman and two crewmen were sitting rigidly in the cockpit - tension radiating from their position as the boat, small against these seas, surfed down a couple of big waves across the bar. Jim and I standing on the rocks watched with trepidation as she slewed across towards us but was then lifted on another wave and surfed safely into the calm water beyond. On the adjacent beach, children were calling merrily as they chased balls or splashed in the water, whilst their mothers lazed in the sun. (The fathers were all sorting out fishing lines in preparation for the evening ritual). No one seemed aware of the potentially very dangerous situation that was unfolding in front of them. We did find out later that Kevin, our neighbour from Ultimate Dream, had also been standing, mesmerized, as he watched this yacht ‘s erratic passage.
Our wharf was becoming social as this recent arrival (considerably larger up close than she had appeared in the swells of the bar crossing) parked her 50’ alongside another cruising yacht returning from a passage to the Barrier Reef, just off Pumpkin’s bows. It was fun and instructive to make comparisons and exchange yarns. No one commented on the do’s and don’t of crossing a bar, but Jim and I noted one female crew member of the most recent arrival downed several glasses of wine very quickly before she was persuaded to stay on the boat!! As the sun was setting after another interesting day, we took advantage of our wheels and headed along the coast road to Port Macquarie – what a contrast to Laurieton! As usual, we wandered down towards the marina (This seems to be a fairly regular habit for Jim and I, when we explore different eateries up and down the NSW coast. The visibility of the harbour is definitely as important as the wine list or the menu. We try to remain sober enough to remember some detail for potential future use). We ate in the restaurant, checking out the navigation lights in the harbour through the large windows seated inside, as the wind was still gusting up strongly from the south, with accompanying cool temperatures. Other diners were relaxed and gay with thin, brief summer fashions – I was mentally dressing Jim and myself in thermals and waterproofs for our passage south in the next day or two.
Weather decreed another day in port, but a late visit to the nearby internet café showed us that “BOM” expected the wind to ease later the following day. We were justified in planning another late rise; fortuitous as we shared a delightful evening with Kevin and Patty on Ultimate Dream. A quick tour of this large catamaran allowed us to be truthfully enthusiastic as we complimented the skipper. He had personally completed the fit out starting from the bare hulls. A very pleasant dinner, with good food and many laughs extended well past midnight.
The whistling of the wind through our rigging awoke us on the morning of our departure. The pelicans had given up hope of foolhardy fishermen and were perched on top of the bollards, only one third of the diameter of their cumbersome bodies. They kept their balance with the smallest grip of the tip of their large feet but still appeared to be snoozing comfortably. With superior confidence, the largest yacht released her warps and was rapidly taken down the river by the fast flowing tide. We could imagine her rough passage over the bar. Pumpkin’s crew is more conservative and we donned lifejackets, checked jack lines then eased our way off the jetty at a more gentle pace, pushed along by our engine in the slack tide. The wind had eased to 20 knots in the river and we crossed the bar easily and then moved north of the outflow to ready ourselves for the sail south to Port Stephens. The wind was steady from north east with a strong swell running in the same direction; even with the small No 3 jib and 2 reefs in the main, the boat was bucking along, skidding down the waves and maintaining a boat speed between 6 and 8.5 knots. Jim noted with glee that we surfed one wave at 10.5!
Unusually, we saw one tanker pass inshore of us and in the decreasing daylight; we spotted another on the horizon. As this ship was still some considerable distance away, and the weather forecast predicted rising wind again, we both clambered up on deck to drop the mainsail, planning to run only under jib. This was achieved fairly quickly as Pumpkin bucked up and down, with the tiller lashed over to keep her roughly on course. The tanker was now nearing – Jim was beard stroking again and debating whether to pass port or starboard in view of the prevailing conditions. The radio suddenly called
“Sailing vessel north of tanker Ormiston!”
I looked out port, starboard, all around …. Empty grey rolling seas and a few shearwaters gliding the surface, no other boats.
“I think he’s talking to us, Jim.”
“Ormiston, this is the yacht Pumpkin.”
“Pumpkin, this is Ormiston. How are you handling these conditions? We are prepared to stand by, if you need assistance?”
“Thanks, we are fine.”
“Pumkin, Ormiston will go hard starboard to pass you on port side.”
Still at some distance, we watched in amazement as this large tanker abruptly altered her course and moved to leave plenty of room for our very small vessel to pass. I called back on the radio to thank them for their consideration. Subsequent conversation revealed that I was talking to the First Mate, originally from Bangalore and previously a lecturer at the Naval College. He had obviously been scrutinizing us closely as we passed; he was complimentary about the way that the hull shape handled these seas. His tanker was on “the sugar run” from Melbourne to Mackay and return - a round trip of three weeks. Usually, the larger shipping is further off the coast but even these big tankers found the strong swell with the East Coast Current detrimental to efficient passage north. Our encounter with Ormiston was an interesting interlude, and a brief snapshot into life of a different sort. We continued our rapid progress down the coast, now able to see the dim outlines of the Broughton Islands lying to the north of Port Stephens. We had hoped to anchor in one of the bays but the weather conditions continued to be challenging. Neither of us wanted to sit up on anchor watch whilst the boat rose up and down over the swells. It was not a hard decision to continue on, aiming for the flatter water of Port Stephens. Dinner that evening was reconstituted baboutje, our favourite dried meal from Paddy Pallins adventure shop. We always carry a selection of these for “one of those nights”. Using boiling water from a Thermos flask, sitting the pack on the non-slip surface of a board attached to the top of the gimbaled metho stove, it is easy to prepare and serve, even when the world is leaning at a crazy 45 degrees.
As we dodged the looming dark shapes of the islands, the wind finally began to ease a little and we swiftly made our way towards the glow of Tomeroy light, before slipping quietly onto the calmer waters beyond. As the lighter flecks of dawn began to streak the skies, we motored in to the small marina at Little Beach. Daylight saw us safely tied up to a vacant mooring there and after the requisite Earl Grey Tea, we stretched out on our bunk, luxuriating in the warmth and security. Later, after renewing our acquaintance with Carl, the helpful manager of Little Beach Marina (he recognized us from a visit two years previously) we went ashore to explore, scrambling gingerly over the rocks of Halifax Point. That evening, I once more tried my fishing skills as we anchored beside a sandbar. Again, no great success, and Jim stroked his beard nervously as we anticipate the southerly change that was forecast. Back on our mooring, and another undisturbed night except that Pumpkin turned briskly to face south whilst the tide rubbed the mooring against her hull.
The southerly change brought accompanying rain, and in scenery that more resembled a grey day on the south coast of England, we inflated the canoe and paddled ashore. A gentle stroll along the road following the shoreline took us into Nelson Bay, past some vantage points allowing wonderful views over Port Stephens. Even in the dull weather, as we drew nearer to the town coach loads of Asian tourists jostled and vied with each other for the best angle for a photograph. (We prized our quieter bay even more.) Still cool, but now dry, we passed a very pleasant hour browsing the second hand bookshop. I was happy to buy a copy of John Bertrand’s autobiography - an excellent tool for motivation during my subsequent experience of knee surgery. Two dollars well spent! Jim took little persuasion to consider a taxi ride back to the boat but with much more dash and fun, we climbed aboard the little carriage attached to a Harley Davidson motorbike, under the control of a classic’ bikey’. Jim also looked quite the part as he strapped a large helmet on and tucked his beard under the strap. We roared back over the hill and swept down to the marina, faster, cheaper than a standard taxi and not our normal mode of transport. An experience but on reflection, a yacht uses only the wind and usually one at least has time to think, without a cacophony of sensations rushing past face and ears – I know which I prefer.
One of our rare early morning departures saw us out of Port Stephens Heads by 7.30am. A tight reach with the No 2 jib and a full main saw us making a steady time (boat speed 4.5 – 5.5 knots) towards our next destination, Lake Macquarie. With the help of Coastal Patrol Lake Macquarie, we arranged via radio to book a Swansea bridge opening at 5pm. Mobile ‘phone allowed us to talk to Derek who kindly gave us clear directions to the Lake Macquarie Yacht Club and arranged to meet us there. As promised, we easily spotted his figure waving to us enthusiastically from the jetty to guide us in and within a short time, we were sitting enjoying beer and the experience of meeting face to face, after only virtual acquaintance on the Compass web page. A whole sphere of new friendships has grown up in this way! Jim and I were somewhat amazed to see the number of large “go fast” yachts on the marina of this club, and the following day we saw some of these in action. Keeping these boats to sail only on a fairly shallow lake reminds me of the most beautiful Arab horses that are only allowed to perform in a dressage arena, rather than toss their manes and run free over wide open expanses.
Pumpkin was still definitely in cruise mode, and she was a small elderly lady compared to some of the strong sleek hulls we had been admiring. Nevertheless, we have faith in her versatility and we entered her in the Wednesday afternoon race as a scratch start. First off in the handicap start saw us heading for the first mark in totally alien territory, with no boat ahead to follow. Within minutes the wind had risen to a gusty 20 knots, definitely on the limit of our No 1 jib, and as Jim helmed to try to keep the boat pointing high, I played the main sheet constantly. No time for a sail change as we headed for the first buoy, or was it that one slightly further over? We managed to hold our lead until the second mark where we were overtaken by a couple of small fast lighter boats, all sailing with their requisite crews of five or six. (Jim and I try to grow more hands to achieve the same effect and we had already done more tacks than we had performed in the previous two weeks!) The third mark lay over on the northern shore and finally the large yachts converged on us with a mass smothering effect. We watched ruefully as they swept around and on past us towards the final two marks, but the race was not over yet and we finally crossed the line last but not disgraced, as we were only 1 minute behind the remainder of the fleet. A quick drink ashore to say thanks to our fellow competitors and we are back underway, thankfully more slowly, in cruising mode, heading down the clearly marked channel towards the Swansea bridge. Taking advantage of the jetty at Pelican Point, we tied up for the night to enable us to pass through the bridge opening at 7 am.
A cheery wave from the Bridge master saw us on our way to Sydney; the wind was a steady nor’ east and Pumpkin behaved well, traveling steadily with the No 2 jib poled out and a full main. Soon we were rethinking this as the wind steadily increased, as had been forecast, and the swell rapidly mounted to over two metres. I helmed as the boat became more frisky and Jim, clipped on securely to our jack lines, wrestled the spinnaker pole. An easy task on flat water becomes a testing challenge as the angle of the deck changes every 45 seconds and the tension in the jib sheet threatened to push the beak of the spinnaker pole straight back onto the gleaming white surface of our newly painted mast. “ Watch the paint!” I shout, as Jim is holding on grimly to preserve his life. With Jim and paint intact, we sail on in a more controlled manner. Checks on the barometer showed the pressure falling steadily; we did not really need to be told that as we had been eyeing the grey cloud cover from the north as it moved steadily towards us and the wind strength continued to rise. It was now 25 knots.
By early afternoon, we decided to furl the jib altogether and run on under the main with 2 reefs. Not the best decision as we subsequently found out – the boat behaves much better in these conditions with a small jib and no main. The pattern, or lack of, the seas was a far greater challenge to the boat’s performance than the strength of the wind. The swell was running from the south, now at about three metres, but waves were breaking irregularly on top of this. The surface was very confused and Jim was unable to find any pattern to keep Pumpkin smooth. He concentrated on helming whilst I sat with my back against the bulkhead, calling the waves
” Big one straight on stern.”
“This one’s going to break beside us.”
“Short chop and then two steep ones”
Initially, I started this monologue to feel that I was doing something useful. Jim actually seemed to appreciate it, as he had no intention of taking his eyes off the bow and the mainsail, whilst there was such risk of being knocked over. He could only hear the tumbled water as these big waves rushed up to our stern. Once more, we said loud thanks to Don Lees, the designer of Compass Yachts, for such a sympathetic hull shape. As I watched these froth speckled shapes surging up around us, I ceased to worry that we would drop jarringly into a trough or suffer any other major discomfort – I sat planning a celebration dinner for our next anchorage. When the boat was reluctant to tack, (we chickened out of a gybe) we knew that the problem was not the boat; it was our decision to retain the main and not change to the No 3 jib. In spite of the seas, we had made good time, maintaining boat speeds between 5 – 7 knots. We sailed rapidly through the Heads and onto the wonderfully flat water of Sydney Harbour chased by very black storm clouds. Soon we were tied up to the jetty alongside Sydney Fish Markets, in time to watch a spectacular lightening storm. The rain deluged down but we were still, snug and dry. We celebrated our safe arrival with haggis, mash and garlic mushrooms, and one or two glasses of red. Wonderful sustenance for a cool evening on the boat. Very soggy notices were pinned to the bollards requesting payment (to whom?) for use of the pontoon, and as the rain ceased, Jim went in search of an office. No one was around except a very bored security officer who was not interested in “boaties”.
Pumpkin at Sydney Fishmarkets
Up early the next morning we went ashore to watch the fish auctions, moments of tense anticipation as each “lot” appears on the board and then is quickly knocked down as the bids come in. In the ‘packing area’ beside the entrance, huge tuna were being encased in ice prior to their flight to Japan. The retail section already had superb displays of seafood available. However, I am always touched slightly be sadness as I admire fish such as the colourful Ocean Perch; before this has become of marketable size, it will have been swimming in our oceans for at least eighty years. It seems somewhat demeaning for such a veteran to be lying on a cold slab in the market – but I admit that I enjoy eating them!
After a very pleasant breakfast ashore, it was back to the business of sailing on our final day. The wind was blowing with enough punch to ensure that we traveled efficiently down the last 15 miles to Botany Bay. Well, efficient until the pounding of the previous day showed that it had not been without cost, and the webbing to the main outhaul snapped with a loud bang. This was quickly remedied with a handy piece of cord. This was our only equipment failure during our trip.
At 14.20 hrs I called Sydney Coastal Patrol over our radio to log off, as we passed the large white mooring buoys for the tankers in Botany Bay. I cannot finish this account without expressing thanks to the many anonymous voices. Although I know these individuals are not in a position to give direct advice, they allowed us to sail in confidence knowing that ‘someone’ was aware of us – out there. Occasionally I grumble as I hear “Pumpkin, Pumpkin Pumpkin” crackling over the radio and have to crawl out of a comfortable berth to respond but after some time, one almost develops a sixth sense of when an operator is about to call and we verify where we are. Looking back towards the entrance of Botany Bay and the ocean spreading beyond, I dream of further adventures, when we will not have the time constraints of these last few weeks. How far can we take a Compass 28? That question has yet to be answered but Jim and I both feel comfortable that as we build up our experience of sailing and boat life style, our horizons will expand further.