Croker Island to Darwin

Croker Island to Darwin

    A little over an hour later sees us rounding Cape Croker at the northern end of Croker Island, and turning westerly on the next leg towards Cape Don.  The rest of the day is a straightforward run with following seas and good winds, making excellent time across the top of the Cobourg Peninsula.

Captain Glint

    At one point a small Army landing craft comes powering past us heading easterly into the wind and waves.  It must have been a rough ride for them with their flat barge bottom.  The whole of the craft was being repeatedly drenched as they bashed into the waves.

Sunday 26th September 1993
    Cape Don marks the entrance to Dundas Strait and the Van Dieman Gulf beyond.  Both these places can be unpleasant when there are adverse winds or tides, and there are plenty of shoals and reefs around to catch the unwary. 
    However we are lucky this time.  As we round the cape and enter the strait in the dark, there's hardly a breath of wind.  But there's a good tidal push running with us.  The sea is completely flat and the air so still that we have to endure the exhaust fumes from the motor.  It’s hard to sleep since we're so close to home.  
    Several hours later the red blinking light of Abbot Shoal comes into view.  This is another turning point in the middle of the gulf, around the southern extremity of extensive shoals and reefs below Melville Island.
    Another familiar place is reached as the Cape Hotham light winks faintly in the early morning darkness away in the distance, marking the entrance to Clarence Strait through the Vernon Islands to the north of Darwin.  We are getting close to home now.  Once again the charts are carefully checked and our position and course plotted.  The route through here also has strong currents during the big Spring tides, which can run up to seven metres or more.
    Just before dawn we pass Cape Hotham and alter our course to go between the islands.  In the still of the dawn it promises to be another lovely morning, as we look back at the sun coming up over the cape behind us.  It’s also a special morning since today will see the end of our journey.  There's still no wind and the sea stays completely flat, forcing us to continue under motor with all sails down.

Dawn over Cape Hotham

    By mid-morning the sun is beating down upon us.  The decks are already hot forcing us to wear footwear topside, as we negotiate the passage through the Vernon Islands.  It’s good to see familiar landmarks again.  The GPS suddenly drops out for a little while for some unknown reason but it’s not a problem.  I have a good local knowledge of this area having fished here for many years, but it does mean we have to go a bit further east to clear Marsh Shoal before turning south towards Darwin.
    In the middle of the afternoon our entrance into Darwin Harbour is unremarkable as we make our way around to Fisherman’s Wharf in Sadgroves Creek.  Unfortunately there are no public berths available at the wharf so we motor further up the creek towards the Dinah Beach Cruising Yacht Club.  Here we soon find a vacant mooring.  It belongs to someone who is well known to Paul, and he is certain there won’t be any problem with our using it until tomorrow.  The motor is turned off and in the sudden silence; I suspect there is a feeling of anti-climax amongst us.
    Without much further ado, the dinghy is dropped down from the Targa.  Paul’s job is done and he loads all his personal gear into the dinghy before we head straight for the club where, as custom demands, we are promptly made honorary members.  Phone calls are made to friends and families to come and get us, but in the meantime we celebrate our safe arrival and try to get used to the firm ground under us.  Paul also contacts the mooring owner and properly obtained his permission for Lowana to stay there for the night.

Monday 27th September 1993
    The hot water shower last night and the sleep-in this morning was glorious.  Just before midday, Brian, my wife Delma and a lady neighbour friend Margi come with me back out to Lowana to help bring her into the local marina.  Paul has done his job well and I have become reasonably confident I can handle the boat proficiently for the task.
    We enjoy a light lunch aboard, but I must admit to a slight tremble as I start the motor and the mooring is released.  I needn’t have worried.  Lowana glides comfortably through the lock gates of the Darwin Mooring Basin, and comes to a stop without any embarrassing glitches.  When the water levels inside the lock and the inner marina are level, the lockmaster opens the gate and directs me over to a particular berth that has been reserved for us. 
    Lowana moves out smoothly under power to the designated spot, but a couple of lines have to be cleared from the outer poles before we can access the marina berth.  All goes well however and soon Lowana is secured into position.  With the motor shut down and the radio turned on, the boat is given a quick cleaning.  Perishable stores and all the laundry are taken off before the boat is locked up and we step ashore, leaving her to herself for a while.
    For the next 12 days Lowana will get some more cleaning and touch up work, before being taken out and put on the fore and aft moorings further up Sadgroves Creek.
    I must admit to feeling at trifle sad at stepping off her deck to go home.  Lowana is certainly a lady of the sea and she had served us well.  In a way I still wanted the journey to continue.  Perhaps it will...

THE END

 Epilogue
    Lowana remained on the fore and aft moorings up Sadgroves Creek for several years, when she wasn’t away being sailed somewhere.  She’s had a relatively active life despite being owned by someone who works full time.
    By 2001 she had completed two trips to Indonesia and two trips to Western Australia.  She’s also done two trips back around Cape Don to Port Essington on the Cobourg Peninsula, plus numerous overnighters in the surrounding area.  She also competes in the annual wet-season races conducted by the DBCYC.
    As a cruising yacht Lowana has proven herself a safe and sound vessel, capable of handling seas of at least six metres.  But she is a little slow around the marks during races when beating to windward.  Never mind, I’d rather be slow and safe, rather than fast and anxious.
    In April 1995 she was placed on the hard stand at the club and underwent an extensive refit until July 1997.  She was put back out on the fore-and-aft moorings, but flocks of birds selected her as a roosting site and the constant guano on her became a real problem.  Nothing seemed to deter them.
    She has since resided at the Tipperary Marina where birds are discouraged and where access is much easier.  I think she likes it there...and as old as she is, she still draws admiring remarks.

Gove to Croker Island

Gove to Croker Island

    It’s only taken a couple of hours to accomplish all this before we're back on board and heading out to sea.  Our intended track will be almost due north, around Cape Wilberforce then north westerly towards a group of islands called the English Company Islands.  
    One of these is Wigram Island where we'll be anchoring up later today, before attempting a passage through a narrow gap in the Wessel Island group tomorrow.  Negotiating it requires careful timing and it'll be too late to attempt it today.
    The passage around Cape Wilberforce is uneventful though just a little bit bumpy.  There are a lot of counter-currents and waves trying to push us off course, but careful helming and regular plotting on the chart keep us out of harm’s way.  Most capes are prone to disturbed waters and this one is no different.  I wouldn't like to be here in rough weather.

Cape Wilberforce

    The last stretch of water to our destination is Malay Roads.  This got its name from a chance meeting of an early British explorer named Matthew Flinders, and some boat people he had thought were from Malaya.  This happened in 1802 as Flinders was completing the first circumnavigation of Australia in HMS Investigator and mapping its coastline at the time. 
    Most likely the people he met would have been Malaccans from Indonesia who have a similar language to the Malay’s.  The Malaccans have been coming to the northern Australian shores every year possibly for centuries, where they harvest a sea cucumber called Trepang taken in the shallows along the shore.
    Many Australians might be surprised to know its likely the Portuguese also knew about the northern coast of Australia, long before Flinders got here.  In fact Flinders himself allegedly commented on similarities of the features in the area, and those on the 16th century Dauphin Map, which had been produced in the map-making town of Dieppe in France.  That map shows a continent lying to the southeast of Sumatra, roughly where the top-end of Australia is today.
    The shadows are lengthening and the tide is low when we anchor in six metres in the lee of Wigram Island.  Loads of oysters can be seen clinging invitingly to the rocks ashore, but we’re feeling too tired to make the effort of getting over there.  Instead, the crew gather on deck to watch the sunset with a nice cuppa or can of beer in hand.  It'll be early to bed tonight to get as much rest as possible.  Our next planned stop is Darwin, about four days away to the west.

Thursday 23rd September 1993
    There's no hurry in getting the anchor up this morning.  Gugari Rip, or the Hole-In-The-Wall as it's otherwise known is only 16 miles away, situated between the islands of Guluwuru and Raragala Islands in the Wessel Island group.  It’s turning into another nice day but there's little wind and the water is almost flat as we motor along.  With the water being so flat, it’s an easy task to prepare and enjoy a brekkie of leftover mince stew on the way.
    The Hole-In-The-Wall is named for good reason.  It’s just one mile long and only 64 metres at the widest point, bearing the full weight of the tides between the Coral Sea and Arafura Sea.  The chart carries an ominous warning “Tidal Streams – rates up to 12.0 knots may be experienced in Cumberland Strait and Gugari Rip”. 
    This advice is barely sufficient as the force of the tide can create dangerous overfalls and rips, and much of its length is too narrow to turn around without being swept onto rocks.  It's essential to time the tides just right, otherwise it can get quite horrifying in there.
    As we finish our morning tea or coffee, a large fishing trawler trundles past going the other way.  I wonder idly whether it has come through the Hole-In-The-Wall, and the first twinges of doubt regarding our timing come to the surface.  Perhaps the trawler had simply been anchored up somewhere overnight like we'd done, or maybe it had come the long way around the top of the Wessel Islands.  I mention my concerns to the others and a radio call is made to the trawler, but no answer comes. 
    Once again we double-check the pilot books we have on board about the tidal patterns here, but each one tells a different story.  We need to be off the eastern entrance before the turn of the tide so that when we enter the gap it'll be slack water, turning westerly.  To the best of our information, we figure that would be at midday so in the end, it’s decided to stick to our original plan.
    We arrive a little early off the eastern entrance and spent some time running back and forth offshore waiting for the tide, but soon the time comes to commit ourselves to the hole.  The jib is dropped but the mainsail is kept up, since the little bit of wind available is following us.  Paul takes over the tiller while Brian and I take up positions on either side of the boat, ready to carry out whatever actions need to be done.


Entrance to Hole-In-The-Wall

    The entrance looks nasty.  It funnels in towards the gap and the shore is lined with large black and sharp looking boulders.  Waves are dashing against them sending spray up in the air.  There's no regular pattern to the sea and it broils in confusion.  I don’t like the look of this.
    According to our information and our calculations it should have been slack water turning westerly, but this is definitely all wrong.  There's a current still running against us.  At first we're confident this is just the last of the easterly tide flowing through.  It must turn slack soon.  Instead, these hopes are ruined when the current continues to increase in force.

Can't go forward, can't go back

    This is not good.  It's apparent we are facing the start of a full tide flowing easterly.  The tide run gets increasingly stronger causing standing waves of a metre of more.  They're just erupting everywhere, not having any form or shape to them.  It’s as if we are in a boiling teakettle.  Lowana is pitching and yawing violently and Paul is straining at the tiller working hard to hold a straight course.  The muscles on his forearms are standing out as he fights to hold the boat straight.  His face grimaces as he takes the strain first on one side then the other.
    The boom starts swinging violently from side to side as the boat bucks around.  There's not enough wind on the mainsail to hold it in place and is threatening to take Paul’s head off.  We must get that boom under control quickly.


Looking back, weaving about, trying to get ahead

    Murphy decides to make his presence felt.  He's the unseen crewman on every boat who does nothing until the worst possible moment, then does exactly the wrong thing.  Somehow the mainsheet gets all knotted up effectively preventing the boom being pulled in and secured amidships.
    It simply isn’t possible to grab the boom from below and hold it long enough to put a preventer rope onto it.  The only thing to do is for someone to climb up onto the coach roof, straddle the boom and hold it while the other secures it.  But in order to do that, the sail has to be dropped first.
    With heart in throat, a lashing is quickly made around my chest and secured to the boat.  Brian releases the mainsail halyard but there are no lazy-jacks fitted to Lowana.  The big sail cascades down all over the deck, effectively blocking Paul’s view forward.  There's almost a moment of panic.  Paul yells to clear it out of the way.  He desperately needs to see where the rocks are and already we are being swept to one side. The rocks loom up almost in slow motion.  Brian and I have to call directions back to Paul.
    The boom thunders overhead again but is briefly arrested as Brian grabs the mainsheet.  Paul strains to the other side trying to see ahead.  There's no time to think about it.  Quickly I throw myself up there and over the boom, planting my feet firmly against the railings on both side and my weight along the top of the boom.  Brian jumps to the sail and savagely wraps it up, then ropes the boom down enough to stop it moving.
    We are back under control.  With the mainsail down and boom secured, the boat stabilises but not without considerable heart palpitations.  We're all feeling a little shaky but at least Paul can now see where we're going.  We have a reprieve but we're not out of this fix yet.
    We’ve really had no alternative but to try and push forward and are well inside the cut.  The log is reading eight knots and the motor is running flat out at 2200 rpm, but the boat seems to be standing still.  We're going nowhere fast and have actually passed the same big boulder on the shore four times, as we weave left and right looking for a weaker run of current.


Backwards and forwards past this rock

    We watch as the motor temperature slowly rises towards the red area of the gauge, as we try to quickly figure out our next step.  The motor is bellowing as it struggles to push against the torrent. Can we really expect it to keep doing this for the next six hours or so until the tide changes?  The temperature needle continues to climb but steadies just before the red line.  We watch it intently for a little while to make sure it's holding, but it stays put in the same position just short of the red.
    It’s a small respite but at least the pressure is off for the moment, and we can take more careful stock of our options.  The bottom line is that we’re stuck.  We certainly can’t make any way forwards.  It’s definitely not safe to try and turn around - we’d rapidly be swept onto the rocks.  We could reverse under control by simply reducing the throttle.  The tide would push us back and we would at least retain steerage, but none of us relishes the idea of going backwards into that teakettle back there.  For the time being, that idea will have to be Plan “B”.
    As we ponder, it's soon realised that despite the torrent pouring past us, the boat is now reasonably stable enough to put up some sails again.  There's still buggar all wind but it’s definitely worth a try. 
    With renewed vigour, Brian and I set about putting up the big Genoa.  It billows encouragingly, but keeps collapsing in the variable puffs of wind available.  It’s not going to be enough.  There’s a certain reluctance concerning the mainsail but with nothing else to lose, it goes up too.  The Genoa is then poled out on the opposite side so as not to be blanketed by the mainsail.
    It’s barely enough to do the trick.  The small puffs of wind push on the combined sails and edge us forward little by little.  The motor continues to roar as we slowly budge forward alternating between dead still and moving until we reach a wider part of the channel.  There we find a slower race of water out of the main tidal run and at last start to pull forward at about half a knot.
    As we start to leave the cutting, we look back with relief to see the land spreading away on either side, opening up to a lovely little bay with a sandy beach on the southern side.  It had taken an hour to get through the one-mile gap between the islands.  There’s still a strong current running against us but it’s no real problem now, and the throttle can be backed down to its normal revs.
    So far this trip we have been faithful to our policy of only having a beer at sundowners whilst at sea, but this is a special occasion, and a can for each man is cracked in celebration.  That was a close one.  The islands recede into the distance as some good-natured ribbing and relieved laughter ease the tension.
    The rest of the day and night were uneventful except for one instance. The motor was turned off and there were large following waves overtaking the boat.  Suddenly one of the waves slammed into the underside of the dinghy hanging off the stern.  It lifted the dinghy up off its retaining hook, and with a heart-stopping thud, dropped down.  Luckily there was a secondary rope securing it to the targa so it didn’t go too far and it could be resecured.

Friday 24th September 1993
    The sailing has settled back into the familiar routine.  The weather’s kind to us with a sunny day, and there's a steady southeast trade wind.  We're making good time as we head towards the southern end of Croker Island.  There’s been no other shipping activity and nothing else to see except for the open water of the Arafura Sea.
    Sailing certainly has its moments.  There can be long periods of boredom interspersed with periods of tension, excitement and at times perhaps feelings of awe.  There's an old saying “use it or lose it”.  With sailing you probably get to exercise most human emotions and basic abilities.
    The sun, our compass and GPS are the only indicators we're heading the right way towards home, but it's more than enough.  One has to marvel at the skills of some South Sea islanders who can navigate over thousands of miles of open sea with pinpoint accuracy, using nothing but powers of observation. 
    It’s our intention to make a run up through Bowen Strait separating Croker Island from the mainland and by early tomorrow, we should be heading westerly past Raffles Bay and Port Essington on the final leg home.

Saturday 25th September 1993
    Just after a moonlit midnight we have our first sighting of De Courcy Head and Cape Cockburn, which lie to the east of the southern end of Croker Island.  The chart is carefully consulted and our position plotted.  There are several small off lying, reef-infested islands ahead, and our course will need to be accurate.
    After a couple of hours we arrive off the southern entrance to Bowen Strait, but it’s too far too early to attempt an entry.  The moon has gone down and the chart scale of 1:500,000 is too large for any small detail to show up.  In addition, if we wait until daylight the tide will be working against us.  All of us are awake and we discuss our choices.  The decision is that it would be too risky to attempt the passage right now.  We'll have to head up the eastern side of Croker Island and Lowana is turned northwards.
    An hour later the temperature gauge shows we again have an overheating problem.  However, for most of the trip the gauge has been reliably steady, so it’s best not to take any chances of cooking the motor.  It’s turned off and we continue under sail, although progress is slow.
    As soon as it daylight, a start is made to look at the problem.  After some preliminary checks the motor is turned back on.  Cooling water is coming through and being pumped out through the exhaust without any sign of overheating.  A lump of seaweed probably choked the external saltwater cooling intake, but it must have since washed free.

Thursday Island to Gove

Thursday Island to Gove

   There is an old sea superstition, "Never leave port on a Friday".  It portends certain trouble if you do so.  But since none of us are particularly superstitious, the dinghy is raised and secured up under the targa and other preparations are made ready to leave.  It's still early afternoon as we head westwards out Ellis Channel towards the waiting Gulf of Carpentaria.
    Booby Island takes its name from the large numbers of the species of bird roosting on it.  It's not a big place but suitable enough for a shipping navigation beacon to be sited there.  By the late afternoon we've cleared the island, and set a southwest course for the township of Gove, which lies at the northeast of the Northern Territory.

Saturday 18th September 1993
    Since leaving Thursday Island the seas have been slight to moderate, and so far it's been uneventful sailing without the thudding of the motor in our ears.  The sails are still goosewinged as they have been all night, catching the 15 to 20 knot winds pushing mostly up our tail. 
    The log is showing 116 miles but we have actually achieved 128.6 miles over the ground for the 24 hours, meaning a helpful current has been pushing us along as well.

The booby

   A booby has been following throughout the night.  It made plenty of tentative attempts to land but couldn't seem to work out how to get past the sails.  The poor bird tried some ungainly landings in the sails, wheelhouse, cockpit and even the mainsail sheet but none of them seemed to be satisfactory.  Eventually it plonked onto the bow with a spectacular nosedive onto the deck.  It's been left alone up there, and right now is asleep in front of the anchor winch with its beak tucked under its wing.
   Our lovely spell of sailing is not to last.  The wind dies and the waves subside in the early afternoon.  We struggle along for a couple of hours trying to maximise what wind there is, but the motor is reluctantly turned on later in the afternoon.

Bounty of the sea - mackerel fillets

    Not long after dark after just finishing my spell on watch, I went up to the forward berth to get some sleep.  As usual the fore hatch was propped open to catch some air and it feels good to lie down and make myself comfortable.  Before too long I'm just about nodding off when guess who fell inside through the open hatch?
    I think the booby was as startled as I was.  There is a mad scramble in the dark as I try to grab it quickly; not knowing which end has the pecking bit, while it just as desperately tries to evade me.  It's squawks of protest do no good as our bird finds itself being unceremoniously ejected out the hatch and over the side, together with any lice it may have had.
    I later found out that exhausted birds landing on a vessel often seek some warmth below decks.  Apparently it's a survival thing.  Perhaps if I'd known that I might have been a bit more considerate.

Sunday 19th September 1993
    Why is it that problems seem to occur in the very early hours of the mornings?  Suddenly the orange ampere-warning lamp is glowing on the instrument panel, indicating a battery-charging fault.  The regulator is putting far too much charge into the batteries and it will cook them if left unattended.
    The wheelhouse flooring is pulled up and Paul and I both check the back of the alternator.  A loose wire is found but fixing this does not remedy the problem.  Every other wire connection that could be found is pulled off, cleaned and reconnected firmly.  Some of them are in poor state but even when this is done, the lamp obstinately stays on.
    We'll have to think a bit more about it but not right now.  We are using up good sleeping time so for the time being at least, we'll save the batteries and sail for Gove.  Everything electronic is turned off with the exception of the GPS to try and save power, and we'll just have to keep our eyes peeled whilst on watch.
    Everyone is very tired in the morning because of interrupted sleep.  Our speed has been as low as one knot and no more than three knots.  The flapping of the sails and the activity by the person on watch trying to keep the boat moving in the light airs hasn't helped.
    It's time to start troubleshooting the electrical system again.  The motor is turned on but surprisingly the ampere lamp winks out.  Just to be sure all is in order, the regulator is checked with a multi-tester, but all the readings are correct.  The batteries are also checked with a hydrometer and they are charged up nicely reading 1250 specific gravity.  I don't know why the problem has suddenly fixed itself but I'm not going to question it.
    There are times when sailing that you get too much wind, or not enough of it.  Today it's the latter so we continue to motor along through the rest of the day and night on an almost flat sea.

Gulf sunset.

Monday 20th September 1993
    The passage during the night was unexciting and in the early morning light we get our first landfall sighting of Bremer Island, which lies off Gove.  Our next leg will be towards the Victoria Islet light before a final run into Melville Bay and Gove Harbour.  As we're travelling west we wind our watches back half an hour to adjust to the local time.
    It's coming up to the third day of our crossing the notorious Gulf of Carpentaria.  The relatively shallow waters of 40 metres or so can create some rough seas at times, but for us there has been virtually no wind except for the first night.  However there's always a bright side.  Since we've been motor-sailing almost continually, the ships batteries are looking good with a charge of just under 1275 specific gravity.
    There hasn't been any further sign of our booby so I assume it must have got the huffs since being thrown overboard.  In fact we haven't seen much bird life at all since yesterday.
    After lunch we enter Gove Harbour having covered the 340 miles in almost three days to the hour.  A ship is berthed against one of the wharfs while bauxite is being loaded onto it.  A fine white cloud issues up from the ship before being whisked away by a gentle wind.  This is a pretty harbour with stretches of beach interspersed with mangroves, and navigation is relatively easy with only a few obstacles to be watchful for.  Before long we find a spot with sufficient swinging room outside the Gove Yacht Club.

Gove Harbour

    Although we are tired, there isn't much time wasted in going ashore.  The President of the club is Dave Black and happens to be an old friend of Brian's.  After the introductions, Dave arranges the usual honorary membership that travelling sailors get in cruising yacht clubs, and organises a key to the shower and laundry facilities.
    Bathing at sea with fresh water is a luxury when sailing on a boat not equipped with a saltwater desalinator.  A little bit of cleaning is first on the priorities since all the crew and their clothes are getting a bit smelly and salt encrusted.  After an hour or so we feel considerably refreshed after a hot shower and clean clothes.
    The yacht club bar is almost empty on our arrival there, but we soon start to meet some of the locals, as they begin to arrive after finishing work.  The crowd quickly swells.  The members have probably been drawn to the club to participate in a happy hour, in which the drinks are sold at a reduced price.
    The first few sippies go down particularly well.  Then a couple more sippies are followed by an enjoyable dinner, and then a few more sippies and lots of laughs.  They're certainly a friendly mob at the Gove Yacht Club.
    During the evening, Dave mentions that he is the proud owner of a classic timber yacht built in 1939, and she's moored outside the club.  Our interest is fired and arrangements are made to go out and look over her, so after closing time we work an unsteady path down to the dinghies.  
    Once again there are unstable crewmen falling out of our unstable dinghy.  Eventually we manage to get off the beach and out to Dave's yacht.  We are even able to achieve the feat of climbing aboard without falling off and drowning in the harbour.  Dave takes us on a tour of the grand lady and we're all suitably impressed with its beautiful panelling.

Tuesday 21st September 1993
    While having breakfast in the morning, we decide to go into the little township of Gove, look around and buy a few more supplies.  The yacht club is situated a little bit out of town and although there's a bus service, we're able to hitch a ride in there.  It doesn't take long to have a look around and shop in the supermarket.  Unfortunately we don't have our own transport to take a wider look further afield, so we catch the bus back to the club and take our stuff out to the boat.
    Back at the yacht club, a quick phone call is made to the local Perkins Shipyard to arrange for more fuel and water for Lowana.  A booking is made for tomorrow before we depart for Darwin.  The rest of the afternoon is spent idling at the club and talking to other yachties. 
    One couple we meet are Dave and his partner Shea.  Dave is a tall, sun-tanned individual probably in his early 30's, with thinning hair, blue eyes, laid back attitude and a winning smile.  Shea is a striking young woman with ginger hair and freckles, though a little bit more reserved than Dave.
    Dave is the owner of a catamaran which is up on the beach while he tries to fix the head, plus some other repairs involving fibre glassing and epoxy.  It's proving to be a messy business and his hands are coated with gunk that will not come off.  To make some money, Dave is working for the local mines and Shea works somewhere in town.
    They later made their way to Darwin and in due course ended up buying a steel yacht that Dave called Wanita Merah, meaning "Red Girl" in Indonesian.  Several years later I ran across them at Kupang in Timor, Indonesia during a visit.
    Cruising life can have its problems but also has considerable rewards too.  One of them is in the people you meet and the friends you make, but it's different from friendships outside the cruising yachties fraternity.  There's something special, even exciting, to drop anchor in some remote place and recognise a friendly boat, or when they arrive after you.

Wednesday 22nd September 1993
    The morning is sunny, windless and cloudless as we motor over to the Perkins wharf, where we take on 165 litres of diesel.  That brings our fuel usage to 185 litres from Mackay to Gove with regular use of the motor.  The cost per litre is higher than Darwin, but that's to be expected in these remote places.
    Just 50 metres around the corner is a place called Metaland that supplies LPG gas, so while we're here, the gas bottle is disconnected and taken around for refilling.  A fresh water hose at the wharf soon fills up the water tank.
    With the replenishing tasks completed, we return to the Gove Yacht Club where we go ashore for a final shower and collect our refund on the shower block key.

  

Hay Island to Thursday Island

Hay Island to Cairncross Island

    It's time to go again but there will be no overnight stop tonight.  The day is still calm with gentle breezes of about five to 10 knots and it promises to be another beautiful day.  The anchor is brought up and we set off again.
    During the morning we continue to motor-sail to get a charge back into the batteries for the portable fridge.  I occupy some time by doing some washing up on the bow, while the others sit around the cockpit having a chat.  While engaged in these endeavours, Coastwatch flies by with another challenge, so once again we give our details and intended passage to them.
    In the early afternoon the motor is finally turned off and we continue under full sail.  It was not to be turned back on until the next morning.  The gap between the Great Barrier Reef and the mainland between Cooktown and Cape York gets progressively narrower as we travel north.  We're sailing close enough to the coast now to see that it looks a little stark, consisting mostly of large sand dunes.  Some are almost like small mountains in places.
    Misfortune strikes in the late afternoon when the tillerpilot fails.  On inspection, a small brass shear pin has broken, and the worm gear will not engage.  An attempt is made to fashion a new temporary pin from a fishhook, but during this operation a myriad of small ball bearings spill onto the floor.  Nearly half an hour is spent on hands and knees inspecting every nook and cranny, but it's unlikely we found them all.
    The ones recovered have now got to be put back into the apparatus, which becomes a laborious and finicky process.  At length, when it has been re-assembled, it's hooked backed onto the tiller.  Immediately there are loud grinding noises and Lowana starts to turn slowly in a circle.  The worm gears are binding so the device is quickly unhooked and the boat brought back on course.  It seems we are now forced to hand steer from here on - bugger!

Wednesday 15th September 1993
    The narrowest gap in the sea-lanes for all shipping inside the Great Barrier Reef is only one mile wide between Piper Reef and Inset Reef.  The night is moonless and it's after midnight as we approach it.  There's a low swell on the sea making our sailing quite pleasant. 
    For some time we have been watching the lights of two large freighters coming our way.  A quick call on the radio establishes contact with them and we are informed that although they cannot see us visually, they have a good fix on us with their radar.  There'll be no problem and a "green to green" pass is arranged.  This means that we would pass with the other on our respective starboard sides.
    Of more concern are the lights of even bigger ships ahead and behind us.  It becomes apparent they could be upon us while we are still inside the narrow passage between the reefs.  There's nowhere to go.
    The radio suddenly bursts into life.  The master of the Atlantic Clipper heading south starts talking about a little radar blip with the master of the large container ship going north.  Neither vessel can actually see what it is.  Our skipper is galvanised, immediately grabs the microphone, and quickly confirms that the little blip is a 30-ft steel cruising yacht heading north with a crew of three.
    Once again we're told they have a good radar fix and there'll be no problem, but we still watch with apprehension as the ships loom up.  They are huge in comparison to us and we're looking almost head-on at both of them.  The red and green navigation lights on either side are clearly visible and the noise of the engines is clearly audible.
    We hold as steady a course as possible and soon, both ships steam past on either side between 100 and 200 metres away, pushing large bow waves ahead of them.  Their combined wake boils the sea leaving us bobbing around for some time, forced to hang on, but with a feeling of relief as we watch them draw way.
    Thankfully, our radar reflector in the crosstrees has done a good job, but I'm concerned that none of those ships could see our own navigation lights.  They are mounted at deck level but obviously they're not efficient in any sort of a seaway.  After this incident, I resolve that one of the first things I would do upon getting home is to put the lights at the top of the masthead.
     The rest of the night is uneventful if a little tiring.  We had to hand steer and there were a lot of doglegs in the sea-lanes through the reefs.  Thankfully they were well marked by navigation beacon lights.  Even so, the GPS is a wonderful time saving instrument which tells exactly where we are, without having to constantly take less than accurate compass bearings as we pitch and roll in the sea.

Approaching Cairncross Island

    It seems like it's going to be another handsome day and I'm pleased to see the dawn off Cape Granville.  The wind has shifted further aft so the sails are goosewinged.  The boat immediately shifts into a higher gear in response and for the rest of the day we make reasonable time.
    Cairncross Island is just another island fringed with coral reef but it's to be our next overnight stop.  It's late in the afternoon and the reef can be harder to see as we carefully negotiate our way in.  Eventually we're close enough to drop the anchor for a welcome layover, in what looks on the sounder to be a clear spot.

Brian on coral bombie lookout

    We've completed the distance of 160 miles in 33 hours but it's been tight sailing demanding concentration.  Despite our tiredness, the fishing lines go over the side but nothing is caught.
    Our next leg is to Thursday Island, which lies just around the most northern point of mainland Australia at Cape York.  We're going to need a start before dawn tomorrow, so we have dinner and go to bed early.


Cairncross Island to Thursday Island

Thursday 16th September 1993
    At 3:00 am a succession of clock alarms sound throughout the boat.  It's hard to drag ourselves out of bed but the effort is made and we set about getting under way.  Paul quickly checks the engine oils while Brian and I wash the dishes from the night before, and then prepare to pull up the anchor.
    Topside there is a slight chill in the air.  We can barely see the island in the darkness, but the compass tells us Lowana is hanging awkwardly towards the fringing coral reef.  We're being held in place by the current and there's not a lot of water underneath.  Any mishap retrieving the anchor could end up with us going aground. 
    Before doing anything else, the tide books are pulled out and the Secondary Port tides for Cairncross Island are calculated.  The results aren't promising.  Given the way the boat is laying and the current height of tide, we decide against raising the anchor and trying to get out to deeper water in the dark.  It would be best to wait until the tide turns and attempt it in daylight on a making tide.  We went back to bed instead.
    Just after dawn another attempt is made to get under way, but as the anchor party goes forward it looks like the anchor had dragged.  We're some 100 metres or more out to sea and the anchor chain has snagged on something down there.  Winching in the chain involves using a tool like a crank-handle, but it is impossible to turn it. 
    Paul manoeuvres the boat around in an attempt to unravel the chain from its watery obstruction, but to no avail.  Unfortunately the depth is too much to allow a free dive and we have no scuba gear.  Luckily we do have a piece of pipe that had been bought back at Magnetic Island for just this purpose.  The anchor winch has a small handle to which the pipe can be fitted, and allows a link-by-link retrieval of the chain but with much more leverage. 
    The tedious business began.  Brian and I take turns on the winch while Paul keeps the boat positioned properly.  Surprisingly there doesn't have to be a lot of pressure applied to the pipe and the chain comes in reasonably smoothly.  After half an hour the anchor had been brought in and we are underway. 
    By mid-morning we have a nice sunny day but with little breeze to fill the sails.  There's an option of following the established sea-lane or take a shortcut direct to Albany Reef.  The route is through shallower water and more attention will have to be paid to navigation, but it'll save us 10 miles.  The shortcut is taken.
    Paul decides to have another go at working on the tillerpilot again, and we're delighted when he manages to get it working again.  Without further ado it's put back into operation where it still crackles and grinds a little bit, but at least we are relieved from the drudgery of steering -- yahoo!
    Before too long the Albany Rock light is sighted at 10 miles away, marking the turning point from the east coast across the top towards Cape York.  This is the moment that I've dreamed about for some time and it's finally going to happen.  It couldn't be on a nicer day with a gentle breeze and calm seas.

Under spinnaker

    Since the tillerpilot is taking care of the steering we now have a bit more motivation to do other things.  Paul remarks that the conditions are good to fly the big spinnaker for the first time.  Brian and I look at each other.  Paul's got that familiar glint in his eye when he wants to clap on more sail.  Hereupon he's dubbed "Captain Glint" and we set about achieving this marvel.
    The bag is found in the bottom of the sail locker and retrieved up onto the deck.  All three of us get involved in the exercise, although Brian and I don't really know much about what we're doing.  Under Paul's instructions the bulky sail is laid out ready while he carefully explains the procedure for getting it up there and controlling it.
    In due course it's hoisted and starts to billow out without snagging or twisting.  Paul stands up forward giving directions to Brian and I controlling each sheet, and the spinnaker is brought around to the best position to catch the wind. 
    This is the first time any of us have seen this sail, which looks very large and majestic flying up there, and we revel in the shade it cast.  The colour is a reddish-orange with a big blue eye sitting right in the middle looking out on the world.  It seems to say to us, "Who are you puny individuals, and why have you taken so long to release me?"
    The boat also seems to glory in it as it quickly picks up speed and soon we feel another new experience of sailing at a quick pace while the boat is relatively level.

Cape York in the distance

    The fun is not to last.  By mid-afternoon we are approaching Cape York itself when there is a loud bang that gets our hearts started.  Startled, we look up to see the spinnaker falling into the sea beside and ahead of the boat.  The noise had been the spinnaker halyard snapping, but we'll have to move quickly to prevent the sail going underneath the boat.
    Thankfully all of us are still nearby sitting in the shade and our reaction is swift.  Madly we start pulling all that cloth out of the water back up on board before it can wrap around the propeller, which is spinning freely against the drag of the water as we sail along.
    We have become a practiced team and with a minimum of fuss a jib headsail and the staysail are hoisted, and we're soon on our way again without losing too much momentum.  Nobody wants to volunteer to climb the mast to rig another spinnaker halyard, so the spinnaker is left to dry out on deck before being packed and stowed back below again.

Thursday Island in the distance

   Later in the day we have our first sighting of Thursday Island, which is only one of a group lying off Cape York.  It's a recognised Port of Entry for vessels entering or exiting Australia, and although it's no longer a major shipping port, it's a popular place for cruising yachties to visit or enter the country.  In its heyday "TI" as it's locally referred to, used to be a major pearling centre but that has since declined, although some "seeded" pearling still takes place
    About 2,300 people live on TI itself and it's the administrative centre for the Torres Strait region.  More than 25,000 others live on 23 islands throughout the strait, and "Torres Strait Taxi's", being 3.5m aluminium dinghies with a 40hp outboard motor, are the preferred method of getting around.  They can often be seen way out in the middle of nowhere, zooming along giving every indication that they know where they are going.
    The afternoon breezes push us along steadily and by late afternoon we're inside Ellis Channel, the main access through the Thursday Island group to the township of Thursday Island itself.  The tides run very fast here at about three to four knots and our progress is slow.  Paul bumps up the revs on the motor as we make our final run.  The tillerpilot worm gear starts protesting by making a grinding noise, but otherwise seems to be working okay.
    No time is lost putting the anchor down once a site is selected.  With the tide running so hard it's difficult for the anchor to bite into the hard ground.  It scrapes across the seabed for some distance before finally digging in, and the tide quickly swings Lowana around to hang back on her anchor rode.  Paul watches cautiously for several minutes before testing the strength of the anchor hold by applying a little reverse thrust.  It seems okay but he leaves the motor running for a little while anyway, just in case.
    Now that there's time to look around, we notice a big red roof directly opposite with "Federal Hotel" painted on it.  That's fortunate, since it means less distance and thus less work for our dinghy, and its poor little two horsepower Yamaha outboard motor.

Thursday Island with Federal Hotel to right of centre

    Even so, getting ashore is an accomplishment.  The pint-sized outboard struggles gamely against the tide run, trying to keep us from being pushed clear out to sea.  Eventually we make it to shore but we end up some distance further down the beach than intended.  Some huffing and puffing follows as the dinghy is carried back up the beach, closer to a point opposite Lowana.
    It's almost dark and there doesn't appear to be too much happening around the main street, so we head directly for the hotel.  Here we indulge in a good feed and an excellent sociable night ashore.  One of the local lads brought his guitar to the pub and a big group of the islanders had a sing-a-long, while we enjoyed an almost south-seas atmosphere - plus of course a few more drinkies.
    The trip back to the boat that night was interesting.  There was much scientific calculation trying to gauge the best launching spot so as not to overshoot Lowana in the strong tidal push.  If that happened we would never be able to get back against the tide run.
    First we had to get into the dinghy and this proves to be a delicate feat in itself.  It's so unstable that sitting in it is like trying to balance on roller-skates at the best of times.  And of course there is the constant movement of the ground, normally not noticeable, that repeatedly upsets ones balance at the exact moment when someone tries to lift a foot.  At least one of the crew, and it wasn't the skipper or the boat's owner, managed to fall out of the dinghy before we even left the beach.

Friday 17th September 1993
    Despite the hangovers, some chores about the boat need to be carried out the next morning.  We find that Lowana's fuel consumption has been quite economical.  After dipping the main fuel tank it's found to be still over half full, even though we've only added 20 litres of diesel since the start of the trip.  This is despite persistent use of the motor during the 388 mile run from Cooktown, which took seven days and between 50 and 60 litres of diesel to complete.
    The main water tank is also dipped.  We've used about 145 litres since Cooktown, which makes a daily rate of about six and a half litres per man per day.  There's still about 125 litres left in the tank and in addition, another 40 litres of spare water in containers lashed on deck.
    After our little bit of housekeeping around the boat is completed, the trip is made back ashore.  With a little bit of time on our hands, we walk around the town and have a quick look at the shops.  The locals prove to be quite friendly and on the most part willing to stop and have a chat.  After an hour or so wandering around, there doesn't seem to be all that much more to see, so we grab a quick lunch and return to the boat.

Cooktown to Hay Island

Cooktown to Hay Island

   

 An hour later saw the anchor up and being secured, as we motor out of the river before hoisting sail for Cape Flattery.  It's a gorgeous day with full sun and good breezes, resulting in a fine run at times reaching eight knots while motor-sailing, and six to seven knots under sail.
    A few hours after lunchtime sees us easing our way into the shallows to drop the anchor.  It had taken five and a half hours to do the 33 miles at an average speed of five and a half knots.  Sundowners comes a little early today after the boat is secured and we've settled down.

Cape Flattery sunset

Saturday 11th September 1993
    Just after dawn the sails are hoisted with Bewick Island or maybe Barrow Island as the destination.  Breakfast will have to be on the fly today.
    Sailing conditions are similar to yesterday and we speed along quickly, reaching Bewick Island in the early afternoon.  Several fishing trawlers are sitting quietly anchored in the lee of the island, but there doesn't appear to be any movement on them.  They must rest during the day because they certainly get active during the night.  In fact they are something of a nuisance and have to be watched carefully as they weave around and about.

Bewick Island

    There's still plenty of good sailing time left so we press on for Barrow Island.  The steady winds and relatively calm seas grant another quick passage, so by the time we arrive we are faced with the same decision.  "Do we anchor up or keep going?"  The Skipper decides to make for a place called Rocky Point islet for an anchorage tonight.
    So far on this trip we've been getting mostly following winds, but today we've been really moving, getting between eight and nine knots under sail on a beam reach.  The 63 miles to the islet was managed in 10.5 hours, which is an exceptionally good run for Lowana.  It had been tiring work though, since we'd had to hand steer.  The strong winds and one metre to one and a half metre seas were far too heavy on the tiller for the little Auto Helm autopilot.
    As we make our approach to the islet in the late afternoon, Brian pulls out his game-fishing road and casts out a lure.  Soon the rod bucks and the reel ratchet screams as the line quickly peels off against the drag of the clutch.  Paul slows the boat a little to reduce the pressure on the line, but whatever is out there must be big.  After a while the line parts with a sudden snap, and our intended fish fillets for tonight's dinner swims away still in one piece.
    During the fight with the fish, Paul had let Lowana drift but now he moves her in closer to shore and behind the little islet.  Once again the anchor goes down for the night.  A large pig provides a little entertainment for a while as we relax for the usual sundowners.  It appears out of the short scrub behind the beach and wanders about the shoreline for a little while, stopping here and there to snuffle about before disappearing back into the bushes.

Rocky Point

 Sunday 12th September 1993
    The anchor is lifted at a more civilised time than yesterday.  The sun is up and we've even had a morning hot cuppa before we set out on the next leg to Pipon Island.  Even at this early stage of the day there's a strong breeze of about 30 knots, so we're only using a jib and motor sailing.  This is enough for a satisfactory six knots.
    On our arrival at Pipon Island we again find fishing trawlers sheltered in the lee.  There are eight of them but still plenty of room to allow us to work around one side, before selecting a spot to drop the anchor.
    Some fishing is in order and hand lines are soon dropped over the side.  Whilst fishing, an aircraft thunders over at mast-top, calling on the radio to the red sloop behind Pipon Island.  We recognise it as a Coastwatch aircraft, responsible for patrolling around the coast and checking on maritime activity.
    As it makes the call the aircraft banks steeply in a sharp turn, then returns towards us dropping down to mast height once again.  When we answer them they politely request details of our boat and passage.  A slight shudder can be felt through the boat as the aircraft powers close by, and there seems to be someone sitting in a window taking photographs.
    The information they request is provided and Coastwatch appears to find our answers to be satisfactory.  They offer friendly wishes for a good trip and turn away, no doubt looking for other boats to investigate.  I wonder briefly what the crewmen on the nearby fishing trawlers are feeling, having just been wakened by an aircraft flying around only metres off the water.
    The first fish we catch is a large remora.  These are suckerfish, which hang off the underside of sharks and feed off morsels left over from its host's meals.  As it's brought over the side it has the decidedly bad manners to spray excrement right throughout the cockpit.  Some of it even reaches down the companionway and over the navigation table.  It's an excellent attempt at retaliation that should have brought instant death.  Instead it gains its freedom, but only because it's not a particularly edible fish.
    Our fishing efforts are not all that fruitful, and in the two hours spent fishing, we only manage to get a nice sweetlip for dinner.  The wind has risen and is now howling, bringing sharp choppy seas with it.  There had been some talk about going ashore for a bit of beachcombing, but it's far too rough to venture ashore in our unstable dinghy.  Rather than waste any more time just sitting there we agree to set off once again.

Approaching the Flinders Islands Group

    In the mid-afternoon we are approaching the Flinders Islands group, which consists of five islands within Princess Charlotte Bay roughly halfway along the Cape York Peninsula. 
    There is a navigable channel through them, which we enter on the eastern side.  Proceeding up the channel we see extensive mangroves and stretches of beach that invite further exploration.  It's a pity there's not more time available for exploration.  It would have been fun to spend some time climbing the low hills behind the beach and hunting delicious mud crabs in the mangroves.
    A couple of other yachts are anchored close in off a beach, but yachties often tend to seek solitude, so we make no contact with them.  Eventually, we find a site towards the western end of the channel and drop our own anchor for the night.  Another yacht is anchored a few hundred metres away, but they make no sign of greeting and again no contact is made.  By morning they'd disappeared, having slipped away during the night.

Monday 13th September 1993
    The anchor is weighed following breakfast and we motor out the channel.  The batteries are a bit low, so the motor is left on when the sails are hoisted once we're clear of the islands.  It took four hours of motor sailing, but by the time we reached Eden Reef, the batteries are recharged and the motor can thankfully be turned off.  The relative silence is wonderful. 
    The winds are kind to us again, allowing us to sail the rest of the way towards Hay Island, reaching speeds between six and seven knots using all sails.  As usual we relax into our normal sailing pattern of reading, chatting, sleeping or standing watch.
    Hay Island is small and mangrove covered with fringing reefs that shelve quickly up from 17 metres to seven metres.  We carefully pick our way across the coral using the depth sounder in the late afternoon, and anchor up in what looks like a clear patch in the coral.  The total distance covered today has been 48 miles in a little over nine hours. 
    Our routine during anchoring is well established now and all the necessary tasks are quickly completed.  With a little time left before dusk, the fishing lines go over the side and before too long, there is a tasty tricky snapper and a redfish for dinner.

Tuesday 14th September 1993
    The sun has not been up long but something is bothering me as I lay in my bunk.  It's a strange humming noise, which must be what woke me up.  It sounds like the wind is thrumming through the rigging but there's no evidence of wind blowing against us.  Curiosity aroused, I climb out of bed to go topside and find out what it is. 
    The morning that greets me is beautiful.  It's still cool though only a light shirt is needed.  Shafts of sunlight slant through low greyish clouds on the horizon, lighting up the surface of the sea with a silver shimmer.  Hay Island is nearby and a little further to the right.  It can be seen quite clearly with the crisp clarity that often accompanies early morning.
    The noise is coming from the sound of nesting Torres Strait pigeons in the mangrove trees on the island.  There must be thousands of them roosting over there.  The birds get their name because of their annual migratory habit from Papua New Guinea across Torres Strait to the tropical East Coast of Australia.  They arrive around September to breed and feast on the rainforest fruits on the mainland, then leave by March the following year.

Cairns to Cooktown

Cairns to Cooktown

 Tuesday 7th September 1993
    In the dark of the early hours before dawn we turn in towards Port Douglas.  It's a sleepy little place, which in later years is destined to flourish into a classy international tourism resort with outrageous land prices.

Entering Port Douglas

   For the moment it consists of a yacht marina, one street of shops and a few residential streets, but it provides a convenient spot to stop and carry out some repairs.  The genoa headsail has two rips in it needing the attention of a sailmaker, and the reverse gear on the motor will not engage.  We also need to look at the stuffing box, which has been allowing too much water into the bilges.  We figure it would be best to fix the latter in a marina rather than out at sea.  At least if there is an unforeseen problem, we can beach the boat.

Berted at Port Douglas

    There are few lights ashore as we get near, although we can make out the shape of the wharf and the estuary entrance in the gathering dawn light.  By the time we make our way up the channel, its light enough to see that the day is overcast but not threatening rain. 
    Since it's too early for the marina office to be open, we find a vacant berth and glide up carefully so as not to overshoot it.  Brian and I both jump onto the pontoon and quickly slip spring lines onto some bollards, bringing the boat to a graceful standstill.  Once Lowana is secured we indulge ourselves in a welcome brekkie of bacon, eggs and leftover stew, followed by a nice hot cup of coffee or tea.
    While waiting for the marina office to open, we set about doing some minor work.  I manage to get the face off the Sumlog instrument which had been damaged during sandblasting in Mackay, and straighten the pointer needle without breaking it.  Paul fixes the latch on the head door, which had broken during the big seas.  The occupant at the time had been flung out into the saloon much to his sudden dismay and disgust.  Meanwhile, Brian sets about topping up the main water tank and generally tidying up around the boat.
    By the time these tasks are finished the marina office is open.  We make our way up there and find the staff to be both friendly and helpful.  They assure us there's no problem with us using one of their berths for the day to carry out repairs, and are kind enough not to charge any fee. 
    We didn't have to look too far to find a sailmaker to fix our headsail.  While waiting for the sail to be repaired we take a walk around the small township to discover it's a quick trip (there isn't a lot to see.
    The reverse gear repair turns out to be relatively simple, although getting down in behind the motor and underneath the cockpit once again is not a lot of fun.  It's just a matter of re-connecting and adjusting linkages.  The stuffing box is also located down in that cramped little space, but Paul is able to tighten it up with a packing wrench we manage to find on board.
    After lunch we return to the sailmaker and collect the sail.  He only charged a modest fee for it, which we thought was good of him.  On return to the boat, the berthing lines are released and we move smoothly away from the pontoon, before turning around and heading back out the main channel towards the open sea. 
    The rain has cleared up and it's turned into one of those beautiful windless days, great for sitting on a beach but not for sailing.  Even so we put up all sails with the motor still running and head out of Port Douglas for our next stop at Cooktown.
    Once it turns dark the wind springs up.  We are running under sails only and the big seas come up once again.  The further north we go the closer the Great Barrier Reef edges towards to the coast, and the sea-lanes become narrower.  It's even more essential to pay attention to navigation so as not to wander too far off course, as there's not too much room for error.
    The night is pitch black out there and it's a little hairy scooting along at about seven knots, even though the sea-lanes are well marked with beacon lights.  Navigation is easy with the aid of a GPS but in addition to regular plotting of our position on the chart, I find myself drawing imaginary lines between the lights to the front and rear.  Offshore currents often sweep a boat too far to the left or right of track and one must be on guard against them.  At times like this one really has to admire the skills of olden-day sailors without GPS or lights, or even charts.
    Later in the evening the seas become quite heavy so all sails are dropped with the exception of the jib, and we motor-sail for the rest of the way to Cooktown where we will take a short break from our trip.

Wednesday 8th September 1993
    Once again it's in the early hours of the morning as we nose our way carefully into the small Endeavour River, but there are lights ashore to help us find our way.  We've completed the 70 miles from Port Douglas to Cooktown in 14 hours and Paul is happy with that.  After some scouting around checking depths and allowing for tidal runs, a spot is selected and the anchor finally dropped.  No time is wasted in getting to bed for some well earned sleep.
    There's not a lot of movement aboard Lowana until much later in the morning.  The day is fine with cloudless skies.  The heat and humidity is already starting to bear down on us, and now that we can relax at anchor there seems to be a little bit of lethargy among the crew.  The prevailing mood is one of contentment to just sit around, drink a hot brew of tea or coffee and relax for a while.
    Cooktown has a little bit of interesting history.  It's so named because Captain Cook beached his famous ship HMS Endeavour here, after it was holed on the reefs further out on 11 June 1770.  He'd been unaware of the extensive reef system closing in on him from the east.  He'd managed to get back afloat by throwing heavy gear like guns overboard, and wrapping canvas around the hull.  The ship was then brought over to the mainland with the crew madly pumping the bilges out.  The place where he went aground is now named Endeavour Reef.
    Captain Cook only stepped ashore at a few places on the Australian mainland.  This was one of them.  It took 48 days for him to repair his ship and from here he was able to see a possible escape channel through the reef out to the open sea.  When the repairs were completed, he was able to work his way through the enclosing net of coral reef, out into the open waters of the Coral Sea beyond.     

The Endeavour replica berthed in Perth WA

Still, there's not much point in visiting a place if you're just going to sit on the boat, so the dinghy is lowered and we make the short trip ashore.  We land on the shore not far from the actual spot where Captain Cook had beached his ship.
    The discovery of gold at Palmer River swelled the township in 1873, but today it's a small place of under 2000 people.  Most of the stone buildings date back a century and the museum built in 1888 was originally a convent school run by Irish nuns.  It now contains original artefacts from James Cook's vessel, aboriginal history and reminders of the gold rush days. 
    We walk around the main street for a time checking the shops.  One of them sported a recent clipping from a newspaper in the front window, complete with photograph, of a large saltwater crocodile in the river right where Lowana is now anchored.  This interesting little bit of news is carefully filed away and extra care will need to be taken when getting into and out of the dinghy.  None of us want to contribute to the beast's already healthy growth rate.
    No doubt there are tours and touristy things to do, but the local hotels need to be checked out too.  In fact they are positively beckoning to us, hitting us with blasts of air-conditioning and the prospect of a long awaited cool drink.
    With a degree of self-restraint that our respective mothers would be proud of, we complete our tour of the main street, before selecting a suitable watering hole.  We then proceed to spend agreeable time in it, talking with some locals and among ourselves.  Any previous feelings of sluggishness has dissolved.

Thursday 9th September 1993
    In the morning we're still feeling a little bit bushed and perhaps a little woolly headed, so the decision to spend another day in Cooktown is quickly and unanimously made.  But before we have any more fun ashore there are a couple of housekeeping things to do.
    First is to check the fuel and water.  We put 20 litres of diesel-fuel into the main tank and then top up the main water tank.  The boat is opened up to air it out and all mattresses and cushions are brought on deck to dry in the sun.
    There had been plans of cooking some lunch on the barbecue plate hanging off the aft safety rails, but while we are fiddling about someone manages to accidentally drop the plate over the side.  Remembering the newspaper clipping from yesterday, no one is game enough to go down and retrieve it so we simply have to kiss it goodbye.  It's a wise decision in any event, since the water is muddy and it would mean groping about down there.  Alternative arrangements are made for lunch.
    With the chores on board done we can now go ashore, but not for play yet.  Some more groceries are required and we should top up the LPG gas bottle.  Our next port of call will be Thursday Island and it's over 700 miles of uninhabited coastline away.  I'm also concerned about the ship's 12-volt wet-cell batteries.  The specific gravity is too low and they are not accepting a charge from the alternator.  I think the power demand of the portable fridge/freezer has been too hard on them.  It would be best to get another couple of batteries to be on the safe side.
    After loading the gas bottle into the dinghy, we climb in and go ashore.  A petrol service station is soon found offering wet-cell batteries and two new units, one of 120 amp-hours and the other 90 amp-hours, are purchased.  The prospect of lumping these heavy batteries back to the dinghy is not appealing but the agent, after seeing we have no transport, kindly offers to deliver them for us.
    After topping up the gas bottle we found we'd only used about a quarter of the contents, but in any event it's best to ensure we don't run out should we be delayed along the coast somewhere.  This time the bottle has to be carried and on the way, we stop by a shop to get the groceries.  This doesn't take long and by the time we arrive at the dinghy, the batteries turn up.
    Our purchases are all soon taken out to Lowana where Paul checks the bilges and has a look around the boat, while Brian and I set about stowing things away.  With the work done for the day, we are now free to pursue other interests.  Wonder what that other pub is like?

Friday 10th September 1993
    Brian is the one who notices the barbecue plate in the morning after we all get up.  It can be seen right beside the boat shining on the bottom in clear water, and only about two metres down.  It looks so tantalisingly close.  Finally, I can stand it no longer and donning a facemask, dive down to get it back.  It is perhaps the fastest dive in human history and in hindsight, is probably not the smartest thing to do.  In later years I was to learn that crocodiles sometimes loiter out from the stern of anchored yachts.