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.
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.
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| 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.
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| Bewick Island |
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.
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| 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.
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| Approaching the Flinders Islands Group |
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.
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