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.
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| 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.
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| Entrance to Hole-In-The-Wall |
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.
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| 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.
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| Looking back, weaving about, trying to get ahead |
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.
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| Backwards and forwards past this rock |
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.
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