Chapter 10: The Great Barrier Reef

 

28 days of sailing, 1,250 nautical miles.

Departing Bundaberg

April 22, 1984: Gliding downriver, and now furnished with a list of channel range-directions, we swung ship: aligning Suka fore and aft, and reciprocally, aft and fore, to each pair of channel markers en route. Tabulating a compass deviation table was then a matter of applying the local variation to Suka's pedestal compass bearings, and comparing these to the actual range directions. In light of our near demise on the Breakwater Spit six months previously, we were not surprised to find that the pedestal compass was in error by as much as 10 degrees, depending on the heading. Sailing 100 miles, for example, on a compass this much in error would wrench the boat some 17 miles off course. The ship's magnetic field at the pedestal compass position was undoubtedly the culprit, and for some reason this had changed considerably since we had swung ship in San Diego.

Throughout the night Suka lay placidly to her bower in the swing basin near the river's mouth. Then when the alarm rang at 3 a.m. we turned out with laggard spirits, and an hour later were motoring Suka slowly past the blinking fairway markers. Ahead lay a foreboding, lightless sea.

When the ocean swell began heaving and pitching the ketch disconcertingly, the endeavor began to seem wholly irrational. Why, I now questioned myself, would we leave the quietude of river life, only to put to sea in the cold, pre-dawn darkness? Clearly, the Bundaberg sojourn had reduced these ocean-crossing jack tars into land lubbers. Hides softened by the months of indulging in comparative creature comforts, we were now blatantly out of our element. The going, in short, proved miserable.

But the rising sun began enlivening our awful plight, and as a further solace Suka's new auto pilot was proving itself a resounding success. Every day it works, the journal quotes with a tone of mistrust, we shall count it among our most treasured possessions.

Mid day I threw out a trolling line, and soon hauled aboard a school mackerel large enough to feed us for several days. The toil of bringing provender to the galley thus accomplished, there was nothing for it but to settle into the lee bunk with half-a-cup of tea and a book, leaving the mate to apprise our seagoing plight from her vantage in the cockpit.

The cracking south-westerlies drove Suka at an animated clip, and delivered her to the entrance to Round Hill Creek with an hour of daylight to spare. We handed the sails and entered the shallow estuary, and after cautiously negotiating the shoal waters we reached the shallow anchorage and paid out the CQR into a mere 10 feet of water.

Round Hill Creek

Any notions of enjoying peace and solitude, though, were shattered with the passing of the first powerboat, which rocketed past while towing its heroic water skier. In Australia, Easter weekend is a national holiday, and the merrymakers were here by the droves. Boats wheeled past, leaving Suka bobbing irksomely in their wakes. Children swimming not far away screamed excitedly. Then with the eventide, all fell silent.

Aground in Round Hill Creek

The next day proved itself one of the more momentous in the annals of our global circumnavigation. Rising early to greet a day of seafaring, we weighed and motored slowly out the creek. The tide was two hours past high water, such that a strong current was drawing the ketch seaward. Unknown to Alan Lucas when he wrote the otherwise excellent guidebook Cruising the Coral Coast, an extensive and submerged sand bar obstructs the middle of this channel. Purely by chance we had avoided it while entering. Now, though, Suka's depth sounders (she now had two) began indicating ultra-shoal water. Because the stream was murky I could only guess which way to spin the wheel in search of deeper water. A scant few seconds later, Suka's keel bounced hard against the sand bottom; she lifted imperceptibly and shuddered to a halt. Apparently my turning to starboard had not been the correct choice.

Because the tide was receding, speed was of the essence if the ketch was to regain her freedom. Frantically, we retrieved the dinghy from beneath the salon table, and inflated it using the foot pump. After lowering the tender over the lifelines, we fitted the outboard motor. Using the lead line, I then sounded the surrounds, and found the deeper channel lying to port. Back aboard Suka, after turning the wheel hard over, away from the slant in order to protect her rudder, I then flaked the kedge rode from its forepeak naval pipe. After motoring a Danforth laterally toward the channel, I returned aboard and with every ounce of strength we could muster we winched Suka across the sandy shoal, toward deeper water. Racing the ebbing tide, we struggled until lungs ached and muscles stung. How far the ketch was actually moving in a favorable direction, and how far the anchor was simply dragging toward her, was uncertain, but in an hour's work we had winched aboard about 300 feet of rode, in three stages of advancing the kedge farther out. Then lady luck stubbed her toe and fell flat on her face; Suka encountered a slight rise in the seabed abreast the deeper channel, and despite our utmost efforts she refused to continue. So as the tide kept ebbing, the brig began listing, ever slowly but inexorably.

With nothing better to do, we decided to set a second kedge, and in doing so I nearly lost my dinghy, outboard, oars, and even my mate. Jenny volunteered to climb down into the dinghy, and to deliver the anchor laterally away from the ship. A strong current flowed seaward, and while the intrepid Miss motored away laterally, I paid out rode. The ebbing current was sweeping the anchor line seaward in a mighty arc, as it had done the four times previously while I had motored the primary kedge, and this required a certain haste on our parts. Wishing Jenny to set the anchor as far from the ship as possible, I motioned her to continue. Then when I could pay no more slack I waved for her to heave the kedge overboard. She hesitated, though, suddenly fearful that in shifting aft, she might upset the boat. And as the dinghy motored ahead with its kicker's throttle wide open, strain came on the line; strain I could not relieve by casting off because the rode's bitter end was made fast belowdecks, and because I had no knife at hand with which to slash the line. The outboard motor, now struggling against the line's drag, pulled the anchor's 15 feet of hefty linked chain over the dinghy's transom. Jenny reacted by grabbing for the chain, but as she shifted her weight aft, indeed, this unbalanced the tender dramatically. With her weight, the anchor and chain's weight, and that of the engine all brought to bear at the dinghy's stern, the boat nearly capsized, aft end first. Had it done so, the oars, lying loose, would probably have been lost, and the overturned dink would have likely been swept out to sea.

At least, we later reasoned, the tender was of the inflatable type. At any rate, a distressed woman's scream can be a device of utility, and as the shoreside onlookers were now alerted, who knows, a rescue may have ensued, had one proved necessary. Strengthened by fear, though, Jenny wrestled the 35 pound plow, now a great deal heavier due to the rope drag and the weight of suspended chain, and here her weight-lifting workouts paid a dividend. Struggling, she managed to lift the plow free, and to release it overboard with a splash. To my immense relief this righted the dinghy.

Suka's propeller soon exposed itself to view, as though requesting a thorough scrubbing. That job finished, the decidedly lacking comfort factor aboard the severely listing domain suggested that rather than remain aboard, awaiting the flood tide, we might as well venture ashore. Without the slightest doubt, the careened brig was not going anywhere for awhile. So, rowing ashore we ambled to the monument commemorating the so-called birthplace of Queensland. Here, Captain Cook reputedly landed in Australia for his first time. To commemorate the historic date the township's forefathers had named their nearby town 1770.

Suddenly the thoughts occurred to me that Suka's port deck now lay underwater, and that Suka's decks leak! Hurrying back to the beach we paddled to her, and boarded. Climbing down into our aslant home and opening the larboard lockers, indeed, we found the turn of the bilge somewhat flooded. The severe listing had rendered Suka's main bilge pump useless, so the pressing task at hand was to remove the locker's sodden contents and to begin hand-pumping the brine, using a portable unit.

Slack Water

Following slack water, the current reversed its flow. An hour later the rising tide began buoying the hull, and eventually this lifted the leaking deck above the water's surface, and freed me from the pump. A quick check showed that the engine had held its oil, the diesel and fresh water tanks their contents, and that the ponderous motorcycle had not rolled off the afterdeck. And with that, the crew's spirits ever rose with the incoming tide.

Clambering about our listing home was arduous. To venture belowdecks, one stepped into the hatchway and onto the salon wall. After climbing down onto the chart table, the most expedient means of moving forward was to tread along the settee's edge while holding onto the opposite fingerboard. Nevertheless, as the afternoon wore on, Suka continued righting. But the deepening water rose asymptotically: more slowly as it approached its maximum. For half an hour the ketch remained nearly vertical, yet her keel held fast. When we had nearly abandoned hope, and had resolved ourselves to enduring another tide cycle, she started bouncing. I had winched both kedge rodes taut as steel bars, and I now gunned the engine. Perkins wailed; still, Suka bounced in situ. After an anguishing 20 minutes, when our hopes were again wearing thin, the bow suddenly slewed to port, and the keel skidded toward the anchors. Our sailboat had been released from the surly bonds of earth.

Swinging gleefully into the channel, which was obscured in murky water, we re-anchored by the bow, and began reorganizing the chaos belowdecks. The day was far spent, so after rendering the Lord due gratitude for Suka's well being and for the renewed hope of her crew, we weighed and returned the short distance to the anchorage, and began airing the sodden contents of the port lockers.

This was a training voyage, and we were learning bountiful lessons. Today's secondary lessons were: stow the dinghy inflated, lashed topsides, and at the ready, and make fast its oars; and, do not secure the kedge's bitter end belowdecks. The primary lesson was: do not navigate shallows during a strongly ebbing tide.

The following morning, the mood inside the cabin was entirely bereft of the pressing urge to sally forth in haste. Suka would await near-low water, such that should she run aground again, the rising tide would soon float her free. Anyway, the previous day's exertions had flagged our get-up-and-go, leaving us even more determined to improve our cardiopulmonary capacities. Accordingly, we pulled ashore and went jogging.

At ten o'clock, two hours before slack water low, we pulled anchor and began motoring slowly out the channel, the brig's trepidatious crew bearing first-hand knowledge of the seabed's layout. Twice the 6-1/2 foot drafted keel nearly met with shoals; but luckily in neither instance did it scrape bottom. So at last, gainfully removed from the clutches of the river, like an eagle taking to flight the little brig spread her wings and sailed away to embrace the offing.

Beneath sunny skies and on moderate seas Suka rollicked before a 15 knot breeze, flying her new genoa proudly, wing-and-wing. Then after covering the 38 mile distance to Pancake Creek, she made for the entrance as her crew handed sails. While the skipper conned her in from the crosstrees aloft, the mate steered accordingly; and in this way Suka made way safely over the shallow sand bar and into the extensive bay. Lowering her bower into 3 fathoms of relatively limpid water, we were home for the day.

Pancake Creek

Pancake Creek

The bay was immense: nearly a mile across, so it was far too large to provide much shelter in the event of a blow. The skies were a propitious blue, however, and the raucous holiday crowd was entirely absent, so the area was pristine, secluded, and tranquil. That evening we ventured ashore by dinghy, and explored some of the territory. And as the captain's journal later quipped, we fed the voracious sand flies.

Three other yachts lay anchored nearby; one, a dismasted Hans Christian, wrecked onto a reef, we soon learned when talking with its delivery crew. It seems that the owner had abandoned ship in favor of a more suitable lifestyle elsewhere, and had hired these hands to relocate the stricken vessel to Brisbane for repairs.

Early in the morning came the rattling of anchor chain, indicating that crew's imminent departure. Jenny and I jumped to, groggily weighed, and set out astern of the dismasted vessel. Our theory was that, as both yachts were similarly drafted, if the first one crossed the bar without grounding, and if Suka was following it close behind, then without misfortune she should gain the offing in safety. The scant early morning light was not yet sufficient to reveal the nature and extent of shoals, so, teeth clenched, I could only watch the ever discouraging news indicated on the depth sounder. The overall scheme proved a success, though, if only just.

Upon the open seas the wind blew fresh and favorable, providing lively sailing. With seeming alacrity Suka made good the 30 miles to the South Channel, which separates the mainland and Facing Island, and which leads to the city of Gladstone.

The seas fronting the Queensland coast rarely exceed 60 feet in depth, and at one point Suka's depth sounder alarm suddenly bleated its awful warning. Because I had mounted the device belowdecks, well out of the companionway hatch's splash zone, Jenny scurried belowdecks to determine the sounder's reading. "Five feet!" she screeched. Considering that the sounder's transducer was positioned some three feet below the surface, a reading of five feet meant thus: 5' indicated, plus 3' submerged depth, minus 6-1/2' keel-draft, equals a mere 1-1/2' of water beneath the keel. Intent on reaching port before dusk, we were sailing full tilt, wing-and-wing, with the running strut well secured fore and aft, and supporting the big genoa far out to port, and with the main boom preventer retaining the vanged, full mainsail hard to starboard. Thus canvassed, Suka was plowing the waves while clenching a bone in her teeth, reeling along nearly at hull speed - this with an unspeakably paltry 1-1/2' of water beneath her keel. This was bad news.

I veered away toward where might lay deeper water, and then ran forward to hand the mainsail and to apprise the situation. Reasoning for a moment, I considered that at the moment we were in a commercial shipping fairway, which was well marked with buoys, and which lead to a major industrial port. So how could shoals exist in such a place? Then the thought occurred: perhaps the depth sounder's indicator had gone full circle around the dial. This new instrument had not yet demonstrated some of its more intriguing idiosyncrasies. And indeed, when Jenny double checked the flasher, she found that the water's depth was five feet plus the full-scale's sixty feet. So the emergency ended then and there, with no harm done beyond the addition of a few more gray hairs to my growing collection.

Even so, it seems that fate was not through with us yet, for as I stood on the foredeck resetting the genoa, the foreguy snapped in front of my face, caught my clip-on dark glasses, and hurled them into the sea. And as if this was the day for unlikely events, Jenny was working on the starboard deck when the boom preventer snapped sharply, caught her wristwatch, and ripped it free of her arm. Into Davey Jones' locker went the recent birthday gift from my parents. This misfortune came as a terrible blow to the mate, and as expected, my condolences that at least the watch was waterproof did little to allay her sobbing.

Gladstone

Entering Auckland Creek, we moored to one of the pile berths fronting Gladstone. This arrangement, however, proved unsuitable with the port authorities, one of whom soon happened by and banished Suka to what the locals referred to as "the duck pond." This was a spacious harbor dredged from an expanse of smelter tailings. A more barren and gloomy wasteland would be hard to imagine, but at least it afforded the desired shelter.

Gladstone (zoom out to see South Channel)

The Gladstone environs soon proved themselves somewhat analogous to a trap-door spider's pit: easy to slide into, but difficult in the extreme to climb back out of. Our former intentions were to transit the adjacent and much touted Narrows, a channel passing between the mainland and Facing Island. But we now learned from the locals that the channel was so shallow that yachts in transit must await a spring high tide, and even then, a vessel of Suka's draft would find it a touch-and-go proposition; or perhaps worse, a touch-and-skid-to-a-halt one. Sailing downwind through the Narrows would have been a simple matter, were all to go well, but the Round Hill Creek episode had left us in no moods to risk grounding on a spring high, only to lie beneaped for two weeks. Two alternatives presented themselves, although neither held much attraction. One was to backtrack out the South Channel, forging into the remarkably unrelenting head winds and vicious chop. The second, and even less engaging option was to attempt to negotiate the shallow North Entrance.

For a week the south-westerlies sent their knuckle sandwiches down the South Channel. Temporarily waylaid, each day Jenny and I motored the dinghy on a 20 minute ride into town, and ambled the streets. We paid homage at the chandleries like dutiful yachtees, and we visited the library. And ill-disposed to rowing back to the duck pond, we exercised instead at a local gym, shedding the ennui before motoring home.

One morning the roguish weather seemed on the mend; so, eager to go we departed early. Backtracking out the South Channel, we motored Suka directly into the frothy combers. The oncoming chop pitched the ketch viciously, and each walloping crest slammed her bowsprit and catwalk down hard, and hurled a burst of spray in all directions. The conditions were wildly unpleasant, yet while Perkins strained mightily, the knot meter indicated a paltry speed of 1-1/2. However, the ketch was riding a favorable current, which increased her speed-made-good a few knots. The wind against tide helped account for the savage chop, but when the tide would soon change, then Suka would lose all of her favorable current, but little of the adverse seas. After pile driving slowly ahead for four hours, the bludgeoning grew so severe that the ship's structural integrity seemed in peril. Far short of the channel entrance, I could only concede a stalemate. Suka had fought a good fight, but King Neptune had bested her this time. Hope forfeited to the insuperables, we turned tail.

Now garbed in hard-drawing sails, the little brig fairly flew back to port. Even so, she reached the protected Duck Pond not until well after dark, and there her crestfallen crew collected the pendants of her former mooring, and bitted them home once again. One of the toughest days in Suka's chronicles had netted her no gain.

The following day the weather worsened considerably, lessening the disagreeableness of our presence here in the protected anchorage.

A few days later the tempest abated, so, equipped with the appropriate charts and with a great deal of information gleaned from the locals, we departed with the intention of navigating the shallow North Entrance. Before long the first shallows presented themselves obdurately. The ship's sounder indicated a scant 12 inches of murky brine beneath her dancing keel, and with that, the challenge of undertaking a ten mile stretch of such shoal infested waters suddenly lost the whole of its intrigue. We turned back.

Not wishing to apply for permanent residence in Gladstone, we decided to attempt the South Channel once again. This time, the oncoming wind and chop proved not nearly as strong, and Suka eventually won back her previous turning point. A ways farther, we elected to leave the shipping channel, and to skirt the southern terminus of Facing Island by slipping through the expansive shoals well off-shore. This route would save us a great deal of bashing to weather. All went well until we encountered shallows, and soon found ourselves barricaded. Searching for the way through the coral reefs, we meandered hither and yon, until finally I managed to climb the wildly flailing mast, from where the way to deeper water lay revealed.

Reaching the offing

To her crew's inexpressible relief, Suka reached the offing. At last she had escaped the surreptitious maws of the duck pond. Waves were marching past rather large, and as the journal excerpts: Not having yet found our sea legs, we're both undergoing a touch of sailing wither. Nevertheless, the act of sailing at a fast rate, and in a favorable direction rejuvenated us, for despite the queasiness, it felt wonderful to be under way again.

The way ahead lay reasonably clear of obdurate reefs and other telluric navigational hazards, so we pressed on throughout the night. Indiscernible in the Cimmerian darkness, two rocky islets lay somewhere in our path, but every few hours the sat-nav would bleat an acquisition, and by plotting its position fixes we managed to steer well clear. Even so, the watchkeepers remained attentive, although in so doing they spent a sleepless night. This was the singular instance during the 63-day passage inside the coral-studded Great Barrier Reef that we sailed from dusk to dawn. And we considered that one night of bearing such anxiety more than sufficiently augmented our voyaging experiences.

Cape Townshend

Running before brisk south-westerlies, Suka cruised throughout the following day, and reached Cape Townshend in the early afternoon. This entrance lacked a bar, and its bay contained sufficiently deep water. So reaching the anchorage was for once mercifully safe and easy. After setting the bower we retired below, each in turn for an invigorating hot shower, after which time the cook prepared a round of hearty steak-sandwiches. The desolate and rugged headland beckoned come explore, so after enjoying a short but revitalizing nap, we pulled ashore in the ship's tender.

Next morning we rose at four a.m, brewed coffee and read scripture according to our daily practice. The cook retired the dishes, and busied herself stowing the bedding and tidying the cabin while the mechanic checked the engine oil and coolant level, then cleaned the engine's raw water intake strainer. Once the engine was running, together and hand-over-hand the jack tars hauled aboard the ground tackle then catted the anchor into its bow roller. Swinging the bucket's rope lanyard over the lifelines and hauling aboard seawater, the first mate of the foredeck sluiced and brush-scrubbed the dura-mud from the anchor, chain and the foredeck, while the commanding officer navigated Suka away from the night's anchorage and toward deeper water. Once in the clear, the shell-backs trimmed the self-steering gear, and made sail. Then while the salt fed chain into the naval pipe, the gob performed genuflections belowdecks, dragging chain into its locker in the bilge, abaft the mainmast. Then left to greet the new day of sailing, our crew of two relaxed in the cockpit to apprise the scenery. Thus, save for the upcoming 19 day stop-over in the city of Cairns, this routine was to become our morning ritual for the succeeding two months, as the little brig plied the passage behind the Great Barrier Reef.

On this particular morning Suka ambled along at four knots, wing-and-wing before ever-slackening wind and seas. Beneath sunny skies she cruised among myriad high and steep-to rocky islets, as the eyes of her crew feasted on the sights of craggy, tree-crested bastions of rock that jutted abruptly here and there from the sea.

Later that afternoon as we approached the day's objective, Middle Percy Island, a large ketch motored past, bare poled. Hailing with uplifted beer cans, the rowdy gang quashed our hopes of enjoying Middle Percy's quietude, as undoubtedly they also were bound for the only suitable anchorage within reach.

Middle Percy Island

Anchoring in West Bay, while trying to disregard our graphically inebriated neighbors, we ventured ashore and enjoyed a long walk through the woods, exploring some of this capacious and intriguing island. Sulfur-crested cockatoos - large, snow-white parrots - cawed from the trees. Members of this species were to prove abundant in the islands within the Great Barrier Reef, and their raucous outcries were to become a familiar feature of the soundscapes.

Returning to the beach we examined an A-frame structure, and a shed crowded with all manner of seaborne relics inscribed with the names of visiting yachts. The flotsam included planks, driftwood, old oars, various pieces of boats, fishing floats, glass balls, and the like. Each piece had been more or less carefully inscribed upon, sometimes decorated artistically, and left as a momenta of the particular crew's visit. The ambiance reminded one of a Queensland nautical archives bereft of the frosty lagers.

During the night Suka rocked and rolled to the heated rhythm of a swell working into the bay, which by morning had twinged the mate's countenance sea-green. Departing early, Suka filled away in somewhat wild conditions. Digby Island, her next stop, lay but 20 miles farther on, and she covered the distance with speed.

Arriving at the Beverley Group, of which Digby is a member, we were unable to correlate the layout with that depicted on the chart. The singularly outstanding landmark, Pin Islet, shown as a 110-foot high chunk of rock lying 2/3 of a mile off-shore the Digby-Keelan reef, was missing. No matter how intently we scrutinized the seascape, the islet was not there. This was disorienting. Were the ship's compasses in error, due to some local magnetic anomaly, and perhaps were not these the Beverley islands, as we imagined? I bore away to gather thinking room, then when seen from a different angle, Pin Islet presented itself, indeed in its charted position. The afternoon's peculiar sunlight had caused the islet to seem to blend in with the background island.

Making for the pass, we dowsed the sails and motored ahead. Suddenly a malicious swirl of wind caught the chart, previously wedged between the steering pedestal and the cockpit-well, and flung it overboard. We needed that chart in order to navigate the anchorage safely. Moreover, it would prove its worth the day following, during the jaunt among several capacious reefs, awash or dangerously barely submerged. Luckily, the chart remained afloat, and after I had wheeled the helm hard over and circled back, a wave conveniently lifted the publication to deck level and Jenny snatched it.

Digby Island

Remarkably, both depth sounders were on the fritz, requiring us to revert to the time-honored sounding technique. So as Suka escaped the wild, frothy sea and entered the relatively placid anchorage, Jenny stood on the foredeck slinging her lead line. The old ways were indeed proving the more reliable.

Desolate and uninhabited, the island seemed a suitable place to carry ashore the assault rifle we had purchased in Bundy, and to plink away a few rounds at a chunk of driftwood. The firearm abided in a hidden niche I had constructed under the chart table, where it would fall into hand at the tug of a short cord. I had drilled Jenny regarding the safe handling of the weapon, on fingering its safety mechanism, on loading, fitting, and on expelling the magazines, but neither of us had fired the piece. So with increasingly splintered nerves and ever decreasing accuracy we triggered away a dozen deafening rounds.

As the tide rose, the seas began steamrolling over much of the offlying protective reefs, rendering the anchorage less than ideal. The conditions without were boisterous, and a great deal of wave energy was now leaking into the refuge. So we woke early the following morning feeling tousled. Before rising, we lay in the pre-dawn darkness listening to a weather broadcast. Suka rolled heavily; the pre-dawn night was cold and blustery; and the scene wreaked with insecurity. "Well, I suppose you're wondering if it's worth getting up today," the broadcaster asked whimsically. "No, it isn't; go back to sleep."

The light of dawn illuminated Suka's deeply reefed canvas faintly as she galumphed away, well-heeled to the zesty south-westerlies.

Mackay Harbor

Arriving at the town of Mackay in the mid afternoon, and entering the harbor, we found a familiar yacht lying among a dozen others. Jim Holman and Betsy Hitz had been friends of ours since Tonga days, and with them we enjoyed a pleasant reunion. That evening the two crews spent a congenial evening aboard Cheers, relating travels and comparing plans regarding our upcoming crossing of the Indian Ocean. Departing Fiji, they had sailed for New Zealand, and after a lengthy stay there had traversed the notorious Tasman Sea, sustaining a particularly fierce storm before closing the Australian coast at Sidney.

After spending two nights in the harbor, Suka departed at dawn. And after gaining open water she found herself in lumpy and confused seas. These were to the dismay of the mate, who worked on the heaving foredeck bucket-and-brush-scrubbing the thick harbor mire from the chain and anchor, while tirelessly sluicing the ground tackle and foredeck with pails of seawater. Gradually, though, the seas moderated, the wind steadied at 10 to 15 knots, and the sun dissipated the haze. The 44 miles to Thomas Island passed under keel without incident, and once there, we met with Jim and Betsy again, and shared the anchorage with them as its sole occupants. Once secure, the crews rowed ashore, and explored some of the interior, covered deeply in tangled verdure, then they returned to the coast and collected a few oysters from the tide pools.

A pair of fork-tailed swifts had entered Suka's cabin via the open hatch. One flew away at our intrusion, but the other remained, flitting about, circumspect of our every move. Soon it alighted on the topmost companionway step, where for several minutes' it apprised our abode, before flying out the hatchway.

Thomas Island

That evening Jim and Betsy joined us for a supper of tacos, a Mexican dish esteemed widely by the Aussies, who pronounced the word, "tack'-ohs." Betsy had recently written the book "Sitting Ducks," an account of certain dismaying experiences suffered earlier in their world voyage. They recounted their story, which went something like this:

One night while Cheers lay to her anchor at the southern Caribbean island of Bequia, a native man swam out and boarded, machete in teeth. Jim emerged from the companionway to investigate a noise, when the fellow stabbed him in the chest. After a protracted stand-off, Jim eventually deterred the assailant by spraying him with mace. After nearly succumbing in the squalor of a local infirmary, Jim was eventually flown to a stateside hospital. With a delivery crew, Betsy sailed Cheers out of the hurricane belt, intent on reaching the safety of the Netherlands Antilles. But en route, the yacht struck the atoll Aves de Sotavento. Unable to re-float her seaward, they proceeded to excavate a trench through the reef toward the lagoon. This Herculean effort required weeks, but eventually they re-floated Cheers and towed her to Curaçao. Jim recovered, flew to Curaçao, and he and Betsy rebuilt their wrecked but nonetheless cherished sailboat. Enrapt in their incredible tale, Jenny and I admired their determination. Incredibly, Cheers glistened in ship shape and bristol fashion.

The oncoming southerly swell wrapped around both sides of the small island, and assailed the yachts with a cross-chop from both starboard and port. And by morning the patent log indicated that we had achieved no mileage, despite the long night of seagoing discomfort. Nevertheless, the proximity of Suka's diurnal objective afforded a late start; Lindeman Island stood but a dozen miles farther on.

When finally leaving Thomas Island, we parted company with Cheers, unaware that her gleaming hull and brightwork would not hove into our sight for another month. Calm airs required a stint of motoring, initially through an intimidating tidal race that fronted the island. After we had rounded Lindeman into its lee, in a place called Gap Bay our anchor took a retentive grip on the seabed.

Trek overland from Gap Bay

The Lucas guide book alluded to a trail climbing over, and traversing the island. We pulled ashore and searched for the track's beginnings, but in vain. Finally, we began clambering up the steep and densely vegetated slopes, enrapt by the wild, sulfur-crested cockatoos cawing from the forest. As we neared the crest a small airplane on final approach buzzed overhead, gear down and flaps lowered. Following it, we soon came to a grass landing strip, associated with the nearby resort. Eventually a pathway presented itself, and led past the aerodrome, golf course, and on down to the hotel. There we assumed the role of newly arrived guests, relaxing before the swimming pool, each nursing a cold drink. The desk clerk provided us with a hiking map that depicted the walking trails, and thus equipped, we easily found our way back to Gap Beach, where Suka lay placidly, awaiting the return of her crew.

Nara Inlet

Setting out for Hook Island at dawn, and sailing the intervening 23 miles, Suka made her way into the island's famous Nara Inlet. Slashing nearly two miles into the interior, this bight provides one of the finest all-weather anchorages among the Whitsunday Islands. Imagine our dismay then, at finding the natural scenery decimated. High rocky faces everywhere bore unsightly painted inscriptions of the names of visiting yachts. One expects to find callow minded graffiti besmirching the concrete jungles, but the vandalism here in these formerly pristine wilds was deplorable.

After deploying the CQR we pulled ashore and trekked inland, following a rocky proclivity whose creek afforded a refreshing fresh-water swim. The shore lay peppered in black-lipped oysters, a few of which soon sizzled tantalizingly atop Suka's stanchion mounted barbecue, and which complemented a pair of Mackay steaks. The anchorage lay stone quiet. Flocks of sprightly snow-white cockatoos salted the nearby trees. Neighbors were noticeably absent. This, indeed, was the life.

At the first hint of daylight Suka motored out the fjord, gained open water, and flew her cruising chute smartly for several hours - until like a starving python it attacked the inner forestay, and wrapped itself stubbornly many times around the wire. Only after a protracted effort did I manage to dowse the cantankerous beast and to coerce it into its nylon cage.

The tropical sun is the scourge of the yachtsman's brightwork. Inspired by Cheers' bristol, deeply glossed varnish, we spent the morning slavishly sanding the teak skylight, the propane box trim, the companionway hatch, and the cockpit rail - while the little brig sailed merrily of her own accord. The wind freshened, but Jenny was determined to apply the first coat of varnish to the now bare wood. So, attired in a safety harness, and hanging doggedly one-handed to a grab rail, she finished her varnishing as Suka plowed through seas of following white horses.

Cape Upstart

After sailing 77 nautical miles, two hours past nightfall the brig rounded Cape Upstart. The moonlight illuminated the headland, and the anchor lights of two beam trawlers served as impromptu beacons. While keeping a close watch on the depth sounder (which I had managed to repair), we eased the brig slowly in. The bay was dead calm, and it afforded a splendid night's rest.

After a 4:30 a.m. departure, daylight revealed Cape Upstart far astern. Thus, its mysteries, which had been shrouded in darkness during our arrival, remained so during our departure. We never saw the place.

The morning wind proved mediocre, and Suka's progress was correspondingly laggard. The lack of any real speed quashed our spirits, and what happened next hardly helped enliven the day. A racing sloop, better suited to such light airs, stood astern beneath full sail, eventually passed us by, and within a few hours it vanished altogether in the distance ahead. But by then a trio of dolphins were cavorting at Suka's bow, as if to draw attention from the fact that we would not arrive in Townsville that day, as hoped.

Cape Cleveland

Reaching Cape Cleveland at dusk, we rounded into its lee, then moved as close-in as feasible, in an attempt to duck the oncoming combers. The bay was so extensively shoaled, though, that although the bower met the seabed a mere 12 feet beneath the surface, Suka stood far offshore. And the gnarly chop was only exacerbated by a counter current, which wrenched the ketch's stern around, and forced her to take the trundling combers on the quarter. The night passed wretchedly, and eventually the abuse became intolerable so we weighed and filled away into the blackness of the pre-dawn night.

Townsville

At dawn Suka rounded Magnetic Island, twelve miles farther, and found anchorage in Horseshoe Bay among a fleet of beam trawlers and several yachts lying quiescent. The setting was untroubled and picturesque.

Reputedly, the city of Townsville lacked adequate moorage for visiting yachts. The alternative was to leave the sailboat anchored in Horseshoe Bay, and to board the ferry from Magnetic Island. Suka's fresh victual lockers were in need of restocking, and the mate was in need of an Australian visa extension (the captain, for some reason, being exempt). In Bundy we had laid-in a few hundred pounds of tinned and dry goods, but we were being provident with these longer-life stores, knowing that the passage across the Indian Ocean would be a protracted one.

Bus and Ferry into Townsville

Motoring the dinghy ashore and chaining it to a coconut tree, we boarded the inter-island bus, bound, so said the coachman, for the ferry terminal on the island's far side. But the driver stopped time and again to collect school children, and in the process he detoured interminably from the main road. Finally, when the bus was practically full, the fellow steered it back to the school where the mass of shrieking, youthful energy volleyed into the playground. Then, without acknowledging the needs of his remaining passengers he headed back the way we had come, and near the half-way point he detoured to the bus terminal, of all places. Here, the fellow went inside to trifle away his coffee break, leaving all but the most stoic among us writhing in their seats.

A replacement driver eventually delivered his load of waning excursionists to the ferry terminal, and there the sunshine and the lovely surroundings began rekindling our outlooks once again - and this trend continued as the ferry made a refreshingly direct, one hour run for Townsville.

Wandering into the city, we patronized a few news stands, collected a batch of mail, then proceeded to the immigration office. There, we learned that the captain did not need a visa extension, but that the crew did. However, the clerk made it clear that visas are granted to foreigners for a maximum of six months. Full stop. She cut short our further inquiring by stating curtly, "There's absolutely no way we can grant you an extension."

My theory in dealing with bureaucrats is that if the first wood chuck won't chuck wood, then perhaps another one will. So after catching the attention of her superior, who came forward, I explained that Jenny and I were sailing en route to Darwin, and that she needed a visa extension. Over his shoulder of the superior, the clerk dogmatically reiterated her prohibitions.

"Oh no, yachts are different," the boss countered, as he began expediting our paperwork. With that, the clerk raised her eyebrows in mock shock, and gave a searing glare intended to annihilate us - as her superior slammed the appropriate rubber stamp onto Jenny's passport.

Rucksacks bulging with groceries, we returned to Magnetic Island aboard the ferry, and with no little apprehension we boarded the bus. The driver informed his passengers that he would be taking them on a scenic side-trip at no extra cost ("Oh no," we thought, "here we go again!") to Horseshoe Bay." Against all odds, we had struck pay dirt.

Evening had given way to dusk by the time Suka's crew returned aboard with their cargo of victuals, so the ensuing trip ashore to fill water jugs was in darkness. Indeed, the day had been full.

Setting out early the following morning, the little brig motored earnestly ahead, her genoa outstretched but hanging limp to the running strut. Yet despite the lack of wind, the sea was calm and the sunshine imparted its enlivening warmth.

Pioneer Bay at Orpheus Island

Thirty nine miles into the day, and by then having lost our inspiration to the calm conditions, we closed Pioneer Bay, at Orpheus Island. Here, a pair of giant manta rays paced us abeam, diving gracefully and reappearing time and again, near the surface. I conned us in from the spreaders while Jenny maneuvered Suka into the roadstead, then we backed against the plow in an attempt to set it firmly. But the anchor only grumbled, meaning that the bottom was unsuitably rocky. Weighing, relocating, and resetting the anchor met only with the same results. However, in the absence of much wind the brig required little of her anchor, so we left it at that, and retired below.

Departing at dawn, Suka filled away in an agreeable westerly. The uncommon off-shore zephyr hardly tousled the seas, and therefore it provided marvelous sailing. A schooner stood after us under full press of sail. At the sight of this, the little brig crowded on more sail, and slowly she began out-distancing the schooner, until after a few hours it lay far astern. I only hoped that her crew was being consoled by a few porpoises at their bow. For indeed, this was the first time in Suka's history that she had bested another sailboat, and admittedly we felt grand.

North Brook Island

Busying away the morning, with fine-grit paper we sanded the brightwork, then we brushed on another coat of varnish. The half-hearted wind gradually expired altogether, leaving Suka closing the nearest island and her crew lowering the bower into 3 fathoms, this at the north-western corner of North Brook Island. The anchorage here was not one well frequented, but mooring nearly anywhere was possible in such placid conditions. Ker-splash! A jumbo loggerhead turtle swam nearby. The setting was - ho hum - idyllic, and the island called, "come explore!"

We pulled ashore and carried the dinghy up the beach to a natural barricade of greenery. The absence of flies suggested that the place was uninhabited. At any rate, we strolled along the beach, then thrashed into the forest. Overhead, a canopy of branches and vines shut out most of the sunlight, and created a powerful, primordial and inner-sanctum-like ambiance. Long air roots hung in tendrils, some fastened together with intricate spider webs. The stillness was profound, yet the setting was hardly quiet. Birds of many descriptions squawked, cawed and chirped. The place had a strange, almost mystical aura. We stood in rapture, until suddenly realizing that a swarm of mosquitos had set hard upon their unsuspecting prey. The insects prompted a hasty retreat in a flurry of slapping, and once we had reached the beach, the intense sun discouraged our voracious tormentors.

Wouldn't it be fun, we suggested, to walk the three miles around the island? Soon we were clambering over, under, and around the hundreds of boulders comprising the coastline, until a few hours later the southern flanks hove into sight. The ebbing tide had exposed a vast coral reef, and here loose-footed clams lay by the hundreds, some up to 1-1/2 feet across. Jenny amused herself by gently prodding the open bivalves with a stick; each time they would spew a jet of water several feet into the air while clamming up. And as we threaded cautiously among the tide pools, more than once a lurking eel gestured threateningly, mouth agape.

Walking along a beach, while returning to the brig we encountered a sign declaring the island as a national park.

Suka departed early the next morning in a scant westerly. The day was gorgeous, and we did not mind running the engine to assist the indifferent sails. So while Perkins drummed along, the autopilot manned the helm, leaving the crew free to take advantage of the fine weather. We varnished.

Mourilyan Harbor

At noon we entered Mourilyan Harbor, dubbed "Hole-in-the-Wall" for its remarkably narrow and steep-to entrance. This port is infamous for its overcrowding and poor holding, so we were pleased to find only two of the 12 pile moorings occupied. The place was nearly deserted. Between two piles, Suka soon stood securely to her bow and stern warps, with a scant 18 inches clearance between her fragile bowsprit and the pile at one end, and the same distance between her equally fragile self-steering rudder and the pile at the after end.

After paddling ashore we walked along a road until a truck stopped and the driver offered us a lift into Innisfail. This was a quaint little town, where coursed the Johnstone River, being rather shallow but navigable. Had not Suka been on the move, here would have been a fine place for her crew to linger.

After hitchhiking back to the harbor we returned aboard, and spent the night pestered by mosquitoes.

Making a precipitate departure, Suka filled away at first light, initially across a flat ocean. The winds gradually freshened throughout the day, though, and by the time the Cairns leads hove into sight, 58 miles farther on, the white-crested waves were throwing a lively hoe-down to which the yacht was reeling heel and toe.

Cairns

Jenny:

May 19th, 26 days after leaving Bundaberg, we dropped the hook in the southern anchorage of the Cairns (pronounced cans) Harbor. During our 19 day stay, the trade winds remained strong, while unsettled weather prevailed. One day the rain would pelt down with terrific gusts of wind; the next day the sun would gleam intensely; then another deluge would beset Cairns. Such conditions were typical of the tropical rainy season Down Under.

From the south anchorage where Suka lay to her bower, the trip ashore was a 10 minute dinghy ride, with the wind nudging its transom. But the ride back to Suka from the yacht club took twice as long. With spray flying from the bow, the inflatable slammed through the harbor's short chop, requiring that we bundle in foul weather gear and wrap our purchases in plastic bags.

Cairns was a wealth of sights and sounds: boutiques, cafés and Milk Bars, pastry shops, curio stores, and Hotel pubs lined the streets. At the post office's general delivery room we mingled with travelers from all corners of the globe; it seems that Cairns was something of a crossroads for hitch hikers, jet-borne travelers, and yachtees. The town is also home port to the fishing fleet that works the waters off Northern Queensland, so here were well-stocked chandleries, marine electronics stores, docks, and yards, as well as fishing supply outlets and vendors selling fresh prawns.

Using a mobile crane, we lifted the motorcycle from Suka's afterdeck and placed it on the wharf. And whenever the sun broke through the overcast and grey sky, we explored the Cairns environs. But on drizzly days we worked belowdecks, attending the on-going maintenance projects.

Moored nearby, our friends Jim and Betsy removed the diesel from the engine room of their yacht Cheers for a rebuild. Then Suka towed Cheers to the wharf, where the crane lifted the engine to a waiting truck.

Some of Suka's wiring needed replacing, because salt water spray had corroded the terminals. Ray spent many rainy afternoons removing old wires and installing new, and more efficient electrical routings.

The sat-nav antenna was mounted vulnerably atop the mizzen mast. We wanted to buy a second antenna, a spare that we could jury-rig if we had to, so when we noticed an advertisement pinned to the yacht club's bulletin board, and offering for sale the type of antenna we needed, we left a message for the person to contact us. Oddly, though, we never heard from the seller, and many weeks would pass before we learned the true story of the advertised antenna.

One sunny day we rode the motorcycle to Kuranda, a small town nestled in the rain forest north-east of Cairns. The road led past lush orange groves then it climbed steeply, turning and winding tightly into the dense rain forest. From the top of the range we stopped to admire Barron Gorge and its waterfalls tumbling into the wide, deep ravine. The small town of Kuranda was quiet, but the surrounding forests were alive with the activity of birds and insects. We stopped for lunch at a small restaurant, and sat outside at a veranda table. Erected nearby was the establishment's unique attraction, a hollow sign serving as a transparent bee hive. The bee-keeper owner must have imagined that the bee hive attracted more customers than it repelled. After hastily eating our sandwiches, while dodging many bees zooming about the table's honey pot, we drove back to the western outskirts of Cairns. The fields of green sugar cane, topped with golden tassels glowing in the sunlight, brought to mind our arrival in Australia seven months earlier, when the fields surrounding Bundaberg had looked similar.

Once down to the flatlands and mangroves we saw how the roads and airport strip had been built on reclaimed land over mangrove swamps. We arrived at the Cairns waterfront and treated ourselves to a plateful of six-inch prawns, bought fresh at the wharf where the trawlers unloaded their catch.

On board Suka, Ray delved into the mathematics of his new wind turbine design, and I assisted by recording the prototype output measurements that we obtained with a hand-held light-beam rpm counter, an ammeter, and a wind speed indicator. Cairns was ideal for testing such a prototype, as the constant trade winds often intensified with terrific bursts.

My wind turbine project generated electricity for our sailboat, and was the perfect project for this aero and electronics engineer. I worked on the project for a couple hundred hours, and was intended to be our business start-up when we completed the voyage. (Ray-Way Products was meant to sell wind turbines. But after the voyage I lost interest in any kind of work, and decided to go hiking instead. And the rest is history.)

Whenever we met with friends for dinner or for socializing, inevitably the conversations turned to our upcoming ocean crossings. We spent one evening with the South Africans Keith and Marion Fletcher, who were on their second circumnavigation aboard their home-built sloop Tenacity. When asked about the conditions they had encountered crossing the Indian Ocean, Keith admitted "It gets a bit frisky out there."

Jim and Betsy were awaiting engine parts being sent from Japan, which meant they needed to travel almost daily to the airport, the engine dealer, and a repair shop, as well as running the interminable errands involved in an engine rebuild. We offered them the use of our motorcycle. Meanwhile, Ray had arranged to sell the motorcycle to a local shop, with the agreement that in a few weeks Jim would deliver the bike, receive the payment, and forward it to us. This was a favorable arrangement for our friends.

At the airport we collected our new weather facsimile machine, airmailed from the States, and with the box balanced precariously on my lap, Ray drove slowly to the yacht club. He installed the machine, and after learning to operate it, had the blue box whirring and chattering out weather maps. We could even print copies of a Chinese newspaper.

Two weeks passed quickly; we had finished the necessary jobs aboard Suka, and were anxious to depart Cairns. Rough seas and 30+ knot winds were reported outside the harbor, so we postponed our departure one day, then a second, and a third. Other yachts bound for Darwin or Thursday Island procrastinated also. The delays gave us an opportunity to meet other South Africa-bound yachtees, and a comradery budded among the clan of aspiring 1984 Indian Ocean voyagers.

One afternoon we met a young Swedish couple. Jan (pronounced Yon) and Britt were friendly, jovial, and spoke proficient English. Suka had been neighbor to their sloop Crypton on the Burnett River in Bundaberg. During their stay there, Jan and Britt had been away from Crypton touring Australia's outback on horseback, so we had never met. Now sharing a common goal, we quickly became friends.

Cairns departure

June 8, 1984 we departed Cairns early. By keeping a close watch on the range lights astern, cautiously we negotiated the long, narrow fairway dredged through the expansive shallows and obscured by murky water. The 20-knot trade winds laced with slanting rain lashed out fiercely.

The mountains surrounding the city are largely responsible for the local copious rainfall and the corresponding densely vegetated rain forest. As the moisture laden trade winds strike the hills, they are lifted and cooled adiabatically below the saturation point. Clouds and rain ensue. How the tourist brochures could proclaim the city of Cairns as "The Sunshine City" defied the imagination.

Once away from land, Suka turned downwind and ran northward, wing-and-wing. Within a few hours she had left the cloudy gloom far astern, and now sailed beneath sunny skies. Later that afternoon she rounded Low Islet's coral reefs, motored toward shore into its lee, and set her bower into 12 feet of water. The German yacht Hasardeur and the South African one Tenacity had arrived earlier. The Swedish yacht Crypton, the Americans aboard Joggins, and the Brits aboard Quark arrived later. All were bound across the Indian Ocean, and would be traveling more or less together in the ensuing months.

Low Islet

Spending a few hours effecting repairs belowdecks. In order to prevent the propeller from free-wheeling as we sailed, I would stop the prop by gripping the shaft tightly in my hand. Then I would brace a stick between the hull and a bolt on the prop shaft. I had tied a lanyard between the stick and the hydro-lift muffler support, to prevent the stick from dropping into the bilge, which was deeper than an outstretched arm. But while making way into this anchorage I had tried a new method of removing the shaft stick: starting the engine and throwing the transmission quickly into reverse. At that, the stick's cord had somehow wrapped round the propeller shaft, only to rip away the muffler support. This called for rebuilding the wooden framework, and fashioning a new shaft-stop stick. And while I was at it, I removed and re-caulked the cockpit drain that had been leaking into the engine compartment. Also, because this opportunity was the first one in several weeks, I slipped overboard and scraped the barnacles, coral, and algae growing tenaciously on the propeller.

The night was somewhat rowdy; the fleet reeled to buffeting winds. Sleep came fitfully.

The 62 miles to the next anchorage required an early start. At daybreak Jenny woke me saying, "There goes Quark." I sprung out of the bunk, and started the engine. Emerging topsides, we hove the ground tackle, and brought the brig under way within minutes. Silently, Tenacity had stolen away earlier. The remaining yachts departed within a few minutes of us.

From dead astern, the fresh trades whisked the fleet along at hull speeds throughout the day. After the eager yachts had sailed through curtains of slanting rain, they broke free into a world of sunny, azure skies, only to plunge into the next cloud burst. This was Jenny's and my first occasion to sail in the company of others, and we enjoyed the camaraderie. The group participation lent a great deal to the spirit of adventure.

Flying the big genoa poled out opposite the full main, Suka sailed the fastest she had ever sailed. The knot meter however, refused to budge over a corrected reading of 7.3 knots. While accelerating down the face of a particularly large and steep roller I remarked that obviously we were traveling faster than what was indicated. Inspecting the gauge, Jenny gave it a thwack, whereupon the needle jerked comically a few more increments across the dial.

We were not racing one another. Rather, the members of the flotilla were gleaning the utmost boat speeds because the consequences of not reaching the next anchorage before nightfall. This stretch was infested with coral reefs, and was no place to be caught groping about at night, particularly for those of us without insurance policies.

Cooktown

Closing the small harbor at Cooktown, the members of the fleet followed the leads and motored cautiously ahead, wallowing in banefully choppy seas. As Suka crossed the entrance bar, her sounder indicated a mere two feet of water beneath her prancing keel.

Within the protected refuge lay 18 massive beam trawlers driveling rust stains and undulating clangorously. In five columns, these were rafted abreast one-another to a large navy ship berthed alongside a concrete wharf. The nearby turning basin was barely large enough to contain one anchored sailboat, presently in residence. So when six sailboats arrived within 10 minutes of one another, their skippers found themselves with nowhere to hide. A great deal of disorganized milling about ensued. Crews sounded the seabed and deployed anchors. Vessels drifted adversely in the current. Anchors were weighed, and the skippers resumed milling about. One yacht finally made fast its tackle fore and aft, and most of the others rafted abreast it. Meanwhile, Suka rode tenuously to her bower.

Motoring his dinghy to our group's aid, a resident yachtsman offered pilotage up the shallow river. The others took advantage of the assistance, but I demurred, feeling claustrophobic enough without risking grounding somewhere upriver. So with somewhat more elbow room Jenny and I set bow and stern anchors semi-securely mid channel.

Feeling none too impregnable, after dark we relocated and made fast alongside one of the beam trawlers. The owner of this vessel was a scruffy but amicable chap, unshaven and drunk. Somewhere within the trawler city emanated the din of what must have been a round-the-clock booze binge. Radios blared in competition with the rumbling of mammoth diesels. A schnockered deck hand retched over a nearby rail. The fleet lay interconnected rather precariously with innumerable warps, old and rotten, but the steel trawlers were so stoutly built that their skippers did not seem to worry about their vessels contacting one-another, should a mooring line part. However I had to be mindful about Suka's frail mizzen boom protruding vulnerably toward the trawler aft. Using a topping lift, I pivoted the boom high overhead and out of harm's way. Then I rigged a long wooden pole extending aft, and fastened a few empty buckets to it's inboard end. Should the pole come into contact with the trawler astern, this Rube Goldburg contraption would signal any danger threatening Suka's self-steering gear.

The night was full of unfamiliar sounds. Diesel generators rumbled, strained mooring lines groaned, compressed rubber fenders grunted, and throughout the long night the fishermen's utterances identified their incessant milling-about, uneasily close at hand. Suka's motion was altogether foreign, as arm in arm she waltzed with the fleet. Her mooring lines demanded incessant adjusting, permitting us only fitful catnapping. Clearly, the brig was a misfit here; nevertheless, the place did afford her some measure of security.

With no compulsion to linger, we started the engine at the first hint of dawn, despite a vicious wind, which discouraged the other yachtees from setting out that day. And later they related dispiriting stories of mooring troubles endured throughout the day. After a long night's dreading the early morning exit across the bar, Jenny cast off and I steered along the lead markers that indicated the shallow entrance. Reaching deeper water brought genuine relief, but after Suka had sailed from under the lee of the protecting headland, green waves began erupting over her windward gunwale, and soon the spray had drenched us through.

Reaching open water, we turned downwind and steered northward. With this change in heading, the brig then ran free before the flurry, nimbly backing up and over each oncoming crest.

A few hours into the morning a rain laden squall smashed the ketch hard abaft the beam, and sent her crew scrambling. Then even though she carried only a deep reefed mainsail and a jib, the brig continued flinging herself ahead at a prodigious speed. This was fabulous sailing. Remarkably, the trade winds had been screaming northward, paralleling the coastline, continuously for a month, rarely blowing at less than 20 knots, and occasionally like today blowing nearly twice that.

Lizard Island

The ketch fairly flew past Cape Bedford, Low Wooded Isle, and Cape Flattery - each offering a possible respite. And after covering 54 miles she reached Lizard Island, at 1:30 pm. Rounding into its lee and now sailing close hauled, she bore in with the land and held it as close abeam as safety permitted. Then once down-wind of the anchorage she clawed her way sail-less toward shore, while bucking an impossibly fierce head wind that funneled over the island. Eventually she gained the anchorage: a bight well protected from the waves that characteristically wrap around any small island. And with so little fetch, the water here was flat, despite the remarkably heavy off-shore blow.

Because Lizard Island stands 17 miles from the mainland, its waters are far less turbid. The underwater clarity was not comparable to the pristine, sparkling waters of Tonga, Ndravuni, and other isolated Pacific islands we had visited, but here it was far preferable to the roily murk of the Queensland coast.

After pulling ashore and ambling about the beach front, we visited the nearby resort in hopes of buying a couple of cold drinks. The near total dearth of hotel guests, though, hampered our blending-in; the management immediately singled us out as boat riffraff. "This is private property and we cater only to our guests," the fellow stated curtly. And I had to admit that we represented no appreciable income.

On the hotel grounds we met a lizard, some 3-1/2 feet in length, sunning itself on the lawn. Rather than scurry away at our intrusion, it cautiously held its ground, as though hoping for a hand-out.

Cook's Look

The day following we ventured ashore again, and found a trail that penetrated the thickets and led up the steep mountainside. A sign read "Track to Cook's Look. Hikers are advised to carry water." As the track led ever upward, the anchorage fell away, and the views expanded dramatically. A long, heavily wooded ridge led to the windy summit, slightly more than a thousand feet above sea level. In 1770 the indomitable Captain Cook had climbed this peak, and from its vantage had "perceived the passage" through the outer reefs, through which he would sail his ship Endeavor. Indeed, Cook's passage was clearly visible as a gap between two expansive, submerged coral reefs lying far off-shore.

Virtually everywhere along the east coast of Australia where Captain Cook had landed now stood a placard commemorating the historic event. But here there was only a summit register. The last entry read: "We endeavored and now we're cooked," referring, of course, to the taxing ascent.

The descent of the mountain's opposite side was trackless. A short distance from the top lay a large circle of rocks reputed as a ceremonial ground of early aborigines. Down we went, stumbling through knee-high, dense grass obscuring loose rocks, until at last we reached the seashore. This remote sector of the island appeared to be seldom frequented, and we collected a few attractive sea shells and a large glass-ball float.

Howick Islandx

Departing the next morning, Suka lashed along with a 20-knot quartering wind, and arrived at Howick Island in the early afternoon. This was a jumping off point for the long stretch to the next anchorage, so the brig would tarry the night here. The holding was uncertain, and the island uninviting - being beachless and thickly covered in mangroves to water's edge. So for once we remained aboard.

The radio was disseminating gale warnings for the area, and the wind already had grown ferocious. The night was long and rough; Suka bounced and gyrated so wildly in the confused seas that sleeping was out of the question; nevertheless, we were most thankful for what protection the island afforded. By 3 a.m. the conditions began slackening, allowing us 2-1/2 hours of sleep.

At dawn the brig made good her departure, her crew anticipating a wild day at sea but anticipating prospects of better shelter at Flinders Island, 52 miles farther on. Sailing coastwise from Borrow Point to Cape Melville proved an exacting navigational exercise. A horizon-blanketing haze obscured the distant channel markers. So we spent most of the day insuring that Suka held to the restricted inner shipping channel - this by plotting cross bearings of land forms identifiable on the chart.

Here, the hand-held compass proved its worth. As an aside, many brands of hand-held compasses have an unacceptable swing-error aboard a pitching, rolling, and heaving ship; and incidentally, I had found it impossible to simulate this motion in the store, while comparing the various models. But having owned a few of the less expensive types, I knew that their cards, which were steady enough in calm conditions, became disconcertingly animated when the seas roughened.

We were now plying the shipping lane. The steamers were few, but each one gave us a generous dose of adrenaline. Because barely submerged coral reefs threatened on both sides, we dared not stray too far from the fairway in yielding to the big ships. Invariably, though, the captains of these mammoth vessels proved alert, and afforded us plenty of berth.

Boisterous conditions are to be anticipated when nearing any great cape during burly conditions. Accordingly, as she rounded Cape Melville, Suka encountered ever increasing wind and seas. But as we were dowsing the headsail, the flogging canvas hour-glassed around the headstay. I had not yet learned to reeve the jib sheet through the eye in the whisker pole's end-fitting. Instead, I had simply attached the fitting to the jib's clew. And now because the sail refused to douse, the pole attached to it commenced acting like a battering ram gone berserk. Its forward end was out of my reach, and its after end was attempting to bash the smithereens out of anything in its way. Eventually I managed to wrestle the spar into submission, and remove it from the sail, but not before it had kicked a few dents in a fiberglass dorade vent. Then what little sail I managed to subdue, I lashed to the catwalk.

(From that day on, we attached a topping lift, a foreguy, and an afterguy to the pole. And we reeved the jib sheet slidably through the pole's end-fitting. In this way, the headsail was more or less a separate entity from the pole, and in a heavy blow, the task of dousing each, in turn, was far easier.)

Rounding the headland into its lee, we found not calmer conditions as expected, but fierce winds and incredibly steep, confused seas. This environment was unquestionably hostile. With her deep reefed mainsail paid well out, and with her jib wrapped inoperatively about the headstay, Suka's weather helm was nearly unmanageable, yet in the fury of the moment we were unable to hoist a balancing staysail. Despite my wrestling mightily with the wheel, a few times the ketch broached hard, swerving calamitously out of control. Each time she plummeted down the face of a breaking wave and rolled ponderously onto her beam end, slashing the main boom into the water and bulldozing green water with her lee deck. Concealed reefs lay downwind, preventing our sailing off the wind, so our only option was to persevere.

Once in more open water, my brave companion crawled forward to clear the jib. She worked on the thrashing, wave-swept bowsprit for 15 minutes, while I wrestled the helm like Attila the Hun. Then after the mate had cleared and re-hoisted the jib, I winched home its sheet, and at last Suka found her equilibrium. With control of the ship regained, I was free to shoot a few compass bearings and to plot our approximate position. Meanwhile, Suka flung herself through the reef infested seas, the occasional rogue wave engulfing her, beam on. Twice the hull was sucked down into a smother of foam, both decks submerging together! The sensation was literally a sinking one, but each time, the seething maelstrom lost its grip and Suka struggled free.

Then while approaching Flinders Island the incredible happened. The wind hushed to a whisper, the seas flattened, and the brig coasted nearly to a standstill. Incredulous, we sat aboard the ketch as it bobbed gently on the now placid water, her storm sails deeply reefed. Distrustfully, we waited, expecting the gale to suddenly knock the sailboat hard over once again. But it did not.

There was nothing for it but to shake out the mainsail and rouse the engine, and thus Suka motor-sailed through the Owen Channel between Flinders and Stanley Islands - both, incidentally, named for early explorers of the area. And as if the ordeal had been but a figment of the imagination, the hook slipped into perfectly calm water on its way to the bottom; the roadstead was striking in its utter serenity.

Flinders Island Fuel barge

Two beam trawlers swayed lazily to their anchors in the distance, while close at hand floated a red barge, unattended and moored to the sea bed. That night we would dub this barge "The Midnight Surprise."

In the middle of that coal-black night a hoard of beam trawlers converged upon the barge, congregating to unload their prawns and to resupply their crews with fresh stores. Tonight happened to be party night for the fishermen, most of whom were having a jag on. We should have moved, but I was in no mood to be roused by these scalawags, so stood fast and defended our position doggedly. Clearly though, Suka was at the disadvantage, for each of the dozens of trawlers outweighed her perhaps 20 to one. One behemoth reversed nearly into her bowsprit, and when only a few yards away its prodigious engines erupted, its stern hunkered low, and its prop blast sent the brig reeling. The trawler lumbered slowly away leaving me wondering if the act had been an inebriated close call, or an aggressive prank. A few hours later, though, they had all gone away.

Stanley Island

The Midnight Surprise Anchorage was probably to remain altogether quiescent for another week, but we weren't taking any chances. So at the crack of dawn the brig's crew relocated her from the grisly barge, sailing around Stanley Island, only to come upon some 20 trawlers peppering Stokes Bay. In quest of solitude, we shifted half-a-mile north to an empty cove, and after securing the ketch, we pulled ashore and explored afoot what small portion of the hinterland proved penetrable.

Late afternoon, a trawler steamed into "our" bay and anchored directly astern, a somewhat displeasing act after last night's encounters. We were in no moods to endure more of these ubiquitous fishermen's capers.

Directly, the skipper hollered to us, "We're having prawns and rice if you two would like to come join us for tea."

This gesture came unexpected; the man seemed friendly, and appeared atypical of the stereotyped, unrefined characters usually seen aboard the prawn trawlers. The sight of a woman aboard, apparently the fellow's wife, further lessened our reservations.

Jim and Hannah Weir and their son Malcolm welcomed us aboard their San Michelle with cans of the coldest beer possible this side of not being frozen solid. And as the evening blossomed, Jim produced more of the same whenever the need arose by lifting a massive afterdeck hatch and climbing down into a cavernous reefer spewing clouds of sub-Arctic vapor. "Cold" to Suka's crew had become an ethereal entity, something remembered but no longer manifest. To us, San Michelle's quick freezer was a pit of genuine awe.

A call came over San Michelle's radio: "Hey Jim, where are you anyway?" And before long, two other trawlers had anchored nearby and their crews, man and wife teams each, climbed aboard for a convivial gathering. These people showed themselves equally warm hearted and friendly.

Fervently clutching our nearly frozen stubbies, not relishing the beer inside the cans nearly so much as embracing their luxurious coldness, Jenny and I sat on the rail enjoying the conversation while the hours slipped by hardly noticed. None spoke profoundly; these were simple folks, but how they embraced life. The city of Cairns is the northernmost bastion of civilization along Australia's eastern seaboard, and the fishermen who ply these remote waters far to the north, by the circumstances had to be tough and individualistic. No doubt the harsh lifestyle refined and distilled their characters, and we were finding that at least these three crews had hides of bark but gilded hearts.

I wrote in my journal: No doubt our finding such an unrelenting occupation unfathomable is because Jenny and I are essentially soft-skinned city people. But we seem to be viewing life from an altered perspective these days; perhaps the sailing adventure is beginning to refine us.

That night, someone related that Stanley Island had wild pigs, wild goats, and numerous early aboriginal cave paintings. On nearby Flinders Island there were goats, cave paintings and mummies, but no pigs.

"Mummies?" I asked.

Yes, high on the flanks of Flinders Island, so the story went, is a certain cave that formerly contained seven mummies. Once, some unscrupulous matelot visited the cave and carried away one of the mummies as a souvenir. Why he did so, no one present could imagine, but any ten-year old, having spent the bulk of existence rooted before a television, could have easily predicted some of the bad luck that was to befall this despoiler. It was said that, first, his trawler sank during a storm. Subsequent misfortunes occurred, numerable and unpleasant, and in the end his wife ran away with one of his "deckies." Eventually, the poor fellow reputedly conceded, and he presented the mummy to the authorities. This act prompted the government, as a protective measure against further vandalism, to confiscate three more mummies from the cave. To this day many await with bated breath to see what ill luck shall befall the Australian government, and these Aussies were speculating, in jest, the relationships between the extorted artifacts and all manner of national woes.

Although none present had actually visited the grotto or even knew of its location, they related the common knowledge that three mummies remained ensconced within the cave.

As the gathering dispersed, Jim and Hannah invited Jenny and me to accompany them on a prawning run aboard San Michelle the following night. This was a splendid opportunity.

The next morning after installing the kicker on the inflatable's transom-board we motored around the island toward Stokes Bay, where the otherwise profuse vegetation was less dense, such that one could go for a long walk. En route we stopped at the fuel barge anchored out in the bay. A friendly chap named Wayne lived with his wife and child in a tiny trailer, this perched amidst an assortment of large tanks mounted upon the barge. Wayne's job was to sell diesel, fresh water, and warm beer to the prawn fishermen. When the barge was empty, a tug would tow it back to Cairns, and after refitting it would then tow it back to here. Alongside the barge lay Wayne's trimaran, which he was generally refurbishing and preparing for cruising. However, the sailboat's decks were besmirched stem to stern with unsightly footprints of the black, gooey, petroleum crud that exuded inescapably from the barge's fuel tanks.

In an effort to promote her national exports the Aussie government subsidized the prawn fishing industry. Due to a special allotment, then, Wayne sold fuel at a price considerably lower than what could be had in Cairns. Yachtsmen were not excluded from resupplying from the barge, but Suka's tanks were nearly full. We did however, purchase a case of stubbies as a gift for San Michelle's reefer.

When asked about the mummy cave on Flinders Island, Wayne confirmed the story and related the method of locating the cave. According to him, no trail existed; one simply traipsed about the hillside until a solitary and distant isle to the east lined up with the prominent gun-sight notch on nearby Stanley Island. That was the cave's location. Jenny and I are not superstitious, even showing not the slightest compunction of departing port on a Friday, an act considered taboo by the majority of cruising yachtsmen. Yet this Flinders Island mummy cave was intriguing, in an eerie sort of way.

Prawning Excursion

Late afternoon, the time came to join San Michelle's crew for a nighttime prawning excursion. Jim and Malcolm helped hoist aboard our inflatable, and lashed it inverted atop their cabin. Once again, the crew spread a sumptuous dinner: this time of roast lamb. The stubbies, however, remained in the cold hold, alcohol being strictly off the menu both preceding and during working hours.

The evening was windless, and upon seas remarkably calm the big trawler weighed and steamed out into the twilight. Soon the crew lowered the cumbersome nets into the water, then San Michelle's engines thundered at full power, struggling mightily to counteract the tremendous drag, while the vessel wallowed at a scant three knots. In a 100-foot wide swath, those big nets were now sweeping everything and anything from the sand bottom, some ten fathoms below.

Jim trimmed the auto pilot and adjusted the radar, scanning the black of night and identifying the vessel's position in relation to the far away land forms. Also it depicted two or three other trawlers in the vicinity. The depth sounder, a computer and monitor screen, displayed information about the bottom, and it was the watch person's duty to keep a sharp look out for any rocks, which could tear the nets.

For two hours the ship droned along, during which time every six minutes Malcolm would hoist aboard a small pilot net and inspect its samples, which indicated what the big nets might be catching. As with fishing anywhere, if the pilot net wasn't productive then we lumbered off on a different heading to try our luck somewhere else. Emptying the small net into a tub, Malcolm introduced Jenny and I to a fascinating menagerie of sea bottom creatures. The first verbal lesson was an adamant one: do not extend a hand (being sensitive to stings, punctures, bites and other traumas yet unimagined) into the tub.

Time to haul in the trawls, Jim idled the engine and switched on the big warp-winches. These commenced whining torturously as they reeled in the two massive nets, lifted them into the air, and swung them over a large sorting table for emptying. And when the table lay piled high in all manner of squiggly creatures, the crew again lowered the trawls and put them back into action, then the vessel resumed laboring ahead into the night, steering by auto pilot.

With a long handled rake, Jim removed from the table three deadly-poisonous sea snakes, each wrist-sized in diameter and about 3-1/2 feet in length. Tossed repulsively overboard, they slithered away from the hull, regaining their freedom. Snakes safely disposed of, we then attended a 300-pound turtle lying helplessly prostrate on the table. With a great deal of effort we heaved the reptile overboard, where it rejoined presumably its mate, swimming desperately alongside.

Using steel cleavers, Hannah and Jim sorted through the table's contents. Most of the spoil consisted of small "junk fish," by now largely deceased, and these they scooped into an open trough inclining overboard. Blue crabs, alive and edible but not meaty enough to warrant saving, were also shoved down the riddance trough, after expediently cleaver-severing any claw that happened to be pinching a valuable prawn. Then the numerous prawns they sorted as to size and kind, and placed in the appropriate bins for quick-freezing.

Piece after thousands of pieces of zoological "junk" sluiced overboard, and San Michelle's wake now boiled with shiny black bodies and protruding dorsal fins. A bevy of sharks were feasting on the despoils. Clearly, this would have been a most inopportune moment to slip and fall overboard, and one could only imagine the dangers of working on the slippery decks during rough weather. Contemplating the extensive numbers of trawlers working the Australian coastlines, one can also envisage how well fed and therefore prolific are the sharks hereabouts.

The presence of sharks in such numbers within the Great Barrier Reef had squelched my desire to skin dive in these waters, touted though the region is among the spear fishing genre. In actuality, though, the shark is not the region's greatest menace to the swimmer; rather, the box jellyfish, or sea wasp, which frequents the beaches during summer months. To quote the Lucas guide book, "total entanglement would most certainly cause death within minutes." Indeed, during our Queensland visit the newspapers occasionally reported a box jellyfish-induced death of some youngster.

Beyond any hazards posed by these various creatures, though, the strong wind and heavy chop churned the water to murkiness and the effluent mainland rivers further diminished the sea's clarity. The off-shore reefs reputedly offer superb scuba diving, but in truth these are largely inaccessible to the cruising yacht, generally being dangerous to approach without local knowledge.

As San Michelle droned into the black of night, her crew members slept in the forecastle berths, save for the watchkeeper who sat within the enclosed pilot house, keeping a sharp eye on the radar and the sounder screens. When the big winch began grinding, Jenny and I would jump-to and help with the sorting.

At dawn the nets were winched aboard for the final time that day, and the ship steamed at eight knots back to Stanley Island, to the quiet bay where we found Suka lying in tranquil seclusion.

Once the anchor was set, Hannah spread the table with a hearty breakfast, and after the meal Jim produced the family photo album. This depicted some of the more peculiar creatures captured in the nets during the previous seven years. There were pictures of huge sharks, and one of a manta ray, but the most curious was that of a crocodile, some eight feet in length. Loathe to kill the unfortunate beast, the crew found themselves at a loss as to the appropriate method of disposing of the creature. So the "crock" remained aboard, incredibly for five days, unable to climb the rail to escape. Eventually the crew managed to capture it in a sling, and after winching it aloft using a derrick they lowered it into the sea.

Before Jenny and I returned to Suka, Jim presented us with a sack of prawns, provender enough for the next five days. Also, he shelled out a big lobster from the night's catch and a block of ice at minus 60 degrees F. We shall never forget the crew of the San Michelle who reached out and enriched our cruising experience. And indeed herein was the essential quality in our global adventure: the meeting and becoming acquainted with some of the warm-hearted and exceptional people along the way.

Flinders Island

and the Lost Mummy Cave

Drowsiness aside, we were reluctant to sleep on such a glorious day. Suka would soon depart, but Flinders Island beckoned her crew to come and explore its mysteries. So within the hour we commenced the long dinghy ride around Stanley Island and across the Owen Channel. Carrying a bottle of drinking water, lunch, camera, chart and a machete, Suka's intrepid crew set off afoot in search of the lost mummy cave.

The afternoon was spent thrashing about the higher regions. The gun sight notch on Stanley Island stood as an obvious landmark across the way, but the island rose sharply to both sides and obscured any view of the off-shore islet. By mid afternoon the quest was beginning to seem futile, but at last the islet hove into sight, peeking over Stanley's slopes, but a considerable distance up-slope of the gun sight. This indicated that we were too high on the hillside. More bushwhacking through thickets and skirting rocky escarpments eventually worked the distant islet into Stanley Island's ravine. Reaching the spot where the two features lined up perfectly, we discovered the mouth of a cave secreted in the bush.

The rock shelter appeared naturally formed, with a spacious but low entrance. And because it was shallow, flashlights were not needed. We crouched low and waddled in. The walls were painted with small pictographs, effaced by time. On the dusty floor, fairly well preserved, lay the mummies.

By custom, the Aborigines did not bury their dead in the earth. Instead, they desiccated them in the hot sun, then wrapped the dry bones into a small basket of pounded bark, and placed them into a burial cave such as this one. Lying here were three ancient baskets, only two of which contained bones. We did not tamper with them, nor did we feel inclined to linger.

After the long return hike and dinghy ride to the anchorage, we found that San Michelle had departed. Her amiable crew intended to work their way slowly northward, to round Cape York, then to steam south-west into the Gulf of Carpentaria from where they would embrace the prawning season. In her place lay four yachts surrounding Suka. Joggins, Quark, Tenacity, and Crypton had each completed a pair of extended day-sails since their confinement in Cooktown.

The following morning the brig departed well before first light, leaving the crews of her companions to explore these fascinating islands for themselves. The sea lay flat calm and a lack of any wind dictated using the engine. Once, in total darkness, we passed close by a beam trawler dragging its nets.

Hannah Island

The sun had now risen over the quiescent sea, and the lack of wind was hampering progress, so it seemed prudent to steer for and anchor behind Hannah Island. Approaching, we could see a trawler lying there, this a certain indication of the anchorage's viability. Then a familiar voice spoke over the radio:

"San Michelle calling Suka." I answered Jim's call. "Yeah," he replied, "we heard you were headed this way. Merril said he was sitting there reading a book when he looked out and saw this little green light go by. Figured it must have been you guys. We're anchored here behind Hannah Island."

We anchored near our friends, who were by then catching some sleep, emulating the nocturnal lifestyles of the critters they dredged. Later that afternoon a pernicious wind sprang to life and Suka began rocking dramatically in the chop, prompting a relocation farther around the island where the shelter was better. The rough weather thwarted further socializing, and Jim and Hannah regrettably had to request a rain check on the pizzas Jenny had baked.

Late that afternoon the South Africans aboard their home built sloop Tenacity arrived and anchored nearby. "Arriving home the first time," Keith had related, "we asked ourselves, 'now what do we do? Why, let's go around again,' we thought, so that's what we're doing."

San Michelle departed for the night's occupation, and that was the last we saw of her hearty crew.

Suka departed at dawn, with Tenacity bowling along behind with 15 to 20 knots of wind broad on the beam. I spent some of the morning studying a book about sail trim, and adjusting Suka's running rigging in an attempt to better empower her sails and maximize her speed. For example, easing the halyard slightly helped shape the mainsail a little more like a scoop, and adjusting the outhaul tension moved the sail's draft aft. And I was surprised at how much more ably Suka plowed the waves in response to her trimming.

Sheraton Islet

By late in the afternoon Tenacity stood far astern, mainly because hers was a shorter water line and therefore had a slightly lesser maximum hull speed. When the day was nearly spent, the South Africans left the shipping lane to anchor behind Night Island, while we continued another 12 miles to Sheraton Islet. This was not a conventional stopping place as recommended in the guide book. But a trawler lay anchored there, so I climbed the mast steps, and from the spreaders gleaned a spectacular view. The sandy islet was situated at the leeward end of an extensive submerged and colorful reef, which stretched far away to the south-west. The trawler rode to her anchor embedded in a sizable patch of white sand, which appeared to offer safe holding. So with 54 miles on the day's sum log we set the bower within a stone's throw of the prawner, and slept through much of the night.

At dawn the following morning the brig brandished her trappings to the trades and recommenced following ever northward the shipping lane. Tall towers marked the channel here, and as the former disappeared over the horizon astern, the next would soon appear ahead. Navigation was greatly simplified by holding a chart-specified compass bearing to the particular tower in the distance, ahead or astern.

One could only marvel at Joshua Slocum's feat of sailing single handed through these reef infested waters, back in 1897. How he managed to navigate Spray among these ubiquitous reefs, while sleeping belowdecks at night, utterly defies the imagination. Either his success is attributable to uncanny, super human perspicacity, to sheer luck, or perhaps to outright misrepresentation. Those who have sailed this passage have little trouble noticing the various oversights and incongruities in the venerable captain's writings.

Portland Roads

Suka entered the bay at Portland Roads and steered for a solitary fuel barge. As we hove near, coming from its windward side, Jenny stood on the sprit and tossed the barge keeper a bow line. Taut against this, the wind held the ketch bow-to. The barge keeper cast his line across the gap, and with this I hauled aboard a fuel hose. After topping Suka's diesel tanks and returning the hose, I drew aboard a plastic water pipe. Then I tossed the fellow an envelope containing the appropriate payment for the fuel, the water being free of charge, and he cast off our warp. Suka drifted away, then we powered to the nearby anchorage.

With the recent advent of calm conditions, the swell that reputedly worked annoyingly into the bay was largely absent. Donning face mask and snorkel, I jumped overboard and with a putty knife, scoured from the propeller an inch-thick layer of algae, which did not figure into my prop efficiency calculations. Then after indulging in piping hot showers we ventured ashore to stretch our legs, and to apprise the ramshackle, shore-side settlement.

After our precipitate, pre-dawn departure, we noticed the sails of Tenacity appeared far astern. The wind was slight, but it gradually increased throughout the day. The shipping lane was exceptionally busy; big freighters and container ships traveling at 12 to 15 knots passed by, steaming in either direction.

Near Piper Reef Jenny hooked a tuna, but after wrestling it close to the boat it shook free of the lure as I was about to gaff it. Earlier, I had lost one of my best lures, presumably to the maws of a large shark that had regarded my 200 pound-test wire trace as minimal restraint. As Cloughley wrote, "We still had not learned that a white rag made fast just ahead of the hook worked just as well as the expensive lures."

Margaret Bay

As Suka rounded Cape Grenville the wind and seas increased, as expected. Carefully steering clear of the notorious Bremner Shoals, she motor-tacked the two miles into Margaret Bay, while battling a grisly 40-knot head wind. The anchorage provided perfect shelter, though, as we lay close in against the headland.

The American sloop Joggins arrived later, her skipper mumbling disparaging remarks about his folding propeller's inefficiency at powering into stiff head winds.

Jenny and I ventured ashore and climbed the hills for a rewarding view encompassing mile upon endless mile of green, bushy interior - remote, desolate and seemingly untouched. The view away to the south-west, out across the sea was not encouraging; a darkening scud portended worsening weather.

Returning to the shoreline, I collected a pail of black-lipped oysters with which to augment dinner.

The following morning the conditions proved as vigorous as they were uninspiring, and because the shelter here was exceptional we declared a day of rest. Tenacity and Hasardeur had arrived the previous afternoon, so the four sailboats shared the spacious and sheltering Margaret Bay. Twice now Jenny and I had encountered the green hull and orange topsides of the sloop Hasardeur, but not until this day did we realize this was the same cutter we had met at sea while en route from New Caledonia to Bundaberg.

Suka's crew adventured ashore for an extended walk along a white sand beach, which stretched far off into the imperceptible distance. Flanked above the high water line was a paralleling and unending tangle of mangroves. Along the way we came upon the carcass of an old airplane, nearly buried in the sand and sheathed in black-lipped oysters. A closer inspection revealed the engine to be a V-12, so the plane must have been a World War II Spitfire that had perhaps run out of fuel and made a forced landing.

By the following morning the weather had settled, so at 5 a.m. Suka sailed out of the bay in the company of the other three yachts. Together we were a string of masthead lights threading the darkness.

During the ensuing 48 mile crusade to Bushy Islet, another fishing lure fell to the maws of some shark.

Tenacity and Hasardeur ducked into the shallow Escape River, but Suka's 6-1/2 foot draft compelled us to press on to Bushy Islet.

Bushy Islet

Once anchored behind Bushy, Jenny and I gamboled ashore. The tide was near its low, and the colossal reef lay exposed. Ranging far afield, we fossicked knee deep in the expansive tide pools. Among other interesting shells noted were two bailers, remarkable for their size and bright colors. The mollusks were alive and thriving, and after receiving a thorough admiration close at hand, they regained their freedom.

Also, we came upon a miniature shark, 1-1/2 feet in length. It lay on the bottom in only a foot of water, with its forebody secreted in a clump of seaweed like the proverbial ostrich with its head buried in the sand. Teasingly, I gently pulled its tail, expecting a little explosion of fury. But surprisingly it did not resist, and when released it only ambled back to the clump of weed and wiggled in soporifically. Such profound indolence deserved being let alone.

At the outer reaches of the reef, several hefty black-tipped sharks were foraging industriously among shallows, as indicated by their dorsal fins protruding well out of the water. We approached them, while wading in water only a foot or two deep. My hurling a clump of coral in their direction caused the sharks to suddenly scatter, but instantly they turned back to where the rock had hit, perhaps thinking that whatever had caused such a splash must be a tasty morsel. Finding this amusing, I lobbed a few more rocks into their midst, and each produced an increasingly frenetic reaction. Soon, my volleys had the creatures thrashing aggressively in every direction, and when one of them charged toward us Jenny climbed onto my back. She was not about to allow her legs to be bitten. Thus burdened, I found myself hindered of movement. The jagged coral reef was difficult enough to walk on, let alone to run on while carrying another person. And as I waddled her chivalrously to a safer distance, she insisted that I leave the sharks alone.

Back aboard we watched in dismay the protecting reef slowly receding into the depths, as the rising tide swamped the islet and exposed the ketch to the brunt of the oncoming combers.

Departing Bushy Islet before daylight, we set out on what was to be our final day's sailing inside the Great Barrier Reef. Cape York, the top end of the Queensland coast, stood near at hand.

The wind blew light from astern. So later that morning, while traveling abeam of Joggins, Suka flew her cruising spinnaker awhile. Hasardeur traveled in our company, but while short-cutting through the Albany Passage, behind Albany Island, she lost her wind, and emerge several miles behind us.

The day was one of blue skies and warm sunshine, and the coastline hereabouts was alluring. As we neared Cape York the fishing line snapped taut against the motorcycle inner tube shock absorber, and Jenny hauled aboard a hefty mackerel. The timing seemed to suggest that the catch was our reward for reaching the continent's top end. Indeed, at that moment the entirety of the great Coral Coast lay aft of Suka's taffrail. And with that, the brig rounded Eborac and Yorke Islands, and for the first time in six months, headed west.

Possession Island

Curiously, the wind remained astern during the sail around the great cape. The ship passed from a northerly heading, through west, and eventually proceeded toward Possession Island on a south-westerly course, all on a dead run. And after a 12-1/2-hour, 56-mile day, her plough sank its beak into the sandy seabed fronting Possession Island.

John and Virginia Houk, the crew of Joggins, joined us aboard for a fish dinner and a bottle of champagne to celebrate our momentous rounding of Cape York.

In the two months since departing Bundaberg, we had sailed 28 days, and had covered some 1,250 nautical miles. We later learned that by consensus our fellow sailors regarded this passage inside the Great Barrier Reef as wildly unpleasant. Jenny and I had found it wild, but far from unpleasant. In fact, this leg was one of the more challenging and rewarding passages of our circumnavigation. Yes, we had forfeited our sea legs during the six month tenure in Bundaberg. And having softened to the amenities of city living, while making sail at the beginning of this leg we had felt neither comfortable nor particularly safe. But as the distance had reeled beneath Suka's keel, mile at a time, we had cultivated a new form of personal security: one born of the ability to address adversity - as opposed to avoiding it. As the weeks had passed, and as we had begun adapting to the rigors of the tasks, we no longer suffered the abysmal discomforts and apprehensions. The farther we traveled, the more our minds, bodies, and spirits attuned to the quest. We had become explorers of sorts, and migrators, ever on the move.

Many of those days had been brimmed full of lessons, of new problems that required solving, and of unforeseen challenges. The navigation had been intricate, often requiring constant vigilance. Oftentimes the seas had been scabrous and the winds fierce. And sometimes the mandatory anchorages were inhospitable. But we considered the toil and discomforts along the way as but inconsequential, in light of how the journey had enriched our lives.