Chapter 9: Australia

Passage to Australia

Suka's anti-fouling paint had been losing toxicity, and the somewhat polluted Noumea harbor had graphically illustrated onto her hull its capacity for engendering marine organisms. But because the harbor was so ecologically "rich" I was loath to dive into it, in order to scrub away the offensive slime. So while making way sluggishly out of the capacious lagoon, and now miles away from the main island, we closed a small reef, set the anchor loosely onto a coral bed, and armed with soft cleaning tools we both jumped overboard.

With no little violence Suka pitched and heaved in the chop, and while her skipper and mate attended to the underwater scrubbing we both experienced a disconcerting sensation of vertigo. But the job was important, and in an hour we had managed to accost the worst of the speed-reducing defile. After returning aboard and enjoying each a hasty shower, we weighed the ground tackle, made sail, and filled away out the pass - canvas drawing to the temperate winds.

How natural, for jack tar to succumb to indolence while in port, where his ship sits reasonably quiet, her anchor well embedded and holding secure; where fresh food and genial friends abound; and where not far away are many interesting things to see and do. But life at sea is more insular, and at times, insecure and forlorn. Inevitably, as our little brig would spread her wings and leave the security and creature-comforts in her wake, there would come upon Jenny and me a queasiness of gut and of heart, and this would only increase the farther we sailed from the anchorage. This discomfort, which usually persisted for two or three days, was far more pronounced should the skies harbor thick clouds, which they now did. Alas, the cruising dream had flown back to port, and in its place ours was the little pelagic bird of anxiety. "Why not travel by jetliner, port-to-port?" I demanded of myself. Because we global sailors had shackled ourselves to our dreams. At the moment, these dreams seemed unrealistic, and I could not agree more with Cloughley's comment: "Oh, what a wretched life we lead."

Three thirty a.m. during our second night out, Jenny was sitting on watch in the cockpit while I lay inhumed in the lee bunk, feigning sleep, or perhaps loss of life. "I see a light on the horizon," came her voice softly. I scurried on deck and saw, indeed, a luminous and distant pin prick. It drew slowly nearer, and before long the vessel's port-side red light hove into sight. My series of hand-compass bearings provided ever decreasing numbers, indicating that the ship would pass safely across our bow. Drawing nearer, she gave a blast of her horn, no doubt requesting us to switch on the radio. So I stepped below and flipped on the VHF to channel 16.

"This is the vessel Toa Nui, longitude (such and such), latitude (such and such), hailing the vessel in our proximity, over."

Hmm, Californian English. "Yes, Toa Nui, this is the sailboat Suka, about 80 miles west of Noumea. Is that you on our starboard bow?"

"Affirmative, go ahead, over."

"Toa Nui, we're showing only a white masthead light. Our heading is 240 degrees magnetic; speed is 5.5 knots. Looks like you'll pass well in front of us. What's your speed and heading?"

"12 knots, 150 degrees true. Yeah, looks like we'll pass well clear. Which way are you folks headed?"

"Noumea to Australia. How about yourselves?"

"We're a tug. Towed an oil platform from Japan to the waters north of New Caledonia. Now we're on our way to Whangarei, New Zealand, go ahead."

"Interesting. Say, do you happen to carry a weather fax on board? Over."

"Roger that, just got a print-out in fact. Let me check it. Yeah...looks good from here to Australia, no problems for you folks."

In this unlikely meeting place, Jenny and I had made a friend, a comrade of the wide, dark, and otherwise empty ocean. And in the process, the wireless confab had helped disperse the pall of the inescapable hanging over this part of our voyage.

The next day was a windy one. With celerity Suka sprang through the water at 6.5 knots while flying her mainsail and jib.

The following day again, the clouds dissipated and our personal blues gave way to the enlivening cerulean blue sky that had commandeered the skies. We humans regard ourselves as rational, yet how we are manacled to our emotions - and how the weather can dominate them.

The fine weather prevailed long enough to re-instill us with vitality. Then a warm front brought scattered showers and a change for the worse: the wind lessened and headed us. Halfheartedly, Suka aspired close hauled into a 5-knot whisper, while flying three sails: mains'l, jib, and the irons'l in the engine compartment.

Mid-Ocean, Sighting another Yacht

Mid-day I sighted another yacht, her sails a gleaming white speck on the distant and somber horizon. Later, using the binoculars we saw that her crew must have also noticed us, for they had come about onto our tack. With the passing of hours the two yachts drew ever closer, as if attracted magnetically.

Meeting in mid-nowhere was a rare occasion indeed. We drew abreast the green-hulled, 35-foot sloop Hasardeur, and waved to a lone yachtsman standing on deck. In turn, he and I shouted questions at one other, but without comprehension. "Ah," he hollered at last, with a hint of sarcasm, "English!"

We nodded affirmatively.

"I'm a bloody German," he announced with a grin. "Are you alright?"

That seemed an odd question. Of course we were alright, but later we gathered that his meaning was: How are you doing? Hindered by the language barrier, we exchanged pleasantries and destinations. He was bound from Noumea to Gladstone, Australia. We bid one another farewell, and after snapping a parting photograph I nudged the transmission lever forward and pulled ahead. Many months later we were to meet these folks again - for indeed the fellow had been sailing with his wife at the time, and as she was to prove herself sociable, I could only surmise that she had been belowdecks, either lying ill or more likely standing with a rifle against the unlikely event of trouble. At any rate, as they were also bound for South Africa and points beyond, several months later these folks were to become among our good friends.

Suka lacked light-airs reaching canvas, so we powered, using the term weakly, directly into a five to ten knot wind. The German yacht remained under sail alone, so eventually we left her far behind. Then later we saw her standing after us, and in a few hours she passed by a fair distance to port, galumphing along under tight-backed main and, obviously, engine. About this time a gargantuan freighter rumbled past, leaving us with the impression that this sector of ocean was becoming almost overcrowded.

Perkins had been toiling throughout most of the day. To promote power plant cooling we had unshipped the engine compartment doors, and as a result, the noise was distracting and the cabin temperature intolerable. So after dark I shut off the motor, and we ghosted along for many hours. No, we weren't even ghosting. Suka stood practically dead in the water, and as she rolled athwartships in the swell, her taut-sheeted mainsail thrashed with a vengeance. Try as it might have, though, the elevated Dacron failed to summon a favorable breeze.

Midnight, I was reclining on a cockpit bench beneath a canopy of magnificent stars, reveling in one of those superlative views afforded only angels, astronauts, and occasionally, pelagic seafarers. The mood was ethereal. My mind had spent the evening bathing in this wonderful ambiance, jumping idly from thought to thought like a frog hopping among lily pads. Then of a sudden the seas troubled and there came a hissing, as if a squadron of miniature steam locomotives were cavorting about. Porpoise. When they surfaced, the scant light of a waxing gibbous moon reflected from their shiny, jet black bodies. Pure magic.

A little shag of a bird, void of color, circled, shaped several trial approaches, and eventually alighted on the bow pulpit railing. A land lubber might suppose that sea birds remain within reach of shore, but this is not so. Five hundred miles, a thousand miles, nearly everywhere across the sea we have encountered birds. Aside from breeding and fledgling ashore, they live out their lives here. And how they can survive the storms is but another wonder of nature.

Many a bird had apprised Suka as a resting platform, inspecting her close at hand. But the act of landing on the wildly gyrating target proved generally beyond their experience. After experimenting with several cautious half-attempts, most often they would relinquish the siege and fly away. One slight miscalculation could result in a broken wing - to the creature's ensuing demise - and we sensed that the birds knew this. When one did manage to alight, however, its resulting sense of accomplishment seemed to overshadow any fear of us humans. Granted, it would act aloof, but in the main it would treat us as though it had every right to share this floating platform.

Four thirty a.m; dead calm; Suka's playmates the porpoise had long since forsaken her as unresponsive, and the bird at the bow was reveling in an exemplary night's repose. So were the mate and skipper: Jenny slept belowdecks while I slouched somnolently "on watch" in the cockpit. Like a bevy of gulls startled by a sudden presence, my dreams were put to flight and I awoke with a start, sensing something very large and very near. Glancing astern, my pulse quickened at the sight of a yacht lying perhaps 50 yards on the port quarter. The moon had long ago dipped below the horizon, and the night was silent. The sea and horizon were coal black, and actually, all I could see of the vessel was its gleaming masthead light. I looked up at ours, thinking, "Strange how these boats can find one another out here." I wondered who it might be. Then to my bedrowsed chagrin I realized that the light was not that of a vessel, but of the planet Venus - gleaming, burning brighter than I'd ever seen it.

Still no wind. I clambered below and pressed the start button; the engine roared to life. Returning topsides I assumed the helm, engaged the transmission, and motored Suka slowly ahead into the stygian darkness.

Dawn revealed the sea as an oily, slowly undulating mirror. And soon the wide ocean to the east began taking on the resplendent hues of sunrise. Droning along at our mere 3 knot maximum powering speed, I resolved to install a more efficient propeller in Australia.

These calm days provided the chance to observe whatever ocean life lay otherwise obscured in the spume and turgid waves. On the now calm surface we saw Portuguese man-o-wars floating by the score, each appearing as a livid, purplish-blue, air-filled plastic bag some two or three inches in height. That part is the sail. The man-o-war is actually a drifting space colony of sorts, comprising thousands of individual polyps. Some polyps are the air bladder float and sail; some are specialized in taking food; some are armed with stinging cells to protect the colony and help subdue prey; some are swimmers to propel the colony; and others are reproducers of the species.

While one person sat at the helm, the other would hang over the bowsprit catwalk, watching close at hand an eight-inch pilot fish, who must have lost its shark and adopted Suka as a consolation. While its tail shimmied inches ahead the ship's bow, the fish swam with alacrity a few inches below the surface. We came to deem it our intrepid pilot, mascot, maidenhead figure, and scouting party of one. The fish was colored a neutral gray, and banded in equally spaced black stripes - prison uniform style; however, it was tinged overall with a hint of aquamarine fluorescence. Occasionally, it would dart away, presumably for an attempt at whatever morsel happened along, then nimbly it would bound back to its station. Curiously, it did not seem to mind us drawing close for a better look. And while leaning far over, and focusing beyond the pilot fish, we could see hundreds of feet into the pellucid abyss, as shafts of mesmerizing light plunged into the unfathomable sapphire void.

The next day Suka collected a light northerly, which gradually strengthened as it backed. Ugh! - more north-westerlies. And as if that were not enough, Suka's self steering wind vane failed, the constant wearing of its mechanisms finally having taking its toll. So onward we hand-steered.

St Elmo's fire

That evening the sky blackened stiflingly, and a terrific lightning storm beleaguered the face of the sea on all points of the compass and to all horizons. Concerned, I stood belowdecks monitoring the radio for any weather bulletins. Soon there came an increasing hum in the radio's background audio. This could only mean that a coronal discharge had engulfed the ketch; that the air was electrified. I reached to disconnect the sat-nav antenna from the unit and received a shock so powerful that it knocked me back a few steps. This suggested that the sat-nav's inner electronics had been fried. Using a pair of insulated pliers I disconnected various electrical implements, and found that the electric flux had also destroyed the depth sounder. Outside, I saw the masthead glowing with faint blue "flames." I retrieved a length of arc-welding cable from a locker and clamped one end to a main shroud and lowered its other end into the water. In theory this would help ground the sizzling standing-rigging against the likely event of a true firebolt. The air was electrically hot, and the sensation of standing at the base of a 60-foot lightning rod on an otherwise planar ocean was one of vulnerability.

The moiling St. Elmo's fire at the mast-head eventually dissipated, leaving Suka rushing onward into the darksome night, sans electronics; meaning that everything electrical had quilt working. In a flurry of crashing, flung spray, the brig punched tightly into a new wind. What the scene lacked in comfort, though, it had gained in esprit; for we were at last progressing favorably.

The run from New Caledonia to Australia is purportedly an easy one at this time of year. Although the region lies near the lower limit of the trade wind belt, favorable south-easterly winds are said to predominate hereabouts, and these purportedly afford some fine westward sailing. However, after all the analysis, fate seemed to be governing according to its own whims. And so it was that the remaining several hundred mile bash to the Australian continent proved a continuing battle with head winds. One day stretched into the next, while Suka's substandard noon runs kept pushing back her estimated time of arrival, this while showing little deference to the wills of her anxious crew.

The navigational stars assume different twilight and dawn positions with the changing of seasons; some disappear from sight while others emerge. The astute mariner remains cognizant of the interplay. So when the inoperable sat-nav compelled us to revert to navigating celestially, we were glad that as a contingency we had practiced regularly with the sextant.

A hundred miles from the continent, as Suka reached into apparent winds forward of her beam, and traveled at near hull speed, Jenny reported a ship on the horizon. The speck enlarged, and within minutes the big ship showed itself on a collision course. I triggered the radio and hailed the captain. A crisp voice, unquestionably Australian, answered.

"Yes, we've been tracking you Suka, we can alter course if you like."

That the officer of a colossal ship should suggest his rounding a small yacht came as a surprise. "That would be nice," I replied, incredulous. "How's your maneuverability?"

"Oh, no problem," came the voice. The immense coal-laden freighter drew ever closer, until the Abbey, 867 feet in length, crossed our bow.

When setting out from San Diego, we had equipped the boat with a full compendium of charts. Instead, we had hoped to buy them as we went - and as we decided which regions we wanted to visit. In Suva we had tried to buy charts of our Australian landfall, but to no avail. In Noumea we had met with the same lack of results. Thus, we lacked adequate coverage of our upcoming landfall. Now, at my request the officer aboard Abbey kindly withdrew the appropriate chart and relayed the information I needed most: the locations of any lights near the entrance to Hervey Bay, as well as their phase characteristics and ranges of visibility. The information came as requested, and later we relied on it - a mistake that was nearly to cost us the ketch, and perhaps our very lives.

Reaching to a stiff north-easter, Suka jammed ahead with vigor and élan. The ride was rough and the crew sodden through with flung spray, but we were sailing ahead with a will.

Breakwater Reef

 

Some sixty miles from the Queensland coast stands a great finger of land called Cape Sandy. Behind this lies Hervey Bay, our immediate destination. but like a long fingernail, a submerged coral reef extends miles north of the tip of this cape. We intended rounding this reef to its north.

Much later that evening, when we had approached the Queensland coast to within perhaps seventy miles, my dead reckoning indicated that we should be sighting the Cape Sandy lighthouse, far away to the south-west. And indeed, the light appeared after nightfall as predicted, initially as a nebulous, pulsating loom, then as it gradually climbed over the horizon, as a sharp beacon flashing resolutely. At this point we had only to continue ahead until the Breakwater Spit buoy hove into sight. When it did, I would determine our whereabouts using crossed compass bearings from the two lights.

Somehow, though, we sailed long past when we should have sighted the flashing buoy. Visibility was excellent in the night, thanks to the brilliant moon. So thinking that perhaps the current had been retarding our progress, we proceeded ahead. I tried summoning a local skipper on VHF 16, in order to glean any local knowledge, but my outgoing radio calls were met with only the white noise of silence. Perplexed, I wielded the sextant, bringing the bright star Sirius down to a horizon illuminated by moonlight. Then belowdecks I calculated a hasty astro-fix with the star's line-of-position crossed with the bearing of the Cape Sandy light. Knowing that the riotous waves had likely hampered the accuracy of my celestial shot, I did not trust the results, which placed us atop the Breakwater Spit - the fingernail of that underwater reef extending miles northward from the lighthouse. Surely, I reasoned, this fix could not possibly be correct. Yet something felt oddly wrong. The flashing buoy we sought did not seem to exist, and the burning question was: in which direction, and how strongly, had the current been sweeping Suka the past several hours? Then a startling thought occurred to me. Could we, in fact, be traveling over the Breakwater Spit?

I leapt outside, and hand over sprinting hand clawed down the sails. Then I threw overboard the lead line. Even though we were far beyond sight of any land, to my consternation the lead clanked on the reef a paltry 25 feet below.

We dared not drop anchor and await daylight, because the seas were so rough that an ebbing tide might have placed us in dire straits. So I started the engine, swung the helm hard over, and proceeded on a reciprocal heading. My theory was: as we had not grounded on the way in, then probably we would not do so on the way out. As we later discovered, we had traversed nearly the full width of the coral reef, miles wide. Now, we were heading back across it, for under the circumstances to continue eastward would have been lunacy. But to our misfortune, not only was the tide ebbing, but apparently a strong current was sweeping Suka ever southward and into even shallower water.

Suddenly from out of the obscurity, heavy breaking and seething seas flashed ominously in the moonlight. Shaken, I steered hard to starboard and somehow averted a grounding. Then as we continued ahead, Jenny stood at the bow shrieking warnings for me to turn this way or that, as if I did not see all too clearly the catastrophes now lurking at every hand. Plying malevolently shallow and wave-tossed seas, Suka was in grave peril. Perkins strained mightily; Jenny swung the lead line and hollered her ever discouraging news of shoal waters; and somehow I circumvented the seething, breaking maelstroms. Unequivocally, the fearful hour we spent probing our way back across those shoals was one I would not care to repeat.

From this incident we learned the shortcomings of relying on navigational lights and shipborne electronics. These are susceptible to failure, and like crutches with possible dry rot, they are not to be leaned on too heavily. The annals of short-handed cruising are well sated with stories of successful passages followed by catastrophic landfalls. We were learning that regardless how indomitably a crew maintains vigilance, a trying, sleep-depriving passage can effect a person's mental capacities. And as our brush with disaster had underscored, the hammering seas, the long nights standing watch, and the interrupted cat naps all deprive the short-handed sailor of judgment.

Eventually we found deep water, and now well aware of our position, with immense relief we steamed northward. I was hoping to find the obviously lightless Breakwater light buoy, which would indicate the more seamanlike entrance to Hervey Bay. After plugging hard to an increasing head wind for many hours, now in daylight I peered through binoculars and finally sighted the Breakwater Buoy, minus its light - in for repairs we later learned. The day had well worn by the time we reached the buoy; clearly, we had not anticipated such a strong, southerly sweeping current.

The wind fell light, and as Suka drew near the floating buoy a portion of its awful plague of flies ambushed us. These arthropods obviously thrived on the offal of seabirds that lived on the buoy. Insects crawled on the ketch and her crew by the droves, sending us scurrying about, battening down hatches and ports as though snugging down for a gale. Standing at the helm once again, I retaliated with a fly swatter, with a splat, splat, and a...splat, as we motored toward Australia.

Twenty-four hours after having turned back across the spit, we were now close to our turning point, having circumnavigated the menacing coral reef. But now we stood in a known position, and safely within the capacious and reasonably calm bay. And having bested the last of the flies, we sailed throughout the night, beating into an ever-freshening south-westerly.

First Glimpse of the Australian Continent

Daylight, October 21, revealed the illustrious sight of land - the Australian continent peeking above the horizon. Our task was now to find the Burnett River, a thin and shallow navigable watercourse leading inland some twelve miles to the town of Bundaberg. While crossing the vast Pacific we had succeeded at locating the appropriate islands and continents en route, but this coastal navigation now seemed more complex. So it was with relief that we eventually raised the Burnett River lighthouse.

While advancing toward the coast and maneuvering appropriately, we closed the light tower with another structure standing behind it. The two columns were obviously meant as a lead, perhaps indicating a dredged channel. (Several days later, though, while touring the area by auto, we were surprised to discover that the second tower was a water storage tank and had no function as a navigational marker. And when later we studied a proper chart we saw that by pursuing this erroneous lead toward shore a vessel would encounter shoals.) Unawares, we motored toward the lead. But now we were taking nothing for granted. While the skipper stood at the helm, the mate sounded continuously with her lead line. When the sandy bottom shoaled, I veered away. And after we had rounded a promontory to the south, only then did the channel markers presented themselves, indicating the navigable mouth of the river.

Entering the Burnett River

Entering the silt-laden river, we soon passed by a large ship-loading terminal. Then pressing a short distance farther we closed the edge of the turning basin, and lowered the anchor into ten feet of placid river water.

Suka had crossed Oceania.

Bundaberg

The Queensland sun bore down intensely onto our already sunburned hides, so as soon as the anchor had settled we pitched the tropic awning between the masts. In its shade we then opened a bottle of champagne, stowed while still in San Diego more than eleven months ago for just this occasion. We toasted to a successful season of cruising and to our reaching this landfall. The passages across the expansive Pacific had been first rate learning experiences. We had worked hard, and had passed the tests. Now in Bundaberg we planned to await the end of hurricane season, and I was really looking forward to the well deserved respite.

With the satisfaction of having won a hard-earned goal, at last we were free to indulge in a luxury we had been many days without: uninterrupted sleep.

Plying the River

Next morning we awoke well rested. When I hailed the port authorities by radio, a voice assured us that the river was indeed navigable, and requested us to call in at the office of the port authorities once we arrived in town.

We weighed and set off upriver with a rising tide, glad that an inflowing current would be assisting Suka from astern. Finding the way without benefit of a chart proved somewhat non-systematic, yet Jenny's soundings soon showed the necessity of keeping to the outside of the river bends, where the faster flowing current had sluiced the channel the deepest.

The day was warm and peaceful, and we reveled in the river's extraordinary tranquility. Our little brig lay strangely still, almost as if she were hauled-out on the ways. But Perkins rumbled quietly, sending its reverberations reassuringly throughout the craft. As Suka forged ever ahead, her bow knifing through the silt-green water, Jenny stood at the foredeck heaving her lead line. Occasionally we would encounter shallow water, after turning the wrong way, and this would send us into anxiety for a few moments until we had found a better course. Generally, though, we maintained at least a few feet of clearance beneath the keel. And because we avoided running aground, we concluded that this new-to-us experience of river plying was one that we thoroughly enjoyed.

The waterway was perhaps 30 yards wide, and its mud banks steep-to. At eye level, the earth stretched away flat as the proverbial pancake. Moreover, it was laden in fields of vibrant green sugar cane, which amusingly we mistook for corn. Where the river widened, its banks lay smothered in tangles of mangroves.

Aside from the occasional beam trawler rumbling past, traveling two to three times our speed in one direction or the other, the only activity we encountered, if it could be called that, was the random outboard skiff drifting upriver with the tide, and bearing its unanimated occupants. Fishing was the apparent pretext, but nursing cans of beer seemed the more apparent enterprise. Invariably these fellows waved to us heartily.

Reaching the town of Bundaberg

Two and a half hours into the morning we closed the town jetty. I wheeled Suka around, powered gently, bow into the current, and maneuvered the boat alongside a concrete wharf. A friendly Australian couple accepted Jenny's bow and spring lines and made them fast. Don and Toni introduced themselves, and said they lived aboard their ferrocement sloop, Scylla III, moored among perhaps 25 yachts lying to "tire moorings" mid-river.

We were reluctant to step ashore before receiving our clearance, and yet Jenny's Q-flag aloft had no effect at summoning the authorities. So eventually Don volunteered to go summon them. By and by, the functionaries of Health, Customs, and Immigration arrived, cordially executed their formalities, then departed. Then the agricultural officer boarded, only to produce a long list of prohibited comestibles. Undaunted by our paucity of fresh food, he all but emptied Suka's dry-goods lockers. After confiscating the lion's share of our provisions, he wrote the words "Voluntarily Surrendered" on his Seizure Form and presented it to me for a signature. This embargo was of course aimed at deterring any intruding pests that might threaten the country's agrarian interests. And as the zealous emissary struggled to his car, bags of loot slung over a shoulder like a Santa Claus gone amok, Jenny and I looked at each other, stupefied. Presumably, we were free to go ashore.

We then reported to the office of harbor control, where for twelve Aussie dollars a week a deputy assigned Suka a niche among the local and foreign cruising yachts.

That evening, Don and Toni rowed alongside, and offered to show us some of the town. Also, they generously extended us a few Aussie dollars, for it seems that the banks, where foreign visitors such as ourselves would exchange currency, had closed for the weekend. Then at one of the ubiquitous Aussie pubs our new friends stood us a few local beers and an apple strudel each. Their warm hospitality left us with the feeling that we would become fond of the Australians, as indeed that proved the case.

Life on the Burnett River

And so we commenced a season of living on the Burnett River, awaiting the end of the hurricane season, which was soon to threaten the waters away to the north.

Jenny:

Although the current ran swiftly on the flood and the ebb, Suka sat quietly to her moorings, and compared with some of the rough seas we had endured, this felt as though we were on land. Life at sea had ingrained in us the habit of sleeping sporadically between watchkeeping, day and night, but now we reverted to our former land-bound habit of sleeping undisturbed throughout the night. And only the person who has spent many days at sea can fully appreciate the luxury of being able to set utensils on the table and not worry about them sliding off. Quickly and easily, then, we forsook our seafaring ways, and established residence on the peaceful river.

We planned to remain here several months, and I relished the feeling of permanence. Our new home-town was quiet and very much to our liking. Suka's neighbors were yachts of many sizes, descriptions and ensigns. At her stern was the newly built Australian trimaran Ricochet. Her crew, Ross, Yvonne, and small boy Micah became our friends, and it was they who first introduced us to the Aussie lingo.

In a letter to my family, I wrote:

We are settling in to life on the river here in Bundy. The nights are peaceful and calm, until about 4:30 in the morning when we wake to the squawking of the Rainbow Lorikeets, brilliantly colored wild parrots. They fly over the river in scores, their bright plumage flashing in the early morning sunlight. Next, the river prawners start their daily runs up and down river. These scaled-down versions of the large, ocean-going beam trawlers drag their nets along the muddy river bottom. The prawners continue throughout the day, and it's surprising the number of prawns they collect in their nets; we wonder that there are any prawns left. At 6 a.m. the surf-rowers go past. "Stroke-2 -3 -4! Stroke! Stroke! Come on you bloody dimwits. Stroke! -2 -3 -4."

It's fun to listen to the Australian accent, although we're still trying to decipher some of the slang. A person waving goodbye says "Tah-dah." Often we hear "Tah," which seems to mean "thank you." Jokingly, Ray will request "coffee instead" when our Aussie friends invite us for "tea." Then after "tea" we'll have a "cuppa." "Fair dinkum" is difficult to interpret. We've been told that an Australian has never been known to lie if whatever's being said is followed by the words "fair dinkum."

A few days ago Ross and Yvonne invited us to tea. Yvonne said she was cooking a chook. I was hesitant to ask what chook was, until two year old Micah, whose vocabulary is yet limited, pointed in the pot and yelped with delight, "Froggie!" At that point I had to have a look for myself: it was only a chicken.

A few days after our arrival in Bundy we telephoned our parents, taking into account the eight hour time difference to avoid rousing them in the middle of the night. Not only was there a difference in time, but there was also a difference in days. Our day was a Wednesday, but theirs was still a Tuesday.

One of our first tasks was to scrub Suka inside and out. By hand we scraped, sanded and revarnished the brightwork topsides. We cleaned the sails, and washed the salt-encrusted halyards and sheets. And we removed the broken self-steering gear and the lightning-damaged sat-nav antenna for repairs. Belowdecks, we scrubbed the teak interior with a brush and cleaning solution, then we rubbed in lemon oil, which helped restore the wood to its former luster.

Fist Year anniversary Party

November 2nd, 1983, marked the end of our first year of cruising. To celebrate, we hoisted aloft the ego flag: a colorful banner 25 feet in length; then we invited our many river friends aboard for drinks and anniversary cake. The affair was a convivial one. With about 25 people on board, Suka wallowed noticeably, and her waterline rose a few inches. Tied to the taffrail astern was a flotilla of dinghies. These were a comical sight, tugging at their painters in the fast flowing current like a dozen eager pups on leashes.

In Bundaberg, the month of November marks the end of the sugar cane harvest. Smoke from the cane stalk fires produce vivid sunsets, and at night the horizons are aglow in orange cane fires. Ash fell from the sky like black snow, and trying to brush it overboard only created stubborn smears. A small amount of the ash even found its way belowdecks onto the soles and salon cushions. But within a few weeks the sugar mills had crushed the last cane for the season, and the mills now lay deserted and quiet. The bustle of activity focused instead downtown, as the locals commenced their holiday shopping.

Stolen Dinghy

Having decided to dine at a restaurant one evening, Ray and I motored the dinghy to the jetty, then after a leisurely meal we strolled back to the wharf. A few dinghies were tied there, but ours was not among them. The dink could not have come untied of its own accord, as we always tied it with two painters, each made fast to a different rail and using strong bowline knots. We rushed to the police station to report the stolen dinghy. The sergeant shrugged it off, telling us not to worry, as such thefts occur regularly (!). In most cases, she added, local youths merely "borrow" the dinghies for joyrides, and usually the boats are found a few days later somewhere along the river. We left the police station in disgust.

Wasting no more time, we began searching the banks on foot, but without success. We borrowed a neighbor's dinghy, tied to the jetty, and rowed out to a different neighbor's yacht and asked to borrow their tender. After returning the first boat to the jetty we set off downriver with the current. For four hours we searched the muddy banks, detouring into mangrove coves and swampy feeder creeks. We snooped around the fleet of prawn trawlers and fishing boats moored together at their docks. A few white objects gleamed in the moonlight, but our inflatable, with its white kicker, was not one of them.

The next day at first light we rose and assembled our collapsible 2-person kayak, stowed in its locker beneath the forecastle berth since our paddling forays in the Marquesas. We worked with such a sense of urgency that later our Japanese neighbors aboard Puka Puka II told us they thought we were practicing a fire drill. We paddled downriver again, fearful that if the dinghy had been abandoned, it would have washed to sea with the outgoing tide. Two hours later we returned; our search in that direction had been fruitless. We continued upriver, crossing under the traffic bridge and steering for Harriot Island. While paddling against the current my arms ached from the unaccustomed exercise. Yet each curve and river bend lured us on, ever hopeful that around the next corner we would discover our dinghy. And discover it we did. High and dry on the bank, caught between boulders and coated in mud, lay the dinghy. One oar was missing, and the outboard had been damaged. Fortunately for us, one of the painters had become tightly wrapped around the propeller shaft. This must have killed the engine before the thieves had much of a joy ride. This dinghy was our only link between shore and home, and we were thankful we had it back.

The outboard engine was in need of repairs, so in Suka's cockpit Ray dismantled it. Thereafter, we resolved to lock the dinghy to the jetty with a stout wire cable whenever we went ashore, and to keep the boat in a condition less inviting: dirty, somewhat deflated, without outboard motor, and with only a rough board lashed to a broom handle as a replacement for the lost oar.

Taking advantage of the kayak, we began rising early and paddling increasing distances upriver. The exertion reminded us how our bodies had lagged from lack of exercise the past year. Weeks later, and with vigor restored, we began jogging regularly. And becoming more ambitious with time, we began running almost daily to Queens' Park, to visit the wallabies and emus in their large chain-link pen.

Continuing Suka's spring cleaning, or in this case, winter cleaning, we scrubbed the bilge from stem to stern, cleaned the water tanks inside and out, and sorted the contents of the ship's lockers. Many items of clothing, extra blankets and other unneeded goods we donated to the local St. Vincent de Paul thrift store. And we sent a special package containing some of our extra clothing, and a variety of men's, women's and children's clothes purchased from the thrift store, to our friends Siale and Naomi in Tonga.

As Suka lay to her moorings day after day in the temperate water, her hull below the waterline began flourishing with marine growth. We planned on hauling the ketch out during the first part of the new year, in order to give her a new coat of anti-fouling. Until then, however, we needed to keep the propeller free of growth, to insure the safety of vessel and crew. So one afternoon I jumped overboard to clean the propeller. In the murky river water I was unable to see more than two or three inches in front of my face mask. Working by feel with scraper and a scrubbing pad, I tried not to think about snakes, crocodiles, platypus, large fish, or whatever else might have been swimming or squirming in the depths.

Motorcycle Touring

We bought a well-used motorcycle, and on it we toured the surrounding districts, visiting nearby towns and beaches.

One evening we visited Mon Repos Beach, and by moonlight observed, at various intervals, perhaps a dozen loggerhead turtles swim through the surf, climb across the beach, and struggle up the steep embankment. After scraping away sand with all four flippers to form a body-sized indentation, each turtle would use her hind flippers to excavate a pear-shaped egg chamber. The loggerhead then laid ping-pong-ball sized eggs, as many as 120 of them, into the chamber.

With Christmas drawing near, a festive spirit filled the air. Most shops were closing for the long holiday, and all work seemed to come to a halt. Our work continued aboard Suka, well within range of the church bells ringing out familiar Christmas carols. We were nearly half a world away from our familiar "white Christmas," and as the hot, tropical sun shined brightly in the austral winter, strains of "Dashing through the snow..." wafted over the sultry Burnett River.

December 25th was a typically warm and sunny day; we celebrated quietly on board, then later in the afternoon we rode the motorcycle to Bargara, where the beaches were packed with holiday crowds. The "barby" at the beach is a popular Christmas tradition.

Our first extended excursion away from Suka was to Brisbane, the capitol of Queensland. To the motorcycle's gas tank Ray strapped our large hiking pack, over which he could barely see the gauges on the handlebars. On my back I carried a fully loaded day pack. The ride was exhilarating, whisking along at 60 miles an hour. Trees lining the roadway flashed by in a blur, and the clear plastic face shields of our helmets accumulated a splattering of insects.

As we neared Brisbane the congested traffic reminded us of the crowded freeways in the U.S. In the heart of the city we visited a few yacht chandlers, and at one shop we stood talking with a cruising couple, Keith and Marion Fletcher, comparing notes on past and future passages. The storekeeper informed us that the shop was closing, so the four of us left the building, still a'yarning. We had walked three blocks before I realized we had left our motorcycle helmets in the chandlery. Quickly I ran back, but the chandlery had closed, and a sign on the door indicated that the store would not reopen until Monday. Without our helmets we could not legally use the motorcycle, so we spent the weekend traveling about the city by foot and by bus.

Our visit to the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary was the highlight of this excursion. The furry little mammals snoozing in the eucalyptus limbs quickly won our hearts, and with child-like excitement I held a cuddly koala in my arms while the camera clicked. We wandered through the kangaroo and wallaby pens, petting the docile creatures. Soon we realized that tucked away in one of the female's pouch was a joey, with only its tiny head, the size of a small child's fist, protruding.

The majority of our time in Brisbane we spent in the main library. Ray researched an engineering project while I browsed newspapers and magazines, reviewing the past year's global events.

Monday morning, wearing our helmets, we headed home. We had found the city excessively noisy and congested, but had nevertheless enjoyed its attractions, the window shopping, the library, the chandleries, and especially the warm little bundles of fur with the glued-on noses. We had put nearly 600 miles on the bike during this trip, and while returning past the now familiar cane fields and through the quiet, country towns of Maryborough and Childers, I sensed a happy, heart-warming feeling of coming home. I was glad we had chosen to stay in Bundy for the season, for I could not have felt so fondly about Brisbane.

Engine Sabotage

Perkins, our diesel engine, had been overheating, and its exhaust had grown increasingly smoky. And with two-thirds of our voyage still remaining, I was concerned for the engine's well being. A neighboring member of our little cruising group, Charley G. (yacht "Quark"), was a diesel mechanic by trade, and when I mentioned the problem he offered to examine the engine. After inspecting Perkins superficially and without the use of test equipment, he pronounced the power plant in dire need of a major overhaul - adding that he would be glad to accept the job for hire. However, his lack of any tests, and his motives of making money, left me skeptical.

Two weeks later Perkins nearly destroyed itself.

As a matter of routine, twice weekly I had run the engine for an hour or so, in order to charge Suka's batteries. Once the motor had started, I would quickly check the gauges. But this time the oil gauge indicated a complete lack of pressure, meaning the engine was running without the needed lubrication. Straightway I shut the engine down, to prevent it from seizing - which, indeed, would have necessitated a major overhaul.

For two days I searched for the problem. Both the gauge and the oil pump were working normally, so therefore something was apparently blocking the oil line. After hours of head scratching, I discovered that the oil filter check valve was working backwards. Perplexed, I visited the local diesel engine repair shop, and explained my dilemma to the mechanics. They agreed with my analysis: Perkins' oil was now pumping in the wrong direction, against the check valve.

Back aboard, as an experiment I switched the two external oil lines, disconnecting them, and reconnecting them onto the other's fitting. When I re-started the engine, this time the oil pressure gauge's needle swung to life.

One can safely discount any chance that the engine had reversed its oil flow lines, of their own accord. That left me pondering the extreme likelihood that someone had covertly boarded Suka in our absence, and had tried to sabotage the engine. In the final analysis, though, by resolving the matter myself, I had learned a great deal more about the engine.

Haul-Out for Engine Work

I was now even more determined to insure that Perkins was working at its best, with our upcoming Indian Ocean crossing in mind. So I resolved to dismantle the machine's top end, to inspect its internal components. As such, we arranged with the local slipway to haul the ketch out of the river.

Once on land, with Suka nestled in a cradle on the rails, Jenny and I began removing the big 4-108 diesel and its reduction drive from the cramped and awkward engine compartment. After a full day's sweaty toil we had wrestled the mammoth metal beast into the cabin, and positioned it onto a square of plywood resting on the sole. Suka's main salon then became a workshop, where her crew disassembled the power plant's top end. Once apart, I found no internal damage, beyond a mere glazing of the cylinders. Consulting with the mechanics in town, I learned that cylinder glazing is a common malady with diesels, and is largely a result of running the engine at idle speed - only - for untold hours while charging the ship's batteries. This glazing had been responsible for the exhaust smoke, they related.

I honed the engine's cylinders, and re-ringed its pistons. And we took the head to the local machine shop where the mechanics refurbished the valves. They also chem-boiled the heat exchanger.

After I had reassembled, remounted, and realigned the engine (a task that could have filled a chapter of its own), I reattached the ancillary equipment, then bled the fuel system. Seven days after we had last shut the engine off, I activated the starter motor and Perkins roared to life. Because Suka stood on the hard, Jenny fed the motor's voracious coolant pump with a garden hose. After 15 minutes I pulled the kill lever then removed the valve cover and began readjusting the valve clearances. At my instruction, Jenny added another quart of oil.

When I attempted to restart the engine, the crankshaft would no longer budge. This was bad news. I removed the injectors, and found one cylinder flooded in engine oil. This was extremely bad news.

I removed the rocker assembly and unbolted and removed the head. The head gasket was intact, and I found no cracks within the cylinder walls or on the head. So where had the oil so abruptly come from? Perplexed, I eventually sought the counsel of another yachtsman who had been cruising long enough to gain considerable knowledge of engines. For an hour we deliberated the problem, each proposing one unlikely idea after another, as to how the oil had entered the cylinder. Finally, the fellow noticed a trace of oil in the intake manifold. Now that was odd. Mentally retracing my steps, I recounted how I had shut the engine down, and had removed the valve cover - a cover that featured the orifice into which one normally added engine oil. Unintentionally then, Jenny had poured the quart of oil into the breather intake, from where it had drained through the open number-four intake valve and down into the cylinder.

I removed the offending oil from the cylinder, and a few hours later had Perkins reassembled and running again. Mere glazed cylinders had been responsible for the smoky exhaust, while the sediment coating the internal tubes of the heat exchanger, clogging them, had caused the overheating. At last we felt confident in Suka's power plant, touche bois.

A New Propeller

While Suka stood on the hard, we spent the next week sanding her hull below the waterline, and repainting it with fresh anti-fouling. Aboard, I also designed a new propeller using the book "Skene's Elements of Yacht Design." However, the results of the recommended calculations proved inconclusive: Suka's present propeller characteristics were close to the calculated optimum. Yet I knew that the prop's performance was deficient, so I sought the help of a local nautical engineer, an Australian gentleman by the name of Don Cameron. With an analytical mind, Don could reputedly solve about any engineering problem put to him. I visited his cramped workshop burgeoned with projects, and found him working on a design improvement of the camming leverage on the modern archery bow. Don listened to my propeller dilemma, then withdrew a calculator from his bepenciled pocket. While I related the specific data - prop diameter, pitch and slip, and the engine and gear box specs - he punched the figures into his calculator. In less than two minutes he equaled my three hours work, and concluded that, indeed, Suka's original propeller attributes were close to the calculated ideals. "But the specs are only half the story," Don instructed. "And I think I may know what's wrong."

Don accompanied me back to the yard, and with a pair of calipers measured the propeller's cross-sections. "These blades have no hydrofoil," he stated. "An airplane wing needs a cambered airfoil, and a marine propeller blade needs a cambered hydrofoil. There's your problem. And while you're at it, you need to fair this square-cut propeller aperture with a grinder, to assist the flow of water into the propeller."

The owner of the slipway telephoned our propeller specifications to a foundry in Brisbane, and ordered a new prop for us. Meanwhile I commenced the awful job of grinding fiberglass. Three days later I had installed the new propeller. Then, anxious to determine the results of our labors, we launched the ketch and took her for a test run. The results: the brig's maximum powering speed had doubled!

We moored our seagoing hot-rod mid river, and encouraged by the recent success of various projects, we set to work on Suka's stainless fuel tanks, which I had commissioned and fitted back in San Diego. These tanks had poorly designed inspection lids simply bolted onto the top of the tanks. With that design, any water that reached the tank could find its way under the lid and inside the tank. This was not a favorable design for crossing the notoriously scabrous Indian Ocean. Again, we converted the main salon into a workshop. One tank at a time, we hand-pumped its fuel into a barrel standing in the cockpit. Then we extracted both tanks and delivered them to Peter Hale's welding shop, where he fashioned standing collars onto each inspection port. Pete also did a few lesser welding jobs, and eventually allowed me the run of his shop, letting me work there whenever I needed. His generosity was very much appreciated, and I think typified the local Aussie hospitality.

Topsides, I strengthened Suka's stanchions and lifelines. Then I commissioned another welder, Gerry Cornellison - who owned portable equipment - to add bow pulpit uprights, to reinforce the bow railing. Gerry then left me with his equipment for a day, and I fabricated a stainless pushpit. These new rails greatly increased our security topsides.

The time came to rebuild the self-steering wind vane, the type known as the Auto Helm. This contraption was affixed to Suka's transom with tubular struts. Each end of each strut was secured with a through-bolt, and each of the dozens of these bolts had worn oblong holes in the tubings. I drilled the holes oversize, and installed larger bolts.

That repair project accomplished, I replaced a length of exhaust pipe that had corroded through, and wrapped it with new insulation. We fitted new manual bilge pump diaphragms, dismantled the galley stove for cleaning, and sanded and painted the propane tanks. We delivered the ship's hydraulic steering pump to a shop for its second rebuild, and I installed a hydraulic autopilot and two new depth sounders. We sanded and painted the booms, and re-caulked some of Suka's topsides leaks, particularly at the skylight and chain plates. From a reputable Hong Kong firm (Lee Sails) we ordered a capacious 140 genoa, a spare jib, and a diminutive storm-staysail.

Flying

Jenny:

Gradually we were refitting Suka for the push up the Queensland coast and across the Indian Ocean. We had ordered coastal charts and had bought the appropriate tide tables and a coastal cruising guide book. We were also preparing our bodies for the rigors of sailing by exercising at a fitness gym. Riding the motorcycle, we went to the gym every other day, and there we lifted weights, and I joined an aerobics class. Our work-outs were strenuous, and we took advantage of the gym's hot showers, saving us from depleting Suka's fresh water tanks as frequently.

Ray enrolled in flying lessons, and accumulated many hours of air time in a Cessna 172. Once he had his license, when other friends were not flying with him, which was often, I jumped at the chance to assume the co-pilot's seat. I liked to take pictures and to gaze down at the now familiar countryside. Sometimes we would fly high over Suka, and then follow the curving Burnett River out to the ocean and make our way along the coast.

On the motorcycle, Ray was also able to escape the endless boat work by driving to the soaring field most Sunday mornings for a few hours gliding high over the patchwork hills west of town.

Ray's parents came to Australia for a vacation and to visit with us, and early every morning Ray and his Dad would ride the motorcycle to the airport, roll the airplane out of the hangar, and take off for an hour's flying. One of the highlights of his parents' visit was a fishing trip aboard Suka. With the four of us, and with our friend Gerry the welder and his wife, we motored Suka downriver, River Queen style. Gerry was an avid fisherman, and once on the open water of Hervey Bay he showed us how to bait the hooks, and to look for birds on the water indicating larger fish feeding. We hauled in half a dozen school mackerel, and to everyone's surprise Ray's Dad even hooked a small sailfish, which escaped before he could land it.

In town, we took Ray's folks to our favorite sandwich shop, or Milk Bar as the Aussies call a small café. Ray and I had patronized this particular establishment many times, and the proprietor, John Lathouras had become a good friend. With a cheery "G'day, mates" he would greet us and take our orders. A few minutes later he would set our steak sandwiches before us, and pull up a chair and chat jovially about life in Bundy. He talked about his family who had come to Australia from Greece, and about his plans to buy a cattle ranch.

John invited Ray and I on a "tour of the bush to see some 'roos." Accompanying us was John's mate Les Knoakes, who had lived many years in the outback, traveling both on foot and on horse. Les seemed to know this land as well as any person could know it.

Spotting some kangaroos grazing in the tall grasses not far from the road, John stopped the car to give us a closer look. In most areas of Australia, kangaroos are considered pests; at one time great numbers of them roamed the country. More recently they had been ruthlessly culled, although today they are protected. Still, the wild kangaroos are furtive and wary. Sensing our presence, they would bound up the hill and disappear into the scrub and eucalyptus groves.

The day was warm and pleasant: a grand Australian day. The road wound through scrub forests where Les pointed out the varieties of trees. Once, we stopped the car and listened for the call of the bell bird. The stillness of the scrub forest was absorbing, and indeed, we heard the bell bird's sharp ringing cry.

We passed through thick groves of gum (eucalyptus) trees, then through meadows moist and green from a trickling stream. The road bordered expansive cattle ranges where the ranchers had cleared the land and sown grasses. John and Les discussed the advantages of owning a small herd of cattle, the ideal locations for such a herd, and other aspects of living and working in the Australian outback.

This was the first of many such field trips, and we appreciated the company of our warm-hearted friends, and their efforts on our behalf. Yet the pleasure did not appear to be all ours, as John and Les seemed to take special pride in showing us their country.

On a few occasions we visited the Robertsons, homesteaders of the great Aussie bush. Robbo, as John Robertson was known by his friends, and his wife Rhonda owned a few cattle, a few horses, a couple of shaggy sheep, a pen full of chickens, several dogs and two rambunctious boys who were a menace to anything in their paths. The family made us feel like close friends.

At Robbo's we glimpsed the legendary Australian pioneering spirit. Their ranch house was a temporary one, not quite as substantial as a shed but something more so than a tent. Not having yet dug a well, they trucked in large barrels of water from a distant town. Rhonda had a small camp style stove, a couple of ice chests to hold perishable food, and makeshift cupboards and counters. For a shower, they had rigged a plastic curtain hanging in a circle from the tin and wood roof. A bucket with an attached showerhead was suspended overhead, and on the floor sat a catch basin. Across the dirt yard a few hundred feet was their privy, and nailed onto its door was a wooden plaque proclaiming it as "Robbo's Roost".

Sometimes Ray and I would help with the chores; other times we relaxed, enjoying the peacefulness. One late afternoon we walked the perimeter of their land with Rhonda, while collecting stray cows from the bush. With a stick she urged the cows along the trail and into their corral for the night. During one visit we helped shoe the horses. This was one of those jobs where one person does the work and the others stand around offering advise. Watching fascinated from the top rail of the corral, this city-girl-turned-sailor found the show captivating.

Rhonda also cooked on an outside wood fire, and this evening she put on chops to sizzle over the flames. The "tucker" was delicious; steaks never tasted better than they did that evening at Robbo's. And that evening as the sun sank below the horizon and the sky glowed like the coals in the wood fire pit, I tried to picture myself in Rhonda's place, and felt almost envious of her homesteading lifestyle.

Preparing for Departure

The new months of 1984 slipped by quickly. We planned to depart Bundaberg in April, and as that month approached we concentrated on preparing Suka; so with reluctance we had to decline many of John's invitations for more sightseeing. With experience gained during the past year and a half, the job of reprovisioning our ship had become considerably easier. The amount of supplies needed for one year no longer seemed so staggering, and I had a better idea of what types and quantities we would need. Our bodies now objected strongly to salty food, as though a great deal of salt had permeated our bodies while at sea. So we appreciated the fact that the Australian canned goods were far less salty than their American counterparts. The grocery delivery truck arrived at the jetty bearing our four carts of provisions. In two or three dinghy loads we had transported the grocery sacks to Suka's cockpit and decks. We spent the remainder of the day removing labels from cans, writing the contents with water-proof ink, and then stowing the cans.

One afternoon we tied Suka to the jetty in order to load the motorcycle on board. John came to help, and after an awkward stint of pull, push and shove we lashed the big Honda 350 on the afterdeck. Taking an intermission during our sail up the Great Barrier Reef, we intended to linger several weeks in the town of Cairns, where we figured that the motorcycle would come in handy, and where we then planned to sell it.

On a quiet Easter weekend we enjoyed one last stroll along Bourbong Street, calling in at the sandwich shop to leave a few gifts for our friends and to sadly bid them goodbye.

Ray and I planned to motor the ketch downriver during the afternoon with the outgoing tide, and then to set the hook for the night in the turning basin where we had first anchored upon our arrival six months earlier. This scheme would permit an early morning start for the jaunt to Round Hill Creek, 48 miles to the north-west. I untied Suka's mooring lines, and Ray powered gently ahead. Holding back the tears, we watched Ross and Yvonne returning our the waves, wishing us well from aboard their Ricochet.

The Queensland coast and the islands of the Great Barrier Reef beckoned, and we were on our way.