Playing in Mr Bass' Strait
Three couples and a grand old lady
visit the Furneaux Group
and more
An account for family and friends.
Ben Marris and Saona
TASMANIA: a yachtsman’s playground
Deal Island
Flinders Island
Banks Strait
Eddystone Point
Wineglass Bay
Maria Island
Kettering
100 nautical miles, approx.
The Kent Group of Islands
The Furneaux Group of Islands
The three of us declared that it had been a “no wife” crossing of Banks Strait. We were
wet and tired. The boat was also wet through but safely anchored in Kangaroo Bay in
the Armstrong Passage at the end of an exhilarating day. It was not, however, a day that
any of our wives would have enjoyed.
Tony, Roger and I had left Eddystone Point on Tasmania’s north east coast at dawn that
morning. We were sailing in Saona, a lovely 40 ft, Philip Rhodes designed, huon pine
ketch. She had been sailing these waters since she was launched in Hobart in1936.
Overnight the forecast had increased to a 15 to 25 knot westerly with seas of 2.5 metres
and a swell of 1 metre. This was more than we had anticipated but as we raised the
anchor under the shelter of Eddystone’s sand spit the April morning seemed mild and
the breeze gentle. As a precaution we set only the mizzen and two headsails while we
debated which rock was which and where there was a safe passage out past the
towering lighthouse to turn north for Jamiesons Bay on Cape Barren Island.
Once out of the shelter Saona healed and surged forward. We knew then that we did not
need a mainsail. As the beam wind increased to between 20 and 30 knots we put two
reefs in the mizzen and still we sailed at between 6 and 8 knots. Saona was magnificent.
She rode the waves powerfully, surging up and shooting down them. For much of the
time the lee rail was well under and copious water flowed over her summer-dried
wooden decks on the windward side too, occasionally dumping a bucketful in the cockpit.
But the wind never seems so strong when the sun is out and the sea is blue.
The morning turned to afternoon and eventually the soft, grey outline of the hills of the
Furneaux group became sharper. As we gained some welcome shelter from the south of
Clarke Island and the Moriarty Shoals the forecast warned that the wind would turn
southwesterly overnight, which would make the notoriously rolly Jamiesons Bay more
exposed, so we altered course to enter the Armstrong Passage by passing through Sea
Lion Narrows, behind Passage Island. Here, we thought as we furled our minimal sails
and began to motor in, we would find some respite and relief. But the tide was in league
with the wind as it funneled out of the passage and showers of rain now joined the fun.
We crouched in the doghouse, peering forward, examining damp charts and guidebooks
as we negotiated the rocks, reefs and sand banks. At one point the water driving against
the doghouse windows changed to be more like the foam in a washing machine window.
Just then the depth sounder beeped and showed not much at all. We swerved out of a
mini pot boil and cautiously regained the channel.
Eventually we found the narrow entrance to Kangaroo Bay and then we were anchored
out of the wind in the middle of a pool of still water.
We were wet and tired. The boat was also wet but safe. The timber of her summer-dry
decks had been well soaked and would not let water in again for the rest of our cruise,
but that night we would sleep on sail covers to give us some protection from wet
mattresses. We had arrived at the end of an exhilarating day. It was not, however, a day
that any of our wives would have enjoyed. That was when, with cheerful hot drinks in
hand, we declared that it had been a “no wife” crossing of Banks Strait.
The adventure all before us, about to cast off from South Haven Marina, Kettering
This adventure had its origins in my comment to friends that I had several times sailed
through the Furneaux Group and Tasmania’s northeastern waters, but never spent time
enjoying the area. There are so many islands, large and small. Clear waters and such a
strong, raw, natural environment that the small scattered population seem to have made
little impact.
It had been the same for Roger and Tony. They are both most competent seamen who
had previously sailed through the area but not had time to play and explore. For all three
of us, however, a cruise in these waters would be beyond our wives’ comfort zones. Our
solution was to set aside three weeks for us to sail to Flinders Island, cruise perhaps as
far as Deal Island, and return to our home port of Kettering. Our wives would fly to
Flinders Island and stay in land-based accommodation for the middle week. We would
meet up with them as circumstances permitted.
We sailed out of Kettering on the last day of March with a four-day forecast of stable, fine
weather and predominantly westerly winds at between 10 and 35 knots. We made grand
progress on a fine, sunny, splashing, broad reach for most of the way across Storm Bay,
through the Denison Canal and north to Chinamans Bay on Maria Island.
April Fools Day gave us another splendid sail to the beautiful Wineglass Bay. This
cruising life was full of joy with only a slight blemish. During the afternoon Coast Radio
Hobart issued frequent VHF broadcasts commencing “Top priority wind warning.” We
had not heard them use that expression before. Nor had we previously heard them
predict “Hurricane-force winds in southern waters.”
The lunchtime forecast was for storm warnings in all Tasmanian coastal waters except
St Helens Point to Wineglass Bay where we were promised a mere gale of north to
northwest between 25 and 35 knots, going 30 to 40. We had taken advantage of
Saona’s shallow centerboard-up draft and anchored at the eastern corner of the bay
where we considered that the hook of the rocky point would protect us from the
northerlies. Two other boats were less well sheltered and moved out to Sleepy Bay but
we felt safe and it was a nice warm evening.
The wind began to build and by 3 pm gusts were lifting the water off in the more exposed
parts of the bay while the sand was being blasted off the beach in a solid white cloud. By
3.30 we were being laid over first on one side then the other as the wind came round or
over the point and Saona’s bow fell off first to port then to starboard. She was putting
enormous pressure on her plough anchor. The inflatable rubber dinghy, known
affectionately as Saonafat, was being flicked from side to side, often airborne and
landing sometimes upside down and sometimes the right way up.
When we began to drag we were ready to deploy the big admiralty pattern anchor on a
heavy nylon warp. We reset both anchors, placing them wide under the point. This
immediately stabilized us so that the boat took the 35 knot gusts head on. We
congratulated ourselves on implementing a good strategy in an efficient and tidy manner.
That was until we saw that the beach was motoring steadily towards our stern. We were
dragging both anchors.
I started the motor to hold us and radioed the boats in Sleepy Bay who said that they
were relatively comfortable. It was time for us to move out but first Tony and Roger had a
difficult job retrieving the anchors which had drawn together as they dragged. I did my
best to keep Saona on station, head to wind as they worked on the plunging deck to
disentangle stocks and flukes from bobstay, warp and chain. I was most grateful for their
steady competence and seamanship which brought both anchors on deck without
damage except for a broken boathook. Now we edged out into the full force of the wind
where Saonafat was flicked upside down again and her painter was bowstring taught. I
was considering cutting her free but Tony and Roger managed the extraordinary feat of
bringing her on deck.
We used nearly all of Saona’s 50 horses to move forward but she parted the short, steep
seas in great style and we worked steadily north in the gathering dusk. We were
surrounded by white water and we could see the break of the waves at the base of the
dark cliffs on either side. I consulted the GPS plotter to supplement our limited visibility
but the information seemed confusing. Next day I would see that it showed us as having
traveled over land.
The Cape Tourville light house was winking over the cliffs of Sleepy Bay as we gained
their welcome shelter and settled back safely on 80 metres of chain in 12 metres of
water. It was a bit rolly but the twenty-knot gusts seemed insignificant. Roger poured two
stiff glasses of brandy while Tony cooked pasta Bolognese. The drama was over.
The next morning we learned from the radio news about destructive winds all across
southern Tasmania, roofs had been lifted off houses and power lines carried away by
fallen trees. Tasman Island had recorded gusts up to 73 knots. Maatsuyker Island’s
instrument failed at 90 knots. We had been fortunate to be anchored in one of the less
windy areas. At home Jane was coping with trees fallen across our drive and others
crushing the chicken run.
We spent the day in companionable chatter and reading, waiting for the seas to subside.
That night we moved back to Wineglass and then used the twelve hours from dawn to
dusk the following day to sail and motor-sail the 72 miles to Eddystone Point. We were
ready for our no wife crossing of Banks Strait.
Saona in a damp and misty Armstrong Passage
The morning after our crossing of Banks Strait dawned still, misty and damp. We were
surrounded by hauntingly beautiful seascapes of rock, mountain and sun slanting
through mist.
Tony explained to us, while we motored carefully back out into the Armstrong Passage,
how Kent Bay became the site of the second white settlement in Australia. In 1797,
when the toehold colony of Sydney was desperate for supplies, an entrepreneur from
Calcutta sent a leaky ship with a speculative cargo of rum and other essential goods.
The storm-battered Sydney Cove sailed south of Tasmania but, while making her way
north to her destination, was blown through Banks Strait and eventually beached
between two islands at the western entrance to the Armstrong Passage.
The rum was stored on Rum Island and the crew made camp on Preservation Island
before seventeen of them set out to sail and then walk to Sydney. Only three survived
this awful trek. On their arrival a rescue and salvage mission was sent for the rum and
the remainder. Lieutenant Matthew Flinders was on this mission. He made two
significant observations. He observed the currents in the area and concluded that Cook
was correct in his suspicion that the land we know as Tasmania was separate from
mainland Australia. He also observed enormous numbers of fur seals on the islands
rocks and reefs of the area.
On his return Flinders was commissioned to explore and survey the area and to
establish the existence of Bass Strait, which he named after his colleague George Bass.
Later the ‘Great Island’ which he had described was named after him.
His report of the seals led to the rapid establishment of a rough and pioneering colony of
sealers at Kent Bay. Fortunes were made in this outlaw enterprise but within a decade
the seals were all but extinct.
We motored gently west through the north channel of the passage as the sun gradually
overcame the mist. The enclosing hills, the granite-bouldered shoreline, the bays and
beaches all became more sharply etched. By the time we anchored at Horseshoe Bay
on Preservation Island the misty morning had become a perfect drying day with a mild
breeze. Saona became a Chinese laundry bedecked with wet carpets, mattresses,
sleeping bags, wet weather gear and not-meant-to-be-wet gear.
We packed lunch, blew up Saonafat and went exploring ashore. We all sensed the
isolation of those shipwrecked sailors who waited, not knowing if their plight would ever
be known. Was this circle of stones on the highest point their look out place? Did they
make rafts out of wreckage to get to other parts of this strange archipelago?
Today half the island is a cattle lease with an unoccupied house and a cattle-loading
ramp which marches out onto the beach to await a landing barge. There is a tiny, sloping,
grass airstrip which is notable for having three windsleeves distributed along its length.
What skills do pilots need to land here?
The other half is covered in vegetation which was largely unfamiliar to us, being
succulents and low salt scrub. The whole surrounded by sandy bays, beaches, rocks
and crystal-clear water.
Saona anchored amongst the rocks of Horseshoe Bay, Preservation Island
Back on Saona we were making for Thunder and Lightening Bay on the north western
approach to the Passage when we spied two crayfish boats anchored behind some
rocks. Always ready to defer to local knowledge we nosed judiciously in and were
grateful for advice as to where to drop the pick in the surprising shelter of Keystone Bay.
We rowed ashore armed with soap and towels for a refreshing evening swim and a
beach walk during which Roger found a perfect nautilus shell.
A glorious evening followed with drinks on deck and bar-b-qued lamb chops. We were
surrounded by a beach and granite boulders of all shapes and formations as well as
water so clear that you could see the rocks and reefs laying in wait below the surface. All
you need, really.
The next day we motored around the western end of
Cape Barren Island and into Franklin Sound where Mt.
Strzelecki occasionally peered from under a low grey
cloud. With pilot books, charts and GPS waypoints we
picked our careful way into Lady Barren and moored at
the jetty just as our wives, who had flown in that
morning, arrived in a hire car to start their week on
Flinders Island. We were all more than ready for a
joyful counter lunch at the Furneaux Tavern.
The girls had rented a delightful beach house just
outside Lady Barren. Roger and Tony slept on land
while my night aboard was serenaded by t he cattle,
sheep and other cargo being loaded unwillingly onto
the Matthew Flinders cargo barge throughout the early
hours.
Next morning, after a land-based breakfast with newspapers and wives, we restocked
some provisions from the local store and refilled one water tank. We had been warned
that the bore water at the jetty may be unsatisfactory, but we found it excellent.
A most pleasant easterly filled Saona’s MPS as we glided with centerboard raised
across the shallows and through the channels to Trousers Bay. We anchored and
picnicked ashore with the land party who had arrived via Whitemark where they had
purchased a fishing gaff as a substitute for our broken boathook. Together we followed a
‘Great Short Walk’ sign around Trousers Point and marveled at the sun and shadow on
endless granite sculptures. These were splashed with various lichen sauces, curry,
tomato, pea and Worcester. Soft green succulent pig face contrasted with the hard
granite and all this was topped with the spiky black and green of casuarinas. Once again
a National Parks ‘Great Short Walk’ had taken us to a place of stunning natural beauty.
Jo was determined to relax
The view from Trousers Point towards Mt Strzelecki
On the next day we did not set out for Deal Island. We made a sensible plan to sail the
thirty two nautical miles to Killiecrankie, passing amongst the many islands and rocks on
the west coast of Flinders. But the possibility of Deal was lurked, secretly, and we did
make an early start.
We sailed west to leave East Kangaroo Island to starboard and then north along the
inside of Prime Seal Island, enjoying a jolly and sunny beam reach. We were making six
or seven knots in a 10 to 20 knot breeze and all was well with the world. But idle time
makes for evil calculations and it was not long before we all admitted that we had
privately estimated that, on this course, and if the wind held, we could be at Deal Island
by nightfall. The forecast of “light and variable” for the following day was perfect for the
notoriously poor holding in Murray Pass, the narrow passage separating Deal from its
neighbours Erith and Dover.
So we sailed on, ticking off the many rocks and islets on the way, splashing by in the sun.
There was one event when I failed to give enough space to Frankland Rock, which
appeared on the GPS plotter to be pretty much on our course. We looked out for it and
eventually saw an object which seemed to be a little out of place but I felt confident that
this was just another chart error. Just then the sea around the boat became confused
and the depth sounder showed alarmingly little water below us. Which way to turn? Too
late, the bottom was receding and the sea returned to its normal state.
The object that I had seen proved to be an approaching small ship (the only vessel that
we saw all day). We can confirm that Frankland rock is correctly charted and that, at
certain states of the tide, it is a little deeper than Saona. How did the old guys sail these
waters in unhandy boats with no charts?
Late in the afternoon the wind eased and, with the tide now running strongly against us,
we fired up the diesel. Deal Island, together with its siblings Erith and Dover, became
more substantial as the sun began to set. The tower of the inspiring lighthouse, the
tallest in the southern hemisphere, glinted pink and white in the last of the daylight but it
gave no loom. We were to learn that it had been built in 1848 but was decommissioned
in 1992 because it so often had its head in a cloud. It has been replaced by two modern
“blinkers” on nearby islands.
Saona felt small under Deal’s high, red cliffs. With renewed respect for the chart we
headed up into the wind and furled the sails off the entrance to Murray Pass. The chart
highlights this area with wavy blue lines. A strong tide swept us away but our powerful
diesel drove us back and over the standing and confused rip of the entrance, through the
high gorge of the passage shadowed in the gathering dusk and into East Cove. There
were no other vessels and we dropped anchor in the middle with 60 metres of chain and
congratulated ourselves heartily.
Roger and I made good use of a bottle of Tahbilk cabernets. Tony hit the ginger beer.
We ploughed through a celebratory amount of cheese and olives before a beef stir-fry.
We eventually hit our bunks agreeing that it had been a great day’s sail to a romantic
destination.
We woke to the sounds of people on the shore. A rhythmic ringing sound was coming
from a group who were driving steel fence pickets into crevices in the rocky water’s edge.
This was a mild surprise because we had only expected to meet the volunteer caretaker
couple.
East Cove surrounded us as though we were in the middle of a bight taken out of the cliff
perimeter of Deal Island. At the deepest part of the bight there was a beach behind
which the cliffs gave way to a steep, grassy slope rising to a plateau far above us where
some buildings of a settlement peeped over the edge. A track zigzagged up the slope
from a jetty on the beach to the settlement.
Saona in East Cove, Deal Island, with Dover and Erith across the Murray Pass.
West Cove shows as a sandy beach. Taken from the settlement.
The sky was blue. The air and water were still so that Saona’s anchor chain fell vertically
in clear water. “Light and variable” seemed to be an exaggeration. It was time to go
ashore and meet the locals.
We soon learned that there was a working party of Bush Heritage and Nature
Conservation volunteers staying on the island. They were erecting fences up the steep
sides of the slope in the hope that they could keep the wallabies from eating the
vegetation and causing erosion.
We walked the steep zigzag to the top and met the caretakers. As we talked the
lighthouse stood tall on its hill behind the settlement. They said it was a 45-minute walk,
and offered us the key. It was impossible to resist. But we had been so entranced when
we came ashore that we had not brought a camera or any refreshments. Tony and
Roger volunteered to go back down to the boat for those items while I set off for a
solitary walk across the island and up the hill.
The well-made track was suitable for the four-wheel drive ‘moon buggy’ that we had
seen at the settlement. At first there was grass and evidence that lighthouse keepers
past had kept cattle here. Then the route entered a tall, dense forest of casuarinas with a
depth of dry needles like a snowdrift around their feet. Occasional dry bones suggested
that the cattle may have been more ranched than farmed.
Much though I enjoyed the company of my crewmates, at this time, after so much time
together on the boat, I relished the solitude. I strode out at my pace. As the path climbed
I stopped to gather breath more frequently and enjoyed the silence of the place.
Eventually I reached the last steep slope up to the pinnacle of the lighthouse. I was glad
no one saw me stopping every few steps up that incline.
There were some ruins of an old stone generator shed and a cottage at the foot of the
tall white tower. At the base I spent some time savoring the clear view in all directions,
over the casuarina forested island top, over the blue sea with its dotted rocks and islets
to a soft blue horizon. But the key was in my pocket and the gallery above beckoned.
Behind the functional, locked metal door was a fine, varnished wooden door. Inside
there was a circular iron staircase. With knees wobbly from the steep walk I held firmly to
the rail and wound up to the classic platform gallery and the light made by Chance
Brothers and Co, of Birmingham in 1891. A heavy lever opened the thick door out onto
to the cast iron gallery which circled the top of the tower.
Did the wow factor come from the height, the view, the glorious detail of the
craftsmanship and engineering, the perfect blue day or the sense of arrival, the sense of
an Everest achieved?
Roger and Tony strode up the hill and trotted up the stairs to join me on the gallery
where Roger perched, nonchalantly on the outer rail. Together we shared our
amazement. We pondered the achievement of those who had constructed the light and
lives of the men who had kept it functioning for a hundred years.
We stayed a while, full of wonder. But eventually and reluctantly we acknowledged that
this moment, like all other, must move on. We set off back along the track to the
settlement where we were propositioned by one of the young lady volunteers. On behalf
of her colleagues she offered us a shower and lunch in return for ferrying their group
across Murray Pass to Erith Island for a walk and a swim. We agreed, of course, and
took turns to examine the settlement museum and shower. We examined artifacts and
read of wrecks and feats of seamanship, of self-sufficiency in a harsh environment.
Roger was particularly impressed by an account of Darwin’s Beagle being swept through
Murray Pass, avoiding shipwreck only by feats of extraordinary seamanship.
Over an excellent lunch of freshly baked bread and lamb shanks we learned more about
the current programs to maintain the flora, fauna and built heritage of the three islands
that make up the Deal group. Volunteer residents are not allowed to keep a boat
because of the dangers of these waters so that they rarely have the opportunity to cross
Erith or Dover. We were told that on the previous night a group of canoeists had arrived
en route from Victoria to Tasmania. They had become separated and some had arrived
in a distressed and disoriented state. They were staying in a hut on Erith.
After lunch we ferried the working party and light caretaker out to Saona and then across
to West Cove where they set off across Erith to a swimming place in the gulch between
Erith and Dover. Roger strode out after them but Tony and I had had enough striding for
one day. We met the canoeists who seemed somewhat downhearted by their adventure
but doggedly determined to paddle on to Flinders on the next day.
Deal Light from West Cove
Late in the afternoon Roger returned with tails of unselfconscious maidens draped like
mermaids over sun-drenched rocks. Saona ferried the cheerful party back to Deal as
the sun threw long shadows across the pass. We glowed quietly as they commented
kindly on our graceful vessel and the well oiled, quiet co-operation of her crew. At East
Cove the tide was high enough for us to nose into the short jetty and hold station as they
jumped ashore. We exchanged farewells and thanks with our new friends before
motoring back to anchor in the middle of the cove.
It was a quiet night and there was a quiet satisfaction aboard. Tomorrow we would be
ready to head south again.
Next morning we made an early start. There was a light southerly breeze in East Cove
and we decided to head north out of the Pass and east so as to circumnavigate Deal
and see more of her rugged cliffs and bays before making south east for Flinders Island.
We hoisted mizzen and headsails before raising the anchor, conscious that the
marooned islanders would be watching our every move. What a sight we would be, red
sails in the morning light. Nonchalantly we edged slowly out of the cove but the wind was
barely enough to overcome the current through the passage. With hardly a word we
exchanged glances, nodded and up went the mainsail. Well, half way up. That was when
the first squall hit and put our starboard rail under. With a quick burst of motor I brought
Saona up into the wind which immediately died. With the main fully up and dignity
slightly repaired the next squall hit putting the port rail under. And so, driven now by a
swirling current, then by a squall and sometimes by her diesel engine, we fled the
passage with only a surreptitious backward glance. The Beagle had done well without a
diesel engine.
There was an uncomfortable sea running as we cleared Deal and the wind was barely
sufficient to drive us comfortably on our course. High humidity and smoke from bushfires
in Gippsland made for poor, soft visibility. A red brown hue added to the colour of the
cliffs and rocks of Deal and of North West Island, where the modern, solar blinker lurks
as imposter navigation light.
It was a long motor sail without Saona’s usual easy motion and we were glad when Inner
Sister Island loomed into view as harbinger of the northern tip of Flinders. The girls were
due to arrive at their rented beach house at Palana that day and the RYCT Anchorage
Guide suggested that Blyth Bay would give adequate protection for the predicted south
westerlies. But first we needed to cross Sisters Passage which was intriguingly marked
on the chart as “The Stern Choppers”. We soon learned that this meant an area of heavy
tidal over falls, white water and depths ranging from 15 to150 metres. But the sun shone
and we worked our way across, looking forward to anchoring and meeting up with our
partners.
Blyth Bay off Palana seemed
innocuous and sheltered as we
negotiated some moorings and
attempted to anchor near a small boat
ramp and jetty. We had some difficulty
in finding secure holding for the
anchor and were only partly satisfied
when the girls arrived with an urgent
message that this was not a safe
place for us. They had spoken with
Allan Wheatley who was adamant that
we must not trust this anchorage but
were welcome to use his mooring at
Killiecrankie Bay. The girls would
collect us from there.
We wasted no time in motoring the
eight nautical miles past the red granite boulders around the northwest tip of Flinders
and south to Killiecrankie where we located the substantial mooring. Although this bay
can be exposed it is a recognised anchorage and Saona would be safe. We left
Saonafat on the beach.
We stayed two nights at the beautiful and peaceful Palana beach house. It seemed as
though few people reach this edge of the world. There were a few shacks but no
inhabitants. We walked, explored and enjoyed the domesticity of life ashore.
On Sunday Jane delivered us back to Killiecrankie in the rental car and we returned
aboard conscious that we were now on our journey home, but determined to continue
enjoying the last week of our cruise. With a bright blue northeasterly breeze we could
have raced down the coast of Flinders but we decided to dilly-dally on the way.
The beach at Palana felt like the edge of the world
Jane and the rocks at Stanley Point, the northern tip of Flinders Island Jane and the rocks at Stanley Point, the northern tip of Flinders Island
Royden Island looked like a good lunch anchorage. The northernmost of the Pascoe
Group, it lies just south of Cape Frankland. The chart shows a narrow passage between
it and the cape with a rock in the middle but a sounding of 3.3 metres. The GPS plotter
showed a sounding of 6 metres. The RYCT guide says “An excellent anchorage is to be
found inside Royden Island with shelter from most weather.” What more could we ask
for? Perhaps we would take a walk ashore and a picnic before returning to our journey
south.
Tony was on the helm as we approached with a fine following breeze. He asked whether
we should head up into wind to take the sails down before going through the passage
but the sun was shining and I proposed that we sail through with the wind and round up
into the anchorage on the sheltered, eastern side of the island.
As we surged on the gap seemed to narrow. The depth sounder called the charts a liar.
White water broke on the rocks on either side and there was no longer any choice of
heading back into the wind. Roger hastily pulled up the centerboard and we seemed to
lift as we foamed on toward narrowing eye of that needle with hungry rocks on either
side. Did we stare open mouthed as disaster seemed inevitable, or did we close our
eyes? Were we silent or did we utter terrible oaths? Perhaps we did all those things. I
think I breathed in to make my self smaller and I know that I begged Saona’s forgiveness.
So this is what it’s like to loose your ship.
And then we were through! It was time to round up into the anchorage, but where? The
clear water was shallow and strewn with reed and rock. This might be a good anchorage
for a tin dish but there was not two metres of clear water and it was no place for us. We
fell off the wind and sailed carefully out of those waters, breathing more easily as we
gained depth and clear water about us. Lunch was deferred.
We sailed on to Prime Seal Island, looking for a quiet spot and eventually, at 3pm,
anchored some distance off a hut toward the southern end. We were ready for a late
lunch.
Although we were sheltered it was a weedy spot and not an exciting anchorage. East
Kangaroo Island was only 10 miles further and looked more promising. Well lunched we
left the shelter of Prime Seal to find a splendid 10 – 20 knots breeze on the port quarter.
A splashing, sleigh ride reach in sun and sparkling sea. Saona laughed along at 7 and 8
knots. She must have forgiven us the morning excitement.
We rounded the south side of the bare, tussocky lump of East Kangaroo to arrive in a
bay off a small beach on the east side. A sea eagle watched us from some low,
windswept scrub as we nosed carefully into the bay. There was a small house, a shed
and a short jetty with a motorboat. In the evening light we could see a couple fishing off
the jetty. We stood off a couple of hundred metres to ensure enough water.
In the morning we went ashore and met Neil and Dianne who lease the island as rough
sheep grazing from the National Parks and Wildlife Service and also manage it as a
sanctuary for cape barren geese. They have a farm on the Tasmanian mainland and visit
the island three or four times a year. They never lock their small, old house but leave it
open for visitors. “Drop in and have a shower any time you are passing, the solar system
keeps the water hot all the time and there is always tea and coffee.”
Another splashing sleigh ride
On their hospitable verandah we enjoyed both the coffee and their obvious pleasure at
their simple, island life. Before leaving we enjoyed returning their hospitality on Saona.
Neither had been on a sailing boat before.
Once again we were blessed with a favourable northwesterly breeze under a blue sky.
We could hurry home through Banks Strait or continue a more exploratory cruise. The
Democratic Republic of Saona resolved to set the more interesting course through
Franklin Sound and out by the notorious Vansittart Shoals. We all agreed that this would
be a useful experience in case we passed this way again, but in truth we all wanted to
have this notch in our sailing Curriculum Vitae belt. We had turned the horse for home
but we would not rush. We would take a lay day in one of the less visited areas of the
north side of Cape Barren Island.
As we left the shelter of East Kangaroo Island we raised the MPS and Saona healed to
the quartering breeze, enjoying the smooth water. The wind eased and became more
westerly as we entered the Sound. We glided between the rocky southern shore and the
off lying shoals. The warm sun gilded the shoreline, danced on the water and brightened
the palette of the hillsides. The Strzelecki Peaks on the north side and Mt Munro to the
south stood out sharply against the bright sky, unlike their damp and forbidding presence
when we passed this way a week before.
All was well with the world as we came to Ned’s Reef, an island of granite boulders.
There were slight mutterings from the crew about furling the sails but the opportunity to
glide gracefully through the narrow passage and round up to anchor in Munro Bay was
too good. So, with centreboard raised and lookouts posted to warn of submerged rocks,
we negotiated our way in and turned up into wind to come to rest in a most lovely spot.
Ahead was a curve of tree-fringed beach. On the port side was the steep green slope of
Mt Munro. On our starboard the bold granite boulders of Ned’s Point and, beyond, his
reef, gave a solid feeling of enclosure.
Saonafat at work
17
Roger and I circled the boat Saonafat with the lead line and bathyscope to check our
shallow anchorage for rocks before heading off to Ned’s Reef where we had spied some
orange coloured object. We landed on a small, sandy beach which lay in a semi-circle of
rounded granite boulders on which some brave succulents claimed a foothold. We pulled
Saonafat well up the beach and tied her to a rock before clambering up onto a boulder.
Here we found that the reef was composed of a jumble of boulders formed to enclose
another beach. The whole was decorated with driftwood, as it seemed perfectly formed
to catch the flotsam and jetsam driven by the prevailing westerlies. It was a stunningly
beautiful, secret corner of the world. Roger mused about being twenty-three again and
cast away here with a girlfriend. I was a poor substitute.
We located and claimed the large orange buoy that had caught our eye and ambled
slowly back. On reaching the now floating dingy we were amazed again at the speed
with which the tide rises and falls in this area, withdrawing and refreshing this reef twice
each day.
Back at Saona we saw two small aeroplanes fly over on their way south, perhaps with
our girls on board. Now we knew that the third and final stage of our cruise had started.
We took time to do a little maintenance, topping up oil, putting new shims in the hydraulic
drive belt and generally making all ship shape. We found we were short of sugar, which
was far from essential but provided a purpose. Tony explored the shore and the
possibility of walking to the Cape Barren settlement to visit the shop. It seemed that this
would be a bit of a scramble and we adjourned the idea for tomorrow, our rest day.
But tomorrow dawned still, cool and damp. The day before the idea of sitting and reading
a book in this lovely place had seemed enticing. Today it seemed like a waste of time.
The republic was unanimous. We would make our unhurried way east, past Vansittart
Island and down the coast to spend the night somewhere in the south east of Cape
Barren Island. The forecast was good for crossing Banks Strait the following day.
Franklin Sound, its islands and surrounding hills were all soft shades of grey under a
silver grey sky. The herringbone of our wake spread forever across the wide sound as
we motored east. We studied charts and kept a constant watch for the idiosyncratic
leading marks past Apple Orchard Point and through the narrow gulch between
Vansittart Island and Briggs Island.
These islands, together with Great Dog Island, attempt to block the tidal flow which
strives to funnel through Franklin Sound to fill and empty Bass Strait, despite the great
bulwark of Flinders, Cape Barren and Clarke Islands. We had chosen to pass this way at
low water, believing that the tide would be slack. It was not. We pushed our way out and
turned sharply to starboard at Ross Point to follow a course about 50 metres off the
eastern shore of Vansittart Island. As we did so the notorious Potboil was immediately
on our port side. With faith in our guide and an eye on the erratic dept soundings we
worked our faithful vessel through a seemingly endless route of swirls and standing
waves. At times it felt like we were a small piece of broccoli floating in a large and rapidly
boiling saucepan. Only the more violent seas to our port and the shallows to starboard
kept us on course.
We were all excited and awed by the forces on which we were playing. We were in awe
too of the heroism of the people who had pioneered this seemingly impossible route.
Eventually, after 2½ nautical miles of this turbulent course, we came to the wreck of the
Farsund, her iron skeleton standing high on the shallows to starboard. A barque of 1490
tons, she was driven on to the Vansittart Shoals by a gale in 1912 and has remained as
a warning to all who brave these waters. Saonafat still tugged and tossed in our wake
and Roger wondered out loud whether it or the life raft would be of more use if we came
to grief.
After the Farsund the passage widened and became less ferocious. We were able to
stand off, relax and reflect as we motored south and looked for an anchorage for the
night. With wind forecast from the west but a swell rolling in from the east there were no
good answers. We arrived at Jamiesons Bay just before dusk and chose to drop the pick
at the eastern end of the beach, close to the rocks, hoping for some protection from the
swell, but it was not to be. There was not enough breeze to keep us from wallowing in
the waves as they rose up to the beach. Roger, Saona and I had experienced a
dangerous night here once before. This night was just rolly and uncomfortable. We
deflated Saonafat at my insistence on the illogical basis that we were about to make a
serious crossing of Banks Strait
We rose at first light, keen to get going and have breakfast under way. It was a long,
fifty-mile day of motoring with occasional sail assistance, across a slack, rolly, grey
Banks Strait. Eventually we passed Eddystone Light and worked down the coast to
Skeleton Bay near St Helens. We anchored in a delightful spot and saw people, a rare
phenomenon, walking out to the point.
Since we had obviously returned to civilization Tony and I decided to reinflate Saonafat
and go in search of fresh bread, milk and sugar. It was an interesting trip into the
innovative little jetty, set amongst the rocks at the side of Binalong Bay beach. We
slewed sideways out of the surf but arrived safely and set off for the shop. Tony knew
where it was because he had been here before. Well perhaps it was in the other
direction. Eventually we asked a friendly native who told us that the shop was no more,
but pointed to a café which might help. They responded to our unconventional request
by giving us a handful of little paper tubes of sugar and a just baked, warm loaf of potato
sour dough bread which proved to be excellent.
We motored back to Saona in the gathering, chilly gloom. A check of the fuel tanks
showed that we had only 65 litres left. With only a light head breeze forecast we would
need to obtain diesel to get us home.
The next day started with a fine bacon and egg breakfast but this was the only highlight
of a long motor into a cool wind. We were slogging home. We arrived at Wineglass Bay
in the dark at 7pm.
The next morning we motored out into a winter cold southerly breeze and plugged on
south, grateful for the shelter of Saona’s doghouse. Eventually we followed the leads up
Spring Bay to moor alongside a fishing boat at the wharf at Triabunna and arranged for a
tanker to deliver diesel. By the time we had showered at the ever obliging information
centre and pumped 200 litres of fuel aboard it was too late to move on, and the Spring
Bay Hotel always provides good sailors food. We really had returned from the wilderness.
In winter sun we sailed where possible and motored a little through the Mercury Passage.
We debated whether to take the short cut through Dennison Canal and Norfolk Bay or
could we hold onto this cruise and spend one more night away on a longer route around
Tasman Island. We could anchor in Cloudy Bay, returning north up the D’Entrecasteaux
Channel. Eventually the pull of home won the day. The Democratic Republic chose to
take the shorter route.
At Dunalley we put Tony ashore to race up to the bakery for a set of pies before our last
leg home. We arrived in the early dark to a wonderful reception from our girls who were
waiting for us at the South Haven Marina.
We had been away for three very special weeks, in special places, with a lovely boat and
great companionship. It had been a memorable cruise but it was good to be home.
Saona at rest.
