Lady Musgrave to Sydney Harbour
The third stretch of the voyage was longer, rougher and more revealing than the first two. By now the routines were familiar, yet every day still carried something unexpected. The sea, like other outdoor adventure, has a way of stripping life back to its bones and showing you what underneath.
This section of the journey took us from Lady Musgrave to Southport, then down the New South Wales coast to Pittwater and finally into Sydney Harbour. It offered some of the most beautiful moments of the trip and some of the hardest.
Leaving Lady Musgrave
We reached Lady Musgrave at first light, threading the coral bombies and anchoring just after six. The passage smoother than expected spoiling my controversial anticipated test of how I would stomach choppy weather. After settling the anchor we took a shore break to the island. I was mesmerized by the tree and bird life, dominated by just a handful of species. The heatwave we’d heard about on the mainland was made real for us away from the boat. After just a couple of minutes on the beach we joined the turtles and small sharks in turqoise shallows.
The morning was joyful. The afternoon less so. The auxiliary cooling for the fridge/freezer had failed, and we burned fuel for an hour trying to chill it, before discovering the real issue. In hindsight it was avoidable, but most lessons on boats seem to arrive that way.
Ray left us by ferry after lunch, racing to Bundaberg for a train that only ran that day. The remaining crew snorkled the reef in the afternoon before preparing for the early morning departure of the next leg. It had been almost 20 years since I last snorkled I wondered how things might have changed. Skipper John’s wife Lyn is a master reef guide. We met her at Hamilton before she took off for her flight to Sydney. She was emphatic that bleaching of the reef was a conspiracy of sorts (“follow the money” she had said). Bouyed by her positivity I thought I might be in for the colourful wonderland I’ve seen in documentaries. Alas, if it is colourful somewhere, Lady Musgrave is not the place. The fish were however, fascinating and, to my novice eye, abundant in the portion we explored along the face of the reef.
North Winds and Failing Freezers
The run south from Lady Musgrave began with gentle conditions. We motored in light following winds, slipping into our own exhaust plume as the breeze came straight from behind. Yet another sense to remind me of the tonnes of fuel we were consuming. Ugh. At 8:30 we were the furthest from land we expected to be at about 50 nautical miles, surrounded by open ocean as far as we could see.
Dolphins returned mid-morning, playing under the bow for a good fifteen minutes. Once again their ease against the swells made our own motion feel clumsy, stumbling about on the foredeck trying to maintain a good view of them.
The freezer stopped working completely that day. Opening it was discouraged unless absolutely necessary. The second fridge hovered at eleven degrees. Meals shifted quickly toward what needed eating first. No one complained, and after lavishing praise on the vegan food Jess and I had been serving the first few days, John conceded he was more than happy to continue with a plant-based diet the rest of the trip. That would leave the meaty dishes prepared by his wife safe in the deepest part of the freezer.
The complex integrated refrigeration system was a legacy as old as the boat, with four separate compressors in total for two refrigerator and one freezer compartment. Some running off the engine, some from 240V shore power and some from the 24V battery system. All of them using now-banned refrigerants with immense global warming potential and all eventually leaking into the atmosphere.
After a rain shower and a good broad reach in the afternoon, and we anchored near Woody Island at dusk.
The Fraser Bar
We left early the next morning, aiming for the high tide at Boonlye Point. It was stressful water. The skipper was fully alert and kept the sails down despite perfect conditions. This afforded the best control over our course and no distractions. It did leave me pondering the relative risks we take and the price we all seem willing to pay for the utmost safety possible. Jess took us through with Navionics on her phone and virtual and physical channel markers. Her concentration was total. She brought us through cleanly.
With no marina berths available in Tin Can Bay we anchored between Stewart Island and Fraser Island, sheltering from the forecast northerlies. Storms arrived that night and the next, with lightning that filled the whole sky and the dampened wind still registering 30 knots.
We used the hours at anchor to work on repairs. The fridge cooling pump was in such a cramped space that tested my dexterity and determination with the less than ideal tools at hand. We eventually realised we only needed to replace the impeller rather than the whole pump, which thankfully was somewhat easier to access. With new impellor and seal in place the refurbished pump built enough pressure to hawk up the slimy black sludge that had been restricting the flow through the heat exchanger. Tada. Refrigeration again.
The mobile internet was patchy here and even though John had encouraged us to use his satelite internet, tales about unexpected $1000 bills meant reserving that for basic communication. Instead we read, talked, cooked and napped.
Waiting Out the Weather
Three days passed at anchor. I got up the courage to try out the kayak. With only two onboard I’d found an easy excuse the previous time, with Jess and Patrick far more eager than I. But after being ravaged by sandflies on that occasion, Jess was clear on her preference to stay away from the shore. I was afraid of falling into the water and not being able to get out safely. I was also afraid of looking clumsy. But excuses gone, Patrick and I kayaked to Fraser once the wind had eased. We walked a good ten kilometres on sand tracks, exploring some features we’d noted on the map. After a few hours we returned with hunger up and edginess down. The food options thinned, but everyone stayed good-spirited. We were at no risk of running completely out of food, with every cushion and cladding panel hiding yet another stash of pantry goods.
To Stay or To Go
In the midst of this stay I managed a call with Emelie at home. Adam had taken another slide into ill health, with a sudden fever and such lethargy he couldn’t retrieve food for himself while alone at home. Emelie wrote about her experience of this time. I wanted to go home and told the skipper and crew. They were prepared to motor for hours in the wrong direction, with unsuitable weather, to get me to shore. We waited on standby for interpretation of Adam’s latest blood tests. At last, as the time window to safely return to anchor elapsed, I got word. He was getting better. Emelie wanted me to stay on the boat. I hesitated, then passed on the news. Renewing my committment to the journey, at least as far as Southport.
Without a proper opportunity to stretch her legs and the date of her course approaching, Jess grew restless. She wanted movement. But she also respected the skipper’s opinion on the safest time to advance, based on predicted wind, swell and tides. The forecasts slowly improved, giving us a suitable window to advance.
Across the Wide Bay Bar
We raised anchor late on day thirteen and set up for the crossing at Inskip Point. Both John and Jess studied the latest advice from VMR Tin Can Bay which had been emailed through. They plotted virtual lateral markers and we took note of what to expect from the sectored lights. We crossed mid-afternoon with waves breaking onto the shallows either side of us. Jess hectically steered us into the tall swell to keep it from crashing on our beam and then slipping back onto our desired heading in the troughs between. Patrick and I kept an eye on the sectored lights to our rear, reporting to the helm each time a colour change indicated we had encroached on a hazard. After a long 30 minutes we emerged into smooth water with long simple swell between 1.5 and 2m. A whale breached in the deeper water of our port side as way of greeting.
As night approached the swell grew and came about to behind the beam. Watches were queasy. We kept the headsail up until midnight, its effect calming the motion, until alas the wind was no longer suitable. Patrik’s lentil soup, amiss in the the 11 degree fridge for several days had taken on a strange ferment. It stayed on the stove.
Tensions
The tender came loose in the swell the next morning. It seemed impossible to keep enough tension on the rigging to hold it fast against the davit. I worked on solutions to better secure it. Options were limited while we were under way. The breeze died. We motored again until a beam reach carried us the final miles into Southport. We refuelled, showered, washed clothes and reset.
I learned I had upset Jess with an offhand comment about food. It was a good reminder that small tensions can grow large in confined spaces. I was glad she had spoken up and I could see it took some courage. I spent a couple of days comtemplating if there was anything I could do to make ammends. In the end I decided she had been clear enough and any further discussion would only be me trying to alleviate my guilt. This was really for me to manage so instead I was more mindful of my choice of words the rest of the trip. We each ate separately that evening and gave each other room.
Southport to Byron and Beyond
We departed the next morning with provisions sorted and three dinners planned. The day before, the transmission belt for the engine-driven fridge failed. The shore-powered system also kept tripping the breaker. Well we got a couple of days between repairs! Now we were going to be without active refrigeration the rest of the journey. We welcomed Michael aboard. A very experienced sailor, he has spent longer at sea all about the world than he has on land since his retirement about 6 years ago.
After escaping through the marine traffic, we were gifted an hour or two of beam reach for great sailing. The autopilot failed at midday with a rudder error. We had been using it for a good 80% of the time so far as a reliable and tireless helmsman. The manual helm being somewhat harder work than might otherwise be necessary due to a few mechanical gremlins. We crossed into New South Wales under a broad reach, with handling the steering and its gremlins now added to our watch duty. The anticipated storms approached as we neared Cape Byron. With lightning all around, we furled the sails, closed the hatches and huddled in the cockpit while John steered us through the rain.
More storms followed through-out the evening. In a brief calm at 8pm the wind shifted in every direction. Lightning flickered on all sides. The eye of the storm.
Running Down the Coast
Tidal conditions prevented our entry to Coffs Harbour, so we kept heading south. A pink sunrise through scattered rain bouyed our spirits as we pushed into our third continous day of rotating watches. The autopilot returned intermittently. A fishing boat worked nets offshore as birds searched the surface for signs of fish.
We skirted the continental shelf at night to avoid suspected unmanned fish traps. Later, we altered course and speed several times to avoid bulk freighters bearing their great masses of coal out of Newcastle and returning hungry for more. Hundreds of birds skimmed the surface in the morning, gliding a handspan off the surface. I never once saw one landing a catch. I wondered how much of their activity was for the pure joy of it.
By afternoon we adjusted sails for a deep reach, then jibed downwind under pole. The swell, mild as it may have been at about 1.5m, made everything far more difficult than in the flatter water behind the reef. A good lesson to take for future passage making.
Late that night the wind and current turned in our favour. Plans changed several times as forecasts shifted and we made more ground than expected. By evening we aimed for Pittwater, just a few hours north of Sydney harbour.
We arrived just before 10pm.
Pittwater and the Final Run
The next morning offered a short tour around the bay and headwater made famous by the TV drama Home and Away. Our British crewmate Jess was the most familiar with the set. By late morning we were back at sea, running under a broad reach with westerlies pushing us fast. We hit nine knots in gusts of twenty-five. The vessel is designed as a ketch, which means it can carry a third sail called a mizzen behind the main. Unfortunately the rigging requires some work so it remained furled. The rudder, and thus the helmsman had to do the work of the mizzen instead, throwing the wheel away from each gust to avoid rounding up.
Sydney Harbour arrived in view in the early afternoon. Wind funneled between the headlands at the strongest we’d encountered the whole journey, hitting 35 knots. A small catamaran capsized and righted repeatedly as we passed. The two crew sure had their work cut out for them.
After several hours touring about we tried a quiet public mooring with a splendid view, but found it rated to only twenty tonnes. We moved on and anchored at Rose Bay as the light faded. Several large motoryachts nearby bustled for the best sunset view. I’m not sure their guests or their hosts bore any notice as they stood about in their fine suits sipping their wine and cocktails, no doubt discussing matters of greater importance.
What the Sea Teaches
This leg of the voyage revealed more than the first two. It showed how quickly conditions change. How limits sharpen judgement. And how kindness and patience becomes a practical skill when space is tight and stress is high. I feel like my persistent enthusiasm for sailing, even when motoring would have been easier, was infectious. I would like to think my presence saved several hundred litres of diesel, though ultimately I would rather the vessel hadn’t made the journey at all. In the end though we change what we can and accept what we cannot.
Being at sea strips away some of the convenience and, depending on the the vessel, a lot of the comforts of shore life. It asks you to trust each other or gives little choice. You must deal with the weather and the sea, whatever it brings. To be patient and to know that change is certain, and with it comes hope.
Resilience grows through challenge, not comfort. Participating in challenging activities like this reinforces how little you really need. And how much we can find when we take away the distractions and the some of the safety padding and our attention rises.