Hello world!
Its been a while, but we're back to civilization with some stories to tell.
We left Port Stevens and sailed past the main tourist attraction; the brochure called it 'the world's largest single dynamic sand mass'--really just another big sand bar. After a night at sea we pulled into Sydney Harbor and were astonished to find the seas inside the harbor were twice as rough as they were out in the Tasman. The number of mega yachts, ferries, jet-boats, tour boats and sailboats was beyond belief; the wakes from each of them bouncin
g endlessly off the cliffs and concrete sea walls combining into strange lurching waves that had us ocean sailors looking a bit green about the gills.
We anchored off the opera house for the New Year's fireworks. The show was as spectacular as only a booming mining economy could make it—no expense spared. Half dozen simultaneous displays surrounded the
harbor in addition to the rockets and geysers of fire launched from the bridges and skyscrapers in the city. A stunt pilot wove his plane through the masts of the anchored boats, and a parade of decorated tall ships circled the harbor.
In the morning, we washed the ash off our decks and solar panels and put to sea, relieve
d to be out in the relatively smooth waters of the Tasman again. Exactly 200 miles south, we pulled into the little town of Eden, the last town on the East coast. Aside from a small fishing fleet and the requisite freighter dock for loading lumber and ore, the town had little to offer tourists except a stranger-than-fiction whaling history.
In the 18th century, while whaling ships hunted deep offshore waters, an industry of land based whaling sprung up. A few hardy and enterprising souls would camp out on a likely looking bluff and watch for whales; upon spotting a pod they would rush down into their rowboats and row like mad out to intercept, pincushion the whales with harpoons, tow the carcass back to shore to be rendered and stored until a trading ship came. It was very dangerous and intensely laborious. However, in Eden, the resident killer-whale (his name was Old Tom), saw that h
e and the humans were working toward a common goal. Once teamed up, a routine emerged and it was life on easy street for both of them. The big orca would wait offshore while the whalers drank rum and played cards on the beach. When Old Tom spotted some likely victims passing offshore, he'd rush into the beach and alert the sleepy whalers by splashing and slapping his tail just off the sand. The crews would pile into their rowboats and toss Old Tom a line; the killer whale would take the lines in his mouth and tow the boats out to the sperm whales at high speed. Then Tom would herd the whales up to the boats, harrying them from below to keep them at the surface in easy harpoon range. Under assault from above and below, the sperm whales would quickly expire. The whalers, in a show of trust and gratitude, would cut the carcass loose for Old Tom, who would take it down to the bottom to have his way with it while the whalers returned to the beach for a nap. After a few hours, Old Tom would return the carcass to them,
usually sans tongue (apparently a delicacy). Legend has it that the routine continued for many years until Old Tom's teeth became so worn down from pulling ropes that he could no longer eat;
ironically, he died of starvation. If you go into the Eden whaling museum, they have a complete Orca skeleton, which, they claim, is Old Tom's. Looking closely, you can see that his front teeth are quite sharp--but behind either cheek the teeth are worn down to little more than nubs.
We'd heard great things about Tasmania; in the back of our minds it had always been there—a remote and mysterious place where there were still harbors, mountains and streams wild and untamed. After much debate and several bottles of fortifying home-brew, we decided to go for it. We waited two weeks in Eden, the last stop on the east coast before crossing the notorious Bass Straight to Tazzy.
The Bass Straight has a fearsome reputation. The western entrance is exposed to the Southern Ocean; the closest land to windward of the prevailing westerlies is Cape Horn, South America. The Eastern entrance opens into the Tasman, which has a nasty reputation in its own right. The bottom shoals to an average of less than 200 feet, intensifying open ocean currents and causing unnaturally steep breaking seas. The wind funnels between the two land masses, reaching supernatural velocities. In addition there's a scattering of over one hundred islands and rocky outcrops throughout the Straight, and their names tell their own stories: Skull Rock, Black Pyramid, Devil's Tower, Cape Barren, Starvation Cove. There's a long history of shipwreck and tragedy, the most recent in 1998 when a fleet of 114 sailboats in the Sydney-Hobart Yacht Race were slammed by hurricane force westerlies. 67 turned around and limped back to the mainland, a handful were abandoned and 6 people died.
Our goal, of course, was to have about 10 knots of northerlies, sunshine, and balmy weather for the entire 200-mile crossing. There were a dozen other adventurous boats with the same goal, collectively over a century of Bass Straight sailing experience. Impromptu weather meetings sprang up twice daily—over gallons coffee in the morning and then gallons of beer in the evening. Some of the more aggressive boats got anxious and went for it despite unfavorable weather, the older experienced hands urged caution—there was always a story to back up the advice. “I was hove-to for three days in the Straight back in '93; couldn't go out on deck—breaking waves over us from stem to stern. Rocks all around, whirlpools.” Finally, a forecast for two days of 20-30 knots from the north. Us remaining boats had a last weather conference aboard a 50' aluminum ex-race boat, one bulkhead peppered with Sydney-Hobart racing plaques, trophies. It was a pretty serious boat; a few nuts and bolts were protruding from bulkheads below, each as thick as your average broomstick. The cockpit was protected by a shatterproof windshield salvaged from a 18-wheel Mac Truck. The skipper gave a few last words of advice. “I've been across the Straight dozens of times, and I've learned a few things. Go as fast as you can. This is not a pleasure cruise, the weather will turn—it always does. Don't trust the forecast, get across and get the hell out of there. I crewed in the '98 race, the bad one. The weather turned bad in an instant, the forecast hugely underestimated the situation.” There was a moment of loaded silence, then we asked the question that had to be asked. How bad was it? “Hard to say,” she said. “The wind sensors were washed off the top of the mast pretty early on. Their last reading was 92 knots.”
On that note, we left.
