ew 30 from the North. We pushed the boat hard for 130 miles in the first 24 hours. With a trough moving in, the sky clouded over and a fog sprang up, the temperature dropping. We crossed into the 'roaring forties,' and pushed even harder to rack up a 145 mile day. At sunset, cold, damp, and tired we sighted land—sheer red granite cliffs, 500 feet high, spotted with orange lichen and stretching like castle battlements up into the fog. The charts were sketchy so we felt our way along. Finally the gap appeared like a missing tooth, giving access to the inland waterways of Tasmania. We ghosted through and a glittering emerald sea opened before us. A blast of warm melaluca-scented air heeled the boat, instantly turning our perpetual dampness to crackling salt crystals. The last tendrils of fog melted away in the dry breeze off the granite. It was the last time we'd face the hostile Southern Ocean for over a month. 
Tasmania is a land of plenty. At our first anchorage we turned down a freshly-caught lobster dinner on one friendly sailboat because we'd already accepted an invitation aboard another (owning a vineyard tipped the balance in the latter's favor.) We also had a pile of fish aboard Orca we'd speared that morning—heavy going after the other meals. Kara pulled up the anchor to find a tangle of irritable octopus clinging to the anchor. We would have eaten him if we could have stomached the thought of more seafood. To be prepared for the future I checked the fishing guide and yes, they are very tasty, but, regrettably, as an unlicensed recreational fisherman Tasmanian state law imposes a limit of 450 pounds of octopus per per
son per day. The thought of eating a slimy mountain of octopus daily didn't help with the now-chronic seafood overload.
As we moved south through the inland waterways, we ran into all sorts of seafood trouble. First we OD'd on mussels, then raw oysters. We tried cooking the oysters but they wouldn't fit in any of our pots (“Tazzy oysters are too big to steam, you gotta put them on the barbie, mate!”). After a lively battle we landed our first red Arrow Squid. Kara found it to have an uncannily accurate surprise assault: a long-range jet of inky snot. With her face splattered in black mucus she grabbed the wrist-thick squid with both hands; the squid was game and grabbed Kara with all eight tentacles. During the ensuing battle, precision snot-shots went into the cabin
, onto the sails, and then a particularly devastating vertical spout resulted in a fine rain of black goo over the entire boat. We wrestled the writhing mass into the pressure cooker and got the lid battened down. The pot stopped rattling and bouncing but when we naively cracked the lid, geysers of mucus erupted again. Kara had had enough; she lit the stove and calamari-ed him.
By this time we'd sailed nearly 150 miles without leaving the protection of the inland waterways, but that was about to end. To reach the ultimate in remote sailing destinations requires a 60-mile dash around the bottom of Tasmania. Forbidding grey stone cliffs stand watch over the clash of ocean currents boiling under a cloud of sea-birds. Enough trust in the charts sends you sailing right at the stone wall, weaving between frothing spires of solid rock. Its not until a half mile from the cliffs that another crack in Tasmania's defenses reveals itself: hidden behind a r
azor's edge of stone and a natural dogleg is the entrance to Port Davey.
Around the bend, the incessant Southern Ocean swells vanish. Craggy peaks of white stone thrust harshly from green meadows of peat. A few stunted trees and ragged melaluca bushes nestle in easterly-facing hollows for protection from winter's fierce westerly gales. A red-tinged waterfall mists gracefully into the harbor. We pulled beneath it and tied off to the cliff to let the clean freshwater dissolve the salt crystals and fill the water tanks.
The streams and rivers are tinted red by the abundance of tannin-rich grasses in the surrounding tundra. In the harbor, a layer of bloody freshwater lies like a shroud over the intruding salt, blocking out light even at shallow depths. Without photosynthesis, the ecosystem in the harbor falls into the realm of the deep-sea species. What's down in the inky waters? The poor lighting, remote location, and uniqueness of the environment means that nobody's entirely sure—new species are discovered regularly. On the Orca, there was a an unusual lack of aquatic activity; it wasn't just the chilly tempera
ture that made the dark waters seem unwelcoming.
The land, at first glance, seems lifeless but the rock and low scrub supports an array of strange and rare species. Die-hard birdwatchers occasionally charter light aircraft to Port Davey in search of the critically-endangered Orange Bellied Parrot. Just twenty-one adults re
main in the wild, breeding around the edges of the moorlands (we caught a glimpse of a juvenile). Some claim the Tasmanian Tiger still hunts swans, wombats, and kangaroos in the isolated river valleys. The last known Tiger specimen died in captivity in 1936, but unconfirmed sightings by Park Rangers and bush-walkers continue to trickle in. In the last decade $3 million in reward has been offered for a confirmed sighting, giving rise to a new breed of enterprising camera-toting tourists. Not many make it to Port Davey. Experienced Tiger trackers are easy to spot; they travel fast and light, carry no water and hike for days along the Port Davey ridge-lines. Their secret? A 6' length of garden hose. A bizarre species of freshwater crayfish lives under the spongy peat in a network of burrows—even at the tops of the tallest mountains. Their holes in the saturated soil are filled with fresh water like a sandy hole at the beach; thirsty bushmen snake their hoses down to the subterranean chambers and suck the water out. 
Of course, there were plenty of poisonous things too. After several encounters Kara started tucking her pants into her socks, her shirt into her pants, and there was talk of duct-tape for the arms and neck. She never went ashore without pulling on her sea boots—even to go hiking. After a particularly close call with a highly venomous red-bellied blacksnake we decided it was time to get out of the bush. We traveled nintey-five miles up the west coast to Macquarie Harbor.
Here the land is much flatter and the state has managed a road to support a small tourist economy, but the lifeblood resides with the commercial lobster fishermen who use the harbor as home base. These legendary skippers and crew work the sheer cliffs on the exposed west coast of Tasmania, maneuvering battered steel boats into gulleys and cracks along the vertical coast in horrendous swell to lodge traps on submarine ledges and rocky outcrops—but that's once they leave the harbor. The only exit from Macquarie Harbor is the aptly named Hell's Gates, flanked by two granite spires fitted with small white lighthouses. In the narrow passage, the current flows out to sea at between 3 and 10 knots, depending on the flow of rivers emptyin
g into the harbor. The sea-floor shoals rapidly to 10 feet, intensifying the current and causing the Southern Ocean swells to break heavily. In January of 1998 a coalition of lobster fishermen placed a Waverider buoy outside Hell's Gates to report waves height in an effort to make crossing the bar safer. Within weeks the buoy recorded 60-foot seas, the biggest swell ever recorded in Australia waters. Later, the buoy was ripped from its moorings after recording 75-foot seas in the early stages of another winter storm. We asked why anyone would risk lobster fishing on the west coast of Tasmania; the answer was that a deckhand averages $150,000 per month of take-home pay—if they survive.
We waited a leisurely four days for the swell to subside. Finally, the waves died to average heights, the buoy reporting in with a maximum reading of 'just' nine meters. We were going back across the Bass Straight and into the Great Australian Bight.
