Esperance

Someone, possibly myself (although now it seems like someone else must have made the decision), talked us into sailing under Austalia to reach the Indian Ocean. This is not a traditional sailing route; the ocean down there isn't traveled enough to merit a formal name. Its not the Pacific, nor the Tasman. Its not quite the Indian; perhaps it's the Southern Ocean or bordered by it. Maybe it's just a big storm-battered bay; 1,600 miles of hostile ocean and 2,100 miles of sand pounded flat by relentless swell. It was a morale-withering distance to cover with the southern summer closing down—four, maybe six weeks before the winter westerlies filled in.

Despite a forecast for brisk southerlies and big seas, once outside Hell's Gates the elements abandoned us to a confused chop and light air. Within hours we had an alarming increase in breeze from the East—the wind we didn't want funneling over the Bass Straight's contrary currents. The waves were building very quickly. By afternoon we'd taken in all sail except a scrap of mainsail and by sunset were intermittently overcanvassed. In the hole between waves the rig's howl was eerily subdued, Orca standing tall and upright in the shelter of the next looming swell. As each wave moved under us, the sail rose into the wind and when on the crest we'd be layed over, lee ports looking down into the sea. The Straight's notorious currents were having their say; the top third of each wave was steep and craggy with an unnatural hollow just beneath the white crest like a sunken black eye.

 

We were taking wave tops over the cabin, the boat in full submarine mode. We needed to reduce sail even further; Kara was quick to volunteer for the foredeck job. A marvel of poise under pressure, she efficiently brought us down to storm canvas despite the water on deck, waist deep at times. After that, we double-checked the steering vane and retired below to spend the night sitting on the floor, heads between our knees.

It was a rough start to this leg of our journey. We made it across the Bass Straight but were forced to pull into Portland, Victoria by morning to repair damage to the mainsail. Curious, we used the public library's internet to look up the weather records from the station nearest our position when we had our highest winds. We were shocked when Google revealed the closest island, New Year Island, had (1) recorded the month's lowest windspeed for that night and (2) supported the highest deadily snake population density on the planet.

We were glad to be done with the Straight.

Feeling well chastised and not a little humbled, we put to sea—still stubbornly headed west. We stopped on Kangaroo Island, where a salt named Glen took us aboard his timber crayfishing boat. He nursed our confidence back to life, fed us up (we were looking borderline malnourished at this point), placed his 'ute' at our disposal, and tipped us off about the broken shower at the campground—free unlimited hot water.

But Glen had another miracle in his hat. Like a magician, he roared off in his tinny and returned with no less than four young people! Each mythical creature had a barely detectable golden nimbus surrounding them, springing aboard light as blown sea foam. For the first time in months, we witnessed smiles of white, real teeth set in smooth tight skin and topped by real hair of varing non-grey shades. Unthinking, I grabbed the nearest elbow to steady the newcomers down the side deck while Kara, higher brain function still reeling, automatically offered to stow their canes, walkers, and antacid medications. The 20- and 30-somethings laughed us off, the dulcet sound of tinkling glass bells, and soon we were obliged to explain our shock. Thinking back, we listed all of the people under the age of 50 we'd met on boats. There was that singlehander back in in May of 2010. We'd heard rurmors of young couple in French Polynesia, also back in 2010, but hadn't able to find them. That was it.

The Big One

This is a well-recognized phenomenon and recieves heavy cocktail-hour discourse. The very oldest yachties claim it's part of a 50-year cycle—by year 2100 they fully expect to see youngsters at sea again. The rest of us are stumped. Despite an all-time low in boat prices, sailing is just not popular with the young crowd. Traveling is still hot—backpacking hostels are packed and campervans cluster around every public toilet. So why do they travel by air, bus, and train? Perhaps we found out several days later on our next crossing. 

The next stretch of coast is 500 miles of featureless whitesand beach backed by dessicated outback—not a single cove, harbor, or building. We put to sea with a checkered forecast—fair winds, a trough and cold front, fair winds. We perceived a potential advantage in the remnants of tropical cyclone Lua, which was forecast to join with the trough and counter the short period of westerlies. Orca departed into a pattern that was now becoming famillar; the Great Australian Bight is a place of weather extremes. One can expect either a light zephyr or full gale—there are no moderate windspeeds. We had the former during the first two days and the latter soon after. The change was fast: a mirror sea flooded by dark rushing textures, a roll of boiling purple clouds. Within six hours the swell was above the spreaders, Orca hove-to, bow to weather. Again huddling below, we felt our rise and fall, trapped in an elevator.

Kangaroo Island glass off

Until setting out across the Great Australian Bight, our sea-confidence had been built upon the myth that we were something, our boat significant. The waves and swell had been of comparable size and volume to our boat, we crested them bravely and purposefully, the bow neatly parting each. We could forecast the weather; computer modeling, satellite images, and real-time observations suggested predictability, cast the illusion of control. Now, for a second time in as many weeks we were besieged by forces outside our experience. Though these swells were not dangerous, steep or breaking like those in the Straight, they were bigger—we couldn't bear to look at them. Each had the footprint of a city block. Instead of slicing through, Orca labored up each swell and tumbled down the backside, weathering just one or two waves in 60 seconds. The temptation to stay below, pretending these swells didn't—couldn't—exist, was overpowering. We didn't talk about them, we didn't think about them. Maybe they would go away.

And they did. Orca took care of us, her sails and rudder balancing each other to keep the bow to winward without sailing forward. We hid below in denial. Twelve hours later, the sea was again smooth, broken only by disorganized patches, miles across, of strong wind. We got the boat moving, but the sailing was tough. Each blast of wind called for a different combination of sails; a three-hour watch might require six sail changes. All hands were called regularly, sleep was rare. Our eyes became sunken dark hollows. There was little time for cooking. 

Southern Ocean Winds put to good use

For nine days we pushed hard in these conditions toward the town of Esperance—the French word for hope. When we arrived, the people of Esperance recognized our battered countenances. They get a handful of boats from across the Bight each year; they were familliar with the symptoms. Within minutes they had Orca installed on a mooring, her crew showered and beered in the yacht club. We were whisked off to various member's houses every night for gourmet dinners. We were pampered and before long our eyes emerged from their caves and our ribs receeded. Human again.

Corella Cockatoos invade Orca

From Esperance it was an anticlimactic jump around Cape Leeuwin, the air very light, and up to Fremantle, Western Australia. The Fremantle Sailing Club is another traditional stop for battered Southern Ocean sailors for decades, and we were very excited to experience their legendary hospitality. Unfortunately when we arrived they turned us around and sent us to sea again. The Club's new policies require a minimum $10,000,000 boat insurance policy. The average marine insurance policy is voided by sailing more than 200 miles offshore or above 35 degrees south latitude, so we could see why the guest dock was empty. 

We're now in Port Denison, about 200 miles north of Fremantle in a sleepy little lobsterfishing village. The international airport is beckoning and Kara has a plane ticket to meet her new niece, Sparrow, in just a few days!