Moonlight across the Southern Ocean

Destination: Bluewater sailing

Jack and Judith Binder take on one of the most feared stretches of water on the planet when they set out on a 1,600nm passage from Albany to Tasmania in their Hartley ferro cutter. For photos go to:  http://www.gooroo.com.au/banyandah/

By the time the Roaring Forties pass under Australia, they have gathered energy from halfway round the earth and are either driving the sea wild or are ready to pounce when next provoked by a depression from Antarctica.

Now imagine two aging flower-powers, petals shrivelling yet with bright strong hearts, aboard a homemade sailboat crossing this most feared stretch of water. Alone, they must look after themselves and God forbid either be injured or suffer a body malfunction.

Jack will tell you, his eyes glowing, about the time we made a winter crossing from Albany to Wilson Promontory, him on the aft deck cudgelling the heavens trying to match nature's fury as a black front passes over. With that glow replaced now by humble respect, he'll then describe how Banyandah, our Harley South Seas ferro cutter, began lifting to a wave soaring above her masthead when its top third tumbled and turned white. Froth flew from its crest, and roaring like a fast train, chased Banyandah down until it washed over us.

Once again

Eighteen months ago, with little thought of the dangers and difficulties, we took on this challenge once again. At that time Banyandah lay between the towering red cliffs of the Berkeley River gorge, a slender slit in the arid landscape of WA. In the peaceful shade of her awning we were sitting listening to Matt and Gill relive their adventures on the mighty Gordon River aboard Wooshee surrounded by thick Tasmanian rainforest. We love those ancient silent monsters with branches dripping green mosses, so the thought of living among such grandeur had us put that destination on our must-do list while circumnavigating Australia.

But, making a promise is one thing, fulfilling it another. Especially when it involves crossing 1,600nm of the Roaring Forties, then making landfall on a lee shore that has only one safe haven, and that guarded by a narrow gap called Hell's Gate. By November we were back at Emu Point Slipway, where Banyandah stood forlorn like a warrior in tarnished armour waiting some care. Here we received the best assistance from Darren Russell, a journeyman shipwright and owner of the friendliest slipway in Australia.

Waiting for the moon

Six weeks of steady work had the good ship Banyandah ready for sea, but we hung around for the new moon's slender face. There's nothing quite as grand as sailing an empty sea bathed in moonlight. Two days before Christmas, casting free our mooring lines we sailed straight into a near gale, thinking if something's going to bust, best it happen close to facilities. Sailors don't have public holidays; everyone knows that. So, while most were ripping open gifts, our Christmas day was celebrated by having one of our loveliest sails within cooee of gigantic granite boulders weathered and washed by white breakers off a sapphire sea.

We gunkholed along the south coast while finding our sea legs, sleeping well at Two-Peoples Bay, Waychinicup, and Cape Riche. But the night before our departure we slept poorly. Not from nerves, but from a nasty Southern Ocean swell rolling into Bremer Bay. Jack swore a blue streak all night and into the morning as we packed our disaster grab bag and lashed emergency provisions into the tinny. But we slept well our first night at sea when usually it takes a night or two before we're so fatigued we don't hear the groans, clicks, and sea sounds that stop sleep coming easily.

Whispering easterlies

Leaving with no malicious weather approaching, our first challenge was finding a way through the prevailing summer high-pressure cell, which contained only whispering easterlies. With the rig in tight, we sailed full and by, increasing the apparent wind, which increased our speed to slightly faster than if walking upon that mirror-flat ocean. Southing came slowly those first five days while our watchkeeping settled into a rhythm.

Jude retired at eight, but not before Jack clipped on our watchkeeper's belt containing personal EPIRB, waterproof strobe, whistle and a Mobilert PTX. We always post a watch. No exceptions. Dangers materialise when least expected. So, regular as clockwork, at 15 minutes past midnight Jack wakes Jude. Then, if needed, we make any sail changes, this helps Jack sleep till the eastern horizon lightens. Often, he slips into a bed still warm from his lady's sleep. We've tried shifts of two, three, and four-hours. But Jack took so long to fall asleep in the early years that we simply split the night in two. Jude takes a morning nap to gain extra rest.

Strengthening westerlies

Slow, easy miles slid past until one morning a band of cloud wet our decks. Then presto, like an ace thumped down on a jack, the wind magically swung to the west. At last the sails could be eased, although running from rather light winds actually slowed our progress. But, with each passing day, as the moon grew larger, so did the wind strength until when celebrating one week at sea, it came in strong, forcing us to reef down for the first time. Barrelling along at double pace, Banyandah rolled heavily in the increased swell.

Tossed one way then the other, sleeping fitfully, Jack cursed the sudden squeaking of a windvane block until he could stand it no more. Boldly braving a wetting, he clambered topsides, braced his bum on the wet aft deck, clamped a torch between his teeth, then tried to lubricate the offending block. Alas, all in vain. Towelling the cold sea off his torso, shivering he climbed back into bed, shoving tissues into his ears in a futile effort to silence the repetitive squeal that was driving him insane. Those 24 hours were our greatest run. One hundred and forty three nautical miles logged. Not our greatest ever, which is nearer 200, but a good day's run nonetheless.

Filled with nature

You might think mid-ocean a boring lonely place, but it's not. A long voyage like this becomes an intimate passage through time and space filled with nature. Seabirds keep us company, clouds whisk overhead, and sea swells pass in ever-changing patterns. Early on, flocks of brown mutton-birds swooped down behind us after we'd landed a big fish. Greedily they dove deep to retrieve chunks we threw them, using their wings to fly under the sea like cormorants. And if they missed, they'd beat their wings and paddle their feet atop the sea to chase Banyandah.

Further south, when the breeze acquired a real bite, giant albatross soared gracefully astern, effortlessly travelling many miles without moving their three-metre wings. Surely, man's first gliders were fashioned after them. Some had black slashes like mascara running through their eyes, others had snow-white wings edged in the deepest black, and a few had patterned bodies like fine Italian marble. Other creatures were about too. Shearwaters soared swiftly along the swells, and tiny storm petrels no bigger than would fit in our hands, their pink legs dangling, danced from wave top to wave top searching for food among the breaking seas hundreds of miles from land. These creatures of mid-ocean survive in all winds. In fact, the more it blows, the faster they swoop and soar, seeming to enjoy the extra power and challenge as they race one another in magnificent displays of aero acrobatics.

Keeping a log

We keep a log of our journey. Each hour of every day, we record the cumulative miles Banyandah has run, course steered, miles achieved, wind speed and direction, barometric pressure, plus any notes we like to make. Sound like a chore? Not a bit. In fact, when the ship's bell strikes the hour we relish the opportunity to record our passage. It'd be more than 30 years since we started with store-bought logbooks, which soon proved rather expensive, so we designed our own that also contained a form for reducing sextant sights and noon meridian passages. We recorded thousands of sea miles using photocopies of this mounted in folders, then had a 300-page hardback book printed for peanuts in Sri Lanka.

Today we use lined A4 hardback notebooks obtainable from most newsagents that Jude rules into columns. She also beautifully embellishes the pages with creatures we see, while Jack doodles our sail layouts. With additional comments, some humorous, some laconic, a few distressed, they form an informative record of a journey we never want to forget.

Strong winds

When sailing south of latitude forty, strong winds came more frequently, and we listened intently to the high seas weather forecasts issued four-hourly by the Bureau on frequency 8176. Recording the huge amount of data on an MP3 player first, we then graphed the highs and depressions with increasing apprehension. At those latitudes, the weather changes quickly. And when, just two days from landfall, a deep 970mb low developed astern, instead of finding sleep, Jack's mind gnawed on whether to divert to a far northern harbour or try to survive hove-to in strong gale conditions. We were checking into the Seafarer's amateur radio net, reporting our position and weather, so Jack asked if they would check the anchorage on King Island as an alternative. But the next day, when that depression got pushed a bit south and our area would receive only the cold front and 30 knots, we maintained our course.

Tasmania

Our first sight of Tasmania came soon after that cold front had given us a kick up the backside. Seen between crashing waves, the mountain peaks sent our hearts soaring with pride and relief. By lunch we were as close as we dare, just eight miles offshore. So we rolled up the headsail, pulled the main in tight and hove-to. As if waiting for our arrival, the winds eased and King Neptune's welcoming committee leapt out the sea to race past our bows in the largest pod of dolphins seen since our earliest passages.

The lessening breeze tempted us to dash for the dreaded narrow gap of Hell's Gate, but we restrained. Later, as the horizon darkened for yet another night at sea, and the wind evaporated completely, Jack questioned if he'd made the right decision. Jude bedded down, and as we were once again within mobile phone range, Jack settled into answering our inbox. But the wind gods weren't done with us yet. While bobbing up and down with a dark hostile coastline now only five miles off, they roared back with a vengeance not seen on this passage. Banyandah shook and she rocked. The cacophony was so deafening, Jude roared out, "What's going on?" Vexation showing, Jack roared back, "Get some sleep," though he knew she could not.

Staying awake

Hoping she'd find some rest, fearing she'd be clumsy if not, Jack tried to stay awake further into the night, but even the slatting sail and slosh of sea couldn't hold back his weariness. Droopy eyed and unable to stay awake any longer, just as he climbed into her warm bunk, the wind ceased as if the gods had shut off a tap. Shaking his head while pulling up the doona, the wind suddenly roared back - from the opposite direction!

All quiet

Exhaustion must have blocked out all noise and violent motion for he woke only when soft shadows crept into the cabin. Stumbling up, rubbing away heavy sleep, he saw Jude sitting in her chartreuse down jacket, ghostly white, staring blankly into a misty sea. The wind had gone, the sea was quiet, and a quick check of the GPS showed Cape Sorell just three miles off. Gulping down a quick coffee, Jack started the diesel, and through the mist, Banyandah went seeking her destination.

Jude did not go back to bed, with land getting nearer her cheeks found their normal blush, she eagerly grabbed her camera. Vapours rose like steam. First through the eerie light came the lonely white edifice of the Cape Sorell lighthouse atop ravaged rocks as Banyandah lifted and rode the Great Southern Ocean swell on to her next challenge.

Not that long ago, in January 1822, two British ships set out from Hobart with orders to establish a place of banishment, "to put the fear of God and Hell into the most incorrigible of Van Diemens Land prisoners." Only one, the Sophia, navigated through the narrow gap into Macquarie Harbour. Landing at Sarah Island, Commandant Cuthbertson, his officials and a detachment of soldiers incarcerated 66 male and eight female convicts in the most miserable place imaginable. The wretched souls passing through this narrow gap called it Hell's Gate.

Free in spirit, commanding our own destinies, as we approached this treacherous gap the sun broke through bathing us in warmth and adding life to the vibrant colours of forest meeting bold rocky shore. Ahead, lay a gap no larger than three houses abreast holding back a five-kilometre-long body of water filled by the rivers draining southwest Tasmania.

Slack water

More often than not, strong currents make this gap untenable and to enter at slack water was one reason we had waited.

Seeing Strahan, the town of 800 at the head of Macquarie Harbour appear around a headland, came the realisation that we had achieved the dream held since that day with Matt and Gill. We had conquered the Great Southern Ocean. Before us now was the reality of a rainforest retreat. As well, another dream could be achieved. To our south within easy reach lay the waterway of Port Davy, a last stronghold of nature, world heritage, without tracks or roads.