Cavalier times in Victoria

Destination: Portland

Peter Nyga rekindles his passion for the ocean during a delivery trip from Hastings to Portland in a Cavalier 26.

When good friend Robert Stott asked me to help him deliver his recently acquired Cavalier 26 from Hastings to Portland in Victoria, I became excited at the thought of going to sea again. It had been 10 years since I had sailed my own Top Hat in Bass Strait and the salt in my blood was urging me to get out there again. Robert felt the same way. (I even jokingly — but half seriously — suggested to him that we should sail the boat to Portland keeping Australia to port.)

He had bought the 1977-built yacht in NSW, had it trucked down to Hastings, where he lived on it for a month while restoring it to a seaworthy condition — no mean feat, considering he lives in Casterton in western Victoria. To say that the boat needed a lot of work is an understatement, but Robert in his inimitable style, based on decades of keelboat experience, set to with gusto. The boat soon had new standing rigging, diesel overhaul, mast stripped and rebuilt, repainted non-skid decks, various fittings and fastenings removed/replaced, new antifouling, as well as many other items too numerous to mention. His most unnerving experience was when he was in the cabin while the boat was on its cradle and an earth tremor rolled through — he thought that the boat was going to fall off its cradle!

First sail in a Cav

The Portland voyage would be the first sail for Robert and me in a Cavalier 26, and we were keen to see how it would perform at sea. One had sailed around Tasmania and another up the east coast of Australia. It weighs in at 2.1 tonnes with a 47-percent ballast ratio and has a fin keel and tall mast with good sail area. The design was originally aimed at IOR 1/4-tonne racing.

Our departure date was set for March 19. As a strong northerly followed by a southwest change was forecast for the 21st, we decided it would be prudent to sail to Portland non-stop because there are few safe havens along the south coast. Rob’s wife, Vanessa, stocked a large “grab” bag with all kinds of good food. Cooking home-style meals on a short passage simply isn’t practical. Navigation would be by paper charts and compass, backed-up with a GPS.

At midday, in warm sunshine and light breeze, we motored out of the marina. It was an inauspicious start. The diesel chugged to a halt and, coupled with a very low tide, the tip of the keel gently embedded itself in the mud at the marina entrance. The boat was in no danger, but we were glad that we were not setting off on a world voyage with friends having a good chuckle.

The engine problem was soon put down to the need for a fuel bleed. With that done and the single-cylinder engine again vibrating, we soon backed off the mud and were on our way. The plan was to have a shakedown sail against the flooding tide to Sandy Point, where we would anchor and wait for the tide to change before heading off on the dash to Portland.

In the light wind and smooth water Calamity was already showing its paces; we could feel the acceleration as the boat responded to the slightest puff of wind, while the smooth wake and complete lack of gurgling noise at the stern indicated a streamlined hull shape. Robert decided to connect his well built home-made horizontally pivoting windvane. Its accuracy in steering to windward was stunning — it made only micrometer tiller movements, far smaller than the best helmsman would make (and it doesn’t need food, grog, sleep, or get seasick!).

Sandy Point

Mid-afternoon we dropped anchor off Sandy Point, had a cuppa and a quick cat-nap in preparation for the demands that would be placed on us over the next two days. We seemed to have Western Port to ourselves. I couldn’t help thinking how fortunate we were and how beautiful the bay and shoreline looked and, of course, we were both looking forward to sailing “outside”.

At 1700 hrs the tide turned, so we hauled anchor, and we were off to windward in a 15-knot breeze. As Calamity sailed south along the shipping channel engulfed by a stunning sunset, I reached for the camera to capture this precious moment in time. The heeled deck glowed with the last of the dipping sun’s amber rays, while a thousand little lights twinkled on the wave tops. The shores on each side were already just silhouettes and as night fell a black sky merged with a black sea. Our guiding lights were the channel lights. At 2100 hrs we entered Bass Strait; not that we needed any navigational aid to tell us where we were. The stench from Seal Rocks was almost overpowering (I thought Robert was having stomach trouble!).

All night we sailed on port tack, making swift progress on a course that would take us across shipping lanes and close to Cape Otway the next day. We saw five or six ships, two rather close behind us. Even though our navigation lights were on, I frequently shone a torch at the mainsail. One ship saw us and turned to starboard while the other kept coming to within about one nautical mile, too close for comfort, before abruptly turning to starboard.

Watchkeeping

We did not adopt a formal watchkeeping system; rather, we took cat-naps as needed, generally about 30–60 minutes at a time. Neither of us ever needed to wake the other up because the sleeping crew always happened to wake at the right time. We slept in our clothes and wet-weather gear, boots and all; always ready to help the crew on watch in an instant.

A grey sky and dying breeze greeted us next morning. Robert connected the windvane, but we soon reverted to hand-steering for the rest of the way to Portland. The light wind and jerky motion of the boat in a sloppy sea didn’t agree with the vane (even though this design by Bill Belcher has steered boats around the world). With the forecast strong winds the following day, we reluctantly motor-sailed for a while.

Throughout the day we were treated to an abundance of sea life, particularly towards Cape Otway. First, about a dozen dolphins joined Calamity. They were quite small and fascinating to watch: three or four would leap into the air around the bow; others would swim at full speed towards the boat coming in from the beam and, at the last second, dive under the keel and emerge on the opposite side; others stayed astern. I’ll swear that all of them had the biggest grins on their faces, so much fun they were having, as we were. Soon seals appeared, many of them sleeping on the surface, their flippers flapping nonchalantly from one side to the other in rhythm to the ocean swell. Then we were treated to an awesome and beautiful sight: a magnificent black-browed albatross flew like a huge glider a few metres above the grey swell, directly towards Calamity. It came to within a few metres of us, checked us out, then banked through 90 degrees and flew eastwards — simply magnificent to witness. These supreme birds of the Southern Ocean skies reach a wingspan of 2.2m. Soon, we came across many other albatrosses sitting on the water, easy to mistake for buoys from a distance.

One weird incident was when we were bombarded by moths. Even though we were about 10nm offshore, the air was filled with hundreds of them, many of which tried to rest on Calamity and us. We could only assume that the wind took these small, light creatures out to sea where, perhaps, they would perish (Robert wondered if I had opened my wallet!).

Cape Otway

Cape Otway came into view late afternoon and, thankfully, an easterly wind had sprung up. We rounded the cape in a strengthening wind. A ship sailed between Calamity and the coast, overtook us, and then turned abruptly towards the northwest. What a great sail we had the next few hours; the easterly increased to 20 knots, two-metre waves from the east met a two-metre Southern Ocean swell from the southwest and the GPS registered seven knots and more. When darkness came the helmsman needed to be on full alert to avoid a broach — we were running dead square with full main and number two headsail poled-out. In the blackness of night we frequently shone the torch at the masthead wind indicator to check our angle relative to the wind. We sailed about 10nm offshore. Ashore, the lights of Port Campbell and Peterborough gave us good navigational aids, but little comfort because in an emergency, this part of the coast offers few havens.

One interesting safety feature was that we had, to our surprise, mobile phone reception. It was a nice feeling to be able to text our position home. VHF reception was good, too, good enough to warn us of the strong northerly next day, followed by a southwest change and three to four-metre southwest swell. Actually, in the early hours of the morning, we no longer had VHF reception, cabin or navigation lighting — it transpired that the battery was not charging. Robert switched off all electrics, except the compass light. Being without navigation lights wasn’t ideal but at least we were clear of shipping lanes.

Fatigue

Fatigue was starting to take its toll —  cat-naps are fine for a while but lack of a continuous, long sleep catches up with you. At one point when I was steering, I steered around a pole that appeared mid-ocean. I was bewildered because it must have been a mighty long pole – the ocean is several hundred metres deep where we were. I later related the incident to Robert, and he mentioned that he had seen things, too, on other voyages. He, too, must have been fatigued. At 0300 hrs I went on deck while he went below for a sleep. Literally five minutes later he appeared at the companionway. I asked him what he was doing and he said: “Coming to relieve you.” I responded: “No you’re not, you’ve only been asleep five minutes, go back and have a sound sleep.” He crashed for 45 minutes while I had trouble keeping my eyes open, but safety of the vessel had priority, so open they stayed. Later, when Robert took his turn at the helm, I started to feel queasy, exacerbated, I suspect, by fatigue. Well, there was no escape except to heave over the side, after which I felt better. I consoled myself that even the great naval hero, Nelson, suffered from seasickness. In my case it was reasonably unusual for it to occur.

Starry sky

As the dark hours rolled on a quarter moon appeared; its light reflecting the water astern of us. There is nothing that compares with the stark beauty of a starry sky at sea when the gentle heaving of that sea is lit by the moon. We soon picked stars to steer by. A great morale booster during the dark hours was the GPS. It was comforting to know that it always put us where we thought we were; it also told us how far we had to go and that distance was reducing relatively quickly. (Neither of us would ever use a GPS as the prime tool for navigation, but as a back-up to the computer in your brain they are great.)

As a new dawn emerged on our last day, the sun brought a lot of warmth and, with it, a drop in wind to a light breeze, then nothing. With the adverse weather forecast in mind, on went the engine again. Lady Julia Percy Island came into view, along with the giant windmills, standing like sentinels far in the distance on the mainland at Codrington — love them or hate them, they do provide clean energy. Lady Julia Percy Island is a fascinating shape, is large and can be seen from a long distance. In shape it is quite different to any other island I have seen: flat-topped with steep sides, not unlike a mesa. We passed it on the south side with my camera at the ready to capture the occasional swell smashing high up the immense grey cliffs. It was a beautiful day, sunny, warm, pale-blue sky above the deep blue that is unique to the ocean.

Portland Harbour

Portland Harbour was coming into view. Robert telephoned Vanessa to advise our ETA —  she would be bringing the car and dinghy from Casterton. The strong northerly never eventuated; instead a blustery westerly set in when we were about one nautical mile from the harbour entrance. As we entered the fully protected Portland Harbour we looked for Robert’s supposedly newly laid mooring. To his (and my) dismay, it had not been laid, so we motored over to a concrete jetty where we could unload our gear and sort things out. Of course, a voyage is never finished until the boat is safely tied-up. When we were within a few metres of the jetty the engine suddenly stopped, only Calamity’s momentum carrying us in.

Successful voyage

Robert and I shook hands to the success of the voyage. We were pleased with the boat’s performance. It had proven that it is swift, seaworthy, easy to work and pulls more punch than its short waterline length suggests it should. We had covered 240nm in 48 hours (admittedly, with the aid of some motoring). In favourable conditions offshore there would be no reason for the Cavalier 26 not to sail 150nm in a 24-hour period — impressive for a small, solid yacht designed in the 1970s.

Calamity now swings to her own, new mooring, costing just $108pa (who said that keel boating is expensive?).