Tag: Silver Fern

We woke with the dawn at our anchorage in Deephole Bay, to confirm that the tiny predicted weather-window for our westerly run to Port Davey was holding steady. The three of us that enjoy a cold-water swim were treated to clear skies and a beautiful sunrise.

We weighed anchor and ate breakfast as we motor-sailed out past Southport Bluff, site of yesterday’s hiking, and with views up to the King George monument that John and I bumped into yesterday. It was a lovely day for a sail.

Threading our way between some private fishing boats, Deepwater Bank, and the ominously named Black Reef, we turned inland around the bluff and anchored in Recherche Bay. We could see snow on top of Arthur’s Peak that hadn’t been there yesterday, but were now positioned in the most Southerly safe anchorage that we could find.

Consulting the forecast, we were excited to see that the Westerlies out in the Southern Ocean were predicted to abate overnight, picking up again tomorrow at midday. We settled on a plan to start our westerly passage at dusk.

What to do in the meantime? How about a nice picnic on the beach?

Recherche Bay

We had the rest of the day to kill. We found a path behind the beach, which led to a statue of a whale and a 1792 quotation from Admiral Bruni d’Entrecasteaux:

It would be vain of me to attempt to describe my feelings when I beheld this lonely harbour lying at the world’s end, separated as it were from the rest of the universe – ’twas nature and nature in her wildest mood…

We were enjoying a similar state of mind when we were surprised to encounter a gaggle of tourists, so there must be a road somewhere close by to “world’s end”. We also bumped into a pair of grey nomads who were attempting to walk the trail to Fisherman’s Point, which seemed as good a plan as any, so a few of us set off behind them along the marked path.

The track was only indifferently signposted, and much of it was below the tideline of the beach. After a number of false turnings, the people in front gave up, but we ploughed on, just enjoying the views and the sunshine.

At length we arrived at the point, marked by a light and some cairns. A few steps inland was a ruined building, apparently once part of a pair of infamous pubs, both called the Sawyers Arms. Today there were only some brick walls, some lilies, and a rather surprised black Tiger Snake which swiftly slipped away to shelter.

On to Port Davey!

As dusk fell, we secured Silver Fern for sea, hoisted the main, and poked our nose out of the heads. The persistent westerly gale had, as promised, died away. Perhaps ironically, this gave us no wind to sail with, but we had plenty of fuel and a big engine and a short window of safety to get around the South Capes. Motor-sailing, we took it.

To lead us on our way, a pair of humpback whales, probably mother and calf, breached off the bow, played around for a while, then swam beneath us to pop up astern. A little later, a lone dolphin caught up to investigate. An albatross took station, swinging endless circles around us as we motored into the light swell.

Darkness slowly fell. It wasn’t my watch, but I stayed up anyway to see the sunset and enjoy the feel of the ocean. Venus rose, followed by the first stars. At 8pm I was joined by the rest of C Watch for our official two-hour stint, rounding South Cape and setting course for the Maatsuyker Islands.

At the end of our watch, we grabbed some bunk time and were woken as planned by A Watch at 2am, to calm seas and a diamond-dusting of stars glittering over our phosphorescent wake. Every now and then, we caught a flash of white as our albatross crossed in front of our running lights.

I always revel in a night passage, but this was a first for my watch-mates Ange and Mish. We soon got them set up with blankets, cushions and (just in case) sick bags, and I think that in the end they enjoyed it.

Silver Fern, like most modern boats I suppose, is equipped with a touch-screen electronic chart at the helm. This gives the helmsman a clear moment-by-moment picture of the entire situation, with instant overlays of radar, AIS, and a whole host of systems information available to the fingertip (except, in our case, for wind instruments, which were all out of commission due to a wiring fault). In the past, I have been used to regular forays down to the chart table to check that we are where we are supposed to be, and to commit to memory any upcoming reefs or shallows before my next visit below, clinging to the chart table and trying not to vomit while attempting to focus on blurred marks on fiendishly furling paper… I found that I didn’t miss it.

Just as our watch finished at 4am, the barometer fell by 4hPa and the stars forward started to haze over. According to standing orders, any fall of more than 1hPa per hour triggers waking the skipper, so we got John out of bed and then, feeling slightly guilty, went down to our bunks.

I woke naturally at 6am and made my way onto deck, to find that we had passed through Port Davey and were cruising up Bathurst Channel.

The weather was still fine. The falling barometer had presumably just been heralding the forecast change later in the day, but it didn’t matter what happened now, there are endless safe anchorages within Bathurst Harbour. We had made it!

Lifting Silver Fern’s anchor and sailing out of Quarantine Bay, we emerged into 30+ knot winds gusting 40. With a reef in the main and flying the staysail we were still overpowered. Before long, the staysail developed a big hole and we quickly replaced it with a tough orange storm jib. Thankfully we’d replaced a broken reefing line yesterday, so we were able to put another two reefs in the main until she was able to balance on the autohelm, and then we had a fun and breezy sail down to Southport.

Deephole Bay, Southport

As we sailed round Pelican Island and dropped the anchor in Deephole Bay, Stuart noticed that Southport on the other side of the bay was home to the Southernmost Pub in Australia. There was nothing for it, then, but to winch the dinghy into the water and (after first remembering to replace the bung… whoops…) motor across.

On arrival aboard Silver Fern, we were delighted to find that B Watch had had a lamb roasting in the oven all afternoon.

Southport Lagoon

The next day dawned, and we eagerly checked the weather in the Southern Ocean. It was not looking fun at all, we’d have been beating directly into 40+ knots for our Westerly passage. The weather was fine here in Deep Pool Bay, though, so we hopped into the dinghy and went ashore to explore the local lagoon.

There was a path of sorts behind Deephole Bay beach, which wound its slightly muddy way between stringy gums, she-oaks and melaleuca. Native flowers were out in force, and there was evidence that the track was maintained at least in part by Tasmanian Devils.

The crew had separated naturally into two groups, depending on whether they had arrived in the first or second dinghy shuttle. The path split at a marked sign, and the first group headed for the bluffs, whereas our group headed for the lagoon.

The lagoon was quiet and pretty, the water brackish and peaty and fenced around with a continuous beach of small shells. In the South, mountains loomed, with a hint of the bad weather behind them, but here at the lagoon it was warm and still.

After returning to the boat for lunch, a few of us came back to the lagoon. Skipper John is always up for an expedition, and he and I mused that surely there must be a way to hike around the lagoon and over the dunes, meeting up with the path to the bluffs.

Without much preparation or forethought, off we went. The going was reasonable until we reached the dunes backing on to Southport Bluff Beach. There wasn’t any obvious way down through the tangle of densely packed trees, let alone up the other side, and we couldn’t even see the ground through the thick underbrush. Remembering the method that Tasmanian icons Tim Christie and Reg Williams used to forge the Three Capes Track, I hurled myself onto the top of the foliage, rolled down the hill and then crawled up through the tree tops until I reached the top of the dune. It wasn’t easy, but the view was worth it.

Safely on the beach, we reflected that the one thing that we hadn’t seen was any sign of the path from the bluff to the boat. We looked back at the dune, and really didn’t feel like retracing our steps to try to find it. But we were on one side of a peninsula, and we knew that the boat was on the other side, perhaps we should try walking cross-country over the middle. What could possibly go wrong?

The first part was easy, along a pretty beach. A small cliff rose up, but we skirted the edge of it, and found ourselves at the monument to the George III, a convict ship that sank here in 1838 with heavy losses. From the monument we reckoned that we should be able to find a path, but there was none visible, and we later found that this was because the monument has been closed to the public for some years, something that wasn’t apparent when approaching from our unusual direction.

So… faced with miles of peat bogs and thorny underbrush, and armed only with confidence and a cheerful demeanour, we set off.

Visually, it looked like waist-high tussock grass. In detail, each tussock was defended by sharp woody brush, and separated by deep peaty puddles. We came to recognise the boggiest areas by the colour of the foliage, and yomped over ridge and gully, aiming for the treeline behind which we knew Silver Fern must lie at anchor.

Finally, weary and with aching thighs, we clambered up the final slope. John couldn’t wait, and forged ahead to enjoy the view from the top. I stumbled along in his wake and toiled my way up behind.

John was standing stock still, apparently admiring the view. “What do you see, young man?” I called out, as I topped the brow. Then we both broke down in helpless laughter; there was nothing ahead but yet another boggy expanse of tussock grass to yet another distant ridge.

We did eventually make it across to the beach, where the rest of the crew had set up a sundowner fire near an old railway platform, part of a disused rail network designed to move limestone from Ida Bay quarries to vessels berthed in Deephole Bay.

After a certain amount of beer and wine, we returned to the Silver Fern for dinner, and to check the wind forecast. We thought that we could see the hint of a tiny weather window opening up between two low-pressure systems spinning up from Antarctica. The picture wasn’t clear yet, but tomorrow we would move South again, edging closer to the Southern Ocean.

For my significant birthday this year, I have gifted myself a sailing trip into the Southern Ocean with Ocean Sailing Expeditions. Our aim was to sail from Sandy Bay near Hobart, Tasmania, down the d’Entrecasteaux Channel into the Southern Ocean, around the South and South-West Capes and then up to Bathurst Bay and hopefully on to Macquarie Harbour.

The rest of the crew were flying in from the mainland, but the expedition yacht Silver Fern was moored only a hundred metres away from my own Cheval de Mer, so on the appointed afternoon I strolled across and gave a hail.

Skipper John popped his head out, and almost immediately I found myself repairing a broken flag mount. Over the afternoon the other seven paying crew members arrived, along with the yacht’s mate Liv. Everybody seemed interesting and agreeable, and together we fitted the furling genoa which had just come back from being repaired. At some point in its life, it had been converted from a regular genoa, and thus had far more batten pockets than you might expect, aligned in different directions, but in the end we got it sorted. Unfortunately it was clear that there were still some areas that were worn out, so we’ll have to hope for the best in the Roaring Forties.

The next task was to hank on the staysail, which was an easier job, but it soon became clear that the sail itself was full of holes so we took it off again and replaced it with an orange storm jib.

Having been assigned our bunks and our safety gear, we assembled a chicken risotto dinner, washed it down with beer and wine, and then popped out to the local pub for a pint.

The crew retired to quarters. My bunk is in the bow, upper starboard. Instead of a lee cloth, the upper bunks have pulleys that allow them to be folded up at an angle, trapping the occupant safely in a small space against the hull when at sea. I’d not seen that configuration before, and while it seemed practical, I wondered how much space would be left for me and how I would ever get out again.

The bedding consists of a sheet and a single thin blanket. We had previously been assured by the owner that the temperature below is maintained at a steady 21 degrees, but in fact the boat is unheated and next morning those of us who had not packed sleeping bags woke shivering. Presumably the owner is used to the South Pacific and has not encountered Tasmanian conditions.

Luckily, as the token Tasmanian aboard, I still had access to my car, so I drove a bunch of us in to the Hobart camping shops to purchase sleeping bags and fleeces.

The tasks for the morning began with a trip to the fuel dock to fill the tanks with fuel and water. She’s a big boat – seventy-two feet – and the wind was up and the crew untested, but with the help of the bow thruster and willing hands, we warped her in. I was given the task of checking the spare jerry-cans lashed to the deck, and found that they were nearly all empty, so we fixed that.

To Quarantine Bay

Out in the Derwent, we practiced our man-overboard procedure on a sacrificial fender. With a big boat like this, you can’t crash-gybe and stop dead in the water and haul the casualty back over the rail. The boom itself weighs several tonnes and you really don’t want it moving quickly, and the freeboard is far too high to reach somebody in the water. The plan was to drop the sails and motor back to the victim, winch Pieter in a waterproof survival suit into the water to grab them, and then winch them both out. It all worked rather well.

On the way down the Derwent to Bruny Island, we spent some time getting used to Silver Fern. The steering wheel is connected to the rudder by means of hydraulic rams, which give no feedback at all to the helm. The only way to understand the rudder angle is to keep an eye on the electronic display on the binnacle. Generally it seemed that the easiest way to steer was to use the controls on the auto helm.

While hoisting the main, it had quickly become clear that the first reefing line had lost its integrity, with the core separated from the sheath and about as much use as a wet noodle. On the way in to Quarantine Bay, with the main still up, we spent about an hour replacing it. We needed to attach a new line to the end of the old one and thread it through the system, but there wasn’t enough room to get a splice through the pulleys, so we needed to sew the two ropes together. This took a few attempts, but luckily Mish had been a trauma nurse and was a dab hand with the needle.

Finally we dropped the pick in Quarantine Bay in North Bruny Island, not so very far from our starting point but with a lot of essential tasks under our collective belt. The bay promised shelter from the current northerly and the forecast westerlies.

The anchorage was calm and comfortable, and in the morning Shien, Pieter and myself dropped into the water for a refreshing ocean swim.

Breakfast was a free-for-all from the available ingredients, but once we had cleared up, we all separated into our assigned watches. We have three watches, with a four-hour rota during the day, which is more about cleaning and food preparation than navigation, and two-hour cockpit watches if on passage overnight.

Then it was time for passage planning. Up until now, we only had a vague plan that we would head South, round the South Capes and then try to spend some time up the West coast in Bathurst Bay or Macquarie Harbour or both, but we knew that there were a bunch of fast-moving lows in the Southern Ocean.

Silver Fern has a Starlink internet connection, so we use Windy to forecast the pressure systems. Usually this displays average wind speeds, but for the Southern Ocean’s extreme conditions it is more helpful to use the gust overlay. On the Windy snapshot below, pinky purple is around 40 knots and blue is around 60 knots. It is clear that we won’t be going West into the teeth of the storm today, but there is potential for a gap opening up around Tuesday.

We settled on a plan. We would squeeze as far South as we could manage while remaining in the sheltered d’Entrecasteaux Channel, and wait for a weather window.