Tag: Silver Fern

Awaking at anchor in Safety Cove, around the corner from Tasmania’s Port Arthur historic site, we all took the tender to the beach to explore. We had a rough plan to hike across to Maingon Bay and then find a three-hour return walk up Mount Brown, with views across Crescent Beach and the Maingon Blow Hole.

The first leg from the beach to the road led past a farm which seemed to consist entirely of old tractors, hundreds of them, lining the road and spilling out of the sheds and filling the surrounding fields.

We met the man who had collected them all, and he suggested that instead of doing the round trip, we should cut back from Crescent Beach and hike over the dunes directly to Safety Cove.

Maingon Bay

The road to Maingon Bay was gentle, with views across the local farms. It was a relief to walk on hard dry terrain, and the flowers were bright in the warm sun.

Maingon Bay was pretty, with a sea-cave and views across to Cape Pillar.

Still feeling the need for a bit of solitude, I struck off alone along the signposted track. Some of the crew were ahead, and the rest would follow, but for the moment I enjoyed the stroll through flowering shrubs toward the blow-hole, which had a sturdy bridge and viewing platform but which wasn’t blowing at that time.

The path was in good shape, with evidence of recent work, and it wound up and across expanses of flat igneous rock to a bench with views across Crescent Beach.

Mount Brown

From the lookout, the path to the summit of Mount Brown became a scramble directly up flat sheets of dolerite scattered with scree. It was steep and the footing was interesting, but it didn’t take long to climb to the top, which at 174 metres was enough to give spectacular views across to Tasman Island and Cape Pillar.

In the other direction, Crescent Beach beckoned. This is the spectacular beach that was often visible across the water from the Three Capes Track on the other side of the bay. I had promised myself at that time that I would find a way to visit it one day.

Crescent Beach

Half the crew had skipped Mount Brown and had clambered down to the beach, and I could see their ant-like figures far below. The rest of us bumped into one another on the mountain, and we peered down to see if we could see the track behind the dunes that the tractor-man had mentioned. We were vaguely encouraged to make out a distant service road to some water tanks, and so clambered down to Crescent Beach to see if we could find it.

The beach was gorgeous. Big rollers creamed in over the soft golden sand, which squeaked underfoot. John and I went for a swim in the surf, and then dried off by attempting to run to the top of the backing dune.

Ange, Mish, Rob and Stuart had already climbed the dune and had discovered a bush track behind it, and were sitting at the top enjoying the views when we caught up with them.

The track soon led directly to Safety Cove, where some wag had draped the bow of the tender with armfuls of kelp. Clearing it off, we pushed her out into the rising surf and got thoroughly soaked, before boarding Silver Fern and pulling together an eclectic melange of left-overs for lunch.

We were by now really struggling to make decent meals from the remaining stores, and were sorely feeling the need for fresh fruit and vegetables. We discussed visiting a cafe or fast-food outlet in Kettering or Margate, but nothing would be open by the time we arrived, so we decided to anchor at North Bruny and make one last attempt at putting together a meal from the scrapings at the bottom of the freezer.

With no wind, we motored back around Cape Raoul.

Quarantine Bay again

By the time we reached North Bruny Island, the wind had picked up, and we had an enjoyable time tacking Silver Fern in past the fish-farms to Quarantine Bay, where it all began. One last meal, and then one last sundowner on the beach.

It had been a cracking two weeks, and we had all had a lot of fun and learned a lot about sailing a big steel yacht. We’d made new friends, and I had fallen in love with the buttongrass lands in the far south-west corner of Tasmania.

We woke to a lovely morning in Schooner Cove off the Bathurst Channel, with fair winds forecast tonight for a run back around the South Cape. It was bittersweet, but we would have to move on.

Exploring Schooner Cove

We still had a full day before the weather-window opened, and Silver Fern had run out of drinking water. We had been wary of running the water-maker in the brackish black buttongrass peat water of the Bathurst Channel. John and Liv decided to take the boat out into Port Davey to run the water-maker for a few hours in clean salt water, a trip that would take most of the morning, so I volunteered to take the dinghy to explore Schooner Cove, and most of the crew hopped in.

We tied up the dinghy on a handy beach, and had a long and mostly enjoyable romp over the now-familiar low scrub, looking for an ‘aboriginal cave, ochre and midden’ which was marked on a mud-map in Ian Johnston’s excellent book The Shank. We never did find the midden, but did end up on a very pleasant little beach close to the site on the map.

Rather than hike back over the hill, I took off my boots and waded back along the shoreline to fetch the dinghy, picked everybody up, and then did a boat tour around the cove ending at the ‘swimming hole and fresh water’.

The swimming hole was a small bay inset into the larger one, fed by a small spring that ran over the narrow shingle beach. I went for a very pleasant swim in the sun-warmed waters of the bay, then dug a shallow basin below the spring and washed my sweaty clothes for the first time, hanging them out to dry on the bushes above.

It was a glorious day, and we knew that we were leaving tonight, so we all took the time to just sit by the buttongrass water and soak in the peace.

Down Bathurst Channel to Port Davey

Silver Fern returned to Schooner Bay in time for lunch, and we spent the afternoon tidying ship and making ready for sea. As dusk fell, we weighed anchor and motored out of Bathurst Channel and into Port Davey, with the teeth of the Breaksea Islands looming out of the ocean ahead. Here’s a short movie clip.

We were all a little contemplative as we watched the quartzite rocks of Port Davey fall away astern. Bathurst Harbour is a magical place, satisfyingly hard to get to, and we were well aware that perhaps we might not be able to visit again.

Out in the Southern Ocean, we were greeted by three-metre swells and a flotilla of albatross and petrels. A fur-seal popped out to perform back-flips and then raced to catch up, farewelling us to sea.

Still looking astern, the comforting words of Deny King, the famous bushman who lived here for most of his life, ran through my mind:

‘Those who drink the buttongrass water always return.’

I have drunk the buttongrass water.

We awoke stiff and creaky after our ascent of Mount Rugby, and worked our way through a quiet breakfast. The wind started to build, hitting 50 knots out in the harbour. We could see the white-caps further out, but all was calm at our Kings Cove anchorage.

Clearly we weren’t going anywhere today. Some of us dozed. Pieter fixed the vacuum cleaner. Ange taught herself knots, and replenished the coffee supply by emptying endless pods from the Nespresso machine (which isn’t that useful as it only works when the generator is running). I fixed the cutlery drawer (again). Stuart busied himself making quesadillas and pies. Mish baked scones.

Later in the day, we played some cards and finished the last bottle of wine. This prompted us to turn out all the cupboards and fridges and freezers and bilges, not specifically looking for wine (honestly!), but because we had run out of fresh food and menu-planning was starting to become a problem. We located a handful of carrots, some frozen chopped vegetables, assorted cans, a trove of curry sauces, a number of unlabelled soup packets of uncertain vintage, and – somewhat incredibly – some frozen chickens and joints of pork. We even found some more wine.

Live-action filming in Bathurst Harbour

By the next day, the storm was blowing itself out, and the wind was down to 35 knots. Skipper John wanted to make an instructional ‘Man Overboard’ video for the company, and we all agreed that this would be fun.

John provided a script and we had a rehearsal, and then headed out into the open water of Bathurst Harbour. The weather cooperated splendidly by blowing a gale and whipping the water into white-caps, which made the whole thing more visually appealing while tending to drown out the dialogue, some of which we had to dub over afterward.

Since Shien was an accredited cold-water swimmer, we had originally planned for her to be the casualty (suitably dressed in an immersion suit). We had got clearance from the owner via satphone, but in the end we used a rather natty dummy, which was just as well because it was a bit rough and we needed to do a couple of takes. In the end, though, everyone was happy with the result, and we called it a wrap.

This is probably as good a point as any to discuss the broad practicalities of sailing something the size and weight of Silver Fern. The reason that John wanted to make a movie, was that most instructional Man Overboard videos feature a slick fibreglass yacht crash-gybing and a burly crew member hauling the casualty up over the rail. This is all very well out on the lake, but Silver Fern is 72 feet of steel and her boom – which is comfortably wide enough to stroll along – weighs well over a tonne. Even a gentle gybe in an ocean swell would bring it smashing across the deck, and something would break. Far better to calmly bring her round in a circle and send a swimmer down on the end of an electric winch, as we had practiced on our first day.

I’ve mentioned before that she is easier to steer on auto-helm than by hand, due to the lack of feedback from the hydraulic rudder. Another steep learning curve for me was that it takes at least four people to tack, and at least three just to furl the foresail. Putting a reef in the mainsail requires most hands on deck.

One of the hardest things for me to learn was that, when operating a winch on a boat this size, all you can see is that winch. Mostly the other end of the sheet or halyard is out of view, so you have no idea of progress. It all comes down to the skipper calling out commands; “grind” and you grind, “ease” and you ease. You don’t know when to stop until he says “hold”. Even furling the foresail, you can’t even see that from the winch aft of the cockpit, so you have to rely on the skipper to tell you when it’s rolled away.

This all means that the skipper is conducting the orchestra in intricate detail, a grind here and a sweat there and an ease over there, and he needs to get everybody’s move perfect every time otherwise an electric winch will be merrily grinding away until something breaks.

Breakdown in Schooner Cove

With the film in the can, we set sail for Schooner Cove, westward along Bathurst Channel towards the sea, and away from Bathurst Harbour proper. Since the winds were still up in the mid thirties and the river channel relatively narrow, we were motor-sailing on the main. With Schooners Cove ahead, all hands came on deck to drop the main, and we prepared to anchor.

It was at this point that the engine alarm went off. The temperature was showing over a hundred centigrade and there was a smell of burning rubber from the exhaust. John switched the engine off and we unfurled the genoa to make what was suddenly a very important tack. It quickly became clear that we weren’t going to make it round, so despite it still reading 109 degrees, we fired up the engine for just long enough to clear the shore, then off again.

We were going to have to tack our way in.

Tacking this big vessel on foresail alone in high winds and limited sea-room calls for intense concentration and a strong skipper. Those of us in the cockpit stayed focussed, those below stayed quiet and listened. Together, under firm command, we pulled off a good tack. Then another. Then another.

A brief movie from the saloon

The wind howled. I was entirely focussed on the port winch and sheet. I think Rob was on the starboard winch and Brendon was tailing for us, but I wasn’t looking up from my task, I was in the zone. None of us could see what was happening out there in the world apart from John, calmly calling out the action, “Grind… grind… ease… ease… hold”. We cocked up the fifth tack, losing power on the turn, but recovered in time for the sixth. A few minutes later, John commented in a slightly strange voice, “OK, this one matters. This one needs to be perfect”.

The seventh tack was perfect, and we slid by an arm’s length from the shoaling beach. “Furl the foresail, drop the anchor!” We had arrived.

We needed somebody to swim underneath to check the propeller for lines or kelp. Rob had a go, but remember that the water is totally black with button-grass peat, and he couldn’t see anything. Shien, our cold-water specialist, got kitted out with fins and mask while we rigged a hand-line under the boat. She was easily able to hold her breath in the cold dark deeps, but was handicapped by never having seen the underside of a yacht. Each time she came up, I tried to make sense of what she was feeling with her hands, and attempted to explain how the rudder and propeller were arranged, while worrying that she was going to smack her head against some unseen sharp edge. She was starting to weaken with the cold and went down for one last attempt. There was a delay of nearly a minute, and then up she popped, triumphant. She had found the propeller, and had turned it freely in both directions.

John and Pieter had been labouring in the engine room, which although nicely appointed, is still a hot and cramped space to work. The obvious target was the impeller, but the housing was partly hidden behind a loosely hanging pack of electronics, and not at all easy to get to.

Eventually they got to the impeller, which of course was jammed solid onto its shaft, and it took some effort to finally prise it out.

It was completely shattered.

Looking closely at the impeller, I found that it was a cheap copy. This was odd, considering that there were half a dozen genuine spares aboard, any of which could surely have been used at the last service, but there we were.

We certainly hadn’t found all of the missing blades; presumably some of them were inside the heat exchanger. We hooked up the anchor-locker deck-wash and led the hose all the way aft down to the engine room (it only just reached!) and reverse-flushed the exchanger. Several large chunks dropped into the inspection tank until it ran clear.

Then it was simply a matter of sliding a new impeller onto the shaft…

Perhaps two hours later, the new impeller was still only half way into the housing. John and Pieter had improvised an ingenious compression clamp from cable ties and a filter strap, and it had worked up to a point, but there just wasn’t enough space to get any leverage. They came up for air, and I climbed in to have a look.

I have probably fitted more impellers than anybody else aboard, and muttering the twin mantras “If in doubt, find a bigger hammer” and “give me long enough lever, and I can move the world”, I went hunting for something that would work. Eventually I put together a kit comprising a long steel bar, a socket of about the right diameter, a sizeable piece of wood, and – of course – a very large hammer. The impeller took one look and slid gracefully into place.

And because nothing is easy, on the way in I must have snagged a lead, which had torn away from the earth rail. Simple enough to solder a new connection, but the ship’s electrical toolkit had vanished. While the crew turned the lockers upside down in the cabins above, we were gloomily contemplating twisting some old bits of rusty wire together… but then a cry went up from the saloon and down came a complete set of soldering and crimping equipment.

She started first time, and ran at a steady 72 degrees. We emerged blinking into the daylight, to applause and a roast dinner.

The expected storm was building up outside Port Davey, but it was flat calm as we motored up Bathurst Channel. Even so, we were anticipating 35 knot winds even in these protected waters by lunchtime, so we went deep into the river system toward Bathurst Harbour to find a good anchorage.

On either side of us reared stark rocky hillsides, brushed with startling patches of the white quartzite schist which is a feature of these parts.

The water itself is dark brown from the acidic peat of the ubiquitous buttongrass, a dark freshwater layer above the salt, forming a shaded haven beneath for species that would normally be confined to the ocean depths. When we arrived, the dark surface had been recently stirred, and was punctuated by white chunks of flocculent bigger than my fist.

We anchored in King’s Cove, looking up at the steep slopes of Mount Beattie, which stands a little over 200m above sea level. On the other side of the channel rears Mount Rugby, well over 700m high.

The crew were tired after our night passage, and so after a leisurely breakfast, we relaxed until lunch. Pieter and Shien went for a swim, then Pieter and I pottered around fixing various hinges and catches that had come loose during the passage.

Mt Beattie

We had read in the anchorage guides that there were trails up both of the nearby mountains, so after lunch, a few of us took the dinghy to shore to tackle the smaller one as a ‘practice run’ for the larger.

The path was a bit notional in places, but sloped steadily upwards through the buttongrass, and stands of flowering honeymirtle and swampheath.

The weather started to bluster, so we scurried back to the boat, made some dinner and opened some wine. Rain set in. We had some more wine. The sky turned angry purple. Liv said she would only put ‘Purple Rain’ on the stereo if we all sang along…

Mount Rugby

We made a gentle start to the morning, eating breakfast and then putting together stuffed wraps for lunch. Up came the anchor, and we motored around to a small bay to the North of Bathurst Channel, which put us within dinghy-strike of the path up Mount Rugby.

The climb is hard and unrelenting, on wet buttongrass peat. The path appears to be kept open largely by wombats rather than people, so each step is a choice between putting one foot directly in front of the other in a narrow boggy crack, or of hopping from side-to-side hoping that you don’t slip. Some stretches can only be navigated bent over double through scraggy forest.

Thankfully the hillside was lined with small sturdy trees, so we hauled ourselves up hand-over-hand, slipping and sliding in the treacherous mud, until we reached a small outcrop of quartzite that was level with the summit of yesterday’s Mount Beattie.

With spectacular and unobstructed views of the whole 150-square-kilometre expanse of Port Davey / Bathurst Harbour, we knew that we were the only vessel in this incredible untouched wilderness. It was a surprise, then, to hear an unfamiliar voice and then to see an unfamiliar face. A young couple strode into view. “Where on earth did you come from?” I asked.

They explained that they were the pilots of a charter plane which had just dropped a handful of clients at the Melaleuca airstrip (a short band of crushed quartzite occasionally visible in the distance). They had a few hours to kill and had borrowed a spare boat from their company, and thought that if they made haste they could get up and down the mountain before their clients returned. I stepped off the path to let them through, and off they scampered, making me feel old and slow.

Back in the real world, the going got harder, every foot placement necessarily more intricate. Often the track was obscured by tufts of button grass, so you never knew if your questing foot would encounter solid rock, slippery mud, or a quartzite slurry akin to quicksand. At about a hundred vertical metres from the summit, we stopped for a breather and a bite to eat.

After that, the trail got really difficult. Every step was steeply upward, either on mud, tree root, or quartzite. Some of the route was bouldering, some genuine rock-climbing, particularly closer to the summit where we were climbing over or crawling under huge fallen boulders.

Attempting an interesting traverse, I encountered the pilots on their way back down. Spreadeagled against the quartzite and reaching for a toe-hold, I glanced up as the lady slid down on her bottom and the man slipped in mud and tumbled down the slope. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” I joked. The man looked ruefully at this mud-stained trousers. “Youth isn’t helping me at all!” he said, before sliding down the next section.

I’d been dawdling, playing on the rocks and taking photos of the plant life, but eventually caught up with the vanguard of our group, who had stopped to rest on a large flat rock. However, the summit was within sight, so I clambered up the final stretch, and found myself standing at the top of the world.

The views were truly astonishing. Most of our crew have travelled extensively, and we all agreed that the 360-degree vista from the top of Mount Rugby was equal to anything we’d seen, anywhere. Click here for a 360 degree movie.

It had taken us three hours to reach the summit, and it took us another three to get down again. Going down was, arguably, even harder than coming up. Visibility of the steep and occluded path was even worse from above, with the added complication that our feet had stirred up the mud on the way up.

We fell, and fell again. Sitting or lying on the undergrowth and contemplating the sky for the umpteenth time, it was sobering to reflect on how easy it would be to sprain or even to break something, but we made it almost to the bottom in relative safety.

Close to the bottom, just above the anchorage, is a small subsidiary peak. For reasons that remain obscure, John and Rob and I set off to climb it while the others continued on down to the boat.

There was not even the hint of a path, and the going was very hard through low-growing scrub and soft wet peat. We fell, and we bled, and we fell again, but once more the views were rewarding.

Back aboard Silver Fern, we motored back around the corner to Kings Cove. We were expecting a big wet storm and we already know that the holding was good and that Mount Beattie provided protection from the West. A hearty dinner, a few glasses of wine, and then we all drifted exhausted to bed.

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!

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.