Port Fairy to King Island

 24/3/16 to 28/3/16

On the eve of our departure for King Island Brian and Maree joined us at the Caledonian Inn, known locally as “The Stump” for a meal at Victoria’s oldest licenced pub (1844). True to its heritage, it is adorned with sepia pictures of a younger Port Fairy, including one from the great flood of 1946 when you might have done well by setting a mullet net from the front door of The Stump, across to the other side of the main street. Our thoughts though were more on the passages we were planning to start in the morning. We were all keen to go, because yet another delay might mean missing the “window” of weather to King Island. Another frontal system was brewing in the Great Australian Bight with its tail set to flick the waters of Bass Strait in a couple of days’ time. But there was a problem looming.

Barometric isobars in Bass Strait that determine wind direction and speed had pointed to a light southerly for our departure, which was nigh on perfect for Calista. The late afternoon forecast prior to our leaving showed, however, that things had changed and that overnight winds would swing to a contrary Sou Easter that would last until the morning and could derail our plans. The return of the Devil Wind!

..........We certainly do!

At night on board we slept lightly, with the moan of the Sou- Easter in our rigging making us fitful and frustrated. In the wee hours of the morning the BOM site “Victorian Coastal Observations” showed that the Sou-Easter had dropped from nearly 20 knots at Port Fairy at 1am to about 12 in the pre-dawn with a promise that it would drop away further in the new day. We slid out of the Moyne with Urchin, before the coffee houses up the street had any steam in their Latte machines. Brian and Maree were making for Lake’s Entrance via Wilson’s Promontory, and as their fine cat headed in the direction of the Great Ocean Road, we watched them go, hoping that somewhere in the great marine outdoors our bows would cross again.

On board our little ship we felt all of the remnant slop from the Devil Wind in decline. It was lumpy, bumpy uncomfortable, and hard to get around on board. We set a reefed main and tried to find a sweet spot about 30degrees off the wind that would best provide comfort, speed and progress in our direction of passage. Our “way point” that we would reach in the early hours of next day was off King Island’s notorious Cape Wickham, Australia’s tallest lighthouse, which lords over a coastline that has claimed the lives of many a seafaring soul in days gone by. We were keen to not add to the human misery inflicted over the years along the King Island coast.

Great to be at sea again!

If we departed on the faith of a Sou-Easter in decline, by mid-day our faith was rewarded and the wind collapsed to the bottom end of the Beaufort scale. The sea state improved and the coastline to the north saw Warrnambool disappear and the craggy coastline near the Twelve Apostles appear indistinctly off our port bow. We were at sea again, with nautical sea miles sliding under our keel, converting diesel to distance. This was no time to wait out in Bass Strait, waiting for the wind, and an agreeable point of sail. A stiff westerly was due next day, and we wanted to get in to Grassy Harbour on the Eastern side of King Island before it hit.

As day became night, the routines of donning our life vests and illuminating our navigation lights followed a sumptuous evening repast, one of Cookie’s famous – famous to us at any rate – veggie pastas in cheese sauce. To hit the evening, when we start our two-hourly watches, with this delightful brew providing us warmth, succour and sustenance was worth being out of sight of land for. With Calista on autopilot, we purred our way south of east, with the light of Cape Otway winking away in the distance to the north, before it was finally doused by the unending curvature of the earth.

In the dog watch hours, I did it again. At 2am I headed below for some sleep leaving Cookie to come up for another jousting contest, between two big ships, which altered course in respect of their size, leaving our tiny vessel in the middle with the important job of staying out of their way. By the time I came up to the cockpit again the ships had grumbled away in the distance and the reassuring light of Cape Wickham away off our starboard bow showed us that, happily, we were on course to King island.

Dawn broke with us closing an unfamiliar coastline and we elected to give it some safe sea room. We mark our location on our paper charts about every two hours and the 0600 plot showed us 5nm to the east of Cape Wickham, and about to round Lavina Point and make south along the eastern side of King Island for Grassy Harbour, about 30nm away. Our departure from far-away Port Fairy was timed for us to get to Grassy for a day-time approach and hopefully to get in before the westerly filled in to spoil the show. From the village of Naracoopa on the Eastern side of the island, the coastline bears away to the South West, and any change in the weather would see us cop it fair on the bow.

The town of Grassy perched on the hill on approach to Grassy Harbour

As we made our way to Grassy, our radio crackled to life with the wonderful Mary of Smithton Radio on VHS Channel 21 providing the latest forecast for Tasmania’s rugged NW coast and giving small ships like ours the chance to check in or report any difficulties or emergencies. Mary like Carol on Kangaroo Island and Garry at Tumby Bay VMR, has been doing this invaluable volunteer work for an eternity. She is understandably held in the highest esteem by all seafarers in these parts. We logged on with Mary, whose distinctive tone we fondly remembered supporting us through Bass Strait on our 2010/2011 voyage to PNG.

Then, with clouds gathering, and a threatening curtain of black appearing to the South West, the wind filled in. By this time though we were abeam of Bold Head, and the town of Grassy was in sight, perched atop the surrounding hills. Heavy swells broke on Omagh Reef and Grassy Island as we picked up the beacons to lead us into the harbour, and as we  turned hard to starboard before Frog Rock, a lashing rain squall seemed to say to us….“welcome to King Island”.

Grassy Harbour

In entering little Grassy Harbour, we were grateful for a quality shared by seafarers that in other areas of the commercial and professional worlds is called networking. We were aware of three yachts from SA, Far Star, Astrid and Equanimity that were in the finishing stage of a circumnavigation of Tasmania. Knowing Royce and Delene from Far Star we had messaged him from Port Fairy about obtaining a mooring in the confines of Grassy Harbour. Royce had met “Bear”, master of the Grassy-based Cray-boat Johanna Cherie in the slip yard at Port Fairy and Bear – no one calls Bear by any other name, and no one uses his real name, including Mary – offered to find moorings for the visitors when they came to Grassy. We followed Royce’s lead and called Bear, to find him a generous and helpful mariner, only too pleased to help. He was out of port and directed us to his mooring, the one with the sign, Bear’s Mooring, Keep OFF. Bear let us know that he would be returning to port in a day or so but if necessary, he would pick up a mate’s mooring. “Don’t you move” was his recommendation,” the professionals are returning to port with the weather on the way…we’ll have 4-6 metre seas off here in a day or so”’. We were more than happy to settle back in Grassy Harbour, held by the stoutest of moorings, and put the kettle on to celebrate our arrival in King Island. The rain could lash and the wind could howl, but we would be secure in this delightful location.

Calista on the left secure on Bear's mooring

Next day with conditions having ameliorated, but still threatening, we set ourselves for the short dinghy ride into shore and the longish stroll up the hill to the modest township of Grassy. Just then, however, Sue and Kerry, off a large cat , also sheltering in the harbour, drew alongside to say hello and to offer to take us into Currie, King Island’s largest town, for a look around while they played a round of golf. We instantly scratched Grassy, inserted Currie and were soon off traversing the traffic-free roads across King Island. Sue and Kerry originate from Mackay in Queensland, and had just arrived from the West Coast of Tasmania. They, like us, are headed along the North coast of Tasmania, and eventually up the NSW coast before heading out to Noumea and Vanuatu. On the drive across the island we discovered that Sue and Kerry had been to Noumea several times before and might be an invaluable contact for us as we get close to departing Australian waters. Listening to advice from a couple who had circumnavigated the globe would be a very good idea we felt.

The town of Currie, Capital of King Island!

To arrive in Currie is to step back in time. There are only a little over 1700 souls living permanently on the island, enough for Currie to earn the status of town and for there to be three footy teams in winter. We are sure that on a windy day in mid - July, you’d kick with the breeze if you won the toss. Sure, King Island has the Internet but in all other respects the locals embrace older values and especially have discovered how to care for and about each other and how to slide back a gear or two in life. Pass a local in a car and they wave to you as though, even if they don’t know you, they’d like to. In Currie keys are left in unlocked cars and in the shops there are queues because everyone wants to talk to each other. It reminded me of Port Elliot when I was a kid. In Currie it appeared that locals lived by the old African proverb that it takes a village to raise a child. Cookie had a local contact, a friend of her nephew who had recently moved from Adelaide’s bells, whistles and bright lights to laid-back King Island. We called him to say hello and got the word that his young family were loving life on the island where already they had more friends than they had in the city they had left behind.  

I’ll admit that I headed straight up for the King Island Bakery that promoted itself as being famous for its gourmet pies. How do you select a morsel from a gastronomic catwalk specialising in blending flagship local products like KI (locals call King Island “KI” just as South  Australians refer to Kangaroo Island)  beef, cheeses and yes, crayfish. I have never seen a crayfish pie until at the KI Bakery. Herself arrived back from the Supermarket, breathless, to report that a wheel of KI Brie, not a wedge mind you, could be procured for a $5 note. She fixed upon a KI Camembert and Broccoli pie, and wept with delight in its consumption. For me, what with the privations of our arduous voyage from Port Fairy in mind, I was unable to separate a local KI beef and mushroom pie from the asparagus and camembert, so, in a moment of weakness abetted by temptation, bought them both. If an asteroid was closing on earth, and there was time for a final nosh up, you’d settle on one of KI’s famous pies before signing off.

Leaving the KI Bakery was like leaving a half a bottle of Grange on the table, but then again we did want to see Currie Harbour. On the way we happened upon a Gallery, specialising in local artwork, dried seaweed ornaments and a host of other curiosities. Strangely, the door was open but after browsing for a while it was clear that not only was the gallery unattended but this was the normal practice. A sign said, “If you like an item, leave the money in the honesty box”. Honestly it did. Only on KI!

The "honesty box" Gallery

The harbour soon opened up as a panorama before us, and although fishing vessels were tethered agreeably to the town wharf, the entrance to the harbour looked challenged by rocky outcrops and open to westerly gales. We would only contemplate Currie as a destination in benign conditions or in an emergency. Those fishers who operate out of Currie and ply their trade along this forbidding coastline earn every scale or carapace that they collect. We always enjoy a stroll along a fishing wharf, looking at the paraphernalia that the boats carry on board, and mentally assessing what they would be like out at sea in a blow. They are hardened souls, the KI fishermen.

The wharf at Currie Harbour

The quest for crayfish at a price... the rough entrance to the harbour !

In the harbour precinct we found Heidi a delightful young lady from Naracoopa who runs a curiosity and condiments shop, called “Isle Inspired Providore”. Heidi’s card proudly declares that “this miss is made on King Island” – and well made, too, was my estimation. She was keen to show her iPhone pics, fresh off the net, of Naracoopa beach on sunrise. Seeing them made us want to drop our anchor there next time we are in these waters.

Along the harbour with an outstanding harbor side view is a unique restaurant, “The Boathouse”. It has no staff and no food, but the view is superb and free. Bring your own is its mantra, bring your friends, cook up a storm, clean up afterwards and yes, again, leave your money in the honesty box. Only on King Island! 

The Boathouse "restaurant" below the lighthouse.

Inside the Boathouse

On the headland overlooking over the harbour is the Currie lighthouse, which has shone out its welcome, and its warning since 1879. This imposing and impressive steel structure was prefabricated in England, and arrived locally to be assembled like the ultimate Lego challenge, here on KI. Its role was far more important than guiding vessels into Currie. In the days of sail, ships plying the great Southern Ocean and bound for Melbourne faced a deadly challenge relating to navigation. If you look at a map of the Southern Ocean, including Australia, you will readily see that to accurately steer for Melbourne between Cape Otway on the mainland and Cape Wickham on KI required pin-point accuracy, and indeed it was referred to by mariners of the time as “threading the needle”. On board, taking sextant “sights” on storm-tossed seas in conditions where visibility was often poor, often left mariners relying on “dead reckoning”, the process where direction of sail plus estimated speed gave some idea of location, in relation to the closing Australian coast. At night, some ships were too terrified to progress and hove to for the hours of darkness. Others simply got it wrong and paid the price.

The original light from the Cape Wickham Lighthouse

The carnage of wrecked ships off the Victorian coast led to the construction of the Cape Otway lighthouse in 1848, then the Cape Wickham light, Australia’s tallest Lighthouse at over 48m, on King Island, in 1861. This should have helped ships to ‘thread the needle” although wrecks still occurred when mariners mistook Cape Wickham for Cape Otway and sailed south of the light to miss it…slap bang into  the cruel western coast of King Island. The Currie light overcame this problem and saved countless lives in the process.

Currie lighthouse

Alongside the Currie Lighthouse sits the light station which is now a marine museum. It houses the original Cape Wickham light apparatus with its hand crafted French glass prisms as a flagship feature. Also to be explored there are fascinating relicts retrieved in recent years from local wrecks by divers, including memorabilia from Australia’s greatest marine tragedy, the loss of the Cataraqui, wrecked in 1845 with the loss of over 400 souls. The Cataraqui slammed onto rocks south of Currie in the dead of night in a winter’s storm. The terrible scenes on board as the ship broke up can only be imagined. 63 families were wiped out and only one passenger plus eight crew members survived, and the bodies of women and children dressed in night attire littered the coastline, draped over rocks and washed up on the tide without respect or ceremony. Another wreck saw a number of barrels of spirits “disappear” without trace, whilst yet another wreck saw armed patrolmen defend a similar cache (!) We could have lingered longer at Currie’s maritime museum. Back in town and waiting for Sue and Kerry to finish out on the links, it was de rigour to convert some currency to camembert for the ship’s stores before the trip back to our anchorage.

The following day saw us negotiating local walking tracks on our way up the hill to Grassy. The paths crossed the former scheelite mine site which, from out at sea looks somewhat like rice terraces in Bali, and brought prosperity and people to Grassy. Scheelite, a tungsten relative, adds hardness to metals but the closure of the mine in the 90’s brought hardness of its own to Grassy. It was sad to see the former mine buildings in forlorn disarray, roofs holed, gutters drooping and asbestos sheeting waving in the breeze. Grassy has seen better days.

The track from the harbour through the mines to Grassy

Up in town the retail sector took little time to digest. Marie Reed, an ornament to Grassy, runs a café come general store and gathering spot. We wiled away some time over a lunch that featured one of her famous hamburgers with the lot and two very fine coffees. Thus fortified we retraced our steps, this time with gravity on our side, back to the harbour. There the Grassy Boat Club was in full community and family mode with sailing races out to Frog Rock, a sausage sizzle and treasure hunt down on the beach keeping smiles on all faces.

The Grassy Harbour, by the way, and in spite of its limitations in size, is the berthing location of the weekly Melbourne – Devonport – Grassy ferry, known locally as “The Ship”. Whilst this vessel carries all manner of stores, requisitions, fresh produce, cars and the like, it carries no passengers. Sadly, if King Island is your destination, you need to fly there, or sail there like we did.

A night out at the Grassy Club

Up in town, across from the Café we had noted the Grassy Club which under the pilotage of Chef Stephen has built a reputation for fine food specialising in local produce. When in Grassy, do as the Grassy’s do we thought, so with eating out being limited to the Grassy Club, which meant  facing another trudge up hill, we settled on doing exactly that; dining out up in Grassy. We found the Club to be modest in appointments, but universally welcoming and with a most excellent cuisine to boot. The only drawback came at the end of our worthy night out when, with a mellowness borne of consumption, we stepped out into the dark of the night in a bracing air to confront the lonely and uncertain path back to our ship. We should not have worried, for the spirit of King Island was about to come to our rescue. “Do you two need a lift?” came the call from the open window of a departing car….”where are you headed?” We needed no committee meeting to resolve to accept the kind offer, as it turned from two ladies who came to KI and stayed for the lifestyle, and for the generosity of locals that now they were sharing.

Bear's lovely vessel Johanna Cherie

Back on board we noted that Bear’s fine fishing vessel Johanna Cherie, was back in port, and with us leaving at first light there was a real likelihood that we would not get to meet this really decent bloke from Grassy. The declining weather and swell looked like providing a welcome Sou-Wester of about 15 knots, giving us near ideal conditions to embark on a 47mile passage to one of Tasmania’s wild offshore features, Three Hummocks Island. From there if the weather predictions were right, a stopover in the historic port town of Stanley might be on offer before a “tourist sail’ along Tasmania’s North Coast to the Tamar River, Launceston. With the healthy colony of Fairy Penguins, in raucous voice ashore, we slipped easily into the slumber of sailors in contented anticipation of the day to come.

Port Fairy

12/3/16 to 24/3/16

For us, rounding the port buoy and following the navigation leads into the Moyne River, around which Port Fairy nestles, was like coming home, and felt like slipping on an old pair of sneakers, before a comfortable night at home. We adore Port Fairy and on our Voyage to PNG in 2010/2011, it was one of our favourite destinations (see blogs calista10.blogspot.com / April 2010, January 2011). Happily, little has changed. We doused sails and puttered into the embrace of the Moyne, with Griffiths Island, Haldane’s Landing and the fabulous lighthouse away to port. The Norfolk Island pines that lord over the river precinct, planted aeons ago by head lighthouse keeper, Hugh Haldane (grandfather to good friend Andy Haldane of Port Lincoln) still lean their arboreal shoulders into equinoctial gales and reduce them to zephyrs on the Moyne. As the river curved to starboard and the portside buildings came into view, it was clear that Port Fairy still had all of its charms intact, just waiting for us to enjoy.

View from the footbridge down the Moyne River,  Port Fairy

Max Dumsney is Port Manager, Port Fairy, and has been an iconic connection for marine visitors for years. We called Max to alert him to our arrival, and after extending us a warm “welcome back” he informed us that the town was far too busy, what with the Folk Festival on, for him to drive in to oversee our berthing and that we would catch up, in the fullness of time, in this timeless of places.

Location... Location..... Location!

You would think that after the sleep deprivation of a night at sea we would be looking for an early night, but not on your Nellie we thought, not with the Festival in full swing, and a party to be enjoyed. In no time we were at the Information Centre, looking to somehow use the “bona-fide marine arrivals” lever to get tickets to the big show. No hope was the word. Sold out months ago was the sad news for us to digest. Yes there were 40,000 (!!) folk in town, with every bed taken, every camping space maxed out, and yes every town brimming for miles around. But there was good news that turned out to be great news for wharf-side visitors like us. For starters, lots of Festival goers were having to drive in from the Port Fairy hinterland, pay a ransom for accommodation in town or set up camp, cheek by jowl, in one of the caravan parks, while we tied up to the pier on the Moyne, only a stroll across the footbridge from the epicentre of the festivities. Last to arrive. Front row seats!

Joining the action in the Town centre

The Festival grounds, abeam of the harbor entrance on the Moyne were staggering to behold. Just one of the performance marquees seated 3,500 people, although not that many of them stayed seated for long, and there were 5 main performance arenas, just for starters. Too much to comprehend, we thought after a solitary voyage out on the lonely sea. Our great news was, however, that the Port Fairy Folk Festival has a tradition of a vibrant Festival Fringe, where many of the main acts could be seen in local halls, on reserves, at the Surf Club and on the central Fiddlers Green for FREE! This is a case of circuses for the people on a grand scale, and…there was more! Central Port Fairy was alive with all the fun of the Fairy - buskers, talent shows, street parades, stalls, eateries, drinkeries (?), on and on it went, in an overload of music, food and good times.

The only locals not in a festive mood it seemed were the enormous stingrays that hovered around the launch ramp for morsels, a seal that had set up shop below the filleting table in direct competition with the rays and a pair of Nankeen Night Herons who were so tame that they could be fed by hand if you offered a sliver of fresh tuna in their discerning direction. Home to these creatures was just metres from where we lay alongside the pier on the Moyne.

At the festival Cookie was delighted to find that Nepal, a Nepalese clothier was here with his glorious outfits from the great Himalaya. In January 2011 she met Nepal and bought her ‘coloured pants” which have become her all-time favourites both at sea and on land. Nepal recalled their meeting – never forgets a pretty face - and was delighted to reprovision her with some upgrades for the ship’s wardrobe. It was great to see Nepal again. Cookie was in eighth heaven.

Nepal & Tarli at his " Yak Yak Yak " clothing stall.

The Fringe Program itself read like a menu at an extensive restaurant, where you have no hope of trying all the dishes at a sitting. So…for two days we gorged ourselves on this cultural extravaganza, trying to cram in all that we could, dragging ourselves back to our ship after the late night shows at the Reardon Theatre, with revellers in our wake. Even Cobb’s Bakery, not far from the Reardon got into the swing. We could not remember walking past a bakery just on midnight, to find it open and doing a roaring trade.  Patrons from the nearby Star of the West Hotel, finding themselves awash with cheer and suffering from the munchies, were easy pickings for the Cobb crew who fed the masses and baked on into the night. A licence to print pies we thought (east of the SA border, the making of pasties is a skill still in its infancy).

The old adage of a picture surpassing a thousand words might easily apply to the Port Fairy Folk Festival, and we hope that the following images of Port Fairy in Festival mode will have you heading there in 2017. You had better be quick though if you want to get into the Festival proper as remember, it books out months in advance. Then you could be like we were and have the time of your life at the Festival Fringe, for FREE!

Enjoy…..

Think he should stay away from the Hookah!

It is fair to say that not much of the Festival applied to our voyage, either where we had been or we were planning to go.  That is perhaps for one drawcard, one special visitor in town, a Fortune Teller, no less. She was a gaudy gypsy, complete with a clairvoyant’s caravan, crystal balls, tealeaves, tarot cards, veils, bangles and incense. We have been plagued by foretelling the weather. Could this mistress of prediction outshine the Bureau? We were tempted to see what she was like at forecasting the weather….but shy about entering her inner sanctum, the world of hocus-pocus and swirling ether. What about the declining El Nino? Would we encounter any of the notorious East Coast Lows off the NSW coast? When would the first of the hard winter fronts arrive to dust Tasmania in snow? Did she specialise in short or long term forecasts or was medium her speciality? We were spooked by her aura and her ethereal visage and slunk away to the cappuccino van instead.

For us the festival finished with a rollicking performance, on Fiddlers Green, by The BordererS, a favourite with Port Fairy locals and with the crew of Calista. What a way to bring down the curtain. As the hordes headed out of town the weather and some on-board challenges would see that we could not leave with them. But then again, if you were to pick a place to be stuck for a few days you’d pick Port Fairy, every time.

The BordererS last gig at Fiddlers Green

Couple of old rockers doing a selfie at the last concert at Fiddlers Green!

The ever probing Devil Wind was back again, and if it weakened for a moment, there was not enough time to get to King Island before it filled in again. It was tempting us to enter its Bass Strait lair, but we were having none of it. It was easy to feel timid when one awoke to a mirror on the Moyne, and it took a later check of the wind strengths at places like Cape Otway, Wilson’s Promontory and the formidable Cape Grim on the NW coast of Tasmania, to reassure us that patience, and more patience would be needed before we headed into Bass Strait. In any case we could not leave, because there were some crucial things to attend to on board.

The Devil Wind is coming !

Our spluttering gas supply for example simply had to be fixed. Eventually we called a local Plumber and Gasfitter who sent down “one of his boys” to diagnose the problem. He checked our fittings, and the new regulator that I had installed at Wirrina, and could not find a problem. This concerned his boss who did some searching on line and diagnosed a simple error in our gas detector. He called us with the solution then refused to be paid for his time because as he put it, “we didn’t fix anything”. Can you believe it? When in Port Fairy, call Allen Plumbing if you have a gas problem. We can vouch for these fine tradies!

Whilst in port, we felt it imperative to make some headway with the challenge of connecting our Satellite Phone to our computer to access weather forecasting and emails when were beyond the reach of Telstra. Previously we had used a program called Sail Mail, but now this was considered out dated and there were supposed to be smarter ways to go to stay tuned to the world when at arm’s length from it. The problem for us was that our Sat Phone, an Iridium 9255, refused to “talk” to Windows 10 on our new laptop. Frustratingly our Sat Phone store in Western Australia eventually admitted that they knew all along that Windows 10 and the 9555 were not on speaking terms. Fine time to tell us! Their solutions gave us no solace and ultimately we were forced to contact Jason a local IT guru to find a way forward for us. Jason took our computers and to his great credit did an immense amount of work, online and on forums, to find a solution. Ultimately we found a US program Xgate, that, if we subscribed to it, would see us staying connected while at sea. With Jason’s help, this crucial problem now had a “doable” way forward.

Beyond this we were plagued with problems with our batteries, and for the first time ever we needed to run our motor at night to keep them charged. More diagnosis and phone advice followed, with eventually us heading to nearby Warrnambool, by bus, to purchase a 21 amp capacity shore-power charger. David, the manager of Battery World, continued the standard of service we had found locally by saying, “you should have no trouble installing the charger…if you do, ring me and if necessary I’ll drive to Port Fairy and help you out”. And this to clients he would most likely not see again. We were impressed but, meanwhile, days were slipping by.

Amazing caldera at Tower Hill near Koroit

Warrnambool Harbour

To take a break from these technical issues, we hired a car. We declared that a break was in order, so we visited the quaint local town of Koroit, where the local Irish Pub was in full swing for St Patrick’s Day. Down the road was the regional hub of Warrnambool where we eschewed the temptations of the prominent retailers – we couldn’t see any logic in sailing this far to go to Harvey or Norman - in favour of a visit to the local wharf facility where we were quick to see an open roadstead where in spite of an immense sea wall, the anchorage lay exposed to…you guessed it…the Devil Wind. It is likely that we will not visit Warrnambool by sea. Having wheels also gave us the chance to drive to Portland where we re-connected with Brian and Maree off Urchin and, before heading to the harbor-side Indian Restaurant, inspecting the recently constructed marina facility for visiting voyagers.

Marina at Portland Harbour

While snugged up in the Moyne, removed from the unflinching sea beyond the harbour, we were careful not to slide into a life of total indolence. We have a belief that it is a good thing to do all one can to maintain a modicum of personal fitness. To be unfit at sea is to be vulnerable at sea, is an unstated dictum of ours. For a couple of days, before the good Max arrived with keys to the showers, we kept ourselves in nick by walking over the narrow isthmus to the bay at Port Fairy, going for a bracing swim and then heading for the public conveniences for a cold wash down. When the Festival finished we set a daily regime of heading for the local 25m heated pool – soft I know – and doing a 50 lap set per day.

The Belfast Aquatic Centre

We are not sure if the regime in the pool gave us an excuse to be a little excessive in exploring Port Fairy’s commendable range of eateries, or whether the laps at the pool were a form of retrospective penance! We soon set upon the Lemongrass Thai as our PF favourite, in a strong field of contenders. When good friend Murray Hird called to say that he was heading for Millicent to see son-in-law Jamie Vearing, it was not long before he agreed to head with Jamie for a ship-board visit, and bring with him our sea-boots from home, which in the frenetic packing to put to sea, we had left in the bottom of our odds ‘n sods cupboard. We would need our sea boots in Tasmania we concluded. Murray and Jamie joined us at the Lemongrass, and it was great to have them stay on board with us for a night before heading back to SA. Then, when Brian and Maree headed into the Moyne with Urchin to join us before heading East, we joined them to dine out at…no three guesses needed…the Lemongrass.

Enjoying another lovely meal at The Lemongrass with Murray & Jamie

Brian and Maree had, like us, been watching the weather trends and prognoses, like raptors fixed upon a lizard, and like us they had been baffled at the changeable nature of forecasts through into Bass Strait. What was one day was not the next. Now, however, it seemed that there was a weather window presenting that we should take. The announcement of our impending departure to the redoubtable Max drew a wry smile and a story about a marine voyager who arrived at Port Fairy, and never left. We could understand how this mariner was seduced by the temptress that is Port Fairy. We, too, would find it hard to leave, but on the morning tide, leave we would. King Island lay unseen but beckoning, some 150mn over the horizon, across western Bass Strait south of Cape Otway.

Robe to Port Fairy

11/3/16 to 12/3/16

Fog. Clammy and seeping fog. Oozing all around us and reducing visibility across the basin to a blur. It slithered in, as thick as cold gravy, in the early hours of our projected departure. The throaty diesels of the fishing boats seemed amplified in the pre-dawn murk and they grumbled their way past us like ghostly beings with shadowy forms going about their tasks and duties on the afterdecks; in shrouded work lights as they put to sea. In the damp stillness, the marina lights across the harbor struggled to assert themselves and the scene was akin to a gas lit street in winter in Victorian England.

It put me in mind of Dickens’ unforgettable descriptor of a Thames pea-souper as a mood-setting introduction to the grim novel Bleak House.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

Ready to go into the fog !

Our morning at Robe was bleak too, but a dockside collusion in the pre dawn mists between the crews of Urchin, Force Majeure and Calista reinforced our resolve to go; with chart plotters providing a crucial navigational guide, and a general agreement to make a course steadily out to sea, ultimately to beyond the 35 fathom (200 foot) line where cray pots should be beyond consideration. We had no idea how far the fog would extend out to sea or when it would clear. On board Calista we agreed to set a forward watch as we made our way beyond South and Stewein reefs, and we were greatly assisted by being able to follow our line in to port on the plotter, like an electronic snail trail, guiding us out to sea. What was certain was that apart from maintaining radio contact, we would soon lose the other boats in the eeriness of the gloom.

Crew of Force Majeure, Urchin & Calista

We edged seaward, cocooned in a capsule of grey and up forward the moisture laden air condensed on clothing and dripped off one’s brow as though it was raining although really it was not. A handful of pot-ropes came and went and the oily swells beyond the headland came out of a world off our bow that was nearly opaque. Our track on the chart gave us our position and the AIS (Automatic Identification System) device fitted to our chart-plotter gave us early warning of the presence of big ships – which are compelled to have AIS these days – and of smaller ships that, like us have AIS capacity. Urchin has AIS, so we could locate them on our plotter, and had their location, course and speed at a click of a button. On our plotter, a “target” ship comes up like a coloured elongated triangle with a narwhal-like pointer preceding it, giving its current direction on the chart. Added to this though are some crucial features, and by “clicking” on the target, we get the ship’s name, size, destination, radio call-sign, and crucially, if the vessel is headed our way, how close it will come to us if it stays on its current heading and how long it will be before it reaches us. Because AIS is VHF radio linked, we get to “see” ships that are still over the horizon, and if they are likely to pass close to us we have their unique radio ID (callsign), so that we can communicate with each other to ensure that we pass each other in safety. Changing watches at night sees us routinely share what is “coming up” on AIS. These features would prove invaluable to us as we made for Port Fairy.

Difficult to see the harbour exit let alone craypots!

The wonder of AIS technology did not account, however for the presence of smaller vessels such as the cray-boats that we knew were somewhere out to sea, and like us, enveloped in fog. We are certain that they leave clear marks on their chart-plotters so that they can return to their pots, day, night, rain or fog. Some boats have “AIS receive” only, so that they can see other ships but other ships cannot “see” them. Fishermen, since the dawn of time have not wanted other fishermen to see where they are operating. For us to “see” non – AIS vessels, like those that left Robe before dawn, we have set up our radar linked to our chart-plotter screen, and with a warning set at 10 nautical miles, we could “see” most boats ahead of us although looking out from our bow was a waste of time, as the fog, even in late morning, continued to envelop us.

The limestone coast dropped astern of us, unseen, with Beachport, Southend, Carpenter Rocks and then Port MacDonnell all existing for us only on our chart. By nightfall, the skies had cleared and we had passed into Victorian waters, with the loom of Mount Gambier faintly visible away to the North-West. We were plying waters above the continental shelf, and although in 400’ of water where cray-pots were no longer a consideration, there were other obstacles in our way that demanded our attention.

The African Lark (orange triangle) heading straight for Urchin (blue) and Calista behind Urchin on the  orange line as seen on our Plotter. Both Urchin & Calista had to change course to starboard to avoid a collision.

 Abeam of Discovery Bay an AIS target showed a 95’ seagoing tug, the Molly Grace, bound for Adelaide, dead ahead and coming our way. The Molly Grace was listed as having “limited maneuverability” and we were unsure if this ship was undertaking a tow of some form. Following the AIS information, we called up her night-watch and agreed to pass within a mile of each other, starboard to starboard. Later, at 4am and deep into the dog-watch, Cookie had to contend with a bigger problem that might require some course alterations. The container ship African Lark was charging at us from Portland waters, and appeared to be a genuine concern for both ourselves, and for Urchin, just ahead of us. Cookie could not be totally sure if Urchin had seen the African Lark bearing down and could not be sure if the Lark, on autopilot, was mounting a sharp watch on the bridge. Cookie was about to place a radio call alert when a sudden deviation by Urchin to starboard (Maree would later tell us that she was on watch), showed that they thought it necessary to change course to let the big ship through. The African Lark – love the name – lumbered on past us into the night doing 16.5 knots. We hope the images drawn from our chart plotter – in night mode – will help readers to know a little more about navigation on our small ship at night.

Details about the African Lark on our AIS. Note the CPA closest Point of Approach only .35nm so a change of course was necessary to avoid a collision !

With the dawn came Portland waters and we were relieved that yes we could effectively navigate through fog, and that the soggy air had probably kept the lid on the Sou-Easter, that had been forecast to rise during the night off Port MacDonnell waters. We would rather motor through calm that beat our way into the Devil Wind. With dawn upon us, Bridgewater Bay abeam, and Cape Nelson ahead, we heard that both Urchin and Force Majeure were bearing away for Portland leaving us to cover the 20 plus miles via Lady Julia Percy Island to Port Fairy, alone. Force, on a tighter time frame than us, was set to re-fuel then head immediately for King Island. We hoped that we would re-connect with Brian and Maree, later at Port Fairy.

Wind farms on approach to Portland.

With scudding showers threatening but not really eventuating, we headed on with the industrial infrastructure of the port of Portland, slipping astern off our port quarter. Lady Julia Percy Island soon loomed ahead, rising like a Nevada mesa, with its table top apparently providing home to a horde of Short Tailed Shearwaters, known colloquially as Mutton Birds. A couple of cray pots captured our attention in the vicinity of the island, and by then the unmistakable pinnacle of the Port Fairy Lighthouse gave as a landmark to steer to, with us giving it good clearance in the prevailing onshore conditions.

The majestic lighthouse of Port Fairy.

Great to be back in delightful Port Fairy.

With our eye on the port marker that leads mariners into the delights of the Moyne River we could see the white forms of enormous tents that had sprung up on the local green like mushrooms following autumn rain. We were in luck! We had arrived for the 40^th anniversary Port Fairy Folk Music Festival, and if we could muster the energy after 32 hours at sea it would be time to tie up the ship, remove the wet weather gear, throw on the Kaftans, and join in the party. After the fogs of Robe and the essence of Mutton Bird off Lady Julia Percy, now there was something else in the air.  

Robe 

2/3/16 to 10/3/16

If by grand design Robe could be helicoptered to a location closer to Adelaide it would be a pre-eminent destination for cruising yachts in SA waters. As it is the lonely expanse of ocean stretching beyond Kangaroo Island, which we call the Blue Paddock, plus the gnarly waters of Backstairs Passage that mark its preamble keep most vessels away, apart from those transiting to the East, or making West from Victorian waters. To the East the mere mention of the phrase Bass Strait, keeps even hardened salts from venturing beyond Eden. And for good reason.

The quaint Port of Robe

Then there are the Sou-Easters in summer, the Devil Wind. Gaps in the Devil Wind have been as rare as compassion in Syria. We were exceeding fortunate to get to Robe when we did, but then getting out of Robe to head Sou-East into the prevailing wind has proved to be another challenge of its own. Through summer and now lingering into early autumn, the Sou-Easters have beset the coastline of SA with a dominant high pressure system squatting like a sumo wrestler off Western Australia, feeding a constant ridge of pressure gradients into SA waters where they compress along the coast ushering in our whistling nemesis, the Devil Wind. High pressure systems that sit out in the Tasman and bring northerlies to SA, and hence respites from the SE’s have been rare this year. In March though, the approaching change of season normally brings with it softer airs more conducive to yacht travel. So far we are still waiting.

View of lake Butler Marina from the boardwalk on the way into town.

After a traversing the Blue Paddock and dodging the Cray-pots that dot the marine horizon in these parts, we approached the harbour at Robe, keeping Snewin Reef to port, South Reef to starboard, and following the channel inside the breakwater to the modern and welcoming shipping basin in Lake Butler. In no time Michael Wilkin the affable harbour officer was aboard to complete our arrival formalities and inform us that for the princely sum of $44 for our first night, and $22 a night for subsequent nights we had the keys to marina facilities, hot showers attached to the nearby Yacht Club, and almost keys to the city. Michael is a rare multi-tasking male, being de-facto Harbour Master, local inspector, impounder of stray hounds, travel lift operator for hauling out fishing vessels, and most importantly, go-to person for visiting sailors needing transport into town for heavier haulage. His offer that “if you need help...ring me” was genuinely given and later, would prove invaluable. With obtuse weather on the way, including the threat of thunder and storms from a broad sub-tropical trough, we settled into a lifestyle that we will admit was passing comfortable. You could easily get attached to Robe.

Helpful Michael (on right) took us all into town to refuel.

In summer Robe and its delights are no longer a secret. Hordes of visitors from Adelaide’s leafy and prestigious postcodes descend on this outport, and as it bursts at the seams it could easily be re-named Burnside-By-The-Sea. To be seen in Robe is de rigour. Happily Robe is quieter now although in town the number of cafés and boutiques that have sprouted there to cater for the desires of the transients is impossible to miss. You would be awash if you took coffee in all of the places it is available along Mundy Terrace, the main drag. It could be re-named Latte Lane.

Dotted everywhere in Robe are the grand old buildings from its halcyon days of commerce and trade in the 1800’s. They give the town its charm, its links to its past and ample opportunity for buildings of yore to be converted to boutiques, eateries, galleries and fine places in which to repose. Tales from Robe’s colourful past abound with a favourite of mine being the insanely clever customs scam that could be dubbed the great Chinese takeaway. Robe was in its infancy when gold was discovered at Bendigo and Ballarat in Victoria, and when news of this got out, wannabe fortune hunters from around the world descended on the port of Melbourne, including a large number of Chinese who brought with them their curious appearance, customs and language, causing alarm in an Anglo colony where the embracing of multi-culture was aeons away. To deflect the “celestials” the Victorian Government slapped a ten pound Poll Tax, on every new arrival from China and smugly believed that the Chinese invasion had been averted.  To this move to “stop the boats”, Robe responded a treat, by advertising a one pound entry duty for Chinese arrivals, plus the offer to show the newcomers the way overland to the diggings, out of South Australia and into Victoria. Robe got the money, Victoria got the Chinese – via the back door and by the thousands. Sweet for Robe, sour for the Victorians - who were furious. Was the “take-away” of Adelaide’s Formula 1 Grand Prix, by the Victorians, a century later a case of the Vics getting even?

Former Governors residence overlooking the marina.

As we arrived we happened upon good Port Elliot and Surf Club friends Rod and Janet Ellis, who were coincidentally in town for a few days with a group of colleagues from the South Coast, with most drawn to local links for a regional golf tournament, whilst non-players, like us, immersed themselves in the languid life of Robe. We joined Rod Janet at what we could term a familiarisation evening  at The Cally which is Robe-speak for the Caledonian Inn, and succumbed to their invites for us to join the group at the local Pasta eatery and again at The Cally  on subsequent nights. Hearing of our unusual mode of travel to Robe, their questions about our life afloat led us to offer a tour of our modest ship, which, to our great surprise, drew universal appeal. On board Calista the following morn they were surprised, we think, to find out how much living space we actually have below, and were fascinated by the systems on board that combine to give us a life on the sea.

The Caledonian Inn " The Cally"

Soon, Rod, Janet and their golfing friends departed, but we could not. Needing around 30 hours of viable winds to make it to Port Fairy, we got glimpses of opportunities, but as if on cue, the Sou-Easters filled in again and we were confined to port.

It would be wrong however to assume that in Robe we had descended into the hedonistic lifestyle of the summer entourage. After weeks of preparation, we arrived at Robe with a list of “boat jobs” to do. Some we will admit tested our patience, our technical skills and our ability to manage our frustration at so many things failing, so early in our journey. Tracking down the failed Navigation Lights saw us hunting down and eliminating a list of prime suspects until we found the culprit in the anchor locker where a re-wire of the leads to the port and starboard nav-lights was needed. Threading the new wires up under the toe-rail via a hole we drilled to access the stanchion piping, and threading up the new leads to the light in the confined working space up forward tested all but our resolve. We were delighted to see that amongst the South Coast visitors was former Victor Harbor sailor and Auto Electrician Bill Discombe. Whilst the “tour” of Calista was occurring Bill was keener to head to the pointy end of the ship and, armed with our multi-meter, to give us some specialist advice re our works in progress. His master class left us with some crucial ohm work to do in our re-instillations.

Success at last ... We have nav lights!

With the essential navigation lights back in action, our equanimity was challenged by other malfunctions such as: the wavering gas supply to our stove, a new “G Deck” entertainment system that chose to go on the blink, a new water pump that was misfiring and  a tap in the vanity bowl in the “Head” that continued to drip…drip…drip…in spite of new washers and being patted. The bloke from GME caused a pyroclastic response from the Admiral when, from his air-conditioned office in Sydney he suggested that we “just drop it back to them”!! Changing to a new gas bottle seemed to avert deeper problems with our newly-installed gas regulator and solenoid safety switch, but in spite of multiple dismantlings, the tap continued, in spite of our interventions to drip…drip…drip. One of the questions we fielded from our visitors was…”what do you do all day?” You go from port to port fixing your boat, that’s what you do.

These frustrations might have driven a less resilient crew to the bottle, and as if on cue opportunities to down tools and do exactly that were growing and not receding. First, Brian and Maree, whose cat Urchin had shared the Blue Paddock with us bound for Robe, invited us on board for a stern barbecue alongside long-term locals Michael and Verity, owners of Cloud Nine a trim Duncanson 26 Yacht, moored permanently in the basin. Our foray into boat ownership started with a Duncanson 26 Crystal Voyager in 2000, so we immediately had things in common to share. Being local vignerons, we supped royally as Mick related some of the background to Robe’s fine marina including the hard to realise fact that the development was not universally welcomed by locals when it was first proposed. A fear of the unknown we suppose brought on this response, although we would lay odds that, judging by the constant traffic at the commercial wharf and the boat ramp, the facility have universal acclaim these days.

Brian & Maree's lovely catamaran Urchin.

Long-time friends of ours, Bill and Tammy Mallyon, are the only Robe locals that we know. They have restored Dingley Dell the charming cottage of 19^th Century bard, Adam Lindsay Gordon, on the outskirts of town. Bill and Tammy now oscillate between this rural icon and a cliff-top cottage with breathtaking views above Whalers Bay on Thistle Island, some 20 odd miles offshore from Port Lincoln. Last summer Tammy was the driving force – with Bill proving a dab hand on the griddle – at the Retro-Look Coastal Kitchen caravan that did a roaring trade on Long Beach, and at events such as Robe’s “be there or be square” New Year’s Eve celebrations. We have it on authority – Bill is an authority - that international visitors came to SA this year, not for the Tour Down Under, but to make it to Robe for one of Tam’s famous Pulled Pork Rolls. Check out the latest edition of SA Life to see Tammy and her Coastal Kitchen in centrefold. Now via landline we found that Bill and Tammy were flying back to Robe, and that yet another visit to The Cally was in the offing. The staff of this watering hole has suggested that if we stay in town much longer we will have to join the pub social club and enter The Cally 2016 Footy Pools, the surest test there is to being judged a de facto local. It was great re-connecting with Bill and Tammy and yes, another tour of our ship ensured, to allow Tammy’s mum to come aboard for an admittedly modest morning tea by Coastal Kitchen standards.

Great to have the Mallyon's on board.

And…still the SE’s persisted, but maybe with not the fervour of earlier days. We had been in close contact with good friends Rod Hunter and Craig Westlake, who with Rod’s friend Bob Sobels were in the process of delivering Craig’s recent purchase, the 38’ Bavaria Yacht Force Majeure to Hobart. Rod is one of SA’s most accomplished yachtsmen and Craig was in good hands with Rod calling the shots on Force across these complex expanses of oceans. Just when we thought our social program was levelling out, Force entered the marina after a tiring haul from Kangaroo Island to greet us with the immortal line “good to see you…what are you doing tonight?...why don’t we go to the pub”. Indeed.

Neighbours.....Calista & Force Majeure

With the social whirl enveloping our ship there was a danger that having arrived as passengers, we would depart as cargo. We attempted to offset these excesses by taking vigorously to the boardwalk into town: embarking on the cliff walks that head south from the marina; by rowing our tender around the marina, and by taking to the waters of Karatta Beach, just abeam of the marina, for what turned out to be some enervating immersions in the ocean. Crisp! Having left the comparatively tepid waters of Horseshoe Bay Port Elliot, the waters of Robe were merciless and cruel. Luckily our forays into the sea were followed by hot showers at the adjacent Robe Yacht Club, whose facilities were thankfully accessible to us as visitors.

Rowing into the village of Robe

Scenic boardwalk around the marina into town

Crisp waters on the swimming beach adjacent to the marina !

Maybe Rod Craig and Bob brought marine fortune with them, for no sooner had Force Majeure arrived than a day of calmer conditions to Port MacDonnell and beyond to Portland and Port Fairy emerged from the forecast. We would need about 30 hours of agreeable weather to make it to Port Fairy or Portland and at last a good forecast held. The stormy conditions had headed east and all we needed to do was to refuel and prepare for sea. Here the generous help of Michael Wilkin came to our rescue, and courtesy of the Council Inspector’s vehicle we lumped an array of jerry cans from Urchin, Force Majeure and Calista to and from the refuelling facility, on the opposite side of the basin.

We were ready to go, but not prepared for what the morning of our departure was about to deliver.