Nine Summers Read online

  I was seasick, took antinausea tablets every three hours and offered them all round. Steve, another crew member, was vomiting incessantly. Tea and biscuits replaced my cuisine.

  The gale still raged when we were 3 miles east of Mooloolaba, north of Brisbane. We radioed the Coast Guard for instructions.

  ‘Galatea, Galatea, this is Coast Guard Mooloolaba. You’d better anchor in 10 m of water and wait for the seas to abate. It’s impossible for us to lead you over the bar in these conditions. One boat’s already capsized trying to cross the bar on their own.’

  We anchored in 10 m, put out 50 m of chain, and sat out the gale for fourteen hours, battered by the wind and the waves. For much of the night, three of us hung over the rails.

  ‘For Chrissake! Vomit away from the wind!’ Felix shouted.

  At 10 the following morning, the Coast Guard came on air: ‘Galatea, Galatea, Coast Guard Mooloolaba here. It’s OK for us to come out now and guide you over the bar. Just follow us. Do you read us?’

  ‘Roger, Roger, Coast Guard, this is Galatea, we read you.’

  The tension was palpable. What stomach I still had was in my boots.

  ‘Everyone put on life jackets!’ Felix’s tone was stentorian. We followed orders. Nick turned on the engine, and Felix took the helm.

  The Coast Guard Rescue boat approached us and turned. Felix followed close behind. We crossed the bar and entered calm waters.

  Exhausted, we threw our lines to people on shore.

  ‘Gentlemen, welcome to Mooloolaba!’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I muttered, ‘bloody typical.’

  Several boats had already tied up at Laurie’s Marina. The saloon was a mess of wet clothes, spilt tea, milk, biscuits, fruit peels, sticky crockery, wet towels and rubber boots. The bunks were littered with blankets, sleeping bags and wet pillows. The place stank of vomit.

  ‘It’s been a rough trip, kid.’ Felix gave me a hug.

  I wanted to cry.

  The crew left us the following morning. We cleaned up. Felix took the radar and torn sail to be repaired, and fixed the rest of the broken gear.

  ‘How often do you think we’ll have to sail through the night?’ I asked. Ports along the Queensland coast were few and far between. Felix knew I was scared.

  ‘I promise that whenever possible we’ll shelter in a bay or behind a headland for the night,’ Felix assured me. ‘But we’ll have to leave Mooloolaba in the afternoon and sail through the night in order to reach Sandy Straits on an incoming morning tide so we can cross the bar. We can’t avoid that.’

  We cast off at 4.30 pm, and settled into the routine we’d planned. We watched the sun set and had tea. As the sky darkened, lights came on along the coast. At 10 o’clock we started to split watches. Felix went down first, so that he’d be on watch when we had to change course and make for the bar.

  ‘Well, this is it, kid! I know you’re worried, but your navigation is great, and you can always wake me if you get worried.’ He gave me a kiss and a big hug.

  Alone in the cockpit on my first night watch, I followed a full moon rising into the winter sky, listened to the hissing of the sea and the whispering silence. A cool breeze brushed my cheeks, I tightened my scarf, pulled down my beanie and zipped up my jacket. As lights along the coastline faded, the Milky Way appeared so bright and low above me, I reached out to touch the stars. Moonbeams and stars glittered and danced on silver water. In a world so unfamiliar, I lost all sense of time, of place, of reality. I felt drugged, hypnotised, as Galatea drifted inexorably into a surreal world, where the line between water, air and sky blurred into a circular universe.

  And so we sailed on, deeper and deeper, until the lightest of pink lined the eastern horizon. The moon had set and night was giving way to a bright morning when Felix announced, ‘Double Island Light is now abeam 3 miles west.’

  We cleared Wolf Rock, furled our mizzen and half the headsail, and changed course to make for the bar. We sighted the Widebay Bar leads, followed in on a moderate swell, and motored to Gary’s Anchorage. A large turtle swam alongside us.

  In the late afternoon, the muffled sounds of children playing drifted towards us from a narrow sandy beach on the other side of the water. A dog of indeterminate parentage barked and chased gulls. A breeze stirred the fragrance of gum leaves and rippled the surface of the water. Two cormorants sat motionless on a rock. In the distance, a wisp of smoke rose from a barbecue beyond the trees. At sunset, shoals of fish flitted past, and when the moon rose after dark, we heard flying fish smack the water and watched phosphorescence glow.

  From this point we started on our daily routine, preparing for the next day — plotting our courses, entering and checking these into the satnav, re-reading instructions in the pilot books, and talking to a marine communication station on morning and evening radio schedules.

  The evening before our departure from Pancake Creek, we went through our usual routine and set the alarm for 4.30 am. It was mid-winter, and dark by 5.30 pm. Bent over the chart table, Felix said, ‘We’ll need to start early to reach Capricorn before sunset. The forecast is for a sou’westerly, 15 to 25 knots, which should reach us during the morning. That’s just perfect. If we start at 5 we should cover the 40 miles before dark.’

  ‘So I guess we’d better get to bed soon.’

  It seemed as if we’d just gone to sleep when I heard Felix whisper, ‘Time to get up, kid. I turned off the alarm, to save you the shock. Here’s the hot chocolate. We’ll need to move, it’s blowing a northerly, not very strong, but it’s supposed to change to a southerly later on.’

  It was still dark when we weighed anchor, motored out and set the autohelm onto our northerly course. I prepared a light breakfast. An unexpected 10-knot nor’easterly was blowing.

  ‘We’ll motor until the sou’westerly gets here. We must get to Capricorn in the early afternoon.’ Meanwhile the eastern sky had turned into bright pinks and orange, but it was bitterly cold and the wind shrieked through the stays. We continued beating into the wind for three hours. I was frightened.

  ‘I have a feeling the northerly’s building up. No sign of the southerly, it should have reached us by now. Don’t like the look of the clouds much, either.’ That’s all Felix had to say to make my heart miss a beat. Minutes later I was gripped by a blinding migraine and uncontrollable vomiting. As the wind and waves howled around us, Felix came down every few minutes to guide me to the head to vomit. I couldn’t open my eyes and invariably missed the mark.

  ‘Dear God, please let me die...’

  Galatea tossed from side to side, plunging and rising from trough to trough. Felix said something about finding shelter, ‘…but there’s nothing I can see on the charts near here…we’re about 10 miles east of the northern entrance to Gladstone. According to the pilot book it’s a tough channel to negotiate without local knowledge. Maybe Air-Sea-Rescue could advise us.’

  I heard him turn on the radio.

  ‘Air-Sea-Rescue Gladstone, this is Galatea. Golf Alfa Lima Alfa Tango Echo Alfa, Victor Juliet, Five Four Nine Four, calling for assistance. Our position is 10 miles east of North End. We’re battling the northerly. Can you suggest shelter near here? Over.’

  The reply was instant. ‘Galatea, Galatea, this is Ranger, Air-Sea-Rescue Gladstone. I read you loud and clear. Make straight for North End, and when you get close I’ll guide you in on the VHF. You’ll see me on the beach in a red inflatable. Do you read me?’

  ‘Thanks, Ranger, I read you loud and clear, am changing course and heading for North End, Galatea out!’

  Felix altered course and made for land. The change was dramatic. Galatea’s motion steadied, and with the sails eased, spray flying and waves breaking over her starboard beam, she sliced through the water and raced towards shore. Mirroring her mood, I stopped vomiting and crawled into the cockpit. It took us almost two hours to reach North End and see the beach.

  ‘I can see you, Galatea, keep on your present course!’

  We could now see
Ranger’s red inflatable on the beach with ‘Ranger Air-Sea-Rescue’ writ large on its side. As we approached the shore, the wind direction changed again. It was now directly from behind. The ebbing tide, however, was moving against us.

  ‘And now, Galatea, don’t follow the leads, just turn to port and head directly for my inflatable!’

  ‘Ranger, did I read you correctly? Did you say we should turn to port? According to our charts there isn’t enough depth for us.’ Felix looked worried.

  ‘Don’t worry about the charts, this is a channel the locals use. Just follow my instructions, you’re doing fine,’ Ranger replied.

  With much trepidation, Felix turned away from the leads and made towards the Ranger’s inflatable. The water was getting shallower, the channel narrower. We had rocks to starboard and a sand spit with waves breaking over it to port. I was on deck, glued to the depth meter.

  ‘We’ll be aground at this rate!’ I shouted. ‘Four metres, 3.60…3…2.50…THE MAN’S A NUT!’ And at that split second we felt a thud. Galatea was aground. The tide was running out fast. Soon we’d be on our side.

  ‘We’re aground!’ We shouted to Ranger.

  ‘No, you’re not.’ he replied.

  ‘Bloody oath we are!’

  ‘I’ll come out and tow you over the bar.’

  ‘Quick, send out a Mayday!’ Felix yelled.

  I rushed down. ‘Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is Galatea: Golf Alfa Lima Alfa Tango Echo Alfa, Victor Juliet, Five Four Nine Four, 13-m (42-ft) ketch, two people on board, aground at the north entrance to Gladstone in danger of going on the rocks. Requesting urgent assistance.’

  ‘Look right behind you and you’ll see us,’ was the instant reply.

  We turned and saw a large flat-bottomed tourist barge a short distance from us. People were hanging over the side, mesmerised by the ongoing drama.

  ‘We’ve been following the instruction of this Ranger AirSea-Rescue and this is where it’s landed us!’ Felix shouted.

  ‘You weren’t taking instructions from Charlie in his red dinghy, were ya? He’s not Air-Sea-Rescue, he’s a lunatic. He’s in and out of the loony bin!’

  The crew on the barge had already put down a speedboat. In minutes they were alongside, and took our anchor as far as they could out to windward. Fortunately it gripped.

  ‘Sorry we can’t stay with you, but with this tide running out, we’ll be aground ourselves.’ The two men sped back to their barge. It was soon out of sight on its way in to port.

  I was freezing and terrified. Charlie had gone back to his tent on the beach. Soon it would be pitch dark. What if he tries to board Galatea? Although the anchor held, we were tilting more and more onto our starboard side.

  Suddenly, the radio speaker came alive. ‘Galatea, Galatea, this is Gladstone Air-Sea-Rescue. We’ll send out our pilots to guide you in. But you’ll have to wait till 10 this evening when the tide turns.’

  ‘I want someone out NOW!’ I shouted into the radio. ‘There are just the two of us!’

  ‘OK, Galatea, we’ll come out now and wait with you. But it’ll take us at least half an hour to motor out to you.’

  It was pitch dark when the harbour pilot and his two assistants arrived in a large inflatable motor boat.

  ‘Fancy being caught with Charlie. He nearly sank two trawlers a couple of weeks ago. He’s just come out of the asylum. He’s not a bad bloke, he just likes to think he’s part of Air-Sea-Rescue. One day he’ll really sink someone...lucky your anchor held. Wouldn’t have taken much to land on them rocks in that wind…’

  As the evening progressed, the wind died down and Galatea’s hull gradually righted itself. The men chatted, drank beer and ate nuts as we waited for the tide to turn.

  ‘I think it’s just about OK to move off,’ the pilot said. ‘You blokes get into the outboard, and I’ll take her in.’ For over an hour the pilot stood at the helm and followed the outboard as he negotiated the channel that led us into Gladstone harbour. It was a relief to tie up to a buoy and crawl into our bunk. It had been a long, long day.

  Although we were exhausted, we decided to move on the next morning. The harbour pilot came alongside Galatea and insisted on guiding us some of the way along the channel out to sea. As we approached the mouth of the channel and were about to turn north, we heard a now familiar voice on the air: ‘This is Ranger, this is Ranger, Air-Sea-Rescue, reporting for duty...’

  The first couple of days we were subdued, but the weather was calm, and as we moved further north, it was also warmer. Much of the time the sea was oily smooth, the sky clear. Dolphins adopted us, dived, pirouetted to the other side, raced along or ahead and trailed in the curling wake. We turned on loud music for them. They seemed to like that. When they’d had enough, they soared away as abruptly as they had come, in search of a new game. Flying fish shot out and dived back into the sea. A flock of birds flew high, folded their wings and plummeted like stones into the water.

  We spent long periods on deck, gazing at the changing colours and contours of the coast, the heaving of the sea. Much of the time the sea had a glassy smoothness as the swell rolled over an unbroken surface. At other times a breeze turned the water’s surface to ripples. Once, in the near distance, we saw a long black object drift slowly. We mistook it for a container and kept a close eye on it. Sailors who say their prayers each night add ‘…and please God don’t let us run into a container or a whale.’ We watched it for a while. Suddenly, a spout of water shot into the air, followed by the arch of a mammoth black hulk, and finally a flashing forked tail.

  ‘Wow, this is as close to bliss as one can get.’ I cuddled up to Felix.

  Once we heard a loud thud. ‘God! We’ve hit something!’

  We certainly had — a mass of copulating turtles — the first time we’d seen the males. They looked displeased and gave us fierce looks. The horde was so big it was hard to know which way to turn. We switched on the engine and motored out of their way as fast as we could.

  It was on this — our first, long offshore sail alone — that I forged a bond with the sea. The weather was kind, the wind gentle, the silence broken only by water lapping against the hull.

  Our trip to the Reef, living alone on Galatea and being together 24 hours a day, convinced us that this was the freedom we wanted.

  It wasn’t easy to find a ship prepared to transport Galatea to the Mediterranean. Finally, however, a Polish vessel, the Wroclow, agreed to take her to Sète in the South of France. All we had to do now was to let our house for two or three years to finance our adventure. But a week after we were ready to do that, we had an offer from a couple who wanted to buy it. Although the house had been our home for twenty years, the offer was irresistible. Felix phoned the children.

  ‘…we’ve sold the house!’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Sold the house.’

  ‘But you never intended to sell. You were going to let it!’

  ‘We didn’t know we were selling either. But we had an offer we couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘What’ll you do when you come back?’

  ‘Worry about it then, I guess.’

  Some weeks later, we bought a small flat in which we planned to stay whenever we visited Sydney.

  chapter two

  We flew out of Sydney in April 1988, on the same day that the Wroclow sailed out of the harbour with our Galatea on board. Our first stop was Munich, where friends helped us buy an old car, one we could leave unattended on the road and pick up whenever we wanted to explore the hinterland of ports we happened to be in. We settled for an old Renault 9. It was an unfashionable bright blue with several dents and an antique radio. If we turned the knobs carefully, we could hear the BBC news. Music was too much to ask of it, but we could listen to our ‘Teach Yourself French’ tapes on its equally ancient tape player.

  ‘This radio is good insurance. No self-respecting thief would touch it,’ Felix said.

  As the Wroclow was not due for several weeks, we enjoyed a
leisurely drive to the South of France. We started in Brittany and Normandy, avoiding autoroutes as much as possible. We drove along small roads into ancient villages off the beaten track, past farmhouses, old stone buildings with weathered doorframes and bright window boxes. It was spring. Chestnuts and fruit trees were in bloom. Poplars and willows in palest greens swayed like silk in the breeze. Cows munched in green pastures and meadows were a blaze of red poppies.

  Our mornings began with dunking croissants into coffee at the nearest café or marketplace, where we practised our French with anyone prepared to listen. One morning we heard a cuckoo outside our window, but the mist was too thick to see him, and by the time the veil lifted, he was gone. Life seemed so beautiful.

  ****

  On our first morning on board Galatea I fled the chaos of the saloon, stepped into the cockpit and gazed in disbelief at the boats around us, at people on the quay, at the sunshine…just as a gull swooped over me.

  ‘Damn!’ I dived back down.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘A bird just crapped on me! Quick, I’ve got to wash my hair.’

  ‘You can’t, we haven’t got enough water.’

  ‘Bloody oath, I’m going to wash my hair. And stop laughing or I’ll hit you.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll wash it off.’

  Welcome to Sète!

  We still couldn’t believe it. Along with a shipload of Tasmanian onions, Galatea had arrived on board the Wroclow some days earlier. A lorry took her to a sealed yard where she stayed for several days while French customs, who looked so important in their dark blue uniform and casquette caps, inspected her.

  To my amazement, Felix had already learnt to argue impressively and loudly in French, his arms in full flight. He didn’t have a clue about grammar, just strung nouns together and that seemed to be effective. When Galatea was released from the customs yard and brought to the quayside, the French wharfies wound straps around the hull and raised her with a crane. Mon dieu! I couldn’t bear to watch as she slid and swung from side to side. No matter how hard he tried, the novice crane driver couldn’t control her. The swearing in Languedoc dialect grew louder and louder. Felix shouted with the best of them, using his haut français.