A couple of hours into the journey to Port Walcott a tire on the trailer exploded. Inspecting the damage, we also found that one of the ropes which hold the tri on the trailer had sawed a clean cut through about a quarter of the the starboard float.
Bruce drove and I frazzled after the tire change on a deserted piece of Northwest Highway. To make a long story short, in Nanutharra Roadhouse I purchased a new tire and had it fitted. Thanked the tireman happily, although the profit on that black doughnut was to the tune of a days' work at Oz minimum wages.
Phoned Karratha Fibreglass and found the owner happy to take some filler and mat home, where, after endless searching and detours in the dark through the town I paid a mere triple price for the chopped strand mat.
But our bad luck ran out, we found Port Walcott Yacht Club after 11 hours on the road through the monotonous landscape. Beer, wine, music and great views over the moonlit bay for everyone, except Bruce, Ray- the other Carnarvon entry-and me. Covered in fibreglass, we tried to repair the damage in time for the morning's race, full throttle under the floodlights behind the yacht club.
Shagged, Bruce climbed into Maison Roofrack and I squeezed between the boom and the spinnaker in the boat. A live band pumped out R&B Golden Oldies till the small hours.
The next morning everyone was out on the blue water while we sat and waited for the epoxy to dry. At the last moment, the boat was launched, we hoisted sails and looked for the start line. There was a hoot or a shot from a boat- the start boat, we correctly assumed- and twenty boats took off. Having figured out the startline, we crossed it and our epic race began from the back of the field and on the wrong tack. We managed to overtake some really small dinghies, rounded the weather mark and then I unleashed my Secret Weapon: Bruce Hullet. Who then unleashed his : the spinnaker upside down. I gently pointed out the unaerodynamic qualities of such a rig, whereupon Bruce dropped the whole lot in the water. Which creates a lot of drag, and is not a good way forward as evidenced by the dinghies passing us again. The sun was shining, the breeze was gentle and cheerfully I reminded Bruce of some of sailing's subtleties including that it is the KEEL that sits in the water, and the SAILS that hang in the air. After a bit of aerobic exercise the whole lot was back in the boat, and the boat was back at the back. Happily, things could only get better but the breeze died off and we couldn't even overtake Ray Ellis' International anymore. We'll be BACK!!!
The next morning we set off for the entrance to Flying Foam Passage behind the horizon. In a good following breeze the miles sped by. Rounding the corner to enter the passage the wind was on the beam and we quickly got out some late morning beers as we overtook some of the other racers on their way to Dampier at 14 knots. The Dampier Archipelago consists of about 40 islands, all quite close to Dampier. So we sailed around some, and past another couple. Anchored at some others and altogether did the cruising thing for a couple of days. A bit dull compared to the frantic racing, but I for one could waste weeks pottering from A to B for no reason whatsoever. We caught a Wobbegong shark and watched moonrises and sunsets. There's a ring of islands which creates something like a very big bay and we saw dolphins playing under the bow while crossing it. There's a lot of reefs and we avoided most of them. Altogether the whole experience just makes me want to do more of it. Keep you posted!
