In the grey dawn of yet another beautiful cloudless Carnarvon day I picked up the crew of Chris and Kate and we set off North to Port Walcott. Uneventfully this time- no tires blew, no hulls were damaged, the diesel lugged us dutifully and we drove onto Port Walcott Yacht Club's beach with sunlight to spare and started rigging TP.
The PWYC is built on a little hill overlooking Nickol Bay and organises only one event- the yearly regatta. From Dampier, Port Hedland and Carnarvon the trailer-sailers drove or sailed up, the cooks were slaving in the kitchen and the bar crew worked up a sweat serving the thirsty yachties.
A bit cobwebbed we launched the boat the next morning, put on our racing shirts and were first over the line. Not all marks were visible from the clubhouse and disconcertingly, we spent the entire three hours that the race took in the light breeze in front as a sort of scout. Now racing is hard work for Chris, who had to pull up spinnakers and screachers FAST through a seized sheave as well as being the movable ballast. And for Kate too, who was a bit unclear about the 14 sheets, halyards and barberhaulers that needed tweaking and I was doing my usual Woody Allen impersonation with anxieties about windangles, neuroses about telltales and persecution complexes anytime Ray Ellis came near. Despite this, we won.
The weather could not have been better, perhaps 25 degrees and a mellow breeze everytime we planned to visit another island or stock up in Dampier. On the days that we explored the reefs of the archipelago, the water was flat calm. The week went by in a gentle rythm of reading Harry Potter books, spearing fish or photographing them depending on who got there first and drinking cold beer. After all the regatta excitement a great way to unwind.
