It was a beautiful sail on the Windrush last weekend, inside the Ningaloo reef to Yardie Creek and back. The wind died down to almost nothing so we dragged in tandem behind the cat, holding the tiller and steering it over the coral formations. Effortlessly gliding along and watching the psychedelic fish that mill about the bommies. Paradise.

Back in Coral Bay I had a look at an International 23 that was for sale and immediately fell in love with it. So I shook hands on the deal and spent the weekend with Hillie and Andy to get it ready for the 110 nM upwind trip back to Carnarvon. Mick- the current owner- had lavished a lot of time, money and elbow-grease on it. Freshly painted, new rigging, 8 sails and two spinnakers. A nice 10 HP 4-stroke engine, a tiny little bunk in each hull and space to spare to stow a windsurfer or two. A beauty! He's clocked it at 22 knots!

So I've sailed it now- Space! Pace! Bliss!- and I thought that the rest would be easy. Ha! It's mindboggling how many things have to be sorted before a boat can 'safely' sail offshore! I thought the Windrush expeditions were a hassle! There's a litany of things to attach, buy,fit or fix. Suppliers in Perth, boat in Coral Bay, me in Carnarvon. The maiden Voyage

Two British friends- Graham and Belinda- joined me on the delivery trip. More importantly, the Brian Bartlett was part of the crew. He spends his life sailing small boats all over the place in all sorts of weather and is an ex-owner of the cat. Speaking of which, it used to be called Tracker. The pundits have been consulted, and apparently she's been upgraded enough to warrant a new name without incurring the wrath of Neptune and Hughie. I thought that Tardis- the space-time vehicle of Doctor Who might be a good one, but Cataclysm, Catalyst, Catastrophy and Catatonic also spring to mind. Anyway, we set sail, I caught a small tuna just outside the reef and the rest of the day was spent punching into a 15 knot headwind. Belinda first went a bit quiet, later even less than that. I saw goosebumps appearing on her legs just before her face turned a greener shade of pale. She retired to a wet bunk in one of the hulls leaving us to enjoy the seasplashes and salt spray and whitecaps under a hot Australian sun. With a bit of engine running we still made 50 Miles before sunset and we anchored in Gnaraloo Bay. Sleeping on the trampoline under the stars.. AAh! Everyone minus four is missing out!

We left at first light to find an ever-increasing headwind. After five hours it was a matter of five knots forward, but only one of them direction Carnarvon. The waves just smashed the boat back. So we turned around and surfed down the waves back to Gnaraloo. My neighbour reckoned it gusted over 30 knots that day, and we left the boat moored after a strong wind warning- gusts over 40 knots.

Part 2 of this saga over Easter! I'm recruiting crew from windsurfing and Scuba backgrounds rather than sailors....

'No reefing! I want to see how fast this baby can go!' , yelled Bruce, while I was anxiously looking at the whitecaps behind and the spinnaker up front, hauling us forward. The small waves in the lee of Dirk Hartog Island were beating in an ever increasing tempo on the hulls, and at 15.6 knots I chickened out and bore off as the last bit of visible lee bow was threatening to submerge as well.

But that's not how it started. One fine Wednesday morning we bought supplies and stored them on Tracker. The starboard hull, with electrics, communication, delicacies and booze was mine. The smelly wet sails and snorkelling gear and spare fuel were stowed with Bruce in the port hull. The sun was shining and there was a gentle breeze from the South which took us steadily to Bernier Island. The next day the wind turned 90 degrees, and on a beam reach again we made Cape Inscription on Dirk Hartog Island. That was unexpected luck, but fortunately I saw a largish shark the moment I went underwater to catch crayfish so I figure that cancels out then. In a miserable puff of wind we motorsailed on, and Bruce first caught half a mackarel (sharks again) and then a fish that looked like Coral trout, only it was brown.

We spied some fishermen in a shack in Whitnell's Bay, fifteen big burly blokes brought up on beer and no bullshit. I showed them the fish and one said:
' That's a bummer .. after all the trouble you guys went through... it's a Morky, both illegal and inedible. But I'll give you some snapper-fillets in return so you don't have to go hungry tonight....'
Fourteen beerbellies shuddered up and down in laughter.... it was a Coral Trout after all! And after they saw Bruce with a disgusted look on his face trying to fillet the fish without touching it, they showed us how it's done. Fried in butter, washed down with wine in the last light of the day it was delicious.

A new dawn. A Northwesterly. I'd had it with crayfishing and sharks, and fortunately the wind picked up. That's when we did the speed run, racing down the island in the double figures most the time. Shark Bay is small at this rate. We explored Egg island, and also moored at the homestead to fillet a whole mackarel we'd cought. At this rate we'd be running out of Bay in a hurry and I rigged some steering lines to the trampoline so we could laze there with a beer and a fishing rod and appreciate the coastline from essentially, the comfort of a bed. Made it to Steep Point and anchored in a little bay somewhere.

We rounded Cape Bellefin the next day in a Southwesterly. Cruised to Useless Loop (nearby is Disappointment Reach), then to Denham. The 65 M from Denham to Carnarvon we did in 10 hours. That's half of Shark Bay taken care of.... I may have to move soon.

A couple of days ago, Tim sailed into Carnarvon. On a 21 foot cat, which he'd sailed about 1500 km Northward with another 1000 to go before he'll be back home again. Only a handheld radio, no lights or engine and dozing at light with an egg-timer on his pillow which would wake him every 10 minutes to check the course and look

for shipping. And talking about distances- he was pretty serious about sailing his boat to Indonesia. All of a sudden my sailing horizon shifted about 3000 k's Northward. It seems possible. It sounds like an amazing adventure! So in between patients I scoured the Internet for information, stories, weather and charts. None of which seemed to indicate that suicide was the inevitable outcome.

One thing leads to another and I've just returned from another journey to The Islands. Only this time I went alone- to toughen up and grow a spare set of sealegs just in case this plan becomes reality. The weather was kind, but still, it was exhilarating and a bit frightening to be out of land's sight. And I hooked up a tuna of about 8 kilos which I simultaneously had to fight and steer the boat. Drama- the fish circled the boat and I had to run around passing the rod behind the stays. I hove-to, and spent half an hour getting the fish to the surface and then gaffed it with one hand. I rigged a piece of rubber on the tiller so the boat would sail more or less westward while I cleaned the fish. Thus engrossed, I forgot all about the romance and adventure of solo-sailing and just concentrated on not making the entire boat look like an abbattoir. And after a frantic struggle with slippery piscine anatomy and two too-short knives I ended up with two big fillets, and got a bit of an extra boost out of being self-sufficient for food as well!

Out on the Island, snugly moored in a bay , I cooked a bit of the fish and watched the sunset. With a glass of wine and a book I settled down happily and toasted to Hughie, grateful for the smooth journey. And had an instant of fright when a voice right next to me shouted something- it was Tim, who'd sneaked up silently in the light of the full moon. And many beers were downed that night, mentally designing increasingly convoluted means to self-steer the boats and making lists of essential equipment.

Keep you informed.