A deserved dinner while moored off
Red Cliff. In the F6 SW, food was nearly blown off the plates
and I registered that Tracker didn't lie nose-to wind. But the
sight of the big mooring bouy bobbing between the bows was reassuring.
All of a sudden a THUMP and a jagged coralled rock 
rose up in the torchlight.
Fortunately we bounced off it and anchored to find that we'd drifted
a mile, towing the broken-off mooring. Fortune had directed us
between spiky Shag Rock and the equally nasty coast.... the tone
for the nine-day expedition in stormy Shark Bay was set.
Crewing were Beer- my Old Man, and Henk- and old pal. Between the two of them they've already explored the entire Waddenzee, most of Holland and the German Bight. But this is Australia! I pressed rashies and wetsuits on them as suitable apparel.
Day 1 was the easy day... a leasurely
sail to Cape Peron. Still one of the prettiest sights on the Bay,
white and vibrant reds over the black of the shallow weedbanks
and aquamarine of the sandy patches of Peron Shoals. A dying wind
and endless shallows prompted anchoring about 5 miles North of
Big Lagoon. We rigged a decktent, drank lots of G&T and only
woke up in the morning because the gentle, womblike bobbing of
Tracker had changed to a violent bucking: force 7 winds. Running
on engine- which miraculously kept going, despite being half submerged
in water, spray and splash, we beat straight into it to get to
windward of the sandbars. Through big breakers where the water
shallowed and the storm-jib shredded minutes after being set.
I was grateful for the third reef in the new mainsail. For hours
this bucking and slamming went on and especially Beer suffered-
a light sprayjacket isn't really enough to stay warm. Near Useless
Loop (Useful Loop, Henk reckons) we finally found shelter, dried
out both the boat and the clothing and he carefully examined the
dapper little outboard to find where it could possibly get its
air from- didn't buy my scuba story.
An hours sail on day 3 took us to the little mining village where we had a beer in the pub. Aircraft could't land that previous day. Must have been over 30 knots, easily. We were pretty knackered so we packed up early.
White Island, in
the middle of the Henri Freycinet Harbour had always been out
of reach for me on the Windrush. So we sailed there. Still bucking
the Southerlies, we made it to Salutation Island that day. The
furthest South Tracker has been this year.
On Salutation we again dried out on the sandy shoals. We walked around the island- lots of birds and totally unspoilt. We strolled along the beach for hours, finding shells and dolphin ribs and the only debris we saw was a single old beer can. Only after four in the afternoon did we float off. And all this misery to windward paid off! With three reefs and a small jib we were surfing 14 knots, and averaging nine to ten. Both Henk and I shouting at Beer every time the lee bow reached danger point. Dry! I made soup on the Trangia in the last light of the day and with Venus on the port stay we headed North. Just after nine we had covered the 42 miles to Denham and we had a serious powwow about the intricacies of landing on a jetty on a lee shore. Under jib alone we did eight, and the reduced to mast only we were still going between 4 and 5 knots.
So the anchors were prepared and the plan was to drop them 30 metres offshore, then to pay out to gently reach the jetty. But Denham's 'harbour' is filled with weed and the cat just headed unimpeded for the shore. The engine in reverse quickly lost the fight with an anchor rope and I thought Tracker had had it. Bit miraculously a bit of jetty was lassoed and we tied up in the chop and rushed to the pub.
Pottering through Denham the next day we left late in the afternoon and again got stuck on a sandbar near Big Lagoon. At midnight we unstuck only to hit sand again- at high tide. So the next day we had plenty of time to look around. Beer was obviously fed up with all this immobility and in true Dutch fashion, sharted to dig out canals . With a frying pan, a cup and a lid we happily built dikes and waterways and floated off late in the afternoon. And had an 'utter spiffing and cracking' sail to Whitnell Bay on Dirk Hartog. There was a howling wind and the low afternoon sun silvered the waves and troughs . By sticking the nose into the back of big waves we sometimes surfed for -probably half a minute, but the GPS recorded a new record of 17.1 knots! Ten miles offshore!
Easy
living on Whitnell. I cought a tuna the next day, and used my
hard-earned Gnaraloo windsurfing experience to surf with full
engine and sails over a nasty bit of shallow round Cape Levillain.
Wind and chop agains tide and swell created almost firework-like
display of exploding water over the reefs. The oldies swam to
shore to explore Cape Inscription and I watched two curious reefs
for a while until I realised two big whales were checking Tracker
out. We crossed open Indian Ocean without a problem and first
anchored in the cove off White Beach on Dorre. Now the wind was
supposed to go over 30 knots SW. But the Southeasterlies had left
quite a chop so Tracker was trussed up like a turkey at christmas
on three mooringl ines and two anchors. The wind howled. Southeast
and breakers rocked us up & down. Water splashed through the
trampoline on which Beer and I slept. An anxious night- waking
often to check the rocks. At 0300 we were all awake and had a
smoke and made emergency plans. By morning, one rope had chafed
through. As Henk jumped into the water, number two gave up the
struggle. A metre from the rocks in the surf- we chucked everytjhing
into the hulls and fled the area.
Another rough 29 miles to Carnarvon, with whales and dolphins and breakers and turtles- ach, we were getting used to it.
The final tally? We all lost weight, and not through lack of beer. Tracker almost came to grief 3 times over but none of us were worried about her seaworthiness in breakers and Force 7 gusting 8. The psychology involved in sharing a boat between three people and piloting it through pretty inhospitable areas is really worth a story in itself and after the Darwin Race especially, I may one day write such a story. Words fail me to describe the colours and desolation of Shark Bay- just stunning stark beauty. Henk reckons I should write something about it, perhaps for a magazine. But although the colours would never fade, Shark Bay's impact has a lot to do with being out of VHF range and not seeing a ship, shack or soul for days on end. And secretly and privately, I like to keep it so. No handy diagrams of nasty little bays from me. But if anyone really wants to- call me!
And: seventeen knots on an open cat would really put anyone off monohulls forever. I'm getting me a FASTER cat!