The rocky coastline between Geraldton and Carnarvon is littered with Dutch shipwrecks, the most famous of which is the Batavia. It is thus called 'The Batavia Coast'. In them olden days, before longitude became an exact science, the Dutch East Indies Company ships would sail round the Cape of Good Hope and stay at that latitude with its favourable westerlies as long as they dared before heading North towards Indonesia. If they got it wrong, the Zuitdorf Cliffs would catch them out. Gary- the skipper of the WildWest- had almost come to grief on these very same cliffs in 1997 after a gust dismasted him 5 miles offshore. So when he offered me a berth to sail the WildWest to Fremantle, I couldn't let my forefathers down.

Partly because one does not set sail on a Friday, and mindful that leaving port on the 13th is considered an ill omen, we left just after both. Forecasts were favourable with Easterlies and Westerlies so I brought a thick book and 200 dollars worth of booze aboard. Jenny and Kristina had raided the culinary section of the local supermarket and the general plan was to have a 3-day champagne party in great company as the warm winds wafted us gently over the ocean swells toward Fremantle.

Vanity! After two days' sailing Gary and I were discussing the possibility of putting some intravenous fluids into the seasick hypothermic Jenny. She had spent two nights out in the cockpit, covered by a sodden sleepingbag, drenched in salty spray and the occasional 'greenie' as we laboriously beat to windward along the cliffs. Under a small jib and three reefs in the main, we lived on tea and crackers.

My first ocean voyage. Well out of land's sight, in the middle of the night with the moon slowly rising over the swells. These Indian Ocean swells are not waves as such, standing at the helm it felt more like riding a motorcycle through gently undulating terrain. In the valleys, the horizon would disappear. And the steeper windchop was almost invisible at night- the boat would just slam into something and half a second later a cold shower would land in the cockpit. There was beauty and exhilaration but also cold and weariness and lack of sleep. Most had a mild nausea- not enough to vomit, but food, beer and Nicorette weren't on either. It was decided to make landfall at Geraldton.

Geraldton's harbour is protected by reefs. I've windsurfed there, and they're no joke. Huge white breakers crashing into sharp coral. And the leading lights the chart promised us were nowhere to be seen. We gently motorsailed closer to the reefs, trying to make sense of the technicolour lightshow ahead. The waves were getting noticeably higher as the waters shallowed and then the engine made a strange noise, seconds later the boat was filled with black smoke as the engine died. I almost did so too as my heart tried to somersault out of my ribcage.

The skipper calmly suggested we turn about and sail out of there. Thanks to the instructions of the coastguard and my GPS (with which I've developed an intimate relationship) we eventually tied up along the jetty in the early hours of the morning.

After drying out, and re-stowing everything that had been flung to the far corners of the cabin, we left for the second leg. Which was really a bit hairier- we had to drop the mainsail one night as the winds and waves picked up. For the uninitiated, getting the mainsail down or reefed involves getting out of the protection of the cockpit on a boat that moves like one of these mechanical bulls you see at fairs. There's sharp bits of wood and metal and the immeasurable expanses of the ocean to fall into rather than the cushions you usually see below these bulls. And the waves and spray flying over the deck don't make things any easier either. It always has to be done JUST as I fall asleep. But then again, we'd all found our sealegs, the boat wasn't leaking as badly and the last three days felt easier than the first. It was great to sit at the helm, steering with my feet in the warm sun with nothing but ocean around. And the hot 5 a.m. shower I had at the Fremantle Sailing Club was a highlight in my life.

On our return in Carnarvon, we found that two big catamarans had wrecked themselves on the offshore islands, one powerboat was rescued drifting ten miles from harbour without fuel, and another boat had to be towed in after the engine failed.

That's what happens if you leave the shore on Friday the 13th.

Kees

Two pics that Jenny and Gary may want to download... click for larger image!