George next to a “rather small” ant hill at Port Essington.

After two months of sailing mostly in a northwesterly direction up the Queensland coast, we had reached “the Tip” or Cape York, the northernmost point on the continent of Australia. We gybed onto port, and started heading in a westerly direction, “over the top” of Australian towards Darwin, which would be our last port of call in Australia.

The first and longest leg of the journey over the top was from the North Queensland outpost of Seisia to Gove Harbour in the Northern Territory, about 360 nautical miles west-southwest across the Gulf of Carpenteria. The Australian Bureau of Meteorology had forecast mostly light southeasterlies for the time period. We were hoping to make landfall in the Northern Territory during daylight hours as we were unfamiliar with the area, so planning a minimum average speed of 7 knots and maximum average of 8 knots, we decided to leave at noon, which I reckoned would allow us to make landfall sometime between 6 am and 6 pm.

Departing on schedule at around noon, we were well into the lee of the North Queensland’s Cape York Peninsula, which blocked the southeast trade winds that had given us a nice ride up the east coast. Winds were light and variable, and after being teased by the breeze into a few futile attempts to sail under spinnaker, we surrendered to the iron genniker and motor-sailed all afternoon.

As we crossed the Inskip Banks, which is a large shallow patch where, in some spots, the depths are less than 3 meters, it got a bit lumpy. There was still no wind as the bottom dropped away to 50-odd meters in the Gulf of Carpenteria. As the afternoon wore on, the seas evened out, so we indulged in our daily showers. Since I was cleaned up for the day, I decided to reel in the lure and avoid having to deal with the mess of cleaning a fish.
As the lure drew up close to the stern of the boat, a large silver fish rose and took a whack at the lure. I stopped reeling instantly. It came back for a second go, and this time the hook set. We boarded an 11 kg Spanish mackerel, and after a catch, fillet and release I was covered in fish blood and scales, and had to take another shower.

Merima checking out an old bunker at Port Essington.

By six in the evening, the winds had picked up to the forecast 10-knot level, just slightly forward of the beam, so we put the engine to rest and rolled out the genoa. We were sailing along beautifully at 7-8 knots, right on the rhumb line. The first night was uneventful, just as we like it, but the breeze was gradually increasing to the 15-20 knot range. By early the next morning, BOM Australia revised the forecast to 20-25 knot winds from the southeast. This would definitely increase our speed nicely, but bad news was that away from the lee of Cape York, with hundreds of miles of fetch, the seas had gradually built up to 2-3 meters, short and steep, right on the beam. We were rolling from 15-35 degrees, and finding it a bit uncomfortable. Never mind, our pace had picked up significantly, and we were now averaging 10-11 knots on the rhumb line. We now faced the dilemma that with this increased speed we would make landfall smack in the middle of the night unless we slowed down, further decreasing comfort level.

Carefully studying the charts a bit more, we found that we had a few options if the landfall looked too ugly or scary. There were a few islands off the coast on the west side of the Gulf of Carpenteria that would provide a safe, if not comfortable anchorage till daylight.

We spotted the lights of Nhulunbuy, the township near Gove Harbour, at about midnight. I was now kicking myself for not departing Seisia at 0600 instead of noon, as we could have had the anchor down in time for sundowners! As we approached land, everything – radar, chart plotter, visual bearings, depth – all checked out, and the seas began to moderate in the lee of the Gove Peninsula. We wound our way through the channels between mainland and some low-lying islands with no dramas, and off the township of Nhulunbuy we took temporary anchorage for the night. We enjoyed a good sleep in the calm anchorage and then proceeded around to Gove Harbour the next morning in good light. We’d managed to cram a 48-hour passage into about 39 hours.

This was Merima’s first overnight passage, and unfortunately it was about a 4 on a scale of 10 for comfort. While she didn’t turn out any of her usual gourmet meals under way, I felt she had done just fine…and she didn’t jump ship, so I guess she did too.

Once in Gove Harbour, we gave Moonshadow a much-needed bubble bath and ourselves a well-deserved meal out. We were told that the Gove Yacht Club put on the best meal in town, and in retrospect, after surveying all the options, they were probably right. It was our first shore side meal in weeks, which we enjoyed with a few bevvies, and some great Northern Territory warmth and hospitality.

We were running a bit thin on fresh provisions, so the next day we planned to make the 25-kilometer trip into Nhulunbuy to the market. I asked a lady in the Gove Yacht Club what was the best way to get into town, and she said it was to hitch a ride. We skeptically walked out to the road, and I stuck out my thumb. The first passing vehicle stopped and we hopped in. The man who picked us up had just taken his two young daughters out boating for the morning, and they were all on their way back to town. He dropped us off at the door of the grocery store. I thought to myself that if we were in the States, we might have died of thirst or starvation before we had gotten a ride, and if we had gotten a ride, we would have been found in bits and pieces years later in a shallow grave.

After groceries, we found a bottle shop nearby so went in for a few bottles of wine and some “fish killa” booze. Rather than beat the fish we catch over the head with a winch handle, creating a bloody mess, not to mention pissing off the fish, we’ve found that a squirt or two of spirits over each of the gills is much more humane and puts the fish into a relaxing permanent coma in about a minute. I call it “the parting shot.” Given the choice between the booze and a winch handle, I’d choose the booze every time. Anyway, we couldn’t find any cheap spirits in the shop, so we asked the shop keeper what he might have in the budget range, explaining our purpose of fish euthanasia. He disappeared for a few minutes, leaving the shop completely unattended, returning from the tavern next door with an almost-full, unlabeled “clean skin” liter bottle of gin. He offered to sell it to us for ten bucks if we promised not to actually drink it ourselves, as if it were unsuitable for human consumption. After he boxed up our purchase, he tossed in two new trolling lures, gratis. It seems the further you get from the big cities in Australia, the friendlier the people, and you can’t get much further from a big city in Australia than Nhulunbuy in the Northern Territory.

All topped up with food and grog, we enjoyed another meal out at the Gove Yacht Club that evening. Our plan was to continue our trip over the top towards Darwin with a series of day-sails, starting the next morning.

One of the very few attractions along this route, aside from a lot of sparsely populated Aboriginal land, is a fascinating, if not treacherous feature in the Wessel Islands named the Gulgari Rip, more commonly known as the “Hole in the Wall”. Looking for a bit of excitement, we couldn’t miss it, and positioned ourselves for the trip through the hole by sailing north to nearby Cotton Island. From our anchorage there, we were only a few miles away, so we could theoretically time our passage through just after high tide with a slight bit of positive current.

The Hole in the Wall is a narrow passage between Raragala Island and Guluwuru Island in the southern Wessels. As an aside, it’s interesting that each of those names contains four of the same vowels. Anyway, it is about a mile and a half long, almost perfectly straight, just a couple of boat lengths wide, and during mid-tide the currents can reach 10 knots, making a passage through it more like a whitewater rafting adventure on the Colorado River rather than a placid sail on the Arafura Sea. The strategy for safe passage is to enter the Hole at or near slack water when there is little or no current. If you are heading east to west, you’ll have a bit of positive current just after high tide, and if you’re heading west to east, the same applies just after low tide.

We had a nice, if not slow sail from Cotton Island, arriving at the entrance to the Hole in the Wall at about an hour after the high, so I assumed we would start to get a bit of positive current. Sailing through with just a headsail at about 4.5 knots over the water, we were showing 9 to 9.5 knots over the bottom in the middle of the passage. There were no major rips or whirlpools at this stage in the tide cycle, so we glided through the picturesque waterway as if we were on a riverboat with very little helm adjustment, and in a few short minutes, we were spit out the other end. I can only imagine what it would be like to be caught in there at mid-range on a spring tide (greatest tidal range time) with a strong breeze opposing the current. E-ticket!

Between the Hole in the Wall and Port Essington, some 250 nautical miles to the West, there was not much to see in the way of landforms. The geography was mostly low lying bush land, punctuated by controlled fire burning which made for some very smoky skies and large glowing spots on the night horizon, not to mention soot all over the decks. We were told they were burning off “fuel,” or fallen trees and bushes left from the last tropical cyclone. If the land scenery was not much to see, the sailing was generally easy and pleasant. We were able to cover quite a few miles each day, usually under spinnaker with good southeasterly breezes and flat waters till mid-afternoon, and then find a snug and comfortable anchorage in time for a sundowner. Fishing was good as we landed a few more Spanish mackerel and stuffed the freezer. The most remarkable thing was the number of sea turtles we saw on the surface of the sea, basking in the sun.

After footing it every day for a week since departing Gove, we decided to relax for a few days in the beauty and solitude of Port Essington. Once a British outpost in the early to mid 1800’s, today all that remains are a few ruins and a small eco resort. The small town of Victoria situated at the south end of the long, protected bay, was abandoned in favor of Darwin, which is about 100 miles to the southwest as the cockatoo flies.

We spent two nights in a quiet, calm anchorage off the site of the settlement of Victoria. A walk around the ruins gave us no idea what hardships had befallen the original settlers who suffered through the heat, bugs, crocs, malaria and life of depravation thousands of miles by slow and unreliable ship from the mother land. We wandered between the remains of small stone cottages and giant ant hills, caught a glimpse of a wallaby and evidence of pigs and buffalo, and found the graveyard with its crude crypts and rough-hewn headstones.

The next day, July 4th, we celebrated American Independence at a beach bar-b-que at Coral Bay in Port Essington, with a group of cruisers from the States, England, Canada, Germany, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand. The Britons were very good humored about the whole thing – any excuse for a party, they said. We were reminded just where we were as we spotted a small hammerhead shark in the water off the beach and some large saltwater crocs sunning at the other end of the beach.

Other than the passage across the Gulf of Carpenteria, the most challenging stretch of water in the “over the top” journey is from Cape Don to Darwin through the Dundas Strait and the Van Diemen Gulf. This piece of water is notorious for its wicked strong currents, snotty seas and strong winds. We wanted to get the timing just right so we could use the strong currents to our favor and avoid the nasty waves when the wind opposes tide. From Port Essington, we hopped over to Alcaro Bay, just inside of Cape Don, to wait for the right time to tempt the local sea Gods. After much study in the cruising guides, conversation with other cruisers, consultation of the tide and current charts, listening to local weather reports, careful calculation, a nip of rum offered to the sea Gods and a pinch of salt tossed over the shoulder, we reckoned that a 0530 departure the next morning would be the perfect time.

	Moonshadow downlocking in Darwin, with Peter Dermoudy, the lockmaster, waving from the control box.

Well, we got it mostly right, as the Dundas Strait turned out to be a non-event. As calculated, we were able to ride some favorable currents much of the way, and luckily, the seas were mostly flat, but that was owing to the fact that there wasn’t much wind, so we ended up motor sailing much of the way to Darwin. We arrived at Stokes Hill Wharf, off Darwin City at 1700, just in time for happy hour.

The Australian Fisheries people in Darwin are working to eradicate a couple of non-indigenous mussels that are apparently a biosecurity hazard. We were able to coax Chris, the local fisheries agent into working a bit of overtime, with the offer of a rum and coke. We were the last boat of the day to be inspected and cleared for the pesky black-striped and Asian green mussels. Before relaxing with a sundowner and explaining to us more than we could ever want to know about mussels, Chris flushed all of Moonshadow’s saltwater pipes with a lovely pink antibiotic treatment, which permitted us to go into the marina the very next morning, but ruined any chances of us harvesting any future shellfish delicacies from our myriad of plumbing.

The tidal range in Darwin is nearly 8 meters or 26 feet, so as a matter of aesthetics and convenience, all of the marinas are kept at an artificially high water level of about 7 meters, and boats must pass through a lock to get in. We booked into the Tipperary Waters Marina for our stay in Darwin so we could give Moonshadow another much-needed bubble bath, do some minor repair and maintenance, and prepare for the rally to Indonesia.

The last locks that I’d navigated were in the Panama Canal, each of which are about 1000 feet long and 250 feet wide, so ingress and egress weren’t too much of an issue for our 62-foot length and 14.5-foot beam. The lock going into Tipperary was not nearly as ample, giving us just a couple of meters of free play in each direction. At first this was a little bit uncomfortable for me, and quite a bit uncomfortable for Merima, who was new to the whole locking thing. The lockmaster, Peter Dermoudy, calmly explained the process to us over the VHF radio as we approached, and carefully guided us as we entered the lock. The next thing we knew, we had gained 4 meters of altitude, had in hand a set of keys to the facilities, and we were in a snug little marina surrounded by beautiful homes. We made two more trips through the lock later that week when we went to and from the fuel wharf, and by then we had it wired like a couple of pros.

It was great to enjoy two weeks of civilization in Darwin after nearly a month in the outback. We had some great meals out, enjoyed a bit of night life, caught some great live music, did a bit of shopping, a load of provisioning, a few repairs, a little maintenance, and enjoyed some of the local hospitality at the Darwin Sailing Club. There were plenty of social activities leading up to the Darwin-to-Kupang rally, so we had the opportunity to meet some of the other participating boats. We found the Darwinians to be very friendly and down to earth, most helpful, and everyone was happy to give us a lift here and there as we checked items off our “To Do” and “To Get” lists.

We put on six months’ worth of supplies and provisions to get us through 5000 nautical miles of the third world, and welcomed aboard our good mates and regular “MooCrew” Graham and Todd from Auckland, who would join us for the rally.

Our busy days and nights in Darwin flew by, and the next thing we knew, we were sailing over the start line on the Darwin-to-Kupang Rally.

	Merima with cockatoo, Hamilton Island

I realize that I haven’t tapped out a “Sailor’s Log” for quite some time now, about six months to be exact, but for good reason. I’ve enjoyed the Queensland coast of Australia so much that, in my usual fashion, I got caught in the drift and decided to slow down and savor it a bit longer. With visas and cruising permits extended, we could cram a year of cruising into two years.

That said, I didn’t feel I wanted to be in Tropical North Queensland during the southern hemisphere summer or “wet” season. It’s bloody HOT, with daytime temperatures often reaching 35 deg. C or nearly 100 deg. F. If you don’t mind the heat, then maybe the high humidity and voracious mosquitoes will put you off. Take a dip in the nice cool ocean, you are probably thinking. But you don’t want to stick your big toe in the ocean without a full protection suit from November through March because there are numerous species of stinging jellyfish that can inflict seriously painful or even lethal stings (not to mention crocs and sharks). In fact, Australia’s land, sea and air have more critters that can kill or seriously injure you than probably the rest of the world combined (I have a 192-page book on the subject). On the other hand, for a country with such an inhospitable climate and treacherous inhabitants, it is one of the most fascinating and enchanting places I’ve visited, with some of the most hospitable and fun people I’ve ever met. I decided to wimp out, park Moonshadow in a safe marina with a caretaker, and spend a few months doing some air and land travel in more agreeable climates.

In one paragraph, during this time off I managed three trips “home” to New Zealand, two visits to Sydney, and a visit to the United States and Mexico for a fantastic family reunion on a cruise ship, all by air of course. I followed this up with five-week minor refit and haul out to Moonshadow in Mackay. The highlight of all these wanderings was that I met a wonderful Kiwi lady named Merima, who has joined me as permanent crew. Needless to say, life has been full-on, so it’s great to be ship-shape, back cruising again, with great company and on a more relaxed, one-day-at-a-time schedule.

Last season, I made it as far north as the quaint little tropical resort town of Port Douglas, about 35nm north of Cairns, or about the mid point of Australia’s incredible 2000 km/1200 mile long Great Barrier Reef. This before retracing my course south a bit to Hamilton Island in the Whitsunday Islands, where I left Moonshadow in a safe marina for the southern cyclone season.

Our plan this season was to head northwest along the Queensland Coast inside the Great Barrier Reef to Cape York, or “the Tip” as it is known here, which is the northernmost point of Continental Australia, situated approximately eleven degrees south of the Equator. From there, we planned to sail west across the Gulf of Carpenteria to Nhulunbuy, then “over the top” of the Northern Territory to Darwin, where we will join the annual Darwin-to-Kupang rally on our first leg to Indonesia and Southeast Asia.

George with spanish mackerel.

Merima flew over to join me after the refit in Mackay for a five-week holiday, and to check out the cruising lifestyle. A seasoned traveler, fluent in four languages, she’s always had a dream of sailing the world. Well, after five weeks of leisurely cruising through the Whitsundays and up to Cairns, she was hooked. We both flew back to Auckland to attend the 80th birthday celebration of my good sailing mate Bill Miller the first week of June. Merima decided to grab the rest of her gear and join me as permanent “crew.” We landed back in Cairns, provisioned up, and made the short hop 35 nautical miles north to Port Douglas the following day. Here we will pick up thread from where we left off last season.

Port Douglas is a cool little town that has managed to maintain a bit of its laid-back, local flavor. While it is touristy, it doesn’t seem to get the throngs that inundate the towns on the Sunshine and Gold Coasts down in South Queensland. Situated where a crocodile-infested, mangrove-lined river meets the Coral Sea, it is reminiscent of a backwater bayou town in the deep south of the United States. The Court House Hotel, the main watering hole in town, posts a sight coaxing everyone to take it easy and knock off early with their “Friday session,” which means live music and cheap drinks from 4 pm. And of course there is a Saturday evening session and a Sunday afternoon session as well. The main drag, Macrossan Street, is lined with trendy cafes, shops, art galleries, bookstores, a couple of very trendy nightclubs, as well as a couple of old-time hotels (that’s Australian for pub).

Armed with some “local knowledge” from the Port Douglas Volunteer Coast Guard, we headed ten miles north to the Daintree River, which flows through one of the most pristine Rain Forests in the world, also called the Daintree. We were hoping to spend a day or two anchored up the river, taking in the beautiful scenery and wildlife. I should have known the information was questionable when the guy got confused and suggested I leave the green buoy to port when going over the river bar (bouyage is opposite here to the Americas – it’s port or red to port when returning to port). Anyway, over the bar there was way less water than the 3 meters purported by the coastie, and just past the first mark we were bouncing off the bottom in less than two meters of water. I executed a very quick back-and-fill U-turn and made for deeper water. Crikey!!

With the bottom of Moonshadow’s keel and rudder now very clean, we opted for a hastily made plan B, and sailed north/northwest to Lena Reef. It was a beautiful beam reach in 15 to 20 knots of southeast trade winds and we were gliding along at nearly 11 knots at times in the smooth water inside the protection of the Great Barrier Reef. We anchored just off a coral patch of the outer GBR (Great Barrier Reef).

The following morning we enjoyed a surprisingly beautiful dive on the coral reef just off the boat. The vis was easily 50 meters/160 feet and there was much there to please the eyes. The bottom was dotted with giant clams, some at least a meter across, and with beautiful variegated iridescent mantels. Merima lost her breath when she came face to face with a 3 meter/10 foot long tawny nurse shark napping on the bottom, and became a bit nervous when a large white tipped reef shark made a curious close swim-by. I told her not to worry as they are MAN-eaters. Other highlights were a two meter/6 foot long moray eel and numerous clownfish (Nemo?) It was a beautiful spot in the middle of nowhere and there wasn’t another boat in sight.

After the dive, we motored the short 6 miles north to Ribbon Reef #2. The Ribbon Reefs form the outer GBR, extending for about 100 miles, and offer an average of one world-class dive sites per mile. If you’re a diver, it just doesn’t get much better than this. We had a nice dive on a large bommie just a few boat lengths off our port beam. Vis was pretty good and we enjoyed swim-bys from a small gray reef shark and a large Spanish mackerel. Once again, we were the only ones there.

After a couple of nights anchored out on the GBR, we decided to pop into Cooktown, the last town on the east coast of Cape York heading north. It was the Queen’s Birthday holiday, a long weekend, and they had the Discovery Festival on, commemorating the visit by Captain James Cook during his epoch circumnavigation. We wanted to check it out, and top up on fresh fruits and veggies, as we would be in the “liquid outback” of North Queensland for the next few weeks.

Cooktown reminded us of something out of the Wild West. It is virtually the last real township on the west coast of Cape York until you get to the final outpost on Thursday Island, about 350 miles north/northwest. Some of the old buildings still had hitching posts and a number of the streets were unpaved. If the town is on the edge of civilization, some of its inhabitants appeared to be a bit over the edge. There were lots of dodgy characters hanging around, drinking, and eying Merima with questionable intent. I suppose they don’t see too many sheilas up in these parts. A bit uncomfortable with the vibe, we quickly did our shopping and headed straight back to Moonshadow.

The next drama was a charter sailboat full of guests that came into the harbor at low tide and ran hard aground. The skipper dropped his anchor and then came over in his tender to give me grief for “blocking the channel.” Well, I had entered the very compact harbor, dropped my anchor on the leeward edge of the three meter deep unmarked “channel” and drifted back to settle into water that was just two meters deep, leaving us the luxury of 8″ of water under the keel at low tide. Even though his draft was 2.6 meters, he insisted that I was in his way. I wasn’t in the mood to give Captain Wanker a mathematics lesson, so I apologized needlessly but under my breath suggested that, if he was in fact literate, that he might find some interesting reading in the local tide chart.

In defense of Cooktown, they had a very nice fireworks display that evening, fired from a barge in the middle of the harbor, and an excellent jazz band on the waterfront whose music wafted out to us anchored just offshore. Captain Wanker got off the putty at high tide about 8 PM that evening, and we escaped unscathed early the next morning.

With 13-15 knots of breeze from the east/southeast, we had a comfortable close reach to Wonderland Reef, about 32nm northeast of Cooktown. Wonderland Reef is a large circular coral patch rising out of 25 meters/80 feet of blue water just inside Ribbon Reef #9. We put out all 100 meters of chain and managed to hook the anchor solid in the lee of the reef.

Wonderland Reef is a diver’s wonderland of steep walls, caves, cutbacks and overhangs. There were plenty of colorful tropical fish, large reef fish, and a few pelagics who appeared to be window shopping for a meal. The vis was not as good as Lena Reef, but we could still easily see the bottom. It took us an hour to leisurely circumnavigate the reef, and once again, we had it all to ourselves.

We continued northward on the outer GBR towards a world famous (in Australia) dive site called the Cod Hole. Along the way, we hooked a very nice yellow-tailed kingfish, and brought him right up to the transom, but as I tried to lift him on board, he fell away, having just barely been hooked by the skin of his lucky little lip.

At Cod Hole we picked up a mooring just a few meters from the coral, in a very rolly pass through the reef from the Coral Sea. This was no place to spend a pleasant evening, as the rolling might spill our drinks, so we decided to immediately hop into the water to see what this place was famous for, and then make our way to a calm anchorage. Once in the water, we were descended upon by a family of very large potato cod, some well over a meter long. Their mouths were huge, and they looked as if they could easily nip off a human appendage if their normal food supplies ran low. They appeared quite tame, almost curious, and allowed us to get up close and personal to have a look and take some photos. There were a number of other large fish milling about, including a large maori wrasse and a school of silvery trevally. It was a very fun and interesting dive, and we were the only people in the water for miles around.

After a quick dive, we slipped the mooring at Cod Hole and sailed in light airs 14 nm west to Lizard Island, taking anchorage in the very well protected Watson’s Bay. Shortly after we anchored, our old mate Captain Wanker arrived and anchored next to us. In addition to being mathematically and navigationally challenged, it seems he had also missed the lesson on anchorage etiquette. He ran his rather loud diesel engine all night long while burning all of his deck lights. When I awoke at 0600 the next morning all was quiet and he was gone. Good riddance!!

Hankering for a bit of exercise, we took the tender ashore and walked up to Cook’s Lookout, the highest peak on Lizard Island at 300-ish meters or about 1000 feet. This is the lookout point were Captain James Cook, on his famous voyage, came in hopes of spotting a safe passage out of the Great Barrier Reef. He so named the island because of its population of very large lizards, related to Indonesia’s Komodo Dragons. It was a challenging but beautiful walk. The views were spectacular in all directions – mainland Australia to the west and the outer Great Barrier Reef to our east, and we even saw one of the large (about a meter long) lizards along the way.

Well, it’s not all play on board the Moonshadow, and that afternoon it was time to do laundry. We had quite a bundle and as we got stuck into it, the washer broke down. I quickly diagnosed the problem as a broken agitator drive belt. I was feeling quite smug, as I carry a spare in the parts inventory, and after a few minutes was able to put my hands on it. I played “Maytag Repair Man” and half an hour later the replacement belt was installed and our vintage 1985 Twin Tub washing machine was humming along once again. Well, the “new” belt that I purchased and placed in inventory about 9 years ago had become quite brittle. After one cycle, it also broke, so we were back to hand washing. Bugger!

With the laundry finally finished around sunset, we relaxed in the cockpit with a sundowner and were rewarded with a beautiful Australian sunset and the elusive “green flash.” We were enjoying a quiet moment and reflecting on the day when Captain Wanker came whistling into the anchorage again, dropping his hook next to us and, in typical form, running his engine and deck lights all night. I fantasized about stuffing a potato in his exhaust pipe and shooting out his deck lights with a pellet gun.

Departing Lizard Island the next morning, we found light winds, about 9-12 knots, well behind the beam, so we set the asymmetrical spinnaker. In flat seas we were moving along nicely at speeds from 6-9 knots and soon overtook a gaggle of yachts that had departed a half an hour before us. The winds gradually dropped off to the low single digits, so we gave up and motorsailed to the Pipon Islets. We had our first dolphin visit in ages, and at anchor that evening watched the sun set beautifully red over the Australian continent, finally enjoying a bit of peace and quiet.

On our way to Tijou Reef the next morning, we landed our first fish of the season. It was a Spanish mackerel and rather small at 5 kg, but we were happy to finally break the curse and have some fresh seafood for a change. Our catch was quickly and efficiently processed into sashimi, a batch of poisson cru, a dinner of pan-fried mackerel in a soy-bourbon-coriander sauce, with the remains marinated and to be dried into fish jerky.

From Tijou Reef, we had a quick spinnaker run to the remote outpost of Portland Roads. We hooked two fish, but with speeds of 10-12 knots over the water, we lost both of them. Portland Roads turned out to be a rather rolly anchorage in the east-southeasterly winds.

The following day, on the way to Shelburne Bay, we lost one lure and had another torn to shreds by whatever had struck it. We had a lovely day’s sail under spinnaker in light airs and flat seas. Approaching Shelbourne Bay sort of brings to mind what it must be like to make landfall on the Alaskan coastline in winter. There were lots of wooded areas with absolutely white patches on the hills and along the coast. The silica sand beach and dunes were literally so white, that they appeared to be covered in freshly fallen snow. Now I’ve seen a few “white sand” beaches in eleven years of cruising, but this one wins the Clorox award for whiteness.

From Shelburne Bay, we continued north to the Escape River, our last stop before reaching Cape York. The shoreline was a mixture of white sand beaches and deep red bauxite bluffs, quite a stark contrast, even for Australia. Our luck changing, we landed a very nice 10 kg/22 pound Spanish mackerel. Now we would actually have some meat for the freezer! The only bad news about these Spanish mackerels is that they have a very gnarly set of razor-sharp teeth. I had to be extremely cautious when handling them, wearing a pair of thick leather “gauntlet” gloves. And once we got one hooked, all the soft plastic bits of the lure were shredded. Inside the bar, the Escape River is a very lovely and calm anchorage. There is a massive cultured pearl farm operating there, leaving precious little space for boats to anchor. That evening during sundowners we had a nice chat with a few people working there who ventured by after a fishing excursion. They offered us a small snapper, but we politely declined, being flushed with mackerel.

It was Tuesday, and the big day. Setting sail from the Escape River, winds were light, so we motor-sailed in millpond-like seas. We took a shortcut between Albany Island and the Cape York Peninsula through Albany Pass. This narrow bit of seaway was a lovely green oasis, dotted with a few campgrounds, some excellent beaches and nice little island homestead. A few of the grassy patches of land had some massive ant hills, some easily as high as a tall man. A three+ knot tail current pushed us through too quickly, and soon we were rounding “the tip” or Cape York, the northernmost point of the Australian continent. There was a throng of tourists walking out on the tip, seemingly looking for a glimpse of Papua New Guinea, which lies some 80 miles to the north across the Torres Strait. At about noon, we adjusted our course to the west. The landscape became reminiscent of the South Pacific Islands, with palm trees and expansive beaches, and the color of the water changed dramatically from deep blue to a lighter aquamarine. We were now in the Torres Strait. We navigated through a myriad of reefs and islands along the coastline to the anchorage at Point Seisia.

Seisia is the final outpost on Cape York and consists of a jetty for the ferry to Thursday Island, a gas station, a church, a campground and takeaway shop, a grocery store and a few residences. Everything here is covered with a fine coating of deep red, almost oily dust which seems to be able to stick to or penetrate nearly everything but glass. It seems the main activity for the Seisians is fishing off of the jetty. At the end of the work day, there were easily 50 people with feet dangling off the jetty and lines in the water. When they’re not fishing off the jetty, they’re hanging out on the jetty and socializing over a few beers. We were able to get a few provisions at the well-stocked and comfortably air-conditioned grocery store that would carry us till we got to Gove. We’ll never forget Seisia – we can’t seem to get the red dust out of our thongs.

Reflecting back on the last year in Queensland, I would have to say that it has been some of the best cruising I’ve experienced to date. There are just a few rather minor negatives. The ones that stick out for me are:

• Lots of shallow water and coral reef. One must extremely diligent about navigation, but I found the charts and cruising guides to be reasonably accurate, and there are plenty of nav aids.
• The heat, humidity and stingers of summer. At least you can cruise the coast in one season, or else leave the boat in a marina and go somewhere else.
• Poor availability of sailboat gear. While there are numerous small chandleries, getting any special parts was challenging.

The positives, on the other hand, are too numerous to list, but here are a few of the things that I really enjoyed:

• An abundance of marinas and good anchorages. From Brisbane to Cape York, over 1200 miles of coastline, one can sail it all in daylight hours and be in a marina or snug anchorage every night. We never had to sail more than 80 miles in one day.
• Good provisioning. There are various cities and towns along the way where you can get nearly everything you need. Prices for most items are reasonable if not inexpensive. Australian wine is excellent!
• Plenty to do, in out and on the water. From hiking and cycling, swimming and diving, festivals and regattas to wining and dining, or just beach combing, Queensland is a giant playground.
• Good weather. Winter weather is settled, pleasant and predictable, and there is plenty of weather information easily available to the mariner. The southeast trade winds are fairly reliable and usually from 10-20 knots. We did LOTS of spinnaker sailing.
• Great people. Australians in general and Queenslanders in particular are friendly, helpful and usually have a quirky sense of humor unique to Australia. We met lots of wonderful people and made many good friends along the way.
• There’s no language or cultural barriers, and the officialdom in Australia is easy to understand and work with. We’re going to miss this!