1 Father, 3 Sons, 1 Yacht and a Lot of Wet Country:
The Harris' Sail The Whitsundays 244 Years after James Cook
August 4-12, 2014

(For our dearest dad, Major Walter Rigby Harris (Ret.), on the occasion of his 70th Birthday, with much love from your family; Stuart and Alicia, Christopher and Sarah, Peter, Alicia Bonomo, Sarah, Grace, Jasmine, Angus and Gemma Harris and Pam Moore.  Long may ye and Puff sail the seven seas Granddad Wallypops! In summary, “ding bloody dong”, to quote the great man himself.)

Prelude:
Day Minus One: From Everywhere to the Gold Coast. 3/8/14

Windy weather and horizontal rain greeted Dad (Skipper), Bev and me as we entered Cabiarita Beach. Was it a prelude to the sailing odyssey or a cruel God arming concerned mothers, wives and other interested parties with cause for consternation? Mum’s chicken soup was on the menu and a dog walk in order, this time with mum’s latest boarder whom she had mistaken for a four-legged human with a tapeworm. Pete came and went quickly to reunite with a mining mate over some beers before agreeing to meet us at the airport.

Stu flew in at 8pm and was met and greeted by the 2 brothers and mum, until she was once more was forced to wave premature goodbyes to her 3 sons of the world, but at least this time they were headed to the same place.

The ubiquitous moustachioed Queensland  transport worker this time helmed a maxi taxi and ‘fucked’ and farted his way up to the condo which dad and Bev had won for a 2 week stay in a chook raffle. His garrulous ways proved rather warm and he may have been a misplaced tour guide. Stereotypes shattered as he rejoiced of Darwin Cup holidays before 2 wives forced him to retreat into his per kilometre safe house. At one juncture we passengers held our breath in a mistaken pre-emption of controversy after he mentioned Aboriginals in Darwin. We smiled both in relief and guilt as he described with awe the first time he saw an elder tribeswoman dot her way around a canvas. However, for our would-be sailor’s the art of interest on this night was a map of the Whitsunday islands.

Day Zero Brisbane to Proserpine... via Hamilton Island. 4/ 8/ 14

The Italian-Australian had not the captive and subdued audience of his Anglo-Saxon countryman and colleague of the night before when his taxi full of our sailors and the Skipper in shotgun hit a lull in the ocean of traffic en route to Brisbane Airport. The Skipper must have loomed large as he rightfully cursed the dear driver’s company with whom the Skipper had delegated responsibility for ensuring an appropriate lead time to get us to Brisbane Airport. As the time ebbed away the crew of Gen X’ers in the back huddled together and established 4 alternatives to what would be the inevitable gate closure at Jetstar but refrained from announcing the revelation to allow the Skipper to have some hope as he reassured the taxi driver who had starting swearing in sympathy against his HQ.

In the manner of these things for those who keep an open mind and open eyes, the missed flight resulted in a chance sighting of one of our stalwart mates from childhood and everyman, Michael ‘Dono’ Donaldson who was en route to client meetings in Brisneyland as he liked to call it somewhat with a Sydneysiders sarcasm, but with Dono one is never sure. After all, he was the same guy who did a; suburban exchange’ with a kid from Mt Druitt and lamented returning home to the Northern Beaches. A good omen no doubt was Dono.

In a prophetic pontification Stu proferred a way to bide time in waiting for the contingency flight to Hamilton Island: “Let’s have a couple of coffees... could be the last good ones we get for a while.”

We entered the back-up flight somewhat overdosing on coffee and settled into settling into each other. After so long geographically disparate in our travels, we were once again reformed to the pack and tried hard not to mention Malaysian Airlines.

Hamo (local parlance) hurried the pilot’s brakes and we were done with the air travel leg, having variously flown from Singapore via Sydney, Tamworth via Sydney, and a drive for the Skipper from Port Stephens to the Gold Coast. My reverse culture shock retreated as we were greeted cheerfully by a bearded and boisterous young islander who carried the bags and conversed indiscriminately with anyone in earshot.

Ferry Hamo to Shute

Our second good omen was a humpback breaching and tail-whipping our welcome oblivious to the Southerly chill that had forced the passengers other than our protagonists to retreat into the main hold of the board. 140 degrees East, 20 degrees 18.5 South; just north of Pelican Head was the location as we turned to face White Rock. Our 21st Century concerns and missed flight stress slapped out of our collective conscience by the whip of a whale’s tail. I could not but think the final act of the show resembled a wave of sorts, but then animals are never as interested in humans as we are in them.

The shackles were loosened to almost fully off by the time another young beard reacquainted us with our bags and the short walk around from a quaint and quickly deserted Shute Harbour across a small beach to our jetty and vessel of choice, Catnap, saw our home for the next 8 days living up to its namesake, slumbering on the port side of the jetty.

Kiwi John of perpetual sailor’s tan and a long smile eased into sailing by focusing on non-sailing basic domicile features: sailing switches; storeholds, portholes and poo shutes for our first and last evening before disembarkation.

The three brothers left the Skipper alone to investigate the vessel and took a taxi into the new Airlie Beach ‘Woolies’ at first lamenting the retailers part in a duopoly of pervasive size, before remembering they were on holidays. Pecking orders are quickly established when shopping in a trio of brothers and Stuart, armed with Army and Ambo experience and age, traversed the trolley logically through dry and then wet sections. The bill arrived at $405, somewhat the result of the shoppers’ hunger. It quickly jumped to $500 when beer was added and to $524 when Stu abandoned a total teetotal and purchased a Wirra Wirra Church Block Shiraz. After all, we needed to find out for ourselves what to do with the drunken sailor.

Day 1 Sailing; Shute harbour to Hook Island 5/8/14

“There is nothing like messing around in a boat” said the rat in my recollection of Wind in the Willows, but this carefree approach to boating in art was not imitated in life. Whitsunday rent a Yacht trains its sailors for 30 minutes in a section adjacent to Shute Harbour between an unholy quartet of ‘cardinals’ (signposts marking out the 4 sides of an exposed rock), a smattering of coral reef and a confidence impaling Island called Despair. Perhaps the philosophy is if they can do it here they can do it anywhere.

Following the ancient laws of language back to the towers of Babel, sailors have, in the development of their lexicon ignored the general and plain parlance to give simple things other names and simple names to other things. Ropes are variously Halyards, Sheets and Reefs for one example. Fortunately for those new to the language they are coloured as well though ‘pull the green one’ has not the romance of ‘unfurl the Main Halyard”. Donna, our instructor, demonstrated the trademark pre-emptive rebukes no doubt necessary for a female sailor in a patriarchal world but her audience responded by remaining quiet and listening for the most part, which threw off her shtick. Like Tiger Woods teaching golf by saying put the ball down and hit it, Donna suffered the anti-teacher curse of being able to do it but not to teach it. Stuart and Chris had sailed before for a short time a short time ago and the Skipper for a long time but a long time ago and so the barnacles had gathered on our memories. Nevertheless, we pulled on our ropes not called ropes and watched the sails for what we knew not and listened carefully to Donna abbreviate sail to ‘sl’ and tried to emulate her in vain.

Somehow we passed muster enough to have both sails up and Donna didn’t hang around to test whether it was beginner’s luck. My call of ‘best of three’ was lost in the accumulating wind as Donna’s lift arrived to rescue her from the frustration of repeating the rudiments of her profession. And so we were on our own just as a South-Easter came tunnelling up the Whitsunday Passage. Wisdom prevailed and the Skipper opted for Sails down for our trip north west to Hook Island.

2 nautical miles after we disembarked the safe harbour of Donna’s guidance we saw Daydream Island, an architectural tribute to the 1980’s and to my mind not dissimilar to the aesthetic of the Housing Development Board buildings of Singapore. Our first sailing challenge was to chuck a right at the northern end of Daydream and head through Unsafe Passage, not a name exactly eliciting yawps of elation from the novices. The trick was to line up two juxtaposed navigation lights fixed to the island and keep them aligned to shoot through the pass. Skipper held true and we hopped, sheeted and jibbed to Nara inlet, one of the two gaps in the front teeth of the Hook’s southern mouth. How sudden and welcome is the respite from wind and rain and sun when the Cat meanders deeper into Nara. We anchored into mud and dad fired up the Barbie for bangers, the oven for chips and the stove for peas and corn.

Nara has provided port to many a vessel before the Catnap and the names of these, some old, some new and some new forgeries of old emblazon the rock faces like graffiti, albeit acceptable. Pete de-roped the tender and explored at a close range the historical hieroglyphics of Hook. 

Pete de-roped the tender and explored at a close range the historical hieroglyphics of Hook. 

Day 2: Nara to Butterfly Bay via Luncheon Bay (6/8/14)

The radio squelched and belched an excited tenor as the morning ‘scheds’ (schedules) were announced: the yachtie’s roll-call. Radio etiquette dictates you first announce your intended recipient’s name thrice. Morning mumbles mean an audience tuning in will be subject to all manner of misappropriations (undoubtedly why Kiwi John referred to it as the daily comedy hour): “Whitsunday Rent a Yacht, Whitsunday lent a rot, Shitwunday tent a spot” etc. We nevertheless prevailed and were able to convey our intended destination and we dutifully manned the decks and the Skipper the Wheel.  Full of the ancient promise of many gone before of full sails and wilderness taming our sea dogs older and younger pushed forward with gusto into the gust, which whipped at 25 knots already. It was 8am and we were intending to travel in a direction that best suited ‘reaching’ around the Western side of Hook towards the aptly named Luncheon Bay in time for, of all things, lunch. Mainsail unfurled well but the headsail would prove our Achilles and confirm our fears that the training was indeed a fluke as it raced through the cleats in too fast a time for Pete and me to tame her and she flip-flop-crash-bashed herself to a tear closest to the sheets! Even in the windy whoosh a profound silence could be heard. Men’s hearts break without noise. Profanities were exhaled even causing a ancient turtle to shake his head disapprovingly before disappearing below with the confidence of a creature so beautifully designed and evolved as to not require sails. Our team blamed each other for long enough to all accept it was a team mistake: wrong direction in relation to wind; too much sail out; not enough confidence on who’s pulling and who releasing.

Shaken but undaunted we motored with one sail to Luncheon Bay and recriminations were adjourned as we beheld a coral-white sand beach resplendent in the improved morning light and sheltered perfectly from the south-easterly for snorkelling.  We donned the ‘stinger suits’ and manned ‘Pete’s Punt’ (the tender) to the beach but only after Stu and I ungracefully navy-sealed an exit mid journey. The life underwater was glorious and soother than our recent experiences above it. Despite the coral for the most part showing signs of Riga mortis, the abundance and variety of fish was superb. Stu remarked facetiously that as fabulous as they were the fish faux pas’d rather badly fashion-wise in stepping out in the pastel colours of now defunct 1980’s B List Board short brands like Hang Ten and Footloose. We assigned fish to each of our party: Stu the surgeon fish; Garfish with a proud snout for the skipper; Batfish for Pete with their grace and height (they are almost invisible from in front as though lacking the third dimension); and Trumpet fish for yours truly. With the fish jack-hammering away at the coral for breakfast, the dive party lay suspended above like a sky-diving troupe in formation.

Fully recovered from what Pete referred to as our emotional decompression chamber, our fearless quartet reclined on the aft deck and was visited by a well-trained duo of batfish that hovered large in expectation of being fed. I recoiled with horrific memories of Chinese tourists in Thailand feeding monkeys Pepsi Cola but when my fellow nature lovers deigned that bread might be acceptable we were all taken with how much the 2-dimensional fish could fit into so small a space. The bread brought a battalion of batfish thereafter.

After our own great lunch of wraps and ‘Moccona mud coffee’ our metropolitan palates were sated. We discarded the mooring before heading back west to the bigger of Butterfly Bay’s wings for anchorage. Now dive crazy, Stuart and I tried at Butterfly in vain to discover another dive spot but the silt and fast-moving tides were not conducive despite a decent coral crop teasing us. Meanwhile Skipper threw out a line but like all good amateurs was quick to point out a lack of live bait as deterrent to the discerning dart. Chef Pete perfected a Pizza on Pita and we had shandies but remained two sheets to the wind only. We slept the sleep of a hundred tired sailors.

Day 3: Butterfly to Shute to May’s Bay (Cid Harbour) 7/8/14

Heads in hand we used the sailor’s licence to embellish our harrowing headsail mishap to heroic levels across the airwaves for Kiwi John’s Scheds. In a way only New Zealanders can, Kiwi John laconically accepted our distorting of truth and if he was upset was gracious enough not to reveal it and even welcomed us to come back to Shute Harbour for a replacement sail. I thought at the time I even detected a note of relief as would later turn out to be true.

Maps were consulted and we Mainsail-Motored across the Whitsunday Passage which had whipped up a decent roar. Mid-crossing the hitherto unutilised canoe dislodged itself from the fore port ropes that we had thought Houdini had tied. This meant the crew surfed the bow in 3 metre swells and 25 knot winds endeavouring to untie the canoe, a task made treacherous by the expertise put into the knots back at HQ. Fortunately, the now safely stored canoe could no longer understudy a sail and we rounded the north of North Molle instead of testing the Gods’ understanding at Unsafe.

Paul drove out to meet us from rent a yacht, a welcome inclusion to the helm as the winds jacked on the turning tide. Paul had recently remitted from surgery on a cancerous hip that was replaced and which would be soon tested. Soon safely on jetty, Paul’s colleagues, an ex-rigger from Ryde and HQ John enlisted Chris’ help to take down the Headsail while Stu and Pete went for a few small supplies to Airlie. Like being lifted in a rugby union lineout, climbing the mainsail is never the lot of the more rotund of the human species and Paul, despite his recent cancer, was the lightest and so did not even need to be instructed by HQ John to don the harness. Evidently, it had transpired that the headsail was stuck at the top of its mast, which somewhat alleviated the guilt I felt for our parts in causing the tear and  which meant Paul was hoisted to the top of the boat. 

Torn sail removed, a beautiful navy blue-white canvas now slinked up the pole. HQ John confirmed my earlier suspicion that the tearing of the sail was far from a tragic event and that the other 2 Perry 43 catamarans in the fleet had both had their aging sails replaced already and this completed the refurbishment and was fully able to be claimed by insurance. I, of course, retorted that this we had understood this predilection for demise of the sail and thought we’d help them out. HQ John, for all his kindness, would not accept this wisdom after the fact. However, he did confess to anticipating the tear at some stage because of age, a notion at the same time reassuring and sadistic for these guilt-ridden novice sailors.

Stu and Pete meanwhile had been topping up the 3 main food groups on the menu plan, fruit, meat and bread while Skipper refuelled the water tanks and we recovered a confidence that could never amount to hubris as we nervously contemplated the inevitable raising of the new foresail. Just out of Shute on the southern tack around South Molle, the wind picked up and the Skipper must have felt it caressing his conscience for, despite a clear and explicitly laid plan to sail only with Mainsail, he suddenly contradicted his own advice and instructed the crew to ‘ready the headsl.’, indeed a surprise to the crew. The release of the Halyard holding the sail proved the relativity of time and seemed to last a day but then, as if by the reprieve of the Gods of Sailing the blasted thing ballooned and blossomed like a flower in spring realising its potential and we were on a ‘reach’ (to nearly a close haul to the wind). Skipper exclaimed: “Sailing boys, we’re bloody sailing’ and our blood was suddenly not so small. The smooth skid of nature replaced the uncomfortable stutter of human power and we smiled in awe at the wit, guile but sometime forgiveness of nature.

HQ John had suggested we decamp away from the masses (14 or so boats) at May’s Bay, one bay further to the north of Cid Harbour proper and this is where we arrived at the end of Day 3. One of the finest sensations is to enter a harbour, inlet or bay after a day of sailing and it is a feeling that does not dissipate as the journey on goes. To the contrary, it improved, which explains why James Cook could see beauty even in Botany Bay despite the differing tastes of La Perouse whose indifference ensured a Union Jack rather than a tricolour adorned the Australian flag. 

Trepidation had become our most commonly felt emotion and did not abate with Stuart’s reading of charts and guidebooks evoking a warning about a slightly submerged rock in the middle of the bay. Voices raised in heightened consternation for an enemy barely visible, we lined up with the other boats in this tiny bay that comprised a semi-circular rock wall only broken by a shock of white sand that fringed a forest of what seemed by now customary though surprisingly still incongruous chorus of conifers staring down on the river as if looking for the geographer who might find them out for travelling too far north.

On Skipper’s firm advice to ‘use the canoe since we’ve paid for it’ and to explore the beach I paddled into the beach at May’s Bay. What transpired as I hit the beach in the last hour before sunset was a view north/north-west that took in the rolling beauty of Hook Island through an ocean gap to a distinct mainland. The sunset could only be likened to the bow of a soprano as the crescendo of light splintered and then its music lingered long with the observer. 

Dinner was equally triumphant. A Barbie-cooked seasoned chicken fajita with roasted capsicum. Stu and I cracked the Wirra Wirra 2012 and Skipper and Pete a 2014 ale. We slept on fenders (sailing joke) and awoke with the kind of summons only the bass-baritone alarm of an ex-army major can create and which further benefitted from a returned enthusiasm for sailing as we prepared to venture south to Hamilton Island or Hamo as the locals know it.

By way of post-script on that day, it is well known to crew, family and friends alike that the Skipper has a profound memory of names for anyone who served in the Australian Army and the Wallabies but outside these groups does tend to confuse nomenclature. This idiosyncrasy manifested in the Skipper’s journey-long confusing of Hayman and Hamilton Islands. Given they are at opposite ends of the Passage this was at first confusing but then became a ‘Skipper Senior Moment’ because his hands turned the correct way on the wheel for Hamilton despite his conviction for the name Hayman.

...to be continued!

When not embellishing traveller’s tales, Christopher W. Harris is a permanent travelling expat in Singapore where he is Head of School, Kaplan. He resides there with his teacher wife, Sarah, daughter, Grace (40 stamps on her 5 year old passport) and son, Angus “Chook” Harris, born in Malaysia (30 on his 3 year old passport ) and reading The Cud is his link to home. Hailing from Sydney’s northern beaches and later the Far North Coast of NSW and Gold Coast, Chris and his brothers were more used to being in the water than on it through surf life saving, swimming and surfing, and had merely dabbled in sailing only. Their father, Wal, and the protagonist-skipper of our story, had, however, fallen in love with it when taken on leave by a well to do Boarder friend at school in the late 1950’s to sail the Sydney Harbour.