A long and challenging voyage   Thursday, 22/08/2024

This was not an easy voyage, thanks to a couple of difficult areas along the way. From Vanuatu we headed northwest across the Coral Sea. The first two days were relatively slow going, but this changed rapidly, with wind of 25 to 30 knots making for a bouncy three or four days. Large waves of 3-4 metres weren’t anything out of the ordinary though: simply the trade winds blowing strongly, making it a bit rough. With large waves, Manuka gets picked up as the wave passes under her and then spurts ahead as it pushes her forward. All this produces a rolling motion which can be tiring – but after a couple of days you get used to it.

On the eighth day, my AIS flagged an approaching ship, which was coming directly across our path. I noticed it on the chartplotter long before any alarm, when it was still 7.6 nautical miles away. I could click and see its details – Amphitrite, a cargo vessel of 240 metres in length, was on a course of 175 degrees (against our 290 degrees). She was travelling at 11.6 knots (relatively slowly, but then she was heading into both wind and waves). From her current position and her speed, it looked like she would pass a reasonable distance ahead of us, which she did: about 1.4 miles ahead (2,400 metres). Close enough to see that she was fully loaded and that her bow was throwing up spray, and that Diana Shipping Inc. was emblazoned on her side in large white letters. A bit of fun – not much happens out at sea! But then, just as Amphitrite disappeared south, another AIS target showed up. In this case, no name given, just an MMSI number. I realised that I was crossing a shipping lane, coming down from China and Japan through the Solomon Islands and likely bound for somewhere on Australia’s east coast – probably Brisbane or Gladstone. It had been 5 or 6 days since I’d last seen a ship, which was only a glimmer because it passed several miles astern. Apart from the occasional seabird, nothing.

From the Coral Sea, almost up to the Gulf of Papua, then southwest down through the Torres Strait into the Arafura Sea that separates Australia and Indonesia. On a conventional map, the Torres Strait looks like it’s a wide open waterway, with a few islands. It isn’t: it’s completely littered with small islands, rocks and reefs, with often narrow passages between them. The Great Barrier Reef comes right up almost to the Gulf of Papua, with an outer shipping channel curving around it. Here is the Bligh Entrance, lying between Tot Reef to the south and Bramble Cay to the north. I cut the final corner, sailing between some of the islets, and then joining the Great Northeast Channel which heads down to the Torres Strait. Heading southwest for 115 miles, eventually becoming the 20-mile Prince of Wales Channel. From here you burst into the Arafura Sea. The Torres Strait is a compulsory pilotage zone: vessels in excess of 70 metres length must carry a pilot.

Coming down channel, close past Dalrymple Islet, Dove Islet, Bet Reef, Poll Island, Twin Island – tropical islands with a dense green centre surrounded by pristine strips of white sand. Altogether, we sailed through a sea absolutely strewn with islands and rocks. Important to watch the course closely. As if this isn’t enough, in places the charts have a warning concerning “sandwaves” – “the seabed in this area consists of sandwaves which cause variations in actual depth to those charted”. First time I’ve encountered that.

Headed down the Great Northeast Channel, at about 17:00, a small aircraft came up from the stern and passed very low overhead. I knew who this was – Australian Border Force! I grabbed my handheld VHF radio so I could sit outside and wait for their return. They had already identified me (from AIS) and addressed me as Manuka on Ch 16. Asked me to switch to Ch 72 and then a few questions: last port of call, next port of call, home port, how many people on board, that sort of thing. They urged me to comply with all Australian regulations, which I confirmed I was already doing. Then they thanked me and said Welcome to Australia! 

The narrow Prince of Wales channel was the big obstacle, and also the last. By slowing the speed that we were doing, I had timed my arrival at its entrance just before 03:00, which is when the tide turned in our favour. Better to go through with the current, rather than fight against it, especially because it’s narrow. I turned the engine on, if just to idle – better to have that ready as a backup in case needed. The wind had fallen to only 10 knots; with a little bit of engine I set the speed at 5 knots. As we advanced towards the narrowest point of the channel, the speed rose to a good 7 knots thanks to the current. As we came down the final straight, we were being pursued by a yacht called Ahimsa coming up from behind. Except for that, no other vessels.

Thanks to our fast speed, we were through in 3 hours and 30 minutes – not bad for 20 miles. All that remained was to dodge a few buoys marking the beginnings of the channel, and then we would be in open sea. It was now 06:17. Despite only having had a couple of hours’ sleep, I felt pretty wide awake. After 7am I lay down and slept an hour, and then felt fine for the rest of the day.

After such a momentous 24 hours, the new day saw us totally becalmed, the wind at times as little as 1 knot, the sea a striking turquoise under a vivid blue sky. To escape this large windless patch I motored for several hours.

The wind then picked up, but only for a while. For most of the several hundred miles west across the Arafura Sea the wind was light. Which basically added a day to the trip. But not bad – at one point, with the wind only 7-8 knots, I was surprised that we were averaging 4.3 to 4.4 knots, a pretty decent speed in such light air. Probably a little help from current. At this rate, at least you’re covering a hundred miles a day. The Arafura Sea is shallow: in the centre it’s about 50 metres deep (in the Coral Sea it’s 4,000 metres). Shallower still in its northern part. Apparently at one time it was a large flat land bridge connecting Australia with New Guinea.

To round off a long and challenging voyage, the approach to Darwin is difficult. Coming from the east, the shortest way is through the Dundas Strait into the Van Diemen Gulf. The alternative, to go all the way around Melville Island, would add about a hundred nautical miles. So Dundas it was. The strait is very wide, about 15 miles across. Because of this, I thought that if we arrived before a favourable tide that I would try to sail against it – if this wasn’t successful, no problem: I could just retreat. Which is what happened. I arrived outside the entrance to the strait at 21:00. Tide only turned at 02:55. Under full sail and engine on, I tried. It was slow going for two hours, and I was nowhere near through. And the boat was struggling to hold a course, swinging wildly. So I spun her around, dropped the sails and floated – in the wrong direction, initially north at 3.1 knots! After a couple of hours, I raised the sails and set off again. It was 01:30. This time it worked – the strength of the tide was falling, and we were making about 4 knots. When the tide turned, very quickly this became 7 knots. This tide lasted several hours, then we had a few hours of adverse tide, but not too strong. And then positive, taking us into the Howard Channel in early afternoon. This is narrow, between East Vernon Island and North West Vernon Island to the north, and South West Vernon Island to the south. The strange thing here is that it looks like you’re in pretty open sea. It is not so much the small, low-lying islands that you’re avoiding, it’s the extensive reefs around them that you cannot see.

And the Howard Channel was my priority all along: it has to be traversed on a favourable tide, because it’s relatively narrow and the current officially reaches 3.4 knots. The wind had fallen to only 4-6 knots. So with perhaps 2 knots from the sails and another 2.5 knots from the engine, jut on lightly, with the rest from the current, we stormed through at more than 8 knots – at the narrowest point, we were doing an amazing 9.6 knots – the current was basically 5 knots! Disguising what was going on under water, the sea surface was flat, just ripples. 

And then it was a case of cutting south for Darwin, about 20 miles down to Fannie Bay where I’d anchor for the night. The tide here was later than in the Howard Channel, so that helped, together with 12-14 knots of wind. My big hope had been that we’d arrive when there was just enough light to be able to see well. Sunset was at 18:42 … and I dropped anchor at 18:38. Job done! Put out all of my 50 metres of chain: the tidal range here is huge: 6 metres (20 feet). What a relief to finally be here.

All that was left was to go to the Customs dock in the morning to clear in. This wasn’t a problem, but because I’d come from Vanuatu, a special hull clean had to be done by a diver before I could enter the marina (curiously, the Australian Northern Territories Fisheries department pays for this!) . This could only happen at 08:00 the next morning. So back out into the bay, although this time just outside – in an area marked on the charts as no anchoring. But this is where the dockmaster of the marina suggested I anchor. So, at this point, almost there but not quite.

Sailing a long voyage, like this one was, is strange. You are suspended in time. You have left somewhere, but you have not arrived at your destination. You get the same thing taking a long aeroplane journey, except that it’s very brief, only 10 or 12 or 14 hours and therefore passes quickly, so that perhaps you don’t notice. When it’s 21 days, you notice very much. You are living in a suspended state. Each day is very much like the last, and very much like what tomorrow will be. You are floating between two points. I found that as I got close to my destination, I felt not that I desperately wanted to get there, but instead a bit apprehensive of the floating state suddenly coming to an end. I don’t really know why.

As I think I’ve written before, in these periods of extended solitude it is fairly common to occasionally hear human voices. Not every day; perhaps every third day. All of a sudden you hear voices talking or singing. You can’t make out the words. Of course, it’s just the sound of the wind or noises that the boat is making. And your mind is translating them as human voices. It’s entirely normal – others have written of just this experience. We are ultimately social animals and, driven by our biology, our mind conjures up what it needs – which is social contact. It’s a strange feeling. You know what is happening, you know that the voices are not real, yet you have to fight the urge to get up and look for who and where they are coming from. Interesting, isn’t it?