Day 209: Shaw Island to Brampton Island, Australia – 03/07/10

I wake up at around 3.30 am to find something cold clambering back into bed with me – Mike.  He had got up to check the anchor as the wind is now getting quite strong.  All seemed well though.  No sooner had he got warm (and made me cold) and was starting to drift off, than the anchor alarm started.  I told him it was going off at the same time Steve started shouting to him about the same thing, so up he gets again.

I lie with the blanket scrunched up around my neck hoping that I won’t be needed.  The wind is now howling and waves are breaking against the side of the boat.  I wriggle further down the bed and try to become invisible but it’s no use, Mike appears and says we are dragging the anchor and I need to come out on deck.

Muttering about f***ing boats I put on jeans, tee-shirt, fleece and wet weather jacket to try to keep the wind out and emerge into a howling (but thankfully dry) gale.  The anchor has dragged about half a mile.  Great.

I start to press the windlass button while Steve gives it some assistance with the rope attached to the anchor.  Nothing.  It won’t come up and the windlass just turns.  Well, when I say nothing, it isn’t quite nothing.  After all Steve’s pulling, the anchor suddenly appears at the roller but all the chain is still in the water – the windlass just can’t pull it up.

Mike moves the boat back towards shallower water hoping that the huge 100 foot loop of heavy chain that we are now dragging behind us doesn’t get caught on anything.  It’s a good job this didn’t happen in the Tuamotus with all those coral heads.  Here though, we could just lasso a whale!  Now that would top the night off nicely!

Mike tells me to untie the rope from the anchor in case it’s the rope that is stopping it settling, but it is so covered in mud that I can’t see it at all so when we are in position, we just drop it as it is and hope for the best.  It doesn’t set.  Bugger!

I go back into the salon as it’s so cold and wait to see what happens.  While I wait, I watch the depth gauge and suddenly see it change from 44 feet to 14 feet.  I am just about to shriek when it goes to 50 feet.  Something (whale, shark or more probably a school of fish) must have just swum under the boat.  It really is disconcerting when this happens.

As there are no boats behind us (we have already drifted past them all) Mike decides to wait and see whether the anchor settles itself somehow while it drags, and sits himself at the helm to watch, sending me to bed.  There’s an area of shallower water that we could drift into which would be useful, but instead, the wind and current drag us into deeper and deeper water and he realises that this plan won’t work.  He comes down and drags me up again and out into the elements.  Why do things like this always seem to happen at night?

I sit at the helm while Mike and Steve resort to yesterday’s way of getting the chain up – pulling ten feet up at a time with a two-hook system.  Luckily, over an area of shallower water, the anchor suddenly bites in with a jerk and the boat comes to a halt.  I scuttle back down to bed.  Mike and Steve wait for a while to make sure that it really is held, then go to bed themselves but nobody really goes back to sleep.  We lie there listening to the 35 knots of wind blasting at the boat, and the fierce slapping of the waves against the hulls.  We don’t see Johanne or Isabella.  Johanne reveals in the morning that she was lying cowering under the blanket ready to spring into action if she was needed but hoping she wouldn’t be, and Isabella woke up with all the noise, wondered what was going on but just went back to sleep without bothering to find out.  Ah, youth!

When it’s light. Mike gets up and checks the weather.  The winds will be right on the nose going south and quite strong but are predicted to die down in the afternoon.  It’s not going to be a pleasant ride.  Mike takes the windlass apart again and he and Steve take a good look at it, thinking that they can roughen some of the surfaces to create more friction as it turns, and therefore more grip.

Photo:  Men at work

Unfortunately, this doesn’t help, and after putting it back together again they resort to the two hook method with Johanne taking up the slack on the warp that is still tied to the anchor, while I attempt to keep the boat pointing at 160 degrees.  In the strong wind, and with virtually no engine power (we don’t want the boat going over the rope or the anchor chain) this is difficult but eventually we manage it and set off.

The passage is horrible.  Short, choppy waves slam against us and Jeannius pitches forward and back in nasty little jerks.  Once again it’s really hot in the sun and really cold out of it.  I start to feel sickly within half an hour and take to my position of the sofa.  Johanne joins me there about an hour later.  Steve and Isabella fall asleep on the cockpit cushions and Mike keeps watch at the helm.

I recover enough to cook lunch; kanga bangers and mahi mahi, and an eclectic assortment of stuff out of the fridge which don’t necessarily go together but will have to today.

Gradually the wind and sea do calm down as predicted and as we approach Goldsmith Island, Mike decides to carry on to Brampton Island so that we have fewer miles to cover tomorrow.  We all heave a huge sigh of relief when the anchor sets immediately.  It must be better holding here.  Instead of putting the bridle on though, we put two hooks attached with ropes to the anchor chain.  We want to be able to get the chain up quick if we have problems again.  We have a cup of tea and Mike goes to bed for a couple of hours as he is the only one who hasn’t rested on the way over.

Photo:  Johanne and Steve sit reading below Steve’s drying underpants – they look enormous but it’s lot of pairs hung sideways – honest!

Johanne and I sit and watch the sunset, another beauty.

Photo:  Sunset from Brampton Island

We have a lovely dinner of steak and sauté potatoes and sit and watch TV, praying that tonight there will not be a repeat of last night’s anchor performance.  I fail miserably not to think about the fact that tomorrow will be our last day together.