South Coast: Port Davey and Escape North
by Jack and Jude 27 Mar 2019 15:15 UTC
South Coast © Jack and Jude
Alas, ships' passing in the night, that quiet anchorage waits for another time, for after we were afloat we have not seen Lin since.
We spent a couple of days recovering from our mammoth task, the climbing up and down ladders over so many long days, and the plain physical exertion on our aging bodies required nothing be done except read, reminisce, and drink a bit. After which, with a slick bottom and gorgeous topsides we slipped through the water so fast and pretty that in a couple more days we were lying at the bottom of Tasmania in historical Recherché Bay, where the James Craig had sat in the mud for many a decade before the might of Australia resurrected her. After a night there, a weather pattern presented the perfect opportunity to gunk hole along the south coast, something we would never let pass.
With a following southeaster, we drifted along towering cliffs while spume flew high off a powerful southern ocean, until the wide bay at Louisa Island hove into view. There, obligingly the breeze evaporated, leaving us a quiet night surrounded by magical mountains of the Iron Bound Range fronted by hugely wide sandy shores.
Yes, the ever present swell snaked into our lair to rock us asleep as we lay fore and aft, instead of our usual athwartships. A sound rest we had, waking refreshed and full of vigour that encouraged us to explore further these rarely visited islands lying off Tasmania's south coast. But before getting under way, we had visitors.
From around the red ochre face of Louisa, a small power cat showed its green colour before someone called out our names. Confused, we stood in wonder. Until it, coming alongside, we beamed a welcome greeting to Janet and Geoff from Melaleuca, on their way there filled with supplies. Last we'd seen of their unique craft, so well designed for her duties of transporting them and their needs quickly across these changeable seas, she was brushed aluminium. Upon glassy seas, she drifted alongside while we chatted over a morning cuppa, and then bidding them adieu, off they flew towards Southwest Cape, at such a great speed father Deny would have admired.
Our day of exploration began directly after their departure. Lying just across from Louisa Bay is the dominant green giant of De Witt, also known as Big Witch. At 367 metres, the tallest of the offshore islands, De Witt Island lies 3.7 NM (6 kms) off the south coast of Tasmania. With the day's breeze not expected for a few hours, we motored over to investigate her intriguing northern shore with hopes of finding a future anchorage.
De Witt Island, the largest of the Maatsuyker Island Group is still as created, clothed in vivid greens of various depths that highlight ravines and creeks. At De Witt's heart lays a slight cleft where we hoped we'd find suitable bottom, but we began our close encounter of the magical kind at her far eastern end, where an abrupt black rock face slides straight down into crystal waters that darken with great depths.
With our big straight six just thumping over, its deep throaty voice echoed off this face as if the rumblings of faraway thunder, while we stood amazed at the wonders of creation. Here the mightiest seas attack, and yet delicate white and yellow flowers decorated high cracks. Further along, where the shore dips into the outlet of an occasional stream, we drifted with our sounder searching the bottom, finding it a great depth right up to the rocky shore. De Witt doesn't make it easy to tame her. If you want to experience life in her presence, it'll require perfect conditions with just the right ground tackle; that's something to look forward to experiencing one day.
De Witt's far western end, the one normally taking the full brunt of powerful Antarctic seas is craggy, razor sharp spikes, with gigantic divots exhumed long in her past. Humbled again we stood in awe, filled with images of mammoth seas blown into tiny bits of froth, and wished a spy in the sky could take that majestic spectacle to all in their living rooms. Maybe then, the masses would truly cherish Earth.
Yes, I am a religious man, but not in the biblical sense, more as a person of Earth, the land and seas. Jude and I do not want to see this wondrous creation destroyed any further for we believe the true reason for life is to experience her power and greatness, and to share that experience with young ones.
Speaking of natural power, the magic of a gentle breeze touched our cheeks just as we cleared the last vestige of De Witt, and leaving that mass to its destiny, we faced ours. Shutting down our diesel we savoured a silent passage through deep blue seas while abrupt islands towering above us slid past as we focused on the basics of life. Deep inhalations of untainted air, tasted with the whisper of a slight sea brushing alongside our ship, while our gaze turned from one island to another as our thoughts explored happy places.
By the time we had reached the crags tumbling down Southwest Cape, we had a bag full of wind powering us along at maximum comfort speed and that spread great smiles upon our faces. Navigation around one of the world's scariest capes on days like that is to be treasured especially with stately Albatross soaring alongside on widely outstretched wings. We waved cheery hello's, to which they graced us with casual looks before soaring at full speed along a wave break, wing tips touching the sea, eyes looking for a tasty morsel, before taking an updraught in an incredible display of airmanship that had us to wish we could be so lucky.
After rounding the cape, the afternoon breeze didn't actually leave us, it got stronger. Now with wind power right behind us, I scampered round the foredeck, rigging a pole for our headsail so that Banyandah could fly wing n' wing up that impressive coastline of cliffs, towards the massive seal teeth rocks called the Pyramids lying just off Stephens Beach just before Port Davey.
In a dream run that we wished didn't have to end, old friends approached and passed. And like all of our lives, beautiful events came then passed to become cherished memories. When sailing conditions are so perfect, we're encouraged to work the ship. So rounding the last obstacle, as the wind eased, blocked by the land, instead of spoiling the moment with a noisy thumper, we worked our baby, adjusting sails to every shift of the breeze, while savouring the lovely mountainous scenery in silent reverence.
Port Davey
Port Davey is an icon delivering visions of a creation unchanged by man that teases and tantalizes many a folk. Some can manage its difficulties and dangers, others dream that they can, while still others wish they could but cannot. Inside its labyrinth of bays and inlets that are entwined by twisting rivers, towering mountains peppered with white grey granite polka-dots and flowing mantles are clothed in swards of golden green button-grass that are separated by isolated darker patches of forest marking watercourses.
Port Davey is an ancient glacier valley whose waters are stained black like over-brewed tea perfectly reflecting glorious vistas, but which also hide many a dangerous obstacle. As if blind men, careful sailors feel along its many passages into anchorages, a task instilling fear in the bravest hearts of daring souls. And when Zeus roars, all run for shelter, as a skerrick of breeze changes into a lion's roar chilling blood. Then, all shelter best we can, and utter a prayer that we survive our efforts.
Port Davey is best savoured alone. When the impact of its might humbles us and we stand alone under the power of Nature to applaud its beauty and might. But that was not to be this time. Every two years a local sailing club escorts a fleet of forty from Hobart to circumnavigate Van Diemen's Land. We've no objection to this. In fact we applaud the event which aids so many to witness the wonders of the island downunder. We just prefer to keep out their way. This we did best we could, with interludes that forged new friendships.
Few new to Tasmania would venture where we go, and after the poor wet weather passed we set out on a circuit around the farthest reaches of Bathurst Harbour, to places that Deny King frequented, the man that called Port Davey his home.
Once the two fine days after our arrival had passed, we suffered a series of cold fronts, one after another, bringing strong winds, scudding low cloud, showers, and even some hail. Under the majestic Mount Rugby in a tiny alcove aptly called Frogs Hollow we endured this, and it was from there we sallied forth between storms. First to the top of Joe Page Bay, beyond the rocks and barely above water islets to the entrance of the Spring River, where years ago we discovered black swans in their thousands just inside its entrance. A week later after another series of fronts passed through, under clearing skies we set off early, motoring down the narrow channel that widens out into the impressive expanse of Bathurst Harbour, a shallow body several kilometres in all directions. There we revisited the sculptured sand shores frequented by Deny King then toured Rowitta Harbour by kayak, before paddling off to explore the North River the next day.
Instead of describing our adventures in lengthy paragraphs, here is a playlist of several short video clips showing our adventures:
Port Davey can be challenging in the extreme, particularly in stormy weather and we have several pages of three day forecasts recorded off our HF Radio that prove this. Many raised our hopes that a weather window was soon coming. But not to be. We even once readied our ship to brave a slim slot between the ubiquitous northwest strong winds preceding the gales, gritting our teeth when thinking of facing the forecast six metre southern ocean swells in twenty-five to thirty knot southwest winds. It was the mention of possible hail in the already icy winds buffeting us that made us see reason and knuckle down to yet another episode of gale driven showers under the might of Mount Rugby.
Escape North
Just before the long awaited weather window we needed to complete our journey home to Macquarie Harbour, we left the sanctuary of Frogs Hollow to pass Breaksea Island and do battle with mountainous swells to reach the reasonable safety of Bond Bay. That's where Clyde and Win Clayton lived many a year ago. The day before our departure we sallied forth upon the White Horse Plains behind their original digs, experiencing exquisite scenery of open button grass plains separated by shallow valleys dotted with smooth sided cones reaching hundreds of metres. But, alas, we did not find any white horses.
Ye of little faith be warned that Southwest Tasmania's weather is always changing. After fifteen days entrapped within Nature's kingdom, an exceptional weather situation developed with a large high pressure cell passing south of the state and linking to another high far west in the Indian Ocean. Presto chango. From constant storms to a stream of sunny days accompanied by easterly breezes saw us skedaddle north, first in a long day's motoring to Point Hibbs, anchoring next to Pyramid Island. A glorious sleep was crowned when rising to playful seals, so we stayed a second night to enjoy the wildlife, which include penguins and short-tailed Shearwaters.
Our circumnavigation ended superbly nice when a glorious southerly sea breeze sent us sailing fast up the last remaining miles to Cape Sorell. We even caught a chunky fat Big Eye tuna.
Rounding Cape Sorell in perfect sailing conditions, we were on such a high, so very proud of each other and our achievements, that we parked outside Hells Gate in Pilot Bay for a last hurrah, and to extend our journey around the Isle of Tasmania for just that little bit longer. Till next time, safe anchorages, fair winds, and smooth sailing to all. J&J
This article has been provided by the courtesy of jackandjude.com