Earlier that day, I had finally met Christian, a Tasmanian naturalist who knew the Bass Strait Islands better than anyone. His work among them has made him something of a legend in the field as the man who had put together the first-ever conference on Bass Strait ten years earlier. Few people interested in the islands were not impressed with his knowledge and all knew his reputation. I’d just missed meeting him in Hobart a few weeks earlier, but was able to catch him at an outdoor cafe one afternoon in Melbourne. A storm front threatened, darkening the sky and conjuring spiteful gusts that blew grit in our faces as we attempted to hold on to our lattes. Christian seemed totally oblivious to it all as we talked amid a sea of squinting commuters and a tarpaulin that cracked and bucked over our heads like a loose spinnaker.
‘Should we go inside … perhaps?’ I suggested. He glanced about for a second, smiling, then focused back on me.
‘Bit blowie,’ was all he said, but took the idea no further.
I’d brought along a wad of photocopied maps of the islands for him to point out some features. As I removed them, several sheets were immediately whipped out of my hand. I bolted after them as a couple were important, and could already see them tumbling across busy Spring Street. One I managed to extricate from the windscreen wiper of a parked car, another I trapped adroitly under my shoe, and some were last seen flying over the large iron fence of the Victorian parliamentary gardens.
‘Yep, bit blowie,’ repeated Christian as I returned. He was obviously a man in no way intimidated by the elements.
I asked him about Rodondo, an island I’d heard of close to the Victorian coast. His eyes sparkled and excited little chuckles punctuated his speech. ‘He, he, Rodondo, yes … wonderful place, ha, hardly anyone been there, difficult to get to, nowhere to land, very unspoiled. Tree species not found on any other island, ha, no one even managed to land there until 1947, he, group of schoolboys from Geelong. Couple of scientists, no one else in fifty years, ha, wonderful place …’
Apart from hoping to take in some of his prodigious knowledge, I needed his help in another way. My trip to Three Hummock by air had been wonderful, but I wanted to experience the famously unpredictable waters of Bass Strait close up, from a boat, and he was well placed to know of anyone sailing into it who might be willing to take a passenger. He didn‘t, however, like my chances.
‘Hm, yes, the yachties,’ he said. ‘Not too keen to take novices down there. Not too keen. Not usually,’ but he promised to keep an ear out nonetheless.
As Christian spoke the sky congealed in black clumps overhead. It was an impressive sight, but he did not look up. Instead he told me about his experiences in the islands, the tides, the storms, his face, like a sorcerer’s, lighting up as the city darkened around him.
Against my better judgement, I tried to match him with the story of the lighthouse keeper’s boy. ‘Yep, good story,’ was all I could elicit from him at the punchline. But he was sceptical and told me so. Knowing I had a drive to the coast ahead of me, I thanked him and said goodbye, dashing through the vanguard of heavy, plopping raindrops.
As it happened, the storm was brief and soon blew over, and the drive was a surprisingly calm one. Barely an hour after our arrival, on a pre-dinner stroll through a manicured coastal garden, I received the text from Christian, who I hadn’t expected to hear from any time soon. A boat, I gathered before my phone died, was headed to no lesser place than remote Deal Island. Was he telling me I could get on it? Trying not to let the anticipation distract too much from the romance of the evening, I vowed to put it from my mind until the next day, or at least till I could secretly use the hotel’s charger.
14
ALL AT SEA
The conversation didn’t get off to the best of starts. ‘Yes … that’s me,’ said a rather stern-sounding older English voice, with vague tones of past military service. ‘Who did you say gave you my name?’ I explained the situation as best I could, but felt hurried and awkward, revealing to this sceptical-sounding stranger the nature of my interest and requesting a free passage on his boat. ‘Hm … I see,’ he mused for a moment when I’d told him as much as I could in the minute I sensed would encompass the limit of his patience. ‘Don’t know the fellow myself … Christian you said …? Not sure why he’d give you my number but… well… what did you say your name was again …?’ The only thing heading south, I decided, was this conversation and I began to give up on the whole idea. ‘How much yachting experience have you had?’ he pressed. ‘Absolutely none,’ I answered blandly. ‘Hm … well, it’s not up to me, you understand, I’m just the skipper. I’ll have a word to the owner, you know, and we’ll see what he says …’ Fancying my chances not one little bit I thanked him and hung up, sour with disappointment, not expecting to hear from him again.
Heading out the door towards my local pub, the phone rang. ‘Ah, hello, Alan here.’ It was my Englishman again, but with a tone so altered I could barely recognise it as his. ‘Yes, well I’ve been speaking with the owner of Sea Snake and it appears that you, well, er, went to school together!’ He mentioned a name that meant nothing to me whatsoever.
‘Oh, yes … wonderful! How’s he … getting along?’ I said with deliberate enthusiasm.
‘Now, here’s the story. There’s four of us but one’s dropped out. Some family business or other. You want to get to Deal, is that it? Well, you’d be most welcome onboard.’ I could barely say thanks before I was hit with an avalanche of information. ‘Don’t worry about a thing – we’ll look after you – four-day trip – caretakers putting us up – lovely people – barbie for us when we arrive – familiar with the marina at Hastings? – we push off at high tide tomorrow afternoon – see you there – sixteen-hundred sharp.’ I could barely write it down quick enough. Then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘You don’t get seasick, do you?’ I assured him it wouldn’t be a problem. ‘Right you are then. Cheerio.’
Simple as that. I was off to Deal Island, the very place where the boy, according to the story, vanished one morning under the lighthouse. Deal was also the perfect next stop on my quest to get a picture of the Bass Strait Islands as a whole. Three Hummock Island in the Hunter Group, close to shore in the south-west, had been my introduction; now I was to see its bookend cousin in the north-east and the more open seas of the Kent Group, of which the great rock of Deal Island was the crown.
Excitedly packing a small bag the next day, two things occurred to me. First, that I would in no way repeat the embarrassing empty-handedness of Three Hummock Island, and second, that I possessed nothing that could be of any use whatsoever on a yacht. I had been told to at least bring along some snacks, and in that I was determined not fail. In the thirty years since leaving the well-reputed institution of my secondary education, this was the only instance of the ‘old school tie’ yielding any use whatsoever, and I did not want to blow it.
I was completely unfamiliar with the Hastings marina. In fact, I struggled to recall ever having been to any marina anywhere, and for that matter didn’t know Hastings very well either. It’s an odd, neglected town at the top of Victoria’s equally neglected bay, Western Port – the sort of place people pull a face when mentioning, and which always seems overcast, even on sunny days. Drab houses, stunted eucalypts and muddy mangroves are its main features, save for the large oil refinery that somehow manages to greet you from whichever direction you approach.
Despite being only a couple of hours from the large city of Melbourne, Western Port was always doomed to play second fiddle to nearby Port Phillip Bay with its sandy beaches, expensive suburbs and closer proximity to the city. Its topography doesn’t help either. Its southern shores boast some up-market seaside villages like Flinders and Merricks, but up here Western Port is shallow, with large gooey-looking stretches of sand and mud exposed at low tide, and the colour of the water is a consistently opaque green.
I loaded up on chips, nuts and other treats, but Alan’s mention of seasickness prompted me to visit the chemist to spend up th
ere as well. Yes, I had suffered motion sickness in the past, but usually in small aircraft and my recent trip to Three Hummock, although a little terrifying, had been nausea-free. Just to be sure, I purchased an assortment of remedies: pharmaceutical, homeopathic and ginger-based, including one the girl behind the counter had no idea about with weeds pictured on the box.
The marina sits a kilometre or two out of Hastings at the end of a long muddy rivulet, which itself leads off a long muddy arm of the least glamorous part of Western Port Bay. I pulled up to an enormous security fence, built to prevent passers-by from making off with the millions of dollars of boats tied up to its moorings.
I locked my old car, wondering what sights I will have seen when I sit in it next, and called up one of the crew to let me past the locked gate. As it clicked shut behind me, I entered the domain of the yachtie.
Alan introduced me to Gerhard, who shook my hand but said little, while Mark, the boat’s owner, greeted me cheerily. He obviously had a much better memory than me, as he recounted with enthusiasm our days together and the teachers we’d had in common. Vague particles of memory crackled feebly inside my brain but little of substance could be recalled.
Sea Snake II was about 20 metres in length and, to one such as myself who knows nothing whatsoever about yachts, looked very impressive indeed. Everything was neat, shiny and completely bewildering: coiled ropes and winches, curious knobs and bolts and other metallic items of mysterious purpose protruded from various parts of the deck secured by enormous brass screws. I remember marvelling at the size of the screwdriver needed to extract them.
My gear, such as it was, was stowed in the cabin, where four tiny banana-shaped beds hugged the contours of the tapering bow. Every inch of space was ingeniously utilised with cupboards inside shelves inside sliding panels, and a gimballed stove which, even here in the harbour, swayed slightly on the rising tide.
I made plain in the friendliest possible way my complete lack of sailing experience and, presumably, ability, just so no one was in any doubt. By the looks of my three fellow crewmembers, though, it didn’t look as if they were going to need any help from anyone. All older than I, Alan by a couple of decades as it turned out, each had the unmistakable signs of men who had spent a considerable period of their lives exposed to the elements, skin polished and with one or two deep creases, like a sand-worn pebble found in a desert riverbed.
We pushed off at exactly 1630 – the high tide mark. A chugging diesel engine marked our progress as we cut through the glassy water of the harbour, then out into the channel and down the northern part of Western Port. I found a place to sit at the stern, largely out of everyone’s way, and the others, for their part, ignored me in return. Alan, at the helm, explained to me the intricacies of harbour navigation and the complicated series of signs and markers one must obey. I was fascinated.
That evening was a superb one, marked by a warm and vivid sunset, and conversation that became easier by the minute. Someone handed me a beer, then some of the chips I had brought, for which everyone was grateful. Then out came the cheese and biscuits and finally some excellent salami carved in satisfying chunks, all washed down with several cleansing ales. ‘Cheers,’ everyone repeated, holding up bottles to salute the gently swelling sea.
I told Alan that I knew little about the laws of sailing, and could never understand how a boat was able to travel into the face of the prevailing wind. My knowledge of flight, I said, was far sounder. ‘But it’s the same!’ he said, lighting up, explaining to me the common principles of partial vacuum, even now taking place above our heads as the newly released mainsail unfurled and the chugging diesel, along with its fumes, was thankfully turned off. The silence, but for the swish of the sea against the hull, was magnificent.
Another beer, and I began to feel like I was born to sail, unable to understand why I hadn’t taken to the joys of the sea before now: good food, excellent company, and the gentle rolling of the boat as it cut its way down the bay towards the open water.
Mark and Gerhard began to open up, too, and I even proffered a couple of jokes, which went down pretty well. As Alan explained, we’d be proceeding on a south-easterly heading through the night, and should make Deal Island by lunchtime tomorrow. Although a novice, I was expected to take my place on the two-man night watches – three hours on, three hours off – to which I expressed enthusiasm. On Deal the caretakers were expecting us with a barbecue on our arrival, and beds in the guesthouse. We’d be free to spend our time as we pleased, two days and three nights exploring both Deal and its neighbour, Erith, before heading back home again. It sounded like the perfect plan.
Gerhard was now at the helm, looking completely at home, glancing alternately at the sail above his head and a bank of cloud on the distant horizon. Mark and Alan busied themselves in preparing the yacht for the night. Half a dozen Sydney to Hobart races between these men, I was told, plus the collective sailing experience of many decades. Alan even ran his own busy sailing school, which I pronounced to join at the first opportunity. If this was to be my introduction to sailing, I could not have chosen three finer fellows.
As the long spring dusk settled in, I sat contentedly at the back of the Sea Snake with another beer in my hand. The water around us was smooth, at times glassy, with a soft, comforting swell that made the yacht seem to glide on air. Looking forward, however, I noticed the water’s appearance change slightly. I turned to Alan. Why, I asked, was that patch a darker, greyer colour? Why did the smooth contours around us here give way to a more messy impression ahead? Looking closer, small patches of white flecked the surface we were heading into. Was it tides? Eddies perhaps? Alan, beer in hand, looked at me silently for a moment, then quietly said, ‘That’s Bass Strait.’
Ten minutes later, I began throwing up, and did not stop for the next twenty-four hours.
Those final ten minutes spent gripping a cold metal rail on the deck of that little boat are etched in my memory like a farewell from the gallows; a calm, literally, before the storm; a window of dignity which was about to close behind me and through which I would not return.
We rounded the southern tip of Phillip Island, and the velvety sound of the water underneath me shifted to a scratchy hiss, then a low, constant rumble. Then the motion started, a dreadful and relentless up and down, up and down. A solid sound, like from a large hammer, began to beat against the hull, sending vibrations through everything and everyone. The pinpricks on the skin came first, then the drying of the mouth and a feeling that something toxic was running through my veins. I was still just at the threshold of nausea.
The grey bank of cloud which Gerhard had observed in the distance was now directly over us, thick and low and menacing. The boat began lurching in entirely new directions: up, down, sideways, and a particularly ghastly crossways motion that felt like I was being hollowed out from the inside.
Hills of grey-green water appeared everywhere and we began crashing into every one of them. The seasickness raced up to me, stopped a little way off, sized me up and then pounced. I was in a sweat now and looked around to the others, who were remarkably unfazed by the sudden change of scenery and even continued sipping beers and eating. In a panic, I tried to count the number of hours that would have to pass before I could be back on dry land.
Then, a strange moment of confidence. Perhaps this was just a passing thing, an adjustment after which all would be well. I inhaled, swallowed hard and, for a wonderful moment, felt better. I turned to say something to Alan as the boat made a sudden, unnatural lurch, and, in a wave of nausea, collapsed to my knees. Grabbing the thin steel cable of the railing, I thrust my head out as best I could and the contents of my stomach erupted with fury over water, hull and deck. ‘Oh dear …’ I heard a voice say somewhere, as I slipped into a green fog of sickness.
Illness has a way of taking on its own sentient form, and for the rest of the trip it was my constant companion. I would talk with it, sleep with it, attempt to reason with it, even lose my temper a
nd, particularly foolishly, try to fight it. I had been told that with seasickness, the initial illness usually passes once the vomiting stops. Not in my case. It got worse. Occasionally, I would open a cautious eye and search for the monster, thinking maybe it had slipped out for a bit, giving me a chance to elude its grip, only to move a single muscle of my body and realise it was simply toying with me, lurking just out of view behind my head, before descending on me with all its force once more.
I threw up everything, and continued throwing up for hour upon hour. The sheer scale of my vomiting made no sense. I could not hold down so much as a single teaspoon of water, yet the effort brought ten times that amount erupting from somewhere within. My stomach was gripped by spasms of iron tendrils, each one lasting for minutes, accompanied by a low howling coming from somewhere inside me, like a wounded animal in a distant forest. The sort of animal, I remember thinking, one should never approach.
Then the hiccups arrived. Wave after wave of unstoppable, shuddering spasms; internal detonations that hammered through my prone body, sometimes in sync with the hammering of the waves against the boat. I tried everything to stop them: holding my breath, not holding my breath, meditation, diaphragm control involving long, slow-breathing techniques that nearly made me suffocate, trying to sip water. I counted them in batches of hundreds, then eventually surrendered, allowing them to run their interminable course.
Darkness descended and the weather turned for the worse. In between bouts of dry-retching, I lay, crumpled, on the deck, hearing snippets of weather-related conversation. ‘Nasty blow this … right on the nose … didn’t think it would come in so fast …’ Initially, the three others made sympathetic noises in my direction, Alan even being kind enough to provide me with my own bucket, which I cradled continually, surrendering it only to be cleaned and returned, a job he also took on like a devoted nurse. But mainly they left me, thankfully, to my own very solitary misery.
The Forgotten Islands Page 10
