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Alone: Sailing the Australian Continent
The trip from Perth to Albany had been a very long and hard one. I had been knocked down as I rounded the coast in route to Albany from Bunbury. During the storm I lost everything on deck, including a new Avon life raft which was quite expensive. During my twenty-five years of sailing, never have I experienced seas quite as ferocious as this. The seas are averaging 45 to 50 feet and seem to be increasing. By the looks of the sky, the storm is far from ending. It's at times like these that you ask yourself, "Why am I here, alone?" Maria Van Dieman and I have been at sea for four years and it looks as though it will take an additional two years to finish this trip. Maria, by the way, is the name of my boat that was built by Sparkman and Stevens. From the way she sails, her Hestia design is one of the best ever created in the

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yachting world. Her 38 foot length and narrow 9'11" beam make her more a racing than cruising type yacht. Even though Maria is narrow, her interior is brilliantly appointed, with no wasted storage space. Her hull is constructed of double planked hewn pine, over spotted gum frames and fastened with bronze staples and epoxy glue. The sturdy construction of the hull gives me the confidence that she can withstand the heartiest of abuse and still be seaworthy in seas this ferocious. Often, the ocean beneath my hull would disappear, then Maria would start the fall downward, before plowing into the cold sea below. When I began this journey sailing around Australia, my intentions were to avoid the southern latitudes at gale season. But as nature would have it, I met a beautiful woman in Perth who greatly altered my planned departure date. So, I had two options. I could wait several months for the weather to change, or set sail and endure the weather ahead. The latter option would put me into Sydney at the beginning of springtime. Of course, I would choose the less intelligent of options. The minute I hoisted Maria's sails, I realized this portion of the trip could be the roughest in my sailing career. The southern Latitudes of Australia are notorious for sudden gales which blow out of the south. These gales are called Souther busters. The storms roar out of the colder latitudes with such tremendous speed and force, that many are caught at sea to fight it out. My trip south and eastward across the bottom of Australia, known as the Great Bight, will take ten days to two weeks. I will be sailing two to three hundred miles offshore for the crossing. The coastline from Albany to Port Lincoln recesses some 350 to 400 miles and looks as though a large animal has taken a bite out of the continent.

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The Gulf of Australia is much like our own Gulf of Mexico in the United States. During the trip across, I fished, read and continued to work on my novel, "Shuttle." Unlike the stormy trip from Perth to Albany, my jaunt across the bight was pleasurable and without danger. I arrived in Port Lincoln fresh and eager to explore one of the oldest cities in Australia. One of the first things I must do while in Port is empty Maria's fresh water tanks. Apparently, I left a fresh water filling port open and as a result the fresh water has become brackish. After a brief study of the local charts, I've decided to sail up to Port Augusta. There, I'll spend an additional three weeks relaxing and recuperating from my last three weeks at sea. Most of my stay in Port Augusta will be used to clean up Maria and ready for the trip to Melbourne. The entire boat needed a touch-up coat of paint; and all of my sailing gear needed cleaning. For an entire week, I just kicked back and relaxed on the boat and ate everything in sight. Although Port Augusta is quite beautiful, there is little else to do but sightseeing. The town itself is quite small and it's hard to find any business open past 7:00 in the evening. Actually, it was a perfect place to do catch up for the next leg of the trip to Melbourne. The last day in Port Augusta came none too soon. Some small towns in south Australia have a way of becoming a bit boring. I said a mental farewell to beautiful Port Augusta and was looking forward to the trip eastward. The last few hundred miles to Melbourne will be a real pleasure in comparison to the past. The distance from Port Augusta to Kangaroo Island and across to Mt. Gambier is approximately

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500 miles. It will take me another four to six days to cover this distance, and an additional 400 miles to Melbourne and Port Phillip bay. The trip from Port Augusta to the western shore of Kangaroo Island was a leisurely sail, but the same wasn't true about the trip from Kangaroo Island to Mt. Gambier. Dead ahead winds made it necessary to tack thirty miles at a time to cover that portion of the trip. The trip from Mt. Gambier to Cape Ottway was easier, because the wind had shifted, allowing me to run off the wind, which was on the edge of a large high pressure area. The high pressure area carried me to the cape. At the same time, another fierce storm was building in the Tasman sea, at the southernmost part of Tasmania. Because the storm was so bad, I decided not to stop for rest. There was still another thirty miles before I would reach the western side of the Cape. I have been at the helm for 46 hours straight and have covered 386 miles. Although I was bone weary, I knew Maria was making great time on her present course, which meant Melbourne was closing by the minute. It wouldn't be long before I could take a needed rest in lovely Melbourne. Sometime shortly after rounding the cape, I fell sound asleep at the helm while Maria sailed on to her destination. Maria plowed through the darkness as I fell in and out of a restless slumber. I awoke when the early morning sun warmed my face; it's now 8:15 and I see the western finger of the Port Phillip Heads. I estimate the distance to Port Phillips Bay to be around fifteen to twenty miles, and at my current speed, arrival will be before noon.

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Many times over the past 18 months, I have been told that the entrance to Port Phillip Bay is dangerous and should be negotiated with extreme care. For the next couple of hours, I'll stow everything that's loose and wandering within the boat. Down below things are strewn from bulkhead to bulkhead. When you're sailing, you hardly have the time to be neat unless the weather is absolutely perfect. I passed perfect weather many months in the past. The most important thing to do aboard ship is to store heavy objects where there is little chance for them to cause damage. In fact, the next hour would prove my opinion correct. I pulled the plank from the dining table seat and stored a heavy steel tool box. I wasn't paying much attention to how much the area was already loaded. More importantly, I overlooked the sea valve beneath the heavy canned goods and the tool chest. Sometime after I stored the tool box, the sea valve was sheared off. The one-inch supply line that once furnished the engine cooling water now lay in the bilge picking up the free flowing water coming from the broken valve. Floating debris in the bilge sporadically blocked the pickup side of the pump. Amazingly, the hearty engine continued to run. The engine must have run in this condition for over an hour, until the water level reached the rim of the engine air intake. When the engine started to spit and sputter, I assumed it was a fuel blockage. Then it dawned on me that Maria was moving through the water very slowly. Considering the amount of sail area that I was carrying and the wind speed, Maria should have been cruising at a good nine knots. It still didn't hit me that there was something

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drastically wrong with the boat. I am so weary from sailing non-stop for the last 46 hours, that my mind is now betraying me. Suddenly, I realized something was drastically wrong when I checked the boat's vertical attitude in the water under full sail. I had to get below immediately to turn on the lights. When I started down the companionway, I could see that the bilge plates were floating. The boat was sinking! How much longer it would stay afloat would be mere conjecture. I knew, at this point, that the boat was still afloat and I must act swiftly. Due to the ocean's temperature, I would need a wet suit. Within a few minutes, I found a waterproof light and pulled my wet suit from my dive bag that was floating within the boat. Back on deck, I stripped down while thinking about the severity of the situation. There was a slight possibility that I might get caught within the ship and be killed in the process. However, this was neither the time nor the place to become a fatalist. The speed of my actions would be the only thing that could save my ass and the boat! I based that logic on the time it must have taken to fill the boat to this level. Another five minutes would be the risk I would take. Hypothermia was a serious concern, so I put on a full wet suit including boots. I then went back into the boat to assess the damage and check the water level that seemed to have leveled off. In a tossing ship full of water, it's difficult to determine the exact level. Again, the floating bilge plates loomed in my vision. This time, the distinct odor of diesel fumes filled the air. When I investigated further, I noticed a diesel fuel slick forming at the rear of Maria. It would be necessary

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to use a mask to cover my eyes to avoid the eye irritation effect of the fuel. The fuel could irritate my eyes enough that it might render my repair efforts useless. Another two minutes passed quickly, while I looked for my mask that I found in the cockpit of the boat. Luckily, it was easy to get to. Again, down below, I moved into the deepest part of the boat, pushing aside the floating debris that would hinder repair. Thank God I had a thorough knowledge of the boat's through hull fittings. Systematically, I would dive and check every fitting in the boat, until I found the problem. In the back of my mind, I suspected the culprit was an engine cooling supply line. Then I remembered putting the tool box on top of the through hull fitting under the galley table. Meanwhile, Maria was trudging closer to the Port Phillip rip tide. Each minute felt as though the danger was growing more imminent. Diving inside a sinking boat is an unsettling experience, to say the least. At this point, many things were going through my mind. Should I consider running Maria onto a mud bank to keep her from sinking further? Running her aground would give me additional time to repair the boat and pump her out. Many things went through my mind in that short time period. The ship's batteries were under water; that meant I had no power to send a distress call. I was, definitely, all alone on this one! On the first dive, I managed to find and remove the compartment's lid and felt around. I felt the tool chest, but something had firmly wedged it into the compartment. When I came up for air, the diesel fumes filled my lungs; so I climbed out the companionway for

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fresh air. Once on deck, I noticed the boat was listing to port, but was sailing fairly well under the circumstances. Quickly, I scouted the waters around Maria looking for boats in the area, should I need to abandon ship. On the second dive, I reached the compartment, then began to remove the canned goods that were wedging the box. Within two dives, I had removed enough cans to free the tool chest. The third dive went quickly, when I dove under and grabbed the handle. Pulling as hard as I could, the box suddenly freed and I pulled it to the surface within Maria. On the next dive, I discovered the source of my plight. The valve had sheered off at the through hull fitting as I had suspected. I felt the ice cold sea rushing in at the broken through hull fitting; next to it, the engine hose floated freely. My next task was to find a tapered plug to fit the hole. Quickly I waded to the galley drawer to find a suitable plug. My hands groped through the icy cold water, hunting for the plug. After a minute or so, the familiar tapered outline filled my hand. As every minute passed, the hull sank deeper into the icy cold waters. Frantically, I fought to keep control of the situation. I quickly returned to the breach in the hull and on the third try, rammed the plug to the hilt. Then, I pounded it solid with a piece of lead from a shot line. Now it was forced tightly into the hole! Anxiously, I reached down to see if I had slowed the flow. Simply put, the plug worked! The plug was keeping out the water. I then set the tool box on top of the plug to hold it in place while I cleared my mind. With the plug firmly in place, I went to the cockpit to assess the ship's predicament. Back on deck, I began to evaluate the information about the dangers of entering the heads

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at the wrong time. But, thank God again, because this time the tide was on the fill and this would help carry me deep into the bay. Even with this help, the current was surging like wild Colorado River rapids. It reminded me of a trip on the Snake River in Kentucky when I was a boy. For about an hour, I fought to get through the heads, then headed straight for the mud banks next to the pier. From the moment I returned to the cockpit, I pumped four to six inches of water from the boat manually. At times like these, you thank the Lord for the trusty cockpit bilge pump, it really comes in handy. Now there was only four feet to go before it would be dry. Yeah! Right! With all the force the sails could muster, I drove Maria deep into the mud bank. Running the boat aground lifted her two feet out of the water. Safe at last? My charts showed the mud bank six feet at low tide. Maria draws six feet six, so the water around me had to be only four feet six deep at present. Lovely! With an anchor out at the stern and one out at the bow, Maria should set nicely while I pumped her dry. Still in my wet suit, I lowered the dinghy along with the anchor. Then I rowed out to set the anchor. When I reached the end of the two hundred foot anchor line, I threw the anchor into the shallow waters. Once set, the anchor would hold Maria fast, which would keep her from sinking. On my way back to the boat, a fishing trawler cruised past, offering help should I need it. "Hell yes!" I replied. The trawler suggested I row ashore where they would loan me a pump.

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Now, I dreaded the thought of cleaning up Maria's interior and removing the fine silt that would be left behind. When I started ashore, the details of the closed pier became evident. The pilings had split from old age and the sediment around it had risen to three feet. The ferries that once tied along side here were probably no longer afloat or had sunk to the ocean's bottom. When I rowed up to the dock, several men approached with the pump at hand. They said there was no hurry to return the pump, but to stop by the Queenscliff pub and have a pint or two on them afterward. I returned to Maria and started the pump. To my amazement, the pump sucked the boat dry in a short thirty-five minutes. Immediately, I pulled the anchor and set a small working sail. In another couple of hours, I would attempt to sail Maria off the bar at high tide. I ended up using a large genoa sail and the main to sail her off. When the hull broke the vacuum of the mud, Maria surged forward in short spurts until she entered the clear water of the channel. Depleted of energy, I dropped the main and headed for the pier at the other end of Queenscliff Harbor. Two men aboard a fishing trawler motioned me to tie up next to their boat. So, from about two hundred feet away I turned and headed straight for the boat. Like many thousands of times in the past, I went forward to release the genoa. It dropped quickly, then I hurried back to the helm. I eased Maria around, while her forward momentum carried us to within five feet of the other vessel. Ten seconds later, Maria and I were safe from harm. I was so exhausted, that I fell deep asleep

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inside the genoa sail which was on the foredeck. It was now 11:45, August 17, 1980, and I was safe and sound asleep at the near end of my journey. Four hours had passed when I was rudely awaken by a freezing winter shower. Still half asleep, I went below to the heart of Maria and crawled into my bunk. I quickly slipped into a deep, comatose-like sleep. The next morning, August 18, 1980, I awoke to the blaring sound of music coming from the trawler along side me. Feeling rested, I went topside where the wind was starting to howl. It was 4:35, pitch dark and the smell of raw sewage filled the air. In the distance, I heard the crews come alive as the storm grew near. Breakfast and diesel engine fumes filled the turbulent morning air. In the distance, people were gathering around the docks. When storms blow out of the south, the fishing crews return to their boats to protect them. The faint sound of voices filled the darkness when the sound of the wind lulled. The voices faded quickly as the wind drowned them out. First on today's agenda, I would pull the old battery and install a new sealed one that was stored in the forward chain locker. It's been a practice of mine while sailing at sea to carry a spare battery and two gallons of electrolyte. Sometimes, it's possible to dump out the contaminated battery and refill it with new electrolyte, giving it a renewed life. However, not this time! I was too tired to hassle with it. After I filled the new casing with the electrolyte, I measured the charge with a hydrometer. Luckily, it was reading hot in the red. With the old battery out and the new one installed, Maria would have the power to roll over the engine. There's one chance in a million that a starter will

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work after being submerged, so I attempted to improve it's chances by flooding it's windings with fresh water. Once the saltwater was removed I could try to restart the diesel. If I could get it started, then I would have a good chance of saving it. Within the hour, I got the power on and rolled the engine over. Now I felt as though I had a chance of saving the engine. Just as I turned on the deck lights, I caught the smell of coffee brewing, a smell that I relate to the sea. I'm sure many other men who sail do also. The smell of coffee mixed with the salty breeze creates quite a unique smell. Nearby, I hear the thump-thump of a diesel engine. Within the last couple of minutes, several other engines have started. This storm must be a bad one to have caused this much concern.

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2
Queenscliff
This area, "Queenscliff," was once a very large fishing village. In it's past, the area had become a very important navigation point on the charts, mostly due to it's close proximity to Melbourne, which lies to the north of here. Queenscliff, in it's heyday, had seen the mightiest ships in Her Majesty's Royal Navy pass through these treacherous waters. Although several hundred years have passed since those days, little else has changed when it comes to the fishermen. Still, like in the times past, the sounds in the village of the fisherman preparing their ships for a long day at sea can be heard in the predawn. First, they thoroughly check all the machinery, then go below and check the communication gear. Either of which could mean life or death should they fail. On my journey around Australia, I discovered the fishermen have a great sense of self-purpose in

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their lives. They are very good at the fishing trade and take exceedingly good care of their machinery. When you board one of their boats, you see the extent to which they go to be safe at sea. It's easy to understand why they work so hard on safety because the seas down south are ominous. No one in their right mind should leave port in these southern latitudes unless everything aboard runs well. In the six years I've been at sea, I've witnessed hundreds of accidents that were attributed to equipment failure. I've grown accustomed to the ocean's awesome power and it's somewhat unforgiving ways. In a true sense, this has made me a real sailor! It's quite interesting how our life's experiences change the way we think. Through my early sailing years, the word sailor meant a person who escaped the confines of his home on the weekends to go sailing or boating on the Ohio River. Which brings up an interesting subject, why do so many of the people in our yacht clubs pass up the opportunity to actually sail the beautiful seas of the world? You see them sail up and down the bay a couple times a year, but rarely do they go much further. People in most yacht clubs are busy trying to impress one another with sea stories that take place not two miles from the club. On rare occasion do these same members sail hard enough to get sea water on their clothes. New members often leave their gear on when they come into the yacht club, so everyone can see that they've been out sailing. My ideas about sailing changed quickly after heading out to sea. When you hit the open seas of the world, you must be ready at the most unlikely

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times for anything that comes your way. As the Coast Guard saying goes, "Semper Paratus!" That's why I am convinced the best sailors in the world are those who fish the Bass Strait. The storms which hit this area blow out of the south and can be on a boat in a matter of minutes, in which case a skipper and his crew have only minutes to prepare for the worst. This is the area where I've honed my best skills at handling rough weather! I've done this by watching the best out at sea making their living and surviving at sea. I owe a lot to the great fisherman in the Bass Strait. All my notions of sailing were soon dispelled when I got the opportunity to fish and sail in the Bass Strait for a few months. In any case, nothing can fully describe the ferocious nature of the oceans south of Australia and north of Tasmania, where the Tasman Sea and Bass Strait converge. This is certainly one of the most dangerous bodies of water in the world. There are many things which could be said about this mysterious part of our world. But one thought dominates over all else. Before my time, men in ships much less sophisticated sailed waters and explored areas of the world which are still considered remote. Many still remain here, many leagues beneath the sea, waiting for future explorers to discover their watery graves. When I think about the great explorers in the past, I begin to realize how important life really can be. The things which mean the most to us are not material, but memories of things which are important to us. In the end, it is only memories that we take with us, not material possessions. That's exactly why I feel it's important to

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experience life at it's fullest. Many people dream of sailing around the world but few ever do. The gale had reached full force and it was barely 5:45 in the morning. The wind's strength, as it is referred to in Australia, is measured in degrees of freshness. Right then it was very fresh, which made this storm a full-fledged gale. This particular gale was clocking winds that were north-northeast at a steady force 6. In any man's language this is considered strong. In fact, if the weather report had been more accurate, many would have ridden the storm out at sea! That's easier than being tied to a dock and being battered by these seas. Looking out the porthole, I noticed that the tide was being pushed out by the incredible winds. Unlike a natural tide flow, the tide was receding rapidly, leaving most of the boats to fend for themselves. Several trawlers that were tied to the pier were being bashed back and forth by the strong winds and tide. The wind had created such a radical tide that it was impossible to make a prediction. It looked as though the low tide would occur in about four hours which would make it early due to the erratic nature of the winds. This means that all boats tied to the docks would have to be moved and retied while the tide made a hasty retreat. Lines that had secured boats together were chafed to the point of separation. Many lines had slipped and were wearing through at the pier. The wind was so strong that it had built huge breakers within the anchorage area. Meanwhile, I switched the main battery supply on, in the event of an emergency. Looking out the porthole, I saw a trawler crashing into a heavily

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constructed concrete pier. The trawler was severely damaged and most probably would be considered a total loss by the insurance company. The foul weather brought out the local fishermen and villagers who were doing their best to reduce damage. Dawn approached with the storm reaching it's full gale intensity, 76 knots. The storm was sparing nothing in it's angry path. The sky was dark because of the water content in the atmosphere. It was so dark, that I would have believed it was still night, had the ship's bell not rung otherwise. The storm was so severe, that it dumped over 4 1/2 inches of rain in two hours. With the wind and rain combined, Maria had become nothing less than a floating bathtub. Water was seeking it's way horizontally through every imaginable crack. Of course, no boat was without it's leaks and Maria was no exception. The time was 6:37 in the morning. The weather bureau had reported another more serious low depression starting to form behind this gale. I felt beads of sweat popping out on my forehead as the announcer described the storm that could be expected in the next twelve hours. I felt my pulse race as the controlled voice on the weather channel described the onslaught of the coming storm. Just as he finished the 6:45 announcement, a large unmanned fishing boat broke it's mooring chain, then drifted with the outgoing tide. The boat was less than 150 feet from Maria. People lined the pier and stared as the marauding ship careened off a helpless fishing boat. Suddenly, screams filled the rain-driven air as the trawler drove itself into another ship. The force of the impact threw the men aboard the anchored

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trawler about like rag dolls. The ship's bow drove itself thirty inches into the other boat's wooden planking. After a few seconds, the current pulled the ship away from the damaged ship as easily as it had been driven into it. The rogue was again on the move. The current was moving at an incredible 12 knots. It began moving the large hulk as easily as one might push a baby carriage downhill. People are quite often astonished when they witness such enormous power. The weather at this time of year in the Bass Strait is notoriously unpredictable. When you approach the local fishermen for weather information, they refer you to someone who has retired from the sea in this area. Most often, it's someone who been in the thick of it many times before. In the village of Queenscliff, there are several notorious men of the sea. Because these men live at the mouth of Port Phillip Bay, they share a great sense of camaraderie and understanding of the seas there. While this menacing storm blows on, people were arriving from all over to lend a hand. Many were seasoned, retired sailors who lived in this village. Many of these men had faced similar battles in the past and were skilled at it. Today would require all the tricks in the book to limit the storm's damage. Vehicles of all types now lined the shoreline; including the local fire department. Many different agencies had assembled on the docks to prepare a strategy for the storm. All the lights at the fish packing plant were turned on, to facilitate rescue operations. The newly arrived rescuers saw just how serious the storm really was. Most had split up into teams to resolve the more serious problems first.

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Most of the boats wouldn't be moved, because the weather was so severe. It would be more dangerous to move the boats than to leave them tied as they were, unless the weather eased a bit. The weather service predicted a let-up in the storm in about 5 1/2 to 6 hours. Now I found myself caught in a full-fledged Bass Strait gale. I didn't find it very pleasant, and Maria didn't like it either. She was taking one hell of a beating! Each moan and groan was beginning to haunt me. The yacht resembles a child in a serious, life threatening circumstance. It's a haunting feeling watching your yacht receive a beating. Every blow it receives you feel, every moan in her hull tears you. The only thing I could do was work hard and try to protect her. It was now 7:40 A.M., and the truck tires that hung on the boat's side were wearing through. The once newly painted Maria was now scarred, with strips of wood showing through her side. A bottle of Port Wine was just thrown from the storage rack adding to the mess already on the deck. Now the combination of oil, wine, and battery acid had created a sloshing mess below. I started cleaning up the mess down below when a very bright light shone through the companionway grating. It appeared to be the light of the local fire department who had been dispatched to help in emergency situations. When I came into port, I forgot to strike the American Ensign in my haste to secure the boat. This alerted fishermen docked around me that I was new to the area and not familiar with the tidal conditions. Boy, were they right! Not only was I not prepared for the storm, but I was supposed to have a date for breakfast. She us an Australian lady who was once a beauty Queen. I could see her car

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parked next to the fire wagon. The temperature had dropped so quickly, that I'd put on a pot of water for coffee. Hot Irish coffee at that. But after a few short minutes, the coffee was thrown from the stove adding to the mess. The coffee would have to wait, another time perhaps? Visually the hot gasses and rain were combining to form a London fog effect on the docks surrounding the harbor. Suddenly, the sounds of footsteps radiated from Maria's bow. What a hell of a time to receive guests! I removed the first plank in the companionway, finding Ian retying a chaffed stern line. With so much noise in the area, I decided to wait before trying to communicate with him. This gave me time to don my foul-weather gear. While on the subject of dressing, living on a yacht in the winter time makes you a little more conservative. Jeans, sweaters and long underwear become the appropriate dress for the winter months. But an even more serious problem is keeping those things dry and warm. While I sat down to pull on my deck boots, the fisherman on the back deck found the companionway entrance and proceeded to enter. Earlier on, I had lit the kerosene lantern in the galley. The soft orange glow coming from the lamp bathed the boat's wooden interior and warmed the cold air within Maria. The glow accented a man's profile as he made his way down below. What a hell of a way to meet someone. Then, on the other hand, he was coming aboard to make sure everything was alright. "G'day mate, I am Lindsey Fain III, an American sailing around Australia single-handed!" He retorted with, "Ian Aldridge mate; noted explorer, castigator of wild beasts, savior of repressed peoples, extraordinary lover,

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distinguished Australian historian, orator of historical world events, and last, but certainly not least, breeder of exotic animals of the world!" I stood startled in utter disbelief, what a humorous introduction at a time like this. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or run straight for the liquor locker. On the last step, Ian expounded, "Eh, Mate, bit of a blow eh? Would you like a beer?" With one quick motion he handed me a beer. "Why the hell not?" I replied. I have to give the Aussies a lot of well deserved credit; they have a sense of humor in the most unlikely of circumstances. After his brief soliloquy, the conversation shifted back to more serious things. He mentioned my very attractive date who was in the scallop shed with his brother drinking coffee. Any time there is trouble in the village, people assemble in the scallop shed. As I turned to adjust the radio volume, Ian grabbed another dockline, then headed on deck where several men were gesturing towards the bow. One of the men saw a line that was nearly eaten through. Slowly, they worked their way forward to the frayed line. When I came on deck to join them, I noticed a spare gas bottle had worked it's way loose and had nearly rubbed through a line which ran to my lobster trap. The trap was so thrashed it was beyond repair. So, I cut it free, and into the water's swirling murky darkness it fell. The lines on the deck now resembled pasta noodles going in all directions. Many tangled lines and knots with no apparent ends. Ian resecured the bow with another 3/4 nylon woven line, making sure the line went out over the bow rollers. The men

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on deck were positioning additional tires along Maria's side. Meanwhile, the boat was heaving and tugging on the bow, stern, and spring lines. Maria resembled a baby colt being broken, pulling and tugging in an uncoordinated effort. In just a short while, the tires had rubbed 3/4 of an inch into the hull. All of this had occurred in less than six hours. Imagine what could have happened if I had gone ashore for a day or so. Many men have had the misfortune of finding out, as the pictures in the local nautical museum showed. I can just see it now, a picture of Maria washed ashore with the caption, "American's yacht grounded after being left unattended!" No way! Struggling to get out the companionway, I got my foul weather jacket caught on the hatch slide. At the same time, a gust of wind knocked me across the cockpit, into a stack of paint cans. When I put my hand down I realized I was laying in paint. I had both tan and varnish paint across my entire back. The aroma of paint engulfed me as I stood. I had literally been laying in paint, my whole right side was a vanilla varnish swirl. What an absolute pain in the ass. The wind was so strong that there was paint blowing all over the cockpit. The effects of the storm had made me tired and hungry, so I thought it was time to leave the boat and meet my date for breakfast. But first I had to get off the boat, which was being pulled away from the pier. The tide was creating quite a problem in that department. But, there really is no way to control the tide, so patience was today's virtue. I would wait until the time was right. The wind and the ice cold rain were blowing into my clothes and my wool turtle neck sweater smelled like a painted sheep. Suddenly, the boat swung close to the dock

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and I jumped for the shore. What do you know, I made it! The first good luck of the day. When I landed ashore, I was met by a very curious assortment of people: Melbourne News, a radio station, fishermen, and Shirley (my breakfast date)! The news people were gathering around, shooting questions to me about the trip. It struck me as totally ridiculous that we were standing in the driving rains talking about my trip. I thought it only reasonable that we seek shelter out of the rain, so I suggested we take up the interview in the scallop shed. So the entire group made a mad dash for the shed, along with my new friend, Ian Aldridge. Just as we entered the building, someone reached out to remove my foul weather jacket. The jacket was ruined by the paint so I decided to throw it into a trash bin. When I threw the jacket into the trash, a lady handed me a warm towel to dry with. The interview began as teams of people split up to check on the boats. Inside the scallop shed, workers on the first shift were busy culling scallops as if the storm outside didn't exist. It was obvious that these people have been through many storm drills before. They continued as though no storm existed at all. My date watch indicated that it was Saturday, and many people were off work. That accounts for the large number of people there to help. Every now and then, women scallopers look up and give me a reassuring smile that things are under control. As hard as it may seem to believe, only a few people in this town have actually met an American in person. The look on their faces seemed to be saying,

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"Why would anyone in their right mind be sailing these waters at this time of the year?" Very good question! I felt curiosity building in the air, and I suspected at any moment someone would break the ice and start the questions. Shirley, Ian, and I stood next to an oil furnace trying to absorb some heat. The smell of scallops soaking in vinegar filled the shed and caused my taste buds to water. No sooner had the idea occurred to me when Ian grabbed a liter of vinegary scallops from the cutting board. The scallops were superb, prepared in a vinegar marinade. After a brief interview by the news, I decided it was high time to devote a little attention to my date, who was patiently standing by. Ian assured me that the boat was being watched, should I need some time with Shirley. I expressed my thanks to Ian for making the offer. Then I explained to him that I would be returning in the morning after a good night's rest and some good food. My new found friend would spend the night aboard Maria to make sure the boat was safe. I mentioned to Ian that the engine had gone under water and needed to be flushed. Ian suggested a friend of his who was the best diesel mechanic in Queenscliff. He said that he would collect his friend, come back to the boat and get it started. I said, "If you can get it started I'll take you to dinner and pay the both of you for what it's worth." He said, "Mate you've got a deal," then shook my hand to confirm the agreement. In somewhat of a relief, I bid adieu to my new found liberator. Then Shirley and I made our way to her little Mercedes. In a previous meeting in Sydney, Shirley had

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told me stories of a fantastic Victorian hotel in Melbourne. It was the Queenscliff Hotel that she referred to, and we'd be there in less than three minutes. She mentioned the marvelous breakfast and brunch that was served at the hotel. As hungry and depleted as I felt now, all I could think of was a tall snifter of warm V.V.S.O.P brandy. It turned out that the champagne came first, then the cognac. Then came the chocolates and capuccino coffee. The Queenscliff Hotel was itself a picture postcard of the past. The building had been built in 1789 for the wife of an ex-prime minister of Australia. She raised her entire family in this majestic old mansion, until her husband was found dead of an apparent heart attack in the wine cellar. After his death, she moved her family to the country, on the eastern shore of Port Phillip Bay, an area called Mt. Elisa. Consequently, the mansion sat vacant for years, with all it's furnishings untouched as they were at the time of his death. The place was vacant until a friend of the family suggested the house be reopened as a hotel and tea room. Mrs. Rand finally agreed, and the two set out to build one of the most beautiful hotels of the time. When you approach the building on it's manicured six acres, the first thing that lures your sight is the intricate lathe and facade trimming on every part. The front of the building has a drive under porch, from which a lane lined with eucalyptus connects the hotel to the rest of the town. Tall marble Columns span the front of the building, it resembles a colonial mansion of America's deep south. In front of the Hotel, there is a maze which sur-

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rounds a sundial of renowned accuracy. Unfortunately, because of the bad weather we had little time to stand outside and appreciate the nostalgic past. While the rain continued to pour, we entered the huge oaken doors of the hotel's front. The heavy oaken doors are magnificently carved with intricate detail that depicts the whaling heritage of the community. The doors are said to be several hundred years old and the ornate leaded glass in them supports the claim. The leaded glass scene in the door characterizes the community of Queenscliff as it looked under construction in the years 1787 through 1789. Once through the front doors, people enter an ante room where wet clothing can be deposited; then they walk down a hall to the hotel's interior. What grand elegance! When a person opens the second set of doors, he is engulfed with the smells coming from the bistro within. The smells are that of burning oak in the fireplace, cappucino coffee being brewed, and the strong smell of heavy lager beer on tap. To top all of that, there is the smell of sweet bread being baked in the kitchen. The hotel's first floor is arranged into many adjoining sitting rooms; designed mostly for couples who were in the courting stage of their relationship. Each of the nine rooms measures 20'x 20' and has an ample fireplace. Firewood is stacked to each of the room's 10 foot ceilings. Each room is furnished with a very suitably stuffed nine foot sofa. When you sit on the couches, they take their merry time to settle, since down is used for the stuffing in all the furnishings within the hotel. Approaching the second floor, I got caught up in the charm and elegance of this elegant building

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and it's nostalgic past. Storm or not, Shirley and I would be spending the entire day here and possibly the night. After looking around the hotel for a few minutes, I found an unoccupied parlor that had a warm fire burning. Now I had a place to retreat with Shirley. Shirley was familiar with the place, so she went to the bar to get warm drinks. The fireplace within the room was sending out a warming radiance. The warmth was relaxing my entire body. Shirley came back with warm cognac, then we relaxed even further. She proposed a toast to my continued safe voyage, then slipped her arm around my waist and kissed me. At that point, I felt she was genuinely concerned for my safety and well being. I knew the voyage ahead of me would be difficult and I greatly appreciated her support. The time we spent together relaxing was special to me. Besides this place looked like a lot of fun! Our arrival at the hotel drew a lot of attention. I was wearing a wet cream-colored turtleneck sweater with white oil skin pants and yellow French rubber boots. Still clad in foul weather gear, we sat in the parlor. There, I regained some strength from the morning's strenuous activities. After a few minutes of relaxation, the sounds of people running through the hotel filled the room. Seconds later, a man in foul-weather gear hurried out the front door, following his son. Apparently their power boat was listing more than usual. It turned out that the automatic bilge pump on their boat had stopped working. The storm had pulled the wiring loose from the automatic bilge pump and allowed the boat to fill with water. When the boat filled up, the battery went under, and killed the power to the pump.

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Within the hour, Barton and his son had fixed the problem, then returned to the hotel to prepare lunch. Sufficient time had passed for the storm to have eased off. This allowed me enough time to check on Maria. When I went to Maria, I found her safe, but battered. In the short time I went to check on the boat, Shirley had managed to check us into the hotel and had ordered several different hors d'oeuvres. News of the next front that was coming through just came over the radio predicting the most serious part of the weather to arrive in about 3 1/2 hours. I was faced with a concerning choice; moving the boat to safer water at the back of the harbor, or leaving her here and running the chance of the boat being bashed to bits. After consulting Ian, he agreed that moving the boat would be much safer. So I bid Shirley adieu and headed to Maria with Ian. Now came the task of untying all the docking lines and getting anchorage lines ready. One of the fishermen tied next to us announced over his loud speaker that there was a mooring for a 65 footer down the bay and I could use it. A mooring of that size would assure Maria a safe and secure anchorage. The winds have slowed to 25 knots. If it dropped a little further, we could start the engine and motor to the mooring. The skies had cleared momentarily, but the rain continued with the wind swinging to a N-NE direction, which meant there was foul weather behind it. We began to drift with the outgoing tide, while easing off the dock into the channel. We were, at least, heading downwind. I gave the engine all she had, then slowly, very slowly, we reached a 1/2 knot of speed. Nonetheless, we were progressing! Our

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idea to move must have made good sense, because other boats were preparing to move. The mooring was exactly as the fishermen said, 50 yards to port off the channel in 20 feet of water. What a reassuring a sight this was! Safety at last! Passing through the other anchored boats, we saw the extensive damage caused by the gale. Boats ranging from 14 to 65 feet were strewn along the shoreline like toys in a sand box. I'd been very lucky while sailing around Australia with all things considered. Not once had I been injured or hurt in any way. Perhaps a little exhaustion, but that was about it. Every time I look at this type of destruction, I thank God that it missed me again. I can only hope that my good luck and fortune will continue. The next time might catch me if I make the wrong decision. The current and wind was so erratic that we ran over the mooring buoy several times. Finally, I got Maria's nose windward then Ian grabbed the mooring flag. The nice thing about mooring anchorage is that only one line is necessary to make it fast at the bow. Just as I shut down the engine, it occurred to me that I was taking someone else's word about this mooring's safety. Would this mooring be adequate for Maria? I'd assumed the best, because I wanted to believe the best. For maximum insurance, I called channel 13, the harbor master's office. When I called the harbor master, he referred me to the harbor pilot's office. Their duty is to guide ships through the channel. The pilot masters office informed me that mooring 37 was adequate for a ship weighing 70 tons. Now that the boat was secure, I could return to the hotel with the confidence that Maria would be

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safe from almost any storm. Unless another mooring broke, allowing a ship to wander free through the anchorage. But, if I worried about things like that, I'd never go ashore in the first place. On the way back to the hotel, I kept thinking about Shirley and the relaxing times ahead. Making love in a feather bed with a beautiful woman has a way of straightening out the problems of the day. I was excited just thinking about it! I just hoped and prayed that this mooring would be open for a few days. If it was, I would spend a few days relaxing in the hotel with Shirley. What a welcome rest that would be. The damndest thing about yachting is that no matter where you go; you always meet new friends. When making a new port, you meet people who are like characters from a Humphrey Bogart movie. They seem to come out of the cracks in the pier when you pull the boat up. Many times they are as curious of you as are you of them. It's easy to write about these characters, and someday I plan to write an entire book about the people I've met while at sea. Ian Aldridge would definitely qualify as one of the characters in the book. Ian made us fast to the mooring and now seemed anxious to get ashore. My instincts told me that Ian had something in mind. I have suggested to this character that I intend to buy a shout or two in the local pub, then we'll have tea around 7:30. The local pub is called the "Fallen Oak" and the locals say it has the best taka in town. The word "taka" in Aussie means food. It derives from an Aboriginal word. And by the way, you ain't heard nothin' yet! Now that the boat was relatively secure, I could pack and run ashore. In two minutes, I'd

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packed four days of jeans, underwear, sweaters, and sneakers. Now that's what I call living. The real saga began when Ian and I tried to get shore in the dinghy. The wind had created a short chop that's not good for dingying. With persistence, we managed to splash ourselves ashore and were soaked from head to foot. The mere fact that we made it at all, was in itself, a feat of daring and do. Trying to understand Aussie humor is like reading backwards and upside down, somehow you understand; but you really don't know why. That's what the run to shore reminded me of. It was very refreshing, anyway! Ian's brother, Neville, met us at the pier with more cold beer. The beer common to South Australia is Victoria Bitters, which comes in a green can. From the first day arriving in Australia, I had the distinct idea that Aussies really love beer and have made drinking it their passion. They are a great bunch of partying people and they love living to the fullest. We were out of the rain now and Maria was safe from harm. Already, I felt my energy level returning and I felt somewhat renewed. When I went to check on Maria, I felt certain Shirley would have been bored sitting alone at the hotel. Nothing could have been further from the truth. When I got back, I found Shirley locked in avid conversation with several people in front of the fireplace. When I entered the room, people just stared at me. Shirley must have been talking about my sailing adventures. I decided it prudent to ignore the stares and warm my feet in front of the fireplace. Apparently my approach worked; I'd been

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relaxing for ten minutes and now everyone had their feet in front of the fireplace. Damn, somebody had bad foot odor! I invited Ian to join us and have a shout or two of beer so we could figure out the evening ahead. While we moored Maria, Shirley was busy telling everyone at the hotel about my trip sailing around Australia single-handed. A beautiful woman to my right asked me to tell her the story about sailing out of San Diego Bay on my ketch, Seawaif. Seawaif was a beautiful ketch built by Hugh Angleman in 1929. Dennis Conner, and Terrible Ted, were out dueling in their 12's when we were all caught in 40 mile an hour winds that had gusts that topped 50. I told the story about sailing back in the bay aboard Seawaif and getting knocked down several times as Dennis and Ted stayed out at sea until the wind died a bit. Seawaif was such a heavy boat that it took heavy winds to get her going. So the day's conditions were perfect for her, while dangerous for the lighter 12 meter boats. That afternoon all of us ended up at the favorite watering hole, The Chart House. The whole conversation focused on the bad conditions and the amount of times everyone got their spreaders in the water. Australians love to hear stories about severe gale force winds and what it took to keep from dismasting. Now that the day was improving, I could push some of the earlier troubles of the day into the past. I was actually enjoying myself and Shirley's company. In front of the fire, I spread my various articles of clothing which were drying quite rapidly. The hotel was filling with the weekend guests and the curious tourists who'd come to capture the beauty

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of the hotel and it's nostalgic past. Not enough could be said about the hotel's new owners and their efforts to restore this beautiful meeting place. Not a single detail of the hotel was overlooked when it was remodeled. The building's interior and exterior are a combination of wood, stone lathe and plaster; materials that were common during that construction era. The wood used in it's construction are cowery, huen pine, spotted gum, litany, mahogany, and teak. The predominant wood is oak, which was a very expensive import from the United States and Europe. Thank God for senses of smell, touch and certainly sight. In this museum of fine woods, a collage of smells seem to trigger thoughts about the past that are locked within the structure. Just as I began to sit down, another guest introduced me to the present owner. Coincidentally, he was the man who had run from the building earlier. Just as I began to introduce myself to him, he abruptly cut me off. He announced to the people present that he was honored to have Lindsey Fain as a guest at the hotel. He then explained that I was circumnavigating Australia and would continue around the world. "Ladies and gentleman, may I introduce Lindsey Fain, the III." With that introduction, Shirley came to her feet and a round of applause followed. I flushed while trying not to be embarrassed by this warm reception. Barton, the owner, asked if anyone would like a drink from the bar. Everyone in the room, with the exception of a girl who was asleep, ordered one. Barton acknowledged that the drinks were on the

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house. Then he said he would tell us some stories about the hotel's past. My curiosity was getting to the best of me. How did the owner know me? Later, Barton admitted that he had seen the article about me sailing around the world in the Melbourne morning newspaper. With that knowledge, my curiosity about the article had peaked. So I went to the front desk and purchased the paper, then opened it to find a half page article written about me sailing around the world. It had a full picture included in the article that showed me on the fore deck of Maria at Manly Beach in Sydney. The paper got passed around several times. I noticed each woman in the crowd took time to read the article but the men did their best to ignore it. When Barton returned with the drinks, he started telling stories about the hotel's past. He began by telling us about the dates of the hotel's construction and where the materials came from. With his explanation of the hotel and it's past, I asked if the hotel had been made famous in any way. At first he hesitated, then he started telling us about the hotel's mysterious past. Laughingly, he broke into a story which I'm sure he had told many times before. "Many of the hotel's employees have recounted mysterious and unexplainable experiences while working at the hotel. Some say the hauntings are caused by the discarnate spirits of those who have died in the nearby waters. Whether or not these stories are believable are another matter, but the people who've been involved swear to their accounts." "And because I own the hotel, I've taken it upon myself to dig into the hotels mysterious past, and besides, these stories fascinate me. Now I'll

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recount one such story, which at best is without explanation." "In 1963, one of the maids had a horrifying experience on the second floor, and to the day she died, she swore that her account was true and accurate." She had been asked to come to work early because of the bad rain and weather conditions. The roof was old and leaked miserably at different locations throughout the hotel." "The story goes that the nephew of the great explorer, Van Diemen, who discovered Tasmania; had spent his summers here as a child sailing back and forth to Tasmania. The experienced young lad had set several speed records for his fast crossings to Tasmania." "He was fast establishing himself as a competent explorer just like his Uncle Van Dieman." Barton seemed to relish telling the story as more people poured into the room and found a seat. With this basic story in mind he went on, "I will recount this story as it was told to me." Everyone in the gathering, including me, was fixed on Barton as he continued with the story. He went on, "The word Poltergeist is a German word that means noisy spirits. These are the spirits which account for many manifestations that are considered paranormal. These activities include; the unexplained movement of objects and more often the breakage of objects. This particular case takes a twist that makes it the more unusual of the poltergeist phenomena." "Phenomena associated with poltergeist's activity is usually influenced by the presence of an adolescent. Generally termed recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis. The twist in this story is the ghost, in it's apparitional state, was thought to be that of Van Diemen's nephew in his youth."

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"The whole story is thus recounted. On the morning of June 17, 1963, a maid by the name of Erma Folsen reported to work in her typical fashion. Her husband delivered her to the front of the hotel under the green and gold striped canopy as he had done many hundreds of times in the past. The passenger door of the old model Holden swung shut as the automobile passed the hitching post at the end of the drive to re-enter the morning work traffic." "Just as Mrs. Folsen entered the front door, she was met by the evening to morning staff who were anxious to get home as many are after a long day's work. The standard casual pleasantries were exchanged, good morning, how are you, goodbye, hope you have a nice day." "Mrs. Folsen made straight for the kitchen for her first cup of coffee. She explained to the chef that she had experienced an unusual stench in the hallway! Her exact words were, `the smell of dirt and wet dog hair.' The owner of the hotel had a dog and he was blamed for the foul smell in the building. The exact time was 7:40 in the morning." "With the infusion of coffee, the maid began her normal workday. The coffee had given her the early morning boost she needed." "Her duties for that day were to clean and make up seventeen rooms which had been occupied the prior night. With coffee in hand, she headed for the second floor, where the rooms were located. When she approached the second floor, indigestion slowed her approach. Perhaps the coffee wasn't agreeing with her as it would normally. The last twelve steps had become very familiar over the years because she had greatly added wear to them. The wear became more noticeable as she neared the landing and the last, most worn step."

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"Over the weekend, the balcony had been filled with beautiful flower arrangements. It was also her duty to dispose of the wilted flowers. But for some odd reason, the flowers reminded her of her mother's death." "When she stepped onto the landing, she turned and headed straight to the janitor's closet, where all the cleaning tools were stored. When she opened the door, a foul stench engulfed her body. The smell was like that of wet dog hair and mud. While this was happening, the owner's daughter walked up behind her and asked her a question. Now the maid and the daughter were experiencing the same horrific odor. Both were held in a catatonic state as the stench rose then dissipated down the long hallway." "The whole thing would have most likely been dismissed as a prank or hoax if the daughter hadn't been there to experience the event. Most logically, the stench would have been accounted for as some kind of wet clothing or dead animal in the closet. In horror, they both ran for the service elevator, seeking safety." "Out of breath and fearful, they made for the kitchen where there were other hotel employees. In a single breath, both the maid and little girl explained their horrible experience in the closet to the bewildered employees." "In the company of a knife wielding chef and a porter, the two ladies returned to the closet and found nothing more than a empty mop pail and other cleaning supplies. Whatever the case, both had definitely experienced something horrible in the closet." "At this point, everyone had their early morning heart starter and there was much work ahead for the day."

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"After a short break to steady her nerves, the maid returned to her duties of cleaning trash from the rooms. Next, she would remove the linens." "She clearly remembered Room 22 was first on her list of rooms for cleaning. Upon entering the room, she found the mattress on the floor with mud and sea water on it. Was she now the target of some cruel hoax, or was some child playing a prank? Either way, she certainly didn't think it was funny." "When the woman turned to enter the bathroom, mud and water appeared on her upper torso; then her feet and legs. Now she was in a completely helpless state, paralyzed by fear. Her mind could no longer focus, because of shock." "Still immobilized, the door slammed behind her as objects were catapulted throughout the room and broken." "In one short day, Mrs. Folsen was driven to the point of insanity." "Not able to handle the emotional stress of the event, she was hospitalized in 1963 and remained there until her death in 1976." "However, many more strange things were to happen at the Queenscliff Hotel in the months to follow." "After the maid went into hospital, Vladamir's daughter started to complain about headaches and dizziness. She was also sent to hospital where they performed many tests and complex examinations." "The end result was that she was diagnosed as having a rare form of epilepsy. Then for several months, her problem went almost unnoticed; she acted as any normal 14-year old might. Then from out of nowhere, she started having seizures, mild at first, then leading up to violent episodic attacks where her eyes would roll back. She would hallucinate while in a semi-trance and speak in the

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voice of another person she said was within her." "The young girl would tell ghoulish stories about dogs that ran wild and gave off an evil stench. The same smell she experienced in the hotel with the maid." "Was there a connection between the ordeal of the maid and the hotel owner's daughter? Could Mrs. Folsen's horrors be connected to this little girl in any way? And why would the smell of wet dogs fit into the case?" "News of the events at the Queenscliff Hotel quickly traveled to Europe, where a paranormal researcher, Dr. Albert Owen, got wind of the story." "Dr. Owen was in Europe, studying the paranormal at a symposium, when he got the news about the little girl in Australia and her bizarre experiences." "Dr. Owen was an American who had been studying paranormal activities over the past ten years." "The doctor was renown for a paranormal studies laboratory at Duke University where he studied the relationship of ESP and PK. Dr. Owen recently returned from Scotland, where he was studying a case similar to that of the Queenscliff girl." "The Scotland case involved an eleven year old girl who could levitate her classmates while still in their school desks. She was found to possess many other talents which were hard to explain. Dr. Owen had become keenly interested in the study of poltergeists while on his European tour and decided to devote time to investigate the phenomenon. Therefore, the Australian incident would make great study. Hearing the story in Europe whetted his appetite to interview the girl in Australia, so off he went to investigate the story."

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"Upon Owen's arrival, he began inquiring into the history of the Queenscliff Hotel and began interviewing the older locals who had grown with the community." "For his particular reasons, he was keen to interview only professionals, doctors first, then clergy." "The first weeks of study in Queenscliff were concentrated on interviewing the local law enforcement. In his case study, he dismissed many locals who told the story about the hotel, then mentioned other experiences such as U.F.O. sightings. In his overall study, he determined the neighborhood of Queenscliff was much like any other community of it's size. Nothing about Queenscliff was significantly more different than any other neighborhood of it's size and population! However, many of the people he spoke to did refer to the Queenscliff Hotel. Or, they knew someone who had heard about the unusual activities in the hotel." "In the early years of the hotel, many writers, aristocrats, and society people frequented the hotel, using it as their watering hole. They were a class of people who were adventurers and world travelers and had the funds to afford being there." "In the United States, it was the Explorers Club or the National Geographic society." "Dr. Owen, tired and drained from the intense nature of his research work, decided to take a break from his studies. After all, Australia was a new country to explore and there was much there which intrigued him. Ayers rock was of great interest to him, because his earlier medical studies included the history of the Aborigines and their evolution." "His wife, Helen, requested he visit the opal fields of lightning ridge in mid Australia, to pick up

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some stones." "During the three weeks he spent out in the plains, he visited Alice Springs, a noted stop off point for any decent adventurer." "His sojourn was vitalizing, but his studies pressed him to return. He wrestled with the problems of the little girl in Melbourne and what it would take to resolve the horrible plight she was experiencing." "During Dr. Owen's sabbatical into the outback, the hotel owner moved his daughter into their bedroom." "Logically, his wife could have direct supervision of their daughter should anything unusual arise in their bedroom." "Meanwhile, the father preferred sleeping downstairs on a cot in the Registration Office. From there, he could attend to the inquiring guests and their needs." "It was wintertime, with gale force winds blowing. The rain and hail was beating against the hotel with all it's might. The weather was typical of the August gales." "A sudden news bulletin came over the radio." "Port Phillip Bay and San Remo were reporting an accident with two fishing boats to the southwest. Both boats were loaded to the hilt with scallops when the accident occurred. Now the channel was blocked and four men were missing and presumed drowned. Three bodies had already been recovered. Two men had escaped totally unharmed by the collision. They were being treated for exposure in hospital and would be sent home soon. But more than likely they would join other fisherman at the local pub to await any news." "The little girl's mother was listening to the emergency radio announcement as the tragic news

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came over the air. Their daughter was preparing for bed and reading for her school studies the next day." "Vladamir was busy changing beer barrels in the cellar and breaking in a new employee on the proper way to tap a new keg of beer." "The time was now 8:45 in the evening. Seven new guests had registered into the hotel; two couples and three singles." "Two of the singles were in the bar having a few more middies of new beer. By the looks of it, they intended to stay a while longer." "Their drinking continued as Vladamir went about his evening cleaning chores. The sound of the maid vacuuming alarmed Vladamir, he had just vacuumed two hours earlier. The sound coming from the maid's vacuum was so loud, that it masked the sound of the men talking and the music playing on the tape deck in the pub. Now he was curious; why would the maid be resuming the task?" "Entering the hall, Vladamir saw the maid vacuuming the footsteps of a man with his dog. Both had muddy feet; and to make things worse, the tracks were soaking wet. Vladamir followed the trail to the second floor where it led to Room 22. Walking into the room, he turned on the lights and found mud and seaweed strewn on the floor and walls. The bed in the room appeared to be made, but had foot prints all over it. The foot prints were those of a dog!" "Confused, he went downstairs and asked the maid what the hell was going on? `Who left this mess behind?' She shrugged her shoulders in uncertainty. Perhaps one of the guests tried to sneak a dog into the hotel. Whatever the reason, Room 22 was a mess and needed to be cleaned." "Vladamir went to the bar and inquired of the

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two guests; by chance, did either or both try to sneak a dog into the hotel? In apparent humorous disbelief, both men merely laughed at the notion! That reassured Vladamir that if such a thing had occurred, neither of them were the culprits." "Vladamir asked the maid a second time about the room, but the maid just kept saying,`lousy dingo!' The guest in the pub had barely moved a muscle during that time. Totally disinterested in the owner's plight, the two guests demanded two more large schooners of new beer. It was 10:30 and nearly closing time for the bar." "Coincidentally, Dr. Owen just returned from his trip and was in route from the airport to the hotel. He pulled the rental car under the covered drive and unloaded his bags and gifts from the trip. If his timing would have been off five minutes, he would have missed an important link in the events at the hotel." "It was raining and hailing all day and continued into the night. The hail stones were so large, that one had broken a window in the attic. Vladamir went into the attic and taped a temporary piece of plastic over the damaged window. The pane which was broken would require a professional glazier to repair it properly because it was leaded glass." "When he returned downstairs from the repair, Vladamir met Dr. Owen who was pushing in his luggage on a dolly. When they passed the dirty area where the maid was cleaning, Dr. Owen inquired what had made such a mess. With a lighthearted explanation, Vladamir tried to dismiss the mess as the responsibility of a foolish hotel guest in love with his or her dog. Then added that they should have cleaned up after the dog. The two men headed for the service elevator still in rapt

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conversation about the Doctor's trip into the interior of the country. Reaching the second floor, they walked past room 22; then Vladamir went into avid detail about his experience within the room. Simultaneously, both men understood clearly that the foot prints downstairs were connected in some way to Room 22. With little difficulty, they followed the foot steps back downstairs to the place where the maid had been cleaning. It appeared that the wet steps started within the room and led downstairs. How could someone have been wet before leaving the hotel? Dr. Owen decided a better look at room 22 was necessary to determine what had actually happened. The door swung open, exposing the mud and water that was all over the interior of the room. The smell of wet dog hair was very strong. The Doctor pushed further into the room, then walked into the bathroom. Looking into a mirror over the sink, the Doctor caught a glimpse of an image that appeared to be a young boy; then it suddenly disappeared!" "Dr. Owen, with the discovery in mind, ran back to his room for equipment to record the event. He would use a tape recorder, cameras, and a very accurate magnetometer to measure any flux in the areas magnetic field." "In route back to the room, he ran into the maid who had been vacuuming. With a somewhat emotionless expression on her face she motioned for the Doctor to follow her in a hurry. Meanwhile the storm outside seemed to be shaking the entire hotel at it's foundation. The intensity worsened as they continued down the steps." "On the last landing, the maid and Owen recounted seeing Vladamir frozen in the middle of the hallway covered with mud and water." "His eyes were fixed on the hotel's front entry

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doors." "The double set of doors were wide open with the wind and rain driving directly into the hotel. In the middle of the entry doors stood the image of a young boy dressed in foul weather gear with his dog. Both were soaked to the bone and covered from head to foot with mud." "Shivering from the cold rain that was hitting him, the boy appeared to be crying and at the same time was trying to say something. Owen, the maid, and Vladamir stood speechlessly looking at the apparition as the event consumed a tedious 34 seconds. Owen regained his composure and started towards Vladamir when a tremendous gust of wind filled the entire hotel. At this point, the lights grew dim and began to flicker. Owen walked closer to Vladamir, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on the image." "Suddenly another gust of wind swept through the hotel; this time stronger. The wind swept through the hotel's interior, then exited with the apparition of the boy and his dog." "In astonishment, Dr. Owen stood motionless while looking at the image floating out through the front doors. The doors slammed shut as the images withdrew into the dark stormy evening. Within ten seconds of the images leaving, the storm that was once raging no longer existed. The air was so still, Owen recounts, that you could literally hear a pin drop. Dr. Owen ran out the doors in hasty pursuit of the boy and his dog. He was certain to run over the boy and his dog at the speed he was running. The boy and his trusty dog had vanished into mid air, with not a trace of either." "Dr. Owen counted eleven seconds from the time the doors closed to the time he began the pursuit. Even more amazing was the front lawn of

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the hotel, it was over six acres of manicured grass; with not a single place to hide." "In a word, they had VANISHED!" "Dr. Owen stayed in Australia two weeks longer to conclude his research studies on the Queenscliff phenomenon and came to an interesting conclusion." "The nephew of the great explorer, Van Diemen, who had discovered Tasmania, had spent his summers here. Young lad as he was, he loved to sail, especially with his uncle who was renown world over as the Columbus of the southern latitudes." "In 1869, they checked into the Queenscliff Hotel which was six blocks from the Queenscliff Sailing Academy." "There, Uncle Van Diemen tutored his nephew on the skills of navigating in these waters." "Apparently on June 17, 1869, Van Diemen took his nephew out sailing. When they returned, the young nephew pleaded to continue sailing until tea. Eager to gain his uncle's praise, young Van Diemen sailed off without a second glance to shore." "Around 4:20, the sky suddenly became dark. A storm was hastily building in the south, commonly known as a `Souther Buster'. Van Diemen's nephew would have to think fast or he would be caught in it's ravages. His trusty dog patiently awaited his return at the rowing club." "By 6:15, his dog chewed through a restraining rope and ran hell's speed towards the area of the shore near the rip of Port Phillip Bay." "A couple on their honeymoon saw the dog running by in full gait as they watched from their honeymoon cottage. It was nearly dark as the couple ran to the east side of the house to watch the dog's direction. They saw the dog enter the ocean, but the waves drove him back to shore. The dog

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kept trying, until he had made it past the surf." "The dog was clearly trying to swim to his master. The boy's sailboat was caught in the riptide at the mouth of the bay. The rip's waters were now standing up some 12 to 15 feet in height. At the center of the rip, a huge hole through the waters had formed, creating a vacuum's swirling vortex." "The riptide at Port Phillip Bay makes other areas of the world seem mild in comparison." "Van Diemen's nephew had become a neverending statistic of the Bass Strait! Only a small piece of sailcloth from the boy's boat was ever recovered from the tragedy. The stitching on the sail was identified as that of the Van Diemen's boat. There was little likelihood that any remains would be found because of the sharks who keep these waters patrolled for food." "In Sydney, which is north from here, a great white shark was opened to examine the contents of it's stomach to see if it had eaten a surfer near Manly beach. Much to everyone's surprise, not only did they find the boy's remains; but they also found a tire, long rope, canvas and pieces of wood. Sharks are definitely the denizens of the deep and will eat almost anything which resembles food." "It's been 100 years since the tragic death of this boy and his loving dog. The night of his death, the boy was screaming for his uncle's help, when they were sucked to the ocean's floor in a muddy riptide." "Had the apparition been caught in time, or was it drifting in uncertainty for all these years? Was this reoccurrence the 100th year reunion with the hotel?" "In the end, Dr. Owen felt that somehow the apparition had used Vladimir's daughter to act out the physical part of his return."

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"The child obviously had the ability to focus her psychic powers to accomplish the dirty tricks in the hotel. That concept explained the close proximity of the child during the apparitional events at the hotel." "Several other physical properties, such as the mud and seawater throughout the hotel, remain a mystery to this day. The last appearance of the apparition signed the end to all of the disturbances at the Queenscliff Hotel! Vladamir's daughter, from that day forward, seemed to have recovered from many of her problems and shortly returned to her school studies!" Barton gave us the story, but many questions were left unanswered in my mind. I felt that he left something out. Barton left the quizzical gathering to check on our room. When he came back smiling, I started laughing, because I knew there were few rooms left and wondered who would get Room 22. Although it really didn't matter to me; Shirley winced at the thought of spending several nights in the room. Luckily, the couple who got the room were not here yet and were spared the interesting story. The whole room broke out in nervous laughter when Barton assigned the room to the late couple. It's much easier to laugh at someone else's plight, while we feel safe and protected. Better them, than me! The Queenscliff was the tonic I needed. The rest and relaxation at the hotel was unequaled! Barton and his elegant wife made our stay something very special. On many mornings, Shirley and I were awakened by a knock at the door. It was either Barton or his wife, bringing us something special to eat. On Saturdays, we were awakened to Dom Perignon champagne, followed by strawberries

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and cream with freshly baked croissants. For the main course, my all-time favorite, "Eggs Benedict" was served with a medium hollandaise sauce. No one should go through life without experiencing this treatment at least once! The longer my stay at the hotel, the more difficult it had become to leave. I do mean that, literally! I appreciated our hosts and what they were doing for us, which was giving me a break from a tough journey! I've stayed at many hotels in my lifetime; but the charm and elegance of the Queenscliff exceeded all! We did as little as possible during our stay, but we certainly enjoyed ourselves. At times, our debauchery reached a level of pure indulgence. I'll be the first to admit, that it helps to have "a bit in the sock." Certainly, life is easier with it! And yes, sometimes money does equate to fun and this was just such an occasion. We'd spent one week here which entitled us to a discount. The charges thus far have been accumulating: $214.00 for the room, $294.00 for breakfasts, $344.00 for lunches, $492.00 for dinners which included guests, and the bar bill of $928.72, that included a vintage 1929 Chateau La Fete Rothschild. I will not be so tasteless as to add these figures. At the end of the week, Shirley returned to her job, whilst I stayed on at the hotel, alone? Well, not totally alone! Beautiful women were frequent at the hotel, and at times the hotel seemed to overflow like Grand Central Station. Most were bright, wealthy, young and attractive. I soon found out that most of these young

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women were very attracted to sailors. With that in mind, I made sure to keep a roll of charts close by. With all these things in mind, I decided that this hotel was a perfect place for planning my trip. The hotel's relaxed atmosphere helped me to concentrate on the trip ahead. The weather at this time of year in the southern latitudes is just horrible. During the winter months; May, June, July, and August, the gales never stop. Approximately sixty percent of the time, during the winter months, it blows gales. Therefore, my time to stop over and relax a bit, was near perfect. I could safely wait here for better weather; then run like hell when the weather broke. After breakfast, I went downstairs to the library and built a fire. In a short while, there was no longer a chill in the air and I could sit down and plan the next part of the trip. Outside it was a nippy 13.5 degrees celsius, cold to say the least! It's a little hard for me to explain, but this is the most charming hotel I've ever seen. Not only is the hotel charming, but the guests are equally so. Now that I'd been here awhile, the owner told me in advance about any beautiful women expected at the hotel. It was just a wonderful place to rest and relax for a few days. In fact, today several young women are expected here. One of these young women has recently graduated Medical School and has received a Doctors degree. From what I gather; her parents paid for her stay as a graduation present. I was sure she needed a break from the tedium of her studies. It's unfortunate, but this magnificent hotel had been a sort of distraction which cost me valuable work time on the boat. In my three weeks stay, I'd accomplished very little. The engine was flushed, the starter was rebuilt and I'd flushed down Maria's interior. The interior cabin was washed with T.S.P,

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so I wouldn't slip and fall. Honestly, I just didn't feel up to the whole ordeal of thoroughly cleaning the boat. So it still stunk of diesel and bilge water and all of my packed clothes should have been gone through. In the back of my mind, I reasoned that the haul out would cover it all. I did make a special effort to clean my bunk area should I have to sleep on the boat during the trip up north.

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3
and The Sandringham Yacht Club
Fueled with various opinions and preconceived notions about Melbourne, I discovered the Australians of the north are much like Americans. Those who live in the North slightly resent those from the South. With one major difference, Australia's south continent is the colder region while the North is warm. In fact, a good comparative would be the association of San Diego to Sydney. And likewise Portland Oregon to Melbourne. Each of these cities share a comparison that they are approximately the same distance from the equator both north and south. Melbourne lays roughly 38 degrees south of the equator while Portland is near equi-distance north in the United States. So too are

Melbourne

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Sydney and San Diego in comparative distance, and share almost duplicate climatic conditions. When I put these comparatives into perspective, I noted a close resemblance to the behavior of those who live in the cold wet winter in Melbourne, to those who live in the colder wet zones in the U.S. The people in the colder zones tend to be more intellectual, while those in warmer year around zones tend to kick back and engage more in physical endeavors. Now I have a better understanding why the people of Melbourne look down their noses at New South Wales. Victorians take education very seriously and have some of the best colleges in Australia. The climate of the area plays a significant role between this educational value system and it's people. People who live in climates where several months of the year are spent literally inside, have more time to pursue education, while their counterparts are surfing and sunbathing at the beach. Sydney was my first landing point in Australia, so the locals in that area are of the general opinion that Victoria, which is in the southern region of Australia, was less than a positive place to live. What I'm trying to say is, that the people who live in the north really aren't the best of friends to those in the south. In fact, the law enforcement of N.S.W. and Victoria, have no contact at all between agencies. As I discovered on Australian T.V., people who were fugitives in Sydney, are now living in Victoria with their same name and everything. Each sovereignty has such a dislike for the other, that one agency would refuse to extradite criminals to the other. Therefore, an all out criminal could live and work and pay taxes in one province free as a bird, while being wanted just next door for a serious crime. What's more amazing, is that an opposing

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agency has no authority to step out of their jurisdiction to capture a criminal. So when a criminal was facing definite prosecution, he would run to the other province and send for his family. On rare occasion, a fugitive would return to his natural province for a funeral or family function whereupon he would be captured. Truly an amazing justice system, which automatically allows a fugitive a second chance. But, the real fact is, the same people usually screwed up again, then have no where to run. With all the negative things I've heard about Victoria, I've found almost all of it untrue. The only thing I've heard that's true is Melbourne's rainy weather. In the short time since my arrival, it's done nothing but thunder and rain continuously! And when it thunders and rains in this latitude, it's quite often for days at a time. The weather here and the atmosphere of the city are so much like London, that it's hard to believe I'm on the opposite side of the world. Even the architecture has the same gloomy mood as London when it rains, everything has a grey cast to it. Like London; this city has a charm that offsets the cold, chilling effect. Although the pubs of Sydney are notoriously great fun, few can equal the pubs of Melbourne. When it rains in Melbourne, it's like all hell broke loose; the pubs quickly fill with patrons who seek relief and good conversation. There are many pub interiors that have remained the same as when they were built a hundred or so years ago. The interiors are all wood and leather and have the same smell as those in London. In the short time since my arrival, I had met many nice people who offered the use of their haul out facilities. It was difficult to decide which yard or

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yacht club to use for Maria's repair. One outstanding yacht club seemed most suited for the repairs, The Sandringham Yacht Club. Sedately traditional, the yacht club is situated on the opposite side of Port Phillip bay. The club was founded nearly a hundred years ago and the original founding families still have firm control of the club's direction. The club is much like the one my family belongs to back home. After a brief inquiry about the club's facilities, Sandringham was my choice. So I prepared Maria for the 30 mile jaunt across the bay. When I think about it, it really strikes me as funny! I'd come here with no intentions of spending any time here. Now I was sailing across the bay to a yacht club where most probably I would spend the next month or longer to repair the boat. Things never go quite as planned when you're on a journey of this nature. So Sandringham would be my new home for the next month or so. In short time, I'd regained a great deal of strength and some sense of humor. Now I needed to get semi-serious and finish Maria's cleanup. August 6, 1981 My Birthday The clean up on Maria went better than expected. I pulled the head from the engine, then drained, flushed and cleaned all the engine's working parts. Luckily, the minute amount of salt water that entered the engine remained in the head and valve train. The next most serious damage was centered around the delamination of the plywood bulk heads. The plywood serves to divide the various compartments within the boat's interior. Unfortunately, much of the boat's bulkheads had been exposed to water. Now all of that wood would have to be replaced and refastened to make it right again.

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August 11, 1981 My intentions were good a few days ago when I decided to haul Maria out at the Sandringham facility. I finished all the menial tasks which are necessary for the boat to be sail ready. It did little else but rain and blow for the last five days. The weather had been so foul that I decided it would be best to sail north to St. Kilda to spend the night at anchorage and continue on when clear. Besides, it was really hard to leave the hotel and it's numerous accommodations. Another few days at the hotel would have been great, but when the weather breaks you have to go for it. One other time on this trip I made the mistake of staying when I should have gone and I took an unmerciful pounding right in Sydney harbor. Out at sea it would have meant little more than some discomfort, but at anchorage Maria took a pounding from another yacht that had broken it's moorage. The old adage, "Better safe than sorry," could not fit at a more appropriate time.

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August 12, 1981 My last chore before setting sail was to pull all the working sails out and decide which sails needed work. When I purchased the boat, it had a full compliment of both working and cruising sails and a couple that were cut for racing. In all, she had a total of 23, most of which were working sails. And out of that group, eight needed immediate attention, so today would be my sail repair day. I met a guy who had a leather sewing machine by the hardware store, so I took him up on his offer to use his machine. I at least utilized my day to do something fruitful. On closer examination, I saw many of the sails had been repaired using a common black silk thread. This made it easy to spot where they'd had problems in the past. After a day of sail repair and listening to the weather on the radio, I got a ride back to the boat by the shop owner, where I deposited my day's work. From the radio reports, chances were there would be a break the next day. But to make sure, I headed over to the hotel to have some good warm food and watch the weather on the tele. Back at the Queenscliff, the local T.V station was showing the most recent satellite observations, and they showed a high coming within the next 24 hours. With any luck at all, I could set sail the next day and make St. Kildas anchorage by nightfall. Now, as I truly relaxed, I had time to reflect on the past few weeks in this lovley little hamlet, which is just a fleck on the proverbial world globe. And yet, I've been here and can identify with these people; but think about how many other beautiful places like this, exist! This is where the smallness becomes obvious. I've seen and witnessed much, but hardly everything, and life goes on and on and on.

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During the time I've been docked here at Queenscliff I've swapped story for story with the locals. I guess in a way I've left a part of myself with them and they've left a part with me. I just hope the memories left with them are as good as they've given me. Ironically, it's during these bulling sessions that much about the area and seamanship can be gleaned. In each story I find something valuable that can be applied to the trip. Inevitably, these tips make sailing easier and more safe. I've found experience to be the best education in life so I take these encounters with the local inhabitants as something fruitful and useful on my journey. It never ceases to amaze me just how much one can learn from hanging out around the docks. Always a topic, the weather plays heavy on the discussion forum. Most notably bad weather dominates as the most feared problem at sea; not killer whales or pirates as one might expect. Decidedly, weather plays an almighty role in the safety and success of any sailing voyage. Being proficient at weather prognostication is paramount when trying to make a journey faster and safer. Coincidentally, most boating accidents and fatalities occur not many miles out at sea. People simply get caught in weather that's too difficult for them to handle. If one expects to sail out the bay and back again, he should possess some knowledge about the surrounding weather patterns. He should be aware of that area and know when to run like hell if it turns bad. Then again, nothing about the weather can be taken for granted. I've been sailing in the best of weather, then within ten minutes it changed from

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clear sunny skies to an all out 40 mile an hour gale blowing northerly. Absolutely shocking if you're sailing offshore 30 to 40 miles and happen to get caught in it's grip, all of it happening within 30 minutes. Shocking! If you really have any serious plans about becoming a sailor, then you'd better get used to it. Unfortunately, the unpleasant side of sailing foreign waters has to do with the unpredictability of the weather and it's effects. Trust me when I tell you, at some time in the future, you will get caught in a serious weather situation at sea. Hopefully, you'll be ready for it! There are a few things a single-handed sailor can do. He can sail 20 miles offshore and run like hell to safety in the advent of foul weather. While coastal navigating is very reassuring, it also facilitates making a land fall observation from sea. It's been my practice to pick out places along the coast to seek shelter should the weather at sea turn sour as it often does. But then again, if it hits you all of a sudden, it's better to ride it out at sea, why take a chance and anchor on an unpleasant lee shore? Actually, the land represents the most serious of dangers when approaching from seaward. With rare exception, it's better to ride out a storm with seaway than run to shore. Many a skipper has miscalculated his position and gone aground while running for shore. Now take into consideration that at least seventy percent of the shorelines of the world are sand. The other thirty percent are rocks, reefs, and hidden obstacles, not necessarily in that order. The latter thirty percent are to be avoided at all costs when navigating down the coast. The contradictions of the shoreline terrain have sent many a vessel onto a razor sharp reef. Rightfully,

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the opposite is also true. I have seen horribly jagged shorelines turn out to be excellent anchorage and very navigable. Hence, there are many contradictions when it comes to man's perception of navigation. Only years of experience can give you the skills that can protect you from these hidden variables. An important book in any good sailor's library would be an up to date pilot's guide of the area you are sailing. This book gives a lot of important facts that can be of great benefit to the sailor. One of the things it gives you is a pictorial view of the shoreline as viewed from offshore. The mountains, bays, and coves are outlined by a detailed written explanation of the view. In addition, the guide calculates the safety for each anchorage and the difficulty of approach from sea. Indeed, a very useful navigational tool. The information in this guide is compiled and updated every other year. In cases that concern the movement of silt and sand, this guide is not accurately suited. In fact, I've seen sandbars shift and channel depths change overnight, literally. A typical day's journey up any tributary will attest to this fact. My experiences going aground while sailing Australian waters are too numerable to discuss. But I will say this, the 1980 Australian Pilot is antiquated, outdated, and dangerous if used for channel navigation. It should be used only as a very last resort. If you have a newborn infant aboard, let him navigate before you resort to this guide. The newborn infant is sure to be more reliable. While on the discussion of navigation, I should mention that transmitting gear and signal beacons are quite useless while sailing through the Bass Strait and Tasman Sea. They're so far apart and weak, that it's hard to triangulate a fix.

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In these waters, celestial navigation is imperative. No one should risk sailing in foreign waters without a good working knowledge of the sextant. Please don't forget current, up to date charts, almanacs, and good sight reduction tables. I prefer air sight reduction tables to marine tables. They are easier to use. With the tides as radical as they are in this part of the world, one should buy the Admiralty tide tables. Each and every area has information on the tides, all of which are available to the mariner. Over the last week, I've pretty much said all the farewells and good-byes I needed to. I've told Ian Aldridge we can meet at the St. Kilda Yacht Club tomorrow night for dinner. Besides, I'm only sailing north a scant thirty or so miles. A final satellite observation of the south Australian coast shows a huge high pressure area to the west. With any luck, the winds will be in my favor for a direct reach straight up north. The day's work on the sails was exhaustive enough that I fell asleep the minute I hit the sheets. In the back of my mind, I planned the day's casual sail north. I opened the Port Phillip Bay chart and penciled in the exact spot of the yacht club. Tomorrow night, I'll be staying in a new and different place. September 13, 1981 The morning came too quickly and the bunk feels wet and damp, but that's nothing that a good, hot Irish coffee can't fix. Slowly, and I do mean slowly, I sat up in my bunk and focused aft toward the companionway, and God, this boat is a mess! I peeled myself from the damp sleeping bag and looked out the porthole to see a splendid day

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forming. By the looks of the clouds it's an even bigger high than expected. By the looks of the weather, I won't stop at St. Kildas Yacht Club. If I get good wind in the early morning, then I can easily sail to Sandringham in one day. At 6:45, the sun is just starting to peak through in spots, and the wind is already building from the west. It's cold enough to wear a warm turtle neck with a sweat shirt underneath and a pair of zip-up overalls over that. Normally, I get the boat rigged and underway before I worry about eating breakfast. Today will be no exception. I must take into consideration that the day will be a long one and I'll need all the energy I can muster. Shirley prepared a going away box for me which included several thick-cut steaks. Another good thing is the incoming tide. Port Phillip Bay has just turned to it's fill cycle, so for the next few hours, Maria will be riding on a 4 to 5 knot tide while sailing north. This tide, plus her hull speed, will combine to give her a distance covered of between 12 and 16 miles in one hour. I'm excited at this point, because Maria will get the deserved attention she needs and so will I, from Shirley. In fact, Shirley lives six miles from the Sandringham. I'll be spending most of my nights there. In a farewell glance, I looked around the surrounding land and seascape, and fond memories filled the moment as Maria headed out into the Queenscliff channel. Several of the local fisherman who were on deck waved a single hand pass as if to say good-bye and good luck. God only knows how many times they've made that gesture to others in the past. The flurry of the incoming water pulled Maria into it as I swung the bow north. Maria's diesel, plus

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the main, is pushing us at a strong clip already. I can't wait until the wind picks up. The first hour went by so quickly, that I barely had time for a second cup of coffee. So many tugs and ships were in the channel that it was literally necessary to weave Maria through them. By 10:30, I have covered twenty one miles and my knot meter is registering a swift nine and a half knots. The wind has swung to a north-east direction, nearly a beeline to Sandringham. The only obstacle is a sandbar, that at low tide measures a scant four feet in depth. This trip is so uneventful, that I've decided to go below and warm up some vegetable soup. I feel so good that another Irish coffee seems appropriate. It's such a beautiful day, that I've stripped down to my waist to get some sun on my poor, white skin. At the same time, I'm airing all the wet things down below. From Queenscliff to Sandringham is about 48 miles, and the trip should take between 5 to 7 hours, I should arrive there between 2:00 and 3:00 P.M. Sandringham Yacht Club is located behind a large breakwater, on the northeastern side of Port Phillip Bay. The easiest way to find the club is to look for masts which project from behind the breakwater. The barren masts resemble a forest of white tree trunks devoid of limbs or leaves. I called the yacht club on the radio-telephone. They suggested I tie Maria to the gas dock, until they find her a slip. I motored Maria close to the docks, past a yachtsman who was working on his rigging. He shouted down that I should watch for the sandbar on my left. Just as the word sandbar left his lips, I felt the keel drag through the muddy sand below. Maria continued on until the water got

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deeper and the hull was again free. With a quarter mile to go, I locked the helm and put the gear box in neutral, then dropped the main. The Commodore was standing on the fuel dock with a red flag in his hand. With the flag, he directed me to a place on the dock where he wanted Maria tied. I drifted to the dock at around 1/2 knot or less and slid Maria to a perfect stop. I shut the engine off and took a stern line to the dock. The Commodore was as I expected, and nicer than I had hoped. The Commodore's greeting was warm and cordial. He made me feel as though I had met him before. While I tied Maria more securely, the Commodore explained the various club rules. Yacht club fuel is sold at cost. The club has many facilities which are to my "live-aboard" advantage. The Commodore said that the club has many hot showers. Living on a yacht one misses taking long, hot showers. Now, when I get the chance, I spend at least twenty minutes in the shower. I find a hot shower pleasurable after a hard day's sail. The Commodore welcomed me ashore and asked if I would join him for a beer in the bar. I said, "Yes, of course." When we entered the club, I signed the guests' register. Then we had a schooner of New. "New" is a type of beer which is offered. They also have "Old", which in fact, tastes old. The club's facilities are fantastic. On the eastern side of the club, there are trophies and artifacts. They date from the beginning of the club's construction to the present. The artifacts include racing pictures from the last Sydney-Hobart race. The club's decor and wood interior are in the tradition of sailing clubs in Europe. The club especially reminds me of the yacht clubs in England.

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When people ask me what I plan to do after sailing around the world; I tell them I intend to write a book on the various yacht clubs which I have visited around the world. I've decided to dedicate an entire book to the many unique and beautiful yacht clubs of the world. I've already documented over 340 clubs in my last 15 years of sailing. It's now 4:30 in the afternoon, and I promised Ian Aldridge that I would give him a call when I arrived. The Commodore invited me to his office to use the telephone. When we got to his office, he opened a large closet and directed me to the phone on his desk. I called Ian and left a message on the recorder. I told him tonight would be a great time to take a run down to the Greying Whale Pub in Coolengata. Ian told me about this place a couple of weeks ago. He said there were lots of good looking women at the Whale. Now that the boat's totally safe, I can relax and have some real fun. Maybe I'll get lucky tonight. When I got off the phone, the commodore handed me a yacht club sweater that was elegantly embroidered on the left chest panel. It struck me as odd that he was being so generous, until he told the story about his visit to the U.S.! In 1978, he and his wife took a trip to the United States. They visited several friends then decided to fly out west and see the coast. The first place they stopped was San Diego. They stayed in La Jolla with a friend who was a member of my yacht club, Southwestern. Up to this point, I hadn't explained that I was from California, or that I lived in La Jolla. More incredibly, Southwestern is my yacht club. While we sat talking in his office, I explained that I was from La Jolla, California and my Yacht Club is Southwestern. While we talked, I put on the sweater. He started laughing as I adjusted my new

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sweater for a better fit. He commented that the fit was excellent and started to laugh again. Then in almost the same breath, we commented, "What a small world,", and indeed at times it really is! The Commodore and I exchanged our favorite name restaurants in La Jolla. "Top of the Cove" was at the top of our lists. I thanked him for the sweater, then decided to make another call to Shirley. Just as I started dialing he asked, "Do you have plans tonight?" I said I had tentative plans, and tomorrow night would be better. He said, "Leave tomorrow night open because we're having a big dinner here." Just at the time of his question, Shirley answered the phone. We exchanged pleasantries, then I asked her to the dinner, I told her about the Commodore's invitation, and she said, "Great." I gave her the schedule for the evening. "The dinner starts at 7:00 and ends at God knows when." I said good-bye, then hung up. The Commodore said it must be nice having women follow you all over Australia. Then he commented on how lucky I was to be experiencing these things at such an early point in my life. He started telling me about people who wanted to do those things, but kept putting it off until it was too late. He continued by saying, "Most men wait for their retirement to go sailing around the world. But the truth is, it's much easier when you're young, and you can enjoy it more." I couldn't agree more. Then we talked about work and finances. It turned out that both of us were in the construction trade. We could have talked all day, but things had to be done on Maria. And, "Oh, yeah! Where do you propose the boat should berth?"

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He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Follow me, mate!" We both trudged off for the docks. When we got there he said, "Lindsey, put your boat in this slip." "Sure," I said obligingly. The Commodore climbed aboard the yacht club's 50 foot committee boat, while I went to Maria and readied her to move. Within a couple of minutes, he had the boat started and another member untied him. In another three minutes, the boat was tied on another dock. I started the diesel, then eased Maria into the clubs #l slip. God, I Love Sailing! The Commodore had given me the yacht club's number 1 pin. The pin is parallel to the showers, which are forty feet away. After the Commodore secured the committee boat, he joined me at Maria and candidly requested permission to board. He said, "I was treated the same way in San Diego, so I feel one good turn deserves another." Here I was again, at the right place and right time. Fortunately, for the most part my luck has run in this direction. The best part of this club is the haul-out facilities and the well-equipped rigging shop. It's now a quarter to five and the commodore made an excuse that he needed to get back to his office. I said, "Thanks and I'll see you tomorrow night." It's now important for me to put together a time table for the haul-out, and figure out what materials are going to be needed. One thing is for certain, I'll be real busy for the next month or so. Ian had been such a great help at Queenscliff, that I thought it only fair to shout for dinner. Tonight, we're meeting at 7:30 here at the club. We're going to a place called the Greying Whale. The pub is in Coolengata. It's obvious the name is

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Aboriginal. In fact, ninety percent of all Australian names are Aborigine in origin. Much like the American Indians, the Aborigines were the first people to live in Australia. Much like our American Indian, they too were run off their lands. Being the more passive of the two groups; The Aborigines allowed the gun wielding pioneers to take their land. The Aborigines then gathered a large group of their people and headed north to Queensland. Much like our American Indians, who were sent to reservations, the Aborigines were forced, little by little, from their lands and have been made to feel like outsiders in their own country. In the short few hours since my arrival, I've cleaned down below and aired out the most ungodly smelling clothes. The smell below is hard to describe. It's a combination of the worst smells. When I opened the bilge, I could have sworn I saw something swimming in the water. Most importantly, the boat's integrity is fine. For sure, the boat needs serious reorganization and cleaning, which should make a big difference. It's seven in the evening and I've just finished the longest shower on this trip. I spent thirty-seven minutes having red hot water pelt my weary frame. It revived my lazy spirits and gave me energy to walk up to the Yacht Club Bar. I'll sit here and relax and wait for Ian to get here in the Landrover. The Greying Whale Pub is about a hundred and fifty years old and looks every bit it's age. The exterior is painted a disturbing shade of grey. It's disturbing because it's been painted many times in the past and every new touch up is a different shade; camouflage grey. The food in Australian pubs is nearly always excellent. For $3.50 you can get a complete meal; a

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choice of beef, chicken, or fish. Each order is a fisherman's size portion. The idea of serving food in a pub started as a necessity. After work, Australian men and women alike, head to their favorite pub for conversation and a few schooners of new beer. The drinking continues until guilt sets in and reminds them to eat. If they don't eat they get stuck in the piss drunk! Usually, this is the case. By the way, sailing in itself can create one hell of an appetite. When I eat, I nearly always have two dinners and on occasion three. As I said earlier, Americans are rare in this part of the world. So, when an Aussie hears the Yank accent, that in itself is good for an in-depth conversation. Americans love to imitate the Aussie dialect and likewise the Aussies love to imitate the American language. Nearly always the Aussies claim to live in California. The atmosphere in a typical local pub on a Friday night is like that of the early 60's in an American bar. Especially the mode of dress. It's the 1980's yet the clothing down here reminds me of the 60's. But there's a definite charm about the Australians, a charm much like the American 60's. It is perhaps an innocence that America has long since lost. Ian was punctual as usual, and ready to have some fun with the ladies. The first shout of the evening was on me, then we discussed the strategy for the evening. If I got lucky first, I would take her back to the boat at Sandringham. But if he got lucky, he would need to drive me back to the boat or loan me his wheels. We finished our drinks, then hit the head and made a bee-line for the Whale, as Ian referred to it. The pub was fifty-five kilometers around the bay and quite far south near the Bass Strait. The

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conversation in route was typically male; pussy, the only real topic worth discussing. Redheads, blondes, brunettes, we covered them all on our trip down the bay. The weather is nice for this time of year. Normally, it would be raining and the wind would be blowing fifty knots. Along the way, we bought Victoria Bitters beer and finished the sixer by the time we got there. We pulled across the street from the Whale at 8:45. Quite a few people are milling around outside. The rock group, "Men at Work" are due to start at 9:00, but they're not here or set up yet. Just as I'd heard, the Greying Whale is definitely an old pub from the past. It was built in 1923 and looks it. I really like the place already, it has character! Through the front doors to the right stands a stuffed red tailed roo. The owner shot the kangaroo while driving down the expressway leaving Melbourne! The owner practiced taxidermy so he stuffed the kangaroo and set it in his pub. Joey, the red tail roo is the topic of conversation when people visit the Grey Whale. Stories related to Joey, the red tail roo, have circled the world. Many of the stories are in fact true, but many more are the invention of locals who develop significant tourist income from the grossly inflated stories. Australians, I might add, love to spin exciting stories about dangerous encounters with mysterious inhabitants of the outback, both animal and human alike. While on the subject of inhabitants of Australia, I should mention the girls here. They are very uninhibited and especially funny after they've had a shout or two. The ladies here start the night by drinking beer then progress to rum and coke. Bunderburg rum is the common choice of most Australians.

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Tonight should be a real treat. Two fishing crews have just come around the "Prom", as it is called by local inhabitants. That's where I'll have to sail when I leave here. The Prom's complete name and identification is Wilson's Promontory, discovered by the noted explorer, Wilson. It is a huge rock precipice which juts out like the Cape Horn of Africa. Wilson's Promontory is located in the Bass Strait where the Tasman Sea and Pacific Ocean meet. The Promontory has gained world notoriety for it's dangerous location on Australia's southeastern tip. Many ships have gone aground while negotiating this inhospitable mass of rock. I've spent many evenings in Melbourne's Yacht Clubs trying to get an opinion on how to sail around the Prom. Of course, everyone has a very different opinion. One noted sailing enthusiast thinks it best to make the rounding at night, thereby arriving at Refuge Cove on the eastern coast in the morning. Sounds reasonable enough, but the weather is the most important condition of it all. From all the scuttlebutt in the bar, fear definitely comes into play when you consider the weather down here. To make matters worse, you must leave from a place called Lakes Entrance, where an 8 knot current runs in a channel that's built between two sea walls. The crews who are drinking here are scallop fishermen and have just returned from the Prom with a full catch. Instead of pulling into Port Welshpool, they've come to Melbourne where the price is much higher. Besides, the diversion gives the fishermen a break away from their wives! This one bloke from Hobart, Tasmania, say's he's been at sea for three months straight. He says he has two separate families, one in Hobart and one in Melbourne. I've heard that it's common for

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fishermen in this area to have two families. I have spoken to two fishermen who say they have several families and many children from prior marriages. One skipper is from a fishing hamlet, San Remo. It is located around Phillip Island to the east. He indicates it is about fifty-five miles through the inland waterways or eighty- six miles by route of the Bass Strait. The crews which make up these fishing teams are just like the characters out of a Harold Robbins novel. I have been standing here in the pub downing shout after shout with a skipper from a fishing trawler. Foxy is his name. Foxy is from San Remo and has made himself quite famous as a fisherman. And on top of that, he appears to be a ladies man. In the few short minutes that we've stood here, at least eight women have come up and introduced themselves. I might add they are all pretty good-looking. It's obvious that Foxy has had one or two of these girls before. Foxy says one of the girls has asked about me! So, we've invited her and her friend for a few beers. The blonde and I discover we have a lot in common. She is a forest ranger for the park service and loves animals. She said we could go on a backpacking trip into a wildlife preserve. What a marvelous idea. I am thinking, "Let's go right after we leave here." It's 10:40, and the pub is starting to really gyrate. The rock group finally made it to the hotel and are playing. Their amplifiers are on ten or eleven. At any rate, the whole place is starting to come apart. Two fights have started out back and it's not even 11:00. The pub is supposed to close at 12:00 according to local laws. This guy, Foxy, is starting to tell sea stories. The sea stories he's telling all relate to one thing,

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women. I mean, who would have guessed that fishermen think about women, not fish? My image of fishermen is far different than this guy! I've always thought of fisherman as scruffy, bearded, and fat, and certainly not very smart. It seems I am a bit off base this time. This guy Foxy has everybody in the pub listening to his sea stories, including the good looking blonde he told me about. She's sitting on his right knee and he's holding another girl around the waist with his left arm. Her name is Iliana, and she has absolutely perfect proportions. She's Chinese, Indian, French, and magnificent. My American accent has everyone in the pub listening in this direction. Generally speaking, Americans are looked upon with great skepticism. Our American ideals have made the Aussie look twice at anyone who is a septic. Septic is slang for American. I'll explain that one later. The blonde, Marian, got up from Foxy's lap and is sitting in my lap with a very devilish look on her freckled face. To think just a few hours ago I was cleaning the boat. God, I love Sailing! As the drinking continued, Foxy introduced me to everyone in the pub. Ironically, no one believes I am an American. Americans rarely have the nerve to drink in an Australian fishing pub. Aussies are the type of people who are very protective of their pubs, and thoroughly scrutinize anyone who enters them. Ian is now dancing with a lovely who has done everything but strip on stage. On the sly, Ian told me Foxy is considered the best fisherman in all Southern Australia. He is also the best and most trusted skipper on the entire Australian coast. Ian said Foxy is the toughest fisherman around this part of the world. He's the kind of guy that shouldn't be fucked with, period! I guess I should feel privileged.

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In route to the head, Ian continued the story about Foxy, which I assume to be fact. The story goes, that when Foxy was in his late twenties, he would come in from fishing then go to his neighborhood pub and demand everyone to leave immediately. After they exited, he would then walk to the window and decide which people should re-enter. The people he didn't like, would simply leave and go down the street to another hotel or pub to continue drinking. However, the ones who were allowed to re-enter were shouted for the rest of the night. Almost everyone who knows Foxy loves him; men and women alike. Foxy has become a millionaire from fishing, which is extraordinary in any light. Foxy was picked "Best Fisherman in Australia" for the last seven years, and it's no wonder why! Foxy is a rather imposing sort. Foxy is 6'1", 103 kilos. Foxy is a collage of the incredible hulk, looks of Redford, and a surprising intelligence like Dick Cavett. Not to forget his unretiring, brilliant sense of humor. Over the years, his confidence as a fisherman and his wealth have made him a combination hard to dislike by the locals. It is a good experience for me to meet someone like him. I sense he has a great deal of respect for me, because he is infinitely more interested in my stories than I thought he would be. Most people are bored by yachting stories. Ideally, we have settled on subjects that we both love, women and navigation. It is surprising how close we relate the two, but it is not surprising to understand how vitally important their roles play in our lives. We drank another beer and he opened up his wallet and showed me pictures of his children. I could see how proud he was of them by the smile on his face. Ian whispered to me that Foxy

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never shows pictures of his family to anyone unless he feels comfortable with them. Amazingly, his first mate of three years has never seen the pictures. The first mate had to look over my shoulder to see the pictures for the first time. The word is now out. As soon as the pub closes, we'll continue the party at Foxy's trawler. Foxy turned around and point blank demanded that I bring Marian and anyone else I liked to the trawler. We all thought of food at the same time. The FOX, as he is called by his friends, says don't worry about food. But we should worry about the beer supply, so we should get at least six cases of Foster's Lager for now. Foxy, on the way out of the pub, said Marian definitely has the hots for me. Because she called someone at home and told them she wouldn't be home for a day or two. Thank God. The Greying Whale is just six hundred feet across the road from the pier and the Sea Fox, which is the Fox's trawler. En route, Marian asks if we could stop by her sports car. We walked to the trunk and she picked clothes for tomorrow. I quickly found that Marian is up front with things. It appears that we're going to have one Hell of a party tonight and perhaps tomorrow! Marian and I are the first to reach the trawler. We went straight below and opened several Foster's and cuddled up in the forward bunk. Down below it is warm and cozy, but outside the winds are blowing and it's cold. Marian is the sort of person who accepts a person at face value, a virtue I share. She says she finds me attractive and would like to see me often. Then, in the same breath, she asks if I'm really sailing around the world. I said, "Would you like to come over to the boat later?" With that question, I couldn't help but add that the boat was

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at Sandringham undergoing extensive repairs. My new lady friend appears to be a very straight forward person who lives a fairly uncomplicated lifestyle. In my early twenties, I too made house payments and bought a new car every year. I found that whole trip lacking in creative lifestyle. Boring! God! How nice it would be to own a house, make monthly payments on a car and charge all your clothes. Nah! Once you've passed a certain place in life, it's hard to accept average as an everyday lifestyle. I guess I really don't envy simplicity in that way. So many people get locked into everyday routines and habits which inhibit their personal growth and development. I've found that many people in life are so mortified at the prospect of the unknown, that they refuse to explore life in even the simplest of terms. Once out of their protective environmental sphere, they feel as though they've lost control. This psychology in itself, keeps many from exploring many of the exciting things which are at our fingertips. This whole thought kindles a quotation which summarizes the way I feel about life. This quotation has become an integral part of my psychology. When I recite it I soon feel refreshed and invigorated! "Far better it is to dare mighty things, To win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much, nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight, that knows not victory nor defeat!" And boy oh boy, does that ring true in many

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people's lives. The forward crew's cabin is large enough that it contains a bunk nearly equal to a king size bed. I managed to kick the door shut, in case anyone might come looking for us. Now that we're comfortable, Marian wrapped her arms around my waist. She stood behind me and pressed her warm face against the back of my foul-weather jacket. In a serious tone, Marian started telling me about her childhood dreams. In one of the dreams, she meets a man who is sailing a boat. They fall in love and sail off to a beautiful island where they get married. She pulled me closer as her story progressed and became more detailed. Half jokingly, I asked if she had ever felt this way before? I blushed when she said no, then her arms tightened around my chest. I decided it would be smart not to make fun of her fantasy, because she was serious. Marian was sexually arousing me and I had grown hard within my slacks. I rolled her over on her back, then got on top and began kissing the tops of her breasts. She wrapped her legs around my butt and I pushed hard against her pelvis. As she grew hotter, her legs went limp and I put all my weight onto her hot crotch. Then, I locked my hands firmly around her ass, while pulling her pelvis tighter against my erection. At this point neither of us felt like holding back. So, I dropped my mouth into the plunge of her blouse and started sucking on her warm breasts. Her nipples grew erect, and I could smell the distinct fragrance of her moist vagina as she grew hotter still. Marian grew even hotter when I forced my hard member against her soaked panties. Her dress was now as high as I could get it. Her pussy was

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fully exposed with exception to her thin silk panties. Our body rhythms seemed to entwine as I pushed against her, then she returned the motion. It felt as though we were in the motion of mating and we were ready to try it. God I Love Sailing! Somehow, Marian was even hotter than I expected. She also had a wonderful sense of humor. In the heat of passion: and in a profusion of flying clothes and limbs, Marian and I somehow managed to disrobe without being injured. It amazes me how fast clothing can be removed, when two people are in the heat of passion. Times like these can be nearly comical. While standing here at the end of the bunk, I pulled her panties off. Then I reached down and worked two fingers into her hot pussy, until she was as wide open as possible. Every motion of my hand made her pelvis dance with an erotic mating motion. Each stroke, I pushed successively harder than the last. Then I pulled Marian to the edge of the bunk, spreading her legs wide enough to run my mouth through her frothy junction. From time to time, I stopped long enough to kiss her on the mouth, then I would drop back down and tantalize her between her legs. Finally, we both lost control. I eased her back into the bunk and spread her legs as wide apart as I could get them. Her wet pussy seemed to be urging me into her. I lowered myself deep into her, while our bodies remained locked as we kissed. Our moans and groans were muffled as we exercised our passion, each stroke was building closer to an orgasm. Just when we reached the point of no return, I heard the faint sound of people approaching the boat. Luckily, we both came in unison before we were interrupted. What a relief that was! We continued our heated lovemaking until footsteps were directly outside our door.

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"Lindsey, here's a cold bottle of champagne in a bucket! And Lindsey, take your time, because the music's not set up yet." I said, "Thanks Foxy!" God, I love Sailing! I'm thankful they didn't arrive ten minutes earlier. Marian and I hurriedly redressed and made our way topside where we found Foxy, his date and several other couples dancing to a group called "Men At Work." When I looked at Marian I could see she was totally at peace with herself. I think some call it a healthy sex glow. Marian and I poured ourselves a full glass of champagne, then joined the group of dancers. As I looked around, I saw at least thirty people, maybe more, coming from the direction of the Greying Whale Pub. Several men are carrying boxes of beer and several liters of rum. Foxy went below to get a larger set of speakers, because the ones here now aren't adequate for the party's size. Several women went below to fix food for the party. Marian and I went below to see what was happening in the galley and give assistance if needed. Foxy was in the freezer handing the women steaks, lobsters, crab legs and of course, huge Bass Strait scallops. I see there is an ample supply of Kikkoman Teriyaki sauce to add some zing to the feast. While we stood in the galley talking, Foxy came over and directed me to his cabin where the good stuff is hidden. It was easy to see the cabin was Foxy's state room where he spent most of his time while relaxing at sea. The walls were filled with centerfold pictures of beautiful women exhibiting their best. The wall behind his navigation table contained his war pictures from Vietnam and his various certificates concerning his title of Captain. Although the size of the room was small, it was appointed perfectly with matching linens and

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brilliantly varnished red mahogany furniture covered in leather. Even the brass lamps and plaques were as polished as would be new. My new found buddy was more complex than I had given him credit. It almost made me uncomfortable that his lifestyle was much like mine and I rarely feel uncomfortable about anything. I guess it was the prejudgment I'd made about him that made me feel that way. Foxy pulled a vintage bottle of Cognac and a bottle of Pinch from his private reserve cabinet and asked which I preferred. I picked the Scotch whiskey, and he poured a hearty three fingers into a fine cut crystal snifter. Then Foxy said, "Lindsey, I suppose someday in the near future you'll be writing about your trip down, won't you?" I said, "Foxy you're reading my mind." Then Foxy explained that in the next few weeks, perhaps days, they would be heading for a bank off the Tasmanian coast to fish. And, if I wanted to, I would be welcome to come along for the trip. Then he added, that if I didn't come along peacefully, he and the crew would Shanghai me! I wouldn't miss it for the world and we toasted to the venture. My duty would be navigator while at sea. On occasion, I would skipper if Foxy wanted a break. The fishing would be left up to the first mate and his deckies. Here I've committed myself to a trip through the Bass Strait for God knows how long, yet I am looking forward to it. I've barely known Foxy for more than four hours. What the hell, you only live once in my book and the experience should be great going down to Tasmania! We laughed our asses off about my new duties and the fact that no one would believe the story about our meeting and me agreeing to the trip. Foxy locked his liquor locker

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then we headed for the galley where the Fox announced to the gathered throng of onlookers of my new adventure to Tasmania. Marian just shook her head as if to say, "Men are crazy." Then she put her arms around me and shoved a huge scallop into my mouth. Up on the top deck, forty or so people were dancing so loud that you could barely hear any conversation down below. The lobsters were first to go, then the girls threw on a few thick steaks, and they too disappeared as quickly. When Foxy said food, he meant exactly that, and lots of it. Marian and I helped ourselves to several lobsters, and two steaks and many more scallops. Enough so, that I literally had no more room. We had so much fun that we lost track of time. It's 3:45 in the morning and it appears there is no intention of slowing or stoping the party, and Marian has this look of love in her eyes that's hard to ignore. We've decided to stay a little longer, then sneak below taking Foxy up on his offer to spend the night on board. In fact, he insisted we use his quarters rather than the crew's. When it reached 4:45 in the morning, I did not feel it rude to slip off to our cabin. At this point, both Marian and myself are bone tired and interested in rest and little else. Besides, we have the entire day tomorrow to catch up on our other activities. I invited several of the couples to visit Marian and myself at the Sandringham, then we excused ourselves and headed below. Even though tired, we made love again, then drifted off into a deep, undisturbed sleep. When the sun came up, it shone through the porthole just above our heads so I reached up and closed the opening. Marian was sleeping so deeply, that my

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movements did not even bother her. I fell back to sleep and never moved a muscle, sleeping better that night than I've slept in ten years. Around 2:30 in the early afternoon, the smell of freshly cooked lobster and people stirring on deck awoke me. In less than five minutes, there was a knock on the door, and the voice of the Fox came from behind it. "It's 2:35 and time for lunch, do you mind if I come in?" I looked at Marian who was now aroused from oblivion and she pulled the blanket up to cover her breasts. "Come on in, Foxy!" When the door opened, there stood the Fox with fresh steamed, cracked crabs and lobster with drawn butter. I had to open and close my eyes several times to believe it. Was this really happening? Maybe in the movies, but real life is another thing. Marian pulled the blanket tight against her breasts, then Foxy stepped through the door. Behind Foxy in the hall, was a champagne bucket with a bottle of good wine in it. Is there any wonder this guy has so many friends? Without looking up, or cracking a smile, he set the platter on the bunk's end, and went to fetch the champagne. With a half smile on his face, he opened, then poured the wine into two chilled glasses from the bucket. I guess I must have had a puzzled look on my face, because Marian shrugged her shoulders, then took a sip of wine. Foxy said, "Take your time," then headed out the door. On the back of his robe was the inscription "The Sea Fox". And that he is! After Foxy left, there were sounds of people stirring to life on the upper deck. I guess some had survived the onslaught of last nights party. From all appearances, I have pulled yet another of my classic sailing encounters. Here just

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a few hours ago, I meet these people and they invite me to go fishing in the Bass Strait. Then Foxy invites Marian and I to stay aboard his trawler for one of the most pleasurable times I have spent in recent years. This kind of genuine hospitality and kindness is somewhat overwhelming. It's rather unusual that a person can truly relax and be themselves in such a short time period. From the looks of things, Marian and I will spend the entire day just cuddling. Out our porthole, I can see that the light winds have scrubbed the afternoon sky of it's clouds, causing the sun to heat up our cabin. I revel in the thought of being here with not a care in the world and awakening to such a beautiful woman as Marian. At this point, I feel as though Marian and I could spend some meaningful times together and perhaps something more? Together, we are a unique combination and we seem to compliment one another. I feel as though I'm a warm and tender person who has many strengths, but at the same time, have the sensitivity to understand others and their feelings. Marian is a person who seems self-assured and confident with her expressions of life. Very simply, we seem to personify each other's needs and enjoy relaxing in each other's company. Marian has told me that should I want her to, she would sail with me at a moment's notice. I'm rather skeptical of whether she realizes this part of the world is no love boat sailing tour of the sea. She definitely has the enthusiasm, but I must question her eagerness to sail Bass Strait. At any rate, her point is well taken and I sincerely appreciate it. Enthusiasm, no doubt, makes for seventy percent of the courage to sail. The afternoon has turned to late, and we're still laying about trying to figure out the evening's

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plans. Finally, I decided to do a damage control tour of the ship. Every once in awhile, Marian and I thought we heard noises of people in the ship, so I went off to explore. The first person I met was Foxy's first mate who was barely coherent. He stood in the galley weaving and appeared to have just vomited, but still had a tinny of beer clutched in his hand. With what little I understood, in his heavy Aussie accent, he said Foxy had business in Melbourne and would return late in the day. And something about the hair of the dog that bit him, then finished his warm beer. Going further still, I toured the ship's interior and found three other couples who had survived the night's frivolity. None of the group seemed excited when I mentioned food or movement. When I got back to the cabin, Marian was in the shower shampooing her hair. I quickly dropped my robe and jumped in after her. We were lavish with the shower's time, spending nearly fifteen minutes before we finished. Fresh from the shower, we towelled, then poured the last of the champagne. Marian would drive us back to the Sandringham and we would see what was going on for the evening. On our way out of the Sea Fox, we got stopped by a friend of Foxy's, Dirk Haskins. He asked," Do you need a ride back to your boat, Lindsey?" I said, "Thanks, but Marian has wheels." Then he added, "Lindsey, Foxy wants you and Marian to join him for dinner tonight at his friend's house." The dinner would be in Melbourne. Then Dirk tried to explain the circumstances of the quick invitation. Apparently, the Fox had a lunch engagement in Melbourne with a socialite. At the lunch, he was invited for dinner, along with any friends he desired to bring. Foxy then called the

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ship, talked to Dirk and relayed the message for dinner. If we could make it, we should call our hostess to get the particulars concerning the party. Marian is having such a good time that she has decided to open another bottle of champagne for our ride back to Maria. While Marian busied herself with removing the cork in the champagne, I got Dirk to call the mobile operator and patch in our hostess' telephone number. He then switched the call to the ship's intercom. When the number connected, I pressed the phone handle down and a soft voice boomed throughout the ship's interior. The voice was a surprise. It was elegant, controlled, and apparently, very aristocratic. The elegant manner in which she spoke made me change the manner in which I spoke. I felt conscious of the need to speak concisely, distinctly, and in a manner one would associate with intelligence. I promptly replied, "This is Lindsey Fain, I understand you are having a dinner party tonight?" "Yes, Lindsey, we are and we'd love you to come." She continued, "Lindsey, my name is Stephanie Post, and Foxy has indicated you are retired while circumnavigating the world." I said, "Yes." She finished by saying, "Any friend of Charles Fox will be more than welcome company for dinner and cocktails after." Her reply caught me off guard. I was still hanging on to the "Charles Fox". I thought to myself, you mean The Fox, but never really said it! She indicated a limousine would pick both of us up when we were ready. I then asked her if the dress would be formal. She laughed, then said that semi-formal would be fine. I then expressed our sincere appreciation for

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the invitation to dinner. I said, "I'll call for the limousine about one hour before we are ready." "That's fine!" She said, then hung up. I perceived there was a lot more to Charles Fox that met the eye. So far, one thing is for certain. "Charles Fox" sure as hell knows how to have a good time. Now my curiosity has reached it's peak. Who is the Fox and who is Stephanie Post? I have a lady friend in Melbourne who knows all the society people, I'll give her a call and see if she's heard of Stephanie Post. I called Diane and asked if she had heard of Stephanie. Funny enough, as the word Stephanie passed through my lips, she began to chuckle. "Are you referring to Stephanie Post?" Suddenly, I felt a little knot in my stomach tighten. Then it hit me that I had accepted a dinner invitation to someone's home who I'd never met before. Diane replied, laughing, that Stephanie Post was godmother to Diane's first daughter. Miss Post is the heiress to the E. F. Hutton fortune. Diane was also invited to the same party tonight. First things first! She asked me if I wanted a ride to the party. I said no, that I had a date but would see her there just the same. I sensed she was upset because I hadn't called in several days, so I did my best to be nice on the phone. Now I feel there could be a little negativity in the air with two women I'm dating arriving at the same party. So, I tried to explain the circumstances to Diane, hoping she would understand my situation. I told her that if I had known about the party earlier, I would certainly have called her first. Diane's steadfast coolness readily indicated she was without a date. Cautiously, I thanked her for the

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information regarding our hostess, then asserted that I would enjoy seeing her tonight. I added she should wear the same gown as she wore to the Sydney Opera which we attended several months earlier. I bid her adieu and lauded her poise in handling the situation. When I hung up the ship's phone, I felt someone's presence very near. It was Marian. The forlorn look on her face was an indication that she had indeed heard the entire conversation. I turned with the agility of Nureyev then embraced her, sensing her feelings of rejection. I'm afraid Marian may feel a little out of place, but I am determined to take her anyway. As we embrace, I try to explain what has transpired so she'll be comforted. It's apparent she'll feel a little out of place considering the nature of the event. I reassure her it's nothing more difficult than eating while sitting at attention. Her good nature and sense of humor is prevailing; she says she'd love to, but she needs at least two hours' preparation. I agree, then add, I too, will need time and would or could she press a navy blazer of mine. Marian and I took our leisure time driving back to Sandringham Yacht Club, and along the way Marian filled in more details on Foxy. While at the same time I kept thinking about how quickly things happen when you least expect them to. Meeting Foxy, then Marian, a magnificent evening alone, and now an interesting dinner party. Our ride back got increasingly mysterious as Marian told me about Foxy's family history. The Fox's lineage went back to the original colonists who were first sent here as a form of punishment. Foxy's family weren't related to the convicts, but instead ran various supply businesses that were associated with the founding

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colonists. Most notably, they owned lumber mills and supply stations, much like the American hardware store. From the business of hardware and lumber, their companies diversified and flourished. By the mid 1930's, the Fox family gained both economic and political power over the area and were expanding with interests in virtually all theaters of business, including banks. By the 1950's, their financial interests shifted to land acquisition and the pursuit of downtown properties in Melbourne. They succeeded, even though the Australian economy was taking a flailing and recovering from a recession. When we pulled into the Yacht Club, I could not help but laugh at the thought of me pulling the boat in one day, then mysteriously disappearing. The reality was; Maria was as safe from harm, and I wanted to see more of Melbourne. When our car pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the marina, I caught sight of the familiar mast of Maria. Then, I looked up at the Yacht Club and noticed several people peering down from the second floor window. I then saw the Commodore waving and smiling as Marian and I exited the car and started walking to the boat. I waved back, while thinking to myself, the Commodore must think I am living up to my reputation. God, I Love Sailing! On the way back to the boat, I couldn't stop thinking about how many wonderful people I've met on this trip. Since the very outset of my adventure, I've met some of the most incredible people on Earth. I'll go so far as to name-drop, Sir James Hardy as one of the nicest yet, and he is equally as fun and entertaining as Prince Charles. Jim, as his friends call him, started Hardy Wines of Australia. Jim raced and won the America's Cup and many

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more famous yacht races in which he's competed around the world. Much more on Sir James Hardy later. The tide's starting to run heavily, so before I ready for the event tonight, I must resecure Maria's dock lines. The next few hours getting ready would be hectic. And to make matters worse, all my clothes with exception of a couple of jackets, were damp and smelly. While I'm retying Maria, it strikes me as odd that I know little about Marian. Even though she's really good in bed and she's quite good looking, I have slight reservations about taking a new, and yet untested acquaintance to a party where they'll be many more gorgeous women. And, as I know women; they judge a man and his taste for women by the women he's with. So, I just hope Marian works out as an asset rather than a liability. Now it seems rather late in the game to ask what she's about. I don't even know if she has a roommate. Marian must have been reading my mind, because the next thing she said was, "My roommate recently graduated from school and is flying Quantas airlines as a hostess." This indicates her roommate is at least a six in looks or better, hopefully better! Well, one thing's for certain, tonight's dinner will be an interesting one! Within twenty minutes of our arrival, I had gathered all the clothes necessary for the affair; and a few more in the event that we should get waylaid while at Marian's place where ever that may be? On our way out from the Yacht Club, the Commodore stopped us in the parking area and assured me Maria would be safe until the haul out the next day. I thought to myself it was lavish that he heaped so much attention on such a trivial thing. But at the

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same time, it struck me that he was using the conversation as a cover to check out beautiful Marian. At the same time, he was trying to figure out where I was coming from. I explained, half bragingly, that we were invited to dinner out in the country and would return the next morning for the haulout. With a sincere handshake, I thanked the Commodore for his help and concern for the boat. In his eyes, I saw a look of approval and a little lust, as he examined Marian's firm, youthful body. Once on the main highway, we headed east of Melbourne around Port Phillip Bay to Mt. Eisa, a very prominent area. Just driving around Port Phillips Bay is an enjoyable experience. All along the bay's perimeter, you see the history of this notorious body of water. Buildings that date back to Melbourne's first settlers still dot the countryside of the bay. Port Phillip Bay measures nearly sixty miles across in any direction. I can attest that this bay is filled with thousands upon thousands of sandbars which change their position all the time. On any weekend on Port Phillips Bay, you'll find many boats on these sandbars. I've found Australians seem to put more enthusiasm into their sailing than do Americans. Almost all the Aussies I've met sail or want to sail. On our way to Marian's we passed Luna Park, which is closed for the winter. The amusement park's entrance is a giant clown's face which measures forty feet tall, and you enter through it's mouth. Even though it's almost winter, Australians are out on the bay sailing! And I thought I was mad for sailing in these nippy winter waters! It's now late enough that the skies have darkened to a dark gray. This time of year, it starts to get dark around 5:30 in the evening. The drive around the bay was a leisurely one. It took about thirty-five minutes to drive here, and the dinner

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party starts at 7:30. So once we get there, we must put a rush on things to get ready. Living on a yacht, you get used to dressing in a hurry. I usually take a maximum of twenty minutes to dress, and that includes polishing my shoes. I see in Marian's eyes the look of impending gloom about the dinner tonight. So to take the edge off things, I decided to stop and pick up a bottle of champagne. Marian insisted on buying it, so she went in to the pull-up and came out with a vintage bottle of Dom Perignon. In route to the party we popped it to celebrate our by chance meeting, this seemed to steady her nerves. Marian owns a little gatehouse in the neighborhood of Mt. Eisa, where there are many equestrian horse farms. In all directions, as far as the eye can see, green fields, stables, and tack barns dot the countryside. Just for a moment, the landscape reminds me of where I was raised in Kentucky, where thoroughbred horses run free within their paddocks. The late time in the day, and the lack of sunlight, is causing the landscape to appear gray and uncolorful; like the moors and bogs of Scotland. Just plain grey, but still inextricably charming. I'm starting to feel I may have greatly underestimated Marian. We entered the front gates of what appears to be an estate dating back to colonial Melbourne. "Lady Marian," indeed. Marian's grandmother was an early pioneer of Melbourne. Grandma gave Marian the gatehouse as a birthday present. Marian told me, that in her childhood, she and her cousins, "all nineteen of them," used to have great fun playing in the old place. So when Marian got older, she convinced grandma that she would restore the old place as it

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once was. Apparently, Marian's grandfather got his start on the railroad as a design engineer, in an era when railroads were the prime driving force in transportation throughout Australia. When the railroad's heyday ended, he found himself jobless, so he went to work for a friend in the lumber business in one of his mills. He worked briefly in the mills to give him a good understanding of the business, then he was moved inside as a pricing supervisor. Six years of hard effort got him the position of regional director. Two years passed with him serving as regional director, when he was asked to take a seat on the board of directors. For the next few years, the company flourished, until his best friend became ill and died. His wife, still in grief over her late husband's death, wanted no more of the lumber business. It was at that point that she offered Marian's grandfather the opportunity of his lifetime. She offered him the ownership of all the mills and their related operations. The transaction took place with no money exchanging hands. She did ask that payments be made on what he felt the fair value was for the consideration. Marian continued by telling me that soon after her grandfather bought the bussiness, he became one of the biggest successes in Melbourne. His company furnished all the timbers for the railroads, which were starting to criss-cross the entire continent. During his lifetime, he amassed a great fortune, and lived to the ripe old age of 93 to enjoy it. His old age gave him the opportunity to spoil all the grandchildren. Without warning, one morning six years ago, Grandpa simply never awoke!

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Marian continued with the conversation as we pulled up to her house. It was obvious she held many sacred memories of her famous grandfather. Her little house was a converted gate house that once served as a guest house for visitors. The house adjoined the tack barn and the painting studio of her grandmother. Now after her in-depth story about her family's past, I'm embarrassed! Here I thought Marian might have an adjustment problem with this dinner party. Well, I guess you live and learn! When the car doors closed, Marian's favorite gelding, Sir Edmund H., ran across the paddock to greet us. Now I feel like kicking myself in the ass. How could I have made such a bad judgement about Marian? How could I have known that a nice girl like her would be hanging out in a sleazy pub like the Grey Whale? I found it hard to tell that she came from an affluent background. Well, all I know is, she shouldn't be associating with the likes of the people in the Greying Whale. That's it, I've justified everything, she shouldn't have been there in the first place. Maybe I shouldn't have either. S.E.H. is a chestnut colored hunter-jumper, sixteen and a half hands of purebred thoroughbred, an equestrian's dream come true. S.E.H. has a vigorous stance and a spooky, hybrid personality. Marian fed him a couple of apples, while I removed our belongings from the trunk. In the driveway, three unfamiliar cars are parked, none of which Marian has seen before. The sound of music filled the trees which lined the driveway entrance and the sound got louder as we approached her bedroom. Suddenly, a white Porsche Targa charged up the driveway with music blasting at full volume, with the band, "Men at Work" playing.

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"Who can it be now, who can it be now," as the tape wound to the end. Marian's roommate had gone to the pub to purchase wine for guests that she was entertaining at Marian's. Roxanne, nicknamed Rockie, looked like the movie character, "Pussy Galore" in the James Bond movie, "Goldfinger." She is a stunning 5'll" redhead, with wavy waist-length hair, high cheek bones, and soft golden-green eyes. When she stepped from her car, I couldn't help but notice her long, sinewy legs. Her ankles were barely the size of my wrists. She was wearing a long sleeve blue silk blouse with a tan pair of culottes, mini length. As her first high heel hit the ground, I fixed my vision to her long, nimble frame. I caught myself just in time. Marian had been opening the door as Rockie went through her paces. Quite openly she spread her legs as she rose from the seat of her car, a motion which resembled her taking mount of a saddle. A multitude of sexual fantasies raced through my "nasty-nasty" mind! Marian, very curtly, exchanged conversation with her, trying to avoid my presence. It was obvious she was trying to avoid introducing me to Rockie. Rockie was certainly a super spunky little rich girl, whose mere presence radiated pure animal sensuality. Even the gait of her walk implied that she was a very strong-willed and confident person. Her light, wispy hand movement implied that she had supreme self-confidence and independence, yet she was divinely feminine; a quality any red blooded male desires in a beautiful woman. From the minute Marian and I met, she exhibited a strong, positive attitude but now she's showing a negative side with beautiful Rockie present! It's easy to see she and Rockie are in direct competition and men seem to be their goal.

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Rockie bubbles with enthusiasm as she introduces herself, which irritates Marian to the point of blows. Marian suggests we hurry to avoid being late for the party. I agree, but in the back of my mind I'm thinking how nice it would be to have Rockie come with us. Freudian isn't it! When the three of us negotiated the entrance to the house, Rockie pressed near me, leaving the scent of her cologne on my body and senses. I inquired about the fragrance. "It's Cie." One of my favorites. Her youth, sensuality, and warmth dazzle my natural instincts. Gazing into Rockie's lovely face, I couldn't help but think about being alone with her, caressing her body while showering with her. Meanwhile, Marian's entire mood has changed; I see her roommate has caused her to become distant and defensive. I felt the need to reassure Marian. I told Rockie that I was happy we had met, then followed Marian to her room. Marian explained that Rockie had become oversexed while working as an airline hostess. I gasped for air and nearly choked as I tried to contain my reaction as her explanation continued. Rockie has discovered her best assets and apparently knows just how to use them! When I noted Marian's discomfort, I tried to reassure her that my loyalties were to her, and that Rockie didn't affect me in the least. I made that statement, while struggling to pull my trousers over a very firm erection caused by the beautiful Rock. Her nick name, "The Rock," would come later after we became better acquainted. God, I Love Sailing. I tried to confabulate a story that would help convince Marian that she's number one! But Rockie's introduction left her a bit shaken. Then by

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Freudian slip, I said, "Just because she's young and beautiful doesn't mean that I am automatically attracted to her." Although I let a subtle thought slip by, Marian seemed to accept the half-hearted explanation. From outside, Marian's house appeared to be a small frame coach house. But inside, it displayed a well-proportioned cottage of English Tudor construction, with a varying nuance of colors which gave the house a very warm feeling. We've spent the last twenty-one hours reeling from one experience to the other. Now Lady Marian, as I was soon to nick name her, says that I look tired and should rest a while before the party. And yes, a warm, down-filled bed would feel nice. Her bed is straight out of a Victorian mansion. The headboard is a collage of carved oak with inlaid onyx and pearl. The headboard has a scenic carving of a Fox hunt which extends the entire width of the bed. The bed is a very obvious nostalgic connection to the past. The carver who did the work signed his name. Edward P. Thomas, master carver, 1894. This singular piece of art has survived the past hundred years and yet looks as though it's never been harmed in any way! It's age and the fact that it has survived automatically gives it an air of mystery. It was obviously cared for by someone who appreciated it's value as a unique piece of artwork. After sleeping for an hour and twenty minutes, I was suddenly awakened to a shocking vision. Marian had lit many candles throughout the room. It's dark outside, but the room is aglow with soft, colorful pastels. I was startled as my eyes fell upon Marian standing at the end of the bed. She was wearing an old Victorian wedding gown. The colors of light in the room shimmered across the dress as

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she walked into the bathroom. Quite naturally, she inquired as to the quality of my short sleep. I was brief with my explanation, because I was more curious about the reason she was wearing the wedding gown. Before I had time to address the question, she started to disrobe then walked into the bathroom. As I slid out of bed, I caught a familiar smell, that of a vintage champagne. She had opened a vintage bottle of Veuve Chiquot, leaving a full glass on the night table next to the bed. While I stared at the glass, she suddenly reappeared, now fully dressed in a beautiful black evening gown. She passed me the phone, reminding me to call Ms. Post for the limousine. As I dialed, she kissed me on the cheek then down my neck. Then she said, "Lindsey, tell Stephanie to pick us up here." Uncertain, I asked, "Where is here?" Marian replied, "The coach house of the Vandermere Estate." I didn't question why Ms. Post knew the location. Then I assumed Marian and Ms. Post knew one another. It was now 7:20, and I still had to dress! Lady Marian helped with my clothes. Within ten minutes after showering, I was dressed and indeed ready to party. I felt it appropriate to ask Marian about her relationship with Ms. Post. She replied, half laughing that, "We've been neighbors all our lives. Ms. Post lives only two and three quarter miles from here." I get the distinct feeling that I'm being set up. Any way it goes, it should be fun. As I made the last pass on the Windsor knot in my tie as the limousine arrived. Lady Marian, in her dazzling costume, exited through Rockie and her party guests who appeared to be having a lot of fun. Marian should, indeed, dazzle everyone at the

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party. As we approached the car, the driver addressed Marian as Ms. Vandermere as casually as one could possibly speak. I've been yawning incessantly for the last twenty minutes. As we made ourselves comfortable in the car, the driver sensed our curiosity, so he handed us the guest list. A total of thirty-eight people were invited. The guest list was unusual, because it gave each person's country of origin. Some would find this intriguing, and I am sure some would find it somewhat offensive; depending on the country of origin. Personally, I found it extremely entertaining. The drive was obviously a short one, even so, we're still a few minutes late. By the looks of the automobiles in the driveway, it should be an interesting evening. Two of the limousines have diplomatic license plates from Canberra, the capital of Australia. Normally, I am in complete composure; tonight I was feeling marginal. Before exiting the car, I checked to see if my gold Rolex is polished enough. I am wearing cufflinks with my family crest engraved on them, with a matching ring on my right hand. On my left hand, I am wearing a ring which is starting to develop acclaim. It's a ring that I made in 1974 in La Jolla, California. When customs agents look at the ring they all have the same comment, "I've never seen anything so unusually beautiful as your ring." Many have taken pictures of it for their files. Our driver first opened Marian's door. Then I started out the other side, running face to face with the mystical and charming Charles Fox. The Fox handed me a very dry Tanqueray on the rocks, "no ice." I began to laugh, then he began to laugh. I asked him, "How did you know where I was coming from?" We both started laughing almost uncontrollably!

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Two grown men standing here asking one and the other where each was coming from. Now, that's funny. We agree, the world would be a better place, if there were more just like us. Then we toasted. Foxy and I started toward the front veranda, Marian joined us at the front steps. Several guests had gathered around outside to smoke their cigars and cigarettes so as not to offend the other guests inside. Foxy acknowledged that he was pleased we could attend, and knew if we did, the party would certainly be more fun. Foxy was dressed in a black tuxedo with an Ambassador Medallion and ribbon. At first I hesitated, but then on second thought, why shouldn't I ask why and where he acquired such a splendid looking ornament. "Foxy, where did you acquire that magnificent ribbon?" I waited for his reply, I thought he would be serious. "A yard sale!" was his answer. Another round of uproarious laughter. I saluted his impeccable dress, then we entered the front doors. Marian found her way into the ladies' gossip section, and seemed to recognize and relate to everyone present. At that point, everyone in a single motion, stopped to give their fullest attention to our introduction. Diane, my sailing partner, appeared, then began to help introduce several guests who had arrived late. We noticed one another simultaneously. When her eyes fell on mine, I began to flush with the awkwardness of the situation. My time had come to be introduced. With a warm, charming voice, she said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to a man whom I met in the United States. He's been lauded in the Australian and American media as an adventurer at heart and a uniquely accomplished yachtsman; Edward Lindsey Fain III from the United States!"

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Marian stood exactly two feet in front of me. She served as a wonderful security blanket. My knees grew weak at my introduction. I felt my face flushing, as I began to speak, I knew the first word would be the hardest! Simplicity is the key. So I simply said, "Thank you, Diane, for such a splendid and warm introduction." Then I ran straight to Marian for security. I enjoy being the center of attention, but I really hate being eulogized in front of total strangers. Surely I'll recover with nothing more than a headache in the morning. While my eyes swept through the room, I recognized several people. Marian had just introduced me to our hostess, Ms. Post. Diane, I noticed, was staring at me from across the room. The Post mansion was reminiscent of my childhood. We visited Chicago for the summer vacation and one of the exhibits in the Natural History Museum was a Victorian Castle that resembles the Post mansion. The house in the museum is constructed in exact detail, l/32nd of an inch to the foot scale. The lights, water and most appliances actually work on the scaled down model. A millionaire's doll house, complete with a garage full of exotic autos, lawn mowers, and pup tents. The Post estate was a Shirley Temple fantasy come true. As you approach the front of the mansion, the structure itself is as imposing as Notre Dame! The twelve front steps carry you ten feet above the circular drive, which forms a perfect hundred foot circle. The shrubs are a hybrideugenia, geometrically manicured into perfect globes which line the circular driveway. In the middle of the driveway stands a fountain, which is twenty-four feet high. The fountain itself is a bronze sculpture of a lion and his offspring. The sculpture depicts the father protecting his offspring

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who are nestled in front and under their father's protection. The sculpture is one that a person would expect to see at the front gate entrance to the Nairobi Wildlife Museum. Word has it, that during World War II, Grandpa Post was on business in Paris. He discovered the Bronze through a friend who had become the curator of Le Musee du Louvres. Spotting the piece still crated, and with Nazi troops moving in towards Paris, Grandpa Post took the bronze and guaranteed it's safekeeping in Australia until the end of the war. So here it sits, totally protected from the eyes of the world, never to be adorned in any museum as it should be. Only the local pigeons can fully appreciate it's total usefulness. I stand here wondering how many other similar artworks have ended up in the possesion of other wealthy families? The fountain has lights at it's base, with thirty gold colored bulbs surrounding it. The water shoots skyward and out like the graceful curve of an opened umbrella. The water falls into a forty foot basin around the center lion sculpture. Mr. Post himself was responsible for the architectural design of the fountain. Post had left all of his legacy to his only daughter, Stephanie. Every detail in the main house looked as though he personally had directed it's construction. A mental tour of the house would go something like this. The main construction material is quarry stone, which he had personally unearthed with his own men. The pillars which hold up the roof over the front entrance are black marble of Italian origin. The entire front steps are covered in highly polished white and black tiles. They create a checked effect reaching to the first landing. The landing leading to the pillared front doors creates a path which is tiled in ebony marble. Each of the

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black tiles measures four feet square. The front doors are twelve feet high and ten feet wide. The door faces are sheeted brass turned a ruddy green with tarnish. The sheet of brass is riveted by large rivets 1/2 inch in diameter to the core of underlying wood. Two lion heads protrude one foot from the door's face. The front doors open to an entry hall to which a spiral staircase with steps twelve feet wide ascends to a second floor viewing balcony. The balcony has a view that looks down and out into the entry hall. From the landing, extending outward, pedestalled bronzes line the hallways. Portraits of the Post family adorn the hallway's end. Grandfather Post's portrait had the dubious distinction of hanging on the landing, which looks down over the entire house. I get the distinct feeling that a man of his stature still has a watchful eye over the house! The first floor's east wing contained his study and library, along with his personal collection of artifacts, which he collected from all over the world. A globe made of solid brass, reputedly owned by Napoleon, ornamented the room's core. Every detail of the globe was inlaid with dissimilar metals, including gold and silver. One of his prized possessions was a six foot, 1/8th inch scale model of his lifelong yacht, "The Sea Rage." The sleek yawl was 108 feet from stem to stern and constructed of huen pine over spotted gum with oak frames. It's creation was in part due to Mr. Post and his lifelong friend, Alden, the renowned and distinguished marine architect. A huge painting of "Sea Rage," 6 x 8 feet, hung over the walk-in fireplace in the study. The plants in the room were uniquely potted. Each pot was bronze sitting inside an elephant's foot. I was amazed at the immense size of the elephants'

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toenails. He had made a name for himself by collecting unique artifacts from all over the world. His pursuits for the rare and unusual, led him to having models built of the Stone Henge and Easter Island. Each are encased in ornately designed glass viewing boxes, which at a flick of a switch can be lit. What a man, a Monarch in his own world! The entire house carries the same uniqueness, and everything in it, was in itself, unique or custombuilt. Each room emanated elegance and distinction by using subtle blends of color. The furnishings were very explicit in their design, each piece carried it's function and place for it's use. I came here to share the evening with dinner guests, now I'm caught up in the complex life and psychology of a man whom I've never known. He's the sort of person you wish you could have met. Every object reflects the picture of a man who was infinitely complex. A man who enjoyed life to it's fullest. I sincerely wish I could have spoken to him. I feel we have shared many things in common. Sailing was certainly one of our kindred love affairs. Now I'm being summoned to the music room, where people are singing and drinking champagne. I have wandered aimlessly for the last 45 minutes, soaking up all the high drama the house seems to elicit. The experience of viewing the Post legacy has been both rejuvenating and enlightening. His belongings are expressive of his deep inner emotions. Now I understand the immense responsibility that Stephanie governs as heiress to her father. She has inherited a twenty-four room house, not to mention the stables, the servants' quarters, and a painting studio that Mr. Post had built for his wife. There is also the large bathhouse where the children spent most summers with their friends.

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Walking into the music room, I ran into Foxy. He suggests we meet his date in the drawing room. We entered the hallway and walked to the lower level, where we entered the drawing room. The room's interior is dark and exudes the smell of exotic woods. We interrupted the conversation between Marian and Valerie, Foxy's date for the evening. They were talking about how Marian and I had met at the Greying Whale, and how much fun we had that evening aboard Foxy's trawler. I changed the context of our conversation by asserting, "Foxy, who the hell are you, a fisherman? And how the hell did you develop such a diverse attitude toward living?" Foxy's eyes lit up with eager enthusiasm as I poured the coals onto my questioning. I realized that if I continued to hammer him, he might open up and reveal himself. I tried to keep Foxy from deviating from the subject. I knew if I could continue the questioning, I would arrive at a better understanding of this truly complex individual. He resigned to my questioning, then began to pour forth his life story. Foxy was born to a diabolic family history. They were also very wealthy. His ancestry dated back to Mongols' invasion of Siberia. Foxy's greatgreat grandfather on his mother's family side was the first Tsar of all the Russians, "Ivan the Terrible." He was also the first Tsar to make use of terror as a state policy. The origins of both the Tsarist secret police and today's KGB can be traced directly to him and his reign of terror. Ivan used his own private secret police to eliminate rivals for power, especially among the Russian politicians. At one point, Ivan attacked Navgarod, one of his own cities. He put to death thousands of his own subjects, by such bizarre means as impaling, frying

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alive, boiling, roasting on open pits, frying in gigantic skillets, evisceration, and most mercifully, drowning. For a time, he actually put half of Russia under the direct rule of his secret police. Establishing quite literally, a police state under his personal control, a method later favored by Stalin! Thus, Foxy derived his family history, which was diabolic in some people's eyes. His family had immigrated to Australia when the country opened up to explorers and wealthy industrialists. Foxy's grandfather was both. The family's wealth continued through many generations. Foxy left home at an early age by joining the crew of an Austrian trading ship. Working his way up from laboring in shaft alley to taking noonday fixes, he soon became very proficient. With little more than six years of sea life under his belt, he returned home to fish with a friend's father. Foxy became a very good fisherman in a short time. Then by misfortune, his friend's father was washed overboard in a violent storm, leaving Foxy to find his way back to Coles Bay, Tasmania. Located just north of Hobart about 150 kilometers, Longitude 152'3" E Latitude 42 degrees. Six weeks later, he became skipper of his own boat, which he renamed the Sea Fox. Tradition and superstition has it, if a ship's name is changed, bad luck will fall on the new owner. With Foxy it was just the opposite. Everyday he fished he would accomplish the impossible. His catches were always the limit. He always got his price wherever he went. Everyone respected him, because he had become an enigma that other fishermen couldn't figure out. Hence, he developed an extraordinary good reputation as a nice guy, and incredible fisherman. Period. End of story. And so another page in a saga of a man's life is

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captured. Hopefully by telling this story, others can get a feeling for another man's life and accomplishments. We proposed a toast to one another's good fortunes, then dispelled any notion that we agreed with any other way of life. Departing the room, I couldn't help but sample what appears to be a vintage cognac. I fill my champagne glass half full. In the process, I identified the cognac to be a classic Napoleon V.V.S.O.P. I poured Foxy the same amount, and with a discerning sip he agreed on the vintage. We both smiled and realized it was our job to debauch and enjoy ourselves. So I poured one more while we were both in uproarious laughter. It's dinnertime and everyone is being summoned to the dining room. On the way, Foxy and I discussed the real possibilities of me going fishing and we decide to leave in two weeks. We've decided to fish the banks off the Tasmanian coast. My real concern is evaluating all the charts necessary for the trip. He says there won't be any problem, but I don't agree. Entering the dining room, I took Marian by the arm to our designated seats. I detest writing about food and drink, but I will say that the chef, who was a five-star, deserved an encore for this dinner. Marian and I shared a Chateau Lafite Rothschild, 1929, which was a superior wine for that year. The dessert was a black cherry "Cherries Jubilee". Genuinely a lovely evening. After the dinner Stephanie started to formally introduce the guests. Many of the people I had heard about, but never dreamed of meeting in person. Don Lane, an American singer who has become a T.V. star in Australia was one of them. He also hosts a late night show like Johnny Carson's

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Tonight Show in the U.S. Frank Hardy, a novelist and playwright, is also a T.V. personality. Robin Davidson, a Sydney fashion model, made her claim to fame by crossing the Gibson Desert aboard a camel, and thereby received the nickname, "The Camel Lady." Neville Wran, owner of the limousine with the diplomatic license plates, is the Labor Premiere of New South Wales and President of the Australian Labor Party. Rupert Murdock, the head of an international publishing empire. He recently bought the controlling interest in Ansett Transport Industries. What was most uncanny, was that everyone easily related to my sailing experiences, and most of these guests belonged to the Sandringham Yacht Club. With little reluctance, I agreed to address the yacht club's adult navigation class this Thursday. Because I was the only American single-handing in this area, quite a few news articles were in the paper. One such article from the Manly Daily read, "Around the World Yachtsman and Novelist, Lindsey Fain, sets new Australian record for single-handed circumnavigation of Australia. The American novelist, Lindsey Fain, on his second around-theworld yachting voyage, was relieved to reach Melbourne this week after taking a massive battering along the Southern Coast of Australia." "Fain, 33, a retired property millionaire, had to be assisted when his sloop, Maria Van Diemen lost power and began to take on water through a fitting below the yacht's water line. The yacht floundered in the Port Phillip rip as the yachtsman made repairs which allowed him to make harbor at Queenscliff, where the boat is presently being repaired."

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"Fain recounted he was thrown overboard while circumnavigating the Australian coastline. Fain's worst near tragedy occurred sailing from Bunbury Western Australia to Albany. He was knocked overboard while being harnessed to the yacht by a ten foot stainless steel cable. Fain recounted he was pulled helplessly along in the wake of his yacht, Maria Van Diemen. In desperation, Fain managed to surf into the yacht, then catch an upright stanchion, which he attributed to saving his life. He was pulled through the water, half-submerged, for over five minutes. The water temperature was a nippy 46 degrees fahrenheit. Lindsey remembered clambering down below and drinking several large mouthfuls of cognac before passing out from exposure and exhaustion. Fain recounted eleven hours passed before he regained full consciousness where he found himself approximately eighty-six miles off the Albany coast. He figured that the distance traveled while unconscious was some seventy four miles due east." Fain's sailing adventure will be available in Australia in book form around August, 1981. The title of the book is not yet certain." The night ended with the usual pleasantries. I had been invited to several functions and at the same time, I have developed a view about wealthy Australians, that until now I had been missing. The entire group of people present were special in their individual life pursuits. I left the dinner party with a renewed sense of self purpose. The people at the party were those who dared to be great, and in their own way, surely had reached that goal. But one main question remained unanswered. Were any of these people fulfilling any of their life's

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fantasies? In our youth, we set goals that are personal to us, then as we grow in life, these goals get obscured by other responsibilities. I couldn't help but feel that many of the people here would love to do what I am doing. Somehow, they find me interesting because I've had the courage to fulfill my life's desires. Tonight, many of the men who spoke to me expressed their fondest best wishes for a continued safe journey. I was curious that if I asked, how many would love to come along? Their positive support is a strong incentive and serves to strengthen my opinion that a man must live by his life accomplishments or he may die from idle dreams yet unfulfilled. "Youth is as fleeting," as one's firm grasp on time. One minute you seem to have it and the next it's gone...

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4
Tasmania and the Black Prince
The longer my stay in Melbourne the more interesting things seem to be getting. Marian has turned out far differently than I had expected and Charles Fox was keeping par on the course. All I can really say is, Melbourne is far more different that I expected. Now I have to resume the somewhat less dramatic duties of preparing the boat for the next leg of the trip. I must get this work out of the way in the next three weeks, so I can go fishing in the Bass Strait with Foxy. Marian and I returned to her house that evening and enjoyed a passionate soiree comparable to the splendid party we had just left. By gauging Marian's mood, I would say that she was still thinking about the meeting between Rockie and I, although her pride would never allow her to admit it. The next morning Marian was jovial but

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pensive with her attitude. I know she could sense Rockie and I hit it off famously and at the first available opportunity we would do something as sleazy as could be imagined. Nah! Sandringham, what a yacht club! The more I think about it, the more I like this place. Almost every day, there's something going on and the people are so genuinely friendly. Once Maria was out of the water, the work went quickly, but the club and it's activities made it difficult to concentrate on the effort. I did just enough work on the boat to get her back in the water so I could leave her several days without worrying. When the evening came, Marian and I and the gang went out on the town! Several nights were spent in the Greying Whale, competing to see who could hold the most beer before bursting. Both the Fox and myself found our limit fourteen schooners. Each schooner was nearly one pint, a lot of beer any way you look at it. I continued dating Marian, but my mind and true love was trapped in a woman in San Diego, Anne Ladon. All I can say is, my heart is with her and it is not easy for me no matter how attractive or intelligent another woman is. So, as I fish and sail around Australia all I think of is my elusive lost love, Anne. I think of someday meeting her again and telling her the way I feel for her. Our separation was under very difficult circumstances! Almost every man that I've met who lives by the sea, has a similar story of a lost love or romance. These are men who have been separated from their loved ones with the fear of never seeing them again. Like Foxy had promised, we fished the banks off Tasmania and had a lot of fun. Foxy and I developed a good reputation with the ladies in

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Hobart, an area of Tasmania on the east coast. In fact Hobart is the finish point of the Sydney-Hobart Yacht Race. The race starts at the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia and finishes in Hobart. When I first arrived in Australia, I sailed in the Sydney Hobart on Bacardi. The owner was Alan Bond, promoter and entrepreneur. I collected many phone numbers in Hobart, so when we hit the dock, fun ensued. One of "The Fish Ladies" was a college professor at the University of Tasmania. She taught microbiology. She was an excellent partier and "loved to fish," as we say when we're in company of ladies. Our trips continued back and forth between Hobart and Queenscliff. On several occasions, Marian and I went fishing with Foxy and his girls. We always managed to have fun in any port we hit. Like Sydney, Hobart owes it's beginnings to a penitentiary. The infamous Port Arthur was constructed nearby between 1830 and 1877. The name was as feared in England and the rest of Australia as Devil's Island was in Europe. Today the prison city lies in a mellow, romantic ruins 60 kilometers from the capitol. Hobart's population is around 170,000 out of the total island's population of 430,000. Shaped rather like a shield, the state is a rugged, sparsely settled, even partly unexplored, area of 26,235 sq. miles. That is about the same approximate size of Scotland. Were it not so dwarfed physically, culturally and economically by the continent above, it would qualify as a big, important island indeed. Like many scenic lands, Tasmania has a violent history. Not only in the conflicts with convicts, but also between the settlers and the indigenous population. Tasmania was a nation of Aborigines of

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completely different racial stock than the natives of the mainland. Somehow, the early English colonists managed to slay nearly all of them. A few older survivors were rounded up, but the last full-blooded Tasmanian Aboriginal died around 85 years ago. The famous Tasmanian Tiger used to roam the Tasmanian rough country in great numbers. Now it is believed there are only around five left in existence. Australians still think of Tassie as the "Apple Isle". Some of the world's most delicious apples are grown here. An old local farmer gave us the tour of our lives. He showed us the tourist traps and then we went fishing. The old farmer's name was Nicholas. He was a miner in his youth and had been a job superintendent for one of the iron mines in Tassie. We've also managed to make exceptionally good friends with the Commodore at the Royal Tasmanian Yacht Club. Foxy, Marian, Stacey and I head for the yacht club with Nicholas. Like anywhere else in or around Australia, slot machines are wall to wall in the yacht club. A little woman just hit a $5,000.00 jackpot. She is the first to win $5,000.00 in six months. She immediately shared her winnings by buying everyone a drink. Australians and Tasmanians alike revel in the yacht scene. This particular day, the yacht club is filled with cadets. Every Wednesday, they have races for the sabots and sunfish designs. Later in the day, at 1:30, the adults have the beer can races, mostly a get-together! Almost always, it's the boss's opportunity to teach his secretary a few tricks about sailing, I think. Everywhere I've been, Australians show an intense curiosity towards Americans,

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especially regarding sailing. America has proven itself a strong world sailing contender. Therefore, anyone sailing around Australia single-handed must be an excellent sailor. And they're right. The people who run the R.T.Y.C. are the very nicest yet in Tasmania. They offered me full use of their club and facilities year-round. The four of us have been here for two days and Foxy seems to have an itch, related to his wife Nancy in San Remo. So any time now, I expect him to call her and relieve some of the guilt of being with another woman. His favorite saying is, "Nancy never nags or asks questions about the fishing trips, because she's afraid she might get the truth! Then again, she thinks we're in the Bass Strait working our asses off fishing. Besides, we are fishing, but the game isn't fish. The Fox and I have been playing up a bit, and Nancy suspects our trawling nets are somewhere other than the Bass Strait. Now that I've known Foxy for some time, I don't feel that I've added to his delinquency in any way. Foxy would be doing the same thing with or without my presence, and since I've known him, he's been the one to instigate the rendezvous with the women. Well, not all of them! What's really funny is that Foxy normally calls his wife from the boat with the "ship to shore" phone. Then he acts as if we're out at sea working the fish. This time, he's really bold and is making the call while we're here at the Royal Tasmanian Yacht Club. Normally, that wouldn't have posed a problem if the call had been made late at night. But what happened was, Foxy made the call and told her we were 140 miles south of San Remo and catching more fish than the boat could hold. That story would have held water, so to speak, but suddenly the public address system blared out a page for Dr. Edwin Lorenze, asking him

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to call his office. Foxy's face went blank, then he faked trouble with the connection to Melbourne, hanging up on his wife. Foxy paced the decks for a minute, cussing the whole time, while both the girls and I fell to the deck, laughing hysterically. Poetic justice, I think it's called! Foxy finally resigned to laughter, then faced the fact that he was caught with his gumboots on. You'll have to look up that expression from World War II! The Fox went out on deck trying to appear as though he was a beaten man, as in the Kama-Kazi type! "Ceremoniously," he pulled a liter of Victoria Bitters beer from the isky, then opened the cargo hatch and jumped into a mountain of crushed ice. By the way "isky" in Australian means beer cooler. The next day we were to head back to Melbourne, and hopefully get lucky and catch some fish to cover our story! Heading back to Melbourne, we teased Foxy about the phony call to Nancy, his wife. On the way back to Melbourne, we actually caught a ton of fish. Today the weather has started to turn, and pulling into Queenscliff in bad weather would be no easy chore. Marian, for the first time, appears to be a little sea sick, but she's trying her best not to show it. Today could be the day that she turns unpleasantly ill on the return trip. Hopefully, she'll keep it together. But then, as things would have it, Marian was serving a round of coffee to Foxy and me while we were pulling in the net. Because our attention was broken with the coffee, we fouled the net into the prop, chewing a twenty foot hole in it. The weather has definitely been building since our departure from Tasmania at sunrise. I made several calls to Melbourne, and none of the

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information was encouraging. The weather in the channel for our crossing would be rough, and our weather fax satellite observation printout proved it. Right behind us, the weather looks as though it's gone through a blender. The pilot house at Queenscliff gave the faint suggestion a storm was in the making and a serious low was building on the southwest perimeter of Tassie. Barometers had begun to fall in Port Davey and Macquarie Harbor. The barometer was now below the danger point which is generally 29.21 millibars. As I said, Marian was now showing signs of seasickness, her face wasn't it's usual color and her speech was considerably slower. When the net fouled, Foxy went aft and started to pull lines clear so we could un-foul it from the prop. When standard procedure did not work, Foxy decided to cut the net free. So for the last fifteen minutes, he worked with marginal success. Foxy's lady is as cool as a cucumber, she's drinking Bunderburg rum and coke. I might add she's definitely a sexy lady. I knew Foxy would be thirsty from working, so I told her it would be nice if she would mix him a drink to cut off the edge. I reminded her that Marian was looking ill and be sure to watch her close. Then a shout from Foxy alarmed us all. By accident, he'd cut a large blue fin tuna's stomach open while feverishly trying to free the net. Foxy stood up long enough to wipe the fish blood from his face and arms. Considering the mood of the moment, things don't look so good. In the last few minutes, the weather has changed drastically. The seas are building, and a following sea is drilling at our stern. I made a personal decision to suit up and go overboard to cut the prop free: that seems like the only way! We're locked into an eight

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foot trough, with a hard choppy sea abeam. Shit! The decks are covered with white foamy seas, and running freely through the ship's scuppers. After making the decision to dive under the boat, I quickly went below and pulled out the "Oh shit, never again bag". It's a bag that contains my basic diving gear. When Marian saw me go below, she made the mistake of following me. When she reached the last step, the diesel's aroma got to her and she started to vomit violently. Now I'm standing here with my foul weather pants down around my ankles, and helpless to aid poor Marian. Between seizures, she made a mad dash to the head. I am now starting to get worried about her and our little crew. Things seem to be deteriorating fast, unless I can get this prop freed quickly. Marian has started to dry heave, but now I have my neoprene divesuit on. The decks below are covered with the nauseating smell of bilge water and vomit. A smell much worse than any garbage dump. When I passed the head, I told Marian that the worst thing to do is come below when it's rough and smelly. Therefore, she should get up on deck and get as much fresh air as possible. I grabbed my neoprene dive jacket and headed up on deck with Marian in tow. When I reached the cabin house, I saw Foxy's girlfriend glued to the cargo boom looking fearful. I worked myself past her and found Foxy sitting Indian fashion on the stern hatch. When I touched his shoulder for balance, his sudden arm movement nearly knocked me down. Then I saw what was causing his concern. The fish in the net were jumping over the outside floats, but that wasn't all. The net had snagged several porpoises and several good sized sharks. The sharks were feeding on the captured fish within the net. Foxy looked even more concerned as I stood next to him in my diving suit. I

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reassured Foxy that my qualifications were more than ample, and besides, the sharks were on the inside of the net, and I was on the outside. This would have made sense if there weren't sharks collecting on the outside of the net, trying to get to our catch on the inside. Foxy looked worried, although no real danger was imminent. I have been in similar situations where things like this get out of control and someone gets hurt in the process. At this point, it's a good time to sit down and discuss the alternatives. First, we could cut the net at the stern, and drift to clear water, where there are no sharks feeding. Secondly, we could cut the main net lines above but would still be fouled down below. The props would still be fouled and holding us fast to the nets. Thirdly, I could hook up to a safety harness and dive below while trying to avoid getting afoul of the net. But then I would be taking a chance of getting hit in the head by the lurching hull, or maybe getting hit by one of a number of feeding sharks. Not a pleasant thought considering the circumstances! Fourth, the most frightening of possibilities, the storm was closing minute by minute and we would get hit while still fouled up in the net. It occurred to me we should try and let someone know we are here and not in the best of circumstances. Then maybe someone could reach us in time and give us a tow to safety. One thing for sure, time is of utmost importance. Foxy knows his ship better than I, so it's his decision that carries the most weight. For a couple of minutes we argued back and forth about the dangers of diving. I agreed, but reminded him that it wasn't the first time I'd been faced with a similar

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situation under the same conditions. The difference is this time it's civilian, not military. I entered the water at the bow, and Foxy followed me with the security line along the hull's side until we reached the stern. The water was extremely cold. The waves were building considerably by the moment. The boat lurched back and forth so violently that the port rail momentarily submerged. Right before my eyes, we were broadsided by a huge wave. The wave broke over the trawler's side, filling the decks with saltwater. The sight was frightening but nothing to worry about. Foxy grabbed the rigging overhead, then waited for the boat to settle down between the set of waves. The girls ran to the enclosed helm to watch. Unfortunately, in my haste to enter the water, I forgot to put on my rubber dive boots and neoprene hood. My face was warm, but then again, I hadn't begun diving yet. The trawler began to settle down when I decided to do the first of a series of inspection dives. The first dive came close to killing me. When I submerged, the mask fogged so bad that I couldn't see two inches in front of my face. Because of my reduced vision, I was swept under the boat. I tried in vain to surface, but my safety line was caught on the ship's sumlog shaft. The signal for an emergency was rapid jerking of the line! Not thinking very clearly, I jerked the line several times, then Foxy began pulling. Pulling on the line, he pulled me further beneath the boat, because it was wrapped around the sumlog, then came back to me. In my panic, I cut the safety line and made a rapid ascent to the surface. I found myself drifting ten feet from the boat. Apparently, we needed much more of a coordination effort than planned. For the first time in a long time, I was worried. Not necessarily for

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me, but for our lady friends. Then again, I shouldn't forget Foxy's boat, which is floundering in this unrelenting sea. As I scrambled aboard, Foxy saw the concern on my face. He then realized the danger was real. His first question was, "How bad is it?" Sparing all optimism, I told him the hard truth of our situation. We are fouled so bad, I am not sure what I can do, if anything at all. I was certain of one thing, that if I didn't get killed or seriously injured, we stood a decent chance of getting free. I suggested that we forget about the catch. I proposed tying the spare towing cables to the net, and cutting the main net away from the ship. It would still be secured by the towing cables. After I cut the cables, the net should drift away, along with the feeding sharks that are caught in it. This should reduce my concern about getting eaten alive. It will then be necessary to hook up the hookah rig. It's compressor was diesel and hadn't been run for several months, so it could take some time to get it fired up. I continued cutting the next main cable at the top of the net. I secured the net by attaching two one hundred foot cables to each side, then ran their ends forward, securing them to the Sampson's Post. I'll explain why later. Foxy went to the engine room below, and opened a hatch to feed the hookah lines up on deck. A couple minutes later, I heard the two cylinder diesel compressor start, and the hiss of pressure building up in the lines. That's good news, to say the very least. I took a break for a minute to catch my breath. In that short time, I pondered the possibility of dropping the bolt cutters overboard. Immediately, I got a line to tie the cutters securely to the heaving boat. When I started cutting the next cable, I looked

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down and saw a large white cruising beneath the ship. I double checked my precarious balance then continued the task. I guess things aren't bad enough! Foxy just came on deck and informed me that a fuel tank strap has broken on the main tank. Charming! Foxy says he'll secure it with a come along and that should do the trick. What next? Nearing the point of no return, I cut through the cable. Two more cuts should do it! The tension on the cable is nearly incalculable as the pulling and heaving continues. With one last, hardy stroke, the cable snaps and falls away, shifting the tension onto the bow lines. If all goes well, two hours from now we'll set out for land. Just maybe! The girls and Foxy came out on deck and gazed down into the water, they could see the net was cut away at the top. The sharks in the net are some eighty feet away now. Nonetheless, they're still frightening despite the distance. We discussed the practicality and feasibility of cutting the mesh of the net, or whether it would be necessary. If we cut the main lines which are wrapped around the prop shaft, that should be all that's necessary to break the lighter mesh net in between the lines. We'll soon see! The fear of sharks lingers in the back of my mind as I prepare to enter the water. I selected a razor-sharp stainless steel fillet knife to do the job. The fourteen-inch bolt cutters have just enough weight to neutralize my buoyancy. So, I'll tie the cutters on in a permanent fashion around my waist. If I lost these cutters, we could be in real trouble. This time, I'll wear a full hood, gloves, and boots, taking no chances of being forced to quit early because of the cold water. I'll stay down and

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work until I free us or else. For some reason, I felt very alone when I stepped off the ship and into the water. For a moment, the seas abated, giving me a false sense of encouragement. I jumped in the water with the bolt cutters trailing on a short two foot line. Foxy threw the hookah mask in the water to me. I let the bolt cutters hang beneath me in the water as I opened the air intake valve on the mask. The hissing flow of air was reassuring, as I loosened the four hood straps of the face mask. The volume of air flow was more than ample, I opened the valve to full position. I began to relax and concentrate on the task, when I suddenly thought to myself that it would be smart to tie myself in such a way that I could work with both hands. Trying to tie oneself to a crashing, pulling, heaving, tossing ship wasn't so easy, it was exhausting. Once I was tied, the work began and within twenty minutes, I had cut a sizeable portion of the lines free and only two large steel cables remained. Then I looked below and saw two gray tiger sharks cruising the waters below the boat. They were obviously wanting something to eat. Two more stainless steel cables and maybe fifty strands of mesh would do it. The whole net would then fall away from the ship and I could begin working on the fouled prop. Piece by piece, the net started to drop away, and now the only thing that held the net firm to the ship were the last two stainless steel cables. I reached for the bolt cutters and pushed their opening over the cable and closed the handles. After several strokes of the handles, the cable parted, and left only one cable to contend with. This time, I would need to be especially cautious because the last cable would be under such a massive parting load that I could get injured from

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it's snap! I made sure everything was clear as I started to nibble away at the strands which make up the cable. I readily admit that when the cable parted, I closed my eyes for a split second, then saw the entire net moving away with several knot's speed into the water's darkness. It's slow departure speed reminded me of the Apollo space docking. I watched in awe as the huge net dropped and the tension on the bow cables began to tighten. The batteries in my dive light are wearing down fast, so I'll have to work even faster. I was lucky to observe the turning of the trawler some 180 degrees from stern to bow where I had resecured the net. At least I was working in uncluttered water, and the sharks were over two hundred feet away now! No sweat! The highly filtered air was starting to dry my throat to the point of being painful, but I kept working. There were so many lines wrapped around the prop that it was hard to decide where to begin. Slowly I began to cut pieces free from the propeller and shaft. A thought occurred to me, that I might be able to secure a line from the deck to the fouled portion of the net on the prop and pull it free. But, on second thought, if anything went wrong I would be responsible. No shortcuts! I'd do it the hard way which is also the right way. The knife is getting dull so I'll take five again. When I came up, Foxy was reading my mind. He passed a beer to me and I did my best to pound down it's contents in one shot. With a resharpened knife, I approached the problem with renewed confidence. Thirty minutes more is what I figured it would take to clear it. We made the net shot at 10:30 in the morning. We had traveled for one hour and twenty minutes when we pulled the shot in. It was 11:50 when the

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net got fouled, give or take ten minutes. I've worked non-stop for two hours and fifteen minutes with the exception of three five-minute breaks. It's five after two and not getting any better weather wise. In a fury, I cut the last forty or so feet. I sighed with relief when I knew we were within the range of safety. As I cut the last few feet of net free into the black depths, hunger gripped me like thirst hits a desert traveler. I cut the last piece and unwound the last five feet of net from the prop. My eyes have started to adjust to the dimming light overhead. It's now after three and the light is disappearing rapidly. I surface to meet three very curious faces. Foxy looked relieved and smiled, but the girls were totally uncertain. I nodded my head in a "Yes" motion, and gave the hand signal "O.K.". Smiles had soon enveloped all three of them, then the cheers followed. I hurried aboard, drank some coffee, kissed Marian, and she said I was her hero for life. I told her not to count chickens just yet! Foxy indicated we better see how fast we could get moving on rolling up the net. We transferred one cable aft and secured it through the rollers and around the barrel. He threw the hydraulic handle, and with a loud hiss, the drum started rolling. In twenty minutes, the drum was full. We then pulled the last one hundred and fifty feet by hand, feeding it down below into the belly of the ship. Foxy fired up the Cummins diesel and it sounded as if someone with a sledge hammer started to bash the hull. Bump-bump-bump-bump, every revolution of the prop caused the sound! Immediately, we both suspected what had happened. While the cable wrapped around the prop, it knocked one or more blades on it out of alignment. As the RPM increased the knocking seemed to quit, but not very much!

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What the hell! We've got the net back, we might as well go for it. I switched the receiver to the weather Channel 13, and as I guessed, chatter back and forth signaled the storm's presence. When the weather turns sour, channel chatter increases. Boats check and double-check their positions readying for the event of a blow. As Foxy got the Sea Fox underway, I began to straighten up as much of the ship as I could. We forgot and left the air compressor engine running, so I secured it, then rolled up the one hundred feet of hookah hose, which I had pulled below. Both the girls' psychological spirits had improved greatly, and the fear of getting stranded at sea in a "Souther Buster" lessened somewhat. However, the reports were not too good, so I made it my duty to start plotting our progress and the storms. According to radio chatter, the storm was closing at thirty-five knots from the south. Down below Melbourne when the weather blows out of the south, they call it a "Souther Buster." Right now, the boat is not making much more noise than it did in the beginning. When the net fouled the prop, it evidently bent a blade or two. Going below, the sound is much more perceptible. As I enter the soundproof engine room, the sound is loud enough and the vibration strong enough to blur my vision and deafen my hearing. We have been underway fifty minutes and plotted our course 18.5 kilometers closer than when we started. The wind, blowing at our stern, has helped considerably. I figure we have another one hundred and nineteen miles to "Port Phillips Rip", then three and a half miles to anchorage. If no unforeseen disaster occurs, I figure we could beat the storm. The storm is moving thirty-four knots; we are

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traveling at least 13.5 with a tailwind helping us. Seventeen and a half from thirty-four is sixteen and a half. By the hour the storm is closing on us at 16.5 knots. We have one hundred and twenty miles to go. Seventeen point five into one hundred and twenty, I figure if all goes well, we will see Melbourne in seven hours with this weather. The storm's position is one hundred nineteen south from the top most part of Tasmania. I have just run our position on the satellite navigation SATNAV. We are 119.27 nautical miles which is roughly 6,000 ft.= one nautical mile. I sit down with my Tamaya N-77 calculator and start computing the last data: l. We are one hundred nineteen miles from Melbourne. 2. The storm's approximate position from us in nautical miles one hundred eighteen, plus one hundred sixteen equals two hundred and thirty-four from us, closing at thirty-four knots. 3. In seven and one half hours, the storm will have traveled two hundred and fifty-five miles. It will be approximately where we are now. 4. Therefore, we should be at least three hours ahead of it. Not very reassuring, considering we are doing half it's closing speed. If by some chance you didn't follow the sea jargon, we have a one hour safety zone between the storm and us at time of anchorage. Foxy reviews and agrees with my calculations, and we both understand what we are facing. We purposefully refrain from telling the girls the whole story. The bottom line is, if everything goes without a hitch, the storm will follow us literally through Port Phillips Heads forty-five minutes from it's eye, or center. Not a very pleasant thought. I have been on the radio trying to get tidal

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conditions. You see, even if we get to Port Phillips Head, the tide has to be either slack or running. The reason Port Phillips is so dangerous is, Port Phillips Bay is huge nearly sixty miles square. The basin is filled by two small inlets in comparative size. The current at the inlets while filling is no less than 4 to 5 knots and sometimes on a full moon cycle it has been recorded at 8 knots, and standing thirty feet straight up. The same is true on the outgoing tide, except huge whirlpools are added to the problem, one hundred and thirty feet in diameter. Christ sakes! I hadn't considered our arrival time. With a quick computation I find our arrival time to be 11:20 tonight. The only thing in our favor is the almanac which indicates a new moon, so the tidal conditions may be manageable. More computation shows, that if we increase our speed . 25 of a knot, we will make the filling side of the tide through the heads. That is if we can get another .25 out of the Sea Fox. Foxy inched the throttle ever so lightly forward. We detected no added noise or vibration. I used the big F word, and turned on the music in the cabin to break the sounds of crashing seas and engine noise below. I tried to extract a smile or positive reaction from Foxy, but he wasn't buying it. His face was sullen and granite-like in expression. I suggested the girls fix something to eat, before more bad weather ensues. The girls clearly understood our concern. I explained a storm was closing on us, and it was necessary to beat it to Melbourne. Luckily, the freezer aboard ship was amply stocked with food stores, so I decided we'd have giant prawns. But they're in the forward freezer. Hmmm! Of course, I must volunteer, and started

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out the bridge. In rolling seas you travel very slowly. The overhead rigging affords some degree of safety. When I reached the forward freezer, the bow buried deep into a fourteen foot wave. The bow dug into the wave about eight feet, then popped back up like a child's tub toy. It was good thinking, that I didn,t remove this itchy wetsuit. Quickly, I slid the hatch open and jumped in, then quickly closed the hatch once inside. The light inside the freezer isn't working, so I had to sniff my way to large shrimps. The bad weather has mixed the entire contents of the locker into the floor. I was slipping and sliding, while balancing on albacore and sea bass. I grabbed the shrimp, then cautiously slid open the hatch to about six inches. When I looked out, the sea appeared smooth. In the distance large waves are breaking. I hurriedly jumped out of the freezer, and ran back into the wheelhouse. My brief encounter with the freezer up forward was obvious. The fish smell is definitely not Yves Saint Laurent. The girls winced when I handed them the shrimp. My fish smell brought a warm smile from Foxy. He chortled, you're definitely a fisherman. I stepped out of the wheelhouse and flushed my wetsuit with saltwater. Then I re-entered and suggested we have a beer. He agreed, then I took the helm. The short break allowed him enough time to go to the head and get some beer. Ten minutes passed, now the aroma of cooking garlic prawns fills the wheelhouse. I looked down the companionway and saw Foxy in his bunk, with his back against the outside hull. I yelled below for a V.B. and Marian threw one up. The gimbled stove is swinging wildly as the shrimps steamed in beer cook. I shouted to the Fox, that I would take the helm for the next couple of hours, while he relaxed.

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It has started to rain, so I switched on the rotary wipers. The skies have darkened and the wind is blowing a constant 20 knots gusting to 25. The rhythm of the rain and the windshield wipers is causing a hypnotic tranquilizing effect and I have been nodding off. I reached over and snapped on the autopilot. It adjusted, then settled onto 335 degrees compass bearing true. In the wheelhouse I adjusted the receiver to emergency channel 13 and 23.78 MH which is the Queenscliff Pilot House. An Australian Navy ship is being piloted through the Heads at this moment at Port Phillip bay. The channel chatter between the ship and pilot house indicates that the ship is bucking 6 knots current and is having a steerage problem. The Pilot House asked what power percentage he was using while coming through the heads. He said, 70 percent, and the pilot house suggested using 82 to 84 percent. On emergency channel 13, I picked up a distress call which was coming from a fishing trawler, the Black Prince. Not ten seconds after hearing the name Black Prince, Foxy was on the radphone talking to it's skipper. Over the phone, I heard the crew of Black Prince screaming orders and directions back and forth. The crew sounded desperate. I could actually hear the sounds of water rushing through her hull planking. One of the ships planks had sprung, and the crew were down below trying to stop the water. The saltwater was four feet into the engine room. I shouted to Foxy, "Time's a wastin, get their position before their batteries go dead." In addition, he should remind them to turn on their emergency signal beacon. Foxy got the Black Prince's coordinates; then I began to chart. His

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location was one hour and fourteen minutes ahead of us, and two miles east of our plotted course. I didn't need to ask any questions, we immediately started to effect rescue. We put the ship on auto pilot, then I jumped on the charts and planned our rescue operations. A huge oil tanker was in the area, but they could give little assistence because of their gigantic size and maneuverability. We asked them for assistance in triangulating their exact fix position. We succeeded. We fixed a pinhead area of 600 feet in the vastness of the sea. Foxy pulled out two 3", ten horsepower emergency pumps. If we get there in time, we can keep the ship from sinking. The Prince stayed on the emergency channel as we raced to effect their rescue. I couldn't help but think it could be a lot worse. The skipper of Black Prince says his batteries are up above deck, which means he can continue transmitting until the batteries go under. I got back on the phone and asked the Prince if they had any parachute flares. He says he has at least 100 and they're all white lights, magnesium titanate. I suggested he shoot off a flare on the 1/2 hour, to assist in our rendezvous. He agreed, and added, "If things get much worse they would inflate the 12-man raft and load food and flares. I signed off, while wishing them the best of luck till we get there. Starting to sign off, he stopped me cold, and asked if I was a "Bloody Yank." I nearly started laughing. I said "Yes," he laughed and said, "Thanks mate." Then he said, "We'd bloody well hurry, or we may never meet. "I left the channel on E-13, and set the alarm clock on the wheel block to ring every thirty minutes on the half hour. Holding the wheel in my hand, I started crying

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like a child. The voice on the phone could have been mine. I realized unless we got their in time they could all be dead. My hand consciously eased the throttle forward, until the engine was at near standard. Foxy came up the companionway like a shot. He caught the tears running down my face, he knew I'd been on the phone with the Prince. He smiled, because he knew the urgency I felt. Foxy had been in the same position before and lost his best friends father under the same circumstances. He praised my judgment, and I looked back at the sea ahead. The ladies came into the cabin house asking what was happening. I told them another trawler ahead of us was taking on water and in the danger of sinking. The crew was in danger, to say the least. The girls took a seat in the wheelhouse. I opened the sliding hatch to get some fresh air. The cabin interior had become stuffy. The alarm went off, as I gazed into the night's darkness. The rains have increased to a near downpour, which has left my vision slightly impaired. Unless you've been there, it's hard to explain how bad it can get in foul weather. The girls talked back and forth, reassuring themselves everything would be okay. I just kept thinking, "I hope they're right." Foxy handled the pumps with ease. Each pump weighed around 180 pounds. He had pulled them up on deck, and secured them well. I reached overhead and punched the Sat. Nav. for a new position. Time really passed quickly, forty-five minutes already. Thirty to thirty-five minutes more until we reach BLACK PRINCE. Still, no sign of a flare. Despite everything else, the SEA FOX is crusing along like a mini destroyer. Standing at the helm reminds me of an old submarine movie. Bogart at the helm, with torpedoes flying all around

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him, and he's thinking about his girl back in Nebraska. Marian sneaks up behind me and puts her arms around my waist, she tells me she feels safe and secure even though we're out at sea and the weather is not like she's seen in the movies. Foxy and I start planning our method of attack. If they've managed to stay afloat, they'll have a good chance at survival. If they have sunk, they will be in their life raft. I tried and reach PRINCE on the radio phone, several tries but no answer. Several minutes later BLACK PRINCE comes booming over the air. We've managed to reduce the size of the leak, practically stopping the water. The bad news is we've lost our generator and have no electricity or lights. But we have managed to directly connect the battery to the transmitter. We've also managed to light some hurricane lamps. But, it doesn't afford very much light. To make things worse, there's five feet of water inside the ship. None of the bilge pumps are working and the ship has nearly rolled twelve times. I suggest they immediately set off a flare exactly overhead, every five minutes starting now. No sooner had I said, "Now," when a flare reached into the sky. I quickly took a compass bearing and changed course. Foxy continued talking to the skipper arranging for the pumps. At the very least, we would incur serious problems maneuvering close enough to give them the pumps. I also suggest they take plastic trash bags and close the intake air filter and exhaust to prevent water from entering into the engines. Foxy reassured the BLACK PRINCE that we had a fix on his flare, we should be there in about thirty minutes. Foxy then told them to continue to light the flares at five-minute intervals, just to be on the safe side.

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They answered back, "It's damn bloody bad when a damn yank has to be rescuing an Australian fisherman in the Bass." He laughed, then added, "I hope that damn bloody yank can't hear me, he must be one hell of a yank." He was looking forward to meeting another Bass Strait type. He asked my name, and Foxy replied, "Lindsey." He had a cousin in England of the same name. "Give the bloke my best," were his last words before the line went dead. The engine temperature was high, so I dropped her back to 1600 RPMs. The engine temperature stayed high! An intake screen is probably slightly clogged. The subject now is building seas, almost sixteen feet, with continuous sets and an occasional twenty footer. A dinghy would sink in an instant with just one of those discharge pumps. I suggest a military type approach. First, we inflate the l0-man Avon on board. Then, take all it's contents out so there is ample room for the pumps. The pumps have jagged edges on nearly every plane, so it's necessary to wrap the pumps with blankets or mattresses so they don't puncture the raft. Luckily, we have enough canvas aboard to cover the pumps and protect the raft. I see another flare dead on our bow, another ten minutes have passed. I ask the girls to get coffee and food ready in case someone's hungry or cold. Foxy pulled the raft from the roof and inflated it. In a few seconds, it was inflated. He unsnapped the entrance, then unloaded the interior. I switched on the forward deck lights at the same time the generator kicked on to supply the extra needed

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power to the six 250,000 candle power bulbs. It looks like a football field at half-time show. Foxy's every movement is outlined by light. He threw the supplies that were in the raft into a small storage box on deck. Thank goodness we have a cable launcher aboard ship. If we can get close enough, we'll shoot a 3/16" nylon cord over their stern. Once they have the line, they can pull the heavier 3/4" nylon rope that is attached to the raft. Another flare went up, now I can clearly see the conning tower of BLACK PRINCE. I am certain they can see us. The Avon life raft is ready, and I hope they're ready. I fired up the C.B. radio, asking the PRINCE why there was no smoke coming from her stacks. The answer was, "The engine room is nearly filled with water, about eight inches below the air intake of the G.M.C." Not good news. Now the ship's details are coming into the light. I see movement inside the ship. Over the radio, they said we looked like something from Heaven. I can certainly sympathize. I turned on our P.A. system and yelled for Foxy. He broke through the door like a gazelle. We both noticed B.P. listing seriously to port. Her port rail went under water from time to time. Foxy and I went out on deck, then slipped the 10-man Avon into the sea, while the auto pilot steered us past the BLACK PRINCE. The raft was well secured to the SEA FOX as it was lowered into the water. We alerted BLACK PRINCE to ready for the heave line, when we turn and pass her port rail. Within two minutes, we had turned and started back past BLACK PRINCE. Foxy pointed the loaded gun over the hull. He fired the line, and it fouled into the rigging which was what we wanted.

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The crew first pulled the tow line across, then pulled the Avon with the pumps. With difficulty, they pulled the pumps aboard and immediately started pumping. As I peered across BLACK PRINCE's deck, another conning tower appeared. An Australian Coast Guard cutter was lying by to assist in the towing operation. They too had pumps, if it was necessary. We switched onto the Coast Guard's channel and told them what had been done. They decided it would be easier to pump out the water while in tow. I told the Coast Guard that we had a bent prop, but would be fine if nothing else went wrong. I agreed to leave our channel open to receive or transmit any news. They reassured us they would be right behind us all the way to Melbourne if we should need them. We all cheered because we knew BLACK PRINCE was safe. I gave several blasts on the air horn, then we circled the boat. Both of the three inch pumps were shooting water twenty feet straight out. The boat was starting to right itself somewhat. Over the phone Foxy told BLACK PRINCE, "We'll see you at home. No matter when we get in, we'll be waiting." The Coast Guard's signal light blinked the signal BREAK-AWAY - EVERYTHING'S O.K. I gave them one long and two short, then we set out on the heading of 320 degrees to Port Phillips Bay. I have lost all concept of time, the storm, and where we are. Thank God for SATNAV. I have the course arrival time, accurate wind direction, a full explanation of the storm's position, and the course. The weather bureau said the storm is slowing down to 20 knots because it has made contact with the coastline. We are making excellent time and should

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reach the rip on the standing tide. The next six hours were spent mostly in conversation about what we had experienced in the last twenty-four hours. By the time we reached Port Phillip Bay, it was 12:15. We had just two hours between us and the storm. We all thought we'd be totally exhausted, but instead, we were wide awake. It is continuing to rain like cats and dogs as we slip past the danger point of Port Phillips Heads. The entire way home we listened to the channel chatter between the BLACK PRINCE and the Cutter. The BLACK PRINCE was trying to start it's diesel to help with steerage. The ships less than forty-five minutes behind us. Over the air came screams of joy. BLACK PRINCE got her diesel started and now had lights. They managed to drill a hole through the sprung plank, threaded an anchor eye into it, then connected a come along and jacked it back into place. This stopped nearly all the water, only a small trickle remained. It sounds as if we have all had a good run of luck. The swells in the bay are eight feet plus. Two other fishing trawlers are heading into the Queenscliff channel ahead of us. The weather bureau says the storm's diameter is 95 nautical miles. The wind is 35 knots out of the south, gusting to 40 knots. We decided to go for the anchorage instead of the pier. The girls cleaned up the cabin and wheelhouse. The smell of barf kept rolling up from below. Since we left, several boats had moved their moorings. At this point, all I can think of is how lucky I am to have Maria at the Sandringham Yacht Club where she's safe from harm. We have now backed the engine to idle. We detect horrendous noise coming from the prop

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shaft. I flipped on the engine room lights. I heard the sounds of water rushing from somewhere around the engine. On further inspection, I found the source of the leak; the packing shaft glan. Shit! I would have to tighten up the packing glan. Within a couple of minutes, I had the leak fixed. I just tightened the packing glan nut a couple of turns. The prop was out of alignment, causing the shaft to leak. I hurriedly climbed on deck and grabbed our mooring line. The C.B. radio was turned on. We were listening to BLACK PRINCE and the Cutter. They were nearing the heads. The BLACK PRINCE was asking for assistance from the pilot house. She decided to motor into anchorage. We pulled up to an open mooring buoy, I pulled the buoy aboard and dropped the line over the Sampson Post and give a silent inner-mind cheer to the boat's security. All of us had the opportunity to go ashore, but we elected to spend the night aboard the SEA FOX. We just didn't feel like hassling with the collection of our things. We all felt fortunate just to get some relaxation. I declare a moratorium on any further work. Where is the popcorn? It is imperative I fix a batch or two. As I fixed the popcorn, the girls discuss how lucky we are to be alive. I tell them a story which had much graver consequences than ours. I recounted the story about the plane crash in the Andes. The girls shivered when I get to the part where they eat the dead people's brains. I demonstrated what it would look like eating brains, except I used popcorn in the demonstration. The girls winced as the popcorn enters my mouth. I was laughing so hard that I choked on a kernel of corn. There's at least some comic relief! Ian Aldridge, noted explorer and exotic animal

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trader, crashed into the side of the SEA FOX. Ian emerged from the dinghy wearing foul-weather clothes and sporting a date who was totally stiff drunk. They made their way into the cabin, then Ian said, "I heard you had a run of bad luck." He told us that everybody ashore had listened to our channel chatter, especially when that bloody septic yank, Lindsey, was giving his dinkie die conversation over the phone. Ian promised a good party all day tomorrow at the Greying Whale. It had been agreed to if the SEA FOX and the BLACK PRINCE made it home with all aboard, a party would certainly be in order. From behind the jetty, which leads into Queenscliff Harbor, I saw the smoke billowing from the stacks of BLACK PRINCE. The waves were now breaking over the seawall in rapid succession, sending clouds of water high into the late night's air. Ian opened four liters of Foster's Lager beer and passed each of us one. In an almost serious mood, he welcomed our safety home. The spotlight from BLACK PRINCE hit our stern, then she hit her horn in two short bursts. Another round of cheers and salutations filled the cabin house. The crew of BLACK PRINCE decided to haul out just in case there were any problems they didn't readily see. The lights come on in the shipyard, then they began to lower the ship's cradle into the late night's waters. The crew of BLACK PRINCE were perceivably pissed drunk as they struted around the deck bare-ass naked. I really had to laugh because I shared their happiness. They saved their ship and they were proud. Astonishingly, the ship was out of the water in

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fifteen minutes. As the trawler slid up the ways, her crew pulled the hull plugs, and saltwater gushed out at full volume. Quite a number of people have shown up here, mostly families. It is now 1:00 and the storm is starting to kick in pretty good. Foxy and Ian have seen each other around Queenscliff for years, but never had the good fortune of talking to each other. They seem as though they are making up for it. They have talked incessantly for an hour. Exhaustion is starting to work against me. I feel depleted and tired. The boat is alright, Maid Marian and I will retire early for a well deserved sleep. I say good night to everyone, then we go below for some rest. During the bad weather at sea, Marian made sure our bunks kept dry by wrapping them in huge trash bags. We will sleep close and dry tonight. Foxy and Stacey's lovemaking kept me up until three in the morning. Marian fell asleep as soon as her head rested on my chest. The storm reached it's peak around 4:30 at night. Several boats pulled their moorings and began to run wild. By 6:00 in the morning, all was well. The air was clean, clear and very cold. The Antarctic air usually travels hand in hand with southerly storms.

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5
The Race At Sandringham Yacht Club
I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed, and Marian was in the galley fixing food, she knew the smell of food would arouse me. Foxy and Stacey went somewhere, I assumed they'd gone into town to buy ship's supplies. For the next few days, the entire crew took it easy. I was so tired, that all I felt like doing was driving around Melbourne to pick up boat supplies. Marian returned to her job out at Ballarat, and Foxy's wife was still giving him hell for his indiscretions even though he never admitted to anything. With almost another week added to her repairs, Maria was starting to take shape. At least she was clean with a fresh coat of paint. All through the week, the commodore kept asking me to bring Marian in to the club and he would shout for dinner. On Thursday night, we finally made it up to the club. Things have been real busy up at the pub all week

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and I see why. It looks as though they're going to have some sort of awards ceremony. Just as I started to take a stool at the bar, the Commodore walked up and asked, "Do you have plans tonight?" I said, "Nothing definite." He replied, "Now you do!" The Commodore went behind the bar and handed me the phone. I called Marian and told her about the dinner at the yacht club, and told her to get a move on. This looked like a fun party. I told her the Commodore himself requested her presence. It turned out that the yacht club dinner was an award's ceremony for the year's best racing yachts. APOLLO 5, the Australian world cup contender has it's home here, and the famous around the world racer, BACARDI is also kept here. Many other famous yachts call Sandringham their home away from home. I understand CONDOR spent quite a lot of time here working on a damaged rudder shaft. CONDOR is truly a beautifully built yacht. She's 80.3 feet long and extremely well kept. Alan Bond's APOLLO 5 has just undergone a complete bottom overhaul and had the entire bottom aeroballed. The compound is very light, but like a styrene or styrofoam. It's easy to use, and is mostly utilized for redesign work, filling in areas which are low. After getting showered and dressed, I made my way to the Y.C. bar where other members had started to gather. The crew and owner of a 12.87 meter racing yacht were whooping it to the maximum. It was obvious they had either won a race or one of them had just become a father. The crew had obviously sucked down a few before I got there. While I ordered a schooner of NEW, one of the crew said, "Eh, mate, aren't you a septic?" Then

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the fun was on! They asked, "What the hell are you doing down here?" I said "Sailing, of course." Then came the question, "What are you sailing?" I said, "That little 38 foot beauty on pin one." They invited me to join them. I was joining the crew and owners of a meter boat named RELENTLESS. They had just taken ownership and were celebrating the new purchase. They were all smoking cigars, much like an American father who would be celebrating the birth of his new child. It was a bit awkward drinking beer with these guys on such an occasion as this, and besides they were drunk and I was behind them. When I attempted to leave, the crew demanded I stay and have a few more middies of New. Boy, was this going to be a bash. I told them, "The Commodore has invited me already." When I told them I'd be at the party, they insisted Marian and I sit with them. "Sure, why not?" Without much more elaboration, they were celebrating the first day of ownership of RELENTLESS. The crew and owners were actually one and the same, so they formed a corporation to shelter assets and avoid paying unnecessary taxes. The yacht club's ways are situated next to the club's second floor bar. The club itself has a commanding view which looks out across Port Phillip Bay to the south. The entire club's facilities can be seen from the second floor vantage point of the pub. The only things that obstruct a person's vision are the numerous masts which stick skyward like naked trees with no leaves. The men of RELENTLESS are now drinking directly from pitchers, which line the table from end to end. Some of their wives and girlfriends have arrived and are trying to catch up with the drinking

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festivities by drinking Bundy and coke. I was getting the distinct feeling I've seen this party behavior before. Someone asked that I go sailing on the new boat for their weekend races. I wasn't totally certain of my plans tomorrow, so I answered, "I'm not sure if that's possible!" A round of boos and hisses came from the gathering, they were determined that I go. Finally, I said, "Yes, of course, I'll go!" It's now six o'clock and the club is near full; this trophy awards ceremony should be something spectacular. When Marian arrived, I introduced her to the RELENTLESS crew, then we got back to our story telling. Again, I'd like to say that Australians sure as hell love to entertain and party. The ladies are quickly catching up on the drinking festivities; the rum and coke is starting to flow like water over a dam. The ladies' conversation has switched to harrowing stories of the sea. Marian told them what she had experienced while in the Bass Strait several days earlier. Their eyes were glued to Marian as she told the story about me diving beneath the trawler and cutting the net from the prop. When she finished the story, they proposed a toast to the man who had saved Marian's life. Drunk or not, I sunk down into the seat as they proposed a toast. The men at the gathering didn't hear the story, so they insisted I tell it. Redfaced, they toasted the rescue and I drank a beer straight down. The quaffing caught on and everyone started chugging their drink in a single motion. Jesus, I Love Sailing! The party started to pick up steam when the Commodore interjected the story telling. He began to reminisce about the club's past, and some of the great members who had died while sailing around on their various odysseys at sea.

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The infectious mood of happiness soon filled the entire club like a strange trance. This was just another Friday night, but it felt like a New Year's celebration. The drunker they became, the happier they seemed. A rock group is scheduled to play tonight. They're setting up equipment and instruments for the after-dinner celebrations. Some of the ladies are dancing with one another to the music of a jukebox. It's easy to see why no one's bored! Our conversation suddenly shifted back to sailing. Why did I pick Australia to circumnavigate, especially single-handed? I answered matter of factly, "I've not met anyone who's tried." With that, I received a cheer. Next, we addressed the subject of sailing tomorrow. I acknowledged that I've raced in San Diego for years and had the pleasure of meeting Ted Turner and Dennis Connor whom I've casually known for twenty years. Dennis is the sort of person you either like or dislike, personally I feel he's one of the best sailors in the world and the future Cup races should prove it. Ted Turner, on the other hand, is an American enigma on all fronts; business, competition sailing, and his desire to do great things. I have great respect and admiration for Ted in that he accepts responsibility and relishes it. He uses responsibility as a growth medium for his life. He's also a Rhodes Scholar; very intelligent, spoiled, and self centered. He's a handsome man who plays on the glamorous side of sailing and the ladies who follow it. Have you ever known a glamorous person who doesn't own a yacht? You don't run into them very often! Everyone's attention at the table has shifted to us talking about San Diego and the America's Cup. The U.S. is well respected for it's sailing abilities and

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the perfection in which we design, build and race 12 meters. Fortunately, I've known the Driscoll family who owns one of the most famous yards in the country for meter boats. John Driscoll, perhaps one of the most knowledgeable in the racing world, was my favorite of the family. Several times, I've called John and asked for his personal advice about boat purchases. More than once in the old days, we would sit around the yard and drink beer and talk about, what else, beautiful women! The Driscoll boat yard was and is perhaps the most famous yard in the country for working on twelve meter boats. Daily, the yard works on a number of famous boats like STARS and STRIPES, and the INTREPID. I remember years ago when the INTREPID came up for auction sale, after her syndicate lost it's financing. I put in a bid, I think at the time the offer was $54,000, which was peanuts considering the value in the hardware alone. The hardware was worth $50,000. At that time, I had been racing the Formula Atlantic Grand-Prix circuit. So $50,000 was inexpensive compared to the expense of auto racing! I always managed to be at Driscoll's when Intrepid was hauled for repairs, because she's such a beautiful boat. The ladies of the RELENTLESS crew were the best looking women at the club. Redheads, blondes, and brunettes made up the group and all of them were having fun. The dinner is about to start, but the RELENTLESS's crew is stuck in the proverbial piss. Trying to pull them away from the grog will take a feat of daring. The Commodore, in a commendable attempt to move the RELENTLESS crew to dinner, stood at the pub's window and saluted the new

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owners and their boat, which was sitting on the ways. In a soliloquy something like that of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, the Commodore spoke in such a confused and drunken manner that the people just shook their heads in agreement so he would cease! Their sincere enthusiasm made up for any lack of continuity. The crew rose to it's feet and applauded the Commodore's dismembered soliloquy, then headed for the dining room. This particular celebration ended with everyone on the floor as Aussie parties usually do. Marian and I stayed at the party until 11:20, then we slid out the back door and headed for Maria. I told Marian about my sailing invitation for tomorrow, and she thought it could be loads of fun. When we got aboard Maria, we went forward and tucked into the forepeak bunk. On Maria, the driest spot is up forward in the forepeak. Around 1:45 in the morning, someone from RELENTLESS pounded on the hull and invited us to a late night party on their boat. During the noise, Marian just rolled over and wrapped her leg around me and fell into an even deeper sleep. Marian awoke first in the morning, then she fixed a marvelous breakfast. After breakfast, Marian set off to work. I started to prepare for Maria's haul out. It is scheduled for this weekend at high tide. Ugh! It seems like every time I haul out, it's at some ungodly hour; be it night or day! From Maria's slip I could see up the ways and a survivor of the party's festivities. His demeanor reflected the intensity of the party. I'm glad we left when we did! It must have been a devastating party. A man no older than 35 was bent over, moving extremely slow and not looking up for fear the sun would obliterate his vision even further.

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After cleaning up the boat, I walked over to RELENTLESS to see if the offer of sailing was still on. I approached Olie with the respect given a dead man in a funeral home. I stood next to the boarding ladder until he recognized me. He spoke with a whisper, "Thanks for showing up." I sympathized with his condition and consented to help ready the boat for relaunching. Time passed, and no one else showed up. So, Olie and I were left to launch RELENTLESS at high tide by ourselves. Olie asked if I would launch the boat. I was somewhat taken back with his request, because launching a 12 meter worth $150,000 was a responsibility most owners reserved for themselves. Warren, the yard foreman who operates the ways, came by and asked if the boat was ready for launch. I acknowledged that it was. He said it would be about fifteen minutes. Olie again gave his thanks for the help, then laid the whole story on me at once. The new owners of RELENTLESS had all raced on meter boats but none of them had actually skippered before. I stared in amazement. He didn't know the faintest thing about getting the boat ready for today's race. He was apparently asking me to skipper RELENTLESS in today's race. I would reserve my thoughts until asked. I politely asked Olie if he understood the engine starting instructions. He thought he did. So we both went through the drill of what we were to do when we came down from the ways. I checked the fuel level and it was near full. The launching went flawlessly. RELENTLESS handled as I knew she would due to her beautiful hull design. Olie insisted we take a spin around the yacht club's waters. RELENTLESS responded like a Ferrari on a Grandprix circuit. Her every move was calculated

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and foreseen. I couldn't wait to feel the boat under full sail. I asked Olie about the sail inventory when Olie stopped me dead. He asked if I would skipper RELENTLESS in today's race. The smile on my face gave him the answer he needed! I didn't believe he would ask, but he did! Wow! "Hell yes, I'd love to." Now let's see what sails are in her inventory. A lot of things were necessary before RELENTLESS would be ready to race at 1:30. Luckily, two more of the crew showed up as the boat slid into the water. Olie and I tied the boat alongside the dock and began to rinse her down. Two additional spinnakers were being walked down to the boat by the crew. All of us re-introduced ourselves. Then Olie conveyed to the rest of the crew that he wanted me to skipper RELENTLESS. With little deliberation, they all agreed. Now I was excited at the thought of racing Relentless today. God, I Love Sailing! Our work went quickly and the boat was prepared. I called the local airport for a mid-day weather prognostication and asked a crew member to get a weatherfax printout. The winds would set around 12:30, out of the south-southeast 20 to 26 knots, which would be great for a fast sail. Foul-weather gear would certainly be in order today, and a dry change of clothing wouldn't hurt. It's hard to believe how wet it can get when the weather turns crook. As the time nears, men start to load their gear aboard for the race. At this date in time, women in Australia are not allowed to sail on most of the 12 meter boats unless they own the boat. As the crew finally assembled, we discussed our starting mark strategy. The men decide I should decide the starting mark move. "Okay, let's get em." Much to the crew's disliking, I decide to put up a #3 genoa which is 164 percent, quite large for gusting

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winds. But my strategy is to get everyone else to follow suit and hope they foul up in the sail change. At least we'll be privy to the fact that we'll change back to a 135 percent sail. The ploy should work. By the time they get wind of our strategy, we'll have our sail down and changed back to a more appropriate 135 percent sail. Long story short, we should be out ahead on the first mark. When the whole crew assembled and rigged the boat, we were off for a quick sail around the bay before the race. When the starting gun went off, we were, as planned, out front due to our sneaky sail maneuver. The plan worked exceedingly well, we dropped the huge genoa and put up a smaller sail, while the other boats fought to recover from overdriving with the bigger sails! With the appropriate sized sail, RELENTLESS performed with the precision of a fine chronometer grade timepiece. On the first leg of the course, we shot to buoy #1 on a starboard reach, nearly 1200 feet ahead of BIMBLE-GUMBIE and SMUGGLER, who are the top contenders in Australia. The exciting thing is, we're beating them fair and square. It's the boat's first race with her new crew and owners. Despite horible hangovers they're screaming at the top of their lungs. It was truly a great experience for me. I gave a few more orders to get the hull speed up and it worked. The crew's eyes were glued to the port #2 buoy. BIMBLE-GUMBIE has moved up a bit, they're around 1000 feet from our stern. On the third leg, we'll be running with the wind. The breeze has increased to 22 knots, so I've elected to set a small spinnaker for the downwind run. Because we're out in front, the wind should be clean, with little, if any, turbulence. I told the crew to hide all activities on deck as

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much as possible. We made the next buoy on a port tack. Now, rather than pull the sail down, we let off the genoa while we released the spinnaker for our run up to buoy #3. The wind has shifted from east to north-northwest. Running the spinnaker, plus the genoa, RELENTLESS is screaming away from BIMBLE-GUMBIE. The crew on RELENTLESS has just realized we're kicking their asses! What a real joy to see the crew get serious. They're beginning to realize how great a lead we have on the other pack. I have to be perfectly honest. I didn't think a crew with a hangover could do it. But I do know we are winning. BIMBLE-GUMBIE tried our spinnakergenoa maneuver and fouled the spinnaker sheets. This puts SMUGGLER and HITCH-HIKER second and third. The crew's faces have turned serious. They're telling me that BIMBLE-GUMBIE is rated as first of the top contenders in the I.O.R.A class in Australia, SMUGGLER and HITCH-HIKER aren't far behind. The men said that if we finished in the top 8, they would have been ecstatic. I said, "Eighth, bullshit, we're #1 right now and we're staying that way." Christ's sake, I've never seen men so reved up. We're screaming up to buoy #3 with an easy 1/4 mile lead. HITCH-HIKER overtook SMUGGLER, with BIMBLE-GIMBIE close behind and gaining. It's no wonder BIMBLE-GUMBIE is a top contender, she's now on HITCH-HIKER's tail and setting up for a passing maneuver. Unless we make a serious mistake, we'll skunk their asses! Buoy #3 is now about one mile on our nose, as we ease off to port with no problems. The bright red hull of BIMBLE-GUMBIE and the lime green hull of HITCH-HIKER can be seen shrinking off our stern. Their rainbow boot-stripes have pained a colorful contrast against a dully gray-green horizon. As we

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closed to the shore, one of the crew fell crotch first onto an upright stanchion. The crew knew he wasn't hurt badly so they insisted on laughing despite his pain. Mark, with candor, replied, "I need the attention of my secretary and a large bag of ice." The boys were in uproarious laughter because Mark had insisted on a large bag of ice! The crew felt a small bag would be more than ample. In two to five minutes, he had recovered enough to help navigate and start planning the party should we win. I felt as though we could. The wind was coming from behind us, the amount of bowspray was limited to a cupful on every large crested wave. The part that concerned me was the beat to the next buoy. As soon as we head into the wind, the decks will become very wet. I will undoubtedly need glasses to see. The Brooks and Gatehouse airspeed indicators are pegged at 27 knots, which is a high, strong breeze and a low near gale. The crew's preparation for buoy #3 would be fairly simple, a port tack around the buoy to a starboard reach, out to buoy #4. So far, we're holding BIMBLE-GUMBIE on our own, so any mistakes could result in BIMBLEGUMBIE giving us direct competition for first. We are alone and in the lead. One of the crew suggests a cold beer to cut the salt from our throats. Everyone agrees that it's high time. It's now necessary to begin calculating our apparent lead. We will run a stopwatch from the exact second of our tack around three, until the next boat passes #3 buoy, for their run down to #4 buoy. We now have Antonio's Italian Restaurant on our starboard. The building which houses it is painted a bright white, located on the edge of Port Phillips Bay. Their food is supposed to be fantastic, especially the seafood selections, garlic prawns are

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their specialty. The men on the foredeck are shouting that the buoy is coming up very fast, in another two thousand feet we will port tack around it. Our lead is still considerable. The wind has no apparent end to it's intensity. Spectators can be seen on the shoreline watching the race, a practice which is a ritual for the local inhabitants of Sandringham Hamlet. I ask Mark if he is well versed in math, he replies, "No, not actually." I ask him, "What do you do for a living?" He answers, "I am a dentist." I shake my head in total disbelief. A professional man such as he is and no working knowledge of math. Hmmm! Someone says that there's a nav calculator aboard; I suggest we use it immediately. It should be very simple to figure our lead. Our hull speed is 12.27 knots an hour. To make it simple, I'll convert feet to time. There are 6000 feet to a nautical mile which is what our hull speed indicators are calibrated to, 12.27 x 6000 = distance traveled in one hour sea time traveled. Therefore, one hour equals 73,620.00 feet traveled in one hour. Because there are 60 minutes in an hour, I will divide 60 into 73,620.00 to arrive at feet per minute, then go further down to seconds. It figures out to be 1,227 feet a minute - 24.517 feet per second. I've got a sneaky feeling that BIMBLEGUMBIE is much closer than I had previously thought. The buoy is one hundred feet. I said, "Stand by to come about, five, four, three, two, one." As the word one left my lips, I spun the wheel hard to port lock. We passed so close to the buoy, it nearly caught the foot of the sail as we sped past. The stopwatch started the second our sails

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changed. The most accurate way to measure closing distance is to observe the crew when they round the buoy. When the sails come across, this is quite visible at a long distance. We begin to trim and sheet in for the last beat. BIMBLE-GUMBIE appears to be coming down on us in a V pattern. We spread the distance of the V even more as the seconds clicked by. One minute and 18 seconds had passed when we passed BIMBLEGUMBIE going the opposite direction. When they passed, we estimated our lead distance to be half a mile ahead of BIMBLE-GUMBIE. Watching the buoy aft, the crew shouted the exact second B-G passed it. Now we have a somewhat accurate time measure. With the time accurately measured, and the differences of hull speed taken into consideration, we find BIMBLEGUMBIE just 4,600 feet off our stern. To make sure, I measure the height of their mast with a sextant and it reads very close, 4,672. Very quickly I explain to Mark how to use the sextant to measure altitude and convert to distance. Mark looks at me in amazement as I explain the simplicity of the measurement. He has never contemplated using the sextant to measure altitude. It is done by conversion of arc on the vernier scale of the sextant. The fourth leg was a classical breeze, however, the driving saltwater spray was cold and numbing to the extremities, especially the hands, feet, and face. The crew came to life when I calculated that we had gained 60 feet on the last leg. That 60 feet was a major tribute to the crew's deserved efforts in winning. If we can hold our own, we will win! Buoy #4 came up and we gained still another 40 feet from last calculations. #4 had come and gone, almost within the same breath. The wind was howling a constant 24.5 knots as we shot up leg 5 to

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pass buoy #3 mid-course on our starboard rail. Leg 5 was an even 16 miles with a slight dog leg back to buoy #1, then back across the finish line. After buoy #4 on the long leg of 5 back to 1, we experienced the best part of our sail. The sun broke through the afternoon cloud layer long enough for the crew to shed their foul-weather jackets and drink another tinny. The crew had been shouting all along the trip, but now the sounds were excruciating. The concentration level was high. The eight miles went quickly. Midpoint was a little over 15 minutes away, leaving around 12 minutes to buoy #1 and then another 10 minutes to the finish. As we zipped past buoy #3 midway through leg five, I could see many people were assembled on the yacht club veranda watching the race. The binoculars aboard the boat were passed back and forth so each crew member could get a view of the activities at the club. One thing for sure, there was a lot of pandemonium! RELENTLESS, on it's first day out, with an American skipper, was more than most could handle. But, I always say, "The proof is assuredly in the pudding! If the pudding is good to eat, who cares who the chef was that made it." Something like that. Olie has the binoculars and says several T.V. video crews are at the club and along the shore. So we should look our best for the telly. "Fuck television, let's win this thing first, and celebrate later." With four miles to the finish, anything can happen. Just this second, a red gale warning flag was hoisted at the club. At the same exact time, it started to rain in a downpour. All the crew, with the exception of myself, changed into foul weather gear. One of the crew bought me a foul weather jacket

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and I slipped my arms through the openings and zipped it up. The wind speed was gusting to 28 knots. If it continues to build, we may have to pull down our #2 genoa and reef the main one set of points. As I shouted the sail change to the crew, we were knocked down. One crew member was knocked overboard and was hanging on to the safety line. He is hanging off our port stern, and we need to pull him in and change our sails. GOD, I LOVE SAILING! Olie gets on the phone and tells the committee boat about our man overboard. They saw the entire incident. They indicate they see our problem and if we need assistance they will be close. Three of the crew got to him and pulled him back aboard as we continued to race onward. The crew immediately reefed the main another set. Then we changed to a #2 storm jib, just in case the wind gets any fresher than it is now. Our change was just in time. Our competition, BIMBLE-GUMBIE just got knocked down and has her genoa filled with water. That emergency should cost her another 20 seconds or more. A stop watch was started to calculate the time lapse for their emergency. Thirty-one, two, three, four, five, then the genoa was released and pulled aboard. The crew was very efficient, it should have taken them longer! BIMBLE-GUMBIE changed it's sail to a #2 storm jib and is once again charging full steam ahead. Thirty-five seconds lost would cost them 1,000 feet or 1/6th of a mile. As we neared to #1 buoy, the committee boat passes and gives us the "V for victory" sign. Another crew member, who does know how to use a sextant, says we are a full mile ahead of BIMBLEGUMBIE. With ease we took the #1 buoy marker, then made a turn for the victory finish 2 1/2 miles ahead.

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From #1 buoy to finish line the time seemed to compress, it felt like seconds. When we passed through the finish line, the yacht club fired her cannon. First we saw the smoke, then came the sound of the blast. The spectators on shore who had braved the wind and rains were applauding wildly and jumping up and down. The reaction on RELENTLESS was nothing short of hysteria. I asked to be relieved of helm duty, then I relieved myself over the side. When I finished taking a leak they insisted I bring the boat into the dock. Men from Channel 10 T.V. were standing in the rigging shop waiting for our return as we pulled up to the gas dock. Somehow, it was understood that there would be a bash in the yacht club today, T.V. crews had set up equipment in the bar awaiting our return. Several friends on RELENTLESS agreed to secure the boat then they motioned us to the yacht club. And to think just two days prior, I hadn't an inkling this race would happen. Who cares! That's what life's all about, fun surprises. To my surprise, Lady Marian was standing on the deck under a blue umbrella in the downpour. She was cheering, because she heard on the radio that an American, Lindsey Fain, was skippering RELENTLESS, and he had won over several other contenders in today's race held at Sandringham Yacht Club. The radio stations in Melbourne had broadcast the entire race, blow by blow. She was off work early because of the rain. Driving home, she heard the announcer describe the minute by minute details of the yacht race. This morning, I would have considered myself lucky just to have gotten away from Maria and her

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never-ending list of work. Now, I am standing here, completely dumbfounded. I'm getting praise for sailing, which, as you know by now, is my true love. Marian was standing there with a big smile, shaking her head in disbelief. The succession of events, and the timing to match, have made Marian a true believer in positive thinking. Last night at the RELENTLESS party she made the statement, "I wouldn't be surprised if you skipper RELENTLESS tomorrow." I took what she said as a compliment, but never thought it would become true so quickly. Well, it's too late now. I'll just suffer the consequences; a fun T.V. interview, cocktails and a portion of the notoriety for RELENTLESS. Marian wrapped her arms around me while the crew of RELENTLESS looked on, applauding. Marian whispered that she loves me and loves every minute we're together. She pulled me close and said she wants to make love in Maria in the rain! I say, "Can we!" Then I promised her that after the interview, we'd head for the yacht. For a moment, she put both hands on my face to warm me. I was cold because of my wet yacht club sweater. While she rubbed my face to warm me, the video crews gathered around us and started to fire questions about the race. They asked if I would continue to skipper RELENTLESS. I said there I had no intention past the time I'd be here in port for bottom paint and light repairs. The next question was whether or not I would sail in the Sydney/Hobart race in December. I said, "I would rather wait for the entire crew of RELENTLESS to discuss any plans." I was totally unaware of their plans for the race. The T.V. news media took my curt answer as a definite possibility that I would indeed sail RELENTLESS in the future. It was hard to believe people would react like this

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over a little race! Everyone started up the docks to the yacht club bar where the video crews were set up. As we entered, people shouted, "He's the one in the white foul-weather gear." The Commodore came up and asked if I would mind the interview. I told him, "No." A microphone suddenly appeared from the crowd. I explained the strategy at the start, then I discussed how well the boat handled in various sailing conditions. Running, to weather, off the weather, in all conditions the boat was very competitive. I was sure to mention the intense cooperation of her new crew and owners. The room broke out in a cheer. Then someone handed me an ice-cold pitcher of beer. Other racing crews were entering the room, so the camera swung around to interview them. Marian and I joined the RELENTLESS crew. They explained the winner of the race would receive a bottle of Moet Chandon champagne! Then they received a solid silver goblet with the yacht club's ensign engraved on it's side. Because I skippered, the crew insisted that I take the goblet. I excepted the goblet and graciously thanked RELENTLESS for performing so well and thanked her owners for the opportunity to sail. Marian was still shaking her head in disbelief. The other competing boats had not been aware of the skipper change and some wanted to protest the change. They were awakened to the fact that they had been beaten with a very fast and competitive racing yacht. Despite their chagrin, they toasted our win. Then they bought the crew a shout of beer. It was a real Aussie fair "Dinkum" event. When I sat down at the table, the whole crew began asking questions about the boat and her

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performance. I mentioned a few points, then the questions became more exacting and critical. I suggested that we haul out Maria and anti-foul her bottom so I could dedicate full attention to working out any problem areas in RELENTLESS's performance. The suggestion drew a look of acceptance from the whole lot. They would help me do Maria's bottom in exchange for my experience to set up RELENTLESS. It's a deal! Another good reason to celebrate was their acceptance of Marian to sail on RELENTLESS sometime in the future. Marian showed excitement when she heard the news. She's never sailed on a racing boat before, especially one like this, an ultralight displacement boat. The afternoon's sunlight flitted through the clouds, and was caught within several pools which dotted the parking lot. The warmth of the sun created a steamy fog that was rising from the pools. The smell of muddy water evaporating is filling the air around the parking lot. Yachts of every dimension and color fill the surrounding area of Sandringham's beautiful acreage. The club and it's surrounding property covers a very large 16 acres of land. Even in the downpour, people are busy with boat repairs. Quite a few people at the club are restoring classic wooden boats. The classics are definitely my favorite! When I watch people restore their boats I can't help but feel they are bringing something important back from the past, and I know the feeling because I've restored several old boats that were considered dead and buried. MY FIRST SAILBOAT My first curiosity about wooden boats started

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in the grade school library, when I discovered a book about the construction of large sailing vessels. The book was fully illustrated with pictures that showed the daily construction progress. This first taste excited my curiosity, enough so that I read every book in the library related to boat building. Since my first venture into books written on the subject of wooden boat construction, my curiosity has never waned. Even today, I purchase Wooden Boat Magazine, a periodical. I acquired my first wooden boat when I was twelve years old. I remember the occasion as if it were yesterday! The boat had been left to decay and sat in disrepair for many years. Our next door neighbors once lived in the Great Lakes. When they moved to our area, they brought along an eighteen foot wooden sailboat. It was a carvel-built Interlake design that was popular in the early Thirties, a beautifully designed sailboat that had a centerboard for a keel. The boat had a tiny cabin that was big enough for two, and more than once that cabin was host to my childhood girlfriends. For years, the boat sat and decayed and finally reached a point of deterioration that would make it very difficult to repair. Without really knowing the enormous task that lay ahead of me, I approached our somewhat snooty neighbor and told him of my interest to restore the boat. I convinced him that I had developed a keen interest in his nautical relic and would restore her as best I could. I made sure to tell him that her sails had turned a ruddy shade of brown with rust dotting them. I figured he might feel guilty and let me have the boat. I went down the list of things which were now wrong with the boat. Very little paint remained on her hull, and only a faint glimpse of the red boot stripe was

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present on the stern. The boat was once painted classic white with a red boot and a typical rusty red lead bottom. Her hull was constructed of yellow pine over white oaken frames. The boat's common construction materials made it possible that I could find the exact materials locally for the restoration. On our property, we had a barn where I set up a complete work shop to repair lawnmowers. I repaired power mowers to make money to fund my varied interests that included girls. Our closest neighbor, was Arthur Shickle, a novelist and playwright who also moonlighted for the Courier Journal newspaper in Louisville, Kentucky. I reasoned that if I approached Arthur with a deal where he could make out, he would allow me to have the boat. I had noticed over the years that Arthur had increasing problems with his rotary blade, Briggs and Straton Model # 24 A-2, a power mower with a despicable personality. Sometimes it would run and sometimes it wouldn't. If by chance it rained, or the grass was wet from the sprinklers, it would quit. Many times I witnessed Arthur curse the mechanical nightmare and nearly have a heart attack trying to start it. His face would flush red, and the veins in his neck would get perceptibly distended. Years later he would die of a heart attack while cutting the lawn. I approached Arthur with a deal that hinged on the obvious dysfunction of his power mower. I would readily solve his problem by exchanging his power mower for mine. At that time, I owned a horizontal shearing lawnmower which had a fourhorse power engine. The lawnmower was the type that is used almost exclusively at golf courses. My mower produced a clean, manicured look and never

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once quit while mowing grass! Arthur was in the middle of cursing his mower when I approached him with the proposal. We exchanged pleasantries, then he asked if I was looking for his daughter, Betty. I said no then expressed my affinity for his old boat, in a squeaky, undulating teen voice. At that point, I didn't realized he had planned to give me the boat in exchange for cleaning up his property. I remembered my heart racing when he told me of his intentions. I also remember calling two buddies of mine to help move the boat over to the barn. I began working on Arthur's property that day. Within several hours the property was looking well kept and manicured. Later that same day, my buddies and I moved the boat over to our barn where the rebuilding would take place. Arthur later told me of other spare parts that were in the attic. He would give them to me if I would tell him what was wrong with his mower. I went a step further and promised that I would fix his mower so that he would never have to worry about it again, a bold statement for a twelve year old. But then again, I was ready to exchange my professional mower for his junk earlier. So the very least I could do was fix the problem mower. Long story shortened, the problem was in the points. Someone had worked on the mower before and had removed a simple plastic cover from the points. When the points got wet, it would misfire. Arthur was ecstatic! He insisted on purchasing paint for the boat and supplying any knowledge which could help in it's speedy repair. Arthur found a complete new mast with new sail track and four additional sails in the attic. This new life experience allowed me to socialize with other children who sailed their boats

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on the Ohio River. The river was the only place to sail. Within four weeks, I had repaired the boat. I painted it white, which is quite traditional, with a blue boot stripe. The guys who helped me fix the boat were called the river-rats. We sailed nearly every day of the summer, up, down and through the tributaries of the Ohio River Basin. Those were certainly great times in my life. Now, I'm having another great time here in Australia fulfilling yet another dream. My attention was drawn back to the gathering at the yacht club. I'd been standing here at the bay window staring out into Port Phillip Bay for nearly forty minutes, mentally tripping into the past and reflecting the various possibilities of how and why I have ended up here, looking out this window. Suddenly, I felt the warmth and smell of Marian nearby. She was standing here doing the same, just a few feet to my left. Marian's companionship is a well deserved tonic to my nomadic lifestyle. Her intelligence and calm personage, plus her very aristocratic background plays on a very basic part of my needs. One of life's greatest struggles is to seek those you feel comfortable and secure with. Sandringham Gale Over the yacht club's intercom system came the voice of Colleen, the secretary of the yacht club. In a somewhat humorous delivery, she mentioned that a gale is in progress, something we are well aware of. She continued the briefing by saying she would tell us something perhaps we didn't know. Instead of the storm being a 6-7 intensity on the Beaufort Scale, the weather bureau has updated

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current information to include a full gale that is 9-10 on the force scale. She continues, "A serious threat is imminent because Sandringham Yacht Club is in the path of this storm." The storm was coming out of the south southeast and dumping much rain and hail on Port San Remo to the SS-E. Gale force 9-10 means we will receive very high waves. An hour earlier, everyone at the club had anticipated a fun after-sail get together. Now a storm of threatening intensity is causing great concern for the club members and their yachts. The secretary's seductive voice interrupted again, adding, "The storm's center will pass over the club in 45 to 55 minutes, emergency procedures should be practiced immediately." Marian put both her arms around my waist just as the unpleasant news ended. Her squeeze increased as she murmured something "nasty-sexy" in my ear. She added a giggle on the end to elicit a strong sensual response. It worked! I spun around on my foul-weather boots and started to run my tongue in her ear and up and down her neck. Continuing any further would have attracted unwanted attention from other club members, so I elected to run my mouth up and down her neck. Marian made sounds that gave me an immediate erection. GOD, I LOVE SAILING! We finished our drinks, then addressed the impending danger. Marian, with great insight, remembered to bring her foul-weather gear. However, it's in the trunk of her BMW, which is at the other end of the parking lot. I summoned the Commodore, thinking there might be foul-weather gear in the storage room downstairs. He insisted on retrieving a suit for Marian, then disappeared down

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the steps. The wind gauge in the Y.C. is showing a constant 38 knots and gusting. Rain is driving in through the cracks around the window frames, and is collecting in pools on the floor. To see Maria on the ways more clearly, we moved to the west side of the club, where there's a good overview of pen #1. We watched Maria violently tugging at her mooring lines. From the way it looks from the window, I felt reasonably sure that the boat would be allright. However, a quick check of her mooring lines would greatly reassure me that she was safe. The Commodore hurriedly returned with a raincoat and plastic pants for Marian. Anything would suffice, as long as it would keep out the freezing cold rains. The skies are nearly as dark as night. As we exited the side door, we ran into men who were running out to the pier next to the gas loading dock. With strained vision, I fixed my eyes in the direction of the running men, and saw a yacht of substantial size floating away from it's mooring. The yacht had been anchored in a nearby anchorage. In it's fast departure, it rammed several other moored boats and caused considerable damage. From what we've overheard, the runaway yacht is fairly new and the owner is a member of the club. The yacht is forty-two feet long and has a very lofty rigging. As we watched, the boat's rigging snagged into the bow sprit of another yacht. The boats are firmly entwined with their fouled rigging, but not for long, the mooring is starting to drag with the increased weight. Warren, who runs the yard, just finished moving the boat and feels responsible for the problem. Warren looked at me as though I might have an answer for the problem. So I said, "Come on, we'll figure something out," as we headed

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out the door of the shed. First, I asked Warren about the yacht's engine size, then I asked about the size engine in the yacht club's skiff. He smiled as though he knew what was on my mind. He said, "Big enough!" The men standing around us knew why I asked. All we need is one more volunteer. A nervous young man offered his help, and we were off to the rescue. I asked the young man to get some heavy 5/8" braided line and meet us at the skiff. Marian smiled in obvious pride that we were going to rescue the runaway yacht. She smiled again, then said, "Good luck!" I asked her to check on Maria and make especially sure her dock lines were secure. If any of the lines were seriously worn, she would need to summon someone from the club. Warren and I set out for the docks in an effort to rescue the maverick yacht. We'll do our best to untangle the boat and take it to the basin which is on the inside of the sea wall. Outside the seawall the waves are 12 to 15 feet high. The wind is blowing so hard that the waves are being pushed over the sea wall into the yacht basin. The crashing water is causing a turbulent surge that is going in all directions within the basin. Warren got to the launch a little before me and had already fired it up. When the engine was sufficiently warmed, I untied the skiff and we headed out for the boat. In the short time it had taken us to get ready, the mooring had pulled itself another hundred feet from it's old position. The depth of the basin was an average of 12 feet which made the basin dangerously shallow in a storm. If the boat drifts another 100 feet closer to shore, it will be on a reef. Just as we reached the boat, it worked itself free from the power boat's bowsprit,

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but was still held firmly by other debris. The noise level of the storm overrode the grating sound of the two boats as they parted from structural combat. When we pulled alongside, I dropped the skiff's bumpers into place and jumped aboard the yacht. Her decks were strewn with rigging lines from various parts of her broken rigging. Quickly, I began to cut several lines that would endanger the yacht's rescue. Many lines had fallen into the cockpit area where the controls were housed. Within a few short minutes, the yacht was ready for the rescue. I motioned for Warren to tighten up the towline as we began to pull the yacht free of the power boat. Within seconds, the yacht fell away and we got underway. When I got aboard, I wrapped the tow line around one of the deck winches so I could winch the yacht closer to the skiff. With no more than fifteen feet between us, we towed the crippled yacht into the basin. We then tied it to the buoy tender, which had large truck tires for bumpers on it's sides. Several men on the tender cheered as we pulled away. Heading back to the dock, we saw a crowd of spectators that had gathered to watch the rescue effort. On our way back, a twelve foot wave flung itself into the skiff and nearly sank us in one fell swoop. I seized the handle to the bilge pump and began pumping it, as rivulets of water made their way down my face and into the crew neck collar of my sweater. I felt the stream of salty water make it's way down my chest until it reached my waistline, where it collected in soggy pockets. Warren's foulweather gear included an anciently designed Souwester foul weather hat that was humorously phallic. The design made his head appear pointed at the top of his forehead. With the boat full of

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water, Warren decided it was probably safer to go for the ship's ways where we could beach the skiff, then pull it up. My diligent efforts were dashed when a second wave toppled over the bow and nearly broached us. In the onslaught, Warren was driven to the deck, but his muscular hands and forearms were still clasping the wheel. Instantly, he was on his feet and advancing towards the boat shed. A large mass of unformed water surrounded the flat bottom boat and drove us up the ways and onto the steel railroad tracks, then the boat made a deafening thud as the prop hit something. Warren shouted that we should jump ashore and winch the boat up with the cable at my feet, 60 to 80 feet of 3/8 wire mesh. I secured the cable to the Sampson post underneath the foredeck, then threw the remaining cable ashore. The post was a 6 inch octagonal oak block fastened through to the keel. I studied the wave formations, so I could avoid as much water as possible, then I jumped to shore. I leaped into the water, trying to make my way to safety. Feeling safe as I neared closer to safety, I looked over my right shoulder when I saw a six foot wave break over the launch and heading towards me. For a moment, the boat was totally engulfed within the fury of the wave, and a canvas cockpit cover and the windshield was wiped clean from the scuttled hull. As I turned away, the wave hit me from the middle of my back down to the soles of my feet. The wave's impact knocked me forward, while standing in a vertical position. It knocked me 8 feet closer to safety. I scrambled out of the shore break just in time to collect a few laughs from the crew of RELENTLESS and Marian. The men in the rigging shop saw my condition

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and motioned for me to enter. When I went through the door I noticed my sail sitting on a spool of cable. The sail bag brought back memories of a friend, Dale Bragger of Westerly Sails in San Diego. He died in 1982. Lady Marian had the good sense to bring me warm, comfy clothes. Walking into the shop, the smells of yachting filled my nose; paint, varnish, fiberglass, resins, rotten oil soaked sisal rope and the familiar aroma of coffee brewing. I glanced over to the left of the shop, and there, stooping over the coffee machine, was Peter B.'s wife, Michelle. She was busy concocting a batch of Irish coffees! In a heroic mood, I offered the addition of Kahlua and whipped cream. Stripping my water-filled boots and sweater; I ran across the parking lot to Maria and fetched the whipped cream and homemade Kahlua. The Kahlua I made myself from a recipe of my ex-wife's, who inherited the recipe from her parents' Mexican housekeeper. When I entered, everyone's eyes fixed on the one gallon glass container, it was nearly 3/4 full. I explained the simplicity of the ingredients necessary to make Kahlua. They looked at me in disbelief as I reached for a coffee cup with the words "First-Mate" written on it's side. Questions flowed, but the bantering continued. One by one, everyone sampled the homemade Kahlua and compared it with the commercially produced version. The reactions were entertaining, few could detect any noticeable difference, and those who did preferred the homemade. Michelle, with her eyes fixed on my body, didn't notice that Peter was watching her watch me. I was bent over, removing my overalls from my feet. When I stood, her gaze stayed fixed to my nude body. I made sure to stand out of the sight of

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everyone except Michelle. Peter, her husband, owned the rigging shop and seemed very possessive of her. Michelle was better than average looking and possessed a youthful, but mature body. Her breasts were full on her small frame, leading me to believe her breasts had developed while being pregnant. Her sweater further accented her well endowed torso. From her breasts to her waist, the ratio was dramatic. From experience, her bust was around 37 to 38 inches and her waist not more than 24 inches. Her facial features resembled Joey Heatherton. Her smooth features accent her pouty mouth, and she's even more sensual after a brief study. From her waist, my eyes ventured to her inner thighs. She had an area the size of a cupped hand that noticeably pushed through her slacks, which made her mound the focal point of her flat pelvis. Her full lips were painted with glossy, wet red lipstick that was outlined with a darker border. The affect made her mouth design erotic. Marian broke my fantasy with a warm towel, draping it across my shoulders. Marian made brief eye contact with Michelle, exchanging information on the amounts of ingredients Michelle is pouring into the Irish coffees. With the replenished volume of Kahlua, Michelle made sure to pour ample portions. Warren entered the shed, still shivering from the wind and cold water. His face was brightened red from the wind exposure. Several people had now gathered in the shed. Some were sipping on beer, some rum and coke and even more were drinking Kahlua and coffee. I finished toweling, then slipped into a pair of wrangler jeans and a warm, dry rugby shirt. Since the outset of the trip, my arms have increased to quite a considerable size. To improve the shirt's

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comfort, I pulled the sleeves up and over my forearms, leaving nothing but my face and neck and forearms exposed to Michelle's curious gaze. Warren, the dock foreman, asked if I would help on another boat rescue, but I declined. Marian and Michelle began an involved conversation about sailing in the British West Indies. The winds are now blowing so strongly it is moving a "trailer-sailor" across the parking lot while it's still on the trailer. It came to a halt, when the trailer hitch buried up the ass end of a Toyota Landcruiser. Even with the door closed tightly, the wind is driving water through and around the felt trim. The winds have reached such intensity that the youth squadron shed has just had it's roof removed and thrown into a baseball field next door. Yachts on the ways, some 50 feet long, wiggle nervously in their cradles as the wind buffets their resting place. Rivers of water are pouring mud and rainwater down the neighboring hillsides into the power squadron's new recreation center, destroying the carpet and most of the furniture in it's path. Melbourne is a curious city of Australia, that is, weatherwise. Melbourne's winter months are notoriously bad. For around three and a half to four months the weather is predominantly gales, rain, sleet and foul. In the time I've spent in and around Melbourne and the Bass Strait, the weather has been as dangerous as I've been told. I find it humorous that people tend to gather and huddle together when bad weather strikes. These people in the shed are in nervous conversation about the normal high tide level. Waves are beginning to break into the parking lot, while loose debris from the boat yard is being sucked back out to sea. Long scaffolding planks are being tossed around the yard as though they're a handful of

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match sticks. One plank was thrust into a mound of dirt with such intensity that it burrowed some three feet, then the force of the waves loosened it and carried it back out to sea. No doubt, the storm is causing a multitude of other problems. Across the parking lot, I saw a couple groping through the dense rains, trying to reach their yacht to replace some abraded dock lines that had worn through. I could barely trace their outline across the lot, because the wind and rain has reduced visibility. One of the RELENTLESS crew came by bragging that he had made as much effort as he could to reduce the possibility of damage to the new boat. The waves were strong enough that they were buckling the dock. The continual grating and hammering of the docks revealed many areas that needed repair. Suddenly, several objects flew past the shed and joined the debris that was strewn across the parking lot. The once-manicured grounds of the yacht club looked like a desecrated battle zone. The look of the lot momentarily reminded me of the time I've spent in the military, in foreign lands. The winds were effortlessly driving anchored boats onto the shoreline like beached whales. The round hulls are being driven deep into the shoreline's rocks. As serious as the weather seems, humor is not far removed. A lady amongst us has suggested a pizza to help matters. An Italian immigrant in the crowd lifted his head in agreement, then hauled his corpulent frame to a stand. Marian sneered at the suggestion, but beer and pizza elicited fond memories from my past. I contributed the paltry sum of $l.00 Australian. The Italian, Allen, disappeared into the deluge of rain and sleet for pizza! It's a mad world!

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Marian and Nancy have finished concocting the Irish coffees. Constant weather updates are prescribing more bad weather. Apparently, another, more serious storm front is aligning to the south, moving northerly towards Melbourne. A low grumble emanates when the announcer says we can expect 70 knot gusts during the storm. Because the storm is so severe, all the men agree that it would be stupid to leave any of the yachts unattended. Because we have a forewarning of the impending danger, we've decided to select a committee for emergency clean-up operations at the yacht club. Remorse hits Todd, a young man who sails RELENTLESS, when he remembers he could be with his galfriend having a beer or two. We could resolve one of the issues, the beer. We've forgotten to count the rations of beer at the rigging shop. We have the tastes of eleven men and four ladies to appease. We've assuaged the ladies by ordering several bottles of white wine while the men continue to argue over the beer selection. Life can be full of traumatic decisions. Fosters Lager was the unanimous selection as the foul weather beer for the day. Unfortunately, someone in the crowd must go and fetch it. Marian announced that she and Nancy will do the honors. She said thoughtfully, "Maybe it will show you how much I care," laughing all the while! Again, we passed the hat to collect funds. Marian's face brightened when I suggested buying a brand of champagne I know she likes. Absentmindedly, I suggested we call Rockie. Marian feigned at the suggestion, but replied, "I'll call her and see if she's busy." I mentioned the idea of lining up Rockie with a friend from RELENTLESS as an excuse for inviting her. God, that Rockie! Continued reports over the wireless suggest

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much damage has occurred during the beginning of the storm. Power lines supplying electricity to the trains have ceased to supply. Leaning back onto some sails, I contemplate the difficulty of my future voyage. I've decided to ask the expert opinion of Peter, who has sailed around Wilson Promontory many, many times. An announcement over the radio indicated a fishing trawler in the mouth of Eden Harbor has just sunk in 80 feet of water. One crew member dead, two missing, and one swam to safety. The sea has little conscience when it comes to taking lives. When Marian returned with the beer, we decided the time was right to sneak off from the shed and find a little reprieve from the storm. There is a summer cabin on the yacht club grounds, which has a romantic fireplace, that's where we headed. I suggested we run over to Sandringham and pick up some chooks and salad. In the meantime, we'll relax and enjoy the time we have together. I've explained to Marian the winter equinox is setting a serious weather pattern over the southern part of Australia. Marian and I took the main road into Sandringham Village for the chicken and salad. We thought it would be fun to join the others, but it would be more fun to escape into our own little world, sitting out the storm with a warm fire, good food, and fine wine. The streets of Sandringham were flooded, so we were routed to another highway to get back over to the yacht club. Broken power lines were strewn around the roads like pasta noodles in a pot. As we drove back to the club, cars dotted the roadway after being stranded in knee-deep potholes along the road. Our vision wasn't just hampered, but completely blocked by the downpour of water.

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Oddly enough, the only way to drive the car was to roll down the window and hang my head out. Luckily, we had only a short distance back to the yacht club. As we drove down the lane to the club, our car sank into a mud hole that enveloped the whole wheel. After shifting through the gears several times, reverse solved the problem and we drove on to the cabin. I had all the charts of the trip in one large roll. Whether I want to or not, I am faced with the inevitability of sailing in the winter weather. Maria seems to be faring the storm well, she's restrained and not able to travel far because of the spring lines. It was somewhat curious that an object seemed to take on human-like character. A yacht such as Maria has a personality of her own. Maria's personality was accustomed and adjusted to blue water sailing. Soon as her sails were stuck, she began acting as though she was nervous. Rocking, bobbing and lurching nervously, much like one could expect a child to react in a toy store. While moored in calm weather, she accepted our stops as a matter of necessity. Without hesitancy, she sprang to life the second her bow line was cast away. Because Sparkman and Stephens did such a splendid job designing her, her reactions while sailing were precise and accurate. When her rudder was locked port or starboard, she turned with the agility and elegance of a well-trained ballet dancer. The fact that she is made of wood is another great asset. Her handling characteristics are traditional, yet her modern redesigned hung rudder adds much more to her sensitivity and sailing set. Her tracking is accurate and her response is like a leopard, her near full keel, sets the bow dead on point. Maria

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pointed to the wind around 36 to 38 degrees and her side slip is minimal. I can just say Maria has fantastic handling characteristics and a definite personality of her own, and I truly love sailing her. Long story shortened considerably, Commodore Spaulding and several members of the clean-up committee came motoring past Maria this morning and said hello. The storm lasted two days, causing serious damage on the land and seascape. Looking out across the bay, I saw a 40 foot yacht was balancing precariously on a jetty like a seawall. While the high tide bashed the yacht's sides, it started slipping back into the sea. Around the bay huge cranes were jockeying into position readying to lift the yacht from the jetty. Throughout Melbourne, the storm had a devastating effect. Damage was conservatively estimated in the tens of millions. The Yacht Club sustained serious building damage. The parking lot would need repairing and resealing. Over eight inches of sand and mud covered the entire grounds. The once wide road leading into the club had narrowed so badly, that small compacts were brushing their sides with the debris. Because it was Saturday, many people turned up to work, even the children got into the act. Marian returned to work, putting in long hours readying for the trip. Maria sustained little damage to her hull, but the rudder got bent off center when the tide receded, leaving her in shallow water, which caused the hung rudder to drive into the harbor floor. Many boats on the ways were left unscathed. One 30 foot yacht was contorted in it's cradle, then had to be jacked up and pulled forward. The damage was restricted to surface abrasion and

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paint repair, plus one back stay was broken, leaving the mast twisted and concaved toward the bow. Peculiarly enough, serious damage occurred when a canvas cover blew off a yacht named ONDINE. Water and hail with debris filled it's beautifully appointed interior. The water level rose inside the yacht to three feet. When the owner found the yacht, he just pulled the exterior bilge cap, letting the water drain to the ground. The weather this day had beautiful clear skies, moderate winds and sunny. Children were busy collecting trash which had blown here and there. I had taken a long hot shower. The Commodore suggested I use the yacht club cabin. He figured Marian and I could use a good rest after all the hectic activities surrounding the storm. The only thing the Commodore said was, "Leave it the way you found it." The people here were truly fantastic. I sorted out and washed a week's laundry. So this day I was doing little or nothing. One of the club members gave the club the use of a skip loader, so I had volunteered my services for cleaning up. In my haste, I had nearly forgotten hauling out. Somebody said the race might be canceled today due to lack of interest. The race was to start at 1:30. Marian's assigned duty was in Ballarat. The area of Ballarat was a gold rush boom town in the middle 1800's. Stories were told that Ballarat was the scene of a near famous revolution. The revolution took place in Eureka Stockade in 1854. It is a beautiful town today, it displays gorgeous begonias for which it is most famous. In the flowerfilled park, busts of the late Prime Ministers line it's walkways. As part of the park's entertainment, a small diorama commemorates historic events of the past

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and a bygone era. Marian was working in a commercially built theme park named Sovereign Hill. The park is a recreation of the Ballarat in it's yesteryear. I was amazed that it seemed much like Virginia City or some other old revived ghost town of those days. Marian had gold mine duty. It seemed there was a real mine on the property that people paid a small fee to pan for gold in it. Melbourne weather for the next week was supposed to be clear, with winds out of the northnortheast at 6 to 8 knots. Then changing to prevailing winds from the north indicated a fairly stable weather pattern. I threw on a wind-cheater and made for the skip loader. Warren, the yard manager, and Elizabeth, his wife, are busy brooming out their cottage floor. Water had entered their house through the open garage door. The living room floor accumulated two inches of water during the storm's havoc. I began operating a backhoe that had been converted to a loader. After two minutes at the controls, mud was flying. We had a dump truck to carry the material back down to the sea to be dumped. Before long, the infamous crew of RELENTLESS appeared and suggested I come to a party being held in Toorak, wherever the hell that is! Glen, one of the crew, indicated it was in the cosmos area of Melbourne socialites. It was a fantasy neighborhood, much like Beverly Hills. They specified the time and offered me a ride with them. Racing today was out of the question; however, tomorrow at ten in the morning, a race was scheduled at the Royal Melbourne Yacht Squadron down at St. Hilda's Marina. I was for that, "fairdinkum" and "righty-o." Glen says they have excellent aerial photographs of Wilson's

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Promontory. I should take advantage of their hospitality and research the coastline I would be sailing around. The Promontory is notoriously dangerous because it is unprotected from weather in three directions. Also, the Indian Ocean and the South Pacific meet at that point. The focused body of water turns into an unpredictable, swirling mass without mercy or conscience. Sailors, as they speak of the Bass Strait, describe it as an unforgiving, menacing and foreboding body of water. Since sailors began to navigate these waters, particularly down in the Bass Strait, they have encountered mysteries that to this day have no conclusion. Compass and navigation errors are everyday experiences, and again, there's the weather. The "Prom", as the locals refer to it, is a knob or mountain precipice hanging over the water. It's immense dimension blocks nearly all weather as you sail thirty miles around it's mass. It's appearance from the sea is awesome, and on a clear day, you can see it's peak jutting into the sky from 80 miles away. Wilson's Promontory is comprised mostly of granite and limestone sedimentary layers. From the pictures I have seen, it looks like something out of the movie, "Lost Horizon." An interesting part of this trip had been the involved study and preparation necessary to avoid bad sailing conditions and dangerous land mass configurations. Warren and his wife, Elizabeth, invited me for, as the Aussies call it, tea. Early tea at that! Warren is an Englishman from the outgo. His speech is Cockney and his brogue is a combination EnglishIrish. Liz, his wife, is a local Melbournite. The air today is clean, fresh and clearly tastes of oxygen. I looked up from the tractor across Port Phillip Bay and I saw the town of Mornington and to

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the west the Dandelong mountainlets. The day had been a busy one. Lunch with Warren and Liz proved to be productive. Warren offered me the use of his car which hasn't been used in weeks. He said it would be good if I used it, because the battery would get charged. The Australian hospitality is sometimes overwhelming. After a splendid lunch, Warren and I discussed the peculiar properties of the car. His concern about my ability to drive on the right side was soon dispelled. I told him I lived in London for several summers, and had to drive around Picadilly and downtown London. As a courteous gesture, I washed and vacuumed his car. Commodore Spaulding and I had been bullshitting about construction outside the cabin, when a familiar sound pierced the surrounding activities.

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6
Rockie
"Ma Cheri, Rockie, what a definite unexpected pleasure!" At this point, I was compelled to introduce Madame Rockie to the Commodore. Rockie, as she drove up, beeped the Targa's horn. The Commodore reacted with a quick, nervous contortion of his face. He stared as Rockie poised herself, then began a flaunting exit of the car. When she unlatched the door, the wind carried her cologned body scent into the air and our faces. The Commodore's eyes were glued to her body motions as she exited. Rockie emanates pure animal attraction. Her exquisite body design and nimble movements resonate with apparent youth. Attempting to introduce Rockie was difficult, but I managed. Commodore Spaulding could sense her entire interest was directed at me. He winked as though he knew something sensual or sexual was in the offing. Rockie was wearing jeans that clung tightly

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around her firm youthful ass. My vision intensified as my eyes moved to her flat stomach and mid section. Her small waist made a stark contrast to her round, firm ass. A fine wound gold chain served as a belt separating her pelvis from her torso. Rockie's red freckles were more pronounced around the curves of her breasts. When I turned off the tractor, I saw the look of fantasy in her eyes. She seemed to emanate a sensual flow of energy. I asked her the reason for her visit. She mentioned looking for Marian here at the club. I was well aware she knew Marian was in Ballarat. Marian told Rockie she would be at Ballarat and if she wished, she could join her there and spend the day panning for gold. Rockie and I were strongly aware of our mutual attraction. It didn't take a genius to see how easy it was for us to be with each other. I had felt an immediate and petulant desire for Rockie from the very minute I met her. If our mutual attraction was any indication of emotion, I would say, without a doubt, we were helplessly infatuated with each other. My only negative concern and feelings were for hurting Marian. God, I Love Sailing! Sensual and warm images raced through my mind as I looked at Rockie. I could feel the intensity of her presence as my blue jeans began to stretch, accommodating the increasing size of my flaccid appendage. I caught Rockie's eyes following the outline of my slacks. My entire body was convulsing with surges of sexual energies. I felt the need to say something leading; sexually suggestive. "Rockie, I am really pleased you came by." I felt like saying "love," but it would have been a little out of place, after all it was our first time alone. Climbing down from the tractor, she extended

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a helpful hand to assist my dismount. Her hand tightened as our bodies grew closer. A feeling of panic rushed over me, then immediately disappeared as I made sure my face was well into her range of kissing. I decided to use the old ploy, "You didn't give me a kiss for my birthday." Rockie hesitated for an instant, then like an actress on cue, she intensified her seductive pursuit until both our bodies touched at our middles. Rockie had a languished look in her eyes. Her face became warmly intense as she closed the distance between our faces. My locked stare revealed inner emotions that were more easily expressed in a soft, physical contact. Rockie began to smile devilishly, then with a suspended look, began to back up until we reached the open paint shed. I pulled her close until my mouth exerted just enough pressure to urge more. Her face was flushed as our lips streaked back and forth until my mouth pulled her lips apart. Rockie pulled back long enough to tell me she wanted to see the yacht she had heard so much about. My mind reeled as the possibilities went through my mind. Now would be an excellent time to be frank. I said, "Rockie, you do realize how much I feel for you even though I can't express exactly why. . . ." She smiled broadly, and said, "Lindsey, I've felt the same since the first day we met." I took a deep breath and adjusted my sweater to allow the sweat to run down my very wet back. We walked hand in hand to the yacht. Rockie expressed concern for Marian's feelings toward me and I assured her the last thing either of us should do was say anything of our meeting. Then she said, "Lindsey, what if we really care for each other?" The prospect itself made my heart nearly skip a beat or two before I

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could give a logical answer. She said again she had wished we could get together. Rockie was a definite 9.5 in looks and figure. She admitted the real purpose of her visit was to see me. A mild euphoria swept over me as Rockie put her arm around my waist en route to Maria. Her conversation was mostly about the boat, but I knew she was thinking about having sex. Her erratic speech patterns hinted her mind was fixed on something other than boats. The closer we got to the yacht, the more vibrant and energetic her body language became. Her sensual anticipation and mind came to a point where we were both in a sexual frenzy. While we walked down the dock, a crew member of RELENTLESS started to shout hello, but seeing my immersion with Rockie, decided silence would outweigh a momentary interruption of my thoughts. The tide had brought Maria's bow within easy stepping distance. Rockie bent over to remove her spiked heels and hiked up her pant legs to allow a little more freedom of movement. Cat whistles emanated from afar as the many crews looked on in eager anticipation, wishing they could be me. God, I Love Sailing! Boarding Maria, I stood on the bow in eager anticipation. I spotted a bead of perspiration trickling down around her breasts making it's way into the well cleaved valley. The tide caused the boat to surge back and forth, delaying Rockie's anticipated boarding. With her body gestulating to and fro, her yellow vee neck sweater revealed that she was not wearing a bra. My concentrated effort to see more went unobstructed as Rockie bent over to grasp the bow rail. I could see from the tops of her large, red-nippled breasts to the top of her jeans. She was wearing cream-colored bikini panties. Readily I could see she had not worn any

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form of hose requiring little, if any, effort for immediate direct hand stimulation to her vaginal area. The curve of her stomach was youthful and lithe, the rapid body motions of her torso barely caused her breasts to jiggle. Her breasts were obviously very firm, as I found out during my brief contact earlier. Catching me watching her, Rockie withdrew her stare from my crotch, then we both transfixed a romantic gaze onto each other. My pulse had been quick before, but now it was pounding like the rapid bursts of a jackhammer. She handed her shoes to me, and her perfume caught my senses and heightened my present mental euphoria. Her mere presence was intoxicating. For an instant, my mind returned to our first encounter at Marian's. While I showered, Rockie had entered the bathroom and used the bidet, then in my full view, washed herself as I watched through the opaque glass door. Now, I was positive she had done it purposely. Rockie is one erotic woman. With ease, Rockie calculated the ship's movement, then stepped onto the bow, then spread her trailing leg to clear the bow rail. As she swung her leg across, one chap painting his boat began to howl. Rockie was very aware of the onlookers and used the occasion to perform at her finest. Her bright red hair was nearly iridescent as she flung it from her beautiful face. With the throng of onlookers, she made sure to prance and display her most noteworthy assets. Her ass was full, but hard as a rock, making the connecting point of her thighs pronounced. She put her arms around my neck in a locking embrace. When I kissed her, she plunged her tongue into my mouth for a split second, then retracted as quickly, in an impish, teasing fashion.

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Quite apparently, Rockie was hardly naive or innocent. Her impish fashion implied a sort of playful, childlike mood. I took her hand, turning and lifting it over my shoulder as one would in a square dance, leading her to the cockpit in single file behind me. Reaching our destination, I turned again to meet her face to face. Rockie was trembling with anticipation. Her hands were wet with perspiration, and the veins in her neck were pronounced, indicating her blood pressure had increased. Her lips began to quiver as I pulled her to me. It struck me funny that such a beautiful woman could seem so starved for affection. God, that Rockie! I began to quiver as she teased my ears with her tongue, thrusting in and out and around the backs of them. Her assertive moves drove me wild with anticipation as she continued her frolicking. I slipped my hand under her sweater and began to stroke the side of her waist. If we continued any further, I felt sure I would do something which would embarrass the both of us. Reluctantly, I restrained myself long enough to open the boat's hatch. My neighbor in the #2 pen came on deck half smiling. I'm sure he fully understood my intentions. I peered out the starboard porthole and caught my neighbor staring blankly at the sky. I assumed he was mulling over the idea of our sensual interlude on deck and was thinking about something infinitely more passionate. He and I made direct eye contact, then he feigned working on something. I think it was a brush. He looked nervously embarrassed as he hastily scurried to the cabin house, then went below. No movement could be seen through the portholes in the cabin. Even Rockie's feet are alluring. Her ankles stand in sharp contrast to her dark blue jeans. Her

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entire figure is exquisite. Her petite wrists, neck, and ankles make her appear physically helpless and sensually vulnerable. The smells on a yacht take on the scent and distinct odors of it's owner. My cologne bottle had fallen and broken while in rough seas, filling the boat's interior with the smell of Givenchy cologne. The contrast between the boat's wooden interior and the delicate fragrance of the cologne emanates elegance and a definite richness. The interior's combined scent triggered a marked positive response from Rockie. Touching her arm with my stretched hand, I inquired if she would enjoy a glass of dry, white wine or champagne. Champagne was our mutual choice. Rockie's eyes danced from object to object in the yacht. I could see her curiosity had gained control of her momentarily. I asked if she had ever been on a cruising yacht. She said no, but that she certainly liked mine and the way it was accommodated. I suggested we relax and drink a glass or two of wine before I showed her everything. As the word, "everything" left my lips, her eyes wandered aimlessly forward to my sleeping quarters. I convinced myself to prolong doing anything until I was pretty certain we were on the same thought path. Oddly, our conversation turned to, of all things, Marian. I was afraid Rockie would get cold feet and start to feel guilty about our interlude. But to my surprise, she said, "Whatever happens, never tell Marian." I breathed a sigh of relief. We were so close, that I simply reached over and pulled her to my mouth. Her relaxed manner implied she was adjusting to both the boat and me. She put her left hand around my neck and pulled us tighter

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together. In a whisper so soft I could barely hear it myself, I let her know how much I wanted to be with her and I had thought of her often. I felt we were much the same, and she agreed. Then I told her in a low whisper that I wanted to show her the most important part of the yacht. Her mouth parted and I ran my lips into hers. My hand pressure indicated the direction we were going. Slowly, very slowly, we inched our way forward with our champagne glasses still in hand. The hallway narrowed as we moved forward in the boat, until we were pressed into one mass. I tilted my glass to her lips, then she did the same to me until we had drained the wine from our glasses. The design of the cabin put the bunk height just below her ass. I took her glass and mine, then put them on my bookshelf. Suddenly, I started to get hot, white hot; as I kissed her, she moved her hands up the front of my bulging jeans until they reached the top metal button. With the skill of a surgeon, her hands unhooked my belt, releasing all pressure around my waist. She continued to squeeze my engorged member. In one motion, her sweater came off and fell to the cabin floor, exposing her intensely erect nipples. We tilted our heads and slid into the full length of my bunk. Her hands moved methodically into my underwear and began to massage my rock hard penis. Her skilled hand fondled my balls, then locked onto my thick length. Pulling it, she put me into a sensual frenzy. I felt her hand lubricate when I prematurely ejaculated, serving to heighten my sensitivity. We realized it would increase our comfort to shed our clothes. We kissed with a passion I haven't experienced in years. She ran her mouth up and down my neck, across my cheek, and

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around my eyes. All the while, we were taking our clothes off. I suggested that she leave her tight bikini panties on, so I could tease her through her panties. I reached up and opened the hatch overhead to let in plenty of fresh air. I knew we were going to need it. Our clothes ended up in many different directions. My sweater ended up in the toilet. I was just glad the toilet was clean and empty at the time. Rockie's legs were starting to part. I could feel her heels making their way up past the back of my knees. Her heels dug into my ass as she reached her comfort zone. She began to cling to me thrusting her pelvis onto my fully erect penis. Because I was so hard, my rigid penis played on the outside of her vagina. Her strokes were starting to cause light penetration, separating the lips on her hot pussy. I resisted any penetration in order to heighten her stimulation. She was concerned I didn't enter her immediately. I said nothing as she tried to insert my head into her wet vagina. Just as my cock started into her firm stomach, I withdrew. Then I started kissing her, with my tongue deep in her mouth. Her mouth was open to it's full limit. I could feel she was continuing to relax even further. I slid my tongue out of her mouth and let it start it's way to her warm, musky pussy. My mouth made it's way to her full breasts, I sucked tenderly until her body motions were nearly convulsive. Her legs were spread so wide she appeared to be doing calisthenics. She was so open I could see the light pink skin of her interior. Rockie was so comfortable, she began to dilate considerably in anticipation of my large cock. Her liquids started flowing and wet the bunk sheets. Her moans and groans increased as I slipped several fingers into her. As I worked my

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fingers deeper into her vagina, I made sure to gently stroke her clitoris until it stood as erect as my swollen cock. Her back started to thrust and arch as I sucked her nipples and ran my tongue around the entire perimeter of each throbbing breast. Her nipples were now fully excited. I could see tiny seed-like lumps, giving her nipples even more detail. Her thrusts became near violent as I ran my tongue through her creamy pussy, barely brushing her clitoris with my lips and tongue. I began to push her knees further apart to position myself for deeper penetrating thrusts and tender sucking with my mouth and tongue. As I applied light pressure with my hands, she eagerly assisted by spreading her thighs until her knees were touching her shoulders. Her red haired pussy opened like an invitation to a picnic. I pulled my mouth from deep inside her pussy and concentrated on bringing her to a thunderous orgasm. I purposely let my tongue skirt the parameter of her clitoris, then acted like I had accidentally forgotten to lick and suck on it. This teasing was causing her to soak my entire face and hands with her creamy, salty fluid. God, I Love Sailing! Eating her was driving me crazy. Her juices were lightly salty, but near tasteless. The texture of her cum was velvety and clear. Tasting her evoked more of an animal behavior from me. I put both of my large hands under her ass then pulled her entire crotch in my mouth. While I was sucking on her, she dug her fingernails into my hair. Locking her hands into my hair she manipulated my movements to match her building need for an orgasm. She pulled me deeper into her. Incredibly, she managed to spread her legs even further while bucking and thrusting her pussy into my mouth. I could feel her reaching for a thunderous orgasm. I continued my

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rhythm so she could reach maximum intensity when she did release herself. As she started to climax, I increased the sucking to heighten her sensitivity. Her head bobbed back and forth as she arched her back in total ecstasy. Now she should be totally ready for all I can give her. I pulled myself into a mounting position. I drug the head of my cock through her drenched pussy. My hot cock seemed to electrify her vagina. Again, I started teasing her, only inserting the head into her wet pussy, then I pulled it out, making sure I rubbed it up against her clitoris until she reached down with her hand, grabbing my cock and pulling my head into her; then she started to really fuck me. She thrust her hips upward, taking more and more each stroke. I poised my feet against the bulk head in a readying posture. My thrusts were so strong and deep she moaned and made a grunting murmur as I began to pound her vagina with nearly all my erect member. I buried so deep into her body she began to pull back as I thrust deeper and deeper. With another inch or so to go I reached under her ass with both hands and pulled her onto my cock. This fully stretched her insides to accommodate my length. She came so violently her pussy made a vacuuming sort of sound. I continued thrusting until I couldn't hold back from cuming any longer. She was in a state of continuous orgasm. Her legs were limp and accepting every inch of me. My body writhed and exploded into final orgasm. Her wet vagina was now overflowing with sperm. Every stroke caused cum to squirt out from around my long hot shaft. The feeling was incredible. She begged me to stay inside her and not withdraw. I did just that, and I pulled her stomach tight against my stomach and started to kiss her in heated passion. She said over and over she loved me and

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would never leave me. God, I Love Sailing! Our lovemaking continued into the late afternoon. Sharply at 4:00, Darin from RELENTLESS came to Maria and meekly tapped the hull to see if we were alive and available for afternoon cocktails aboard RELENTLESS. Rockie then asked Darin to step aboard. His eyes were frantic in his attempt to observe something telltale related to our love making. His eyes froze on the various pieces of clothing strewn about the boat's interior. I was vaguely aware there was a musky "after love" smell in the air. I caught Darin purposefully testing the lightly scented air by closing his mouth and inhaling through his nostrils deeply. His red, sunbaked face flushed even further when I asked him what he was smelling for. Then it dawned on me the sweet smell of lovemaking must be stronger than I thought. Laughing, I made the excuse that oil must have run into the bilge or I must have dropped some fish parts into the bilge. We all laughed in near hysterics because we were fully aware what the smell was. I suggested we drink a glass of wine and ask Darin to stay and join us. Then we would fully dress and go to RELENTLESS in around fifteen minutes. Darin drank his wine quickly, he could feel his presence was a bit intrusive. Mumbling and laughing at the same time, he exited the cabin. I'm sure I know what was on his mind. Rockie! Rockie truly radiates a charm and loveliness. She's the type of girl a father would be very protective of. She emanates a charm which any man would be strongly attracted to. In the back of my mind, I hear the conversation on RELENTLESS right at this moment. Darin is making pointing gestures to the various positions of our clothes trying to explain what he saw. Then he would tell the fish in the bilge

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story. I flipped on the power to the hot water heater and Rockie straighten up our clothes that were thrown about. I adjusted the water temperature of the shower, then called Rockie. Rockie soaped my body as we showered and lightly fondled my backside with the soap. I exchanged the pleasure by soaping up her red, velvety pussy hair. She winced slightly as I gently washed the soap from her pubic hair. We quickly rinsed ourselves, and changed into fresh clothes. We left the boat in such haste that I left all the hatches open and the radio going in my cabin. Reaching the dock, we could clearly hear the radio playing in my cabin. The thought occurred to me that if we could hear the radio our lovemaking would have been clearly audible. Oh, well, I can't help it that I love sailing! Rockie's bowlegged cantor suggested we had stretched something more than her tight, supple thighs. Exchanging glances, we laughed about the strenuousness of our afternoon activity. Both of us had our own sexually related malady. She complained of being sore and I complained I wanted more, I was still very aroused! She rolled her eyes in disbelief and suggested we make it later. She said kiddingly, "Five minutes, how about right now?" We both knew "now" would be somewhat exaggerated. So we settled on the idea of making love again in the evening. We swayed back and forth in mutual harmony as Rockie firmly wrapped her arm around my waist. We appeared to have known each other for years as we walked down the dock. Walking down the dock, a club member who was working on his boat jokingly asked to be introduced to my wife. He had a half smile on his

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face because earlier in the week he had seen me with Marian. Rockie didn't get the drift of his humor and didn't realize he was ribbing me. We walked past several boats that had guests aboard for the day. Afternoons spent at the Sandringham Club were strictly reserved for entertaining. Mostly cocktails. God, Aussies love to drink. Oddly enough I had decided to quit drinking mostly out of self-preservation. When my first foot stepped on RELENTLESS's deck, a beautiful woman popped her head through a hatch and directed us to come below and meet everyone. I considered how awkward it might get if one of the ladies starts to talk about Marian. The stark interior of RELENTLESS was filled with bodies from stem to stern. Beer cans were starting to accumulate and the plastic trash bag was half full. I hadn't reached the bottom of the companionway when an ice cold Foster's Lager beer was shot into my hand. The men cheered as gorgeous Rockie made her way below. It was apparent that Darin had told everyone about his earlier encounter on Maria. Questions of name, rank, and serial number came from every direction. Rockie was upset at their heated bantering. I had to interrupt the conversation and change the subject in order to restore Rockie's comfort. The men sensed that she was ill at ease and backed off when I winked at them. Rockie immediately blended into chatter with the other ladies. The guys' curiosity about Rockie exceeded my fondest expectations. They all wanted her phone number and address. I changed the subject to the party in Toorak. Not being familiar with Melbourne, I asked the guys about the area. They said it was a wealthy area of

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town with beautiful homes and fine women. All of a sudden it dawned on me I hadn't invited Rockie to the party. So I shouted above the others, asking Rockie if she'd go to the party. She just smiled. Damn! I Love Sailing! I agreed to have another beer, then we'd split and get ready. Rockie got the party's address and acknowledged she knew the people who were throwing it. I detected aloofness when she spoke of the hosts of the party. Maybe I was overreacting, but we should have fun with the RELENTLESS crowd. Rockie and I had a very short conversation about what would happen should Marian find out we were secretly seeing each other. Rockie changed the subject and conveyed she was flying early in the morning to New Caledonia. She went on to say it would be two or three days before her return. I let the subject of Marian slip to the wayside. I left Rockie at the car and asked when she could get back. She reminded me she was a stewardess and stewardesses have an uncanny ability to dress in a hurry when necessary. I asked her if they were generally fast with sex and she retorted, "My you have a short memory." We kissed in a very long embrace, then she departed for Frankston. It was hard to concentrate on getting ready. I kept thinking about how seductive and very aloof Rockie could be at times. I momentarily considered the possibility of having a relationship with Rockie. She was cosmetically beautiful, and charming, but something was missing. Like the saying "The lights are on, but nobody's home." The idea didn't enter my mind until I started thinking about things in the long run. Possibly, probably; I should accept our rendezvous as just fun, with no responsibilities. Damn, I was starting to think like a love struck school boy. I think I'll run up to the club house and

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make a few calls to the good ole U.S. of A. In fact, I haven't spoken to anyone at home for months. Standing at the bar, I asked for a schooner of beer. The bartender said he'd like to buy me one, so I accepted. He broke into gossip about the beautiful women seen milling around Maria. I just laughed and asked him where he had heard such insidious rumors. He said he couldn't help but notice the beautiful redhead when she got on the yacht earlier. He prodded and persisted so long that he got me talking freely about my life pursuits and exploits. He figured I was a Californian, I queried why. He said, matter of factly, "Californians are always tan, and in excellent physical condition." His comments were so psychologically inductive that I concluded it would be more fun not to challenge his observation but to carry it a tad further. I agreed totally with his awareness and astute perceptivity. His demeanor and quality of speech changed considerably as I treated him with equal respect. He attributed his marked skills to years of yacht club service. The bartender, who's name was Ian, had worked in nearly every yacht club on Port Phillip Bay. His bulbous reddened nose hinted of his habit. His nose spread across his face like a porous ball. It was so large that it was difficult not to look at it. It was not hard to compare him with W.C. Fields. The club members were showing up for their proverbial Saturday night drink out. They would gather at their favorite tables which afforded them a clear view of the yachts. As I stood at the bar daydreaming, I started to think about how many yacht clubs I've been to in the last three years. At last count, Sandringham makes the 118th club that I've visited. Some time in the future. I intend to write a travelogue of the

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yacht clubs that I have visited around the world. It should be interesting when their put into a book. Considering what I've gleaned about yacht clubs thus far, the book could be several hundred pages! Further along on my trip, I plan to dry dock Maria somewhere between Sydney and Townsville. So far, it's been so easy to work on the boat, I've pulled into Yacht Clubs, spent a week or two and the clubs have never asked for a cent. Most of the time, they ask me to address their club members and let them know what a wonderful time I'm having. Sometimes they ask me to discuss navigation experiences while trekking. It's surprising, but only five to ten percent of most yachtsmen can actually navigate. Unfortunately, I have found most yacht clubs don't put a high priority on navigational training. Most clubs are designed and operated on purely a social basis. The thing that struck me as unusual about the Sandringham Yacht Club was their sincere interest to teach navigation, and make sure their yachtsmen were safe at sea. Out of all the clubs I've visited, this club has more serious sailors than all the rest. Sandringham sponsors a very good navigation class. When asked to lecture, I said not only would I help, but I would enjoy teaching the whole navigation course. I got a strange look from the bartender, then he gestured behind me. As I turned a hand, grabbed my waist. Rockie's perfume caught me and more fantasy filled my mind. I looked down at my Rolex, it was 7:35. Rockie greeted me with a great big smile and a tease of a dress. She was wearing a full length evening dress that clung tightly to her extraordinary figure. Her lean, youthful body was model-like in appearance. The dress was black and

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was in high contrast to her skin color. As we drove around the lake, it started to drizzle, then quickly cleared. We hung a right onto St. Kilda's Road where the soccer stadium is situated, then turned left at Elizabeth Street, and on to Toorak. I was dubious about the quality of the neighborhood of Toorak. But in the last four blocks or so, the area started to improve markedly. I gave a sigh of relief. We drove through the downtown of Toorak and it reminded me of La Jolla, Beverly Hills, and of all places, Georgetown, in the District of Columbia, which is very preppie and fashionable. I have never spent a cold July, August, or September anywhere in the world until now. Briefly, as we continued our drive, I started thinking about why it should be cold here this time of year. With little deliberation, I concluded the Earth's South Pole is tilted away from the sun. Therefore, the experience of winter on earth which spans some two to three months equals 60 to 90 degrees travelled around the sun just like anywhere else on Earth. The Northern Hemisphere during July, August, and September experiences the pleasures of summer, because the northern axis is tilted toward the sun on the portion of it's trip around the sun. Interestingly enough, the only reasons we have seasonal changes is because the Earth's north and south axis does not change but it's position in relation to the sun does. With a simple illustration, the idea becomes more clear. Driving through Toorak, the houses took on the same appearance that one might expect in any wealthy American suburb. We pulled down a long tree-lined drive and started to see people who had parked some distance away. The drive was wide enough to accommodate two large automobiles side

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by side. Some distance further, we passed a nice looking Rolls Corniche as it glided past. It was, of all people, Foxy. Of course, he was accompanied by a very good looking brunette. I tried to introduce Foxy, but to my surprise, Rockie seemed to know the Fox already. I figured from the amount of parked cars which were parked up and down the block, that there should be between 80 to 400 people at the party. Fortunately, a valet service was parking cars tonight, so we wouldn't have to hassle with it. The doors opened immediately as the car came to a halt in front of the main door. Another Rolls was unloading it's passengers and it's guests were filtering into the game room on the left side of the house. As we approached the front doors, we were greeted by someone named Charles. His general appearance was intimidating and his demeanor was curt and coldly profane. All of a sudden it struck me, we were invited to an invitation-only cocktail party. Our fellow guests were carrying engraved invitations. Nervous, I pulled Rockie from the line and started walking back to the valet to fetch our car. The last thing in the world I wanted was to be embarrassed because we didn't have a formal invitation to show the maitre-d. I was starting to increase my stride as we made a hasty retreat from the other guests who are wondering what was going on. We weren't more than four steps away, when this huge edifice of a maitre-d yelled out in a loud roar, "Mr. Fain!" I spun on my heels while gaining my composure and said, "Yes?" The maitre-d, Arnold, ran to us in a near panic. I was unsure how to gauge the situation, until I sensed he was being

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apologetic for making us wait. A surge of relief seized me when I realized that Arnold was instructed to usher us into the party when we arrived. Arnold escorted Rockie and I straight into the main guest room. Arnold was noticeably shaken that he nearly let us walk off. Little did he know I was afraid that we weren't invited to the party. Certainly, I wasn't going to tell him. I said "Thank you, Arnold," as I read his name tag loudly. I'm sure I must have given the impression that Arnold and I had known one another for years. Rockie remained calm and collected throughout the whole affair, although the whole thing had been a minor intrusion of dignity. Arnold apologized again for the oversight, then disappeared into the waiting guests at the front door. Standing with Rockie in the midst of all these strangers gave me a sense of impending jeopardy. I turned and faked conversation with Rockie to regain the composure I had arrived with. Rockie's unerring manner furthered my discomfort. I could feel something going on but couldn't put a finger on it just yet! A servant passed us with a full tray of champagne glasses. In my nervousness, I pulled two glasses from the tray, and Rockie did the same. God, I Love Sailing! Standing here with two glasses could create a problem, especially if I were to be introduced. The waiter was making a special effort to keep our glasses full. In two swallows, I reduced my glasses to one. I spotted somebody down the hall who looked vaguely familiar, but I wasn't going to run around this strange house looking for anyone who looked familiar. Rockie revealed that she knew several people

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here. Again, I get the uncanny feeling something is going on that I'm not aware of. I get the distinct feeling we are being ignored. I thought over the circumstances quite thoroughly! The guys from the Yacht Club, the crew of RELENTLESS, had invited me. Hum. Deductive reasoning tells me there's something more involved happening. Anyway, I hardly know any of these people. I sighed with relief. Then it hit me. If it was not me, it must be Rockie who was creating the silent stir. "Hum." I explained to Rockie that I felt something didn't seem right. I wondered if she could have anything to do with our cold reception. Her unerring behavior suggested she was quite aware what was going on but wasn't letting on that she knew. Now that she was caught in midexpression, I would hit her with more questions. I would hit her with a more revealing and pertinent question to the situation. When I tried to pry, she recoiled and acted as though she had been insulted. She refused to believe that she had caused the cold air. Appearing as if he had stepped out of the woodwork, Darin mysteriously approached Rockie. He put his mouth to within half an inch of Rockie's right ear. His mouth pressed into her hair, enough that it disarrayed her Gibson coiffure. The circumstances seemed quite unnatural. With apology for the strange behavior, he welcomed both of us to the party and asked if we had been here long. I acted as if nothing was wrong and exchanged simple pleasantries. His behavior seemed artificial, nervous, nearing the point of being servile. His reaction caused me to be even more suspicious toward Rockie and now the whole circumstance was less than amusing. A look of

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consternation swept over Rockie's face, as a man with a very large plastic smile approached the three of us who were standing motionless. I felt like a confrontation was imminent and should prepare for a fight. Rockie's eyes were blank and hollow as the smile closed nearer. My incredibly good physical condition was evident, as I noticed him sizing me up. I retained my cool and stood my ground while returning the same icy stare. My unusually calm and collected air seemed to unnerve him even further. I relaxed further when he wimply shook my hand with a weak and frail grip. I nearly started laughing when I noticed the size of his weed-like neck protruding from his small evening jacket. I felt an even greater need to show warmth and cordiality, in an attempt to disarm any further aggression on his part. He continued shaking my hand, while several people gathered to watch the altercation between him and me. Rockie's face, meanwhile, had turned a brilliant shade of red. So far, my exceptional deductive reasoning hadn't figured out what was happening. At least not until he called Rockie (Mrs. Scott) and then introduced himself as Mr. Scott. He then added he wasn't her father which would account for the last name. He apologized to me for his immature introduction and continued to explain the situation. He then reintroduced himself "Doctor" first, then his full God-given title, Dr. Richard Allen Scott, Rockie's estranged husband. I really wanted to laugh, but I figured it was inappropriate right this second. Despite the fact that I brought Rockie to the party, I felt that if there was going to be a fight, they would have to start without me.

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Somehow when he said they were married, I felt a great sense of relief. Now I knew which part of the mysterious puzzle was missing. As though an angel had predestined the event, Foxy appeared and took over the situation. Awkward as the situation was, both Foxy and I were trying to out smile one another, trying to avert the impending disaster. I candidly asked everyone present if they'd enjoy another glass of bubbly. I saw that Dr. Richard Scott's attention was preoccupied with Rockie. Besides, if they were having marital problems it doesn't have anything to do with me. Foxy threw his arm around my shoulder and led me from the line of fire. The way he did it, made us appear we were discussing the next election or business deal. His quick reaction saved me from a tongue lashing from Scott. As we reached the hallway, we broke into a run. Twenty feet later, we were out in the garden just outside the kitchen. I can't remember who it was first, Foxy or me, but, one of us started laughing. Our laughing continued for a long time. He was quick to rub it in that I owed him one for saving me. I said, "What the hell do you mean? That little weasel wouldn't dare mess with me." He kept laughing and rubbed it in again that he had saved me from a fate worse than death. He had saved me from a husband's bruised ego and the score he could have laid on me. A waiter just inside the kitchen door was refilling champagne glasses with a full bottle of Dom Perignon. I leaped to my feet and ran to the opened kitchen door. Peeking inside, I summoned the waiter, explaining that I had just escaped near

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death and would appreciate a full bottle to celebrate my brush with death. The waiter had witnessed the brou- ha- ha and handed me a full bottle while still laughing. Then recounted a similar time when he experienced the same thing when he returning from the war in the Arnem. He added it was probably a good idea to stay in the garden for a few minutes longer. At least long enough for some of the hostilities to be exchanged between Scott and his wife. When the waiter left, I thought about the wife bit. That damn Rockie said nothing to Marian, or me, about being married. Foxy didn't stop laughing for twenty minutes. Every time I tried to explain the evening, that damn fool Foxy started laughing again. His contagious behavior soon had the grips on me too. I just couldn't keep from laughing over this incredibly awkward series of events. Foxy and I changed the conversation to something less dire and more to our interest, the sea. The last trip out fishing he went to Flinder's Island and got a full catch with one shot. He said the men aboard couldn't believe their eyes when the net started in, fish were everywhere. They quickly filled the cargo hatch and all the compartments on deck and would have filled the wheelhouse if another friend hadn't been fishing in the same vicinity. The way the nets are rigged on the spools, they first had to drag the fish onto the SEA FOX, then transfer the remaining fish to the other boat via trash cans. On one shot, which means pulling the net in only once, they filled their boat and half the other. I had difficulty swallowing the story. Just the explanation of the event was exciting. I just wish I could have been there when it happened. We

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spoke of our trip to Tasmania as though it was a bygone era of the past. Foxy somehow knew I was getting itchy to move onto my next adventure. We talked about fishing again but we both understood it probably wouldn't happen. It was rather sad to think we may never see each other again after I set sail. The toughest part of adventures like these is realizing that you may never see that person or place again. That's when you use the old saying, "That's life." With that in mind, that's probably why I live such a full life, because I feel life is a one-shot deal. You either take advantage of, or it passes you by. Later you live a life filled with regrets. God, how many times I have met those who wish they had, but didn't have the nerve when they were younger. One thing for sure, they won't get to say that I'm a person who lets life pass me by. Or, that I'm a person who didn't take advantage of the beautiful things in life; love, freedom and the choice to live life as I see fit. I guess that's where my insatiable desire for beautiful women comes from. God, I Love Sailing! Foxy and I bantered back and forth while managing to down a bottle of wine in twelve minutes. We told the house servants to look out for us, meaning that if we were to run out of champagne, they were supposed to bring us another, and still another. Sure enough, his years of champagne party experience were evident, as he came out the kitchen door with yet another ice cold bottle of Dom Perignon. He winked at me and said, "Sir, I think the young lady you were discussing earlier this evening is looking for you to apologize." His tacky name plate indicated his name was Dobson. I said, "Dobson, you are a gentleman and a scholar." As

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Dobson bent over to refill Foxy's glass, I reached into my pocket and withdrew my money clip. Opening it, I thumbed through, until I reached the 20s. I pulled one from the clip, then waited for Dobson to turn and refill my glass. As he filled my glass, I slipped the bill into the front pocket of his uniform. I could see he was thankful, but he insisted I take the money back. I refused it flatly, and jokingly said; it was not to be construed as payment, but as a form of bribe. He said, "In that case, what do you need?" Again, his light hearted humor sent us into tears, as we laughed at his retort. His charm and wit was like a lord in a manor. With impeccable speech and charm he said, "Sir, if you wish, I will warn you if I sense trouble brewing." With that parting statement, both Foxy and I remarked that he closely resembled "Sir John Gielgood" the actor. Almost an hour and a half had passed, with no further warnings of impending danger. As we re-entered the party, I saw the back of Rockie across the room. She was sitting with a very dark Indian-looking woman. The light from a chandelier overhead flooded into my face as I stepped further into the room. I noticed a crimson spot on the Indian woman's forehead. The champagne served to take the edge off from the night's festivities. Foxy returned from the toilet, en route he procured another bottle of bubbles. I could feel a chill in the evening air. Again, Darin appeared. He excused his behavior and said the other guys were downstairs in the arcade playing video games. I stopped him from leaving by grabbing his arm. I asked him if the problem between Rockie and her husband had been resolved. He laughed and said this isn't the first

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time a problem such as this has occurred between Rockie and her husband. Darin suggested we have a talk some place other than this room. I told him we should meet later. Then, he could fill me in on anything pertinent to Rockie. He agreed, then disappeared into the interior of the house. Wild Man Fox hooked up with his second encounter of the evening. He explained his earlier date left to make a hospital call. She was a surgeon and one of her patients was having some sort of problem. But she definitely would go home with him later. Foxy said she was an animal in the sack and her husband was a pilot and never around when she was horny. Laughing! Foxy and his date got into an intimate conversation and I elected to sit within eye's range of Rockie. I selected a seat adjacent to her. Just as I started to sit, Rockie bolted to her feet and ran over to me. Her facial expression went from morose and bored to instant jubilance and happiness. She kissed me a long and somewhat embarrassingly passionate kiss, while at the same time she blurted out, "I love you," louder than I really desired. She exclaimed that her husband had left and he was a real nerd for coming to the party anyway. She explained she thought I had left because of her husband. Rather than get into a long heated discussion, I suggested we take a walk, then she could explain what the hell was going on with her husband. Her girlish charm erased some of the bad experience earlier in the evening. According to her confused story, they had separated two months earlier. She told him she lived in Sydney, not Melbourne. Because she flew so much, he assumed she was telling the truth. He was unaware she lived with Marian. In fact, he had

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never met Marian! Rockie was hesitant to discuss her marriage to Scott. She said they met while trekking around Nepal at the base of Mount Everest. Namche Bazaar is located up the mountain 14,000 ft., where in the spring the smell of marigolds fills the air. She said that during their month long hike up to the base camp, Namche Bazaar, they cemented a relationship. She recalled having a loose filling as the reason for seeing Dr. Scott again. When they returned to Melbourne, he convinced her of the need for braces. Then soon after, their relationship bloomed into a routine of brace adjustments. I was starting to get the feeling that Rockie wasn't the sort of woman to build a dream house and a nursery for. However, she is a lot of fun to party with. Now I'm questioning whether or not this whole deal has been worth the trouble I have gone through. Rockie has the type of spirit that should be anything, but not married! The party's guests were fun, but not real fun. I looked around for Foxy thinking that we might go over to Juliana's Disco and check out the action. Juliana's is a disco downstairs at the Melbourne Hilton. The disco is known for an excellent breed of fillies. I guess that we could stay here at the party for another hour or so before heading over there. The guys from RELENTLESS were having a tournament on a commercially designed Pac-Man in the basement. Rockie has somewhat lost her magnetism, that is in the responsibilities department. It's hard not to put yourself in her husband's position. The poor guy must have felt like hell. I think Rockie seems to get off on all the attention and was

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quite proud of her flirtations. Foxy's encounter with #2 didn't seem to pan out for him. His date looked as though she came to the party with someone else. The someone else was introducing himself to Foxy. Foxy, being the gentleman he was, would not pursue #2 any further. Foxy walked away from #2 but he winked and opened his hand; In his palm, a phone number. He succeeded even though it appeared otherwise. Foxy approached me with a renewed confidence and asked if we could entertain the idea of having more champagne. The idea was sound, my only concern was the flavor, would it be Mumm's or Moet. Luckily, I spotted our favorite waiter, Sir Gielgood. It was though he saw our plight. He looked at me; then Foxy, and asked if a glass of Moet would be acceptable. I accepted the glass as did Rockie and Foxy, but I was quick to add that we wanted the good stuff. Within what seemed like seconds, Sir John returned with a magnum of Dom Perignon that was so cold that the bottle had a steam-like vapor rising from it. I insisted on opening the magnum myself, but Sir John said it would be terribly undignified for me to open my own champagne. He would most probably get fired for not opening it himself. I said, his firing was the last thing in the world I wanted to happen. The mood was as though some major decision was being made, such as foreign policy. At this point, I couldn't help but hear the voice of Henry Kissinger. So I did my Henry K. voice imitation to Sir John and he had a difficult time picking up who I was imitating. I finally gave him a hint by saying the words which made Kissinger most famous, "Mr. President."

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I couldn't help but recall the way actor John Belushi, who has since deceased, would have said the same thing. Belushi had done an imitation of Henry Kissinger that was better than Henry Kissinger doing himself. In fact, Kissinger was invited to SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE just to hear Belushi do the imitation. It was said Kissinger was overwhelmed with Belushi's accurate mimicry. Kissinger later said, while drinking, the imitation was unnerving. Somewhere within the Watergate affair, Kissinger was referred to by Haldeman as being Nixon's little Nazi. Haldeman said that Henry's German accent reminded him of the Nazi youth groups. According to John Dean, Henry and Haldeman commonly spoke German to avoid anyone understanding them. The only real joke about that, was that everyone in the Nixon group spoke fluent German. The only ones who couldn't were Nixon himself and Rosemary Woods, his secretary. The party was quiet now which suggested that things were cooling down. Rockie took my hand in hers and led me into the hallway. Jeff, one of my yachting mates, moved to one side to avoid a head-on collision with us. When he passed me, he whispered in my ear that a girl had just walked through the front doors looking for me. He covered for me by saying that he wasn't even sure if I was at the party. To avoid any problems, I pulled Rockie into a bathroom in the hall. Then, as I shut the bathroom door, it hit me. Marian didn't say for sure that she was staying in Ballarat tonight. All I needed was for Marian to show up at the same party. I explained to Rockie that it would be wise to say nothing to Marian should she show up. A slight feeling of guilt swirled through my

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mind as I pondered the consequences of Marian discovering Rockie at the same function. Hum, this unusual set of circumstances would require exceptional skills to avoid an incident. Rockie started to unzip my trousers, thinking I had sex on my mind. Little did she know that Marian was probably looking for both of us. Honesty is always the best policy. I explained to Rockie that Marian was possibly at the party looking for us. Rockie stammered as she tried to rationalize the situation. I suggested she run out and tell Foxy to meet me in five minutes down the street, just in case Marian was around. Like a quarterback to his team; I gave her the play, then I slipped out the bathroom window to avoid running into Marian. God, how terribly undignified. I can just see it now, I'm sneaking out the bathroom window. And oh God! What if Sir John, the waiter, sees me? Oh, what the hell, he wouldn't say anything. I drained my glass of wine, then set to the task of opening the window. It had been painted recently and would be difficult to open easily. I positioned my feet firmly to get a good pull at the window. Surprisingly, with a little effort, the window slid up and open. Rockie looked on, laughing. I remarked that it should be her that was crawling out the window instead of me; because it was her girlfriend who was looking for us. She said, "The next time anything like this happens, I'll do the climbing." Sure! I looked out the window. After unsnapping the screen, the window was ready for exiting. Just in case, I looked out to see if everything was clear. Pushing the screen out, I realized it was hinged at the top. I could see the window was nine to ten feet

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from the ground. With one last kiss from Rockie, I started out the open window. Little did I know I was jumping into a large fenced kennel on the side of the house. I landed very surefootedly then I heard the patter of feet starting toward me. My vision fixed on five near-newborn Labrador retrievers scurrying my way. I just hoped the mother or father understood the reason for this intrusion. I couldn't help but pick up one of the pups who had been licking my leg above my socks. The little rascal had muzzled his way up my pant leg until he reached something that had a natural smell. It was hard to put down the pup. He was so damned cute. His little tongue was slurping at my face. His breath smelled as though he had eaten liver cheese. I set the puppy down and started to exit. A noise caused me to turn, and a light approached the gate which was locking me in. The voice was from a young lad around 13 years old. He was curious how I got into the dog kennel. Hum! I started to explain as Rockie yelled out the window, "See ya later." The little boy looked puzzled, understandably so. I hadn't accounted for my presence in his locked kennel. Truth must prevail. I explained to him my situation, having two women at the same place and time. He said that it happened to his dad all the time. It was his father who was throwing the party. As the boy unlocked the gate he continued the story. His dad had recently divorced his mom. His dad was taking full advantage of his new found freedom. The young lad, Christian Dubcheck, was apparently embarrassed with his father's many escapades with the ladies. What's a kid know anyway? I expressed gratitude for unlocking the gate. Quite nonchalantly, he asked if by some chance I was the American, Lindsey? I said, "Yes."

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He said, "I thought so." I said, "Why?" His dad had told him talking about some millionaire who sailed around the world. I said, "Is that all he said? Christian replied, "No." I said, "What else?" Christian heard his dad mention some horny American over the phone, I assumed he was talking about me. His dad was aboard RELENTLESS when we won the race at Sandringham Yacht Club. Walking out the kennel, I was made aware that the puppies weren't potty trained, and my shoes could prove it. Now, how do I remove the poo gracefully? The grass would have to work. In front of me, parked in the driveway, was Marian's car. It was definitely Marian who was looking for us. I just hope Rockie got the word to Foxy. I heard the scuffling of shoe leather, then made out Foxy's familiar image some fifty feet away. Out of breath, he hurriedly explained the process of events which had gone down three minutes prior. The girls met in the hall by accident. However, Marian didn't find out that I had been there! So we decided to head over to a local watering hole to see if anything was happening. We went to one of Foxy's haunts in Toorak, a place called GloGlos. It must have been too early. Glo-Glos was like a very quiet night in a funeral home. One couple was seated and finished with their dinner when we went in. We decided, what the hell, we were dressed up, why not test the water over at the Melbourne Hilton. The Hiltons of the world are always above par in comparison to the rest of the hotel groups. This Hilton is situated next to Fitzroy Gardens, the famous cricket grounds.

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We pulled up in front where a valet promptly opened our doors and told us there were many beautiful ladies inside. The valet drove off with Foxy's $25,000 Chevy Blue Blazer with right hand drive. I didn't know you could buy American cars with right hand drive. I can see the puzzled looks back in San Diego when I go flying by in a right-hand drive Blazer. The Melbourne Hilton looks as though it was just built. It's a beautifully designed, 21 story building situated next to the Fitzroy Gardens and Cricket Grounds, which are across the street. The view from the hotel's front is impressive. We walked inside to the lobby, which has marble floors. The overhead chandelier in the lobby reflects off the highly polished white marble floor. The entire lobby has overhead sculptures that glitter with light. Just inside the lobby, a spiral suspended staircase leads up to the mezzanine to "Juliana's Bar and Grill." The hotel has a diversified appeal. On one floor there's a genuine Aussie-type pub called the M.C.G. Hotel. Then there's Juliana's downstairs. It has a disco that's open from Tuesday to Saturday. Foxy and I made a deal that if we met any women, we would take them back to the yacht club. We were both surprised that the maitre-d was asking ten dollars for a cover charge. Damn, what a price to pay for a little fun. Painfully and without shame; Foxy handed the chump twenty dollars. The guy insisted that he stamp our hands, which added insult to injury. The two check girls at the front were definitely nice. The girls gave the impression one should pay them to look at them. Twenty bucks should cover any looks we might register. I must say little was spared when they put the

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interior of this club together. It's much the same as The Juliana's in the Sydney Hilton. Rich leather upholstery, fine wooden furnishings and plush decorative carpeting adorn the interior. The bar on one side has a plated brass bar top. The other side has a polished marble top for it's bar. The whole place has a European international air. My eyes were starting to adjust to the lighting in the room, as we groped our way through the wave of beautiful bodies and tables. The entire room was filled with cigarette smoke that was wisping it's way up into the exhaust gratings that dot the entire ceiling. My right foot just struck the base of someone's chair. The inertia of my body moving forward caused me to fall like Chevy Chase onto a beautiful woman. My hands brushed nearly all of her on the way down. Foxy wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. The asshole stood there laughing at me, while I tried to apologize for the sudden intrusion. Now all the tables around us were laughing. Jesus! I asked her if her drink was adequate, she said, "Yes." Then I asked if she from Melbourne. She said both she and her girlfriend were from Lake Elsinore. I said, "That's strange, there's a Lake Elsinore in California where I live." The joke was on me, obviously! The girls had arrived in Melbourne two days ago. We all played a guessing game of who did what. I guessed she was a stewardess and more specifically a stewardess who flew either American or T.W.A. She was taken back with my answer. She then asked me, "Are you the police?" Foxy and I roared on that one. I said, "No, why?" She said that in all the years she had flown, no one had guessed so many things

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in so short a time. If she wasn't proud of my acute reasoning ability, I was! Then, in a tone of seriousness, I explained that I was sailing around the world. She laughed. I continued to explain the nature of my voyage. Her look changed from one of disbelief to a look of admiration. She thought I had been bullshitting her about the sailing trip. Now she understood I was telling the truth. God, I Love Sailing! It struck me that I had a good excuse to invite them over to the yacht club. What the hell, they're on vacation anyway. I decided it would be best to wait for a few minutes before springing the idea on the girls. Besides I didn't want anyone to accuse me of being fast. I mean really! The good looking woman I had fallen into was barely in her twenties. However, she had the look of international experience. Her manner of smoking cigarettes was thought provoking. In order to relieve any suspicions about our intentions, I suggested we stay and dance until the place closed. I knew full well we were leaving in the next four minutes. My lady friend, Crystal, was born and raised in Lake Elsinore. Foxy's lady friend, Cheryl, was from Victorville, California. They were both stewardesses with American. They came to Australia looking for adventure. We had been sent here to give it to them. It was now 11:10 and the disco was starting to really hop. In typical female style, the two girls excused themselves from the table. The two ladies headed for the bathroom where their strategy and plans could be reviewed. Foxy, in a tone much like a little boy's, started talking about Cheryl and how much he wanted her. I tried to explain to him that everything

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was cool. All he had to do was enjoy himself and the rest would happen naturally. The Iranian population in the club was very high. The Iranian women in particular are very interesting. The ones I've met all come from big money and are heiresses to their father's fortunes; or have been subsidized by a sugar daddy. I think the concept is more ritual than customary. I've never met an Iranian woman who has worked for a living. Both the girls returned from the restroom with a new application of lipstick. Years ago, girls didn't have the wet looking lipsticks they have today. The lipsticks today look good, real good. The ladies wiggled their butts into the seats. They were both sporting sheepish grins on their faces. I felt like saying, "What's up?" I'm confident, that if anything's up, we can handle it. The waitress in our section is devastatingly gorgeous. I got her attention and she came to the table immediately. Leaning toward her, I gestured with my finger that I wanted to tell her a secret. She put her ear up to my mouth. Instead of ordering drinks, I told her I wanted to take her fishing tomorrow. Damn, I don't know what came over me. To my surprise, she said yes! Then she told me she used to fish with her dad all the time. I now felt strange asking her to bring us a bottle of champagne. She seemed very mature and I think she understood the situation. Within a couple of minutes, the champagne was fizzing in our glasses and bubbling up our noses. The girls from California were relaxed and having fun with Foxy and me. I asked Crystal if she would enjoy dancing. She said, "Yes." We got up and danced to the sounds of a group, "Men at

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Work." The group was very good. Their music was very easy to dance to. Crystal and I danced four songs in a row, just enough to soak my white silk evening shirt. Thank God a slow song came on. I threw my jacket to Foxy and we continued dancing, this time all cuddled up. Chris seemed to be genuinely nice. I did have some reservations when she said she was a stewardess. The music we were dancing to now was George Benson's "Breezin." In the few minutes we had been on the dance floor, Crystal was getting quite lovey. She laid her head on my left shoulder as we continued dancing. I wrapped both my arms around her. My left arm was around her waist and the right around her mid-back. God, I Love Sailing! The evening was certainly looking better for the both of us. It was a perfect time to mention the yacht club. Since our first encounter, the waitress had kept a close eye on our table. The girls suggested having another bottle of Dom. This time, Foxy obligingly paid for it. At $125 a throw you really couldn't be called a cheap drunk! After Foxy paid the waitress, she came over and whispered in my ear. She said, "Here's my phone number, call me early in the morning and we'll have breakfast." Everyone at the table saw her pass the phone number to me. How could they miss it, she wrote it on a Hilton envelope! I stuck the envelope in my hand, a move that was hard to miss. My date, Chris, asked if we had met before. I said, "Sure I've known her husband for years." Foxy laughed so hard, champagne went up his nose and caused him to choke. Still laughing, I explained to the girls I couldn't take him anywhere without him causing trouble. We all toasted to that one.

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It was now 12:30 and prime time to party. The ladies grabbed their purses and we all headed for the lobby. I made the excuse that no one left a tip, so I could go back and say goodbye to the waitress. I ran up to her, kissed her cheek and put $20 on her tray. I said that I would call her in the morning. I told her, "My name is Lindsey." She said, "I am Maureen." I kissed her once again, then made for the door. Enough time had passed that the Blazer was packed and waiting for me. Everyone in the truck gave me a puzzled look. When I kissed Maureen on the cheek she had smudged my white collar. No excuse was necessary, so I didn't say anything. En route to the yacht club, we hit several late night bars. We went to a place called the Beachcomber, it was dull, so we left. When we pulled into the yacht club, few cars were left in the lot. The club had been closed for about an hour. Foxy pulled up across from the yacht. The girls asked if we had some white wine and ingredients for Irish coffee, including the whipped cream. The weather was dead. Not a flicker of a leaf. It struck me as unusual, stark in comparison with the usual bad weather. As we started down the dock, Crystal caught her high heel in between two boards on the dock. The girls both removed their shoes to make it easier to walk. I ran out ahead, opened the boat and straightened my clothes, which by the way, are always strewn about. Foxy helped the girls aboard. I cleared the drop-wing dinner table off and turned on some music. I checked the main power switch. It was on. I lit both the galley lamp and then the chart table

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lamp. The heat from either is adequate for heating the boat. Oddly enough, one lamp can heat the entire boat in around five minutes. One morning I awoke in a profuse sweat because I had left the galley lamp on. The lamps give off a soft yellow glow that makes the boat cozy. Moving through the boat was giving me the sailing itch. I reached for my sextant, thinking the girls would be impressed when they saw it. Crystal danced her way down the steps and waited for Cheryl and Foxy. Soon we were all down below. It's funny, people are always amazed at what a yacht looks like down below. They envision the expanse they see on the "Love Boat." In reality, a 38 foot yacht is a very cozy, trailer-like existence. The trailer part, of course, only relates to the sometimes cramped conditions. I have been on Maria for so long, that I see only the practical aspects of her design. Living on a yacht, you have to take full advantage of the limited storage capacity. Everything on board has it's place. For example, dry clothes are stowed forward under the stateroom bunk. I redesigned the entire boat berthing to accommodate more of my clothing. I redesigned the head so two people can shower at the same time. All the head storage is located in the walls and under the sink I custom built. Clothing which is wet is hung on a retractable clothesline I designed, which runs fore and aft in the main salon. I caught myself giving Crystal, Cheryl, and Foxy the two dollar tour. They seemed fascinated meeting someone who actually does what he says. The more I thought about it the more proud I became. I suggested a glass of wine and then I would continue the tour. Both the girls kept fingering things in the boat. Calculators for navigation,

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transmitter buttons, charts, sextant, they just kept saying they wanted a picture of me on the boat, so they could show people back home they had really met me. I was flattered. I looked in my personals drawer and found a picture. When I handed them the pictures, I made sure they also read a handful of news clippings about my travels. For a long time I have taken my small exploits as an everyday experience in life. It's easy to forget that not everybody has spent a brief retirement sailing around the world. As I talked, I could see that Foxy was even a little impressed. Up until now, he hadn't read any clippings or newspaper articles about my trips around the world. One of the news articles is from Sydney during the Easter Day Celebration. It so happened, I was asked to play polo in the Sydney Easter Day Celebration. What made it even more special was that Prince Charles and I played in the same game. I have an 8 x 10 of Prince Charles and me drinking a can of K.B. beer together after our polo match while sitting on the hood of my Jeep. The girls' mouths opened widely as they read the P.C. article. Foxy just said he didn't know I played polo. I said, "You never asked." In my next book about Australia, I will explain in detail the events which led up to the encounter. It was really quite simple. The wind had come up and started to buff the boat around. Luckily we were here and not at sea. The coffee pot was whistling, signaling me to get the Irish coffees going. The table in the mid-ship was strewn with brass measuring devices. I set a pair of dividers on the table that are nearly one hundred years old. In fact, inscribed on the pointed handles in fine lettering is the name, Sir Rodger Stacey,

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1894. I picked up the dividers in Greenwich, England on a trip I took with my ex-wife. On that same trip, I procured a solid brass azimuth card with 360 degrees engraved on it. It, too, was delicately engraved with it's owner's name, Captain Robert E. Daniels, H.M.S., 1904. I genuinely like functional antiques, they're good looking and they work. Chris took over the duties of coffee making. I introduced her to my homemade Kahlhua. She said she absolutely and unequivocally loved Kahlua. I said, "Well, have at it." And she did! Half her Irish coffee was Kahlua. To top the coffees off, I whipped out a cold can of Redi-Whip. Fortunately, when I am docked, the refrigerator works quite well. It's powered by 240 current and/or the batteries. I have to watch closely when the compressor is running on the batteries, because it pulls so much current that it would run them flat in a short time without running the engine. The engine has a generator that charges the batteries. In turn, the batteries run everything. So it's important not to run machinery unnecessarily. Rarely do I run the refrigerator at sea, because I fear that doing so would run the batteries down. Everyone has locked onto the explanation about the use of the refrigerator at sea. Here I thought we were having an intimate evening aboard Maria, and we've ended up talking about the technical aspects of survival at sea. I guess it could be worse. Oh, God, it's worse! I hear Marian yelling, "Lindsey, are you there?" This should be cute. I stuck my head up through the forehatch and told her; and oh God, Rockie, to come aboard and meet some friends from California. Damn! This could be fun. No sooner said than

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done. Marian and Rockie were down below introducing themselves to the girls we picked up. Marian explained that she is my girlfriend and had just returned back from a trip. She continued, "Lindsey and I are sailing together." Then, I had to interrupt her dialogue because she was getting nasty and vindictive. I suggested we all enjoy an Irish coffee or two. Then I would have to turn in, because I would be setting sail in two days. I had a lot of things that needed to be taken care of in the morning. I will say, Rockie was fun, but she turned out to be a mistake. Everyone went home alone that night. I asked Foxy to handle the Crystal and Cheryl situation and he did. It turned out that Marian was aware that Rockie would pull a stunt like she did. Marian said that she really cared a lot for me, but she couldn't handle all the women, all the time! We all parted good friends and Marian suggested we meet in Eden. I agreed.

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7
Leaving Lovely Melbourne
The following morning I awoke to a sunny and clear day. Several men on their boats around me were sanding and doing varnish work. Immediately, I snapped on the weather channel and listened for the daily report. That same damn droll voice that you hear all over the world came booming through. The guys who do the report all sound the same. They sound as though they're speaking through a wool sock. "The wind is out of the north at 8 knots." They take a horribly long time to say so little. Listening to that sucker, one might get the impression he is hiding something from us, something which is vitally important that he's not telling you! One of my lifelong fantasies is to meet one of these emergency weather broadcasters and see if he speaks the same way when he's had a few. Well, it's just an idea anyway. I jogged my brain awake with a cup of early morning coffee. All the cups sitting around the

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boat's interior prompted me to recall last evening. The smell of Kahlua filled the air. I was glad none of my guests smoked. I forbid smoking aboard ship anyway, it's just not safe. I finished dumping the remaining fluid from the cups. Chris must have reached her fill of Kahlua because she left half a cup. What a terrible waste, Kahlua at that! In my haste last night, I forgot to hang up my clothes. They are strewn about. My jacket was in a clump. I reached for the collar of the black jacket, and was enlightened to find the phone number of Maureen in the right pocket. I wondered if it was such a good idea to call her. After all, my hands had been full for the last few days, trying to deal with Marian, Rockie, and now perhaps Maureen. I did promise breakfast. I didn't see how breakfast could hurt. What would be good fun today? Sailing, of course. Maybe I should ask her sailing. I hadn't been in several days. The boat could use a light shake down. Come to think of it, I haven't checked my sail inventory for damage. I gave her a call to see if she would enjoy sailing. She answered the phone on the second ring. I asked if she remembered me from the prior evening. She said, "Yes." She had been waiting around for my call. Maureen asked if breakfast was still on. I replied if she liked, it could be. I explained the boat hadn't sailed for a few days. The day was so pretty it would be good for a sail. She said she'd be there in twenty minutes. I said, "Great." I told her, she needn't bring a thing but herself. Then I explained where to park when she arrived. The next few days should be filled with excitement. Little did I realize Maureen

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lived just three miles from the Club. What shocked the hell out of me, was that Maureen arrived on time. I am not used to ladies being quite so punctual. It turned out Maureen was a very intelligent, warm and funny female. She arrived with four fishing poles tied to the roof of her Volkswagen. She also had a tackle box full of fishing gear. "What did you really think of me last night?" I asked inquisitively. "I knew you were who you said you were," Maureen said, reassuringly. Puzzled by her answer I said, "How did you know?" She was markedly relieved to answer, one of the girls I work with has a boyfriend who sails RELENTLESS. "Damn," I thought to myself. "Those guys really get around." We continued light conversation until I started untying the yacht from the dock. She was mildly startled when I threw off the last line, the bow line. She couldn't get used to the fact I had sailed around the world by myself with no one to help. The four cylinder Italian Drolfin diesel purred like a baby rhino as we backed away from the dock. I could taste the oxygen that filled the air as I backed into the channel. The day was perfectly clear. I could see across the water some 40 miles, to Bass Hill, a 936-foot summit of a range which lies about 10 miles east-northeastward of Cape Wollamai. Cape Wollamai is the southeastern extremity of Phillip Island. It's a remarkable helmetshaped granite headland, reddish in color, rising abruptly from the sea some 354 feet, whence it slopes toward the northwest, forming a peninsula 1.5 miles long northwest and southeast and 1500 yards wide. The head is the most conspicuous, because it's the highest land on Phillip Island. The

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remainder of the island is low hills clothed in almost impervious shrubs. The cape, according to this chart, is fringed with large boulders which at high tide are covered by water. Dangerous? You bet your ass! According to the measurements, I should stay at least 500 yards off when sailing by. I pulled the sleeves up on my wool sweater and the sun felt good on my skin. The skin on my face has become very tan while sailing. In the months on end of sailing, my hair has lost all it's color. My hair is nearly white because of the ocean's continuous saltwater spray. Maureen watched closely as I slipped Maria into the channel. The ease in which I handle this 38 foot craft attests to it's great design by Sparkman and Stephens. I increased the engine RPM from idle to 1700 RPMs, around 60% of engine power. During my intense concentration on sailing, I forgot the lady aboard. I turned, and her presence nearly frightened me. Apologizing for my rudeness, I tried to make amends and offered her the helm. "Have you ever steered a boat?" I inquired. "Yes," she replied, in a very confident tone. I asked where. Then she relaxed, and broke into the story of her relationship with her dad and how they spent their summers on the Parker River, swimming and fishing. Maureen took the helm as I dashed below and grabbed the #2 working jib. The #2 is designed for lazy days when you don't want to make sail changes. Within 70 seconds, I had the #2 clipped on and pulled it aloft. The familiar resonate sound of the sail indicated the wind was not blowing more than 9 to 11 knots. Maria's foresail filled, causing the yacht to heel over another 8 degrees. As soon as the sail filled, I cut the power. We were underway, powered by the wind. It was a pleasure having someone at the helm

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other than the auto-helm 5000. I do love the damn electronic nightmare, but at times it's dysfunction is frustrating. I know many men who wouldn't sail in the bay without the latest electronic navigating gear. A lot can be said about the technological advances that have been made in recent years, especially the satellite navigation systems. SatNav gives a pinpoint position any time it's needed. The system uses satellites to triangulate a fix position. It is accurate. One should not forget electronic gear must use electrical current, AC or DC, to operate. In my experience over the years, I've found that electronic gear at sea is only reliable under the best of conditions. When shit hits the fan at sea, it's usually the battery that goes first, thus rendering all electrical gear aboard useless. Then you are faced with the hard reality of using basic navigating tools. Sextant, astrolabe, reduction tables and a handful of other goodies are necessary for basic navigation. I pulled the winch handle from the foresail winch, then shoved the handle into the main halyard winch. Within a couple of minutes the main was up and we were truly underway. The operation of the yacht has become an extension motor reflex. The brain, being the most complex computer known to science and man, assimilates information on such a high level, that we assume some of it's deductive marvels are attributed to hidden sciences. In reality, the brain just perceives more information than the conscious mind can handle, leaving the remaining information to be stored mostly in the subconscious. It's when we develop advanced retrieval skills associated with the subconscious, that our perspective of intellect and reasoning capacity

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develops to a higher degree. I guess that's basically how I sail, by reflex action, rather than complex thought retrieval. I've reasoned that's why so many people find sailing such a relaxing hobby and lifestyle. . . . Most sailing is reflex rather than conscious and subconscious action. I spotted two other boats leaving the club for a day of sailing. Maureen was a charming woman worthy of more respect than one would give the average cocktail hostess. Her ability handling the boat was impressive. Her congenial and calm personality exuded confidence and self-assuredness. Her conscious motor reflexes were well coordinated with her reaction times. I assumed, by merely watching her, she was a good tennis player. At least a competitive B. With her at the tiller, I felt perfectly in control. I used the extra time to tend and trim the sails. We cleared the yacht club harbor, then Maureen asked, "Is there anything else you want me to do?" I replied, "No, just relax and let the wind do it's thing." The air was fresh and clear. I looked over the stern to the east and saw Mt. Eliza popping through the early morning fog. Mt. Eliza lies east on the northeastern shore of Port Phillip Bay. The coast extends northeast some 20 miles, then turns southeast heading toward Mornington and Frankston. From Snapper Point several miles east of us, the coast trends northeastward four miles to Davy Point. It is slightly embayed, and intersected by four small creeks flowing northwestward from the hills at the back. The most conspicuous of these hills is Mt. Eliza, 526 ft. high, about three miles eastward of Snapper Point. This coast may be approached to 500 yards in three fathoms of water,

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but it is rocky for about 1-1/2 miles southward from Davy Point. The coast from Davy Point, after receding nearly 400 yards eastward, extends northeastward 1-1/2 miles to the village of Frankston. The country behind is hilly and is intersected by three creeks. The southeastern shore of Port Phillip is mostly wooded with a small township. There were numerous houses and buildings scattered along it's shore. The breakwater at the Sandringham Yacht Club extends east to west. The latter was the direction we were sailing. Clearing the breakwater on our left, we headed downwind which was also South. Running with the wind can be fun in moderate weather. At the same time, running downwind can be dangerous if the winds are not set. The oscillating winds can cause the main sail to cross from port to starboard or the opposite. Thus, it is called jibing, the action of the boom can sometimes cause dismasting. Maureen seemed to be a good sportswoman. The look on her face was that of serious concentration. "Maureen, would you like something to drink, a beer perhaps?" I asked enthusiastically. She said, "Sure, what do you have?" "Fosters," I replied immediately. Down below it had become a mess. I had forgotten to store a few things, popcorn covered the entire galley sole. The time is 11:20, and I figure we can sail until four. Conversation between us went on for hours. She was most interested to hear where I have been and where I wanted to go. The afternoon brought stronger winds of 18 knots. At times, we were sailing along at 10 knots. I tended sails the entire day while Maureen tended the helm, it gave me time to focus my

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attention on the charts. Since my first day aboard Maria, I have collected the necessary charts for this trip. I have all the charts necessary to sail from Melbourne to New Caledonia. Right now, I will pull the charts pertaining to this area. They totalled some 34 charts. I took the roll of charts up on deck and started to categorize them. Port Phillip Bay to Point Nepean, then to Cape Ottway and further south around Wilson's Promontory. Wilson's Promontory to Cape Howe, then home to Sydney. Most folks get the idea all you do is sail when you sail around the world. This is partially true, I do spend considerable time sailing, but remember this: sailing around the world gives you the opportunity to experience other people's customs and ways of life. The greatest reward of sailing is the education you receive on the journey, the chance to identify with characters and people who live in parts of the world that are nearly inaccessible. I was getting a true character study of people. That was why I decided in favor of this trip. I studied the charts and navigating aids which would be helpful for this trip months prior to setting sail. I had analyzed a lot of information about the Australian East. I noticed one thing in particular which was quite unsettling. Australia had very few electronic navigating aids along it's unspoiled coastlines. That was good, in one way, but terrible from the standpoint of navigation. I could see by the charts it was going to be considerably difficult to triangulate and fix my position. It appeared the only thing I could depend on 100% would be celestial and solar fixes. Morning sun shots are easiest. The sight reduction tables are the simplest to use. Because I'm not in a hurry, I plan to stop every 100 miles and visit these remote areas of Australia.

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The weather's unpredictable nature forced me to select many ports which could be used for refuge in the event of foul weather. Foul weather out of the south is called a souther-buster, and is terribly unpleasant. On an average day of sailing, I cover some 80 to 100 miles. If I'm not coastal sailing I average 190 miles in a 24 hour trip. An easy day of sailing consists of 10 to 12 hours at the helm at 8 to 10 knots an hour. So in a good day's sail, I cover around 100 nautical miles. One nautical mile equals 6000 feet, instead of 5280 in statute miles. Maureen was having a good old time sailing. We had taken a southern heading sailing toward the mouth of Port Phillip Bay, Queenscliff. The sun was very warm, adding to our comfort and pleasure. I was thinking about sailing, then I remembered the ship's food stores were low. Maureen was sailing the yacht so well I neglected to ask her if she was hungry. No other boats were in our immediate area, so I reasoned it would be perfectly safe for Maureen at the helm. I opened the storage bin under the table in the mid-salon. The saltwater that came from the bilge had started rusting the bottom layer of canned goods I had bought seven weeks earlier. Saltwater will rust any ferrous metals which are exposed. On an average, canned goods last around ten weeks before they rust through, depending on the amount of exposure they receive. I pulled out of storage several cans of chow mein. Maureen indicated she liked Chinese food. So Chinese it was. Because the wind is coming out of the south, it should make our return trip easier. I decided we should turn around and head back to the yacht club. I fixed lunch on our way back. The Kikoman Teriyaki

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sauce livened up the meal. I explained it was time for me to set sail and I had a lot of work to do. Maureen was more than enthusiastic to help. We finished up our sailing day and motored back to the yacht club. Foxy's Blazer was parked in the club lot. I couldn't see him milling around, so I assumed he was up in the club having a few beers. Maureen and I cleaned the boat up, hosing off the decks and rigging with fresh dockside water. The water tank was getting severely low so I couldn't afford to set sail without filling it up. In fact, I should drain the tank and refill it with fresh dockside water. The procedure took five minutes at most. Most water has a funky taste even though it's clean. My method of combating this chemical taste is to dump a bottle of vanilla extract in the tank before it's filled. The water then tastes excellent. The trace of vanilla is so slight it's barely perceptible. The water was filling and I had begun to check the long list of things which were important to set sail the next day. Foxy arrived and handed me several charts I needed. There are 8 plastic fuel cells which have 26 liters of fuel in each. I always have 5 extra cans of diesel just in case. This amount of fuel gives me several hundred miles in range. On an average I burn one liter an hour. I could travel six to seven knots motoring in one hour. Therefore, with a total of 280 liters of fuel, I could travel around 1000 miles just on extra fuel alone. My main fuel tank holds 40 gallons which converts to 160 liters, for a total fuel capacity of 368 liters. Foxy said, "Have a good sail and call when you get to Eden." Our goodbye was brief, a handshake and off he went. When he reached the Blazer, he

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gave me a raised closed fist and yelled, "Good sailing, Lindsey!" I sensed he wanted to say more. Both he and I understood the dangers of singlehanded sailing. Many times, I've had friends who sailed off, never to be seen again. There is a very high risk factor in sailing alone: as later in the story you will find out. Foxy backed from his parking place, and I half thought he might look and wave again. Taking a last look might imply weakness on his part, so I was almost certain he wouldn't look. I was right, the shit didn't look back. I wouldn't have either! He figured if I was dumb enough to get killed, there was nothing he could do about it. Of course, he was right. There is very little room for uncertainty out at sea. The ocean can do it to you, and do it to you good. You must give it the respect it deserves. When the tail lights of the Blazer disappeared over the hill, I noticed a Cutty-Sark Scotch box on the dock. It had a ribbon and a card stapled to it. I hadn't noticed the box on the dock before, so I asked Maureen if she had seen it before leaving. She said no. With curiosity equal to a kid on Christmas morning, I ran for the box knowing it was for me. Marian had stopped by and left it. The box was filled with canned goods and beer. The letter she left with it was sweet and simple. Dear Lindsey, I came by and you had already gone out sailing. I love you and wish you a safe trip. Please be careful and remember how much I care for you. P.S. Call anytime you like, I would love to hear from you.

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Love, Marian PP.S. Rockie's husband said to say, "Hello!" Ha! Ha! The worst part of setting sail is knowing you have to leave all these ladies behind. Right now I'd love to say, "God, I Love Sailing!" but I am not in the mood. I fought back tears as I closed the envelope, realizing I might not see Marian ever again. With my head bowed forward and my eyes squeezed tightly shut, I made a mental note and promised myself that I would definitely see Marian again. And, I would make a special effort to send her flowers for her upcoming birthday. A reassuring hand went around my shoulder. Maureen sensed my sentimental mood and asked if I would like her to leave. I regained my composure and answered with a "Heck no!" I explained the details of the letter to Maureen and she said I should feel complimented. I guess I do! But I still don't like saying good-bye. Such is life. I popped the box open and felt the beer cans, seeing if they were cold. I've never seen 4 - XXXX beer before. Reading the beer can label, I see the beer is from Queensland. The Aussies would say "Bananaland Beer." I handed Maureen a can of beer and we both symbolically popped the tabs, recalling the great day of sailing. Maureen continued helping me late into the evening. We finished stowing everything inside the boat. I asked Maureen if she'd like dinner with me. The dinner would be humble payment for her great help. She accepted the invitation and added it would be nice to clean up. I told her about the fantastic showers in the Yacht Club. She said she had clean clothes in her car. I said, "Let's take a shower," and we did. That time of day few people

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were at the club, and none were taking showers. We showered and changed into clean clothes and headed for Antonio's Seafood restaurant in St. Kilda. Maureen was quite interested in my sailing stories. I retold the story about sailing around the world aboard my 78 foot yacht, AVANTI. I ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon and our conversation turned to relationships. She told me about hers and I told her about mine. Both our stories were shades of clandestine affairs and ignoble love relationships. We shared two definite things in common, we both had been married in the past. Our conversation continued until the waiter made it known he was finished working and would we desire anything else. I said that coffee would be fine, and a glass of Grandfather Port for the two of us. Maureen asked if we would see each other again. I said it wouldn't be likely, unless she met me in Lakes Entrance. She hesitated for a moment, "Sure," was her reply. She told me about a girlfriend who lived there. "Then it's a deal?" "It's a deal!" I explained it would be several days or maybe weeks before I would be there. She said,"That's okay, I'll take off work any time you want me to." We returned to the club and I kissed her good night. We kissed several times and I told her I enjoyed her company a lot and that I would enjoy seeing her again. I thanked her again for her help, then sauntered back to the yacht. I intended to get a good night's sleep. The Club was quiet. Only two cars were left in the lot. Climbing aboard the boat, I felt alone. It

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took several minutes to get used to it. Within twenty minutes, I had all the charts and navigating gear ready for tomorrow. I made one last check on the battery charger; the batteries were hot and fully charged. The smell of hydrogen filled my nostrils when my face passed over the batteries. The diesel engine is located under the galley floor. A hatch three feet wide and four feet long covers the engine compartment below. When I stand in the galley, the hatch is under my feet. I pulled open two food storage compartments and determined there was enough food for one week. I put the beer in the reefer and turned on the compressor. I would let the compressor pump until morning. The wind was chilly, so it was necessary to close the companionway allowing the boat to warm. Only a small lamp was necessary to heat the entire boat. I sat down at the galley table and put the "Little River Band" on the tape deck. From the table, I reached across the cabin sole and grabbed my robe. I took off my shoes, and the smell of stinky feet nearly killed me. I shuffled my bare feet across the floor which caused a squeaking noise as I walked. Within two minutes I washed and powdered my stinky feet. Many thoughts went through my mind. Shit, I forgot about the weather. I quickly turned on the weather channel. The weather would be clear tomorrow, high 50 degrees. Wind out of the NN-W at 8 to 12 knots in the morning, then getting fresher in the afternoon 12 to 16 knots. The barometer was steady at 29.9 millibars. A slight high would be moving through in 24 hours. The weather seemed stable.

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I made my way forward until I'd reached the forward bunk in my quarters. I would wind the clocks tomorrow. I should have said goodbye to someone at the yacht club. I forgot to dump the trash. Damn, I knew I forgot something. My sweaters were at the cleaners. I guess I could call Maureen for that. I hadn't checked the fuel filters lately. Maybe the engine wouldn't turn over. I couldn't forget to turn the seavalve on before starting the engine the next day. I forgot to paint the anchor chain this week. The mildew was growing more and more in the shaft trunk. The new down sleeping bag I just purchased felt as close to heaven as one could get. I slipped into the bag in one motion. My down pillow will need drying out when I reach the next port. I felt the dampness as my head sank into it. No sheep counting tonight. I don't recall falling asleep, but sleep soundly I did. I awoke at 5:45 sharp and collected. I threw on an undershirt, then a sweater, and a pair of jeans. There wouldn't be any bullshitting around this morning. Straight to the engine I went. I turned on the saltwater intake valve and the fuel. I made sure all the through hull seacocks were in their proper positions. Up on deck, I cracked the throttle to 1/4. I turned the key to on, and hit the starter. Without one misfire, she started. I checked all the gauges, everything was okay. One by one, I removed the docking lines. Spring lines are always first. I hopped onto the dock and untied the last line from the bow. I moved aft quickly. As soon as I reached the cockpit, I put the boat in reverse. With bumpers still down I reached mid-channel, then shoved the tiller full right. While Maria gained momentum, her bow swung gracefully into mid-channel. I reached down and snapped the

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Auto-Helm 5000 fitting on the tiller. I energized the A-Helm and it started to correct itself. I set the course, then set the Autohelm to it. When they work they're great. When they work, that is. Within minutes Maria's sails were up and full. It was just 22 minutes since I awoke. I put up the #2 working jib, hoping it wouldn't be necessary to change it. I tightened up the main two full winch turns. The autohelm is dynamite in light air. I set course for due southwest, the Port Phillip heads at Queenscliff. The Admiralty Tide Tables indicated slack tide at 12:37 lasting one hour, twelve minutes. According to my charts, the waters from here to the heads were clear and unobstructed. Autohelm was doing it's DZZT-DZZT-DZZT back and forth making it's course corrections. Down below, things change considerably when underway. The gimbled stove starts swinging, seeking it's center of gravity. The glassware in the sink clinks and clanks until you get fed up with the racket and stow them away. The clothes which were once hung on hooks were now on the floor. It takes about six hours at sea before things start to settle down. If any water, fuel or oil is in the bilge it will soon be covering the decks and bulkheads. The gentle morning breeze made the action of the boat soft and cushion-like. The waves were barely one foot. The yacht felt as if it was locked into a groove, like a needle on a record. The invigorating air stimulated my appetite. An onion omelette sounded great. I remember seeing a Swiss canned ham in the galley. I recall I have two, 2 pound tins. I slid the hatch fully open, in the event I needed to exit quickly. First a cup of coffee. I pumped the pot full of vanilla water, then turned on

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the main gas valve which was next to the companionway. The liquid petroleum storage bottle is on the stern, bolted down. It is quite unsafe to have petroleum products stored below. I poked my head above the hatch, all was clear. I should turn on the depth sounding alarm. I would set the alarm to go off at 12 feet. Should the water depth become less than 12 feet, the alarm will sound indicating shallow water. In five minutes, I had a ham and onion omelette suitable for a king. How appropriate. What a life, sailing along, eating breakfast, soaking up the sun. Nearly 90 degrees to the west I spotted a super tanker lining up it's coordinates, preparing to enter the Port of Melbourne to unload it's cargo. I took the omelette up on deck, then took a seat at the cockpit. My autohelm 5000 is the most faithful helmsman I had ever sailed with. That is, when it works. For all intents and purposes, I have chosen the nickname Melvin for the auto-pilot. When I was a child, I had a friend whose name was Melvin, and he was definitely a yes man. Everything you wanted to hear, Melvin would tell you,"Yes, yes, yes." He was exactly like the autohelm, it never talks back. It just makes electric motor sounds somewhat like yessssss, yessssss, yessssss, every time it corrects course. At first, it's sound was annoying, but now when I hear it, the sound reassures me that things are working as their supposed to. It's pretty hard to describe the complex emotions that pass through my mind when I start out on a long voyage. For the first few hours, I worry about the yacht and it's security. I go through a mental check list. First priorities are through hull fittings, they can be seriously dangerous should they break or rupture.

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Most people are stunned when they find out the engine is the last thing on the list. Once you're out of port and into clear sailing waters, the major concern is whether or not the wind will blow favorably during your voyage. The second most important thing is the standing rigging. The stainless steel guy wires are the wires which hold up the mast and related rigging. Should one of these guy wires part under sail, it could cause a dismasting and/or more serious damage. Stainless steel is a metal which can hide fatigue quite well. One day you can check the rigging and see nothing. The next day, you can check the same fittings and find micro fissures. The cracks first appear as spider web sized cracks. Then the cracks open and become very visible. I can remember one occasion in particular when a cracked headstay nearly caused us to dismast. We were sailing in the TRANSPAC from California to Hawaii. We were out at sea some eight days when I did my weekly rigging check. Sometimes I check more often, especially when we've had bad weather and a few knockdowns. I took out my Bausch and Lombe 10 x 200 binoculars and began to scan the loftier rigging. I immediately spotted a stainless steel tang that was nearly broken in two. The mere sight of the torn metal made panic seem mild. Without a word, I calmly went to the main mast and let the brake off. The sail puckered somewhat, which relieved some tension on the forestay tang. While at the mast, I let the genoa loose, which was running on the forestay. The helmsman thought I had flipped out. Within ten seconds, the entire crew was assembled on deck. They knew there was a reason I had dropped the sails. Jeff, one of the crew, anticipated my thoughts and sent one team forward and one

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team to the mainsail. Within three to four minutes, the sails were down. It only took a light explanation for the crew to understand what had happened. The foul weather we had experienced the day before had torn the forestay tang nearly in two. Luckily we had a spare headstay. I made a spare one a week after buying SEA WAIF. Of course, the headstay sits on top of the mast and holds the guy wires, and in turn the guy wires hold up the mast and rigging. I took several hours to effect the repairs and we were back underway. The old adage, "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure," fits well for this occasion. This maintenance psychology certainly worked well this time. So much for old stories. In recalling this story, I remembered that I hadn't looked over the rigging in recent weeks. Now was a perfect time. When I reached port next, I would go aloft and do a thorough examination. A quick check showed the rigging to be in fine shape. Back to comfort and relaxation. I turned on the tape deck, Loggins and Messina would be perfect right now. "Full Sail" sounds appropriate. The light wind blowing around my ankles lets me know that it's still very cold out. My deck shoes are ice cold, all because I forgot my socks. I was far enough from the yacht club to lose track of it's position on shore. However, I could make out the outline of the St. Kilda Marina. The morning waters were coming alive with activity. A small tug was coming up on the horizon ahead, probably heading to his first morning call. I would take a heading from this point through the heads to Cape Ottway. Soon after clearing the Port Phillip Rip Tide at Queenscliff, I would call the harbor pilot and see if the fairway down the

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coastline was clear of heavy commercial traffic. The tug, which I spotted earlier, has turned right and headed for the Yarra River. I could follow his heading, since the dense smoke he was billowing left a clear path to his destination. The breeze was so light that the yarn tell tails were limp and fluttering. It might be a good idea to start the engine so I could get through the heads on time. Within several minutes, four to be exact; I had Ptolemy started (Ptolemy is the nickname for the diesel). The hull speed has increased to just shy of 8 knots. According to my calculations, I should make the rip in mid-slack tide. Sailing a few degrees to the east put me in a better position to the wind. Maria sails best at 43 degrees off the wind. The course I was on before had me 41 degrees to the wind. The wind is out of the south-southwest at 200 degrees at 12 knots apparent. The winds should shift in the afternoon to north-northeast. Hopefully, I would have started down the coast when the wind shifted. Right now is a good time to get out my safety harness and the 10 foot safety cable. The safety cable is just long enough to get down below and still reach all around the cockpit and helm. Surprisingly enough, more overboard accidents occur during the morning hours. Most man-overboards happen between dawn and nine in the morning. This is attributed to a combination of things. People feel more secure and confident in the dawning new day, which makes them less cautious. Second, on the dawn watch, the crew is fast asleep and unaware of the new day. Overboards occur when over-confidence overrides good sense and caution. Fatigue is a contributing factor related to overboards. Some hold the

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responsibility of night to morning vision as a cause. Nearly everyone agrees that coordination is at it's worst when we first wake and come up on watch. This combination of coordination coupled with night blindness attributes to many fatalities. It's nearly killed me twice. The wind was building considerably, giving me a hull speed of 9.25 knots. According to the fathometer, I was in 17 feet of water, which has become more shallow in the last five minutes. According to the chart, I was passing over a midharbor bank. The bottom should continue to rise until it reaches 14 feet, two feet deeper than was necessary for the alarm to sound. I would reset the alarm to sound at 14 feet, it would signal when I reached the high point on the sandbar. The tide is now filling the bay, and raising the water table. When I reach the rip, the tide will be slack and turning to an outgoing tide, therefore reducing the water depth inside the Bay. Within the next few hours, I will pass through very notorious waters. Alone, sailing through this dangerous mouth, causes some concern. Hopefully, the tide will be near running when I approach Queenscliff. Point Nepean is the eastern boundary of the entrance to Port Phillip Bay. The western boundary is Point Lonsdale, a low point projecting from a dark, rocky cliff. Near the southern extremity, there is a lighthouse and a tidal signalhouse by which it is easily distinguishable. The chart shows a reef which dries at low water. It extends for a distance of 1500 yards to the south eastward. Beyond this, further to the south some 400 yards, are several rocky patches. The depth is 30 feet, light blue on the chart. The only danger I see on the chart is Lonsdale

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Rock, the least depth over the rock is 22 feet at low tide. The rock lays 1250 yards southeastward of Point Lonsdale light. The chart showed radio-telephone frequencies of 156.6 and MCS and 156.8 MCS operating 24 hours a day. With the aid of binoculars, I see the water tower at Queenscliff. I see the fog lifting in the Queenscliff area. Point Nepean is a 1-3/4 miles eastward of Point Lonsdale, at the eastern extremity of a narrow peninsula which forms the southside of Port Phillip, and is the eastern part of the heads which form the entrance to the bay. It is somewhat higher than Point Lonsdale, it is covered with sand hummocks and a lot of low bushes. There is a reef 700 yards long. It extends 1/2 mile westward from Point Nepean. The reason the entrance to the bay is so dangerous, is that the ocean floor at the mouth has a ramp coming up from the ocean inward. When the tide is on the fill, waves run up the ramp from the sea, which causes the water to get pushed up, or stand up, as the locals say. The same holds true for the outgoing tide, except the opposite conditions occur. A picture is worth a thousand words so here it is! The Nautical Museum in Queenscliff displays pictures of ships in trouble in the Rip. Many pictures show the boats actually sinking, and in one picture a man is hanging in the rigging as his ship goes down for the count. The channel which leads through the heads is 1-3/4 miles wide, but reefs and shoals reduce the width of the navigable channel to about 1200 yards. The channel is between 37 to 45 feet deep. The Great Channel near the center of the Heads has a dredged depth of 48 feet. Because the Port Phillip

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tides are so dangerous, I have decided to write more on the tide details. Between the heads of the entrance to Port Phillip, the tides are most irregular. The narrow entrance to the large basin causes a tidal wave effect which runs north and south. During southerly gales, the water level will be low all day. During a northerly gale the contrary will occur. The mean water, or half-tide level, varies as much as the rise and fall of the tide, being influenced by the strength and direction of the wind outside the heads. Southerly gales cause an elevation of both high and low water, and northerly gales have a contrary effect. The latter sometimes keeps back the floodtide for an hour or even 1-1/2 hours later than the time by calculation. On average, it is high water at Port Phillip heads about 3-1/2 hours before that at Williamstown. According to the weather, this interval may vary from three to four hours. The tidal currents in the fairway run for about three hours before high and low water. By the shore at Point Lonsdale, it will be slack water flood at the heads when it's high water at Williamstown. The tidal current turns at about high water and at about two hours after low water by the shore. In the middle of the entrance between Point Nepean, the period of slack water is very short. The current flow between the heads is about 5 to 7 knots. However, during wind and storms, currents have been recorded as high as 14 knots. Vessels are cautioned when currents above 7 knots are running, and those with low power are urged to enter only on slack tide. A pilot house exists at the heads, and a 40 foot launch is operated out of Queenscliff to aid in pilotage. When the cutter is operating, it is usually

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visible inside the heads at Queenscliff. I damn near feel guilty just kicking back and relaxing. The sun has sunburned my face so I'll go below and put on some sun screen. While below, I will look up the channel frequencies for the pilot house at the heads. The weather to the southeast, down around Wilson's Promontory, was starting to cloud up. It was a good idea to switch on the weather channel. Now I can monitor the weather without worrying if I've missed something. Over the CB, two fishermen were discussing how many pounds of fish they had caught thus far today. One fisherman has been trawling a fishing bank down off King I. He was catching so many fish he was hesitant to tell his position. With the fisherman in mind, I was keeping my ears open for the SEA FOX. The weather is stable and I figure Foxy would be fishing today. Just for the heck of it, I'll ring him on the radio-phone. With little trouble, I made the call, no answer. I switched antennas to maximize transmission power. Still no answer. Nearing the rip at the heads, I turned an bid a last farewell to Port Phillip Bay. I saluted the Queenscliff Hotel off in the distance. Much to my dismay, the notorious rip was nearly flat. Only the normal wind waves are on the bay. The ride through the heads was exactly at 12:40. My timing on the tide couldn't have been closer. On the last three miles out the heads, the tide started to turn and pushed me out the mouth of the bay. I decided it would be best to stay six miles off shore for the run down the coast. The excitement of leaving a port is sometimes as great as the excitement you feel arriving. One

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thing for sure coming and going is a lot of fun. The most prominent feature of the immediate coastline is Cape Shank, which is the southernmost extremity. The peninsula which separates Port Phillip from Westernport is a narrow cliff projection 178 feet high, close by is the remarkable Pulpit Rock, 40 feet high with a smaller rock, 4 feet high, lying southward nearly 500 yards from the cape. I would start heading east down the coast. The group, "Men at Work" was playing "Who can it be Now?" on the radio. As the charts indicated, the light on Cape Shank was clearly visible. The light was 328 feet above sea level. I needed to check my sextant to make sure the mirror alignments are correct. Melvin-Autohelm was locked onto the tiller; a single adjustment was necessary for it to operate, done. My Tamaya sextant is one of the best in the world. I use it constantly. It is exceptionally good for measuring the altitude of fixed objects on land. Using conversion tables, a sextant can be used for triangulation and measuring distances off shore using simple trigonometry. So many degrees of arc represents feet in height or altitude, simple. Using the telescope eye piece, I see the details of the circular white stone lighthouse on the highest part of Cape Shank. It was just 1000 yards northwestward from Pulpit. According to the Australian pilot, brush fires occur during the summer months. The smoke from the fires makes the light on the Cape appear red. It's 1:45 and I'm 12 miles west of Cape Shank. Using a quick mental calculation, I arrive at the conclusion I'm travelling some 7.33 knots an hour. In fact, I used the engine through the heads just for security's sake. It was a good time to shut it off. The quiet was much more tranquil. I will go below

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and lock the shaft brake. The brake is used so the propeller shaft doesn't spin while sailing. Back on deck, this damn salt air breeze is causing my throat to dry. Time for a cold XXXX Bananaland beer. I feel as though a celebration is in order. Time for something to eat. Back down below, the sound of the hull cutting through the water was tranquilizing. The gentle action of the boat was like being rocked in a cradle. Everything down below looks good. Now I can plan where I'll stop tonight. It looks most likely that I'll stop at San Remo, a small fishing village inside the eastern entrance to Westernport. With a lot of luck, I'll make it around Cape Shank at 3:30 to 3:45, then hug up to the coast running past West Head, which is 7 miles eastward from Cape Shank. Quite easily, I will be rounding Cape Woolamai, damn it, around 7:00. Then another, God knows how long, up the eastern entrance channel to San Remo. What this means is, I'll spend a continuous 14 hours at the helm working and sailing today. I'll be as hungry as a very large Kodiak bear when I dock. Breezing down the coast is easy. It becomes even easier when your confidence level increases. Even though it was afternoon, I had already slipped into my life harness and I was clipped on much like a mountain climber is clipped to a safety line. The line I have is different because it is 1/8 inch stainless steel wire used in aircraft. It's very rust resistant, and should I fall overboard, it would be impossible to break it. It has a tensile strength of 7200 pounds. Some of the coastline I'm sailing past is blocked from the sun, which causes it to be much colder than in the sunlight. Time for a strong, hot cup of coffee. I still have another four hours of hard

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sailing ahead. I really don't like entering an unknown port in the darkness. But I've done it so many times, what the hell is the difference now? I follow a very strict set of rules while sailing at night. I have a dos and don'ts list. I will not do anything that is on the don'ts list. Everytime I've done a don't, I've lived to regret it. Lifting my sextant to my eye, I spotted the lighthouse on Cape Shank. The lighthouse is 328 feet tall. With the sextant, I can measure degrees of arc, and figure out the height of the lighthouse. I can see that the chart indicates the lighthouse is 328 feet above sea level. What I will be measuring is the angle or degrees of arc converted to feet distance. With simple geometry and a chart which has distinguishable altitudes of objects, I can triangulate my position at sea. In the past 55 minutes, I have traveled another seven miles, this puts me five miles from Cape shank. I can see a large rock off it's coast, it should be Pulpit Rock. Doing a comparative angle measurement, I found the rock to be 40 feet high. With my 10 x 200 power binoculars, I gave the coast a once over. I was so far out, the haze was blocking any real colors that can normally be seen on a very clear day. With my binoculars, I see some green, but mostly low lying shrubs and bushes. I swung the openings of the binoculars to the northeast. I spotted an orange can buoy marked (Target), it appeared to be three miles southeast of Cape Shank. Within another 45 minutes, I will change my heading and try to sail perpendicular to Phillip Island. I can make out some light details of Grant Point. The point is situated 4.5 miles eastsoutheastward from West Head. West Head is

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seven miles northeastward of Cape Shank. I couldn't see around Shank, so I couldn't make out the details or color of West Head. I'm nearing the view to West Head, I'm approximately ten miles due west from the Northern extremity of Phillip Island. In another 45 minutes, which equals another 5 miles, I'll be in a panoramic viewing position. Cape Shank is off my port stern and West Head Port is amidship with Grant Point on my port bow. Now I call that a panorama. From the sea, land masses appear totally different than they do from the land. At first it's hard to conceive why there's such a stark difference; I studied the reason for the changes and found the following: From land, one views other land masses from various relative elevations. When you're travelling through the mountains, the mountains are in perspective with the surrounding scenery. If you could take that mountain out of the surrounding mountains, and put the base of it on sea level, then you would have an accurate optical perspective. But, when you're in the mountains viewing another mountain which is 14,000 feet, and you're on an 8000 ft. mountain, the full perspective is hard to comprehend, because it doesn't seem that big from your viewing point which is also up on the mountain. It's because you have no sea level horizon to measure from. With these things taken into consideration, simple physics states that the sea, for all intents and purposes can be construed as flat. So everything you're viewing related to height is in an accurate perspective. The sea serves as a flat horizon to measure from. Once you adjust to it, you begin to realize the navigational aid it really is and the many applications this simple

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physics implies. For an example of this application consider this: You're up in Canada driving through the area of Lake Louise. If you're standing in front of the Banff Springs Hotel and looking up at the distant Victoria Glacier, it's hard to comprehend that you and the lake you're looking across are some 5280 feet above sea level. The mind tends to fool you. It subconsciously says you're looking across a large, flat body of water which should be at sea level. I've seen some of my smartest male and female friends be fooled by this juvenile illusion. After a long day of skiing, we came back to the Banff Springs and had a warm drink in the lobby. When looking out across the lake I asked them how high top of the glacier was. Invariably, they were accurate, but only in a relative sense. They guessed the mountain to be between 7000 to 8000 feet. Then I gave them a little education and reminded them that the land we were sitting on is one mile higher than sea level. Boy, did I get some funny looks when I said that. I showed them a map, and asked them why the same mountain had an elevation of 12,290 feet written on it. Then they realized that Lake Louise had fooled their perception. When most people talk about skiing, they never consider sea level, because a mountain that is very high doesn't necessarily mean that you have more area or distance to ski down. The mountain measurement is relative to the other mountains surrounding it. A 12,000 foot mountain connected to a lower mountain of 8000 feet can't possibly give you more than 4000 vertical drop to ski. However, pull this 12,000 foot mountain out alone and set it on sea level and you'll have 12,000 feet vertical to ski. Now that's skiing. GOD, I LOVE SAILING!

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With this thorough explanation, it's not hard to understand how the mind can be confused by elevations. Actually, a mountain 4,000 feet tall with the viewer looking from sea level appears very big indeed. Here at sea level, you see the moutain in it's entirety. My first few years navigating around the world, I used my perceptive skills to impress other sailors. They would look at a chart and not really understand what they were looking at. Fifteen hundred feet on land is much less impressive than when viewed from the sea. The reason I am making an emphasis on this, is that for years I couldn't get over how much larger mountains appear to be when viewed from sea. After rounding Cape Shank, I see again that I have been deceived. The body of water from Cape Shank to Grant Point is a little over 11 miles. I was nearly half way. I'm now passing the entrance to Westernport Bay. I will have another 17 miles to go before I reach Cape Wollamai. I will be rounding Cape Wollamai at around 7:00. Looking behind me for the first time in a while, I see the sheer face of ugly, gray, granite Cape Shank. I see the West head very clearly now. It's further from Cape Shank than I imagined, 7 miles in fact. It's a cliffy projection 90 feet high and fully enclosed by reefs, which creates a heavy surf that breaks across them. Westernport is an extensive bay protected from the sea by Phillip Island, West Head is the west entrance to the port. The east entrance end of the Island is from the mainland to the eastward. There's a famous fishing village (Flinders) there, where Foxy has the SEA FOX. Flinders is a small postal town, with a telegraph station situated just within West Head. There is a boat jetty of about 300 yards, along with a small breakwater extending

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northward from the outer end. Grant Point now appears very clear. With the aid of binoculars, I see the point as a craggy projection forming the western extremity of Phillip Island. A reef extends westward some four to five hundred yards, to Round Island, which is 100 feet high. Seal Rock and Black Rock are 1,200 yards Southwestward of this islet and both about 35 feet above high water and fringed by a reef. I see water breaking heavily over it now. Cape Wollamai must be huge because it appeared very near, nearly as close as Grant Point. Passing along the length of Phillip Island, I had the opportunity to study it's features. Phillip Island was 12 miles long and 4.8 miles across at it's western and broadest point. The 5.45 eastern end of the Island, being a peninsula, connected with the western part by an isthmus 1,000 yards broad, 8.5 miles eastward of Grant Point. Again I shot the altitude of Cape Wollamai, it said I was 9.25 miles from it. My arrival time would be fairly close to 7:00. The sun was nearly over the horizon. This area is almost dark and definitely cold. In the last light of the day, I see the coast from Grant Point is rocky and irregular. It curves eastward 5 miles to a point close off, which has a tall needle shaped rock called the Pyramid. Between Pyramid Rock and Cape Wollamai 7 miles eastward, the coast formed a bay which recedes 2 miles. A wreck is scuttled there to create an artificial reef, over which a depth of 16 feet exists. It lies about 1.2 miles northeast of Pyramid Rock. The northern shore of the bay consists of a range of low sand hills covered with scrub and is bordered by reefs, none of which appear to extend beyond 700 yards offshore.

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Approaching Cape Wollamai was very overpowering. It's located on the southeastern extremity of Phillip Island. Right now it's lighthouse is flashing the set of signals which identifies it from other lighthouses. One long flash and three short. The Cape is a remarkable helmet-shaped granite headland of a reddish color rising abruptly from the sea to a height of 354 feet whence it slopes toward the northwest, forming a peninsula nearly 1.5 miles long northwest and southeast and 1,500 yards broad. This head is the most conspicuous, being the highest land on Phillip Island. The remaining portion of it is low hills clothed in an almost impervious scrub. The Cape looks as though it's fringed with rocks. In the background, I see the summit of Bass Hill. The range is some 936 feet high and 10 miles eastnortheastward of the Cape. It's now so dark, that I can't see my breath. The moon's seventeenth day crescent is starting to rise from the east toward Wilson's Promontory. To be more exact, east southeast is correct. Preparing to go below, I turned on the auto pilot. Within a few seconds, it was manning the helm as I would. It was getting cold, real cold. I have a wool belacava, which I wear when the weather turns cold. This helps to take the chill off. I see the thermometer below, it's reading a chilly 39 degrees Fahrenheit. A hot cup of coffee will do me some good. While the stove is lit, I should fix some tea. Tea in Aussie means dinner. So tea it is. Two more fixes with the sextant tells me I'm 7 miles off coast and 6.25 miles from Cape Wollamai. The time now is 6:23. I will round Wollamai around 7:00, as anticipated.

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It was time to turn on my running lights and turn on my red filtered lights below. The lights below all have red filters to cover them to avoid causing night blindness. It's necessary, not an option. It'll be necessary to navigate up the eastern entrance in order to reach San Remo. Unfortunately, the tide will be draining from Western Port Bay when I make my final run into San Remo. The tide here is said to run 9 to 10 knots. My arms are sore from manning the tiller all day, my neck and face are stinging, because of sun exposure. My feet are soaking wet from the constant spray coming over the bow into the cockpit. In Melbourne, I picked up several travel brochures, that show places of intrest to visit in the area. Later in my trip, when I start up north, I will stop at a place called Malacoota. It is reputed that a redtail kangaroo drinks beer at one of the local pubs. The kangaroo is supposed to be over six feet tall and weighs some 250 pounds. I cant wait to see that! My typical routine when entering an unknown port is to go painfully slow, and have an anchor ready on the bow and another on the stern. The possibility of hitting something or going aground is greatly increased when sailing at night. I must strictly rely on my navigation skills to get me there. The worst part of the whole thing, is that I've not been to this port before. The notations on the map indicate, that without prior experience in this channel, I should anchor off somewhere and wait for the morning sunlight. What the hell! I like adventure, and I'm going to go for it. I enjoy testing my true skills. The eastern entrance to Westernport is narrow

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and torturous. The tidal currents run with great force through the Narrows. At the north end of the channel, the currents reach velocities up to 9 knots. The range lights coming into the channel are on a hill near the western shore, about midway between Red Point and Woody Point. The front light is shown from a white triangle beacon located about 2 miles north-northeastward from Cape Wollamai Light. Now, I'm rounding Cape Wollamai Light. Surprisingly, there is enough wind to keep sailing. In order to make San Remo tonight, I will start the diesel. When I rounded Cape Wollamai, I snapped on the autohelm and went below to start the diesel. In the darkness of night, I couldn't find the starting cord to the engine, so I pulled a piece of rope from the bunk and tied a knot in it. Surely it would work. Within several minutes, I managed to start the diesel. Then I went back out on deck and dropped the sails. I opened the forward hatch over my bunk and stuffed in the genoa. It seemed to fill the entire compartment with it's presence. The main is always the sail which takes time to secure. Once the sail brake is released, the sail slides down the track rather easily. With gaskets in hand, the sail should be folded, if possible, and tied with elastic cords to the boom. I don't find it necessary to cover the sail every night. It should be covered if it is not going to be used for several days. I read on the pilot guide Red Point is situated one mile northward of the southeastern point of Cape Wollamai. It is a mass of red granite boulders 50 feet tall. According to my pilot chart, between Red Point and Woody Point, 2 miles northward, the east end of Phillip Island forms a bay receding nearly 1.3 miles, with rocky points and sandy beaches, bordered by a

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bank which the three-fathom edge projects 200 yards to 1000 yards from the shore. Woody Point is on the western side of the Narrows opposite Davis Point, which is low and forms the northeastern corner of Phillip Island; a dry reef borders the point to the southward, and to the eastward of it are two detached rocks which dry at low water.

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8
San Remo
The bridge that spans the water between Woody Point and San Remo is called the Eastern Entrance Bridge. It has a 200 foot span over the fairway with a vertical clearance of 40 feet. Obstruction lights mark the center of the span and the piers are floodlit at night. Overhead power cables cross the narrows close southwestward of the bridge and have a vertical clearance of 60 feet. Now that I'm around the Cape, I will haul in for Red Point, passing it within 200 yards until it bears 234 degrees. If I need to, I can anchor between Red Point and the first Black Beacon. From the anchorage, I can pass to the northward, where the channel is 60 yards wide, then I can steer with the red beacon on the starboard bow. I will try not to get closer than 200 feet, and will continue to follow the channel's course to the northward and northeastward leaving the black can buoy on the starboard hand.

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With this navigating in mind, I will be not far from San Remo. Now I can concentrate on the information on the eastern entrance channel, which lays between a bank and that which borders the western shore. It is 200 to 600 yards wide, with 3 to 9 fathoms for 700 yards above Red Point. From 400 yards below the first black beacon to the narrows, the channel varies from 50 to 60 yards near the beacon to 250 yards in width with depths of 3-1/4 to 5 fathoms and 6 fathoms in the narrows. From Red Point to San Remo, the channel is 2.5 miles long, with depths of 1-3/4 to 6 fathoms, the least depth being opposite Black Reef Beacon and the greatest depth off San Remo Jetty. From the Narrows into Western Port, the channel which has only 7 to 12 feet of water in it leads from the east side of the black beacon off Woody Point to the east side of the black beacons off the point. Curving to the northwestward, it takes a north-northeasterly direction between the black and red beacons. All of a sudden in mid-channel, the engine was starting to sound funny. The engine would race along a 2200 RPMs, then it sounded as if it was bogging down. On top of everything else, if anything should go wrong with the engine, it means I will have to either drop anchor, call someone for a tow, or put up sail and take one hell of a chance sailing into the port at night. Not to mention fighting the 5 to 9 knots of current while entering the channel. It's obvious that my timing is not very good, because the current that I'm encountering is buffeting Maria like she's a small, one-man dinghy. When the charts said this was a nasty varmint to navigate, they weren't kidding! The first question that comes to mind is how to control the boat's direction should the

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engine fail totally. It's just barely running. The current is pushing me backward in the channel at a pretty swift speed. God knows what the hell is causing the engine trouble. It's so dark that I can't see my hand in front of me, especially when I turn around and face the stern where there is no light. At least facing toward the bow, the mast light lets me see some of the boat's features. I'm not too panicked yet, according to the channel lights, I'm smack dab in the middle of the channel; however, I'm going backwards not forwards. Right now, I feel as though I'm not doing something I should be. Hum, I got it, I don't have the fathometer on. Snap, and it was functioning. It says 26 feet of water. That's good! Unfortunately, it's so black that I can't see anything ashore except the channel marker lights. The engine is going to stop any minute. If it's a fuel problem, I'll sit in the channel all night long and run the risk of being hit by commercial traffic. Rather than prolong the engine's agony, I've decided to shut it off before something worse happens. Now I'm adrift and in 30 feet of water, there's only one thing to do, drop anchor and hope like hell the anchor sets. I'm fairly sure the anchor will set. I have 400 feet of 3/8 inch tempered anchor chain, plus an additional 250 feet of 3/4 inch nylon woven rope. I have the anchor situated on the bow roller. With one hard pull, the rope which held it fast released it, sending it into the black, murky water. Within a few seconds, the line sprung taut, as Maria hung onto it. The anchor skipped along on the bottom several hundred feet. It was obvious the bottom was hard sand. Optimistically, I hoped the anchor would set soon. I didn't need the thrill of

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sailing out this dangerous channel head. Just as my hopes were starting to wane, the anchor's flukes found a rock or debris. This time, Maria came to such a sudden halt, that it nearly threw me out of the boat. The force of the action threw everything from their storage placed down below. I heard the glass chimney to the galley lamp crash to the deck. A can of motor oil that was sitting in a cupboard beneath the sink, is flowing like molasses across the galley floor. A plastic fuel cell on the stern fell over, fortunately it's contents are flowing into the channel and not into the boat. Oddly enough, the whiplash action of the mast caused the mast light to burn out break it's connection. I'm relieved that the anchor finally set. I have a sneaking suspicion this could be one of those anchors that I'll have to leave behind. When they set this well the flukes are difficult to pull out when the time comes. Oh, well. I'm faced with two ways to approach the situation. I can relax and wait for dawn to arrive, and hope someone will come along and offer some assistance. Or, I can go below and see if it's something I can fix easily. If I can repair the problem, then I can restart the engine and continue on to San Remo. I was faced with one honorable alternative. Fix it. The first thing you find out about a diesel is that a diesel turns much slower RPMs than a gasoline driven engine does. Diesels never fail because of a serious mechanical malfunction like valves, rods, bearings, or anything of that nature. They're very mechanically trustworthy. They usually fail because of related equipment failure or fuel supply problems. Diesels are, generally speaking, safer and more reliable than gasoline engines. There's

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little danger of explosion or fires with diesel engines. Immediately, I went below and turned on my running lights and deck lights. I wouldn't enjoy being hit while repairing the engine below. I pulled off all the infrared filters so they would give me more light. The engine compartment cover came off easily. Within ten minutes, I found what I thought to be the source of the problem. I traced the fuel line to the filter and it appeared to be clogged. I shut the supply valve and pulled the filter. It was a cheap plastic type, not really suitable for marine use. Within a few minutes, I took a saw and cut the filter in two. One thing for sure, the filter was clogged with red algae and bacterial growth. It meant the storage tank was probably full of algae growth, no matter what I did, I would have to drain and clean the tank before the problem could be resolved. I was hoping the filter had kept the algae out of the injectors. The injectors are like spark plugs, instead of supplying current, they supply fuel. I pulled the filter apart and threw away the drum inside which acted as a gross filter. I replaced the drum with a handful of wadded up panty hose, hopefully it would filter long enough to reach port. With a two-part super glue, I fastened the filter together and waited for it to dry. Meanwhile, I hooked the fuel directly to the engine. I made very sure no air bubbles would get into the fuel line. Should air pass into the line, I would have to bleed every damned injector in the engine to make it run properly again. It was now 8:37, the filter is back in, but I want the glue to set a little while longer. It's now or never, I turned the fuel tank on and watched fuel run down the plastic tube. I would have to

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disconnect one side so the air could bleed out. I coupled the filter back into place and crossed my eyes, toes, and fingers. Forty-two times I wrapped the cord around that flywheel and pulled, nearly causing a hernia each time. On the 43rd time it sputtered. I continued to pull, I stopped counting till the damn thing finally started up. I was amazed the engine sounded much stronger than before. It was likely that the problem had existed for some time. So I won't become bored, I'll switch on the CB and listen for boats in the area, then call San Remo fishing pier. "This is the yacht Maria Van Diemen WA-Z4137, does anyone on San Remo fishing pier copy?" Then I switched to Channel 16 which was an emergency channel and repeated the same message. Within a few minutes a voice came booming back. "Aye, Mate! Read you loud and clear." I began to explain my situation, when someone asked we shift our channel to 47 and leave this channel for emergencies. The someone who requested me to shift channels asked if one of us was American. I replied, "Yes, this is Maria Van Diemen." He said if I was having any problem I felt I couldn't handle, please come back on 16 and they would see if they could lend me assistance. I said, "Thanks, I'll remember that." I continued my conversation with San Remo. The fisherman I was talking to, asked if I was the American Bloke Foxy knew. I wasn't sure whether to say yes or feign ignorance. But I said, "Yes." He said, "I thought so!" He asked me, "Where in the channel are you?" I gave him my position, then he came back and said, "We are preparing to go out fishing tomorrow, and I need to run my engines so I'll come out and get you."

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A lump built up in my throat. With the microphone in hand, I failed to reply. He came back on, "Do you copy? Don't worry, mate, any friend of Foxy's is one of ours." He came back one last time and asked, "Have you eaten, or are you hungry?" I couldn't talk. He said he and the crew would put off tea until they brought me back to the pier. Then we would all eat. I was flabbergasted. Never in my fondest dreams would I have guessed this could happen, here in the middle of a channel. Not knowing a soul, who would have guessed anyone would have been waiting to hear from me. I found out later, Foxy told several fisherman to keep their ears open. And should I need help, they would assist without question. The Fox is a true friend indeed. When they arrived, I was busy forward trying to free the anchor. As I thought, the flukes were stuck into something securely. The men pulled the excess chain onto their deck and wrapped it around one of their huge deck wrenches. Within a few grunts and groans, they pulled up the anchor, plus the tree and truck tire it was snagged into. The man on the CB turned out to be a baby-faced 22 year old fisherman who owns his own trawler and has another being built at Queenscliff. Who says fishermen don't make a killing? It was easy to see why he was so damned successful. He was as positive as positive could get. Everything happened so quickly, his coming out in the night, then literally taking me and my boat into safe harbor. I was a bit touched. I have said many times in lectures and discussions, you really haven't begun to live, until you meet the fishermen in these travels that I've been so damn lucky to meet. These men are daring, strong and possess incredible life purpose. These men will literally give you the shirt off

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their back. Thirty-five minutes earlier I was trying to start the engine and I was hungry and cold. Now, I'm inside the control bridge, watching the colorgraph being displayed on a monitor. The monitor was displaying the channel floor beneath us. It also showed our ship above it and the distance between the channel floor and the keel of the ship. The controls of this fishing boat looked like the controls on the space ship in "Star Wars." Larry could readily see I was fascinated, so he began explaining to me what the various instruments do. He gave me a detailed explanation of the channel and how it should be navigated. He said Foxy had told him about an American who could navigate better than most Sat-Navs. I felt flattered. Larry explained that many boats have gone aground in this channel. I asked him to compute the speed of the current right now. He punched several buttons then started reading the instruments one by one. The hull speed indicator says were doing 23 knots, but our knot meter that indicates true distance traveled, says were doing a true 15 knots. Therefore, the current was running from 8 to 9 knots. Where would the world be without electronics? The chromoscope recreates the exact contours of the ocean's floor and shows anything moving or fixed between the keel of the boat and floor of the ocean. Each particular space has it's own color grid. The ocean floor is red, in between is blue, and everything else is green and black. It has taken only ten minutes and we're already nearing Davis Point on our right. Larry said WHITE WAVE'S props could spin her on a silver spot. Within a few minutes and another shout of Foster's Lager beer, we were plowing head first into

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the raging current. Larry made sure to tell me, "You would have had trouble with the channel." I couldn't agree more. I'm glad I had the problem when I did. Larry found it necessary to increase the power to the port engine, to counteract the resistance created by Maria under tow. While we rounded Davis Point, I noticed the Eastern Entrance Bridge, it was brightly lit up on the horizon ahead of us. The wind was calm, but the waves beneath the Channel Bridge were white capped and 4 to 5 feet tall. San Remo is located on the right hand side of the boat. Luckily WHITE WAVE has a space on the end of the pier. Larry seemed perfectly relaxed. His body language is calm, casual, showing the experience he has accumulated over the years. The current flows straight through the trawlers that are tied here. The current is running 7-1/2 to 8 knots. With a maximum of 7-1/2 knots, Maria would have met certain danger trying to negotiate the pier at San Remo. Within minutes, Larry maneuvered WHITE WAVE into her berthing area. Surprisingly, she barely nudged the dock, I could barely discern whether we rubbed the pier or a wave jostled the bow. Larry said he'd been given orders to show me around town. I said, "By whom? Then I remembered our conversation. It had to be Foxy. Larry informed me his crew would clean up and be responsible for Maria, while we had a beer. The only thing they really needed to know was where the main circuit breaker was located, so they could turn off the batteries so they don't lose their charge. I yelled to one of the crew, "The master is under the companionway up on the starboard bulkhead."

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Within a second, he had turned the lights on and off, which indicated he had found the main switch. I gave him the thumbs-up in acknowledgement, then he left the lights on for cleanup. Larry took me across the street to the Westernport Hotel. I was bone tired, exhausted, and hungry as hell. I've never told this story to another human being, but here goes. I remember in my early childhood, my grandfather seemed as though he was some sort of God. I distinctly remember people marveling at his unbelievable appetite. I never quite figured out how he developed such a huge appetite and hunger. During the holidays, people would sit around and marvel at his ability to put away food. They would watch him as though he possessed some supernatural eating power. What those people didn't know was Grandpa worked his ass off to develop such a giant appetite. I have discovered I'm a chip off the same "Old Block" as Grandpa. When I finish a day's sailing, as I have today, I can eat proportions of food that are hard to believe. In my youth, I competed and won a pancake eating contest. I ate 42 flap jacks, plus milk and sausages. I have to admit I became nauseated as the contest drew to a close. The incredible thing about single handed endurance sailing is your body gets developed and exercised 24 hours a day. If you are overweight at the beginning of the trip, you won't be for very long. In two weeks, you'll find your clothes have become loose. The fact that you rarely eat more than once a day, is all the weight control one needs. I rarely eat more than once a day while sailing. However, the one meal I eat is usually a large one. Sailing is where I've developed the one-meal "eat a lot" routine. Literally, all the ports I've visited have a hotel

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which serves food at the pub. The Westernport Hotel is acclaimed for it's excellent food, at reasonable prices. Approximately $2.70 Australian provides a full meal with several vegetable courses. Tonight I will go for two or three entire meals. I always eat chicken, so in addition, I will eat a fish plate, then the breaded veal. All meals come prepared with a salad, with a choice of dressing. Ordering food is always the most entertaining part. By the time I get to the second dinner, people started peeking around me thinking they would see someone else with me. Most of the onlookers are very curious where all that food goes. My weight is 208 pounds, give or take a pound or two. I have been sailing for such a long time my arms have grown to a robust 17-1/2 inches. However, my height of 6 feet has remained the same as it has been since I was 15. I have trimmed my waist down to 31-1/2 and have managed to build my chest up to 47-1/2, which never changes more than 1 inch. Of course, that's a breathing measurement. I have managed to keep in incredibly good condition during this sail. The exercises that really help are sit-ups, push-ups, and squat thrusts, I do them regularly. 300-200-200, respectively. And boy does it work! Larry and I scaled the ladder up to the pier. The tide here is extremely radical, it rises and falls over eight feet. It is absolute low tide and WHITE WAVE is beneath us some 10 feet. The Westernport Hotel is painted standard pub white. The lettering across the hotel front is painted in 24" letters. Usually, the pub and dining room are located downstairs with hotel rooms upstairs. The close proximity of the hotel with the pub is very sexually suggestive. I can see it now,

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bring a date, have a few beers, then turn in. The Australians are pretty bright people. Several of the fishing boats are off loading their catches. The smell of fresh albacore fills the air with it's familiar fragrance, Arpege by Lanvin. No, tuna by Seine. We walked past a local fish store that's 100 feet from the pier, it has a large brine tank in it's front window with several hundred crazed lobsters crawling around inside. I caught myself looking around in the tank for aquarium plants and decorations. Hell, I was not looking at some Marine Land Aquarium, I was looking at someone's dinner tomorrow night. As we crossed the street, I spied a chook stand milkbar, a place where they commonly sell chickens. Chook is Aussie for chicken. Milkbar is short for market and hamburger business. This area of San Remo is a community which comes alive during the summer months. During the tourist season, the streets are jammed with tourists. Phillip Island lies across the entrance channel bridge. That's where people go to watch the parade of the fairy penguins, which are on the southern shore of Phillip Island. I saw through the front plate glass window several locals drinking at the pub bar. I froze in my tracks long enough to watch what seemed to be the pub sport. Several men across the room were tossing coppers, or what Americans call pennies. They were tossing the pennies into a two-inch opening located up and behind the bar. The object of the toss was to throw a copper through the neck of a bottle which was connected to an electrically operated horn. The entire length of the bar was covered brown by the coppers. Larry seemed to enjoy the view from our position, because, under his breath, he was cheering one of the men who was tossing, out loud he commented, "Come on,

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Malcolm." On the third toss, Malcolm won. His smile turned to a full grin as he received his reward, a tall schooner of New beer. The other contestants continued the toss, a coin hit the bartender square on his forehead. With that, a loud round of applause followed from the patrons. They were amused the coin found his head as a target. The Westernport Hotel is typical middle-class Australia. Most of it's inhabitants are clad in jeans and wool "Pendleton" type lumberjack shirts. Red and black, large checker seems to be the favorite pattern. In my haste leaving the boat, I left my foul weather gear on. The sweater I was wearing came from Paris, $160, it certainly didn't fit in this particular environment. The deck shoes I'm wearing are Topsiders that cost $100 Australian. Some of the men who could afford them were wearing them. The successful fishermen do wear the best safety gear, especially deck shoes and foul weather gear. The bar seemed to fall silent when Larry and I entered. A light smell of "hashish" emanated from the corner of the room. I related how hungry I was to Larry. Then he took me into the dining hall and introduced me to the barmaid-waitress. I requested three dinners on the menu. Half jokingly, she asked when the others would arrive. I ignored her question, then asked when would she finish working. "Around eleven," she answered in trigger-reflex quickness. I smiled and said I would wait for her until she finished. The pub bar extended into the dining room allowing the bartender to check on his customers. Larry ordered two schooners of beer and told the bartender I was the American Foxy was talking about. The publican insisted he was buying the next round. In a rather hoarse voice I said, "Thanks, I really

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appreciate that!" The publican said the bar should be closing at 11:00 sharp, but we could stay as long as we wanted. At 11:15, I finished eating my roasted chicken. While I was eating, Larry, the publican and his wife, plus two other people watched in amazement. For some reason, I was getting the royal treatment. The publican turned off the pub's lights, and joined us at the table. The little waitress who waited on me was the daughter of the owner. We had a quick conversation which covered many things, I need to find a suitable fuel filter for my diesel engine. The publican asked his daughter who is 20 to fetch me in the morning and drive me to a parts store he wrote down. I asked Casey to walk me to the yacht. She should understand where the boat is located for the trip in the morning. My stay in San Remo has become a euphoric experience. Let's just say someone showed me around and showed me a few of the better things in life. God, I Love Sailing! We traveled over to the other side of Phillip Island to a little town called Cowes; on the island's northern shore. It rained for the entire day, so we decided to spend the day close to a fireplace. We ended up drinking hot buttered rums with a couple who had just arrived from Ireland. They were in their early thirties and obviously very wealthy. They immigrated to Australia to avoid the problems with the unions back in Ulster.

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FAIRY PENGUINS One night during my stay in San Remo, we went to see the Fairy penguins parade on Phillip Island. The terrain was so tough and rugged, we had to drive a four-wheel Landrover to reach them. Several hundred people were gathered around with blankets and hot drinks, to watch the Fairy penguins parade out of the water. Each night they made their way uphill to their warm burrows in the sand hills. The little black and white devils were clumsy, falling over people who had gathered at the beach. At the end of each day, they made their way home after working hard foraging for food at sea. Their average height was not much taller than 10 to 14 inches. Children and adults alike were thrilled with the playful display. The most interesting part of this stop has been the excursion through the animal preserve on Phillip Island. Should anyone who is reading my book miss this island, they certainly would be missing a lot of fun. I will explain why. Many natural wildlife reserves exist on Phillip Island, where tourists can mingle with the animals. Fur seals and koalas frolic openly within easy touch of a loving observer. The main show is the "Parade of the Fairy Penguins." When someone first told me of the penguins, I thought he was kidding. I had the pleasure of escorting my waitress friend and her two lovely children. We made our way down the cliffs to the sandy shoreline just minutes before dusk. The children spread the blanket, then we anxiously waited. About 4,000 of these miniature penguins make their way home every day of the year. But because they are protected environmentally, only three months are set up for viewing. They ride the

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waves into shore, where they shake themselves off, and get their bearings. Then they begin their journey up into the sand hills where their families are snuggled up waiting for dinner. The Parks Department protects the penguins from environmental shock so no flash bulbs are allowed. One of my most memorable days was spent horseback riding around the farmlands of Phillip Island. The land on Phillip Island reminds me of the land of Scotland, where I have spent much time grouse hunting. During my voyage around Australia, I have managed to keep an accurate log of the various animals and diverse wildlife I've seen here. I plan to write a travel log exclusively on wildlife around Australia. Tomorrow, I will leave San Remo, moving the boat over to New Haven Yacht Club, just 3000 feet across the bay, it's located opposite side of the Channel Bridge. Maria had received a beating while tied to the San Remo pier. So I'm forced to move Maria across the bay or leave this area. If I had to leave, it would mean cutting short touristing around. It would be fun to explore more of the wildlife preserves. I disliked the thought of leaving San Remo and all these great people, but who knows what lurks in the next port ahead. The next port may hold a spiritual experience. Maneuvering out of New Haven Yacht Club was tricky. The cross current in the channel was running strong causing Maria to go sideways. I had to wait for a filling tide to leave, then anchor and wait for a low tide to get under the channel bridge. Judy, the Commodore's wife at the N.H.Y.C., fixed me a chicken dinner which I took with me when I left the Y.C. dock. You know, people think sailing on a yacht

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around the world is glamorous! Sometimes it is, but rarely. In not so glamorous situations like these at San Remo and New Haven, you must wait until the tide lets you go. So I was up at 2:15 in the morning, it was freezing cold, and I could barely get my hands to work. I was tired because of a date I just left around 11:45, and got only 2-1/2 hours sleep. So now I have to set sail with the tide, because my mast is 43-1/2 feet tall and it won't pass under the bridge at any other time. I must pass beneath it, at the exact mid-tide low water, which doesn't occur again for another five days. It's now or never! I should be out of the channel and relatively far down the coast by noon. The mast has no more than four inches between it and the bridge as I passed beneath it. It was so close that one of my wind gauges scraped the bridge as it passed beneath it. No sweat! It was reassuring to turn around and see five other lofty rigged boats steaming behind me at the same time. The feeling I got was powerful and very exhilarating, to be totally in control of my own destiny. When I reached the channel mouth, several huge trawlers passed me and headed due south toward the fishing bank off Tasmania. Only one boat turned my direction. By the time sunrise occurred, I could barely see him on the horizon. He was headed to Wilson's Promontory as I was. Now I wished I had noticed the boat's name. Later I would have enjoyed talking to someone. After several cups of coffee and a can of chicken chow mein with teriyaki sauce, I was ready to take on a full hard day of serious sailing. I made my usual weather checks. The same noise I always hear, said that everything was going to be all right.

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Unless the high that is moving through moves farther north. Then the low down south in the Bass strait, near Tassie, might move up causing rough seas and bad weather. I set the autohelm and went below. I would use four charts today, mostly to cover a wide range of coastline details. It was surprising, four different scale charts could give you a different perspective every time. One chart might show small rocks along the coast, one might mention what foliage to look for, another may give you the radar hot spots and on and on and on. It is important to get a widerange of perspective. Today I have one real complaint, the winds are shifting and have little character or strength. I do enjoy strong winds. Twenty to twenty-five knots would be great for this part of the trip. Nothing worse than being becalmed; except a storm! There's only one thing worse, I hate starting that damned noisy diesel engine! My charts indicate unobstructed water for the next four hours. The light air will give me time to nap. I will set the depth alarm just in case. Autohelm Melvin is doing a fine job so far. But then again, it hasn't been dunked under water lately. That's the real test, would the damned thing work after a hearty wave breaks over the stern? I see by the chart the continental shelf runs out to sea some 4-1/2 miles, then the second shelf starts. The first shelf drop is 130 feet, so I set the alarm at 100, that should do. I have set a course heading for 157 corrected. This should give me the full use of the wind for the entire day. Later the winds will change. I will have to set a different course angle. From the eastern entrance to Westernport, the coast forms a slight curve tending northeastward

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4.5 miles to Black Head and thence southeasterly 3 miles to Powlett River, continuing on in the same direction for a further distance of five miles to Coal Point. Coal Point has numerous sunken rocks off it, at the distance of one mile southward of the point, one rock uncovers at low water spring tides. The heavy break shows the point to be dangerous on approach. From Coal Point, the land trends in an eastsoutheasterly direction for 2.3 miles to Cape Patterson. The whole coast southeastward of Black Head is little more than a succession of sandy hillocks from 100 to 140 feet high. These are covered in most places with dwarfed tea trees, but occasionally they are bare. I have been sailing one hour and 12 minutes from the mouth of Eastern Entrance, I am doing 4.5 knots. In fact, I'm now approaching Black Head. I should make it around Cape Patterson in 3 to 3-1/2 hours. Unfortunately, the breeze has dampened even further. I'm going to nap.

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I awoke with my nose on fire. The sun has beat directly down on me for 2-1/2 hours. I can't seem to find Cape Patterson. I stood to my feet thinking elevation would help. In my haste, my right foot slipped on a genoa sheet and my face hit the boom, opening a cut over my eye. The next sensation was ice cold water all over me. OVERBOARD! I have been knocked overboard! Fortunately, I'm not wearing a foul weather jacket. I see that I'm 3 to 3-1/2 miles offshore. My eyes caught the glimpse of my trailing sheet line in the water behind the boat. I calculated the end must be soon. With a blinding surge of energy, I attempted an Olympic breaststroke. Three hard strokes put my face and body directly over the trailing line in the water. Instinctively, I clenched the line, but only my right hand found it's target. My wet, cold hands allowed the wet sheet to easily slide through my palm. The only chance I have will be to get fouled up or tangled in the line. Then I remembered the sheet has a knot in the end. That single knot will probably be the thing that saves me. The time it took from the second I fell overboard, to the time I grabbed the line, was no longer than 4 seconds. Just thinking about the time frame scares me. Two seconds later, and I wouldn't have been here to tell this story. Luckily, I'm a long distance marathon swimmer. I really wasn't thinking about dying as much as I was thinking about Maria going aground on some desolate beach, then breaking up, never knowing her actual fate. The 30 feet of line which slid through my hand ripped the thick callous flesh from my palm, leaving

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raw exposed flesh. The difficulty came when the rope buried deeper into the more sensitive flesh. I nearly went unconscious as the knot pounded into my tight fist. Quite a bit of slack rope was on deck still. I pulled with all my strength, reaching with my left hand over my right, grasping the line and pulling. A wave broke over the bow which slowed the boat momentarily. I had just a split second to wrap the sheet line around my sweatered arm. When the slack came out of the line, the taut line jerked my body forward. Now I'm being dragged to death by my own yacht. I drank mouths full of saltwater as I gasped for air between the relentless succession of waves. I have been in the water 30 seconds. So many things ran through my mind that momentarily I became confused and lethargic. My senses were so numbed, I was unsure what to do next. Should I hang on and hope Maria will jibe or run ashore? No, because I won't last that long. Should I take more time in making decisions? No, unless I wanted to chance dying. I feel my left arm slowly being pulled out of it's socket. Thank God my arms are strong and muscular! A wave breaks in my face and the line pulls me underwater with it. I feel for certain that I will not survive. I will die alone in a strange place on the other side of the world. Chances are, the boat will sail out to sea and be found with her sails up and the damned battery dead because the steering autopilot uses a lot of current. I wonder who will break the news to my poor family. I can hear them now. "We told Lindsey he should not sail alone! It was far too dangerous and he knew it." Yes, I knew it. All this went through my mind in less than one minute and 30 seconds. Survival!

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Survival! Survival! I shook my stupor; Fuck sympathy, fuck dying, fuck disco and for right now, FUCK THE OCEAN!!!! I was pissed off! I am stupid, and if I survive, I will never be caught on deck without a safety harness. I swear to God, "So damn it, help!" Thank God, I'm a little Irish. I have it figured out. The wet clothes are causing excessive drag. I'll try to get naked. Really! Within a few seconds, one shoe was off, in a few more seconds, the other was off along with the socks. My fucking turtleneck sweater keeps flapping into my face causing me to suffocate. I started ripping the bastard off. Yves St. Laurent would have cried over the whole thing. Once my jeans were down to my knees, I felt like I had a good chance of surviving. My first real stroke of luck. Obviously, God decided he would give me another chance, because the wind has suddenly died. My instincts told me to look out at sea for signs of additional gusts of air. There were none. The hull was barely moving 2 knots through the water. I felt I could. I felt I could make it! I would live to tell this story. My face filled with tears as my limp, near dead body started to pull it's way up the 12-foot rope to the boat. The tears in my eyes had blurred my vision, but I continued pulling my blue frame to safety. My tears of joy caused me to salivate between gasps of air. I was really not embarrassed anyway. Besides, I will never tell anyone about my sobbing and crying. Rather than board the boat at the stern, I followed the sheet forward to the rail block. I had been in the water some 2-1/2 to 3 minutes, the crying took some time. It was apparently important that it happened, the release probably

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ensured me it wouldn't creep up later. In just this short time, I have become severely fatigued. My arm is in such pain that I am certain it will never be 100% ever again. I figure the tendons and ligaments have been ripped right from their joints. I looked for the perfect wave. A good set of high waves would raise me in the water, bringing me nearer the rail. When the wave lifts me, I will grab for a stanchion, a winch block, anything. Within 20 to 30 seconds, I had my left leg on deck and my left hand locked onto the stanchion. My torso was hanging over the side with my face pushed against the hull. My head, from time to time, submerged. One more try and I should make it. My body was in a position where I couldn't see it. I was glad it worked out that way. I found out why seconds later, when I got my trunk on board. I had been in the water just long enough to be a bruise color, purple-blue. For the first time in my life I was scared. I actually felt as though life would somehow never be the same. I was so numb I couldn't shiver. I couldn't help but remember the movie, "Alive." How the survivors looked before they died. First, I was on the wrong side of the boat to enter the companionway. Second, I would have to lift myself over the cockpit washboards, which are 14 inches high. My body was laying head first to the stern. It would be necessary to crawl naked six feet into the cockpit, then another five feet to the companionway. Once I get the cold air off my body, I will stand a better chance of surviving. I literally crawled with my face along the deck until I reached the washboard of the cockpit. The cold breeze blowing over my ass caused nervous, uncontrollable spasms in my buttocks. The spasms were nearing the convulsion stage as I entered the cockpit.

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I decided it was time to stand upright. I swung my feet over the cockpit and grabbed the sail bag of the genoa. I wrapped it around my trunk and started for the companionway. Hypothermia was beginning to set in. My greatest fear at this time was losing more body heat. If I lost much more, I would eventually die. The companionway of Maria was nearly vertical. I would need to take great care not to injure myself further. Within ten minutes, I was below. Down below it felt like an oven. The contrast in temperature was stark. Continued survival entered my mind. Had I passed out, what time was it, and where in the hell was the boat? I pulled myself over to the galley sink, first I would light the stove, then the lamps. The heat from the stove felt as though someone took a flame and put it directly to my skin. To speed up recovery, I'll need to dress warmly. It struck me I might be in these clothes for some time, it might be several days before I would feel like changing. I put on some long-john underwear. It took nearly 25 minutes to complete the task. Sweat beads were forming on the windows. The smell of kerosene made me sick. Without warning, I began to vomit. Slowly at first, then harder and deeper. I had swallowed a considerable amount of salt water. I felt dehydrated, and now I began to realize what I had just been through. A fast recovery would help the horror. I went to my closet and procured a fine pair of woolen socks, and pulled them on. I found my snow ski bag and put on good leather ski gloves. I was on my way back. I did look funny in long underwear, leather gloves and wool ski socks. The interior of the boat was roasting hot. Now I could move my fingers. The blue color has started to dissappear. My injured right hand felt as if it was

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on fire. The exposed flesh was making contact with the leather glove's interior lining. I knew a decision should be made. Should I try to make a port and safety, or should I trust the weather for the day and night by dropping anchor and trying to recover some before attempting to continue? I stepped into ski pants and parka, then I put on rubber boots. Just as I got ready to go on deck, I remembered I didn't have a safety harness on. The harness was no problem. I stepped on deck, and suddenly felt terribly alone and vulnerable. I decided not to look around a lot, so I clipped the safety to the safety wire and went to the forestay. I laughed out loud, "What the hell good would a safety do if I fell over again?" I wouldn't have the strength to save myself anyway. Oh, well, the thought was reassuring having the line connected. I cut the line, and the anchor fell away into the water. For safety's sake, I would let all 600 feet pay out into the water. The boat was slowing down, the anchor was finding the floor. I let the jib brake off and the genoa came screaming down to the deck. Some of it was overboard. I could care less. Now back to the main. I let the brake off the main and it came down halfway; with a little assistance it came down all the way. It too could remain where it was. I just hoped the weather didn't change. For safety's sake I got the Avon ready in case it was needed. As I went below, I could feel the ordeal had sapped me of strength. Right now I hadn't the energy to eat, but I must drink something. I need potassium; sounds like beer to me. Hurriedly, I grabbed several Foster's Lagers in bottles and headed to my bunk. Somewhere after the fourth beer, I fell into a deep sleep. Incredibly, I didn't have any dreams I could

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remember. I slept from 10:34 straight through to the next afternoon. I awoke and found the yacht hanging in the shorebreak off of Cape Patterson. With a sextant shot, I could see I was 850 feet off shore, a little further than it looked. There was nothing to point out Cape Patterson except possibly a tower reported as radar conspicuous which stood nearly one mile north northeastward off the cape. A conspicuous rock, 59 feet high, about 3 miles eastward of the cape known as the Eagles Nest, lying 100 yards off the coast at it's turn toward Anderson's Inlet served to distinguish it. East and westward of this rock the coast has a cliffy appearance. I would try to regroup and regain some composure. Now I must eat. I managed to fix the best Irish coffee in history. I put nutmeg on top of the whipped cream. Two cans of chow-mein, a can of green beans, some spinach and three packets of Lipton noodle soup. Now I was opening a 2 pound Swiss canned ham. My right hand was a mess, but I would try to sail with it anyway. I will need to spend a week or two to recuperate in the next port. I found a one-pound ball of cheese and put a large dent in the side of it. I was tired. I would listen to some music, reset the depth alarm, and go to sleep. I wedged myself into the bunk and opened my emergency medical supply box. Nothing in the entire medical box had a sulphur ointment in it. I had a tin of zinc-oxide ointment used on cows' udders. It is called Olmans Bag Balm. It is used on animals to heal open wounds and scrapes. It has ferrous-oxide in it too. If it was good enough for a cow's tits, it was good enough for my hand. After wrapping my hand, I read the tin for it's ingredients. No wonder it is so good for skin, it's best ingredient

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is golden sealroot, a favorite Indian poultice. I couldn't get to sleep for a long time. The wave sets were annoying, the breeze was causing a short chop. My biggest fear now was having the anchor slip, although it did seem to have set well. Finally I got to sleep. My left arm was bruised and having spasms. I couldn't open my hand; when I tried to open it, the tendons in my forearm stung as though each of them had been soaked in tabasco sauce, hot stinging and bruising. My shoulder had come out of place several times during my struggle to climb on board. The clothes and warmth seemed to lessen the pain. The boat's rocking action put me fast asleep. I remember waking in the night and going to the head. The rest of the night went unrecorded. I awoke to the sound of my ship's bell. I looked out my porthole and saw that I was in a thick fog bank. In the near distance, I heard the sound of an anchor chain, a big anchor chain! I hoped they had radar and were using it. I couldn't see the clock face so I was uncertain what time it was. I awoke as it's chime was sounding. My left arm felt as though it had been used for baseball slugging practice. My arm was serving as the bat's target. The air inside the boat was stale, so I reached up and opened the forehatch. Fresh air pushed it's way in. The salt smell dominated the closed quarters. I spent the morning reading in the boat. It would be later in the morning before the fog would lift. The air should freshen up around 11:00. Because I had a full complement of fuel aboard I would motor into my next port. The difficulty would arise when I tried to start the Drofin diesel. The flywheel serves as a starting coil, which must have a piece of cord wrapped around it in order to

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start the engine. Even with my hand in good shape it was arduous. I had dressed somewhat lighter this morning then yesterday after my ordeal. I was standing in the galley staring at the open can of Swiss ham. Momentarily, I lapsed into a daze. In the daze, I thought about the day before. It seemed distant and far away. Then I peered into my shaving mirror. The wound over my right eye is partially closed; the blood has caked on the side of my face. My beard was showing so I would shave. I believe you have to stimulate your ego first, then other simple things will follow. Now that I've shaved I feel better. God, I'm handsome. Sometimes it is not easy living with such modesty, but then again, where would I be without it? It would do me no good moaning and groaning. No matter what the pain I had to get going. Maybe I would set the working jib to help the engine along. Now I've discovered a real problem; how in the hell was I going to get the anchor up. I would take a rope forward and splice a line onto the anchor line, then run the line aft to one of the Barient deck winches. Six hundred feet could take twenty or so minutes to pull on deck. The winches have two speeds. I would use the lower ratio to pull up the anchor. With the aid of the leather gloves the anchor broke free. I didn't worry about drifting, because the current was setting out to sea. The morning fog had lifted 40 feet, no more. Looking out at the ocean around me sent an eerie chill down my back. The fog created the illusion of a ceiling. Sometimes I could see clearly all the way to shore. The wind was picking up so the air should clear soon. I winched the last few feet of rope on deck, then rigged a clephus and snap-shackle to pull the

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chain on board. The last few feet of chain brought the anchor up. The movement of the yacht caused the anchor to bang into the hull, leaving it marred and dented. The wind had blown away some fog; in one cleared area I saw what had been making the noise of anchor chain. An Australian gun boat had anchored off Cape Patterson. It was apparent they were on patrol. My flags were up showing the stars and stripes, another flag was from the Royal Melbourne Yacht Club. The gun boat was a very impressively designed 225 footer. Her color and armor plates were for camouflage and security, respectively. I went below and fought with the engine. It took 30 minutes to get it started. With the engine started, I could move freely in all directions. I decided to get a closeup of my anchoring mate. I motored 1/2 mile until I was 150 feet from it's hull. Two men came on deck waving. One of the men had several gold bars on his uniform. He definitely wasn't an enlisted man. The gold barred officer disappeared into the conning tower. Seconds later, his distinguished voice boomed over a loud speaker, "Hello, are you in any difficulty?" He could see the mainsail was in disarray, and the anchor line was strewn about as though it had been mixed together with a blender. His voice had an uncanny resemblance to the actor Sean Connery. He was certainly not Australian; he must be a "Palmy", that is English. With voice control similar to a country squire, he asked my destination. I decided to engage in conversation, hoping I would be invited aboard for conversation and possibly breakfast. I could smell food cooking in the air, the smell of porridge and eggs. I reached down and pulled back the throttle;

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then I slipped the gear box into neutral. The engine noise diminished as the RPMs fell. I could overhear their personal conversation on deck. They appeared as though they were discussing something involved; the junior officer's hands were articulating details of something the size of a basketball. He could have been discussing something about the gyro-compass. Maria had come to a dead stop next to the H.M.S. ENDEAVOR with it's skipper on her rail. We exchanged the common sea type pleasantries, where do you hail from, where are you going, etc.? Then he inquired whether or not I had eaten breakfast. Quickly, I replied, "NO!" He asked if I was in a hurry. I said, "No, but I am hungry." We both laughed. One of his deck hands threw me a line which I tied fast to the Sampson post, then two other crew began positioning the boat for my exit. I wondered why the crew were staring at me. I was standing on deck with blue leather ski gloves, wool socks, and long johns. I apologized for the oversight and went below to change. I would wear lightweight LINE-7 overalls. They were extremely comfortable. I would slip on some deck shoes. Back out on deck, the deck crew had pulled Maria up to a boarding ladder. I came aboard and saluted the Australian ensign on the after deck. The Captain introduced himself as Commander Wersnell, H.M.S. ENDEAVOR. He noticed immediately that my hand was injured. Then I began to explicate my story about falling overboard. He and the crew were rather dumbfounded with my experience. They just wished me well and the ship's doctor gave me a box full of medical supplies. He gave me a full bottle of Zylocaine, 10% solution. If the pain in my hand becomes unbearable, then I will have something to relieve the pain. Now when I extende my fingers,

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the braised skin opens up and bleeds. I have decided to soak my hands in saltwater and hope the new skin will form quickly. Commander Wersnell was kind enough to give me several charts of the Whitsunday Passage area. He warned me about "Cape Liptrap" and told me several places to duck into, should I need to. I guess the Commander must have felt sorry for me, because the cook put together a box full of food and beer. One of his men carried the box aboard Maria. The engine aboard Maria was so quiet it couldn't be heard from the deck of ENDEAVOR. The men were startled when I gave them the sign to cast off. The Commander wrote down several transmitter numbers and gave me the C.B. Subchannel 28 on the ENDEAVOR, he then reminded me it would transmit some 80 to 100 nautical miles. I put the yacht in gear, then turned and saluted the Australian flag, and of course her captain. I felt as though we would see each other again. The Commander had a puzzled look on his face, then he caught himself and smiled a broad smile. I guess he was thinking how rough I must feel. I think he sincerely wished me well, after which he thought, "That guy must be crazy sailing around the Bass Strait alone." I was somewhat encouraged when I looked back at ENDEAVOR, the Commander saluted the traditional hand to forehead salute. I waved and continued on. The coast from Cape Patterson trends 2 miles in an easterly direction and thence northeastward 4 miles to the mouth of Anderson Inlet. Anderson Inlet, by it's two streams, Tarwin River and Screw Creek, drains about 300 square miles of country, it's not navigable except for small streamers and auxiliary craft up to 5 or 6 feet draft according to

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the condition of the bar and tide. There is a depth of water in patches sufficient to allow the small craft which enter to anchor. The entrance to the inlet lies between Point Norman and Point Smythe and can be distinguished by the sand hummocks, which, commencing at Point Smythe, form the eastern shore of Venus Bay. From it's mouth at Point Norman, the inlet extends northeast and eastward 3 miles to Screw Creek and thence east and southeastward to it's head at the Tarwin River. I set my mind on covering some miles today. I headed due southeast 140 degrees corrected. This would set me up for passing Cape Liptrap. I would pass around it 6 to 7 miles, taking full advantage of the northeastern breeze which can be expected in the late day. For the most part, I will avoid all of the coast in between Cape Patterson and Liptrap. For the sake of continuity, I will give highlights of the western coastline of Liptrap. Now after breakfast and good conversation, I feel like a good day's sail. I've done some rough figuring and found Cape Liptrap is 42 miles southeast of Patterson. The breeze to my back was freshening, later in the day, around 3 or 4 there will be some good wind, hopefully around 20 knots. Strangely enough, my attitude has changed considerably since breakfast. Going to breakfast on ENDEAVOR made me realize I was fine. True, my left arm was not what it should be, and my right hand was pitiful. From time to time, I talked to it! "Look, hand, you saved my sweet ass and if you had not saved my sweet ass, you nor the rest of me would be here." Damn, my hand hurt! I would definitely sail to Liptrap today. After rounding Liptrap, I will drop anchor either in Grinder Point or Bell Point. My hull speed indicated 6.57

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knots per hour; the wind is 12 to 14 out of the northnorthwest. It has been building steadily since sunrise. At 6.5 knots I should round Liptrap at 1:00. It should take an additional hour to find safe anchorage on the east side of the Cape. I decided to push the engine up to 1800 RPMs. This should give me another knot of hull speed. The sails are full, which means I'm taking full advantage of the wind. What the hell, I might as well raise the main sail. I will run wing on wing down the coastline, making sure the boom vang is in the right spot. With the trouble I've had so far, I don't want any additional problems. I connected myself onto the lifeline and moved to the main. The main cooperated totally. With this amount of sail area, the boat's speed has increased to 8.65 knots per hour. At the rate I'm sailing, it will be useless to stop at Liptrap. With this speed, I can make use of the splendid weather. The radio has predicted clear skies and good sailing for the next week. The barometer is reading 30.27; a light high is present. Now with this increased speed, I should fly by Liptrap around 11:20 to 11:30. With the overcast and haze present, it's difficult to see the coastline clearly. Cape Patterson was diminishing from sight as the yacht continued southward. The hills northeast of the Cape could be seen clearly as they rose some 900 feet skyward. Eagles Nest Rock was now a good reference point on the coast. It's 60 feet of granite was sheer and conspicuous. Arch Rock stood out sharply against it's background. It stood 82 feet tall and had a natural arch on it's eastern side. The coastline along the left of me, down the coast, was sandy with few discernible features. There is a conspicuous islet, 63 feet high, off the

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western port of Cape Liptrap. Cape Liptrap is nearly 800 feet high. If it was an emergency, which it was not, I could have entered Wasatah Bay. The bay is so shallow it is dangerous for any boat with a draft over 6 feet to negotiate the bar at it's entrance.

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WILSON'S PROMONTORY Wilson's Promontory is a lofty peninsula, 22 miles long north and south and 8 miles broad at it's center. It can be picked up on radar 22 miles away. The Prom is connected to the mainland to the northwestward by a low sandy neck 10 miles long and 3 to 5 miles broad which separates Wasatah Bay from Corner Basin. This promontory rises to rugged mountains, some of which are above 2,000 feet in height, they are thickly wooded on their upper and less exposed parts, but toward the coast they are nearly destitute of vegetation, and descend abruptly to the sea. The soil is shallow and generally barren, though the brushwood, dwarf gum trees, and some smaller vegetation, which mostly cover the granite rocks, gives the country a deceitful appearance from the sea. The sailing today was the antithesis of yesterday. The day was becoming more and more enjoyable as the time passed. I have a little time to read. The Australian Pilot's Guide is the sailor's Bible. It gives the particulars of bays and anchorage areas. Now that I have decided to sail around the Promontory, I am faced with finding safe anchorage. From Liptrap to the Promontory tip is around 26 nautical miles. I'm about 3 miles from Liptrap, and at the rate I'm going I will be at the tip of the Promontory between 2:15 and 2:30. It's hard to believe, but good winds can make or break a good day's sail. It was such a comfortable sail that I fell asleep at the helm. I've slept for 1 hour and 45 minutes; a sextant shot at Cape Liptrap indicates that I'm 16 miles closer to the Promontory. A sextant shot at Shellback Island tells me that I'm seven miles off shore and 11 miles north of Southwest Point.

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Shellback Island is about 1.5 miles southwestward of Black Rock; at 357 feet high it is the northernmost of the islands on the west coast of Wilson's Promontory. Tongue Point, 167 feet high, lies 2.5 miles southward of Black Rock, the coast between forms a deep light in the back of which are a few low red cliffs, but they are not very noticeable. Tongue Point has a conical white rock, 30 feet high close off it to seaward. Abreast of the point at a distance of 1 mile the coast is high and rises at a distance of 4 miles to parts of the promontory range, which are about 2,000 feet above sea level. Mt. Vereket, the northwest mountain of the promontory, bearing 065o, 6 miles from Tongue Point is 2,092 feet high, and has a spur 1,654 feet high, running to the northwestern termination of the high lands of the promontory. From Tongue Point the coast trends southeastward, forming a blight to Leonard Point, southward, and on the same bearing are pillar and Norman Points, forming the southern sides of Leonard and Norman Bays. The wind direction is changing, so I will trim sails. My hand is throbbing, and every time I use it, it hurts. Surprisingly, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. I'm really thinking about sailing now, despite my injury. After I round South Point and get on the east coast, the weather should set pretty well. I haven't said much about the seas themselves, but the Bass Strait is a strange convergence of conditions. You have two separate conditions and temperatures of water, meeting at a focal point, Wilson's Promontory. The Indian Ocean and Southern Pacific (Tasman Sea) combine at the Prom, and create disturbed waters. The seas at this moment are 12 to 14 feet and confused. I see, in

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some areas, massive swirling vortexes and rips that oppose themselves, which in turn cause violent water conditions. The wind is 14.7 knots and still blowing from the west-northwest; it's pushing me onto shore so I have sheeted in and Maria is really flying through the water. The seas around me are very threatening looking; but totally navigable. Maria is like a proud puppy on it's first hunt, the more you dish out, the better she likes it. The skies have begun to cloud up. Now, I'm concerned that the weather might drastically change. I know when I round the promontory light, I'm home free! When the fishermen speak of the Promontory, it is generally considered better on the eastern coastline. Heading through the Glennie Group of Islands can be very dangerous. The group of islands off the Promontory are four islands, which lie about four miles west-southwestern from Oberon Point, the nearest land of the Prom. I just looked behind me and to the right and saw the last of Shellback Island. It's 357 feet tall mass extends itself from the sea skyward. I would like to say it was impressive, but all I can say is, "It's granite!" I'm sailing past Oberon Point, and I'm entering the area where the cliffs are bold and sheer and in places the sheer faces are several hundred feet tall. Peering ahead, I couldn't think about anything but getting through this eerie area and around the Prom. The Promontory has been the final resting place of so many ships that it's not even funny to make a joke about it. This area is simply foreboding and seems mysteriously sacred. Unnerving! Every year, hostile weather and mysterious circumstances take many peoples lives, in this particular area of water.

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Last year, nearly to this day, a fishing boat 80 feet long ran through the Prom. A friend had been waiting on the other side, but the boat never came out. The remarkable thing is, that no wreckage was ever found. Seven men disappeared, and not a one survived. To this day, nothing has been found from the wreck. This story is documented history! From the point of Cape Petterson, my compass has spun in all direction while going in one direction. On two occasions, one of which is now, the index card of the compass has rotated 360 degrees without apparent reason. You wonder why I want to get the hell out of there. Truthfully, the whole appearance of the Islands and the Promontory is spooky. It gives you the creeps sailing through these looming figures of rock, if you were to sink there not one place you could climb out. It's strange, these rocks are huge, but they come down to the water line with nothing exposed but huge polished faces of granite that are near vertical facing you. The Promontory has very little color to write about. Grey! The granite rocks are 95% of everything seen, except the ocean. Dead on my bow is Great Glennie Island. It's the largest of the islands in the Glennie Group, at 455 feet tall, and nearly 2 miles long in a northwesterly and southeasterly direction, saddleshaped and strewn over with blocks of granite. The island is entirely made of granite, which gives it a castellated appearance. Romabotham rocks, 3 feet high, over which the sea generally breaks heavily, lie about 400 yards northward of it's northern end, and another, somewhat larger (15 feet high) lies about 200 yards off it's northeastern end. Three smaller islands lie off the most southern point of Great Glennie Island; of the two southernmost, 367 feet high, is named

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Citadel Island. From it's resemblance to an ancient fortress, the other close eastward and 215 feet high is named McHugh Island. When I read the name it somehow reminded me of Ed Mcmahon on the Tonight Show. Between these two islands and Great Glennie Island is Dannenig Island, about 1200 yards long and 251 feet high. Because the wind is blowing directly through the islands, I will flow with it. All reading material related to this area warns of unusual tides and dangerous conditions for any type vessels, noted especially were sailing vessels. What they must have been inferring was the wind in this area is blocked off by the mountain range, and should a sailing vessel get caught in the 9 knot current set, it was easy to see that a vessel could get in serious trouble with or without power. I was glad and confident with the diesel engine running, as I passed through this questionable island arrangement. There is another arrangement of three islands called the Anser Group. Of the three islands, Anser Island is the highest and looks like a large breast. At it's peak, it measures 500 feet, very impressive. The only thing which is reassuring about these Islands is that they represent a good point of reference. The most southern island is 1 mile from Southwest Point. Cleft Island, the most remarkable of this group, lies nearly 1.5 miles southwestward from Anser Island. It is 371 feet high, of a round form, and may be known for having a large slice out of it's northeast side which gives it a cavern appearance; it is also perpendicular, and white on all sides. It's high water right now and on the change, at the Glennie Islands the tide rises about 9 feet. I turned the knot meter on and it says we're

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doing 9 knots, but the shoreline says differently. From the looks of the shoreline, I'm barely doing one knot! I can literally see the waters perking, it's apparent that sailing the coastline is not such a good idea. I'm encountering the effects of the Glennie and Anser groups. There is deep water between them, and mariners are cautioned against navigating the passages between Citadel and Cleft Islands and between the northern and southern Anser Islands. I happened to be sailing exactly where the cautions were pertinent. I have to admit that in my haste to get through the Prom, I neglected doing a lot of preparatory reading research. Dropping the mainsail will give me better maneuverability. It would be a bad time for something to happen because the mountain chain has cut off the possibility of communication with the main rescue centers of Australia. There's only one thing I can do, go around the entire group of islands to avoid the hellacious currents. The currents have reduced my hull speed to less than a knot. I'm worried that the boat might get out of control if I try and head east or west. The current is exactly on my bow. I have spent the last 1-1/2 hours maneuvering around these islands. If I lost engine power, I would be wrecked on one of those islands in five minutes or less! Equivocally, I made a mistake sailing south around Wilson's Prom. I will turn around, then try ducking back into the Indian Ocean and sail down south ten miles around Rondondo Island. Sailing around the islands away from the coast should put me into clearer water, at least the current won't be as vicious. I have rounded Anser Island. The yacht is getting buffeted as though I'm going through a

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time warp in space. The currents gave me little control over Maria. My right hand has started throbbing again, and the tiller is becoming less and less manageable. The tiller's jerking motion has caused my hand to bleed again. Another 10 to 15 minutes, and I should be clear of Anser Island. Two and a half hours later, I rounded Moncoeur Island. The currents down here are far less than those up north. I was experiencing a current of 2 knots as I turned North and headed for Refuge Cove. Rondondo Island stood nearly due east as I turned north. The Island was situated six miles off the southeast. Wilson's Promontory lighthouse is a very conspicuous mass of granite, 1500 yards across, rising to a distinct peak 1,150 feet above the sea. The island is visible in clear weather from a distance of 30 miles, it is high on all sides, the surface above is covered with a dense dwarf scrub. The 40 foot rocks lie at 039o, 2 miles from Rondondo, and between them, there is a clear channel with a depth of 36 to 39 fathoms. The tidal currents around Rondondo Island are reported to run with considerable velocity, sometimes 4 to 5 knots, the neighborhood is not very hospitable. As I said, the Moncoeur Islands are two islands which are 1.5 miles apart. Respectively, one east and one west, the first is 331 feet high, the second is 318 feet high. The islands are very similar, they lay nearly in line eastward from Rondondo Island at 5 miles and 6.5 miles away, respectively. The west island is nearly 1,000 yards long north and south, and about 200 yards wide, with a small inlet 100 yards southward. The east island is 700 yards long and more than 200 yards wide. These islands are mostly bare, and apparently free from danger.

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Tidal currents off Wilson Promontory, as a general rule, set east-northeast and westsouthwest, the west-going current runs during the rising tide. The currents turn at nearly high and low water on the shore, but the direction of the currents is much influenced by the winds. Near the promontory, after an easterly gale, the ebb or eastgoing current which has been checked during the gale, continues to run to the eastward, when the flood should have made, and at the strength of the flood, the current sets to the northward, except in shore, where the tidal currents follow their general law; a southwesterly gale has the opposite effect.

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9
Refuge Cove
Refuge Cove is my final destination today. Refuge Cove is up the eastern coast from Wilson's Promontory. The cove is 6.37 miles from the southeastern point. According to the map, the entrance is small, 300 yards wide. The notices written about the cove indicate it is totally protected from 360o. It represents the only anchorage on the east coast which is protected from the east. It is 18.34 miles from my present position to Refuge Cove. I'm now averaging 6.37 miles per hour, which should get me to the cove around 8:45 tonight. There's a light at the cove, but the chart doesn't tell me where to look for it. The thing I'm concerned about is the alignment of the light; and how many times it blinks in a given time period. The air temperature has dropped dramatically. It's 47 degrees, and the sun has just set. The sailing should be fair on this uphill leg to Sydney.

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Long story shortened considerably, I have sailed into the night and it's so dark that I passed the mouth of the cove two times before I realized it. It seemed incredibly narrow at the entrance. In fact from the sea, it looks impossible to squeeze Maria through the narrow slit. When I came in from the sea, the narrow slit kept growing until Maria stood in the huge mouth of the entrance. The darkness has a way of fooling ones perceptions from out at sea, because you have nothing to compare with in size. I couldn't see where I have anchored, except to read my fathometer which says there 22 feet of water beneath Maria's hull. I spent the night worrying about the anchorage and whether or not I have found the best spot to anchor. I went to sleep that night in a super exhausted condition. I didn't intend to wake early, but my bladder was calling the shots. When I got up, I found a huge 80 foot fishing trawler anchored near me. It was 5:45 in the morning when I awoke. I heard waves in the distance breaking against the rocky cliffs and shoreline. The smell of eucalyptus dominated the air. I notice the trawler WHITE WAVE preparing to haul anchor. I smell fish, which tells me they've made a good catch, a box or two. I stood on deck in my shorts, trying to adjust my eyes to the early morning sun rise. I looked up into the surrounding landscape and can see stream flowing down from the mountains above. The tide is going out, leaving the mouth of the stream higher than sea level. On occasion, a fish would slide over the 8 inch waterfall. I couldn't figure out how freshwater fish could survive in saltwater. I started down below when WHITE WAVE came motoring past. I picked up

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a sun visor, using it to shade my eyes from the sun. One man was standing on the stern as the boat came closer. The boat was moving painfully slow as it approached Maria. When the boat came within yelling distance, the man on the stern yelled out, "Would ya like a good feed, Mate?" Half asleep, I yelled, "Right-o!" He bent down and picked up two large lobsters which were in a wicker bait box. Their stern passed me, then he threw the live lobsters. Luckily, both hit within the cockpit of the boat. It seemed neither lobster enjoyed being thrown onto the deck of Maria. They both reacted aggressively, attacking each other, then randomly attacked objects in the cockpit. Again, the Australian fishermen showed their time honored respect for a fellow ocean traveler. I watched the lobsters fight, then looked up and caught WHITE WAVE's stern as she headed out the slit through the mountain. I finished my early morning devotional, now I will get down to the day's chores. Looks as though two lobsters are on death row. Over the last few months of sailing, I've grown accustomed to the cold winters and early morning chill. Today's chores will include scouting around the sanctuary (the area around Refuge Cove). The sounds of wild birds fill the trees. Occasionally, the birds can be seen taking flight from tree to tree. No wonder the area is named Refuge Cove! The Cove may be recognized as being midway between Kersop Peak and Horn Point and having the first sandy beach which opens north of Cape Wellington. It is about 700 yards in extent, with 8 fathoms of water in the entrance from which the depth gradually decreases to 3 and 4 fathoms in most places. Like any other shore, the beach starts

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at about 100 yards from the shore. The anchorage in the Cove is southwest. Refuge Cove is not much used from the land side owing to the high hills which surround the area that nearly blocks it off totally from land access. Even the forest rangers that serve the area have great difficulty reaching the it. The area is so protected by the surrounding land, that it can literally be blowing a gale outside of the cove, and inside it's as still as a vacuum. The cove between Brown Head and Refuge Cove trends 700 yards to the southward with 4 to 9 fathoms of water; that between Hobbs Head and Horn Point has the same depth of water, but is open to the eastward. Refuge Cove's height is shown from the shore near the southern entrance of the cove and is located almost 1/2 mile west-northwestward of brown Head. Off Cape Wellington, the tidal flood stream divides and runs in opposite directions, one portion of the current comes from the northeastward turning and running along the shore to the northward, the other portion of currents continue their course around the promontory to the westward. The ebb currents meet and act in an opposite manner. From Horn Point, there is a rock with 9 feet of water on it 200 yards away, the coast trends westnorthwestward for 1,500 yards and thence westward for another 1,500 yards to the southern point of Sealer's Cove, which is 1,200 yards wide north-northwest and south-southeast at it's entrance, and about 1,500 yards in extent within. There are depths of 4 and 5 fathoms at the entrance, within which the water shoals gradually, the 3 fathom curve being only 400 yards inside. A

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heavy swell often rolls into Sealers Cove. Amazingly, my hand is healing quite rapidly. The injured area has developed a thin protective layer. The sensitivity is not as acute as it was. With a pair of sailing gloves, I can row ashore. I see a small Rangers-hut up on the side of the mountain. The whole setting looks like an amusement ride in "Disneyland." The trees and fauna are so attractive they look unreal and artificial. The outlying area looks as though it has been built. Everything has an order to it that makes it look designed. The trees are spaced as if someone used a measuring tape. Yet this is a natural preserve, conceived and directed by the big boy himself. It could be construed as a storybook place in some children's book it is so beautiful! Getting the dinghy off the cabin roof was a chore with one hand. The glove helps, but only serves to reduce the pain. I made this dinghy with fiberglass and oak that I gleaned from scraps around the boatyard at Sandringham. I would save the lobsters for a late afternoon lunch. If I put them in a large container of saltwater they will survive. I will empty the trash can on deck and use it to contain the lobsters. The lack of wind in this area is a God send. The anchorage waters are dead still. No waves or surging water, except at the cove entrance. It's a perfect place for laying a hull. It sounds like a good idea to rest here for several days visiting the area's natural reserves. The morning went well. I engaged in my duties and finished before 10:00. I packed a bag full of camping gear which includes a portable compact fishing pole. I figured it would be fun hiking around the sanctuary, taking in all it's natural beauty. I launched the dinghy, leaving it tied alongside

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Maria. The waters here are crystal clear. Looking over the side of the boat, I see starfish moving slowly across the ocean floor vacuuming for food. The water here is over 25 feet deep, yet I see the bottom clearly enough to read the label on a beer can. With this in mind, I decided to sink a lobster trap and try my luck. I have found some dry clothing, which will serve me well with temperatures at 46 degrees. I got out my favorite ski jacket anticipating cooler weather. Hopefully, it won't be needed. The two lobsters are fighting in the trash can, hopefully they'll be here when I return. Making sure that Maria is locked up tight, I pulled the forward hatch shut and screwed the fittings tight. It's funny, here I'm in the middle of nowhere and worried about being robbed. Still, I'm new to this area, so I feel it necessary to be cautious. With my favorite Danish compass in hand and a packed backpack nestled to my back, I set out for the shoreline of the cove. Again, it seems very strange here. The absence of any noise reminds me of a movie set at Universal Studios. Rowing closer to shore, I remembered a scene in the move "Lost Horizons" where one of the adventurers rows ashore to be met by a 40 foot crab. I was starting to think that looking along the shoreline one might turn up something unpleasant. The Cove, in actuality, is nothing more than an enclosed lagoon. The water below was teasing with all life forms. I'm momentarily lost into the beauty beneath me. I peered into the water, then noticed a curious sea bass tagging along in the path of the dinghy. Continuing into shore, the sea-bass followed until his huge 200+ pounds could no longer cope with the shallow shoreline. Reaching the

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shoreline, I removed my deck shoes. With my shoes removed, I entered the knee deep water. Shoes in hand, I pulled the dinghy ashore. The sands on the beach were pure silica, as used in glass making. It's fine beads feel soft and velvety under the weight of my frame. Pulling the dinghy ashore left a singular trail along the beautiful sandy shoreline. My feet sank deep into the sand, leaving a deep impression. I pulled the dinghy above the high water mark of the shoreline, so it wouldn't get pulled out to sea. For safety's sake, I will pull the tow-line from under the seat and tie it to a tree on the shoreline. Standing on the shore, which is a 1,000 feet from Maria, I can see much more detail of the area. I see the Ranger's shack, it's much further away than I thought. The stream that I thought was eight inches above sea level, is actually three feet above the Cove's high water mark. The fish I saw coming over the rim of the stream were actually several pounds in weight. This area is truly virginal. My mere presence suggests a form of intrusion into nature. I feel overwhelmed just to be here totally alone. The area is just like the scene in "Lost Horizon." The odds of seeing anyone here would be close to the same odds as me being on the moon. For several minutes, my eyes scanned back and forth as though they were playing the keys on a piano. So much was there to see that it's difficult to pick one activity over the others. First I will hike up the mountain. From the mountain's top, the view should be breathtaking. I see a huge boulder on the mountain's top, that's where I'll climb to. Going through the woods, my memory has relapsed into my childhood. I started thinking about the summers of my youth, and the camping trips my

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friends and I took into the Appalachian Mountains. We spent weeks just hiking around, looking for caves and rabbit hunting. Climbing higher into the forest of the mountain, I began to see abundant wildlife. Up ahead, on this path, I see a Red Tail Roo. When he heard me approaching, he quickly jumped into the camouflaged terrain. Within seconds, he had totally disappeared into the heavy underbrush. I proceeded up the mountain, finally reaching the boulder that I saw from down below. The boulder was 60 feet in diameter, making it fairly difficult to scale. I went to the high side of the mountain, where it facilitated scaling. Within several minutes, I stood on top of the rock, looking down into Refuge Cove. The sight was commanding, I see over the mountains to the west, and down into the surrounding valleys. From my position on the boulder, the wind is coming out of the south-southeast. In that direction, I see overcast, dark skies! I was smart enough to bring along a transistor radio. I turned the radio on, then fingered it's dial, it landed on a radio station that was broadcasting out of Tasmania 103.7 megahertz. The early morning sun was heating the rock and causing it to radiate heat. I pulled the pack from my shoulders and sat down, along with the radio. After the music finished playing, the announcer began to comment on the weather in Tasmania. His description of the weather down south rang an alarm in my subconscious. My attention focused on his prediction of the weather for tomorrow. The announcement was clouded by the fact, "Strong winds are expected tomorrow," along

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with rain and hail. His final comment concerned me, the bad weather was moving north, he made sure to mention it would hit Wilson's Promontory in the early morning. My thoughts turned to Maria being anchored down below in the Refuge. Should bad weather blow, she would definitely be protected in this safe anchorage. I have decided that hiking through the sanctuary should heighten my knowledge on Australia's animals. Descending the path, I ran into a Papa Koala stripping eucalyptus leaves. From his lofty perch high in the tree, he kept a watchful eye on me. The rest of his family were huddled high in the tree top. At first I spotted just three bears, but as my eyes sharpened, I noticed dozens of the little fur balls clinging to the trees. Just think, I'm standing here amid hundreds of these furry little creatures. Out of this environment, only a few exist in captivity. I should clarify "environment" to mean all of Australia! I wandered around the reserve, catching glimpses of the various animals of the wild. A quarter mile away, I see a dingo dragging a rabbit back to it's burrow. Then I caught sight of a family of kangaroos foraging in the bush. Kangaroos normally forage only in the dusk, hardly ever do they appear in the full light. The tree tops blocked most of the light in the forest below, allowing the nocturnal animals time to forage during the day. I made it down the mountain and when I reached the stream, I bent over and drank directly from it. The water was clean and pure, the natural filtering gave the water a very clean taste. Then I followed the stream down past a large waterfall, where it flowed further downward to the Cove. The view from the stream's mouth was impressive. The stream followed a huge granite wall

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which continued into the Cove. I waded from the stream and headed west down the Refuge's beach. The dinghy sat just as I had left it. When I removed the backpack and stowed it in the dinghy, I elected to hike around the Refuge and see what was on the other side. I spent the entire day exploring the cove and it's inhabitants. The western shore was mostly rocky, with many lobsters inhabiting it's southwestern parts. Further around the shore, a sandy beach opened to the east. The sand on the western beach was cleaner than the southern beach. I spent an hour just laying in the sun and sand. Tomorrow, I will row the dinghy around the shoreline, looking for something to eat. I noticed already there were many abalone, literally covering the rocks of the cove. One of the abalones I have spotted must weigh at least 10 pounds. It will make dinner for four hungry men. While at the beach, I have continued to monitor the radio, awaiting any further news of the impending storm. The station warned boatmen to expect high seas and radically oscillating winds, along with possible hail and snow. The sun was going down behind the mountain range to the west. I started back around the western shore, when I spotted a trawler on the horizon. It appeared to be coming from the east; in fact, it looked as though it was coming here for anchorage. Maria seemed to enjoy her new anchorage, her hull and mast were barely moving. The walk around the cove was quite educational. Many of the rocks had names and dates of visitors in it's past carved on their sides. The tide was starting it's fill cycle, causing Maria to swing her stern to the beach. The dinghy would be easier to launch at high tide, because the water would be further up the beach. When I reached the

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dinghy, I noticed the footprints of several animals. The footprints were concentrated around the area where the backpack was stored. The prints resembled that of a dog, only smaller. As I approached, I realized my backpack had been chewed on, one of the little devils smelled the food inside and tried to get it. Suddenly, I had the uneasy feeling someone was watching me. If anything, it was the animals who live in the area. They were probably used to people intruding through their resort community, although it was definitely unusual for them to have a winter visitor. According to my information, the Sanctuary is closed from late April to early September. During that time, the animals resume normal wildlife existence without intrusion. The tide was starting to recede as I prepared the dinghy for the trip out to Maria. The sky grew darker as I neared the boat. I climbed aboard and met a lobster face to face. He had climbed his way up the plastic trash can's side, then precariously perched himself on the rim of the can. He would be the first to hit the boiling pot when I started tea! I left the dinghy tied to the stern. Immediately after boarding, I checked the barometer. The barometer was designed so that any detectable fluctuation of the needle gauge would move an upper and lower hairline limiter. This barometer indicated a marked drop. A low depression is moving into the area; the barometer has dropped to 29.5 millibars. The smart thing to do is reset the limiters of the barometer and watch for any further dramatic changes. I switched on the radio down below. The sound of the "Abbey Road" album filled the boat's interior, momentarily diverting my thoughts of being alone.

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I undressed, then sorted out a fresh change of clothing. When being aboard the technique for showering is as follows: First, I never use the fresh water stored in the holding tank. I always use water from ashore, such as stream water. By doing it this way, I never drain my fresh water supply. (It's much more difficult for a person to do without water than food. Water is a precious commodity at sea, many a crew has died because of water. I put the spring water in a 20 gallon galley pot, then heat it to a boil. Then I take the pot out on deck and carefully pour it into a safari bag designed for showering. The bag has an open top like a bucket, the entire thing is made of rope and canvas. After dumping the hot water in, I tie the bag over the boom and shower. Incredibly, after boiling the water, it's usually more pure than the water in the storage tank. I have finished showering, now it's time to relax. I've shut the yacht and locked it from inside, just in case there are any unwanted intruders. I lit two lamps and within four minutes, the windows had condensation dripping off them. This tells me the boat's interior should be aired out, there's nothing worse than moisture and mildew below. I have decided to read and relax, it will allow me to unwind and get my mind away from sailing. I'm reading a book, "Bowditch Practical Navigation." After reading for a few minutes, I fell sound asleep. I had been asleep for an hour or so, when the sound of a propeller backing down awoke me. The sounds reverberated straight through the keel, filling the boat with underwater noises. A person must get accustomed to the sound while living on a boat. I opened the forward hatch directly overhead. I popped my head out and scouting 360 degrees,

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looked for the culprit making the noise. WHITE WAVE had just dropped her anchor, I couldn't see the boat, but I heard the men on deck working. The sudden light change caused night blindness, so it would take considerable time to adjust my eyes to the darkness. Suddenly, as if on cue, the quartz deck lights flooded the cove with over 2,000,000 foot candles of light. I no longer had difficulty finding the origin of the propeller noise. WHITE WAVE anchored 350 feet off my right stern. The short nap added considerable zest to my evening mood. I ran aft and checked the barometer; at present it was 29.4.97 millibars, indicating foul weather was nearing. The men on WHITE WAVE busied themselves with the ship's chores. They had been fortunate, their decks were covered with albacore, so they were beginning the process of cleaning and beheading the tons of fish. I was somewhat horrified to see the crew dump the fish parts directly into the cove's waters. The evisceration went on for several hours, which caused several sharks to collect at WHITE WAVE's stern. It struck me as a dangerous folly cleaning tons of fish in an area that many tourists frequent in later months. One of the crew launched a dinghy and went ashore, I imagined he went for water. I turned on the radio and shifted the frequency to a popular Melbourne station. The reception was so poor, I had to connect a booster antenna to increase reception. Sitting in the protective cove also served to cut off all forms of transmiting and receiving ability on my various CB, sideband and A.M./ F.M. This makes me aware that I'm isolated from the rest of civilization. I went up on deck and threw over a bucket to catch some saltwater. I pulled the bucket back on

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deck with a piece of line that I have braided from scraps. Within 10 minutes, I had the saltwater boiling. The lobsters are so large, it's impossible to stuff both of them into the same pot. So I dropped one at a time into the brine boil. The lobster's scream nearly overrode the sounds in the immediate environment. In two minutes, lobster #1 was deep at rest and fast nearing the point of being another dinner statistic. His poor limp body, once a ruddy brownish green, was now a brilliant reddish orange, indicating table time for Mr. Lobster. With a pair of hot dog tongs, I removed the tasty sea creature from the pot, then slipped him into the sink to cool. I went straight to the seasoning rack and extracted several bottles of spices. I then went to the ship's cupboard and found a jar of mayonnaise. I proceeded to mix them all together, curry powder, celery seed, mayonnaise, dijon mustard, and 1/2 packet of seafood seasonings. The result caused me to run after #2 lobster, still in the large green trash can in the cockpit. The two lobsters, plus several glasses of cool, dry white wine made an absolutely perfect meal. After dinner, I treated myself to several English Old Fashioned Butter Cookies, and a fine cup of coffee. The dinghy of White Wave was returning from the shore. It appeared to be coming toward Maria. Within a minute, the dinghy and it's occupant were tied alongside Maria. The chap in the dinghy announced his name was Nelson. He invited me over for a few tinnys and tea. I asked if he heard about the weather from the south. He replied, "That's the very reason we've come to Refuge." He continued, "In Refuge Cove there is nothing to worry about." Then he related to a time with Foxy when the weather turned crook and they ran here for

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safety. Nelson continued talking, he explained anchorage procedures in the cove and finished by telling me how safe he thought the boat would be. His reassurance caused me to sigh with relief. I left one lamp lit below, and climbed into the dinghy. We then motored to WHITE WAVE. Several faces of the crew were familiar. Our conversation centered around the weather, fishing and how hot the ladies were in Hobart, Tasmania. The customary Victoria Bitters Beer was passed around, until it was evident they were nearing their limit. A bottle of Grandfather's Port wine made the rounds. Soon, only drops remained in it's raised bottom. The weather station forecasted serious gale force winds and extremely rough seas for the Promontory. The prediction was less than reassuring. The crew aboard the WHITE WAVE offered me assistance should it be necessary, that was thoughtful of them. I went back to Maria and checked all things that go bang in the night. The storm would hit before dawn, leaving me at somewhat of a disadvantage. I turned in early, making sure to set the alarm for 5:45. The storm was due around 6. I should be up and prepared for any damage it might dish out. My tired frame was soon dusted by the sand man, I hardly recall falling asleep. The next sound I heard was the alarm. I awoke, and quickly opened the hatch, looking out apprehensively for the storm. The storm had not arrived as forecasted. I quickly ran to the radio, turning it on. I caught the tail end of a Gale Warning for Wilson's Promontory. Again, I looked outside, the sky was grey, but calm. Perhaps the old adage, "Calm

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before the storm" would fit. The radio said the storm was now entering the Promontory, but it was still very calm. The men on WHITE WAVE were battening their hatches for the storm. I came on deck and yelled across with a hand held microphone. They answered back that it would be on top of us before we knew it. I decided to add another anchor to ensure Maria's safety. I untied the anchor and lowered it into the dinghy. I took the anchor out to the same spot as the last and with a heave, the anchor was on the bottom. I reached Maria just as the storm started to kick in. In two short minutes, the storm had covered the entire area. I stayed on deck long enough to tie a heavy rope onto the dinghy, then sank it, to avoid it banging into Maria. The dinghy sank like a rock. The wind speed gauge on the mast head was spinning increasingly faster than before. I went below and locked in the companionway planks. The winds are driving rain through the boards. Drops of water are starting to appear in various places throughout the boat. The windows are fogged over, and in some places they too are leaking. When storms of this magnitude occur, one can become very skeptical about safety equipment and anchorage. The once calm bay now looks like the discharge side of Grand Cooley Dam. The water was frothing, large amounts of water are being hurled into the air, then are driven sideways by the force of the winds. The cove has become a pressure cooker of trouble. What actually troubled me the most was the visibility. With the condensation inside, and the torrential rains outside, my vision was 0. I have completely lost sight of WHITE WAVE, erratically swinging on her anchor.

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It seems more practical to go on deck and sit out the storm in foul weather gear. For added safety, I will start the diesel and let it idle. Should the boat break anchorage, there's a good chance she would be dashed up on the rocks. I would need to stay on deck with the engine running to assure myself control, if the anchor failed. For weather such as this, I don my sealskin foul weather gear, along with my southwester foul weather hat. Luckily, the stern was following the direction of the wind (north). I came back on deck as the rains were being blown sideways, so they were blowing straight into my face. Every piece of line on deck was being blown horizontally with the wind. Waves were breaking over the bow, the storm continued to release it's fury. Two minutes on deck was time enough to get soaked to the bone. Water is seeking every vulnerable opening in my protective clothing. There is lightning all around the area, which furthers my discomfort. I found myself hoping the storm would ease, at least enough to have time for a cup of coffee. WHITE WAVE was taking the 50 knots of wind with little difficulty. Several men were on the stern deck, drinking beer under cover. On occasion, someone would wave their arm to give me reassurance. Four hours passed. At 12:30, I looked down through a crack in the companionway and saw the barometer steadily rising, indicating the storm was easing off. I turned and looked across the bay in dismay. A tree limb of huge proportions had been ripped out of it's socket and thrown into the cove. The limb was headed directly towards Maria's anchorline and bow. Should the tree make impact

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with the hull, it could cause considerable damage, especially if the limb picks up a lot of speed. In around 4 minutes, the branch rammed in to the left side of Maria's bow. The impact removed considerable paint and varnish as the branch careened down her hull. At one point, the tree fouled in the rigging near the tri stays. I immediately cut the 3" branch, allowing the tree to break free and continue past. I went below and checked for damage, there apparently wasn't any. The storm howled on for another 1-1/2 hours, then suddenly it was gone, as suddenly as it had come. The radio broadcasted all clear, but warned another low was forming in the same area as before. The news was hardly encouraging. I noticed Maria had been pushed a considerable distance which meant her anchor had drug, but had held! The boat was now 250 feet further north towards Sydney. I was exactly parallel to WHITE WAVE. WHITE WAVE was apparently unscathed by the storm and it's fury. I made sure to check down below once again, then went on deck looking for damage. After a brief check, I came upon a long deep gouge in Maria's outer skin. Besides the apparent gouge, Maria has one fastening which has broken. For maximum safety, it will need repairing. The dinghy from WHITE WAVE motored over with four of it's crew aboard. They came over to see the yacht and fulfill their curiosity. On board, the crew talked about the storm and what effects it had on them. We exchanged our ideas about the storm, when one of the crew noticed the tree branch in the water and asked me what happened when it had come my way. I told them about the damage, and in particular, how it had sprung a plank. They suggested I pull into Port Welshpool, which is

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located in a corner basin a few miles north of Refuge Cove. The crew gave me names and telephone numbers to contact once I had reached Port Welshpool. They knew someone with facilities where I could work and repair the damaged plank. The crew's visit was short, they explained they had a lot of work to do, cleaning and gutting fish. Then they asked me for tea, they would be eating shark, albacore and steak, whichever I preferred. I said, "Sure!" That night I was picked up after taking a three hour nap. At 7:20, we stepped onto WHITE WAVE's deck. We made our way into the wheelhouse, then down into the hull, via a small companionway. The companionway was a near vertical ladder going down into the living quarters and galley, with only one entrance and exit. It was difficult entering and exiting in such a confined space. From 8:00 on, we ate, drank and told lies, actually sea stories, but they were nearly the same. I told the story of falling overboard, all the crew were clinically interested in how I saved myself from the near certain ravages of the sea. Then, as it always did, the conversation turned to women, and where the best could be found, had, or made. Minutes later my eyes were glued to the T.V. set. The boat was rather sophisticated, because it had modern video recorders and a display screen. We watched girly flicks until 12:30 when I kept nodding off, so I asked young Nelson to motor me home. Only the skipper remained awake when I left. I bid the skipper a cordial adieu, then made my way to the upper deck. Arriving on the deck somewhat intoxicated, I began looking around for Maria. The bay was now perfectly calm, however,

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the tide was going out and seemed very strong. The lights in the boat's interior had affected my eyesight, I was having considerable difficulty adjusting to the night and it's darkness. To make matters worse, the moon's rays were blocked by the overcast sky. Nelson came on deck, announcing he too, was having difficulty finding the yacht. The area where Maria was anchored was seemingly devoid of the yacht. Within seconds, Nelson sounded a personal alarm. He saw what he thought was a sailboat coming in the harbor entrance. With a single negative glance, I saw Maria backing out to sea, stern first. My heart sank, as I considered what seemed to be the inevitable. Someone had climbed aboard and stolen my boat. Nelson ran below and alerted the crew. At first, they thought Nelson was kidding, but when I started yelling, the crew snapped into combat readiness. The crew assembled on deck with weapons in hand. At first, we had difficulty with the anchor, but with some persistence it came free. WHITE WAVE's skipper opened the throttle and then motored in hot pursuit of the yacht. My heart was stuck high in my throat when we closed on Maria's bow. Cautiously, WHITE WAVE came alongside Maria. I remembered leaving the galley light on, now it was out. Simultaneously, four of us clamored aboard Maria's deck. The boat was wandering aimlessly out to sea. No one was on board as I had expected they would be. Conclusion: Maria, during the storm, pulled and tugged on the anchor line so hard that it wore through, leaving the anchor uselessly on the cove floor. The second anchor held, but one fluke had broken off, making the anchor only partially useful. The stream which fed fresh water to the bay had become a violent torrent, sending a jet stream

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into the bay. The water's power added to the storm's wind worked the anchor loose. When the tide went out the entrance, it simply carried Maria along with it. Another lesson well remembered, things don't always happen as one would expect. I cussed the boat as though it was a misbehaving child. Then I said I was sorry. I was happy nothing more serious had occurred. Later that night, we went over the various possibilities of what could have happened. That night, we tethered Maria alongside WHITE WAVE. I couldn't help but feel that the boat sensed my unhappiness with her troublesome act. I spent the night on WHITE WAVE. The morning came early and I was awakened by the smell of food being prepared in the galley. I could hear the bacon in the fry pan sizzling, spitting, and splattering it's hot oil about the kitchen. I peered out my porthole and saw Maria tightly nuzzled against WHITE WAVE. Maria was small in comparison to WHITE WAVE's large hull. WHITE WAVE loaned me an anchor, then headed for Melbourne. I made sure to wish them a safe journey and promised I would buy the beer on our next meeting. I was a little sad to watch the WHITE WAVE's stern clear the entrance, then turn south for the Promontory Light. Rather than fool with sailing, I would motor into Port Welshpool. The navigation necessary for piloting at Port Welshpool will be infinitely more complex than anything I have experienced lately. WHITE WAVE's skipper tutored me on which channel is easier to navigate. Long story shortened considerably; the basin entrance is located 9 miles north from Refuge Cove, the shoreline in between is mostly coves and flat, sandy beaches. I made it to the entrance at 1:30 and headed

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inland as I had been directed. Heading inland, which is also westerly in direction, I came upon a series of rivers and inlets that dump into this channel. The tide was fully out, and according to the charts and tide tables, it would be very shallow along my planned route. Not ten minutes into the channel, I went solidly aground. Hitting a bank, I was nearly thrown overboard by Maria's impact. Luckily, I motored off the mudbank and continued on. Several miles further, I ran aground again, this time it was necessary for the tide to fill some before I got Maria off. There was quite a lot of traffic in this channel, several ocean tugs passed me while I was stuck on the mud bank. Each tug tooted and waved as they passed. They could see I was in no immediate danger. When I freed Maria from the mud, I followed a tug into Franklin Channel. The three branches of the Franklin Channel at it's western end are as follows: the northern branch, tending north and westward to Franklin River, is marked by four lighted beacons, once at it's eastern side above the entrance, and three more times along the left side of the channel coming from seaward; the middle channel called stockyard channel, trends west-northwestward to Stockyard Creek; the south branch extends westward to Golden Creek. I finally found Lewis Channel around 4:30. I see a small hamlet up at the end, and several fishing trawlers on the T-headed pier. I stand up with the tiller between my legs as I motor in questionable areas. The water beneath me is a shallow 8.5 feet deep, just 2 feet deeper than the keel. On occasion, I feel the keel hit a high spot of sand on the bottom. I increased engine power to 85%. If I hit a small bar in the channel, I should

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glide through it with the extra power. Sure enough, I hit no less than six humps along the channel. The water in the channel is muddy, so it was almost impossible to determine it's depth. I continued down Lewis Channel for 4 miles, then I reached the first pier. The pier was unsuitable for small craft, so I cut across the fairway and went aground. The current in the channel was horrendous. Maria hit the bar with such effort that it raised her hull out of the water 12 inches. I had wedged Maria in real good. I went below and turned on some music, and turned the cockpit speaker on. Looks like time for a beer break. I shut the engine off and threw over the loaner anchor. Several minutes passed when I heard the sound of a speed boat. The boat came gamely close and it's owner inquired if I needed any help. I said I would love it. I gave him some instruction, then we pulled the boat off the bar. He proceeded to tow me into the deeper part of the channel. He towed Maria right up to the Port Welshpool Jetty. I made her lines fast and promised my rescuer beer and dinner for his efforts. We agreed to meet at the local pub later that evening. I finished tying Maria when several fishermen came up to the boat, offering channel instructions. We all had a laugh at my folly. Going aground in Lewis Channel is a common occurrence. The fishermen told of much more harrowing accidents in the channel, like the time a tanker went aground and filled the channel with olive oil. Ugh! The conversation turned to the yacht; where I had been, and how long I would be staying. I explained my purpose, then asked if there was anywhere in town that had good food. The town pub in Toora was the answer. Sure enough, the food was superb.

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10
Port Welshpool
I hitchhiked into town and back, then spent several days in Port Welshpool. The general area was a mining town, the home base for many of the oil company's supply boats. Several nights while I was in Welshpool, I arm wrestled various locals who worked the oil rigs out at sea. I beat several of them. Each time, I would wrestle for a sweater or jacket. One night late, I wrestled a tug boat skipper for his navy colored sweater. It's now one of my favorite possessions. It has a cannon on the front with three cannon balls stacked on it's side. The embroidery is all done in gold thread, accented with red trim. After I won the sweater, I was invited aboard the Esso Explorer for dinner nearly every night the ship was in Port. One afternoon, I believed it was the fourth day there, I met the owner of the local airport. He ran the helicopters and flew "Adventure Airlines." The

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helicopters carried the crews out to the drilling platforms, "Kingfish" in particular. I spent two days helping load supplies and flying all around Wilson Promontory. On several occasions, I took a twin Beechcraft around the Prom and up the coast. The coast from the Prom north 100 miles was mostly 90 mile beach. The name speaks for itself. Flying back over the Prom, I noticed the snug little harbor Refuge Cove; from the air it seemed incredibly small. I was flying an altitude of 4300 feet. I did notice there were two fishing boats now anchored in the cove. I looked out on the horizon, and saw several more fishing trawlers coming toward the cove. It should be lively tonight. From the air, the Promontory is a series of connected valleys. On the western slope facing the sea, I see several hundred sheep grazing in a remote valley. In several other areas, cattle roam freely, grazing at their leisure. The air strip was a well-groomed 1600 feet of well-lit runway, made of concrete. The take offs and landings were a real treat. The runway ran north to south. When the wind was out of the south, take off was much faster. For a couple of days in a row, I flew down to Tasmania and all around the Promontory. One thing in particular comes to mind when I recall flying around the Promontory. The turbulence in and around the Prom is incredible. Several times, I would be flying along and hit turbulence pockets so severe it impaired my vision momentarily. The updrafts and downdrafts are so serious they have been known to cause serious damage to aircraft, and on several occasions have caused crashes. Today I hit one down draft which caused me to plummet 1350 feet before I had time to understand

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what had occurred. The action of the plane was so violent it bent the trailing edge of an aileron. The damage was slight, so it caused no in flight trouble. As I said before, the valley below looks as though it's a movie set at Universal Studios. Sailing around the Prom can take hours; in the air I have just crisscrossed it several times in 15 minutes. In order to better understand the coast, I will fly back to Cape Shank and cruise the coastline from Shank to the Promontory and around to 90 mile beach. I couldn't help but be shocked when it took just shy of 12 minutes to reach Cape Shank. Just before the Cape, I hauled out to the south over the Bass Strait and dropped my altitude from 5500 to a little over 150. Flying down the coast, I took several pictures. I hoped to include them in this book. The view from the air is nothing like the one from seaward. The Promontory is much more menacing from the air than it is from the sea. The walls of granite are frighteningly jagged and ill formed. The mere presence of the rocks and granite sheer faces are unnerving. I flew down through the islands around the Promontory. This time, they appeared very small, as though they were boiled eggs floating in water. Quite often, I refer to the moors and boggs of Scotland. Again, the open wastelands below give that appearance. Yet, this country is ruggedly handsome, undaunted by civilization and it's destructive pursuits. Mysteriously, this land below has remained as it is, untouched, since the first days of the Earth. That, in itself, gives the area a certain mystique. Several miles ahead I see Rondondo Island. I would pass the island to it's south, then turn EastNorth-East. Up north, I will fly by the various oil platforms which dot it's coastline. Numerous offshore oil and gas platforms are

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situated in the Bass Strait between Wilson Promontory and Cape Everard about 150 miles northeastward. They extend southward with less concentration, almost to Flinders Island, and are marked by lights and fog signals. Several submerged pipelines extend to 40 miles offshore southeastward of the Gippland Lakes area and terminate in lighted production platforms. These are enclosed by a 20 mile radius restricted area. Vessels should not pass between the restricted area and the shore. Exploration equipment, including moorings and buoys, lighted and unlighted, may exist anywhere in the vicinity. The main oil and gas producing field in Australia's offshore area is situated in the eastern part of Bass Strait close to the track, followed by shipping between Gabo Island and Wilson promontory, on the direct Sydney to Melbourne route. There are six producing platforms grouped in this area and others are planned in close proximity. The Department of Transportation has delegated a restricted area to improve both the safety of navigation and the safety of oil and gas platforms. The essence of the scheme is that vessels on a through passage should pass to the southward of the Kingfish platforms, keeping clear of the limits of the restricted area. Vessels should not approach isolated platforms such as "Barracuda A" to a distance of less than 2.5 miles. Kingfish B light is an assistance to mariners who navigate in this area, and to make the platform more distinct, a high intensity xenon flash system, which possesses particularly good visual characteristics, has been installed on "Kingfish B" platform. King B is the platform with the most helicopter

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traffic. I have flown to "King B" regularly picking up the exchange crews which work two weeks on and two weeks off. It has been shown from pretty conclusive tests, that the platforms themselves are good navigation aids, due to their radar-reflectivity. Radar reflectors have been installed to both Kingfish platforms to provide maximum radar conspicuity during adverse meteorological conditions. Echoes from the radar reflectors have been reached up to 26 miles distant. All of the drilling platforms are fitted with V.H.F. radio facilities. Vessels in the area should monitor Channel 16 (156.8 MHz) when in the vicinity of the oil producing area. Today, as I flew through the area of oil rigs, I saw that many fishing boats have deployed their nets fishing for albacore. The continental shelf and it's light blue color contrasts sharply with the deeper blue waters farther out at sea. You really get the feeling you are all alone when you fly this area. You can fly for 30 minutes without seeing any other life whatsoever. I've decided to make one last pass down Ninety Mile Beach, and then head back down south to Franklyn Channel. I will then follow the channel west and prepare for final approach at the field, which is several miles west of Port Welshpool. I throttled back from 184 miles per hour, when I realized how drastic a change it is from sailing a boat to flying an airplane. I've done a quick mental calculation, flying at 184 miles per hour, I can travel 33.3 times faster than sailing. Or consider it this way, for every mile of sailing at sea, one can travel 33.3 miles in the air. It's more amazing when you compare these contrasts the way I have.

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One day I was sailing around the coast, the next day flying at just under 200 M.P.H. EXHILARATING! After flying around and having this much fun for the last few days, it would take me two or three days to get back in the mood for serious sailing. I've been spoiled down here by a bunch of really great guys. It doesn't happen very often that I sail into a port, and within a couple of days have the pick of any plane to go joy riding. The whole experience reminds me of a World War II movie. A comraderie exists between men who put their lives to the test. These pilots fly in incredible conditions to save lives and bring people together over great distances, and I was sailing the dangerous Bass Strait. The respect was mutual. After flying, we sat around the airport and swapped harrowing stories about sailing and flying. The overboard story created a great deal of sympathy. Maybe tonight they would buy the beer at the pub! John Crawford has flown in these parts for over 12 years. He and his partner opened the Prom-Air Service four years ago. The business has grown with tremendous success. A great deal of their business comes from the tourists and oil platforms. Now that my hand is nearly healed, I can do some serious sailing, covering more miles and distance than I have before. This would require sailing night and day, in the rain, sleet or sun! Sailing up the coast will be something like connecting a series of dots. From the looks of the chart, I will sail 95 miles northeast to Lakes Entrance. The entire coast is low and indistinguishable, affording few navigational aids. The description of Ninety Mile Beach is as follows: the line of coast between Shallow Inlet and the Red Bluff is locally known as Ninety Mile Beach.

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Landing may be affected on it, but such a measure is extremely dangerous. The beach is treacherous, commonly known as a double beach. When you are only a few miles from the land on the western part of the Ninety Mile Beach, nothing can be seen but the back ranges of the mountains. These extend in a southwesterly direction for 27 miles from Tom's Cap, 1,196 feet high lying 19 miles westward of Marrinera Creek, to Mount Fatigue which is 2,050 feet high. The range between rises to summits of even greater elevations from Mount Fatigue, the highest being 2,453 feet. A range of hills, the highest of which is Mount Albert, 1,050 feet high, lies southwest and eastward of Mount Fatigue at a distance of 6 to 12 miles. From Corner Inlet, northeastward, to the Red Bluff, eastward of the old entrance to Gipps Land Lakes, the coast is a continuous sandy beach, broken by inlets and small streams. The streams break through the narrow strip of sand after a heavy rainfall. Although a sandy beach is again found northeastward of the Red Bluff for a distance of 30 miles, this is not a part of the well known and dreaded Ninety Mile Beach. From Merriman Creek, which lies northeastward 24.5 miles from Shallow Inlet, the coast stretches with a slight curve inward, 47 miles northeastward to the new entrance of the Gipps Land Lakes. All this coast is low, from 40 to 85 feet in height. In some places it is densely covered with tea trees, in others sparsely timbered with honeysuckle. It is so uniform and monotonous in appearance, that with one exception, no objects on the coast are easily identifiable by the mariner. The exception is a group of houses located at the back of the entrance to Merriman Creek known as Buckley's

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Station. Lakes or lagoons extend close inside the sand hammocks the entire distance. Inside these lakes, the land is low and densely timbered, and it is interspersed with lakes and marshes extend for miles inland. Much of it is subject to flooding. At distances from Merriman Creek of 18, 24, and 28 miles respectively, are three hummocks. The easternmost is 85 feet high is named Stockyard Hill. The middle hummock is covered with tea trees and easily identified by coastline. A red and white conical buoy marked Golden Beach No. 1A was moored 2 miles offshore about 13 miles northeastward of Merriman Creek. At a distance of 7 miles westward of the entrance of the Gipps Land Lakes and 3 miles from the outer line of the coast, is Fambo Bluff. It is about 250 feet high, and continues to Mount Barkley, at the entrance to Gipps Land Lakes. Then the coastline continues to Red Bluff, which skirts the arms and streams of Lake Tyers beyond it. Mount Barkley, the most conspicuous portion of the land just described, lies 4.5 miles westward from Red Bluff, and 1,000 yards from the outer line of the coast. It is 233 feet high, partly cleared of timber and forms a useful mark for the entrance of the Gipps Land Lakes. The weather has continued to stabilize in the last week or so, the long term forecast was good and should continue for two-week period. The barometer is high, 30.67, which means there's a high in the area. The forecast predicts a continued high and indicates there is another high in the same path behind it. Several people here have thrown me a going away dinner down at the Exxon Explorer. The party continued late into the evening, I ended up going

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straight to Maria and sailing out the channel. The winds were not in my favor, but I managed to travel 80 miles. Tomorrow morning, I will do the small jaunt over to the entrance of Gipps Land Lakes. It was calm at anchorage off 90 mile beach. I awoke and discovered the anchor had dragged 100 yards closer to shore, no problem when you consider I anchored 1000 yards off to sea. The water here is shallow, even this far out the surf is breaking. The next day I spent the entire morning cleaning the boat. I also changed the heavy bandage on my hand, putting on a much lighter dressing, one that I could work with. Much to my dismay, the weather was turning sour, the weather to the south was building and the surf was getting higher. I guess it was only a matter of time before more dirty weather would be in the area. Here I thought everything would be all right. Just when you think you're safe, another gale! I've been on the Lakes Entrance pilot channel this entire morning. First, I called and asked what the bar conditions were, then they came back on the air and asked if I am an American. I said, "Yes, of course. Why?" No reply. Then the same voice asked me if I had ever come over a bar such as the Entrances. I began to worry. Nervously, I replied, "Yes, many times all over the world." The voice over the pilot channel sounded apprehensive. I decided to ask a few questions of my own. I inquired how many feet offshore lay the bar. The reply was clear, "300 to 308 feet." I wondered why they took such great care to be exact. The voice continued, "Maria Van Diemen, when you approach the channel, remember the bar is just 9 feet deep at the channel entrance." I acknowledged.

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The voice asked, " What is your draft?" I replied, "6'6." There was a long delay before they answered. Then the voice warned me again of the channel. The lady said, in the many, many years of her service at Lakes Entrance she had never given instruction to an American navigating the channel. She said, "Navigating the Entrance channel requires great skill. If you have any doubts, we will send a pilot boat out to bring you in." I rogered her message, then thanked her for the concern. I said, "First, I will check the entrance and see if anything appears extraordinary." Then I would get back to her should I need assistance. The whole conversation was filled with vague insinuations of danger and mysterious hidden forces. That's all I needed, danger, mystery, and suspense.

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11
Lakes Entrance
When I reached Lakes Entrance, several boats were laid off, waiting for the tide to change. I checked the Admiralty tide tables for the local tide level. The time was now 1:27. According to the tide tables, the Lakes were draining, which meant the current in the channel was going out to sea. Slack tide should occur around 4:30, but the winds and rains has caused the water table in the Lakes to rise, so the draining tide could take considerably longer. I had made up my mind to call the Lakes Pilot house again. The lady knew my voice instantly. She asked my name and I said, "Lindsey." Then she said, as I could see, the draining tide was taking much longer than expected. Not only that, but today was a particularly dangerous day to come across the bar. I asked for more details. Her response was: 1. Not only was the tide outgoing, but it was going to be an extremely low tide. The entrance

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would have only 7 feet to 7 feet 4 inches over the bar at maximum low tide. 2. Because of the late lunar cycle, the tide will be low for a long period of time. 3. When the tide starts to fill, the current will be extremely fast, adding to navigational danger of the narrow channel. 4. And last, but not least, the time table of these events: a. absolute low tide - 5:37 b. duration of slacktide - 2:06 c. beginning filling tide 7:43 (6 to 8 knot current) d. navigable channel 9:20 to 10:40 e. absolute high tide 11:43 (also maximum channel depth best time for navigation) So it's easy to see, I should have gotten up early and slipped through the channel at high tide this morning. Nobody's Perfect! Many fishing trawlers were now in the area. They knew the channel better than I, so I would lay by and see what was happening. Eleven boats had collected outside the entrance to the lakes. Virtually all the boats waiting were loaded with a full catch. These particular trawlers were scallopers. Rather than anchor, I would continue to slow motor. This would give me the opportunity to check out the other boats. Because I have so much warning about the entrance, I am going to wait and watch as several boats enter the channel before I make the same attempt. Most of the fishing trawlers have a 5 to 6 foot draft. This means at absolute low tide, most of them will have only 1 foot below their keel. Should they catch the surf at the wrong interval they would

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surely go aground. Going aground would drive their propellers into the sand bar, almost certainly bending the blades and making the propeller useless for navigation and forward motion. As I suspected, one of the smaller 40 foot trawlers was going to try and enter the channel while the tide was on the run. It meant he would encounter 4 to 6 knots of current in the channel, along with a total water depth of no more than 7 feet. All conversation on the radio halted as the trawler approached the channel entrance. Every sixth wave signaled a pause between sets, this was the best opportunity to enter the channel. Right after the sixth wave, several things appear to be wrong for the boat to be entering the channel now! In order for the trawler to enter the channel he must attain a hull speed greater than 10 knots. Four to five of those knots would be canceled out due to the current in the channel. The remaining 5 to 7 knots would be necessary for positioning the boat just outside the entrance mouth; ready at a moment's notice to run for safety over the bar and into the current of the channel. Should the trawler have engine difficulties, he would be certain to meet grave consequences. The entire channel is built of huge rocks 4 to 5 feet in diameter. None of the huge rocks are smooth, all are jagged and rough. Wood hulls would be no match for the granite boulders' dangerous edges. No hull, wood, steel or anything else would be safe from the rocks. The idea was to avoid any possibility of collision with the rocks! The trawler that was attempting to enter the channel was certainly inviting trouble and danger. The trawler draft was 5'6" loaded. He indicated to the Pilot House his catch was not full. Therefore his

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draft was only 5'4". I could tell from the second the stacks started to billow black smoke, which indicates he was full throttle, that he was in serious trouble. Incredibly, as I watched, he ran the boat at flank speed for the channel. His timing was off just enough that he got caught in the middle of a trough and a wave closed out onto his loaded stern. The boat sank in one fell swoop. I went directly to the sunk trawler and picked up the two men in the water. Oddly enough, I called the Pilot House and they directed me to enter the channel immediately, it would be safe. When I surveyed the waves, it did appear considerably calmer. One reason it was calmer was because MOOREA-LEIU was blocking the rough surf with her hull. It did appear much safer, so I went for it. The two men were semi-coherent, urging me to get ashore so they could start rescue operations. I battled a two knot current through the channel, then took the men straight to the fishing pier. The men quickly jumped aboard another boat with chainsaws in hand. In route, they rigged up a landing craft to help in the rescue. Three men were saved when the rescuers cut a 3 x 3 hole in the hull and drug the men out. Four days later, the two men overboard were back fishing. A funeral was held for the two men who drowned. The ship in the channel was removed by a crane the next day. The trawler broke up in the surf, littering the beaches in the nearby communities. Several hundred gallons of fuel contaminated the entrance waters. Even though clean-up started immediately, much fuel escaped the clean-up operations. The diesel fuel worked it's way into the inland

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tributaries, causing a serious regional ecological disaster. I spent the first three days in Lakes Entrance just sight seeing, like any other tourist. I was fortunate to meet a construction company owner, his wife and family. During my stay, I visited a lumber mill in Sales Coves which was up in the mountains, and went rabbit hunting every night of the week. However, the best time for hunting rabbits is in the early morning. Every night, we would barbecue on the front porch; his wife and children always did the cooking. John's wife, Ellen, and his children, Christopher, Sandy, and Marsha made my stay in Lakes Entrance memorable. Their warm and considerate hospitality was the tonic I needed after hard sailing for the last few days. Ellen, a nurse, ministered my injured hand. Lakes Entrance is a tourist town that reminds me of La Jolla, California (San Diego). Through the winter, the buildings in town are all boarded up until the tourists return in the spring. My stay here has been emotionally rewarding and physically rejuvenating. I've had several "Encounters of the best kind" while slumbering in this small "burgette" (elegant word for burg). One such encounter was with a local girl with the nickname "Fishwoman." They called her Fishwoman, because her ex-husband and father made her fish since her early childhood. The young woman was 23, and very good looking. It was difficult to believe she had been a deck hand most of her life. Her body was absolutely perfect. She wore no undergarments because support wasn't needed. Her breasts were full and rock hard, her waist was barely 20 inches, and her tummy was as hard as tempered plate steel. Her Australian slang was the best I have ever encountered. On many occasions, I had her repeat herself. Her every other

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word was "mate." All in all, she was a character. I would meet her later in Sydney during the SydneyHobart race. The weather turned hot for three days in a row. I actually exchanged my heavy sweater for a La Coste short-sleeved shirt. I set one day aside and took John and his family sailing. We spent the entire day sailing around the lakes, doing nothing but having fun. I was rather shocked when I found out John had a 45 foot ketch tied up to the pier just across from me. Our relationship became even closer as we found a common bond in our sailing adventures. It turned out John and Ellen had run out of money in Lakes Entrance, so they made the Lakes their home. Earning enough money to continue their sailing odyssey was their reason for prolonging their stay. Again, I give my love and thanks for the splendid time I spent with them and their three children. While I was away from the boat, I hadn't really noticed how much damage occurred while she was tied at the wharf. Therefore, a fresh coat of paint was in order; I painted Maria from stem to stern in 3-1/2 hours. She looks great! Now all I have to do is figure out was how to say goodbye to these great people. I concluded it would be easiest having Chinese food at a local restaurant, then, when the dinner was over, say goodbye, as though I would see them later in the near future. All I can say is, it didn't go quite as planned. Several other people arrived, and a party ensued until the wee hours of the morning. We ended up cooking breakfast on Maria with twelve drunks spending the night and morning on her decks in sober solitude. I explained to my guests how I dreaded leaving. It became a tearful exchange of hugs,

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kisses and promises as they helped me untie Maria, so I could catch the draining tide out the channel. I started the motor, waved goodbye, and motored into the channel. I fought back tears for as long as possible. Going out the channel, I could see John, his entire family, and all the party's guests standing on the channel arm. I am sure they could see my face filled with tears as I passed. This was one occasion I was certain to never forget! I had great difficulty seeing as I neared the heads of the channel arms. I didn't dare look back for fear of losing all control. I have continued to write to John and his family to the present. All the fishermen I have spoken to, mention Eden in their trip up to Sydney from Wilson Promontory. They say the ladies in Eden are different. They just love to have fun, and that during the summer months, it is impossible to get near Eden on the weekends. The town is infested with young, good looking college girls. Once out in the clear sea, I pulled up the main, but made sure the sail was reefed one full row of eyes. This reduced the sail area by literally tying the extra unwanted area to the boom. Sometimes unsightly, but effective. The reason I had reduced the sail area, was to avoid changing my sails once out at sea. The weather bureau's forecast predicted heavy, near-gale force winds, but the weather would remain clear, with no rain expected and sunny skies. I made sure to use #2 storm jib. It was recently restitched and should serve well on this leg of the trip. One serious character flaw that I've tried to hide over the years has come out today! Years ago I had a friend who, for all intents and purposes, was a gadget freak. He will remain anonymous because of the likelihood of embarrassment. This story could

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shed light on his perverse, but more often humorous, affection with gadgets. For years this friend of mine ran a sailmaking loft in Southern California. I noticed a few weeks after our first meeting, that he was in the habit of ordering things from catalogues. His obsession was restrained somewhat, by the fact he would spend no more than $2.50 on any one mail order item. In the six years I have known this pervert, only two items out of hundreds that he ordered, have become a way of life. The slick world of sail lubricants. SILICONE SPRAY. I just can't imagine how "God Created Man and Earth" without a couple cans of 3M, 16 oz. Silicone Spray. Pulling the sails aloft with great ease, I praised myself for such good decision making. I was sure God must be proud of me using this slick stuff! Seriously, it is a very necessary sailing aid. Not only does the lubricant free the sail in the sail track, but it reduces friction wear on the cloth and coats the fabric, making it more weather resistant. I make sure to coat all my foul weather gear at least once a week with the stuff. The wind was out of the south-southwest. It was warm from laying over the land. The wind is full of smells today, especially that of foliage. Pollens included! I passed Red Bluff at exactly 9:00. So far, I was averaging 8.5 knots and slowly increasing speed. Maria seemed happy! Her swift hull was slicing through the ocean as though she were a playful child on an outing with grandma. Her character was solid and forthright, aggressively attacking each new wave. Sailing a yacht with this personality is, in the true sense of the word, a pleasure. The winds continued to get fresher. At 10:30,

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it was blowing some 22.8 knots as I screamed up the coastline towards Eden. My hull speed at times caused the boat to plane over waves and crash into the next wave ahead of the trough. The yacht was now cruising at 10.7 knots per hour, flying!!! The next 60+ miles passed so quickly that I hardly remember leaving the helm, except to get a tin of ice cold beer. Lake Tyers to Snowy River is 21.3 miles. Then the coast continues northward 4.5 miles past Ricardo Point, continuing again another 6.5 miles to Conrad Point. I would pass 18 points along the coast before reaching Cape Howe. Cape Howe is just over 100 miles from Lakes Entrance. With continued good weather, I will be there around 9:00 tonight. I will continue sailing into the late night, not stopping until I have reached Eden. Then I will collapse and rest for as long as it takes to recover. Along the way, I have passed Red Bluff, Lake Tyers, Little Dick, Snowy River, Ricardo Point, Conrad Point, Pearl Point, Sydenham Inlet, Tamboon River, Cape Everard, Island Point, Ram's Head, Wingan Point, Sandy Patch Point, Little Ram's Head, Bastion Point, Tullaburga Island, Gabo Island, then finally Cape Howe. Cape Howe represents a major point along this trip. Once around Howe, the winds and water stabilize, and general conditions, such as the weather, improve dramatically. Without excitement, I rounded Cape Howe at 10:21 P.M. The night air was cold, but possessed no real discomforts. During the entire trip today, I remained 12 to 15 miles off shore, allowing plenty of seaway. I have passed a certain obstacle, but now have encountered a new one. The particular path I have chosen is a shipping lane used for commercial traffic. The traffic can be, at times, hectic in this

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lane. As I said, the night air was cold, but I had dressed accordingly; long johns, sweater, and heavy ski parka with leather gloves. The seasons are near their change, spring is on it's way. I went below and opened a tin of Tasters Choice. The rich coffee aroma awakened me when I related the smell to caffeine. Coffee has a special taste while at sea. Not only is it warm, but it's reassuring! One thing is for sure, you're more alert after drinking it. The 102 miles up the coast was a picture perfect sail. I averaged over 8 knots all the way and even now in the night, I am doing a comfortable 6.27 knots according to the computer read out. Because I had a good rest at Entrance, I will continue sailing through the night and into the morning. Like random pegs in a peg board, one by one, I left these distinguished landmarks behind. While below, the autohelm controlled my destiny, ZZZT-ZZZT-ZZZTING, correcting the lightly varied course of the ship. I managed to cook up something to eat (Chow Mein) and made a 100% Irish Coffee. I pulled the charts. I would use another eight charts navigating up to Sydney Harbor. I have heard several stories about a 6 foot redtail kangaroo. One of those stories states that every night a red-tail roo walks into a bar in Mallacoota then drinks beer by the schooner. Mallacoota is not far from Eden, so I am quite sure I will go there. Remarkably I feel fresh, unlike one should feel after sailing 14 hours. I would sail all night, then again all day tomorrow. My computations put me into Eden around 5:30 in the morning. Feeling good as I do, 20 hours at the helm is nothing. There have been times when I have spent 42 hours at the helm,

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without a break. Once the seas were so threatening, I neglected to remove my foul weather gear to relieve myself. Security first, vanity second! I sailed into Eden the next morning. The wind totally died around 2:30 in the morning. I then went below and fired up the Drolphin Diesel. Around 5:00, the wind shifted from south to east. It steadily increased all along the way. Hero or not, I was now getting a bit tired. Rather than pull up to the pier, I would anchor out in the bay, just inside the south head.

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12
Eden
Eden is a small settlement situated at the back of Lookout Point. The town is built on the slopes and valleys between two fills which jet out into the bay, dividing it into two parts. The population is 1,500. Eden is a first port of entry from New Zealand. Eden looks much like a little New England town much like Maine. The jetty at Eden is situated on the eastern side of Sruy Cove. It has two berths. The southeastern berth, 340 feet long, is used by large vessels and has a depth of (24 ft.). Vessels tie side to. There is a mooring buoy located off the head of the jetty. The northwestern berth, used by small vessels, has a least depth of (16 ft) and a length of 320 feet from it's outer end. Fresh food and provisions can be obtained not far inland. Fuel oil is available in drums and a small amount of coal and diesel fuel are maintained. Fresh water is also available at the jetty. A road from Eden gives access to the Monaro

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district and passes through Eoma, the terminus of the southern railway, which is 108 miles from Eden. The ILLAWARRA CO's steamers trade between Eden and Sydney, calling at intermediate ports. An airport is located 28 miles west of Eden with flights into Sydney regularly. It was hard to sleep being anchored in a new and interesting port. I could see two distinct openings for boats at the jetty. Within a few minutes, I was tying Maria on Eden's jetty. It just so happens that the Harbor Master's office is not more than 100 feet away. I would report my last movements in order to comply with Aussie regulations. No longer than ten minutes have passed, now several people have collected on the pier looking at Maria with eager interest. A voice I was not familiar with shouted down to me on the foredeck of Maria. "Excuse me, are you Lindsey?" The voice was coming from a very attractive blonde on the pier. I waited until she spoke again, affirming it was she who spoke in the beginning. She asked if it would be okay to come aboard. I must have mumbled and stuttered because she asked me the same thing again. Upon boarding, she introduced herself as Betty, a good friend of Foxy's wife. The way she looked at me faintly suggested what her intentions could be. She then turned toward the pier and began to present her two charming children. They gave their names and ages. She very coyly inquired if I had eaten. Betty asked if there was anything more which needed to be done in order to make the boat safe. I answered, "No!" Then she relieved my curiosity by telling me a little bit about herself. "Lindsey, you are probably wondering why I am here," she said nervously. "I

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have a pub and hotel here in Eden. My children and I live there and run the hotel." Not trying to be rude, I offered breakfast to her and the children. I hinted we could chat over breakfast. Then she added, "I came down here to offer you breakfast at my hotel, and if you like, you can shower and change." Without hesitation, I went below and quickly packed my shave gear, Old Spice included, and a fresh change of clothes. The children wanted to come aboard, but I insisted we wait until later, then I would take them for a sail. Admittedly, I was flabbergasted! Never in my life have I had so much of personal attention. I can see that if I make this a habit, it will cause me to be a little conceited, or maybe even spoiled. Her children are fair skinned and blonde. They resemble Betty in many ways. Betty is of very small frame, but elegantly proportioned, and so are her children. We walked along the pier, passing the Harbor Master's office. Betty explained to me how she knew I had arrived. I listened with tuned ears. The Harbor Master is a very good customer of the hotel. He called her this morning when he noticed Maria anchored in the bay. She added it wouldn't be necessary for me to sign in, unless I wanted to make it more formal. "Of course not," I replied. We walked from the pier to the parking lot of the customs inspector, where a brand new mustard colored Mercedes station wagon sat. Not only was I being picked up, but in the style I was accustomed. She asked if I would drive. I said, "Yes, I'd love to." The smell of the car's interior exuded the newness. It's immaculate floor further suggested that it was new. The children jumped into the back. I then locked the back door automatically, implying that I have raised children. Betty smiled

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reassuringly as she closed her door. I started the car, then we were heading towards Eden Town. She directed me around the morning traffic into town. We pulled up to the rear of the Hotel Australasia, her hotel. We all entered through the kitchen, where the cook was busy preparing breakfast for several of the hotel's guests. We walked into the lobby where we were greeted by her mother. Her mother took charge of the children, then Betty and I retired to the evening dining area. There we could chat in private. We discussed many things, divorce was soon to be emphasized above the rest. Betty explained her recent divorce; her husband had been a boring man, and had a serious drinking habit, which their bar seemed to promote. The conversation shifted to much more enjoyable topics. It was apparent she wanted to show me around. She handed me several travel brochures related to the area. I was quick to ask about the 6 foot kangaroo that drinks beer in Mallacoota. She personally had not seen it, but she knew someone who had, her bartender. I mentioned how overwhelmed I was to be given such a warm welcome, and by such a lovely lady. I asked if showing me around would be any inconvenience. She merely laughed. Then added, it was a definite pleasure because it was rare for anyone such as myself to visit these parts. This woman knew exactly what to say when it came to impressing people. I just hope she keeps it up. In the two weeks I stayed with Betty, we managed to hit every tourist attraction in the area. Two days were spent in Canberra, the capital of Australia. One of those days was spent at the War Memorial. The armaments of war surround the entire museum grounds. One of the submarines in

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the exhibit was sunk in Sydney harbor. It showed the effects of war, the hull was blown open like a sardine can. The next day we spent the entire day shopping and dining at Cafe Mission de Pescadue with a rather exclusive French cuisine. MALLACOOTA JOE On the way back from Canberra, we stopped in a tavern in Mallacoota which will remain unnamed. The owner made me swear I wouldn't reveal or disclose the tavern's name. He said there were too many people coming as it was, let alone some damn Yank writing about it in some damn adventure book. We arrived at X around 3:30 in the afternoon. Across from the tavern is a wild life reserve. The tavern parking lot was filled with cars, motorcycles and utes. The tavern is just like any other in Australia, except this one has a customer the people call "Old Joe." Old Joe is a 6 foot red-tail kangaroo. No joke, this red-tail had been frequenting the tavern for 9 years. Here's how the story goes as told by the owner himself. We sat in the bar drinking a beer while Lyle, the owner, told his story. Around 1972, a game warden in the wild life reserve across the street started bringing a baby kangaroo, Joe, over to the tavern at lunch time. The warden would tie the kangaroo outside while he ate lunch inside, usually with friends. Over the years the kangaroo became friendlier and tamer. Pretty soon, tourists started giving him tastes of beer which he quickly learned to like. Slowly, over the years, they taught him how to hold a mug and drink. Then Joe became very demanding. When people refused him beer, he began to follow them into the tavern and intimidate them until finally they would give in. The

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kangaroo's bold behavior soon had tourists thronging into this little hamlet. He would venture out of the forest around dusk every day, then hop over to the tavern for a free beer or two, and a picture taking session with the tourists. His behavior got even bolder when he drank rum and coke. On several occasions he would get drunk and then several large men would have to escort him out the door. No joke! People soon arrived at the conclusion that he could not drink hard liquor at all. However, he is known to have drunk 12 to 13 beers. Several enterprising locals decided to use this unique animal to promote their area, so they printed several postcards, one of which showed Joe playing pool. This, of course, is untrue. But he did once smoke a cigar and drink a mug of beer, at the same time. Betty and I ate lunch at the tavern with Lyle. He then explained that Joe hadn't been seen around for about two weeks. He was probably out mating, because he had been seen with a young female roo days earlier. Betty and I were both disappointed when Lyle related the story. We decided to relax and drink another beer, we would leave at 5:30 if he hadn't arrived yet. Not five minutes after our relaxation drink, we heard screams and thunderous applause from outside the tavern. Lyle smiled a broad smile! I knew it must be the infamous Old Joe. The applause continued even as he crossed the road. It was ridiculous, 15 or 20 people applauding an alcoholic kangaroo crossing the road. It was something you would expect in an old movie, "Sergeant Pepper." Betty gripped my hand tightly as Old Joe lumbered closer. People outside were amazed when Old Joe would stroll up, grab a canned beer and

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down it. I stood at the window, frozen in my tracks. I could not believe it. I kept saying to Betty, "I just can't believe it." I asked Lyle if the roo would enter the bar. Lyle answered yes, if I would coax him. I queried, "How?" Lyle said that Old Joe, over the years, had grown extremely fond of rum and coke. Lyle ran to the back bar and made a very weak rum and coke. He put it in a large beer mug, hoping it's size would stimulate his curiosity. Lyle walked outside with the mug very quickly. Old Joe spotted the mug and started toward him. Shortly, the front door of the tavern swung open. There he stood, a 6 foot tall giant rat. Incredibly, they appear unreal. I was convinced this was a hoax. There had to be someone inside. Old Joe made his way to the bar, literally pushing people as he went further into the bar. Lyle warned me that I should be careful because he can get quite ornery. I stood next to this 6 foot rat, long enough for a picture to be taken. Up close, his face was grey and old. He would stare at you as if he could understand what you were thinking. Being close to the beast made me feel uncomfortable. Betty and I stayed another hour, then left when the tourists became rowdy. Eden's Retired Servicemen's League (R.S.L.) is a gambling casino like one would expect in Reno, Nevada. Hundreds of slot machines line the walls, all with different enticements. Gambling continues on late into the night. We returned to the hotel that night and found the bartender absent, so I pitched in and tended bar. Not for just one night, but for five days in a row. Bartending an Australian pub is extraordinary, especially in a fishing town such as this. Most of the drinkers here were under 30 and got extremely loud

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and rowdy. Eden turned out to be a lot of fun. The children wanted to go sailing and see what it was like. So on Saturday, we packed a lunch from the hotel and went out sailing. Everything was okay until we headed out to sea. The wind was blowing 16 knots and the sea was choppy. Maria jumped through the waves like a baby colt. Seeing the children's discomfort with the foul weather, I headed Maria back into the harbor. That afternoon, we cleaned the yacht and were ready to leave, when my gold Rolex caught on a safety line and went to the bay's floor. Betty and I were both stunned. I immediately stripped and dove to the bottom. Unfortunately, the bottom was stirred up and you couldn't see any further than your nose. Betty ran to a friend's house down the street trying to find some scuba gear. The water was so cold, that I quit diving and waited for her to return. One of the local fishermen came by and assured me a crab would drag it off unless I got it soon. Thanks! The winds were getting worse, decreasing visibility. The kids were looking on helplessly as I tried one last time. I grabbed a lead weight on the dock to help me sink to the bottom. I jumped in feet first, and quickly sank to the bottom. I laid on the bottom squeezing mud through my fingers. When I squeezed this time something heavy was there. I found it! I came up so fast I banged my head into the yacht's bottom and I nearly dropped it again. Betty had just driven up when I told her the good news. We all went back to the hotel and celebrated. The weather had been beautiful, sunny blue skies and warm breezes from inland to the west. Within the next few days, I will shove off for Sydney. I have promised some friends of the Little River

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Band that I would make it to a party they are throwing. I have been rather anxious on this portion of the trip. My tan has faded somewhat and I am wanting to get back to a model I met in Sydney. Betty was fantastic, but her idea of fun was different than mine. Waiting on customers in a hotel is work, not pleasure! Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself immensely. Betty and her children were a pleasure. I continued dating her and seeing the children, but I was a sailor, not a publican (Aussie for pubowner). The next few days I spent getting ready for the next leg. I took things which needed to be cleaned into town, the bill was staggering! In Australia, cleaning costs a bundle. It cost $200 to clean the same number of garments that would have cost $33.00 in the United States. Eden is basically a tourist town; during the summer the town thrives, during the winter it merely exists. Eden is also home to several of the Australian Navy gun boats. One night before I left, I had the pleasure of dining aboard the H.M.S. Attack with her skipper and crew. We dined late into the night, then retired when the skipper said they were shoving off for Sydney shortly. I thought that was funny to cruise the coast at 2:00 in the morning, but then again, that's the military. I went home to Maria and bed. I got back to Maria and found a note stuck in the companionway slide. It was from Betty. She was closing early and wanted to meet me at the yacht. I do enjoy a late night rendezvous! Betty showed up at 1:15. She brought a bottle of Moet Chandon champagne to celebrate my bon voyage. We sipped the bottle dry, then made love till 4:30 in the morning. The next morning came very early. At

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8:30, two fishing trawlers wanted to move, which meant I had to get up and help. I had to move Maria down the dock to make room for the extra trawler. The skipper apologized for the inconvenience, then threw me several fish. I told the fisherman that he interrupted a speech lesson I was giving a lady friend. He laughed and threw me another fish. For a moment I felt like a harbor seal. GOD I LOVE SAILING! The days spent in Eden were rejuvenating. The clean ocean air and fantastic company were a stimulation that whetted my appetite for new adventure. I explained to Betty some of the philosophy necessary for a trip like this. The hardest thing to explain to people is what goes on in the mind of a sailor. It is infinitely more difficult trying to explain to a good looking lady why you have to sail off into the sunset. This occasion will be even more difficult, because of the relationship Betty and I have developed. Even though I have spent little time with her children, I feel a fatherly closeness. The time I've spent with them has been personally fulfilling. One afternoon, we had a picnic and I tried to explain the difference between Australian children and American children. I told them I would very much enjoy seeing all of them again, but when you are sailing, it is not always possible. I love the excitement of going into a new port, meeting new people and doing new things. Every town you pull into has something new and unique to offer. Museums, the Arts, and fine restaurants fill my days and nights. Australia has a unique blend of dining establishments. They fulfill even the most discerning palates. A friend of mine who is American is opening a Sushi Bar in Sydney. I would make sure I didn't miss that one! With little fanfare,

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Betty and I bid each other farewell. In just the short time we've known one another, we have become very good friends. We felt immediately comfortable together. We both vowed to see each other again. She said all I needed to do was call and she would be there. Betty collected her belongings while I readied the yacht to sail. God, I Love Silicone Spray! Mindful of the difficulty we encountered saying goodbye, I made folly and nonsense to relieve my frustration. We both resolved that it was not necessary to say goodbye. Instead we made a date in Sydney. I agreed to take her sailing in Sydney Harbor and hit all the night spots in the city. Both our moods improved dramatically as we planned the future rendezvous in Sydney. We arranged to meet at the Cruising Yacht Club of Austrailia (C.Y.C.A.) on Saturday morning at 10:00 at the yacht club breakfast. We bid farewell when Betty suddenly remembered something. She said, "Hold on until I return from the Mercedes." She ran back panting, out of breath, she kissed me with tears in her eyes, then stuck a beautifully wrapped present into my well-healed hands. I was touched. Again, leaving someone who I really cared for, as I have many times before, at least makes me feel good that I am in control of my destiny. To make things easier, I kept smiling, while inside my stomach rolled around in a profusion of knots. I pushed the throttle full ahead. The diesel sound dominated my thoughts and before I knew it, all the sails were up and the gentle morning's breeze was pushing me closer to my goal, Sydney. As I promised, I called Betty and talked to the children over the Rad-phone. The children were fascinated that one could speak from a boat to someone ashore. The weather was excellent. The

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clouds were fluffy and blue-filled in between their matrix. I set the auto-pilot and went about my daily sailing chores, which included going to the bathroom. Better known as the proverbial "Ass Over Rail." It always fascinates people who have never seen this event at sea. Traffic in the area was heavy. Unlike the Bass Strait, boats, yachts, trawlers and tankers with tugs filled the waters from here to Sydney. One feels more secure seeing these companions of the sea, but one must remember, this also increases the chance of sea collisions. Crashes at sea are, at best, usually fatal. Most of the time, not even debris can be found after a crash. Hundreds of boats are sunk by huge oil tankers every year in the sea lanes of the world. Nonetheless, I think it is wise to check all the safety equipment aboard, in the event of some unforeseeable disaster. I will check the Avon first, then go below and run through my check list, making sure not to overlook something which could turn dangerous. It reminded me of an occasion when I set sail from Madacascar. When I went below, water was slurping into the air filter on the diesel. Imagine my horror when I discovered all the through hull fittings were some three feet under water, and to make things worse, the batteries went dead when saltwater contaminated the electrolyte within the battery. No lights! After shutting all the through hull fittings, I found the problem. It was the exhaust manifold at the through hull fitting at the stern. The stress on the brass nipple had sheered it off at the through hull fitting, allowing the water to run straight into the bilge. The engine, in fact, served as a pump and filled the hull. It took two days of continuous pumping to rid the boat of

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all the salt water. I waited until I reached the Suez Canal, where I replaced the entire exhaust system. It can't be emphasized enough, the necessity to check on equipment and it's reliable function. At any rate, I have whipped out all the charts and things look real cozy all the way up the coast. Improved navigational aids dot the coast from here to Cairns. Confident and self-assured I go below, hunting something to eat. The fish I got this morning will make a fantastic lunch and dinner. Every four or five minutes, I ran up on deck and checked the horizon, making sure the seas ahead were clear. Back below, I started hunting for paprika and sliced almonds for the filet. I had a cast iron square pan for fish and meat dishes. One cup of water into the square pan, then a metal grid fits into the pan used for steaming vegetables. The fish went into protective aluminum foil wrap along with butter, lemon, a dash of nutmeg and plenty of sliced almonds. Sailors don't always eat Chow Mein in a can, or Dinty Moore Beef Stew! In 6 to 8 minutes, the aroma of freshly steamed fish engulfed the entire boat. A quick peek above deck assured all was well. I dug into the wine cellar and found a classic white wine, French Pouilly Fuisse. What a life! I sat in the cockpit sipping a glass of fine wine and stuffing myself with a delectable fresh albacore. The smell of fish attracted a host of onlookers. Seagulls swooped down and spooned up a tasty morsel of food that I threw overboard. The seagulls even gulped down the discarded skeleton of the fish. I have built a strong following of avid fish eaters. Sometimes the seagulls appeared vicious in their competition to get the scraps of food. I have noticed another interested follower, an 8 foot shark.

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From eating, I turned my interest back to the serious side of navigating. I have basically memorized the coast to Sydney, but I would take no chances. I will consult the Pilot Guide for sea lane bearings and electronic aids to navigation. While sailing, I enjoy listening to music from the various Ian Fleming movies. I have Goldfinger on the tape deck presently. In a few minutes I will switch it to 2001: A Space Odyssey. Hourly, I switch on the weather channel for an updated version, trying not to get caught in any messy weather. The wind was now exactly out of the south at 14 knots. The barometer is steady at 29.87 millibars. Because I haven't sailed long distance in a while, I will sail straight through to Sydney. To avoid heavy traffic concentrations, I will sail 15 to 20 miles off the coast. The only danger I could run into would be to get caught at sea in a southernbuster, which can occur within 2 hours. The stretch of land between Eden and Sydney is approximately 250 miles. Because I was out at sea, away from the coast, nothing was distinguishable except the highest of mountains. Shoreline details were null and void. I did quite a lot of writing and capturing the mood of the trip, as you have been reading. The sailing went great. I averaged 7.85 miles up the coast until I reached a parallel position at sea from Canberra. I pulled down the main sail and put up a small working jib which should hold me into this common position during the night, allowing me to catch 6 to 8 hours of sleep. The weather has been model perfect during the whole voyage. I lit the galley lamp and fixed myself some canned corn, hominy, and package of hot dogs with mustard. I drank two icy beers to flush down the hot dogs, then

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went up on deck and took a fix on the moon. According to the fix, I was 35 to 40 miles off shore. All I could figure out was the current here must be stronger than indicated. I put on a tape, The Little River Band, and sipped a canned beer as I ran the calculations through my Tamaya-N-77 Calculator, making sure that my observations were correct. They were. For added reliability, I would deploy a 4 foot sea anchor to hold Maria in the same approximate position. At 11:40, when I turned in, the seas were relatively calm with a sea swell of 6 to 8 feet. Maria hung off the wind seemingly holding her ground. I was so pleased with the yacht, and the way she handled, that I became somewhat over- confident. I mean, what could happen in just a few hours? I went forward to my quarters and tied myself in. Just as I became comfortable, I remembered the running lights were off. Quickly, I scampered after to the power panel and snapped on the mast head light and the stern anchor light. Back to bed. I opened my cabin porthole to let fresh air in. The cooked fish smell was overwhelming. Around 6:15 in the morning, I was jarred awake by salt water gushing through the porthole. Fuck! It was evident I forgot to shut something. I had a difficult time closing the porthole. I was being thrown about like a volley ball inside a rattled trash can. I struck my elbow hard on a clothes hook next to the porthole. I peered out the porthole and then saw the problem. The sea swell had increased to 16 feet with a vertical chop of several feet. However, the prevailing winds were nothing extraordinary. SHIT, just when I began to really sleep well. I jumped to and quickly dawned my foul weather gear. This could be a long day, so I took time to dress properly. I would even wear a pair of

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socks. The pan which once contained the fish juice was off the stove and stuck behind it. All the butter, wine, lemon and seasonings were on the deck. Before I did anything else, I would have to clean up the mess. I reached for old faithful, Tide. I sprinkled a cup of Tide onto the galley deck, then scrubbed it with a hard brush. Within minutes, the mess no longer existed. I flushed the deck with saltwater that I got from the tap at the sink. The emergency weather station has just issued an all points bulletin for the Promontory and all points north to Sydney. Simple taks which are normally easy to do become very difficult when the weather turns sour. I had to put the line from the sea anchor on to the sheet winch. It seemed as though every turn was harder and harder. Finally I got it aboard. "Weather," what a word. You put "bad" in front of it, and everything changes. I hurriedly hoisted the main, making sure I had reefed it a full 3 points. Maria instantly became manageable, pointing her bow north and running with the wind. The swells sometimes reached the stern, half filling the cockpit. Instinctively, I battened down all hatches, including the companionway. As I slid the companionway hatch closed, I fully realized I was all alone. One 10 foot safety was already clipped on, and I planned to connect a shorter 5 foot for added safety. Reaching the helm, I clipped it on. The wind gauge read 18 knots gusting to 24. Certainly, a fairly wide swing. Already I was soaked through. The skies were socked in, so it was going to be impossible to fix. The morning sky was still dark as if it was night. Down below, I heard a loud crash and pop like a helium balloon being popped. I jumped up and

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opened the hatch enough to peer into the cabin below. My brand new color Sony Trinitron T.V. was now history. It dropped face first from the bracket it was secured to. Maybe insurance would handle it. My hull speed has dramatically increased to 11.25 knots because Maria is surfing down huge rollers. The waves are 20 to 22 feet high. I was not really worried, I just wanted to get closer to shore and duck into shelter and ride out the storm. I caught the sun to the northeast and got a fair fix. I was 158 miles south southeast of Sydney Harbor. Meanwhile, the barometer continued to plummet. The dinghy just broke loose and needs to be retied. I have remained clipped on while working. Several times, I have worked forward and trimming sails. On the way back, I resecured the boom vang and tightened the main. Running with the wind can be dangerous, especially running wing and wing. Maria was flying through the water as I rode the helm, moving at 11.5 knots. My hands and face were very cold. The continuous watering was numbing. I was going below to make coffee. Hopefully the coffee will warm me, and raise my spirits. The autohelm works exceptionally well in rough seas when you move the settings to accommodate the faster sea action. Down below, the inclinometer had stuck to the port limit. The angle of heel is 40%.

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13
A Brush with DEATH
Making coffee in rough seas is not like you'd expect. I had to harness myself into the galley, then wait until the kettle came to a boil. Just think, I was harnessed to the stove, and if anything happened, it would get me first. I mixed up a huge Irish Coffee and drank part of it, before returning to the helm. I stumbled on my safety cable and nearly drove my head through a bulkhead. I managed to exit fairly unscathed. When I stepped into the cockpit, I accidentally kicked the autohelm arm off, causing the yacht to lurch sideways down a wave. I dropped the coffee into the cockpit. The boom broke it's snap shackle, and swung with blinding speed toward my face. I threw my hand up to shield from the blow. The boom track lanced my hand to the bone, as though it was surgeon's scalpel. I felt no immediate pain. The yacht lurched, snapping the sail back into running position. I hurriedly reached down and snapped the autohelm back into place.

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Impending danger filled my mind with panic. I was bleeding so profuesely, that the saltwater in the cockpit had turned a crimson red. Nervously, I looked down at my bleeding palm. Blood spurted into my face when I opened my hand. I would bleed to death shortly, if I didn't think fast! Quickly, I elevated my hand to help reduce the bleeding. I also knotted my fist. I soon realized all the fingers would not close because the tendons and muscles had been totally severed. I reached for a bungy cord in the cockpit and bound my upper arm. Moving forward, I dropped the jib, leaving only the reefed main aloft. I made another mental calculation; I was no more than 120 miles southeast of Sydney. I had a good chance of reaching Sydney if I didn't bleed to death first. I pushed the hatch open and went below for added safety. The battery level was high, that's good, because I will need plenty of light to do what I must do. I pulled all the red filters off the inner cabin lights and turned on the radio for comfort. With the lights on, the boat's interior looked like a surgical room. The emergency medical kit was within easy reach. I would tourniquet my hand to reduce the bleeding. A tourniquet works only when it is severely tight. This could cause gangrene if it is left on too long. The galley floor was now covered with blood. Every time I loosened the tourniquet, the blood shot out of a severed artery. I was faced with two basic alternatives; permanently tourniquet the hand and run a very high risk of permanent disability or stop the bleeding inside the wound. To find the severed artery, I needed to dig around and find the source of the bleeding. Quickly, I reached for a roll of construction duct tape. I bound my bicep to slow the blood flow. The tape caused great

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discomfort and my hand started to throb. I needed something to steady my nerves and build my confidence. I was very frightened. This was one occasion when no one could help me but myself. My life would depend on my ability to react quickly and efficiently. To save myself, I would have to cauterize the arteries and hope it would stop the flow of blood. Even as I spoke, blood was spurting in all directions. I managed to spalsh some in my eyes, and it stung like hell. Like a scene from a World War II movie, I searched high and low for Mr. Jack Daniels. A good stiff drink couldn't possibly hurt; and it might very possibly be my last. I found a new bottle in the sink drawer. I pulled the cork out with my teeth. The first drink choked me, but soon the warm feeling in my stomach helped relieve my temporary anxiety. Two large swallows reduced the bottle's level to 3/4 full. Blood was flowing back and forth across the deck where I sat down. The boat tossed and threw a sail bag from the storage area next to me into the pool of blood. Incredibly, the wound looked scalpel clean along the edge. When I opened my hand, I could see every moving bleeding part. The nerves spasmed as impulses were sent, but not received at my fingers. Now that my hand was severely injured, I could do little else but run the ship aground to stop her. It might be possible to get off a May-Day call. There was a chance I could be rescued. First, stop the bleeding. I could feel my energy level erode as my blood drained into the bilge. I was sitting through my own death watch, feeling my vitality drain through my wound. The longer I waited, the higher the risk. I must think and move swiftly. Maria lurched sideways, sending me reeling to the blood-soaked floor. My face struck the galley stove and bloodied my mouth. The wound was

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incidental. I rested with my face to the deck, building energy. I managed to pull myself to my knees. Kneeling in front of the galley stove, I grasped for the Bic lighter on the shelf above the stove. My arm was now coming alive with pain. The hand was throbbing and pulsing with my every heart beat. I had lost 3 to 3-1/2 pints of blood, most of which was spewed within the interior of Maria. My dehydration was becoming more evident because of my increased thirst. I had secured the tourniquet in place ready for cauterization. I picked a knife for the operation. It's bone handle would insulate the blade which would be red-hot for the cauterization. The effects of Jack D was taking it's slow sweet time. My hand started to ooze blood again. Now my breathing was profusely labored. I was sweating within my foul weather gear, but I couldn't remove it. If I did, chances were I wouldn't put it back on because of fatigue. The yacht just jumped over a huge wave, crashing down on the next one. Things in the interior crash and ooze everywhere in weather such as this. If anything serious were to go wrong, I would quickly become another statistic. I wrapped the galley security belt around my waist and secured it to the table leg next to me. The galley stove was difficult to light. Finally, it nearly exploded to life. I sat contemplating the task ahead. Chances were, the pain would cause me to pass out or lose consciousness. I wanted to make sure the hot blade of the knife wouldn't catch anything on fire inside the boat. The pitcher that I had been drinking from would serve nicely as a fire extinguisher. I would drop the redhot blade into it when the job was done. For a second or two, I contemplated consulting the medical manual, but

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what could it possibly say about cauterization that I didn't already know? The light was too dim for this sort of thing, so I used the Ever Ready Florescent Bar. It's light immediately illuminated the entire area. I forced my hand open, surveying the damage. It appeared that all the tendons and muscles had been totally severed. The insides wiggled and spasmed, then the clotted artery unblocked and shot blood all over my legs and right hand. It's now or never! I took another large swig of Jack Daniels and set to work. My thirst was overwhelming. I couldn't seem to drink enough water. The boat lurched, then I reached up and pulled a coat hanger off the bunk. I rigged a tourniquet around my upper arm to shut off nearly all blood flow. Quickly, I cut the coat hanger to size with a pair of side cutters, then wrapped the hanger around the upper arm. Then, I used the side cutters handle to twist the hanger tighter. The fourth turn did the trick, but now I needed to find the seeping arteries. The medical journal that I didn't want to use at first, showed several arteries that I should be concerned with, but only two for this particular wound. The main bleeding area would be the forefinger extensor and mid-palm. When I lowered my hand, I found it necessary to flush out the wound. A clear picture of the damage would be necessary to stop the blood flow. My real concern was how to cauterize the wound and not do any further damage to the tissue in the surrounding area. The water cleansed the wound, but sent the sensation of fire into the palm of my hand. The tissue inside the palm was ripped apart, not surgically severed as I had thought. I would only concern myself with the two arteries. My arm now was

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turning blue. My heart rate was highly increased due to the loss of blood, but I felt there was a chance, even though it was long shot. I turned and eased the blade into the propane burner. I held the knife in the flame until it reached a hot-orange glow. The smell of hot iron filled the boat. The smell that would follow the cauterization would turn the strongest of stomachs. I extracted the blade from the flame, I raised my knee and rested my hand against it with the palm upward. My elbow was wedged against my hip for support as the boat rocked over the turbulent waves. My right hand was upward over the opposite shoulder and above my head with the blade in the flame. I then brought the blade down past the side of my head into a position to use the point of the hot knife for the operation. I couldn't get the wound open wide enough to expose the macerated area covering the end of the bleeding artery. I then brought the other knee up in order to wedge the ends of my fingers between my knees. I pried down on the wrist and back of my hand and opened the wound wide. I was now ready. The wound had started to bleed again. As I started, I saw the blade had cooled. I reheated it over again. As I waited, I became faint and weak. I knew I had to stabilize my knife hand. As I brought the blade down, I steadied the knife hand against my chin, and eased the pointed blade into the wound carefully. I expected excruciating pain to accompany the smell of seared flesh, but the opposite occurred. As the flesh and nerves were seared, the pain in the area ceased. The operation was a success. The smell of seared flesh lingered in the cabin. It seemed to permeate into the fabric of the interior. I drank a considerable amount of water. As far as I could tell, the artery searing was a success. The

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medical kit had only merthiolate as a topical antiseptic. I was first reluctant, but the more I considered it's good attributes, the more it seemed necessary. I opened the merthiolate bottle with my teeth, then cupped my injured left hand to catch the merthiolate in the palm area. With one abject motion, I dumped the bottle's contents into the cupped palm. The pain caused me to black out. I awoke abruptly at 12:26. I hadn't died, but it wasn't a bad idea. The pain in the hand was amazingly brutal. I immediately removed the coat hanger. The palm started to fill with blood, but much slower than it had before. I examined my hand closely and could see the procedure was effective. I drank and drank gallons of water, and sipped on Jack Daniels. At one point my confidence returned, but soon faded when I attempted to stand. Not ready yet. I took the medical kit and gauzed the wound and wrapped it lightly. Then I followed with several turns of surgical tape to insure it's protective positioning. I pulled a white cotton sock over the injured paw. Blood, dirt and merthiolate covered my foul weather gear. It looked dreadful. I wanted to clean up, but quickly realized I would use up valuable energy that was necessary for sailing. I had achieved what I set out to do, stop the bleeding. I WILL SURVIVE! I lay cradled on the floor like a badly beaten child, whimpering. I felt sorry for myself, but selfpity would only serve to defeat my purpose, SURVIVAL. I got a firm grip on myself and started laying out my plan. I would eat, rest, and drink as much waster as is humanly possible. Then I would set out to actualize my safety. I turned on some music, but the interlude was

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interrupted when the sound of hail stones started to pelt the cabin top. Right now, crashing ashore might be a God-sent blessing, maybe I could crawl ashore. Managing to crawl, I got into a bunk for a short nap. The boat soon rocked me into a very deep sleep. Upon my awakening, I discovered the yacht's violent gestures had turned to calm undulation, a stroke of luck I hadn't even anticipated. I hauled my very swollen arm and hand out of the bunk and attempted standing. Calm seas help for balancing. I can stand! I feebly turned the radio on for weather. Up on deck, the sun was patching through, lighting up the ocean to the south of me. The hatch slid open freely. I made my way out on deck to evaluate the situation. I would definitely survive. The fresh clean air filled my lungs, exchanging with the stale air that was once down below. I took out my deck knife and cut the sea anchor, letting it set adrift to sea. Autohelm had done an excellent job. I was no more than 30 miles off shore and hopefully no further from Sydney Harbor than 50 or 60 miles. With a one-handed sextant shot, I derived the coordinate which showed me to be 38 miles south and east of Sydney Harbor entrance. The wind had died down to 12 knots. Maria was clipping along at 6.25 knots. I should arrive at the heads of Sydney Harbor around 11:00. I did absolutely nothing but correct the Autohelm all the way back. I passed out several times due to loss of blood. I drank cold beer to keep up my body fluids. My fears quickly dissipated when I saw the lights of Macquarie Lighthouse at Sydney Harbor Heads. Sydney Harbor's entrance appeared dead on my bow on the horizon ahead. I'll be damned. I might

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not die at all. Hum, I might still make that party at the Sushi Bar. I had the CB on and picking up calls and conversation in Sydney Harbor. The Manley Hydrofoil was making conversation with it's home base at Circular Quay. I got off a call to the coast Guard and Harbor Patrol. I gave them my fix and explained what had occurred. They insisted on a helicopter rescue. I just laughed and explained there was no life threatening urgency in my request. However, seven or eight miles earlier, I wouldn't have said the same thing. I met the rescue operations boat at Sydney Harbor Heads. They had been waiting 30 minutes. As I sailed past the rescue boat, I signaled with the flashlight as I had prescribed. Within seconds, the boat motored into a synchronous parallel position alongside Maria. Two rescue personnel climbed aboard Maria. One man took the helm, the other went below. The one who went below saw the grisly aftermath of my near fatal ordeal. He returned on deck with an incredulous look on his face. He was horrified at the amount of blood within the yacht's interior. The stench made him sick, forcing his return to the deck. Once back on deck, the sailor dropped all sails and tied Maria to the rescue boat. Several men helped me aboard. I sat down and a doctor asked if I needed anything for pain. He just smiled and cut off my right sleeve to administer the intravenous fluid and a sedative. As I began to fade, I gave one last hazy request to get my sextant and beer cooler from Maria. I heard the order to cast off as two sailors stayed with her. I vaguely remember the doctor voicing his concern over my condition, mainly loss of blood, low blood pressure and fatigue. Sounds

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began to mingle as I sipped beer and the sedative took effect. The sedatives made everything seem euphoric as I was escorted to the hospital. My last blissful thought was,

GOD, I LOVE SAILING!

THE END

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