The Storm

The Storm

A true story of survival in Australia’s Bass Strait

D C Armstrong

1

‘It is my favourite thing the ocean, I think, that I have ever seen.

Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel.’

Contents:  In the beginning  The Plan  Island hopping  Trouble brewing  The capsize - fear and courage  Great White Ghost  The Bommie! - Get busy livin or get busy dyin  Surfing the Pascoe Break  Welcome to Pascoe  Rescue  The Wheatley’s  Home Port  The Crew  Gallery  Glossary

2

In the beginning This is a true story of survival. It is also a story of the sea.

How often over the centuries have the two have gone hand in hand? Of the many tales of the sea, this one I can claim as mine. It is based accurately on the events of April 1986.

My father and I had come to South Eastern Victoria to compete in the annual Marley Point overnight yacht race, a two-day event for trail-able yachts, held on the relatively safe inland waters of the Gippsland Lakes. It was our yearly pilgrimage and Dad rarely missed it. He loved this community type event, catching up with old mates etc. but for a less than motivated teenager it was a chore.

I was never an enthusiastic sailor, but I made a point of going to please my father who had trained me from a youngster to be reasonably competent in small yachts.

The Marley Point race itself was quite uneventful and from memory we completed the event, finishing about two-thirds of the way through the fleet in our beloved 6 metre aluminium yacht, ‘Hullabaloo’.

It was after that race, whilst contemplating the drive home to Lake Eildon in central Victoria (our home during the best part of my youth), the suggestion from Dad that we should attempt a sail to Tasmania, was first raised. Evidently, he had been considering the idea quietly to himself and he was able to rattle of a pretty concise plan as to how it could be safely done. We had a spare week which would be enough time. However, Bass Strait in a 20-foot trailer-sailor is not something to be taken lightly.

The suggestion went something like this. We would sail to Refuge Cove on Wilson’s Promontory which sits at the bottom end of the Victorian coast (were 6000 years ago the local Aboriginal people collected huge quantities of shellfish a place they called ‘Wamoon’), and if conditions were favourable, strike out for Deal Island which was about a third of the way to Tasmania.

From Deal we would aim for Flinders Island, another third of the distance covered, and then possibly Tasmania’s north coast if the weather conditions remained suitable. There was now movement at the station so to speak, as we started to 3

add detail to the plan, slowly manipulating the ridiculous into the believable. The ball had started to roll in what was to prove to be an epic moment in both our lives.

South East Victoria – Gippsland Lakes area.

As planned, we sailed from the main boat ramp at Wilson’s inlet near the coastal hamlet of Welshpool. We thrashed our way into the wind and the length of Corner Inlet in about 20 knots of breeze, past Snake Island, cleared the entrance and headed into the open ocean. We sailed comfortably southeast along the coast to Refuge Cove, a three-hour sail at a boat speed of 3-4 knots.

Refuge Cove – the day before.

Refuge is a beautiful harbour not far past Sealer’s Cove where both whales and seals were hunted well into the 1800s. It is a large, almost fully enclosed safe harbour nestled in the surrounds of Wilson’s Promontory National Park.

4

The great nautical explorer Matthew Flinders had rested here almost 200 years before, giving the area a significant historical perspective. We spent two days relaxing, swimming and hiking through the park and casually talking about the pros and cons of the attempt at Tasmania.

A nervous but pleasant calm descended over our stay as Dad became more excited about the prospect of taking that leap of faith.

Refuge Cove – sunrise on the first day.

Whenever he talked about the venture; the more he liked the idea. I think he knew a passage of this proportion would impress everyone. A sail across Bass Strait (following in the footsteps of the great Bass and Flinders), in a twenty-footer, would certainly be something out of the ordinary in terms of local yachting.

Arguably the most dangerous stretch of water in the world, Bass Strait was a formidable task in any vessel, the countless wrecks in these waters were testament to that fact. In theory, however, it could be done, and it was looking more and more likely that we would have a crack at it.

As I begin this story I am reminded of a time when sailing held an ambiguous part in my life and when adventure and excitement were safely surrounded by a feeling that someone or something had control over everything that happened.

5

My Father and I sailed every Christmas holiday at Rosebud on Port Phillip Bay. We sailed socially and in local Club events at Sorrento, Rosebud, Mordialloc and Sandringham.

Our trusty Mirror Dinghy was the little vessel we learnt so much in and from, and the Mornington Peninsula the classroom for many summers.

Sketch of the old Mirror (Sail No: 36050) – a thoroughbred of Rosebud. She still sails to this day on the waters of Port Stephens NSW.

I can remember one of the first races we entered was a short around the flags event off Mordialloc Sailing Club.

It was a blustery late summer afternoon with winds around the 20-25 knot mark, about the strength when you are happily excused an afternoon in the Clubhouse discussing what might have been.

I can clearly remember crews de-rigging, their sails flapping wildly, unsecured booms dragging from side to side, as the afternoon tea table and chairs were hastily moved indoors for immediate use.

At the same time, Dad was doing the opposite.

“It’ll die down, I ‘m sure” he muttered, trying to lift the spirits of his concerned 12-year-old crew.

6

Mordiallic Yacht Club – early days

The race was called off, but we sailed anyway. It was the first time I had experienced a capsize. I can clearly remember the old Mirror slowly leaning past the point of no return, fighting the inevitable, and then almost with majestic grace, completely rolling over.

I knew what I had to do.

“If we go over just jump onto the sail” Dad had instructed before we left the safety of land. This I did, the comparatively warm Bay water momentarily voiding the wind chill factor that was rattling my skinny bones as the sail slipped beneath the surface leaving me floating next to the upturned hull.

It was a strange feeling riding up and down in the small swell, the little dingy moving in unison next to me. A feeling of fear and excitement was the new experience. It was my first insight into the vulnerability of life. Something I didn’t understand at the time.

7

The Plan ‘A ship in harbour is safe — but that is not what ships are built for’

We agreed and confirmed that we could do the sail in three sections, and by doing this we could keep land in sight the whole way. Refuge Cove to Deal Island, about 60km and a 12hour sail, and then Deal to Flinders Island, a similar distance, and finally Flinders to the mainland of Tasmania.

We set sail at 0400 on Friday the 6th of April, a crystal-clear morning with a light breeze. Teams of baitfish followed us as we left Refuge Cove as we steered south by south east towards Deal Island.

We decided we were suitably well prepared, and in a sense, we were. We had good wet weather gear and lots of woollen undergarments, an EPIRB (an emergency tracking beacon), and the usual array of flares and provisions. However, with no life raft on board, there was always going to be an element of unnecessary risk and this would prove to be a costly omission.

Bass Strait showing Deal Island and Flinders Island with Wilson’s prom to the north.

The sail to Deal Island was in near perfect conditions. We had quite a large rolling ocean swell but it was not at all steep and we easily sailed between the peaks. We had about 15 knots of steady breeze and could hold a heading directly to Deal which was tucked behind its brothers Erith and Dover.

8

As we gradually lost sight of the mainland, Deal presented itself on the horizon and our confidence grew. Deal Island is part of the Kent Group of islands often thought to be named after the English County of the same name. It is in fact, named after Lieutenant Kent who was the Captain of the HMS Supply (a British Naval Vessel from the 1700s).

Matthew Flinders named the island group in favour of his trusty comrade and good friend, a privilege afforded Flinders who was the first European to see these islands in 1798.

The ‘Supply’ was a tender vessel for the Royal Navy ship HMS Reliance on which Flinders was stationed during this time.

Deal Island itself was named by Lieutenant Murray who later sailed through the area aboard the HMS Lady Nelson in 1800 and he made the incorrect connection with his home county of Kent, naming Dover Island, Erith Island and Deal Island after the group of islands that lay of the Kent coast. His sentimentality earned him a place in history as the seaway through the islands is known as Murray Passage.

HMS Lady Nelson

Everything was going to plan; we had reached Deal with ease and that night congratulated ourselves on our crafty and courageous seamanship. Interestingly, on the way, the only sign of life was a 4-metre black Zodiac rubber dinghy complete with three frogmen, speeding across the waves going somewhere. We speculated on their presence forty-odd 9

kilometres from shore with no mother ship in sight. Navy divers on manoeuvres or illegal entry? We never found out.

10

Island hopping Deal Island is quite simply a camel’s hump in the middle of Bass Strait. Until recently the full-time lighthouse keeper (the lighthouse was shut down in 1992) was the only resident, and not much else existed on the island. It is, however, a convenient safe stopover for yachts transiting these waters.

View from Deal Island Lighthouse

In keeping with this, we were welcomed to the little island at the tiny white-sanded cove on the north side by the crews of other yachts who were also passing through. Being the site of an old sealing outpost, Deal’s harbour is quite a safe little port. We ate fresh crayfish and drank beer with the crews of two other larger yachts, all on return passages.

Deal Island – the first day

11

We decided to stay the next day and overnight as well, and to start the second leg of the journey the following morning.

This presented us with the opportunity to do some exploring and we wasted no time in setting out to cover as much as the island as we could.

We visited the lighthouse which was originally constructed in 1798 and is still the highest lighthouse in the Southern Hemisphere at 305 metres above sea level with a range of 24 nautical miles. It first produced light in 1848 but has not been manned since mid-1992.

We also went in search of a crashed aircraft from the 1940s.

An Airspeed Oxford twin-engine aircraft on a submarine location mission crashed on the island during the Second World War. There is strong evidence to suggest that Japanese subs lay in wait for shipping off King Island in Bass Strait during the war and regular RAAF patrols played a game of cat and mouse with these Subs through the 1940s.

The plane from No. 1 Operational Training Unit RAAF (No. 1 OTU) took off from East Sale in Victoria on a mission over Bass Strait and crashed near the Lighthouse on Deal Island at about 0935 hours E.S.T. on September 23, 1943. All on board were killed.

F/Sgt Joseph Docherty (411878) was the pilot, with observers Sgt. Norman Stirling Graham (418504), Sgt. Peter Albion Hendrickson (419937), and P/O Kenneth Roy Cowling (419605) making up the crew. Once retrieved, their bodies were transported to the Victorian War Memorial Cemetery at Springvale in June 1944. The initial investigation and observation by the Deal Island Lighthouse Keeper produced this note: ‘Having seen the position of the plane and from what Mr Munro has told me, I am satisfied that the boys flew in to have a look at a ship which was really a wreck but could have been a vessel in hiding and were caught in an air pocket in a valley between the two hills, and this was the cause of the accident. They were definitely rising again, but did not have enough height, and crashed into the side of the hill. Had they been only 30 feet higher, the accident would not have happened. As far as I can judge no blame was attached to any one person’.

Dad and I found the crash site including the remains of mechanical parts and a fuselage strewn across a gully

12

between the two camel humps that make up the island’s topography.

Deal Island with Lighthouse sitting just above the gully.

Our search took all day and we were scratched badly after climbing through the thick scrub that grows in the less exposed areas. That night we ate a meal cooked on board Hullabaloo, chatted, joked and enjoyed a few beers. We were in good spirits, buoyed by the success of the trip so far. Rest came easy and early with the expectation that we would surely complete the second part of our plan.

Dad feeding the Wallabies on Deal.

13

‘Mackerel skies and Mare’s tails soon will be time to shorten sails!’

The morning was clear and bright with a gentle ocean swell and a pleasant 10-15 knots. We ate a quick breakfast and pushed Hullabaloo’s stern from the sandy shore, and without need to start the outboard, sailed immediately under jib to clear the shore. Within minutes we had the mainsail up, our lifelines attached and had the UHF radio tuned to get an early morning weather report.

As we sailed out of the small harbour, we radioed Flinders Island lighthouse for a weather update. The lighthouse keeper on Flinders relayed a forecast for steadily increasing winds to a maximum of 25 knots but no more - manageable for us and the Hullabaloo.

We set course for Flinders immediately, south by south-east.

The morning progressed well albeit with a moderate increase in the swell but still wide enough for us to comfortably sail between the crests. We estimated that the wave height was around 4-5 metres with another 20-25 between the smoothrolling tops. This provided an awesome sight and a first-hand experience of how spectacularly powerful the ocean could be.

The wind stayed at about 15 knots steady.

At about 1000 hours there was a slight but increasing darkening of the sky and a marked increase in the steepness of the sea. We were now sailing noticeably up and down the large swells. The wind was no more than 15 knots with the odd gust to 20 knots prompting us to radio Flinders Island lighthouse for another forecast. This time the news was not so good. A storm warning was now current, the strength of which was unknown at this stage.

What we didn’t know or anyone else for that matter was that a massive storm front was brewing in the Southern Ocean. A low-pressure system was now bouncing along the Antarctic coast and heading directly towards Bass Strait. We were sailing south towards the 40th parallel, also known in seafaring terms as the ‘roaring forties’ and we could now sense the gravity of the unfolding situation. This region was synonymous with the classic shipwreck tragedies of the last 200 hundred years and unbeknown to us, we were about to register our own tiny part in this overcrowded history.

We talked about returning to Deal but decided against it as we estimated that we were over halfway to Flinders Island 14

and we still had favourable winds. This being the case it was decided to take advantage of the situation and run for the lee of Flinders Island, and anyway, the storm front could easily miss us. As a precaution, we changed into full wet weather gear and inflated a makeshift rubber dinghy (a cheap unreliable version of a zodiac), which we stuffed in the cabin as an added form of flotation in case of a capsize. We then went about preparing the boat for heavy weather.

Hullabaloo was a twenty-foot aluminium trailer sailor, positively buoyed in a foam sandwich design, and in theory, unsinkable. We double-checked our lifelines (harness connected to a strong point still allowing movement around the boat) and sealed the cabin off from the open-air cockpit were Dad and I spent most of the time whilst sailing the yacht. Usually Dad was on the tiller and controlling the mainsail via the sheet at his feet, with me working the jib sheets on both the port and starboard sides of the cabin to ‘play’ the forward sail.

Isolating the cabin from the cockpit is vital in rough weather as a large amount of water entering the cabin could test the flotation of the vessel, a test we would rather avoid 80km from the mainland.

A reef was put in the mainsail (reduction of sail area), and a storm jib (a smaller forward sail), rigged. In other words, we battened down the hatches.

Early on the second day – the sky says it all (artist impression)

Thirty minutes later the look on Dad’s face was almost as disconcerting as the change in the weather. He was an experienced blue water sailor but most of his travels had 15

been in the seas north of Brisbane, in the less contrary Pacific Ocean. He scanned the horizon looking for something, I never asked what, but I had the impression he had underestimated the potential of a dramatic weather change at such short notice. The confident ‘all-knowing’ look a son wants to see on his father’s face was nowhere to be seen.

Within the hour we would be in mountainous seas and fighting to save Hullabaloo.

16

Trouble brewing Almost as soon as we made the call to Flinders Island lighthouse, the weather deteriorated markedly. It went from bad to worse within about 45 minutes. To our disbelief, the swell steepened to around 10 metres or 30 feet (our mast was 28 feet tall allowing us to gauge wave height accurately), and the wind strengthened to between 35-40 knots, close to gale force. We had to completely remove the mainsail as the gusting wind kept knocking us well beyond 45 degrees, putting us constantly at risk of capsizing. We relied on the storm jib for steerage although control of the boat at this stage was difficult.

We began surfing down the face of enormous waves with little control. The encroaching waves cast a shadow completely over us as the now tiny Hullabaloo ran before them like an ant escaping a boot. I was convinced the mass of roaring water would completely swallow us up, but the huge rolling hills of green rode under us time and time again.

We were locked in a desperate dilemma, continue to Flinders Island and relative safety which meant running before the huge seas risking capsize, or turn into the steep mountains and ‘heave to’ in the hope of riding out the storm.

The location of Bass Strait in the Southern Ocean and the fact that huge ocean swells arrive there from the Great Australian Bight, abruptly meeting the relatively shallow waters of the Strait, produces severe sea conditions. In a short space of time, the sea state can change dramatically, often characterised by steep surfing waves.

Bass Strait on its day can be considered about the worst stretch of ocean anywhere in terms of shipping safety. Small islands, rock platforms and strong currents surround the coasts of both Flinders Island and King Island, the two prominent landmasses between the mainland and Tasmania.

17

Late morning on the second day (artist impression).

We realised we had to slow the boat to avoid losing complete control and spearing nose first into the dark troughs. I imagined us cartwheeling end on end before disappearing into the depths.

In the absence of a sea anchor, we dropped our remaining sail, the storm jib, in a desperate attempt to reduce our surfing speed. We were now racing down the face of huge dark green slopes that had been created by the mountainous seas that continued to chase us. Even without sails, we were making almost 10 knots and often more as we raced down the enormous waves like a Bondi surfboat.

Within the hour, to our complete dismay, things had gotten worse. It was now about 1100 hours and we now had a constant 40 knots with more extreme gusts sheering across the water surface. A constant heavy spray made clear breathing difficult and communication with each other near impossible.

I looked at Dad to see only his mouth moving, his voice lost in the howling gale. To add to our already perilous predicament, the waves had steepened and increased in size.

The wave height comfortably exceeded the height of the mast time and time again. The surrounding sound of the sea was now nothing more than a constant roar. It was virtually impossible to communicate verbally with each other. Now, at least every third or fourth wave was cresting, and this was causing great concern as finding ourselves side on to the top of a wave would certainly result in a capsize.

18

We were also taking increasingly large amounts of water into and over the cockpit. I was totally engulfed with fear, and for the second time in my life, I felt the vulnerability of human existence against the sea – I was again the frightened 11 year old boy, back at Mordialloc in the Mirror Dingy on that stormy afternoon.

I could imagine our venerable skin and bone being crushed by the green mountains that constantly pursued us.

The situation was now completely out of our control. At this moment, I should’ve have activated our EPIRB, but fear rendered me incapable of any meaningful action and I simply braced myself in the cockpit well, and closed my eyes.

Just before the capsize and rollover (artist impression)

Dad was completely overwhelmed, and I don’t think he could really believe the situation we were in. He didn’t mention the EPIRB or any other course of action and I assumed he was as panic-stricken as me. A roaring thunder forced us both to look over the starboard quarter as white-water smashed into us. We became the equivalent of a raft crashing through steep rapids. Hullabaloo shuddered violently and rolled onto her side, the rigging screamed, and water poured into the partially submerged cockpit well.

Dad and I grasped at the starboard railing, scrambling like drowned rats to clear the surging water. I now looked through the railing along the exposed starboard side of the hull to see our keel lying just below the surface – we were starting to roll.

19

The bottom of the 1.5-metre keel poked through the back of the wave and we shimmed on the waves crest. I stared wideeyed, I saw a clear drop of 40 feet to the dark valley below.

We were at the top of the rollercoaster and surely we would tumble into the abyss. I was beyond fear as I screamed to myself.

Hullabaloo shuddered again and somehow began to correct her balance. To our amazement she righted herself and we slipped back over the cresting wave top, the giant behemoth continuing on its path towards Antarctica.

At that immediate moment, shocked into action I decided to radio Flinders Island. To do this meant opening the hatchway and exposing the cabin to flooding. I didn’t care as I needed to do something to feel partly in control of what had simply become a nightmare. There was no response from Flinders, so I sent a general Mayday to all ships, calling in our position to the best of my knowledge. Without the ability to hear Dad and confer, I estimated we were approximately 20 km north nor’ east of Flinders Island. Unknown to us, this message would never be received.

20

The capsize – fear and courage At the very moment I finished the Mayday call and before I could seal the cabin again, another huge wave picked us up, flinging the yacht onto its side and tossing both Dad and me into the foaming sea. There was no subtly about this wave, it just shook the boat, picked it up, and tossed it on its side.

Water bubbled into and around the cockpit but more critically it gushed into the now exposed cabin. The sea charged into the cockpit and into the cabin, filling Hullabaloo immediately.

Within seconds, a second wave with a surfing crest, completely rolled Hullabaloo so she now lay upside down, keel pointing to the sky. We knew she should right herself; the boat was designed to be self-righting, but as desperate moments passed, our heads barely breaking the surface, it became glaringly obvious this was not happening. Our lifelines having been caught up in the rigging as the boat rolled were now stretched to their maximum length. To make matters worse, we were caught on the lee side of the hull with each ensuing wave pushing the floundering hull onto us.

The beginning of the rollover, cockpit full and cabin filling (artist impression).

The ten seconds it took to realise that the boat was not going to come back to life felt like an eternity. I felt like a fish on a hook as my lifeline jerked with the movement of 21

the yacht in the thrashing sea. Hullabaloo was floundering like a wounded whale although most of her bulk, now below the surface made her appear more stable. Only seconds passed before the lifeline, still twisted in the submerged rigging, pulled me under. I grasped for the gunwale and strained to lift my face clear of the surface, the line jerked and gave all but a few inches.

My face burst into the howling wind only for me to splutter uncontrollably with a mouthful of sea spray.

I broke the golden rule of never unclipping a lifeline, my only connection to relative safety. Wanting to avoid another dunking and fearing the hull would ride over the top of me I immediately unclipped.

I couldn’t find the safety clip and I started to panic, blindly fumbling for a quick release. Again I was pulled under, just managing to gasp some oxygen first. After a few agonising seconds, the safety clip released – I was free. I burst through he surface again grasping for Hullabaloo as she drifted away, carried by a dark green swell. I kicked as hard as I could and reached my little island quickly. I swam along the curve of Hullabaloo’s bottom side to the stern where to my surprise I was instantly washed up and onto the capsized hull by another wave.

To my horror, Dad had not yet unclipped and was in imminent danger of being crushed by the pounding hull. I yelled at him to unclip and swim around as I had. He hesitated, knowing the risk of being separated from the yacht with the seas being too big to swim through. He continued to wait, Hullabaloo’s gunwale pounding up and down in the confused waters surrounding him.

I screamed at him again to unclip, but he only stared back at me as if he didn’t understand, unable to hear me through the howling wind, his head barely breaking the surface as his safety line became more entangled in the damaged rigging below that was now Hullabaloo’s keel.

Finally, he unclipped and made his way to the stern. A large wave washed him partly onto the upturned hull and I grabbed his life jacket and pulled him towards me. We both scrambled from the stern along the skeg towards the highest part of the upturned hull and hugged the keel. One and a half meters of solid lead became our stronghold, as waves crashed over the hull.

I looked into Dad’s eyes and saw nothing but fear.

22

The time was close to 12 midday although the darkened sky gave the impression of impending nightfall. It had taken less than 2 hours for us to lose our battle with nature. Ten minutes after the capsize we had started to gain some perspective on the situation. Most disconcerting was the fact that we were still unsure about whether the boat would sink. It had settled a little lower in the water with the surface of the upturned hull know only six or so inches above the surface. This, of course, gave us no dry area as the waves easily washed over the hull. Our immediate problem was staying with the boat.

X marks the spot – approximate capsize location

As the sea state maintained its ferocity, we were constantly washed off the hull as the rolling tops of the bigger waves smashed into us and often completely submerged us and Hullabaloo. Green walls of water defeated the buoyancy of the yacht time and time again but she managed to stay afloat. Even in her inverted position, Hullabaloo seemed mostly to be able to ride up the face of the waves, but she could not rise above the surfing crests. Our thoughts turned to how long she could cope with these conditions. Was she being held on the surface through her own buoyancy or only by a fluky air pocket trapped in the cabin?

At this stage we decided that the best place to be was on the windward side of the keel which prevented us from being washed off, the keel providing a solid backboard.

Unfortunately, this exposed us to the pounding sea. We were kept in a constant state of being drenched by the waves and with the howling wind, exposure was a major concern. We 23

huddled together as best we could for protection from the elements, attempting to cover our head and groin area, which are major heat loss areas.

We seemed to be drifting at considerable speed, possibly caused by current and wave action combined. We guessed our drifting direction was due west. This was quite concerning as we were moving away from both Deal and Flinders Islands. To the best of our knowledge there was nothing but open sea to the west of our current position.

Next stop Africa, a less than motivating thought.

About one hour after the knockdown we had started to talk about our predicament in more detail. The initial shock of being in such a critical situation started to make way for the desire to explore our options and for altering our outlook, which although not directly discussed was obviously not great. The sea state had lessened somewhat so we decided that we needed to search for and hopefully access the EPIRB if it was still with the boat, and to confirm whether it had been activated by exposure to salt water. The other option might be to manually activate it.

We could not count on it still being with the yacht as it was simply with the ‘grab bag’ just inside the cabin before the capsize and could now be drifting a long way from where it needed to be. If the device was somewhere in the upturned hull it could be our lifeline.

It was decided that I would attempt to swim under and into the hull to locate it. In theory it should’ve been situated just inside the cabin still in the ‘grab bag’. I decided to attempt the dive from the stern to avoid being forced by the oncoming waves into the hull or possibly dragged away to the open sea from the lee side, which also presented the added danger of the yacht washing onto me. I estimated that I would have to swim down about two metres and then about four or five horizontally to access the cabin. I was a strong swimmer and could hold my breath for just over a minute, which would be enough time to get there and back providing nothing went wrong.

I slid off the back of the hull and into the water, hanging onto the rudder, my lifelong excessively strong and exaggerated shark phobia already playing games with my 24

tattered psyche. At least in the water I was out of the wind which gave some relief from the biting cold.

I tried to pick a break in the swell, a time when the hull was not being lifted and slammed onto the surface (how I was going to do this in reverse when I had to swim out, I didn’t know). I was petrified that I would be knocked unconscious or even killed outright by the super structure slamming onto my head. I needed to dive under quickly and deeper than previously estimated. Treading water and hanging onto the rudder was tiring and I was already exhausted from hanging onto the keel.

The moment came, a flat spot, I pushed myself under glaring into the water, silence immediately surrounded me, it was erringly quiet. I hoped to see the orange of the EPIRB within easy arms reach, a forlorn hope really considering the conditions. No luck as I glared past the damaged structure of the rudder into the ghostly maze of twisted rigging. My view was clear, the water colour was a beautiful dark aqua, and my gaze followed the mast down as it disappeared out of sight into the darkness below. Gripped with fear and fully expecting a massive shark to launch from the depths at any moment and drag me to an agonising death, I was locked into this sight for too long, Before I knew it, I was out of breath, my panic increasing. I pushed away from the hull, breaking the surface only to be engulfed by the crest of a wave. I scrambled to grab the rudder again. Dad was yelling at me, the image of a drowned rat. I couldn’t hear what he was saying but his face was contorted with effort. What was he saying, was there a shark? I immediately looked over my shoulder. To my shock and complete surprise, there were hundreds of penguins swarming around the boat. There was also a considerable amount of food and plastic cups and plates floating on the surface. At the blink of an eye the penguins dived and vanished. I was later to learn from experienced fisherman that the reason for their quick departure was more than likely the presence of a large shark.

I turned back to face Dad. He was now just looking at me.

Had he seen a shark? I yelled for confirmation that all was okay. He didn’t respond, the howl of the wind sweeping my voice away. I indicated that I was going to make another attempt and he nodded that he understood. I looked for another flat spot. We moved together, the hull and I, riding 25

up the steep mountains of green and down the other side.

From the crests I could see for kilometres across the mighty ocean, a mass of large white capped waves and swirling spray. In the troughs it become much darker until the light forcing itself through the wave spectrum appeared as we rode up the next face, the scene was surreal. The 40 feet difference from peak to trough almost overwhelming.

I picked the next available flat spot and pushed under again.

There seemed to be even more wreckage than before. Rigging criss-crossed in front of me, and I hesitated again. Could I get through? Just at that moment the hull lifted and crashed down on the surface missing me by inches. I surfaced immediately. I had been washed metres away from the boat. I swam with all my strength back to the stern. My energy was gone. I realised that I would never make it to the cabin through the tangled web of rigging, and back again.

Should I still try? If I got through, found the EPIRB, activated it, then Dad would be rescued but I would drown. Any semblance of courage I had remaining evaporated with an energy sapping thought that was too hard to entertain for more than a second.

I dragged myself onto the stern, Dad pulling and me pushing until I reached the keel. Dad looked at me hopefully. I told him that it was probably impossible to reach the cabin and that I hadn’t seen the EPIRB in the cockpit area. He looked devastated and his head dropped.

26

Great White Ghost We rested for another 15 minutes or so considering the options, our attention refocused by the returning Fairy penguins. We decided that we would attempt to right the yacht and keep sailing or at least hopefully be able to find the EPIRB possibly still trapped inside the boat. We would both hang leeward from the keel as if trying to right a capsized dinghy, and if we managed to lift the mast close to the surface I would swim out and lift it above the surface, hopefully into a position whereby the keel would once again do its job and the yacht might begin to self-right.

The first part of the exercise worked, and we could see the mast top within half a metre of the surface. I would have to leave Dad, take a running dive from the hull into the sea and get to the mast tip before it disappeared out of sight. The penguins again disturbingly vanished as I released my lifeline and plunged into the sea ploughing through the confused waters to where the top of the mast was, 28 feet away. No sharks, no sharks, there’s nothing there, concentrate, get to that fucking mast I yelled to myself, trying to conjure up some bravery.

As I reached the spot where the mast was I could see it sinking below me, Dad losing the battle to keep it close to the surface. I felt for the mast tip with my feet as even though it was only a metre and half below the surface, I could not see it clearly through the darkened sea.

Shapes dance below me, black water swirled around me, and the killer shark in my mind swam just below my dangling legs. Yes!, there it is I thought as my foot scrapped the aluminium. I hooked my foot under and was able to raise the mast to hold it under my right arm. I allowed myself to settle a little into the surface. Dad could see what was happening, could see the window of opportunity, and he heaved while I pushed against my treading legs trying to get some leverage.

I thrashed with all my might and aided with the buoyancy of my life vest, managed to get the mast to the surface.

Sweeping seas rushed over me constantly, I struggled to breath with the thick spray like a blanket over my face.

Try as we might, we could not break the mast head clear of the water, it just would not return to its rightful role above the surface. Unbeknown to use, the mast had filled with 27

water and was contradicting the natural self-righting aspect of the yacht. In effect, the mast had become the keel. We tried and tried, but exhaustion had taken its toll. My energy completely gone I rolled away and released the mast which immediately disappeared beneath the surface. Dad hung onto the keel, unaware that I had given up my fight with the mast tip.

My head lulled back with complete fatigue, my thoughts swirling. What now? Fuck it all I thought, just fuck it all. A large wave spilled over me and as I popped back through its surf, I saw that Hullabaloo seemed further away. Bloody shit, fuck, fuck, fuck – I was drifting away from the boat. She seemed to be heading in one direction and me in another.

Why was this? Just swim, just fucking swim. Get to that boat I yelled to myself. In sheer panic I thrashed at the water trying to make way towards the still half righted hull. Dad was now out of sight and clearly still on the keel, unaware of my predicament. I was making ground, slowly, and I was beating this fucking ocean! I was angry and it felt good as I pushed harder and harder, and then bang! Something crashed into my leg!

Great White (Bass Straits’s greatest predetor) and my greatest fear

A giant shark had smashed into my leg! Fuck, I’m going to die! I yelled and kicked out at the attacking beast. Bang again, oh shit, you idiot, it was the submerged mast! Okay, keep going. I was now swimming with my arms and type rope walking along the mast towards the boat.

I looked down; large black shapes swirled around me. There is a shark! The black water was like an abyss were every angry sea creature that ever was existed. I screamed again, still 28

thrashing. The mast fell away, and Bill appeared from behind the keel, his hand outstretched. I was nearly there, our hands clasped together, and I had escaped the shark frenzy.

To our heart broken horror, we had exhausted our two main options for survival and without a spoken word this had become completely and clearly apparent – we just looked at each other, and there was nothing to say.

We were now well and truly drifting west and for the first time since the capsize, I felt utterly gutted. I had the sickening feeling that we were now really in deep, deep trouble. We wrapped ourselves together against the keel, both of us shivering uncontrollably. The ocean roared, and we were silent.

About two hours later; it became glaringly apparent that drowning was not our major concern. Hyperthermia was clearly starting too rare its ugly head and we were both well into the first stage of this condition. We shivered uncontrollably as the wind whipped around our soaked bodies. Weather conditions had moderated a little and the size of the waves had reduced in size. I estimated the size of the swell to be almost half of what it had been when we capsized. Although we were still being buffeted as some waves washed over us, the frequency had decreased. The wind was still at around 40 knots and causing considerable discomfort and I could feel the cold penetrating my inner core.

In our favour was the fact that with the lessening swell, the hull had gained a few inches of flotation allowing us to hang on with a bit less effort. It appeared as if Hullabaloo was not going to sink although the possibility was a constant concern. At this stage we were both totally exhausted. Not only had we not eaten for almost eight hours, but we had not had any fresh water for about six. Considering the effort used in trying to right the boat, we desperately needed a drink. Salt spray was a constant problem. It’s a strange feeling being drenched and freezing but with a dry mouth.

It was now approaching 3pm and we had been in the water just on 3 hours. The warm flow of urine around my inner wet weather gear was a momentary relief from the biting cold in that area. We remained huddled together in an attempt to keep the cold from our groin and heads, interlocking our bodies. We gathered in some rope from the flotsam and tied 29

ourselves to the keel to ease the strain on our fatigued muscles. The conditions continued unabated.

We occasionally spoke, only to suggest that maybe the Mayday had gotten through and that maybe the EPIRB had activated as it contacted with the sea as it was technically supposed to do. We tried vainly to give ourselves some hope by talking up the most meagre of possibilities. I was to find out later that neither of these scenarios had taken place. No one had received the Mayday and the EPIRB had lodged in an air pocket in the nose of the bow, clear of the water. The only Royal Australian Navy patrol boat in the area was unable to put to sea due to the enormous swells and ironically was holed up in Refuge Cove, the place from where we had started our journey. Other yachts were also in trouble closer to the mainland however, but unlike us; their rescues were well under way.

We never openly entertained the possibility, but in our hearts we knew that we were alone and drifting towards the edge of the Great Southern Ocean. In fact, we had not even been listed as missing and this would not happen for another 24 hours. Without exchanging words, we both realised that our situation had gone from terrible to catastrophic.

For the next two hours the situation changed little as far as the weather was concerned. On the other hand, our physical condition had rapidly deteriorated to the extent that we were well into the spectrum of hyperthermia. At this stage our shivering had stopped, and we had entered a dream like state were lucid thoughts needed to be forced. As we moved through the first phase of hypothermia the feeling of cold became less severe; in fact, in this state initially you believe you are becoming resistant to the cold as the shivering stops.

Ironically this is the first sign of the physical body giving up.

Decision making becomes nothing more than a group of confused thoughts. Fear slowly resides, and you constantly find yourself locked into thoughts of pleasant moments from childhood and adolescence. In actuality, this is the process by which the mind is preparing the body for death.

For long periods we said nothing to each other, what is there to say apart from the acknowledgement that the end is almost certain?

30

During a lull in the Storm we sighted land

Late in the afternoon, it was hard to tell as the sky was still menacingly dark, but most likely about 5pm, I glanced to the horizon. Although my eyes where shut now for long periods of dream like existence, I caught a glimpse of low-lying land.

This shocked me back into some sort of real thought and I immediately looked at Dad who was dozing, his eyes shut, the extremities of his face blue in colour. The sea state had flattened considerably, the swells now about 3 metres in height and I could see for up to about a kilometre although the wind continued to howl. I prodded Dad and he opened his eyes, but he said nothing. I could tell he was struggling to maintain himself. In fact, we were both battling at this stage, but I at least had youth on my side and probably a little more strength. We had now been in the water for five hours.

31

The Bommie – we’re getting off this boat!

I pointed in the direction of the land “An island?” I yelled.

Dad looked long and hard and agreed that it was land, but an island? There were none in this western part of the Strait that he could think of apart from King Island. Had we changed direction and drifted that far while we slumbered away? It was easy to sleep tied to our keel, made somewhat easier without the required effort to hang, all bolstered by our drug like trance.

With the appearance of the land, I saw a chance to escape our predicament, a miracle lifeline when all had seemed lost.

“We must swim for this dot of land!” I thought with increasing urgency.

Dad was dead against the idea. He pointed out the fact that the land was at least a kilometre away, almost an impossible swim in our physical state and in these conditions. Besides, the current appeared to be taking us away from the land.

When he said this, I realised that we had probably drifted past it and much closer earlier, but in our slumber, had not seen it!

I became desperate! I pushed my argument, we had to try I said, it was our last chance! He gripped my arm and unconvincingly told me the oldest rule of the sea, “Never ever leave the boat; we must stay with the boat”.

He was right of course; it is a well-known fact that unless rescue is certain, you must stay with the boat, it is your island. History is littered with tales of sailors having perished after leaving a vessel that is still floating.

Within minutes the land was out of sight, we had drifted at such a rate that even standing on the hull, I could no longer see it. This was the lowest point of the saga so far, losing hope only to be given a chance and then to have it snatched away again. I sat back down and for the first time ever, I made some sort of half believing effort to pray, tears disguised by the salt spray.

We drifted on, the darkening water indicating a return to the deeper seas and possibly the edge of the Bass Strait shelf, although I couldn’t be sure of this. I had lost the feeling in my extremities, but I felt no pain. I was continually drifting in and out of a dream like state of mind. The sea appeared to have flattened again although in the distance the waves still 32

seemed large indicating a return to the larger spaced sea swells we had encountered 5-6 hour previously.

The top of a mountain, break forming (from hull level)

The wind continued to scream around us and occasionally I would jerk from my semi-conscious state sure that a helicopter was hovering above us, a cruel deception played by the elements on more than one occasion. Communication with each other was an effort not worth contemplating. My stomach ached, thirst gripped my throat and I had absolutely no energy. We were literally like two drowned rats.

I constantly thought about my home and the things I’d miss when it was all over. How long would it take for us to die? I briefly wondered about how it might happen. Would we drown or eventually die of exposure? What would we say to each other, if anything at all? I guessed that we would say nothing as we had spoken not more than a handful of sentences in about 6 hours. At this very time, the end, however it might come, seemed a bearable possibility, acceptable, possibly welcome. I understood how the human spirit can be dashed in the face of dwindling hope. Without hope there is nothing and only the most remarkable souls go on. I closed my eyes again and thought of home and how unremarkable I was.

About two hours after our last sighting of land there was a change in the surrounding sound. I listened for a time without lifting my head. I was now not cold at all. I also realised that I had defecated in my wet weather gear. When did that happen, I thought? The sound remained. It was easier to imagine what it could be without the effort of looking up.

33

I was also sick of the spray continually in my face. I had constant nausea which I attributed to sea sickness and the result of continually ingesting salt water. My vomit looked like regurgitated sea water.

I looked up, expecting to once again see nothing. To my absolute shock, another piece of land!

I yelled at Dad, “Land!”

My dreaminess vanished. Without waiting for Dad to respond, I tried to get up onto my knees for a better look and promptly fell forward, smashing my nose on the hull. A sideway glance along the hull and over the water confirmed my first observation. Yes, it was definitely a small piece of land. It appeared to be well clear of the waterline. It lay about 400-500 metres away from us and looked about 100 metres in length although the backdrop of storm clouds made it impossible to tell.

At one end of the island was an enormous bommie (rock column), with large waves crashing over the top, this was this sound that I had picked up on. The bommie appeared to be about 5 metres wide, cylindrical in shape and when in a trough, about 6 metres above the surface. It lay about 40 metres from the shore between us the main piece of land.

The larger waves continued to wash over it and I realised the sea state had deteriorated again.

We both surveyed the scene, a hint of hope appeared in Dad’s eyes. This time there was no doubt that we were going to make an attempt at that land. It appeared that the current was actually taking us towards the island, and we couldn’t believe our luck. If things went our way, we might not have to swim after all. Then without warning we changed direction briefly and stopped, the hull swung around 90 degrees and we could see the current washing past. What had happened? The anchor! The anchor had obviously fallen from the bow ‘anchor well’ and had been caught on the shallow bottom as we approached the land. Could we cut the line? There was no way in our weakened condition. We had no feeling in our hands, and I could hardly stand up so how could I swim under the boat again to cut the line?

We were still about 400 metres from the land, a risky swim in our state. Then, as quickly as we had stopped, we broke free and moved again, this time at a quicker pace towards the land. We had no way of telling if the anchor had broken free or was dragging.

34

As we got within about 100 metres, we could easily see the shore. This was a disturbing scene as there was nothing but jagged rocks and crashing swells. There was no apparent safe landing area, no beach and no bay. Then, again we changed direction and started heading along the small coast, dragged again by the powerful waters. We increased speed again, this time caught in a speeding current heading directly towards the large bommie. The sea swirled and flowed diving into the depths, gurgling and churning around the large column. We dared not attempt a swim in these swirling waters even though we were now within 50 metres of the shore.

As we got closer to the bommie, we increased speed yet again; it was if we were caught in a river. Within seconds we were within 10 metres of colliding with the rock structure.

All we could do was hang on to our keel and look in horror at the huge waves smashing into and over the rock.

A gigantic swell with a metre of surf on top lifted the hull and carried us forward; we were actually about 2 metres above the height of the rock top as we surfed towards its mass, the wave carrying us unwillingly on a collision course.

For a brief second before impact I stared down at the round top surface of the bommie, its flat pock marked lunar surface looking decisively hard. The wave broke with a huge roar and we smashed onto the rock top, the superstructure of the boat crumpling under the impact, the noise was of aluminium grinding on rock, and the shock of the impact battered our bodies against the still upturned hull. The air was forced from lungs and my head slammed into Hullabaloos hull. The water sucked away as the wave moved on, leaving the hull balancing on the bommie’s roof edge. We looked at each other for a split second, beyond panic, beyond fear, one arm around the keel and one on the hull, unbelieving in what was taking place. The stern hung clear of the edge and we balanced precariously mimicking an unfortunate car trapped on a broken bridge in some B grade Hollywood movie.

There was no time to say or do anything, the boat began to move. To our complete horror, inch by inch, we started to slide off the rock tower.

The hull rocked slightly back and forth, balanced on the edge of this great rock. We held on as tight as we could, waiting for the inevitable. Dad’s mouth was open, screaming just as I 35

was - our only available resistance to our uncontrollable situation. Within seconds the grating of metal on the rock got louder and sounded the beginning of the hull sliding across the edge. As the angle increased, I looked over my shoulder at the swirling sea below; the drop was at least five metres! My god this it, the bloody boat is going to fall right on top of us. I closed my eyes and screamed again.

The Bommie (at low tide)

As Hullabaloo slid off the rock, the hull rolled over with Dad and I now underneath! The fall seemed to take forever; we crashed onto the water below with a force that slammed my head again against the hull and forced the air from my lungs.

Foaming bubbles surrounded my face as the sea flooded around us. I held on as best I could, still strapped to the keel.

Trapped under the hull, everything was silent apart from the muffled noises of the surging current.

Seconds passed, I was desperate for air and full of panic, surely this was the end. I tried to free myself from the line that now trapped me to the keel and prevented my escape, but I couldn’t even find the point where it was attached to me. In desperation I smashed the hull with my fist in a frantic, pointless panic. At that very moment, for reasons unknown, the hull turned turtle again and rolled back through 180 degrees leaving us once again on top of the upturned hull, clear of the water.

36

Silence was replaced by the roar of the sea around us. I gasped to get air into my lungs and coughed uncontrollably. I looked at Dad, he was also coughing, and gasping, his face was blue. We had stayed lashed to Hullabaloo like 2 ants strapped to a bobbing cork.

I screamed at Dad, “Are you alright, are you alright?!!”

He nodded in the affirmative while still spluttering. While we were under the water the current had taken us about 30 metres from the bommie, away from the island, the power of the pulling sea amazing us once more. We continued on what appeared to be a huge circular path that took us back to about 400 metres from the land, to the position were the anchor had originally snagged. We gained control of ourselves in time to realise we had started to head back towards the bommie again.

It appeared as if we were caught in a giant whirlpool. It was now glaringly apparent that we would have to take another course of action way before we started our approach to the bommie again. By a miracle we had survived the first collision with the rock, and we were not going to run that gauntlet again. We would have to leave Hullabaloo, our floating lifeline. Her ability to stay afloat in such a battered condition had saved us yet again, but for how much longer could she stand the pounding? Without her we would surely have perished long before, but it was time to roll the dice.

We had to overcome the psychological hurdle that bound us to her, to our only source of safety. It was now clear that we had to swim for our lives.

We sat upright next to the keel debating the best way of making it to shore. The sea state was still substantial, and we constantly had to watch out for incoming rogue waves, and smaller waves still washed over the hull regularly. It was decided that we needed to get as close as we could to the shore, while still with the boat, then take our chances and attempt to swim clear before being sucked towards the bommie. If this part worked, we would worry about how to get to the shore then. There was a horseshoe flotation device trailing behind us, still tethered to the now submerged Push Put. We decided that this might give us some protection if we made it to the rocky shore. The added buoyancy would also be of assistance while swimming. We tied ourselves to 37

the horseshoe, Dad to one side, and me to the other, about a metre of line slack between us so we could still produce a reasonable stroke if we had to.

As the boat started its run towards the island, we readied ourselves for the right moment to plunge into the waves.

Suddenly the boat jerked to a stop. The bloody anchor had snagged again! The hull swung around, and the current rushed past again.

“Jesus!” Dad yelled. “We’re still 700 fuckin metres from the island!”

His distress was obvious.

This was incredibly bad luck although I thought the distance was closer to 500 metres.

We waited for about ten minutes, praying for the anchor to break free as it had done before. Nothing moved, luck was not with us. We’d probably used just about all of our luck at this stage anyhow. It was now close to 7pm and the sky was really starting to darken. We hesitated, should we go now or wait? I made it clear to Dad in no uncertain terms that there was no way I was swimming half a kilometre through shark infested waters after dark. I was determined that we should go now.

“Maybe we should wait for the sea state to improve”, Dad said.

I yelled at him, “There is no bloody way I am staying on this boat; we have to go now!”

I knew he doubted his ability to make the island. It would be a tough task even for me. I then thought about how little energy I had, the size of the waves, the unknown currents and the darkening conditions. I became suddenly even more scared, if that was at all possible. Doubt entered my thoughts. Could we actually do it? Maybe we couldn’t make it together and for a horrible moment I imagined having to leave Dad somewhere between the boat and shore just so I could get there myself.

We hesitated again not capable of making a decision, our minds hazy but at the same time racing uncontrollably.

Maybe we should stay. If the boat didn’t move, maybe we could ride out the storm here and swim in the morning? We looked at each other, soaked to the skin, freezing, the wind 38

howling. Very simply, if we stayed on the boat we would die.

Calmly, with a chattering jaw, Dad said “let’s go”.

We slide off the side of the hull and into the dark sea, organised ourselves with the horseshoe between us, and kicked out for the island. My only thought right then was of the huge creatures no doubt swimming below and once again the shark demons entered my crippled mind.

It was a welcome reprieve to have most of our bodies below the surface and protected from the biting wind. I felt somewhat rejuvenated as the urgency of our situation became clearly apparent. The goal was clear and simple – get to land. This effort would definitely be our last chance of survival and this was strangely comforting, our predicament would be over one way or another.

Middle Pascoe on a calmer day with Bommie and landing zone at RH edge of shot (fly over 1 week later)

We kicked with both legs and clawed with our outside free arm, holding the horseshoe with the other. We managed to catch a few medium waves, probably 3-4 metres high, which carried us twenty and thirty metres at a time. Unbelievably, we were approaching the island a lot quicker than we could have hoped. In fact, we were coming in almost too fast. As we came to within about 100 metres, we could clearly see the huge seas crashing on the rocks ahead, the waves seemed to ride up into small mountains as they smashed into the land ahead. I was astounded at the thunderous noise the sea made as it pounded the tiny coast.

As we moved to within about forty metres, we stopped swimming realising we were about to be forcibly surfed on to the shore. We tried to back paddle waiting for a smaller wave, anything under about 4 or 5 metres and something we 39

could hopefully control our incoming ride on. At this stage we had once again lost control of the situation as we floundered, thrashing frantically to hold our position. A huge swell with a rolling top picked us up and within seconds we were surfing at incredible speed towards the rocks. We fell off the back of this monster and it slammed in and over the rock platform ahead. We found ourselves only about 10 metres from the shore in a large trough. My feet searched for the bottom in vain.

40

Surfing the Pascoe Break!

Seconds later we were picked up by the next wave, we were air borne and flying on the crest. I looked down in horror as the rocks below raced past. We were going to be smashed onto the rocks from at least four metres up. In the split second when we sat atop the wave, I desperately covered my head with my forearms and tried to pull my legs up to protect my lower torso, closed my eyes and screamed as we crashed towards the rocks below.

To my absolute amazement, the landing was somehow cushioned to the extent that hitting the rocks felt like I had only fallen from a metre or so. I still can’t explain the reasoning for this. The impact was still hard although we had been lucky enough to be deposited on a shelf, missing the pointed granite that seemed to be everywhere. As we hit, we grabbed at the rock surface allowing the water to rush past as it swept up towards the steepening shore leaving us submerged in about a metre of water. Almost immediately the wave drained back, and I was for the first time in about eight hours, left clear of the water. I lay clinging to the rocks, almost in shock that I was on hard land.

Then, two or three sharp tugs on my right hand re focused my attention. I turned to see the horseshoe half submerged at the edge of the rock shelf. At the other end of the line Dad was caught underwater in a rock crevice at the edge of the shelf, desperately trying to pull himself free! Before I could act, he popped to the surface, his face blue, he was gasping for air. I dragged him onto the rock shelf next to me. A darkening shadow eclipsed over us, blocking what small amount of light there was. I looked up expectantly, to see a huge wall of water about to completely cover us.

I turned my face away as a massive dark green mountain crashed down on top of us, sweeping and bouncing us along the rocks.

41

Approach to Pascoe! (artist impression, but identical conditions)

I grabbed desperately at the rock face in an attempt to stop myself from being dragged along, expecting to be knocked out or killed outright as my unprotected head smashed into a passing pinnacle. Finally, the baulk of the wave passed and we both tried to stand in the remaining metre of water. As it drained, we were knocked over in the powerful back surge and dragged back of the rock ledge into the swirling sea below. We frantically treaded water again as we continued to be sucked back out to sea. Incredibly we were dragged to exactly the same place we had been in moments before, at least forty metres from land. We treaded water frantically, still tied together, exhausted, and faced with the prospect of another swim and surf. Clearly, getting onto this damn chunk of land was not going to be easy.

We were now both beyond exhaustion and I doubted Dad’s ability to make another attempt. He was literally floundering, desperately grasping the lifeline and coughing up salt water. Without the horseshoe, he would almost certainly have drowned right then and I’d have been completely unable to help. The sea continued to roar; the white surf illuminated against the dark sky. We looked back towards the open ocean as another mountain of dark green approached.

We braced again for another hair-raising ride. The approaching wave picked us up and again we were flying, body surfing towards the island. Once more we saw the rock shelf pass beneath and we braced for the crash. Amazingly

42

we had the same relatively soft landing, unexplainable in terms of the sea state.

As the wave surged up and across the rocks, I grabbed frantically at the rock surface as the water pushed us across the bumpy surface in another washing machine ride. Finally, a hand hold. My right hand jammed tight in a crevice and we both jerked to a stop. The wave started to drain back out into the main body of the sea. We started to be sucked out again with the rushing volume of water. My hand held firm, the combined weight of Dad and myself being dragged by the water, wedging it firmly into the crevice, although I felt no pain.

Within seconds the water had completely gone, and we were clear again. I knew the next wave would be only moments away. I got to my knees, freed my hand which was badly cut and started to scramble as best I could across the rock ledge.

To my surprise Dad had already gotten to his feet and was staggering clear towards the high tide mark, our connecting line severed on the sharp rocks. It was now clearly every man for himself. I managed to get to my feet staggering like a punch-drunk boxer, tripping and falling, my legs reluctant to work, desperate to clear the high wave mark and safety.

Within ten seconds or so we were both stumbling onto dry rocks, the last remaining effort of the sea licking at our heals – it seemed as if she still didn’t want to let us go. The scrubby vegetation that edged the beginning of the coastal rocks confirmed our final escape from the ocean. We dropped into the greenery, safe in the knowledge that we were away from the sea and danger. I lay on my back looking up at the dark sky. I was physically drained and beyond movement save my gasping throat. Mentally, I had never experienced such elation. I had not drowned, I was alive! I had made it and I could barely believe it.

I sat up and looked out to sea, the ocean roar was relentless.

I couldn’t see the boat, darkness was almost complete, and I started to become aware of the bitter cold as the wind whipped across the land. I looked at my bloodied and torn hand, the pain was strong, and it was the sweetest feeling ever.

43

Welcome to Pascoe After about ten minutes we both stood up and looked along the coast in both directions. The coastline ran for about 200 metres in each direction before curving out of sight. Behind us was a small rise that we later discovered signified the centre of the island and its highest point. We decided to climb the rise to see what was on the other side. In fact, the rise was probably only about five metres above sea level, and we reached the top within a few minutes.

From the top we could see that the island was only about the size of a small cricket oval. The vegetation was nothing more than scrub, similar to what we had encountered on Deal Island. There was a rocky coast at one end (where we had landed), and a small beach at the other on the leeward side.

It was now virtually dark although the last part of the day was providing enough light for us the see the hundreds of Mutton Birds diving and swooping all over the island. The odd bird would dive bomb us but that was the least of our worries as we soon discovered that the grassed shrubby areas were the bird burrows were (Mutton Birds make their nests in burrows in a similar way to penguins), provided the perfect terrain for Tiger snakes to hunt the bird’s eggs and to our significant concern there were snakes a plenty. It was obvious what the consequences of a Tiger snake bite would be in our current location, so our steps were taken with great caution as we moved around.

We tip toed our way back to the relative safety of the shoreline and followed it around to the tiny beach we had seen from the rise. At this stage, still soaking wet, we were more than aware of the bitter cold brought on by a howling wind with no obvious protection available. We realised that we were not yet out of the woods in terms of survival, exposure quickly becoming a major concern.

It was clear that in order to escape the wind chill we needed to get as low as possible, however, even lying down hardly gave us any protection from the gale sweeping across the island. We decided to dig a sand cave were a small dune pushed against some rocks. It took us about twenty minutes to scoop out enough sand so that the two of us could squeeze in, huddled face to face.

44

The cave was kept quite shallow as we were both concerned about a cave in and we allowed our legs from the knees down to protrude just in case we needed to lever ourselves out. We kept our wet woollens on and slid into the cave hugging each other for warmth. We still hadn’t actually spoken much at this stage and had been going about our task as if we knew exactly what was required. As we lay there, face to face, shivering, I listened to the waves crashing on the shore and the wind howling, before falling into a deep sleep.

We woke well after sunrise, probably around 0800. The sun warming our exposed feet as they poked from the cave entrance, it was a wonderful feeling. We slide ourselves out and sat looking at what was a magnificent day. The storm had completely gone to the extent that there were only about 15 knots blowing and little wave action to speak of.

There was not a cloud in the sky and the beach looked a treat with perfect white sand and a small shallow blue cove.

Dozens of sea birds, Gulls, Osprey and various other species ducked and weaved above to complete the perfect picture.

Our little beach – the morning after

Our little beach was protected from the winds and had quite calm waters. We stripped off our soaked and sandy clothes and headed to the water. We washed the salt, sand and dried blood from our bodies and then our clothes, eventually laying them on the nearby rocks to dry. I wrapped my hand in a handkerchief, knotting it above my knuckles. We then lay again in the shallow cool water, the salt stinging our bodies.

45

We had cuts and grazes all over, but it was a wonderful feeling just to be free of the crusty salt and grim.

Soon after we became acutely aware of our thirst and started to again realise the seriousness of our predicament. It had now been almost 24 hours since we had eaten or more importantly, had anything to drink. We decided to go in search of some possible source of water, wandering around the shoreline, naked, like a couple of Robinson Crusoe’s, hoping to find a trickle of fresh water running miraculously from a spring in the centre of the island. We assumed or rather hoped that the Mutton Birds and snakes retrieved their water from somewhere and that we might also be able to get at it. There was no obvious source and we surmised that they probably just drank when it rained.

We were starting to become quite concerned and the blue sky was not as attractive as it was a few hours earlier. We were warm but literally in danger of major suffering if we couldn’t find water, the heat of the day glaringly apparent as our thirst increased.

We arrived at the area where we came ashore the night before and started climbing and scrambling along the rock platforms, large boulders and crevices. As we rounded a small outcrop, we both stopped and looked in amazement. There was Hullabaloo, high and dry almost exactly in the same place that we had been washed onto the night before.

She lay upside down with her keel still pointing upwards.

Apart from some deep gauges and scraps, the hull looked in pretty good nick. The superstructure, however, was totally crushed, no doubt from the impact on the bommie. We rushed over hoping that the freshwater tank may have been spared. I climbed under the stern and wriggled along the cockpit to the crushed cabin entrance. The cabin was made of 3mm aluminium and was torn open like a sardine can.

Inside the cabin everything had been torn away or apart.

There were odd bits and pieces lying around but nothing of any real use. I located the water tank mid ships on the starboard side which was also aluminium. It looked in good condition apart from a few dints and didn’t appear to be ruptured. I turned the small tap, water trickled out and I tasted a little to confirm that the tap seal had not been 46

breached. Confirming its freshness, I yelled to Dad. We needed to get the water out of the boat as the next high tide would more than likely reach the boat again and we couldn’t risk losing what could possibly be our only fresh water source.

Dad found an empty but sealed four litre ice-cream container, washed up on the rocks. He passed it through to me. I carefully started filling the container from the dribbling tank. I retrieved about three and half litres, sealed the container and wriggled back out through the cabin. We drank close to half a litre each although we could easily have had it all. Our thirst was temporarily quenched.

We wondered around the general area of the wreck, looking for anything that might be of use unsure about how long we might have to spend on our tiny island home. We found two dinted cans of Beer (one of which survives to this day), and a sealed four litre tin of Milo.

Hullabaloo at rest on the Pascoe shore

The Milo was at this stage our only food, apart from the Mutton Birds that would soon be hunted if need be. We tipped half the tin into another container for safe keeping and poured one can of beer into the remaining Milo. A magnificent Milo and beer soup had been created. At the time, this brew was the most wonderful thing I had ever eaten although the thought of it now makes my stomach churn. You could almost feel the instant energy surging through our bodies and the taste was unbelievably exquisite.

We sat on the rocks, temporarily satisfied, starting to think a little more clearly about the current situation. We decided that the likely hood of a rescue in the near future was limited as the authorities were probably looking in the sea somewhere around Deal Island, although the search may not 47

even be under way at the minute. We guessed that we were probably somewhere to the west of Prime Seal Island (a smallish island of the west coast of Flinders Island), south of Flinders Island, but we had no way of knowing for sure as we had drifted for about eight hours.

“Where do you reckon the EPIRB got to?” Dad said.

“It’s certainly not here on the beach or rocks, you didn’t see anything in the boat, did you?”

In fact, my sole focus was on the water tank.

“I didn’t really look”, I said.

“What d’ya say we have another look then”.

48

The Rescue Hullabaloo looked like a beached submarine in which a torpedo had prematurely detonated. I crawled back into the distorted cabin and looked around; junk lay everywhere. I started sifting through the mess. There was no sign of the EPIRB in the general area that it was in prior to the capsize. I made my way forward crawling on the inside roof of the mangled superstructure. As l reached the bow, I noticed the forward storage compartment latch sitting open. I investigated the locker and sitting there as neat as a present under a Christmas Tree was the EPIRB. I yelled to Dad “I can’t believe it; I’ve found the bloody thing and it looks okay”.

I scrambled back along the cabin and out into the sunshine.

We both looked at the little orange box. The automatic activation light was not flashing its red beacon of light which caused a silent moment of dread between us.

“Do you reckon it still works?” I said.

Dad reached down and switched the manual activation toggle. The red transmission light started flashing immediately. We couldn’t believe it. Why hadn’t the damn thing activated in the salt water as it should’ve? We guessed that it must have been caught in an air pocket or had simply just failed to automatically activate.

We placed the EPIRB on a clear raised rock platform, protected by some small rocks. It beeped away merrily. This was a huge break for us as we knew that a rescue would almost certainly be launched at some time in the next 24 hours. We were joyous in the knowledge that we now had an excellent chance of survival. We made our way carefully through the thick under growth to the top of the small rise that was the pinnacle of the tiny island. From this position we could scan the surrounding ocean. It was a beautiful day, a cooling breeze made standing at the top of the rise a pleasurable experience. The island was quite lovely, rocks made up eighty percent of its coast presenting to the north, east and west, with our beautiful little beach providing a refuge on the lee side facing south. In stark contrast to the preceding 24 hours, today was a good day.

49

We scanned the sea. The ocean was a magnificent dark blue, greening slightly as it surrounded this tiny speak of land.

White caps stretched to the horizon, playing tricks on our minds and imaginary rescue boats disappeared as distant waves rolled and flattened. At that moment we felt quite comfortable, almost happy, safe in the knowledge that we were more than likely going to be okay. We stood facing into the strong breeze and it felt good to be part of the moment.

We wandered back down to the beach, carefully avoiding the bird nests and keeping a wide eye out for snakes. Our clothes had been drying on the warm rocks and were almost dry, so we dressed, more to avoid the sun now than for any other reason. We sat at the water’s edge and drank a little more water and ate some Milo and it still tasted great. We rigged a small sunshade from a blue tarp that had washed up and we both lay underneath, in the half shade with the cool breeze moving over us. Memories drifted to similar moments spent on the Mornington Peninsula as a child. Maybe Dad was thinking the same thing but I’ll never know as we lay silent.

We both dozed. It was a wonderful morning.

Sometime in the next couple of hours, we were abruptly woken by the roar of a low flying aircraft sweeping over us.

As we woke from our beachy haze, a large bird like shadow blocked out the sun for a split second. The twin engine Fokker zoomed over about 100m above, banking past the island and returning for another low-level sweep. The bright yellow aircraft with the National Safety Council insignia made a dazzling sight as it flew directly overhead. A crewman was clearly visible at the fuselage doorway. He was hanging excessively out of the aircraft, the dark bubble of his sun shielded flying helmet making him look like a fighter pilot about to bail out of a stricken aircraft. He waved to us as the plane buzzed lower and past our position again.

50

National Safety Council Search and Rescue aircraft (actual)

They made two more runs at the island, looking at us as they flew directly overhead while circling at over the ocean and then returning to our tiny island. On the third sweep they came in very low – they were lining up for a bombing run.

They dropped a canister that left the plane when it was still about 200m from passing over us, but the trajectory of its flight allowed it to land almost directly in the centre of the island. I rushed to retrieve it. The note inside asked if we were okay and if there were any other crew missing. We wrote in the sand that we were fine (ALL OK) and that we were the only crew (ALL PRESENT). Five minutes later they dropped another parcel, the note said that a rescue launch was on its way from Flinders Island and that they had to keep moving as there were still other boats missing in the Strait from the night before. The note finished with an ominous ‘good luck’.

They banked, tipped their wings from side to side and powered low and flat across the sea, vanishing after less than a minute. As it turned out, the storm had been quite ruthless as it plundered its way across Bass Strait. Yachts and fishing boats had been lost. We had been lucky, very lucky.

The day drifted along, and we spent time walking around the small coastline, fossicking for bits and pieces from the boat that had been washed up either the night before or on the high noon tide.

We had no idea when the rescue launch might arrive as we still didn’t really know how far from Flinders Island we were.

51

At about 1700 we spotted a large launch, about a 40-footer, heading towards the island. She was making light work of the moderate sea state cruising at about 10 knots. The crew anchored about 30 metres off our tiny beach and a small tender was immediately dispatched with four crew aboard.

As they hit the beach all four bounded out of the dinghy as if looking for some sort of action that was not apparent to us.

“Hello there” said Dad, “Thanks for coming to get us, how far did you have to travel?”

One of the crew introduced himself, and the others, who stood staring at us without comment.

“It’s about an hour and half back to Whitemark”, They explained that this was the small village on Flinders Island. Then Capital.

“You guys okay?” asked one of the men.

We replied that we were fine.

“We couldn’t bring a Doctor at short notice and since the aircrew said you looked okay, we didn’t worry too much.

We’ll get you checked out later anyway”.

We gathered our meagre belongings, including the now deactivated EPIRB and followed the others to the tender.

The rescue launch was a private vessel often used by the police to mount rescues in the waters around Flinders Island.

Apart from one Police Officer, the rest of the crew were volunteers, mostly shark fisherman. We told them the shortened version of the last 24 hours as we ploughed our way easily through the moderating sea.

“Where were you headed then?” asked the Copper.

“Tassie, Devonport actually” Dad replied.

“Why?” was the deadpan response.

“Just to see if we could get there, I guess” said Dad. “Is that so” said the Copper, sounding as if he’d heard it all before.

One of the fishermen chimed in “See any big sharks?”

“Not one” I said, “But we had hundreds of penguins swimming around us, disappearing and then returning, what d’ya make of that?”.

“Jesus!” said one of the other blokes. They all looked at each other.

The little ferrety looking guy turned and looked at us; 52

“The reason they were vanishing is because the big sharks chase them. Don’t worry bout that, you would have had plenty of big ones poking around under your boat” I felt sick to the stomach when I thought about the time spent in the water. Those fuckin sharks I thought to myself, still causing me grief.

On the way back to Flinders we drank hot coffee and ate chocolate bars. We talked a little about the previous day but not a lot. They crew were a subdued lot but quite happy to listen to our story, although I had the impression, they had heard it all before. They all seemed to be thinking of something else, possibly concern for the other lost yachties elsewhere in Bass Strait but I didn’t ask.

We learnt that we had been washed up on a tiny island called Middle Pascoe (The Middle Pascoe Islands comprise two similarly sized adjacent granite islands, with a combined area of 8.37 hectares). They form part of Tasmania’s Pascoe Island Group, lying in eastern Bass Strait off the North-West Coast of Flinders Island in the Furneaux Group. These islands form part of the original land bridge that existed between Tassie and the mainland about 12000 years ago. Middle Pascoe is located at about 40 degrees south and breaches the area synonymous with shipping disasters. A reputation I hadn’t enjoyed confirming.

We arrived at Whitemark on the southeast coast of Flinders Island. Whitemark was not a big place and consisted of a pub, a couple of stores and one street. It is also the third oldest settlement in Australia, a legacy of the sealing and whaling industries from the 1800s.

A police truck met us at the wharf and drove us to the Police Station where we were checked over and given the all clear medically.

“Well de-frosted” they said.

We gave a statement to the police and were able to ring the family in Victoria. We were also told that our EPIRB signal had been picked up by a passing TAA flight heading to Melbourne from Hobart. They had informed the National Safety Council and four hours later we were located.

53

Unbeknown to us we had been reported as lost at sea presumed drowned and this had been broadcast by at least one Melbourne radio station the previous afternoon and evening. Word soon spread amongst family and friends, so you can imagine the reaction we had when our voices squeaked through the phone from the Flinders Island Police Station announcing our presence back in the world. It was an emotional time for all concerned.

The Flinders Island Pub – current day

We were told that there was one flight a week to the mainland. The mail plane which had left that morning. We were stuck on Flinders for a week unless we wanted to charter a flight at an exorbitant cost. We decided to stay.

The Police drove us down the road to the Whitemark pub in search of a couple of billets.

The pub was a traditional looking sea front hotel that reminded me of the classic fisherman’s haunt you would find somewhere on the coast of northern Scotland, the Orkney Islands for instance where I had spent some time.

It was all weatherboard with broken and cracked floorboards allowing the wind to blow through every crevice.

We walked into the main bar where there were about ten locals, all lined along the bar. They looked up at once. The Police introduced us and explained that we needed a place to stay for the week.

54

A bloke called Alan Wheatley quickly introduced himself and offered us a room for the week.

“You might have to do a bit of work around the joint, but not much”, he laughed. He immediately ordered us a couple of beers without enquiring about what we might like to drink.

Another ‘old salt’ came over and said, “It’s good to pull out a couple of live ones; too many haven’t made it in these waters”.

As we were to find out, a lot of men had lost their lives in and around the coast of Flinders. Gradually, other men approached, said hello and shook our hands. We drank our beer and told our story.

55

The Wheatley’s Later that evening we headed along a coast road to the northern tip of the island were Alan and his wife Margaret lived. Flinders Island is about 75 km from north to south and about 35 km across. The community of 800 rely mostly on sheep farming and fishing. As part of the Furneaux Group of islands Flinders is the largest, these having been named by Tobias Furneaux who was the Commander of Captain Cook’s support ship which became separated from the HMS Endeavour in fog on March 19th, 1773. The island itself was named after the great seaman Matthew Flinders who circumnavigated it in 1799. Governor King completed the naming honours for Flinders.

The first white settlers to the island were sealers chasing Fur Seals. They often kidnapped indigenous women from Tasmania and the mainland to help with work and to become their wives. In 1828 the last sealing licenses were issued and in 1833 the remnants of Tasmania’s aboriginal population (only 160 odd people), were exiled to live on the island at a community named Wybalenna. Most of these people came from the Trawlwoolway and Nuenonne tribes, and tragically this settlement failed due to illness and mistreatment of the occupants. By 1847 the surviving members were returned to mainland Tasmania.

Allan and Margaret Wheatley ran a business called Killiecrankie Diamonds which to my knowledge is still in operation today. Killiecrankie diamonds are a form of precious stone occurring in association with highly acidic igneous rocks such as the granites and the pegmatites of Killiecrankie Bay that exist on the north coast of the island.

They provide a crystal system were all angles are right angles with axis of varying lengths, in other words, orthorhombic.

The ensuing topaz is highly sort after as it is the toughest of all types in this rock genre. The Wheatleys, amongst other things, harvest the diamonds for commercial sale.

The Wheatley’s also fished for Crayfish and that is how we earned our keep. Heading out to sea twice a day in Alan’s boat, laying and retrieving Cray pots. Talk about getting back on the horse.

The sea was the last place I wanted to be, but Alan convinced me that it would be good ‘to get stuck back in’ as he put it.

56

The first night spent at the Wheatley’s was fantastic. We both had long hot baths with regularly delivered Bourbon and Cokes, the choice drink in the house. Margaret cooked a magnificent stew and it remains one of my special memories; lying in a huge old-style bathtub, Bourbon in hand, the smell of the stew wafting through the house, safe in the knowledge that a comfy bed awaited.

After dinner Alan’s house phone started ringing and for the next couple of hours Dad conducted interviews with various radio and television stations in Tasmania and Victoria who had picked up on the story. His story, wonderfully fuelled by close to a dozen generously made drinks, grew in stature as the phone rang well into the night.

Local Newspaper – The Standard

We spent the night telling our story again, Alan listening carefully then comparing with the countless previous similar episodes he was privy to and giving us a local history of the Islands. In fact, as we were to learn, the first ever shipwreck on the east coast of Australia was at Flinders Island. The ‘Sydney Cove’ on its passage from India to Port Jackson in 1797 came unstuck during a mighty gale. It was also interesting for us to discover Armstrong Passage, a short water way running between Cape Barren Island and Clarke 57

Island just south of the Flinders mainland and so named after Captain Archibald Armstrong who was the Master of HMS Supply in the late 1700’s. A relation perhaps?

Salavge one week later. Dad next to a Hullabaloo on Little Pascoe. Keel still locked in.

The Bass Strait islands are home to many wrecks, most situated in the largely unmarked waters around Flinders Island. In fact, to this day, Middle Pascoe Island remains unmarked with navigational aids. There are no lights to warn sailors of its presence.

58

Home Port ‘Once you have sailed to the edge, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never be free from the journey’

By the end of the week I was looking forward to getting off the island, as beautiful as Flinders Island is, it was time to get back to the familiarity of our world. It is a different way of living here on these remote islands and not something easily understood. Apart from that, the combination of Cray fishing and drinking was starting to take its toll.

We said our goodbyes to Margaret, and Alan drove us to the airport back along the road to Whitecliff.

We were booked to leave on the small Cessna that does the mail and passenger run to Welshpool in Victoria. The airport consisted of a tin shack in one corner of a large paddock with an airstrip in the middle. The plane had seen better days and I distinctly remember a crack running through the middle of the small window at the rear of the aircraft. The plane was loaded up with seven passengers and plenty of mail along with various other packages.

On the strip at Flinders – heading home

We took off in a slight drizzle, banking away from the hills at the top end of the island. We flew out over the western coast, Middle Pascoe clearly visible on the horizon, straightened and headed for Victoria. The sea was calm and flat.

59

We arrived in Welshpool about an hour later. We walked into town with a view to procuring some funds to pay the pilot (cash on delivery was the agreement) and secondly to assist in finding our way back to the car and boat trailer parked about 5 km away at the local boat ramp, from where our illfated journey had begun.

We had a slight cash flow issue at this stage as both our wallets had been consigned to Davy Jones’ locker. However, as luck would have it, I had not long resigned from the employ of the ANZ Bank in Mildura and this made our next plan a bit easier to put into action. It was decided that it would probably be reasonably easy to establish my identity with a quick call to that Branch form the Welshpool Branch.

At this stage of proceedings, Dad and I were looking in a less than attractive state as far as dress and personal appearance were concerned. We both had seven-day beards and baggy, stained fisherman’s clothing on, along with some pretty wellworn rubber thongs courtesy of Alan Wheatley. I approached the only teller who upon sighting us was not really convinced of our story. He had heard nothing about our ordeal and the more I elaborated on the facts, the more he seemed inclined to ask for security assistance. In fact, to him, we were just a couple of vagrant looking types with a strange story. He took more than a little convincing to bother his boss for some advice, deciding to avoid taking any measure of initiative in the matter himself.

Eventually the Manager arrived and decided to ring the Mildura Branch for confirmation. The staff there had been following the story of their ex-colleague via the Age newspaper on which we had made the front page under the not so discrete heading ‘Father and Son lost at sea’. They had also heard one of the radio interviews that Dad had conducted from Alan’s place the day we had been rescued.

60

Author inspecting a salvaged Hullabaloo on Flinders island just prior to departure to the mainland (one week after the capsize)

Front page of the Age newspaper

Well, the Welshpool Manager was inundated with screams and people yelling into the Mildura end of the phone all trying to pass on their best wishes in one go. He held the phone away from his ear and simply passed it across the counter to me. I spoke to everyone in turn and they were quite excited to find out that we had finally arrived safely back to the mainland. Tom Bramwell, the Manager in Mildura and my old boss, quite happily authorised the release of whatever funds 61

we needed to get back on the road. Great satisfaction was had stuffing those crispy 50’s into my dirty shirt pocket and I may have even tipped the Teller, but probably not.

We made our way back to the airport, paid the pilot and organised a lift to the Valiant still parked at the Welshpool boat ramp. We also made sure a case of Bourbon was sent to Alan Wheatley with the pilot. Within a couple of hours, we were on our way, the three-hour drive back to Lake Eildon giving plenty of time to reflect on the previous eight days.

The storm had passed, and we had survived.

Dad and Dave 2018 (Author) with the dropped rescue note from the April 1986.

62

Hullabaloo on Lake Eildon, and the plastic container used to ‘bomb’ Little Pascoe

We still have the old EPIRB – a life saver in the end

63

Hullabaloo back in Eildon after salvage – she never sailed again

Cray Fishing with the Wheatley’s

Dad on Hullabaloo – Lake Eildon and Lakes Entrance

64

Glossary: EPIRB: Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon.

Starboard: Right hand side of vessel (looking forward).

Port: Left hand side of vessel (looking forward).

Quarter (as in Port Quarter): Rear side end of vessel.

Lifeline: Secure line attaching sailor to vessel to prevent a man overboard scenario.

Bommie: Rock column/coral surrounded by water, often partially submerged. (Abbreviation of Bombora).

Knot: Vessel speed through water equivalent to approximately 1.8kmh.

HMS: Royal Navy acronym – Her Majesties Ship.

HMAS: Royal Australian Navy acronym – Her Majesties Australian Ship.

UHF: Ultra High Frequency (radio).

Sheet (as in Main Sheet): Rope used for controlling sail tension.

Bow: Front of vessel Stern: Rear of vessel 40th parallel: 40-degree latitudinal mark Leeward/Lee: Non-weathered side of vessel or island Windward: Weather side of vessel or island Transom: Aft wall of cockpit Grab Bag: Small bag containing safety equipment including an EPIRB to be taken from a stricken vessel in case of emergency Hypothermia: Lowering of body temperature due to exposure Flotsam: Rubbish from shipping floating on the surface Anchor Well: Forward deck storage compartment reserved for an anchor Push Pit: Safety rail at stern of vessel Pull Pit: Safety rail at bow of vessel Billet: RAN term for a posting/job position/sometimes an individual bunk Founder: to fill with water and sink (from the French foundrer: fall to the bottom) Davy Jones: metaphor for the bottom of the sea. Denotes the afterlife for sailors and objects lost at sea.

NB: Most of our film was destroyed by salt water, so some photographs (and drawings) are not of the actual event. They are however, very close to accurate in their depiction.

A short story by David Armstrong Copyright 2020

65