Sailing the Dream

...SOMETIMES when you arrive at a destination you feel like you should stop and smell the roses, your intuition is trying to tell you something. It is a good thing to take notice of that little voice in your head and see what happens...

AFTER a couple of months sailing, Portland Roads seemed like a good spot to take in and absorb. Iron Range National Park, which is close by, is world renowned for its wilderness, and diversity, and proved well worth the stop.

Rainforest was the first person we met on Chilli beach. He was fishing with rod and spear and was accompanied by a couple of pig dogs. He had noticed our 18 foot Hobie cat on the beach for a couple of days and had made the walk down the beach to consider procuring salvage rights. Dan and I had sailed our small cat 300nm up from Port Douglas and were enjoying the long coconut fringed beach, cool rainforest, and a bit of peace and quite.

It is such a special gift to be able to maintain the connection with the inner child as we get older. The free spirit and energy that Rainforest had was inspirational. He had chosen to live a life in modern Australia that resembled something closer to the indigenous way. His character had been blessed with a touch of Huckleberry Fin and Peter Pan. Hunting wild cattle and pigs, diving for crayfish and coral trout, trolling for mackerel or bottom fishing for Red Emperor, he was always providing for his wife and two young boys as well as the extended family and community. Not your average 19-year-old.

It didn’t take long and we were officially guests of the small but tight community of Portland Roads and Chilli Beach. All sorts of intriguing characters lived in various dwellings. There is the community of Chilli Beach or ‘Idlewild’, which was a large acreage of beachfront land under lease. Old Cedar Bay residents set up the original land in the hope of preserving an alternative lifestyle. Walking through this property you would come across all walks of life, ranging from hippies in humpies, Trout and Mackerel fishermen, bird watching enthusiasts, and families bringing up their kids in the bush. Most lived in from the beach in bush houses made of local timbers and fly screens. Generator and solar powered freezers kept food and cold beer.

Then there is the small community of Portland Roads with about six or seven dwellings. There are the Popes who act as the post office and have been there for many years. They are an interesting family who used to be lighthouse keepers on places like Low Isles. Then just up the road was old Barb, who would have anyone in for a chat and a cup of tea. It was nearly impossible to leave without seeing her collection of plaster cast wildcat prints or some magical star sand and healing cloth to give you luck on your journey.

Then there is Gregor who lives up on the hill in a place he calls Sky Bird, which he built on a Second World War gun implacement using the old jetty timber and concrete. The views, tranquility and home brew rice wine were worth the walk up the goat track. Jeff and Sheree live at the Hilton, which is an open plan bush home just up the road. They had driven up here years ago and liked it so much they decided to stay and fish for a living.

They were always open for a chat and a cold beer, which would lead to a game of darts or a hand of cards or perhaps some mini golf in the lounge. Great people with generous hearts.

As it turned out the Hilton needed house sitting and with the wet season approaching and my sister Caroline coming up, we settled in. We experienced thundering rainstorms, wild full moon parties that went for days and the usual madness associated with the silly season.

After some time on land the sea began to call once again. Word had it that Forbes Island, which was 20nm north of Portland Roads, was one of the gems of the Barrier Reef, so after restocking the boat from Lockhart community Caroline and I set sail for paradise. This island is everything you could imagine in a tropical island. The bay has a long clean white sandy beach, with oyster-covered rocks at each end, and a healthy reef full of fish out the front.

There is a well with fresh water built early last century, a lime tree and enough coconuts to feed a small Pacific nation. Life is so uncomplicated and easy going sitting by the campfire under coconut trees with the birds to talk. My usual day started with the sound of trevally thrashing the shallows as they cut through the tasty baitfish. I could not resist the possibility of flicking a lure out amongst the carnage and trying my luck. It is a good start to the day when you have lunch by 6.30 in the morning. If I missed it was simply a matter of grabbing the spear gun and going for a swim in the deep blue. This was a sure thing and I was not greedy with my takings. When time is not relevant you slow down to the pace of your surroundings and carry out the rituals of survival in an all-encompassing manner. Lighting the fire to boil the billy or cook some food became an important and integral part of the day, as did the afternoon nanna nap in the hammock. I found myself exploring the island and photographing the natural beauty. Just to have the time to sit on a rocky headland and contemplate life and reflect became essential to my daily life. After two weeks of nature and isolation, Caroline was whisked away by a trout boat to cook and fish, so back to Portland Roads for me it was. I was lucky enough to spend over two months on and off at Forbes Island and still today it rates as one of the most beautiful islands I have experienced.

The wet season lingered on and eventually came to an end around March, leaving everything green and fresh. Jeff and Sheree came back to the Hilton after three months in Cairns, and I followed my sister, by scoring a job on a trout and mackerel boat.

After two three month stints at sea with five horny men on the infamous Brave Laurie I was cashed up, still had all my fingers, my virginity, and a small portion of my sanity. Time to set my soul free again and sail north to Thursday Island. The Hobie cat was tied to a coconut tree on the beach at Portland Roads and after stocking up and teaming up with another sailor ‘Kim’ off we went. The Pascoe River is notorious for its so called ‘lizards’ commonly known as ‘crocodiles’, so we camped a fair distance from the mouth and had a good look around.

Wattle hill community is positioned up the Pascoe along with fantastic Napier palms and bird life. We sailed and paddled up for a look and met with some of the locals. Heading up this river made me feel a little out of my depth with the tropical palms and rainforest overhanging the deep holes. You could feel the eyes of curious crocs on you at all times and the freeboard of a couple of inches made us nervous. It is important in these situations as skipper to act brave and fearless even when you are shitting yourself on the inside.

About six miles up stream we tied up to a jetty and went ashore for a look around. We met some interesting and different people with alternative lifestyle living ideas a-plenty. You could buy a five acre block on the river for six grand and live in conjunction with the community with little outside interference. I met up with Wendy who had a beautiful organic garden with fruit trees and had been living there and further north for years. A little like Wonder Woman in the bush.

She spent most of her time in the garden or hunting pigs with her faithful dog and an old rifle. More courage and get up and go than your average person.

Getting out of the Pascoe River with a head wind proved difficult. The last couple of miles involved about 60 tacks and at times we were up on one hull and close to going over. Would not recommend the trip unless you have a motor or are completely mad. It would be our last brush with civilization for six weeks and northward bound we went.

Once again in the wilderness we settled into the routine of sail, camp, explore, sail, camp, explore. The fishing got better the further north we went. Fresh mackerel and coral trout were regular feeds. I had heard of a couple of beachcombers who lived at the mouth of the Olive River and made a living from collecting nautilus shells and glass floats. It seemed logical to call in. On approaching the south headland I reminding Kim of the lizard factor in these untouched rivers and to keep your eyes open.

As we sailed in close to the mangroves we pulled into a small cutting and were shocked to almost sail over the two beachcombers having their daily bath. You tend to break down the barriers quickly when you meet someone for the first time and they are stark naked. Hugo and Heather had been spending the winters in their little camp made of driftwood for 18 years and knew the area well. They would find all sorts of things washed up on the beach ranging from Pacific Island canoes to fishing dories.

They ate plenty of quality seafood and enjoyed the peace and quiet of the place. We spent 10 days camping there and I have some great photos of the area. One day as I was approaching the small cutting to collect some salt water as I did everyday, I saw the biggest croc I had ever seen. It was doing the whole territorial thing, its tail and body half out of the water and it looked as long as my boat which was 18 foot.

I dropped the bucket and freaked out then went for some counselling with Hugo and Heather. It turned out to be none other than their pet croc called Jack. I know this seems hard to believe but Hugo had been feeding this thing for years and is comfortable swimming with it, as we saw on the first day. Jack was 18 foot and had the run of the place, as you would expect. Shortly after meeting Jack we left and headed for Indian Bay and Cape Grenville.

Just for interest’s sake, the Olive River is a safe anchorage as long as you don’t draw too much to get over the shallow entrance. As for Hugo and Heather, sadly Hugo disappeared one trip when Heather was in Cairns, makes you wonder about Jack's true loyalty. Never smile at a crocodile.

It was nice to be out in the blue water again after the spooky brown river water. We sailed up to Indian Bay and based ourselves on Gore Island. We went about some beach combing and found a spring for fresh water. There is no problem finding water in this part of the world. You constantly come across spring fed creeks when walking the beaches, along with nautilus shells and the odd unexploded mine. Our camps were usually under a shady tree with ocean views and a fire/kitchen area that lent itself nicely to the lounge/entertainment area or hammock and guitar, which wasn’t far from the sleeping quarters or tent. Quite comfortable and low stress as the boat was pulled up above the high tide mark.

We had one last rendezvous with the mothership to gather supplies off Cape Grenville by calling them with our handheld VHF. Only 80nm to Cape York and with full supplies we took our time sailing along. Being able to sail onto a beach over the reef made for endless camping options. We would just cruise along till we found an interesting looking headland or a nice beach with shady trees.

One place called False Orford Ness we found 12 perfect nautilus shells which turned out to be great Christmas gifts later. Another spot had ochre cliffs with red and orange coloured soil and we ended up painting our bodies till we looked like a couple of tribal misfits. Things you do when no one is around. Eventually we sailed in through Albany passage where it is important to get the tide right otherwise you could be sailing backwards. The photography in these parts is inspirational and I spent a lot of time walking with my camera.

There is a pearl farm on Albany Island with a few mango trees up by the house, including my favourite strawberry mangos. When you have not had fresh fruit for six weeks you tend to gorge yourself, so there we were two hungry soles in knee-deep water, with two buckets of mangos, and not much conversation taking place.

We did the sail by at Cape York and were photographed taking photographs of the photographers, so that my image of the tip of Australia is 12 people on a rock with cameras. Back in the land of the living and enjoying it for what it is, especially the chocolate ice creams at the resort. We camped on the beach and I remember getting a nice mangrove jack in the creek one night. A funny thing happened one day as we were sitting near the car park and a Japanese man on a Honda 50 postman’s motorbike appeared through the dust covered in dust.

He climbed off the bike that looked like it had been dropped more than once, took off his 80 litre backpack and pulled out the camera. He approached us and in broken English asked “which way to the tip of Cape York” and off he went, only to return 15 minutes later and get back on his bike and head back to Cairns. Different strokes for different folks. It had taken me 18 months.

The sail to Seisia, which is the seaside community of Bamaga, was quick with 25 knot offshore winds. As it was mango season we soon found ourselves camped under a large mango tree just off the beach and during the night you would hear the mango fall onto the soft leaf padded ground ready for our breakfast. It just happened that the same day we turned up, so to did another sailor on a 26 foot Wharram Tiki. He had come from the Gulf and was looking to sell his run down boat rather than sail it back to Cairns. Before I knew it I was the proud and affluent owner of two small sail boats.

With the wet season approaching and another house to house sit on a nearby island we took up residence for the rainy season. It blows me out how life unfolds sometimes as we found ourselves sitting on the balcony of an amazing Balinese pole home on a small uninhabited island in the Torres Straits. Not to mention the mud crab breeding ground nearby and the wild deer rutting on the beach at night. Thanks to Peter and Gabby who owned the place and had done the same trip years earlier in a small beach cat, long live the sailing network and warm hearted people. The next trip is via Weipa, Gove and on to Darwin in the 26 foot luxury Wharram cat. Look for it in the next issue.

Photos can be viewed and purchased via www.zenartphotography.com.au