The four of us were sat in a semi-circle in the cockpit, like a kindergarten class, looking up at Captain Paul as he explained what was about to transpire. Our first night sailing on the coral coast was about to begin. The sun was slowly sinking behind Mount Cook, the sky was deepening in its sapphire hue, and the colour of the ocean wasn’t far behind it.
“If you fall overboard,” Paul began, “you will probably die.”
Paul really had this Skipper thing down to a fine art, inspiring his crew to perform to their utmost. I was certainly inspired to not die. You’ve got my attention now, I am all-ears so please elaborate.
How Did We End Up Here?
On that day, the afternoon began where one would expect it to – in a pub. Where else would one find a motley crew of sailors at port? This was our first stopover in civilization after nearly five days at sea, a duration that seemed like a lifetime for these first-time cruisers.
After departing from Cairns less than a week previously, we had started to find our sea legs with a proficiency in trimming sheets, remote island stop overs, and sunset cocktails — a very integral part of cruising. In short, we fancied ourselves proper sailors. After making our way up the Endeavour River and dropping the pick in the very bustling anchorage, we left the skipper (who had his own idea of what classification of sailors we were) to his own devices and some highly desired alone time to decompress without any of us bumbling around his pride and joy. The crew headed for town — Cooktown.
Cooktown is approximately 135 nautical miles north of Cairns. If Cairns is Queensland’s capital of the Far North, then Cooktown might aptly be described as its last outpost. It evokes a sentiment of the Wild West, with broad roads and verandaed shops lining the main street. You would be forgiven for expecting to hear the click of spurs before a shootout on a dusty afternoon.
Rewind back to 1770, when Captain Cook sought refuge up the Endeavour River with a reef-crippled ship and a desperate need to resupply, he remarked that no better sanctuary could possibly be found.
We shared a similar sentiment when we found the Cooktown Hotel. A polished bar and a cold beer? Yes, please.
All Good Things Come to an End
It wasn’t twenty minutes later and our radio buzzed. A call from the crow’s nest paging his happy adventurers. It was time to get back to the boat now — time is of the essence. With our resupply in hand (yes, we did manage business before pleasure), we made our way down to the jetty and found Paul motoring his 37′ sloop in a tight circuit around the bay.
The anchor had dragged due to a combination of tide and a soft bottom, and Paul’s moment of respite had been interrupted as his boat began ricocheting around the anchorage and racking up a pinball high score.
His confidence in a good night sleep was subsequently lost, and once everyone was aboard and accounted for, we started our journey back down the Endeavour, unsure of what the next phase might entail.
As town continued to shrink into the distance, a night in Cooktown didn’t seem to be a viable option.
The Sun Sets, The Night Sail Begins
Like any good skipper, the next step was a briefing on what was about to transpire. The entire crew convened in the cockpit, and Paul didn’t mince his words.
If you fall overboard, the odds of us finding you in the dark after we circle around are slim-to-none. We will call for support, and a helicopter could be deployed from Cairns. It will be hours before they arrive. If fatigue or hypothermia haven’t gotten you by then, you’ll be betting on their search for a needle in a haystack.
The lesson was this: if you are not partaking in one half of our designated two-man watches, then you are not to be on deck.
Aye-aye, Captain.
Our destination was predetermined long before the unsuspecting troubles in Cooktown: the next stop in our journey north was Lizard Island, about 60 nautical miles away. Estimated time of arrival: 07:00.
The plan was set between the five of us on board: two crew members at a time would takeover the watch, which entailed keeping us on course and keeping an eye out for any approaching vessels on the horizon. If you were not on the watch team, your job was to stay below deck and catch as much shut-eye as you can.
Nausea Strikes
This plan sounded great, in theory. As a first time sailor, what I didn’t anticipate was what would happen when the sun finally dipped below the horizon:
The sea and sky steadily darken until they merge into one, and suddenly, all rules of equilibrium are thrown overboard. The stars reflect on the water, the coastline disappears, the compass becomes a theoretical instrument. There are no rules to direction; gravity means nothing!
While this meant various contemplative things for my state of mind, it meant something very clear and immediately apparent for my belly.
As anyone who has ever had the misfortune of feeling it can attest: sea sickness is no joke. While there are many preventative measures one can take to keep the nausea at bay, once it strikes the only ways to truly cure oneself are with sleep or, better yet, solid ground.
And rule number one? Don’t go down below. As recovery on land was not an option, I made myself as inconspicuous as I could at the edge of the companionway, catching as much as I could of the clean breeze above deck.
Groaning, napping, and dreaming any dreams I could that involved terra firma, it was from one of these dreams that I awoke to a conversation that brought me starkly back to the present.
Red Light, Green Light
Should we get Paul up here?
He’s had a hell of a day — let’s just give it a minute.
It’s not changing course. We should get Paul.
It’s not going to just mow us down, just wait.
Prior to ducking below deck for his own well-deserved rest, Captain Paul gave one quick lesson on nighttime navigation. Seeing a red light means a vessel is passing to the starboard side. Green light, it’s passing to port. If you see both a red light and a green light, this means that the approaching vessel is on a direct course toward us.
The lesson: if you see both red and green lights sustained for any measurable duration, it’s time to rouse the Skipper. In the name of avoiding a maritime collision, this seemed like an appropriate course of action.
Other than the personal hell that I was experiencing with my wrenching stomach, the evening passed without incident. While plenty of lights appeared and passed without incident, they were solely red or green depending on trawling path of each fishing boat. They appeared and disappeared, and it seemed that our point of sail was nowhere near the path of fish that most of these boats were interested in. Except for one, evidently.
It’s still headed toward us.
Maybe you’re right.
Should we get Paul?
Go get Paul.
I took the opportunity to get a look for myself, just in case certain death was imminent. It was difficult to tell just how far away the shadow bearing the red light/green light combination was, but even to a landlubber like me, it was very obviously too close.
White Light
The Skipper was roused from his slumber and joined us with a bleary eye on deck. In a comically slow moment of realization, he turned around toward the foredeck and I’m certain that both his face and bowels dropped in the same choreographed routine.
A few expletives were exchanged with the wind, and Paul set in motion altering our course. The sails were changed. They were changed again. And again. It seemed like no matter which alterations were made, the incoming vessel mirrored our activity. Each adjustment was followed by a few more expletives from the Captain.
Suddenly, everything was awash in a brilliant white light. The water illuminated in its turquoise hue, the islands sparkled white sand and palm tree gems in the distance, the heavens themselves glowed from above… and we would have seen it all had we not had our retinas retreat into a burning blindness.
It should come as no surprise that this did not help the situation.
Time stood still for a moment, as our boat drifted in the white etherial wash of an uninhibited sea and the unknown red, green, and white entity loomed somewhere ahead or to the side, or perhaps by now bearing down on us from behind. Perhaps Paul had given up all hope, as no further movements were made to trim the sail.
Attention Sailing Vessel
In my memory, everything stood still and silent for a moment – one of those moments that feels like an eternity. And then the radio crackled to life, and in the most stereotypical Australian drawl, we heard:
Attention Sailing Vessel, Sailing Vessel. . .
This is Trawling Vessel. . .
No worries, mate. We’re just having a look.
The spotlight was extinguished, the engine roared into forward gear, the trawler turned hard to starboard and carried on about their expedition. We never saw them again.
It was one of those moments where everyone in attendance just stares dumbly around at one another, perhaps with wide eyes or dawning confusion, sharing the same thought: what just happened
The Anchor Drops
As the horizon reappeared in an increasing display of reds, oranges, yellows, and eventually, blues, Lizard Island also came into view. The remainder of the night passed without incident, trading our two-man watches, and slipping back into the doldrum of simply watching a red light or a green one pass by variously in the distance.
It was shortly after 07:00 that we came into Watson’s Bay, the island’s turquoise anchorage. Finding a free space somewhere between a vertical 1000-foot climb toward Cook’s Lookout on our port side, and a swath of the Great Barrier Reef to starboard, the pick was dropped. The Happy Adventurers headed for shore in the name of exploration, and Captain Paul finally took that moment for himself.