Vanuatu to Bundaberg
With fifty-four other boats we set off for Australia. I try not to think What then? What then? during the seven-day sail. We never change a sail or do less than 150 nautical miles a day, excellent for this heavily laden Peterson 46. A full moon dominates our night hours, and as the route passes many reefs and atolls we are continually surrounded by hunting sea birds.
However, the journey – this last voyage – is not without its sadnesses. One of the Australian boats in the rally, Aquantique, sailing through a pass during the night, collides with Cook Reef to the north of New Caledonia and south of the Atoll Pelotas. Luckily there is another rally boat nearby – Adagio, with South Australian couple Mary and Dimitri on board. Aquantique is both dismasted and holed, and cannot be saved. With the seas running, it is too dangerous for Adagio to get close, so a mayday is called. The skipper, Bill Morton, at the end of his own five-year circumnavigation, is airlifted to safety.
The rally is sobered, the high spirits which normally percolate through each radio ‘sched’ dampened. Every yacht crew is distraught for Bill, whether they know him or not. We are all also conscious that ‘it could have been us.’
As with many other happenings on board Blackwattle (crossing the equator, being mobbed by fishing boats, seeing a whale) Ted Nobbs is asleep when, at precisely 4.57 am one memorable morning, Blackwattle crosses her outbound path and completes her circumnavigation. Surprisingly, nothing happens. No fireworks, no roaring crowds, no champagne (we run dry at sea anyway), and I can’t even find a sea bird to talk to. Blackwattle is oblivious, happy as a lark in the pleasant seas. So I give myself a bit of a hug, and I can feel the grin on my face as I wake the skipper a couple of hours later.
‘We’ve done it.’
‘What? What have we done?’ says a sleepy Ted.
‘We’ve crossed our outbound path, and completed our circumnavigation,’ I say primly, relishing repeating the words.
‘I knew that.’
And now, for Australia.
Excited as we are on sighting the coastline, we can’t help observing that it is a bland low-level thing, hardly disturbing the line of the horizon, not at all in keeping with our sense of excitement. ‘Oh, is that all?’
We thread our way up Bundaberg’s Burnett River and dock at the Customs wharf. We call Kassandra, Simon and friends to say ‘hello’ on the sat phone and I am on an adrenaline high, laughing at things that are not very funny, hugging Ted about once every five minutes and scurrying around cleaning things I had cleaned only ten minutes before, while we wait for customs and immigration officers to arrive.
We’re used to this procedure. Country after country, port after port, fat customs men in smart uniforms, tiny customs women with soft voices, gruff ones who ask for baksheesh or a beer, those who just want coffee, those who want to act as tour guide once we’ve checked in, those who strut around filling Blackwattle’s saloon with their Importance vibes.
Yes, we’ve seen them all, but when the customs man arrives into the cockpit this time, says ‘Good morning’ and I start to answer with some welcoming words, I feel my chest and throat getting that stupid flowing filled-up feeling, and tears spill over my lower eyelashes. Luckily I have sunglasses on, and just stop speaking in the middle of a sentence. This leaves a sudden silence in the cockpit, which I fill by streaking down into my cabin.
Ted, abandoned to deal with customs alone, follows me after a few moments. ‘Where on earth have you gone?’ he whispers.
‘Don’t leave him alone, talk to him,’ I whisper back.
‘No, he’s okay at the moment, he’s reading through our documents. What’s the matter?’
‘It’s the Australian accent.’ I sniffle, doing a little deep breathing, blowing my nose and patting my face with a few tissues.
‘The Australian accent?’
‘Yes, the customs man speaks with an Australian accent.’
‘What’s wrong with his Australian accent?’
‘Nothing, it’s just – Australian.’
There’s a short pause. I’m not looking at him but I can hear him taking a big breath. ‘Ye-es, that’s right, Nance, we’re in Australia.’
‘Well I’m not used to customs men with Australian accents.’
He takes another breath, but doesn’t reply. Then he gives me one last sort-of-despairing look and disappears back to the saloon.
Before I left Australia, five years ago, I couldn’t remember when I had last cried. To make one’s way in a stress-filled environment one had to be made of sterner stuff. The last five years have changed me in ways that I don’t fully understand.
I sniff a couple of times, big breath, plaster smile on face, and follow Ted.
We’re waiting for the quarantine man to arrive a few minutes later, and the Norwegian boat next door is getting instructions from the marina officer, a big hefty sunburned fellow, as to where to berth their boat permanently.
‘Yezkin gwava ta namba noin naiow ifyez loik.’
‘Excuse me?’ Norwegians have very correct, beautifully pronounced English.
He speaks a bit louder: ‘Oized yezkin gwavata namba noin naiow ifyez loik.’
Skipper Ted thinks some assistance may be needed: ‘He’s allocated you berth number nine, and you can go there now if you would like,’ says Ted.
‘Yup,’ smiles Big Hefty. ‘Tenks mate, okey dokey, oil kamun givyez a hend ifyez loik. Seeyez aova there ina tik.’ He marches off with a grin.
Ted waits until he’s a few metres away. ‘He’s going to berth number nine to take your lines.’
We alight from the boat onto an Australian wharf, and step onto Australian soil. Our old friend Keith Laker, who sang ‘Now is the Hour’ in Pittwater just five years ago, is waiting, arms open, to hug us both. Ted wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but even he is misty-eyed by now.