March 15 , 2002
Storm on the Bay

Our arrival in Australia was followed by the now routine process of fixing what had broken, worn or just browned us off over the previous six months cruising. Having undertaken a major refit in New Zealand, we had a fairly short list of casualties when we got to Australia.

However, we had developed an oil leak in the gearbox that needed attention, plus we knew the sails would benefit from a few repairs. And so it was that we went out into Moreton Bay as a motor boat in order to do engine trials on the fix (an extension to the breather). Once the lines were cast off, the idea of staying out overnight germinated, rebelling against a return to a marina berth. We studied the chart and found ourselves a pleasant-looking bay on one of Moreton Bay's many islands, and powered off for it.

Rounding the headland we were stunned to find at least 50 boats already anchored there, plus assorted jet skis, dinghies, tinnies (small open aluminium fishing boats) and a beach littered with people. Then we realised it was Saturday night, and we were not the only rebels in town.

One of the problems of being a cruiser is losing track of what day it is. Generally it afflicts us when we are in remote islands and we prepare ourselves for a day ashore, visits to the Post Office, bank etc., only to discover that it is Sunday and the place is deserted unless you happen to be inside a church.

But on this occasion the opposite was true and, accustomed to anchoring in more remote places, we struggled to find a spot that would give us adequate swinging room. By late afternoon there was a discernible change in the activities around us. Dinghies were being lifted onto decks, children herded up and anchors raised. By 1800 hours we were alone.

Over a glass of wine we pondered the difference between cruisers and weekend sailors. Half the fleet had headed back to Brisbane and the many marinas there. The other half had made for a sheltered recognised overnight anchorage on the main island. In comparison with many places we have spent a night, our current anchorage was perfect--a soft sand bottom, shallow water, no more than a 3-mile fetch in any direction. OK, it was a lee shore, but with our 180-lb anchor and 280-feet of chain we had nothing to worry about. When we decided to anchor for the night we had taken note of the routine VHF weather forecasts and were assured of a peaceful night.

It was somewhere between the first and second glass of wine that we felt the change. Nothing you could put your finger on, just something you could feel on your skin. We watched the sky as the stars were slowly extinguished, and we rushed to close the hatches before the first big drops of rain began to fall.

Over the next four hours we had 35 knots of wind, torrential rain and wind shifts through 90 degrees. The 3-mile fetch to our lee shore did its utmost to beat itself into a frenzy, like a toddler attempting a serious temper tantrum. We paid homage both to our ground tackle and to our long waterline as the boat hardly pitched at all.

We fired up the radar so we could monitor our position accurately, we got the electronic chart system up and running in case we had to move in a hurry, turned the instrument displays to depth, and sat in the deckhouse discussing the vagaries of the weather.

What a different experience other people were having. The first we saw of one boat was its lights, first on our starboard side then rapidly to port, obviously dragging or drifting. We put on all our decklights, fired up the searchlight and went out into the cockpit just as they slipped past us. It was a small open tinny with two people aboard.

A flurry of activity resulted in us having them attached to us by a line and the two crew on board.

Their story was rather different from ours. They had set off for a night's fishing and had been caught out by the unexpected storm. (Although this storm was not forecast, hot humid conditions for the past 10 days or so had resulted in frequent late afternoon thunderstorms along this coast, conditions fairly typical of this time of year.) One crew member was on his first-ever trip and the other had just bought the boat and joined a fishing club.

We asked if they had life jackets. "Oh yes, you have to carry them. They (coast guard) are very strict about that." We didn't ask why they weren't wearing them.

What about navigation aids? "There is a compass, but it's broken and I've got a GPS but I didn't turn it on when we left so it won't work now as I cannot retrace my course out." We thought, what about having waypoints or standard routes already set up?

Communications? "The mobile doesn't work out here and I tried the Club on the (handheld) radio but no one's answering." We raised on our VHF a nearby "friend" of the fisherman on another fishing boat but he was in trouble himself and not in a position to offer any help.

Their lack of experience meant they had no idea how even to begin to work out how to find their way around the Bay in low visibility conditions.

Four hours later the sky cleared, and our guests set out for home, leaving us to consider what? How fortunate we are to have such a well-equipped seaworthy boat? How pointless are rules about safety equipment faced with inexperience and a determination not to use what is available?

Or how seriously we take the perils of the sea, even in seemingly sheltered waters. Or just how cavalier some people are and how fortunate they are to get away with it.

FOOTNOTE: The following weekend a tinny was overturned in the Bay in similar conditions, only one of the two crew was recovered alive next morning.