Captain's Log: Stardate - January Sometime

For a supposed sailing blog, this has lacked a lot of sailing detail so far. I suppose this is what happens when social media meets expired prepaid 3G. For those who read on expecting lots of sailing tidbits....this post also lacks a lot of sailing detail.

Many a long year has seen us dwell in the shadows of lofty Mount Cootha and the gray rocky ramparts of Mount Gravatt and under the watchful slopes of those few Yeronga O streets that didn't flood in '11. But after a sweltering few days in Brisbane cramming the contents of a house into a shed and with the overflow packed around our three kids in the van we set off from the ancestral homelands of Annerley to basically cover a third of our year's planned boat trip by car in a mere 10 hours.

On the way, we broke the drive at our traditional stopping point of Nambucca Heads where the kids and DB dunked themselves in the holy waters of the Nambucca River and then drew from the ceremonial font of fish and of chips.

Nambucca - from the car side

While we have driven between Brisbane and Sydney many times this was the first that the children had access to any form of electronic gizmo other than endless replays of Eye of the Tiger on CD. This year, thanks to Santa, they had a plentiful supply of laptop interaction to make the lonely miles go quicker - and to prompt the odd side trip to be sick in some scenic NSW bylane.

We rolled into Sydney way past the witching hour. However, reliable as ever, the Rear Admiral and his Lady Wife and their son greeted us and assisted in ferrying personnel and gear to the appropriate destinations.

A delightful shot of the SHB taken by the Captain

On Monday morning we arrived at the yacht squadron where our fine vessel had been delivered by the Rear Admiral and the team got their first look at their home for the next year.

For those wondering about the plans for the journey, perhaps this is a good time to explain the general idea behind the trip.

The initial idea for the trip was actually to head (by plane) to Park City, Utah, where we could all train up on our skiing skills and perhaps gain selection into the Australian Sochi winter Olympic squad. After this fine idea was rejected by Central Planning, thoughts turned to a sailing voyage. At first, with pure optimism filling our sails, it seemed reasonable that a trip to the Cocos in a 60 foot ketch would more than make up for missing the luge in Russia. More sensible persons pointed out that the Cocos Islands are 2000km from nowhere and a 60 foot ketch had double the masts and 30 foot more boat than anything we had sailed before. Hence, a more achievable plan of a Queensland coast cruise emerged.

The strategy, plus or minus, is thus: board our fair ship in the Emerald City, skoot up the NSW coast with the assistance of some salty dogs, load up smaller kinder in Brisbane, cross the apparent maelstrom of the Wide Bay bar then wend our way up the Barrier Reef keeping fair winds on our tail and strong broadband on the port side, dropping anchor somewhere in the far reaches of Queensland.

The morning after our arrival in Sydney, the intrepid crew gained first sight of our trusty second hand yet-to-be-named Beneteau. Given the vast experience of many of the team, they wasted no time on minor details such as sail configuration or rigging arrangement but moved straight on to twiddling knobs on radios, bouncing on beds and generally just eating all of the supplies we had brought.

An experienced crew kicking the tyres

The remainder of the day was spent getting going on cleaning. The yacht had sat for almost six months with no activity and life and dirt on the Hawkesbury River had started to take hold in odd places. Curtains and other washable items were removed for a Grandma-Level clean. Harsh chemicals were inserted in various dark holes. The Rear Admiral provided assistance by idly squirting window cleaner on things while talking fondly of the old days (presumably when a crew of ninety did this sort of work). Despite explicit advice to crew members and the presence of onshore bathrooms twenty metres away, all inactive toilet facilities were quickly rendered unsanitary.

The hive of activity continued into the next day when we returned to the boat and also met with Trevor, the friendly electrician. Trevor had apparently never worked in an environment with so many people crawling over a vessel before but, in true professional spirit, persevered and quickly established that much of the wiring on the boat was dangerously 18th century or potentially 21st century but heavily corroded.

And on this tantalising note, we temporarily leave off proceedings to calculate the cost of electrical work on our new boat.