December 22 – 24
Our second day out of Cocos (Keeling) Islands and as usual the first two days are the hardest. Getting our bodies into the sleeping pattern takes its toll and there’s usually little conversation save updates on conditions and what we’ll be eating and I’ll spare you those details. Hugh seems to be slowly getting over his sea sickness, he’s still on the Phenergan but less regimented and at this rate he should be completely ok to sail two days after we get to Thailand.

We had a couple of stow-a-ways for the first two days. A gull perched itself on the spinnaker pole we’ve set (in case of favourable winds) and stayed there for a good 3 or 4 hours. Then later the following night another decided that the tender hoisted on its davits was far more comfortable and stayed there right through the night and following morning. We got hit with a few squalls over the past few days, nothing severe but driving rain and strong winds made things a bit uncomfortable for us as we are forced to close the hatches and then slowly bake in the sauna like atmosphere.

Lots of anticipation as we head towards the equator, I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s one of those human milestones things we sometimes need to feel we’ve accomplished something, (perhaps it’s a boy thing). As if just delivering the boat safely with our sanity intact isn’t enough.

Time goes by so slowly- and time can do so much, are you still mine? I need your love god’s speed your love to me……. sorry I came over all Righteous Brothers there for a moment. (So much for my sanity).

Reading seems to be the major preoccupation, I’ve already devoured 4 books the last being Thomas Hardys’ “Tess of the d’Urbervilles” so glad I didn’t have to do THAT one in high school.

Sunday December 25 Xmas Day
Well I kept a keen eye out in the sky all night and no sign of a sleigh or reindeer. Never-the-less, even without a chimney Santa seems to have visited by first light with our coach-house festooned in streamers and even a little Christmas tree. Actually a room air freshener in the shape of a pine tree complements of our skipper hung from a small reading light. We all scored well (obviously we’ve all been good) with red wine, VB and an assortment of kooky trinkets all wrapped in anything we could find. Peter won best presentation with his gifts all wrapped and sporting big bows fashioned from sail ties. Hugh had us most envious when he brought forth pre arranged Xmas presents from his family.

Though the phone didn’t exactly run hot, a few calls were received but unfortunately phoning out proved to be impossible. Those that did actually get through to us had tried on numerous occasions and only did through pure luck. The satellites just don’t seem all that interested in picking up signals in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

We gave ourselves a Christmas treat by turning on the air conditioning and sat below feasting on ham, tomatoes and canned turkey breast which resembled canned salmon that had been bleached and for my palate tasted suspiciously similar. Sadly the hype outshone the reality and it was somewhat of a subdued day. The missing of family and loved ones taking precedent of our emotions. To mark this rather unusual occasion, (even most yachties would have made landfall in anticipation of Christmas) of floating about just short of the equator I took the liberty to fashion a tribute to my shipmates by way of poetry and song.

So without further ado and with apologies to all the poets of the world and Oscar Hammerstein I hereby present the following.

To Peter –

When setting out upon the sea
One needn’t care a jot
We have our leader – skipper Pete
To guide our little yacht
His footwear maybe curious
His hairstyle wild and free
But you wouldn’t want to trust another
When you go to sea
Though quick to decide when the pressure is on
He never rushes decisions
Just pour him a coffee and role him a smoke
And he’ll do what’s best – with precision
So bring him the coffee and happy hour drinks
And curry surprises too
But make sure he bathes and changes his clothes
Lest this ark should stink like a zoo
He’s fearless and brave and handy with tools
And happiest with a VB
And there’s none ya could trust
Like our skipper-Pete
When out on the great big sea.

And if that wasn’t bad enough – here’s my tribute to Hugh Benedict Wallace.

To Hugh –

(To the tune of ‘my favourite things’)

Strange floppy head wear and long cotton trousers
Sheep at the backdoor of old rural houses
Dancing in moonlight with drums, flutes and strings
These are a few of Hughs’ favourite things
Marriage and daughters both pretty and many
Long groggy slumbers to woken thoughts – when he
Will speak of the dreams that his future will bring
They’re certain to be all of Hughs’ favourite things
Canoeing and trekking in strange foreign places
Thick gooey sun cream on ageing pale faces
Birthdays-a-plenty with lots more to sing
These are a few of Hugh’s favourite things
When the sea’s rough
When the mates’ gruff
When Hugh’s feeling sad
A cashew or two
And Phenergan will do
And then he don’t feel so bad.

Monday December 26
Flat sea, searing heat, no wind and the water temperature is an unbelievable 32.4c. Much bucket bathing, clothes washing and general activity today for some reason. Perhaps it’s the possibility of complete and utter boredom driving us headlong into depression but collectively we seem to have decided to be active today. Could it be our ‘cycles’ are coinciding due to our close and prolonged proximity to each other. I shudder with the thought. With the yacht now under motor for three days now, no sails to change and absolutely nothing to see perhaps we just need something, anything to do. Going up on deck is damn uncomfortable as it’s so hot. Not a cloud in the sky and what little puff of wind there is comes from the south, blowing diesel fumes into the cockpit. Nice!

Or perhaps it’s because we have a date with King Neptune later today and want to look our best on this auspicious occasion. None of us here on the good ship Last Chapter have ever sailed over the equator so the ancient ritual of initiating the land lubbers to ‘shell backs’ is to be performed. Strangely an air of anticipation takes over the yacht as the GPS counts its way slowly down to 00.00 degrees. Around 1800 hours there is a flurry of activity on board Hugh, has donned a makeshift sarong and red T shirt and for some very strange reason has chosen to present himself also wearing a balaclava and sunglasses. He either has something to hide from King Neptune or intends to commit and unarmed hold-up. Peter and I just figure he’s dropped another Phenergan and he’s off with the fairies again. Peter has fashion a rather splendid trident out of a stick a pair of BBQ tongs and a roll of gaffer tape. I’ve take the low key approach a donned my sarong and a rather becoming hat. Becoming that is on anyone else’s head, on mine it just looks stupid, but hey we’re in the middle of nowhere!

As the seconds tick down cameras are poised (get this – we have 3 cameras and 3 people to use them but no-one seems to know how we shoot each other AND the GPS showing zero degrees simultaneously and everyone wants the moment on their own camera. Eventually Peter pulls rank and we use his and at 1832 western standard time we cross the equator. I crack the top of a bottle of sparkling, cameras flash incessantly, we toast a cheer like schoolboys and congratulate each other on being just so damn good!

For some reason this is the panacea we’ve needed and what starts out as a light celebration and toast to King Neptune turns into a party. Buckets are poured over heads on the bow and videoed accordingly, offerings are made to King Neptune by way of alcohol, cashews are distributed and the stereo is set at “club” level. (A virgin sacrifice wouldn’t have gone astray)

After six hours of blokes being blokes, consuming a bottle of red, a bottle of sparkling and a litre bottle of OP Rum (mixed initially with mango and orange juice until that ran out then just on ice) and then ( I shudder again) tumblers of quite warm cask red we are well and truly merry. We congratulate ourselves on telling all manner of stories, pissing off the back of the boat without one MOB and deem that we’ve suitably paid the appropriate homage that should be afforded our aquatic regent and all in all we’re all round good guys and deliriously happy to belong to our mutual appreciation society. So there. (hic!)

Hugh

(To the tune of ‘my favourite things’)

Strange floppy head wear and long cotton trousers
Sheep at the backdoor of old rural houses
Dancing in moonlight with drums, flutes and strings
These are a few of Hughs’ favourite things

Marriage and daughters both pretty and many
Long groggy slumbers to woken thoughts – when he
Will speak of the dreams that his future will bring
They’re certain to be all of Hughs’ favourite things

Canoeing and trekking in strange foreign places
Thick gooey sun cream on ageing pale faces
Birthdays-a-plenty with lots more to sing
These are a few of Hugh’s favourite things

When the sea’s rough
When the mates’ gruff
When Hugh’s feeling sad
A cashew or two
And Phenergan will do
And then he don’t feel so bad.

To Peter

When setting out upon the sea
One needn’t care a jot
We have our leader – skipper Pete
To guide our little yacht

His foot ware maybe curious
His hairstyle wild and free
But you wouldn’t want to trust another
When you go to sea

Though quick to decide when the pressure is on
He never rushes decisions
Just pour him a coffee and role him a smoke
And he’ll do what’s best – with precision

So bring him the coffee and happy hour drinks
And curry surprises too
But make sure he bathes and changes his clothes
Lest this ark should stink like a zoo

He’s fearless and brave and handy with tools
And happiest with a VB
And there’s none ya could trust
Like our good skipper-Pete
When out on a great big sea

Monday Dec 19
I awoke at 8am and for some strange reason felt rather human without even a hint of a hangover; decide a quick swim and a coffee would be the go. Climbing back on deck after my morning refresher I see a body paddling furiously towards the yacht. It’s young Taj who must have been up at first light just waiting for someone to show themselves up on deck, the signal that it’s ok to come and visit.

As soon as he arrives the others follow, soon the water between the yacht and the island is a washing machine of activity and as each reach the yacht they find the highest accessible structure and throw themselves off it. After letting them know we’d take them all sailing they all swim back to shore to tell their parents and see if they wanted to come too.

Within an hour we’re underway with parents aboard, the girls all jostling for position at the bow doing their very best Kate Winslett. Soon we get each of them at the helm and after initial trepidation some of them actually show good sailing instincts. The smiles of course are priceless. We find out later that of all the time the kids have been on Cocos and all the yachts that have visited probably in the hundreds, no-one has ever invited them to go sailing. As Peter said, after an ocean crossing for most, going out for a jolly wouldn’t be high on their priority. The only downside of the day was the fact that a few of them got a touch of the mal de mere, poor Taj, he of the most enthusiasm, copping the worst of it. (And we have the pictures to prove it)

Arriving back to our anchorage Ash informs us that we are to be his guests for the night on West Island, apparently being Monday night it will be quiet and we can chill out for a relaxing evening, then we can provision on Tuesday and be ready to go.

This time the ferry is operative, the last being 3.30pm. So we take the tender to Home Island (about 1mile away) we get the ferry from there to West Island (about 5miles) then the bus from the jetty to town about 6k. And let me tell you, short of having your own sizable runabout and car, there is no other way to do the trip. (Me thinks Jose planned the transport service many years ago to deter yachties)

Quiet night huh? The plane carrying people from Perth to Christmas Island then to Cocos then back to Perth has arrived but has mechanical problems and won’t be leaving until daylight. Quiet night at the club now has local regulars, incoming Christmas Islanders in transit and those departing from Coco to go to Perth and a trio of sailors. Let’s just say that by 1am the last of us staggered out having solved the world’s problems, laughed ourselves stupid and made a sizable dent in the Cocos Clubs alcohol supply. Meanwhile I’m now privy to a whole new catalogue of tall tales and true, infinite gossip and a hand full of new jokes! There were some there that night who marvelled at just how many people knew us, and all the information we’d acquired within the space of 2 days.

When I alluded to the ‘heads up’ we’d been given in Freo, not only was there a chorus of the culprits’ name even before I’d said it, not one person was surprised that his information was at best jaundiced. Special thanks to Cat for the new arsenal of jokes, Belinda for the visual “what am I” ones and the gorgeous Mandi for the sensational swimming spot. As we all staggered home at various stages of the new day I was hardly surprised that Peter did his usual let’s-sleep-where-ever-my-body-physically-stops, in this case the comfy chairs in the front yard of Ash and Kylie’s house less than a half a dozen steps from the actual bed made ready for him.

Tuesday December 20
Back to serious business. Shopping – now I have never considered that a term to use loosely but has anyone ever been forced through circumstance to provision a yacht at a Muslim run grocery store. Let me tell you the options are limited. (Where’s the bacon?) Next it’s off to see Steve our Federal Police Officer who will clear us from Cocos. Passports stamped we head back to Ashley and Kylie’s place where-upon Ash decides we could do with a swim before we have to catch the ferry; our destination is Trannies Beach and to get there one goes down Heartbreak Drive. On first hearing of this location one could conjure up a tale of love born of palm trees and tropical seas, with a matrimonial proposal on the as yet unnamed beach, a resounding yes from the dusky maiden with one proviso. A long held secret has to be revealed to her suitor a secret that may quite possibly change the wedding music from “Unchained Melody” to something from the Pet Shop Boys Catalogue.

I’ll let your imaginations finish the story. Truth be known, Trannies is named quite unromantically after the Transmitters near by.

Loaded up and ready to go we head to the jetty first to drop off our provisions and leave them there unattended, not the slight concern is given to anything left around by someone. One can leave a wallet on the bar and wander around the room all night without fear of it being lifted. Cars are left unlocked, often with keys in them. Houses are rarely locked at all and kids can go and play anywhere in complete safety. These folks have it made. Of course if you want to see a movie, go to a restaurant (well there is one on Home Island but I was told it only opened on Wednesday nights), or purchase furniture or even a birthday or Christmas present then that’s a whole new ball game. Yet despite all this I personally would back there in a flash.

In classic Ashley or perhaps Cocos style, we are driven to Trannies and upon arrival are handed a cold beer out of the esky in the back of the ubiquitous twin cab ute. Speaking of which; when we first arrived and were given a lift into town, we were asked by others “who gave you the lift?” we said “we’re not sure but they drove a white twin cab ute,” “well that narrows it down to just about everyone on both islands” came the reply. So beers in hand we sat waist deep in crystal clear water in a small bay ringed by reef and watched the surf crash against it as the sun slowly baked our skin. Some time and a few beers later we hear a motor droning, Hugh thinks it’s the ferry but it can’t be that late already. A quick look at a watch on shore and our idyllic afternoon is shattered by a mad dash to the jetty. It IS that late! No matter how laconic and laid back this island, this is the last ferry, it leaves at 3 and it waits for no man especially not yachties.

Wednesday Dec 21
A miserable night was had last night, D.I. deserted and all the fun a world away. No sign of our fuel container which had been organised to be on the boat when we got back so no chance to do the long dash back into town. All three of us suffering Cocos withdrawals so after a futile attempt at watching a DVD – the owners’ lack of care with his property extends to his movie collection many of which are in poor condition and when played tend to stick, so it’s in bed by 10pm.

Morning greets us with dismal skies but we have one thing to accomplish before we depart, a creative addition to the beach structure on shore at D.I. Peter and Hugh in the mean time go for a dive and on return discover I had been busy constructing a rather rudimentary ‘totem’ pole featuring our good selves replete with fluorescent eyes, bright green hair and earrings, our names and that of the yacht signifying our presence in 2005. (See attached / or soon to be upcoming photo).
A trip to shore to install said totem pole reveals our fuel had in fact been left as promised under a water tank. After the obligatory photos the skies open with a vengeance and all but our immediate surroundings are obscured by the deluge. Our hope that our Cocos friends may make it over to wish us goodbye are dashed with the inclement weather.

North to the wide ocean we go our clothes saturated in the constant downpour. Bye-bye Cocos (Keeling) Islands and all upon her. Joshua Slocum was right and had he met the locals (even Jose’) he may never have left. Next stop Phuket Thailand, but first we have an equator to cross and celebrate and of course Christmas Day and current calculations have them falling on the same day. Stay tuned, you may not want to miss the next lot of enthralling episodes.

Detlef Bauer.

Thursday Dec 15
It’s 0700 hrs and I’m up on deck having a quiet coffee watching the rhythm of the long slow southerly swell as we cruise along merrily under heavy cloud and 15knot winds when Peter similarly armed with caffeine joins me for a chat.

“So what shall we do today?” I say with only the slightest hint of feminine mimicry.

That comment prompts a brief discussion on the observance of how a large proportion of female folk who, when one hasn’t contemplated what the day may bring and quite content to do absolutely nothing, is compelled by their partner to shatter this sloth-like existence with activities that seem more akin to just ‘filling’ a day rather than achieving anything specific.

Of course now that the subject has been broached my sloth like tendencies have suffered a mild case of guilt and I go in search of something more active than turning a page of a book. It’s then that I am overcome with the urge to fly a kite!

I can just imagine as you read this shaking your head and thinking well of course he wants to do something he’s probably bored; but fly a kite? Those that know me are thinking that figures trust Detlef to choose something idiotic to occupy his probably now, stagnant, twisted mind.

Oh ye of little faith. It just so happens that the concept occurred to me in Fremantle and I, after some canny negotiation and organisation have in my possession a grand flying machine, skilfully designed (bright yellow and green painted cartoon monsters), deftly crafted (completely plastic and made in Hong Kong) and of outstanding value ($3.50), just waiting to fly.

I savour every moment of tearing open its plastic bag, inserting plastic stick (a) into plastic cup hole (b) & (c). Then with tongue ever-so-slightly poking out of the side of my mouth, I thread the flimsy cotton string through hole (d) and tie the most sea-man like of knots, the bowline. (Try that with something half the thickness of dental floss)

Now the dilemma, the question I have been mulling over in my mind since the thought of flying a kite from a yacht occurred to me; given a specific wind direction and strength, what part of the boat is going to be the preferred launching and flying point?

We are running with the wind we have a poled out genoa, a stay sail on the other side and a reefed main. The decision is to launch from the stern and without undue ceremony up she goes. I have about 150 meters of line and I let out about 50 meters of that as Peter armed with a camera props himself to take the obligatory pictures. After 2 or 3 minutes of glorious flying, complete with some unintentional swoops and kamikaze dives the kite screams around behind the main in lee of the prevailing wind and unceremoniously nose dives into the drink. We laugh uproariously until we realise that of course the yacht is doing around 7 knots and the kite is held by little more than flimsy cotton. That said, my one and only attempt to bring it in is foiled by the basic laws of physics and lousy Hong Kong sweat shop construction leaving me with nothing more than fond but fleeting memories, 150 meters of line, replete with bowline on the end of a skerrick of plastic formally attached to my $3.50 kite.

As Peter refuses to drop sails and turn our ship around to retrieve it (even after I stop threatening to set off the EPIRB), so I ask him “ok, NOW what will we do”. Peter grins conspiratorially, “let’s play with the big kite”.

Soon it’s all hands on deck dropping sails, hauling out the spinnaker, searching for appropriate sheets, none of this made easier by the fact that apparently the spinnaker hasn’t been used since the current owner has had the boat! Eventually at the precise moment as the sun simultaneously makes it’s debut through the clouds, our spinnaker flies proudly celebrated by a trio of adolescent whoops and whistles. (“A message, a message from the lord; God be praised”) Our speed picks up to an average of 8.5knots and we are eating up the miles until after a few hours, the wind shifts then builds and the spinnaker is dropped in favour of a more workable sail plan.

In the process setting up the new sail plan the genoa furling line snaps (we half expected it anyway by the state of it) causing us run with the staysail instead whilst some surgery is performed. An hour or so later Peter has sutured the rope with fishing line (no whipping chord to be found anywhere on the boat) and some tape. Announcing, “It’ll be a miracle if it holds” we feed the furling line and give it a try. Miracles do it seems, happen. Blessings too it seem when we all decide a shower, shave and clean clothes are the order of the day.

Late afternoon up on deck we three are resplendent in our freshly shaved faces, clean attire and smelling somewhat more palatable. We crack a beer sit back rather exhausted and decide once and for all, never again through this voyage to start the day with. “What will we do today?”

Friday December 16
We are pleased to embrace our first completely clear day since departing Exmouth. Gone are the clouds with nothing but bright blue skies over a sensational cobalt ocean. Hugh described the ocean over the past few days as a slate blue and I wonder if the intensity of the Indian Ocean has anything to do with the depth. We have been sailing through “Wharton Basin” an area we discover is the deepest in the entire Indian Ocean. Our chart shows as far west as Africa, as far South as 50 degrees (Iceberg territory), Western Australia and just short of the equator and this is by far the deepest part. Sounded to 6499 meters in parts I find it fascinating if not a little eerie, that below this yacht is a drop of over 6km! Our reward for this topographical fact is the most intense deep blue ocean.

Our early morning coffee has Peter decide (without prompting this time) that it’s time again for the spinnaker. This time the asymmetrical kite will be flown from the bow and set as a “gennaker” (absolutely no spell check for that so make of it what you will, though I was given the option by spell check of using “genital” which made me laugh) The winds are considerably lighter than they have been for a week (around 10 knots) so a good long kite run should do us the world of good. We set it without incident and enjoy some breakfast. Spirits are indeed high this morning and not just because we are making good speed on a bright sunny day, but our calculations have us now within territorial waters of Australia again, but this time the Cocos Islands and we look like dropping anchor sometime early tomorrow morning.

Perhaps the experience with my little hand kite (now either floating half way to Indonesia or adorning some sea creatures’ fin like cheap costume jewellery), should have been seen as fortuitous because whilst helming I pushed it just a bit too much, began rounding up then BANG! It took us quite a while to get the exploded kite in and packed away, a clean tear just beyond the reinforcement on the tack with a sad limp remnant still attached to the bow the only clue that on both days it hadn’t even got to lunch time and already we’ve (ok I ) have broken the toys.

Saturday Dec 17
Blue skies, 10 knots of wind, a beautiful sunny day with the temp in the late 20’s when around 1100 hrs we spot the Cocos (Keeling) Islands in the distant. Entering the atoll we’re overwhelmed by it vivid blue waters, a blue so bright I was nearly asking for the ‘volume’ to be turned down as my sunglasses fought to counteract the intensity. Joshua Slocum when arriving at Cocos over 150 years ago wrote along the lines of “If there is an island paradise on earth then I’ve found it.”

By 1430 we’ve dropped anchor 50 meters off the uninhabited Direction Island, or as referred to by the locals who use it as their weekend away destination D.I. and I throw myself overboard into the crystal clear 30 degree water and within a few minutes see a nice reef shark about 1.5meters long.

Made up of over 27 islands forming a ring, two are the major habitations. Home Island, populated by the Malay community of around 500 people and West Island home of the predominantly Anglo Saxon Australian community. Typically Australian is the fact that the Malays have the very small island and a (relatively) large population whilst the Aussies who make up about 100 people have the largest Island of the whole atoll.

We get ourselves ready to head to home Island, getting the tender off the deck, fitting the outboard, washing etc. After the obligatory showers and shaves we set of in our tender and head for Home Island for we have it on good authority (more on that later as I still contemplate slapping the person in Fremantle who solicited the advice) that this is the place to get all the info you need. After a 20 min boat trip we arrive at home Island. Where is everyone? It’s late afternoon Saturday and not a soul to be seen. Information gleaned earlier that day via phone (calling harbour master, customs etc) was ‘go to house 8.’ where we were met by our Malay contact who as charming and hospitable as he was, gave us no real information to help us organise our next few days save that just about everything is closed until Monday, and even fuel is not available until Wednesday and that the ferry that runs between Home Island and West Island won’t run again until Monday.

A quick check of the watch, it’s 5pm and we decide there’s enough light to make the 5 nautical mile trip by tender (keeled yachts can’t get there due to draft and bommies) across to Home Island. By the way, I should add in here that each of us is also carrying some pretty potent dirty laundry in the hope of washing over the week end. (No chance of that either on Home Island) Peter looks at me with a “well shall we take a chance and do a run to West Island besides we’ve run out of beer on the boat?” look, I figure hell why not and give him that “sure, after all I’ve been with only you and Hugh for the past seven days and I don’t relish spending another night on the boat with just you guys for company when there are cold beers and natives who I’m sure who are just dying to make our scintillating acquaintance” look. (Try making that look – not easy)

An hour later the sun has deserted us in favour of a moonless night, we’re around 100 meters of Home Island the chop of the bay has soaked us completely, we have dry clothes but no one would come within 100 meters of us if we wore them, the hand hell GPS has shat itself (make note to remind Peter to slap the bastards who serviced it and didn’t properly water seal it there-by turning a perfectly good water proof GPS into a rather useless piece of plastic with buttons. Just like our mobile phone though quite dry are similarly useless here due to lack of coverage. Be warned all service providers who assured us there WAS coverage on Coco (Keeling) Islands you too shall be slapped mercilessly) Now where was I – oh yes.

Ashore now after finding the correct spot to alight, tender tied to a bilingual sign post we are confronted with two distinct wide sandy paths and not the slight sign of civilisation or any posted hint as to where one may find some. Typically Peter turns and asks me – ‘ok which do you think?’ I go for the path to the right leading away from the beach whilst the other parallels it. Fifteen minutes later after being repeatedly accosted by some very seriously large land crabs with pincers akin to the size and potential ferocity to the “Jaws of Life” that fire officers at road carnage sites use to cut people out of mangled cars, Peter makes the decision that we return to the tender and try the other path as this one seems to be heading north and the town we are told is to the south. After 15 minutes in that direction we are proud to say we found the towns’ tip all by ourselves. So now it’s back to where we started and off on the first track again, the crabs now rather bored with our directionless meanderings until eventually we come to a small T intersection, this one paved and grandiosely named the Sydney Highway. We head south and walk and walk, and walk. It’s now 7.30 pm we’ve been doing this rather bizarre trek now for nearly an hour and a half when at last a car comes from the direction we’re heading. Controlling our immediate desire to throw ourselves in front of this vehicle assuring it to stop, our better instinct prevail and we conservatively flag it down there-by reducing the chance of being road kill, as for all we know running over newly arrived yachties who are foolish enough to offer their weary bodies as speed humps could be a local sport. After all the damn crabs will probably dispose of the evidence by morning anyway.

Luckily the two guys offer to take us into town and we pour our, hungry, wet, miserable bodies into their car and within a few minutes are within earshot of the sound of a VB can being opened thanks to the local watering hole known simply as the Cocos Club.

We did though learn a few things on this rather quick journey.

1. We should expect it to be a quiet Saturday night due to the excessive partying that took place on Friday night, apparently these two guys and supposedly the rest of the town are nursing a severe hangover.
2. We should waste no time at all in getting a meal at the motel opposite the Cocos Club because they’re bound to shut by 8pm and it’s the only place to get food. And whilst there we should check in for rooms as it might be difficult organising one after 8.30pm
3. Everything is shut on Sunday except the club that opens at 5pm.

Town, even in this light (or lack of) is exactly what you’d expect in place that has a population of around 100 people and everything public revolves around a the pub (hence the word if guess). We dash into the motel dining room, a room seemingly devoid of people and ominously; edible food. Reclining in the warmers is some very tired looking cooked meat, next to that is a pool of largely (for good reason) untouched gravy, some chips and a braised casserole type thing. But there is some battered anonymous fish and green salad that has my name on it. Then came the first real “highlight” of the evening. Jose’ our illustrious portly Malay (I think) chef. No cook. No just make that Jose’ full stop.

At a guess, I think poor old Jose’ who we were later reliably informed has been doing the same job for 24 years sat down and watched (probably via Indonesian TV with dubious subtitling) “Seinfeld”, the episode with the soup Nazi and thought “hey I could do that”.

Let’s just say that I have no idea what profession Jose thinks he’s in, but hospitality is not it. At best he was ambivalent to any of our questions or polite requests at worst he just behaved like a tired old queen, bitter and bored. It seems that Jose’s personality by-pass is quietly accepted by the town and in fact has been know to be quite polite when the mood takes him. It appears that one of his issues is that he is not a fan of yachties, and us being such friendly guys too!

We scoff down our meal with ravenous intent and whilst Peter arranges our accommodation I step over the road and check out the bar, not before noticing there is a rather large commercial aeroplane sitting not to distant from it. Upon ordering three cans of VB at the wonderful price of $2.50 a can (I love duty free), and after being asked where I’ve blown in from the bar keep thrusts out his hand and with a wickedly disarming smile proclaims “ G’day I’m Ash, welcome to Cocos. Wearing a bright red shirt replete with Las Vegas logos and dice emblazoned on it Ashley informs us that the bar is open as long as need be but tonight there’s a card game so he’ll be shutting around 10 and heading there so at least there’s an excuse for that shirt. We are also told that yes, nothing is open on Sundays and as most people will be heading for D.I. tomorrow he’ll also be there and we’re welcome to catch up with him and his family.

Soon the duty free red wine was flowing, an understandably Margaret River heavy selection at my disposal was marred only by one particular bottle of vin ordinaire (recommended by our host) but replaced by another by way of Ash opening one and sharing it with me whilst he perched himself on a stool on the other side of the bar. As the excitement of the day catches up with us and having kept Ash two hours longer than intended, we leave him to shut up shop and join his card game whilst we have an appointment with the motel room pillows.

Sunday December 18
Having organised with customs to meet us at the yacht around midday today Peter knocks at my door at 9.15. He has spoken to Steve the Federal Policeman and customs officer here and he’d be ok to see us now before he heads off to D.I. A short walk around the back of the club along side of the airport runway (that explains last nights’ plane parked so close) and we meet Steve who checks us over, gives us some forms to fill in and say’s he’ll meet us at the boat later today., and no (after asking) he can’t give us a lift over as he has a full load of friends and family.

Back to the hotel kitchen we are met by Jose again (lucky us) who when asked what’s for breakfast replies with all the morning cheer of a mortician, replies “continental or cooked and we don’t do bacon”. We all go for cooked even though he’s not explained what “cooked and we don’t do bacon” consists of, but we take a punt anyway. A good hearty country style coronary inducing fry up with sausages, eggs, tomato, mushrooms and toast soon presents it’s self and we happily shovel it in.

We settle in to discuss our dilemma. Whilst here we are on West Island, everyone it seems is on D.I. where our yacht is, we have no way of getting back to the yacht now as there is no transport and our tender that lies some 4km away is dangerously low on fuel with no way of getting any more and to top it all off – we have bags of dirty laundry and although we can wash them here at the motel we have no washing powder or similar and our only person who can help is Jose, who when asked says “speak to the cleaner” (who probably doesn’t work Sunday’s either). Even a request for a quarter of a cup of dishwashing liquid is met with stony silence and a look that implies, “Listen if I have to be here 24 years and serve you grotty yachty types, you can be damn sure I’m going to make your little stay here as miserable as my cold black heart”.

We eventually find some dishwashing detergent, set off our machines and do the sorts of things one does when they are in a new place and have a few hours to kill. We take photographs of things that look interesting at the time and then look back later at the photo and go “why the hell DID I take a photo of that satellite dish”. Going back into the motel café I see Jose is having his bacon free breakfast and I pour myself a coffee. As I head outside with my coffee cup he looks up and smiles at me and says something that sounded like “have a good day”. My first reaction is to look over my shoulder to the person who MUST behind me, then realising he is actually acknowledging me I blurt out some sort of reply and walk away confused as to wether he was being polite or had just got a touch of indigestion.

With clean washing and a case of beers we sit beside “Sydney Highway” under a tree and wait for a car to come along which eventually does, driven by Tracy the school’s health and PE teacher who happily takes us all the way to our tender. Within one very nerve wracking hour due to the tender now seemingly running on fumes only, we’re back on Last Chapter and I throw myself overboard amidst the sound of boats flying past with kids shrieking in delight as they’re towed about at break-neck speeds in rubber rings or throwing each other of the tiny jetty. Seems we had completely blown it. WE arrive on the night everyone is hung over and not interested in playing and the following day spend much of it alone on the other island watching our washing go ‘round whilst every one else is kicking back just meters from our yacht! It was kind of like arriving in Noosa and going to Gympie thinking it would all be happening there.

Soon Steve makes his way over in his boat and processes us into Cocos whilst wearing little more than board shorts. (Gotta love that) Ash whizzes by on a boat towing kids and yells for us to join his clan on the beach whilst we extend an offer for him to join us on the yacht. We will but first, given the pristine conditions Peter want’s to go to the rip, just 200 meters from where we are and do some snorkelling. With a beach infested with tiny hermit crabs Peter and Hugh head out whilst I mind the tender. They come back an hour later grinning from ear to ear, in less than 3 meters of water and perfect visibility they’ve spotted hundreds of fish including a few good sized groper.

Later that afternoon Ash paddles over on his own little rubber ring and joins us in a beer and formally invites us to join his family and friends for dinner on the beach. We have nothing but frozen stuff but he assures us he has plenty of everything except ice, so we compile a selection of cheeses, some beers and a bag of ice that we have in our freezer and make our way over. Under a rustic shelter festooned with the wonderful, creative and quirky evidence of many of the yachts that have visited we meet the rest of the family and friends. Ashley and his wonderful wife Kylie and their two kids Maddison and Candace, the lovely Larissa and her two Kim and Taj and local school maths teacher the shy and mysterious Sharon with her three, Matt, Tim and Grace.

Soon everyone is eating, drinks are topped up again and again the night surges on bonfires are lit whilst kids toast marshmallows and work on the pyrotechnic skills. Gossip’s bartered for personal information, histories are revealed and best of all the laughter is long and loud and warmer than the bonfire. During the course of the evening, Peter invites the kids to come and have a look at the yacht tomorrow and they seem suitably excited with the offer asking what time – “when you see us on deck” I say. We wrap it up on the beach around 1230am then Peter, Hugh and I decide a cleanser on the yacht would be ideal to finish the night, all too quickly 4am arrives and we finally call it a night.

To be continued…. Detlef Bauer

Saturday Dec 10
A glorious morning as we ready Last Chapter for departure coffee in hand, a spring in our step we cast off and head out into the gulf for a few hours rounding the North West Cape approximately 0930 getting a decent amount of sail up to best use the available 20knot S’ouWesters. It’s goodbye to mainland Australia and out into the Indian Ocean. By 1600 the winds have started to push 25 to 30 knots and for the rest of the evening we push west easily averaging 8 to 9 knots even though the seas are uncomfortably on our beam.

Unfortunately Hugh has again been stricken with the Mal-de-mare and whilst valiantly trying to cook dinner (frying pork chops when feeling less than ideal is never a good recommendation) he eventually realises running from the galley to above deck every few minutes is not a safe or helpful way to spend the night. I take over his cooking duties whilst Hugh lies down and allows the Phenergan to do its job. Happily Hugh isn’t stricken quite so badly this time and eventually is able to stay semi vertical with out having to feed the fish.

Sunday Dec 11
We made pretty good time over the last 24 hours clocking 188 miles from a standing start; I’m hoping to break the 200 before we get to Cocos. The bulk of the day is spent sleeping as our bodies attempt to get into the rhythm of both the boat’s motion and the watch shifts. I find day 2 usually the hardest on the body and this one proves no different. At least the wind is consistent, sending us along 7+ knots without working the boat too hard. In the evening we watch a DVD documentary “Touching the Void” about 2 Englishmen who climbed a peak in Peru only to descend into a one of the most torturous dice-with-death stories one is ever likely to encounter. Not sure it was such a great choice on a yacht heading into the middle of the Indian Ocean.

Wed Dec 14
Before you get concerned that perhaps I’ve skipped a few days or they’ve been consumed by some digital black hole, rest assured dear reader that you are not being robbed of some riveting information but really there has been nothing to tell.

The last few days have been completely un-news worthy and it’s only through the need to go through the process of actually writing something, anything; that has got me to fire up the lap top and tap away.

I’ll give you an overview of the situation. Seas are around 2-3 meters and the majority of this swell is directly from the South. Wind is generally 20knots and from the South. Occasionally the wind moves 5 degrees towards the east but that only seems to happen in the lulls but they’re infrequent and last only for an hour or so. We set our sails shortly after leaving the mainland. On a port tack we have the main set at the second reef, our cutter headsail set to starboard and the larger gib, poled out and set to port. The sky has been cloud covered with the occasional breaks in the afternoons for the sun to make a cameo appearance for and hour or so every day now and the water temperature (our instruments tell us 29.1 degrees but I think they tell big fat lies), is slowly building to tropical levels.

For five days now, nothing has changed. We sleep, we eat, we read and we occasionally ablute. The main entertainment of the day apart from waiting for Peter to hit his head again – and may I say he’s doing it with monotonous regularity, is checking the GPS and seeing how many calculated hours there are before Cocos, or what our daily top speed has been, both bits of data have been most pleasing so far.

We’ve have since leaving Exmouth, been averaging over well over 7 knots with daily top speeds around 12 or 13 knots when surfing down the waves and without sounding too optimistic at this rate we will get to Cocos Islands around Friday night. Ideally we would like to arrive in daylight but we’d be happy to arrive earlier during the night and just potter about until first light before entering the atoll. Given the tricky entry and the abundance of bommies, a conservative approach will be the order of the day.

So that basically brings you up to speed. We are all healthy and well, though Hugh’s health is attributed entirely to his regular intake of Phenergan whilst Peter is doing fine I fear he may return with permanent indentation on his head and as for myself all is just dandy. As for the yacht, Last Chapter is being most kind to us and is handling the condition admirably with only a few gripes from us so far. Green water over the bow (luckily now very infrequent) produces an irritating leak in the forward cabin which unfortunately given the current tack means Hugh, who has the starboard bunk gets the occasional dousing. The other (minor) concern is that we can’t seem to get the prop to feather. Upon killing the engine the prop seems to slip out of gear and spin merrily away giving Peter who has the aft cabin, that never-ending drone of the shaft turning. Of course Peter, I’m sure would happily cope with all the boat’s quirks if they had only given the couch-house a centimeter or two more head room.

Oh yes, one thing I am having fun with is the realization that I have now mentally conditioned the skipper. Let me explain.

As the shifts stand Hugh wakes me, I wake Peter and Peter wakes Hugh. Since the beginning of the voyage, if my shift is finishing around daylight (anywhere after 0500) I’ve woken Peter with a freshly made coffee, a gesture I know he always appreciates. Obviously in the process of making the coffee all the sounds associated with it, kettle whistling, cupboards opening and spoons stirring etc have alerted Peter to the fact and he awakes, often from a very deep sleep.

Now, as the days have progressed and we’ve settled into our sleep patterns, I have occasionally taken the liberty of indulging in a coffee at the start of my 0400 or 0500 shifts (Peter still having another hour and a half before his shift is due). But due to my inadvertent conditioning, no matter how deep his sleep (cabin wall shaking with his snoring etc), the moment the spoon makes contact with my cup, Peter awakes and starts to get up for HIS shift!!! I then have to inform him the coffee is for me and he can either have one too or go back to sleep. He’s back in his bed in a flash, snoring away merrily in no time.

NEWS FLASH!

How’s this for weird. Just as I was writing about the spoon hitting the cup (less than a minute ago) Peter sticks his head out of the cabin and asks me if I called him!!! I think Pavlov’s theory has transcended the mere physical; I can now do it via mental telepathy! Stay tuned as I attempt to manipulate Peter’s sub-conscience to awake with me with eggs benedict and freshly squeezed orange juice every morning!

Detlef Bauer

Wednesday November 17th

S34.43m E135.52m

Port Lincon, South Australia

If the romance of a yacht delivery ever beckoned you to pack a bag and submit to the wanderlust for ports unknown beware. More often–than-not these adventures hark back to the ancient mariner’s chart where the unknown parts were often designated with the warnings of “Here Be Dragons”.

 

 

Our ‘dragons’, friends and loved ones; are not of the scaley fire breathing types, nor the slimy wide eyed multi tentacled denizens of the deep, but the monsters forged in metal wire, fuses, pumps, switches and conflicting LED read-outs, all vaguely wrangled by $85 per hour tradesmen.

Thursday the 10^th of November, Peter, Hugh and Detlef meet at Adelaide airport around midday fully understanding that our delivery yacht a 60’ Bestevaer: “Last Chapter” would be on a hard stand awaiting our arrival with just the final touches to be completed. Perhaps the weather that day was fortuitous – dark, stormy, bitterly cold and blowing a tempest – less than hospitable.

(OK, perhaps I’m being somewhat melodramatic)

Never-the-less, she was on a hard stand in the Northern Adelaide coastal boondocks (better known as North Haven) and on our arrival in our hired Tarrago discovered that she not only awaited antifouling and top side painting but her air-conditioning unit was nowhere to be seen. Apparently it hadn’t ‘arrived’. It turns out that said unit was somewhere in transit – which could mean anywhere between North Haven and the USA in some container on a ship or in the back of a delivery van having a guided tour of the Barossa.

So off to our accommodation we go, the Largs Pier Hotel. For the Aust. music history buffs amongst you the “Laaaargs” once spewed forth the early sounds of the likes of Barnsey in Cold Chisel and a young clean skinned Bon Scott fronting The Valentines before he inked up and led Acka Dacka. Yes folks we were to be sleeping amidst the ghostly memories of beer stained brawlers, vomiting recently post-pubescent groupies and the long past echoes of West End Bitter bottles as they hit cement, tile or head in the gleeful self expression of the early 70’s.

But I digress.

Like all romantic notions based on fond memories – most are best left as just that, and though perfectly adequate, The Largs Pier Hotel suffered from just a bit too much ‘character’. Or perhaps it was just that the locals insisted on playing, with monotonous regularity “The Coward of the County”! Bon should rise from the grave and thump those infidels.

 

 

Friday the 11^th of November and a-shopping we go. To North Adelaide where we fill shopping trolleys with all manner of non perishables. (We know better than to spend up on milk, eggs bread etc until the very last moment of departure)  A short trip around the corner to store our groceries we meet the highly hospitable and beaming wife of the owner, Christine Mercer who insists (even though we’ve just had breakfast) on feeding us enormous portions of Cheese cake and chilled mugs of Bundeberg Ginger beer. She’s about to leave the house but insists we eat up and avail ourselves to the pool and any luxury we feel like in her million dollar plus blue stone renovated cottage. We smile politely as she exits happily asking us to just lock the door behind us when we feel like going. As the door closes the three of us exchange glances, wait the polite beat or two to make sure she isn’t going to return and push our barely touched cheese cake servings aside with Peter looking for a plastic bag that we can smuggle the stuff out of the house and dispose of it so it looks like we’ve been good boys and ate it all up.

 

 

Back to the boat we go. At least the weather has cleared up and some progress is made on the anti-foul but still no sign of the air con unit. So it’s back to the Largs to waste time until tomorrow.

 

 

Saturday the 12^th of November we meet with Englishman Paul Mercer, owner of Last Chapter, his son Paul Jr. and friend of the family, the vacationing British Senior Inspector Joe. Peter does the ‘professional skipper’ thing – asking all the right questions, not saying “fuck” too much whilst Hugh and I look suitably interested. Attempting to make conversation with the owner’s son and the guvner proves to be futile. They’re either incredibly shy, overtly suspicious of our intentions or brain dead. Happily we find out later that they fall into the ‘shy’ category and are in fact, quite pleasant “chaps’.

 

 

The word is that the air conditioning unit has arrived in Adelaide this morning but sits on a truck not to be unloaded until Monday morning. Optimistically Peter hopes for a Monday midday departure, I on the other hand have bets on late Tuesday night. With nothing to do but kill time we head back to the Largs Hotel and more “Coward of the County” (Where’s a suicide bomber when you really need one?). We have to vacate on Saturday morning due to a wedding party having booked the hotel out. (No further comment required here)

 

 

We decide the seaside town of Glenelg is as good as any to stay and find a moderately priced best Western and check ourselves in then it’s off to a pub for a few cold ones amidst the bustle of tourists and weekend revelers. Against all expectations the three of us awake Sunday morning without hangovers and do breakfast. With another day of mooching about with our only (highly optimistic) shopping expedition for fruit and veg which we store in our mini bar fridges being the highlight, we find a beachside hotel and settle in for the afternoon.

 

 

Monday morning we check out, and head back to the boat which now has been slipped and sits awaiting our arrival. Sadly though, she’s nowhere ready to go. There be Gremlins!  Air-conditioning isn’t working properly and parts won’t be ready until Tuesday morning so we unload all our gear and begin to stow it below decks where we’re confronted with the most unsightly, un-seaworthy god awful mess reminiscent of a 14 year old boy’s bedroom we’ve seen. As the tradesmen and technicians are all over the boat we leave it until tomorrow. A few beers at the local marina bar and we’re tucked up in bed relatively early aboard Last Chapter albeit still firmly secured to the shores of Adelaide.

 

 

Tuesday Nov 12^th.  Things are looking better, marginally. The air-conditioning is still causing grief and now the refrigeration is playing up. Peter, Hugh and I are itching to get moving so we assign ourselves some tasks to make life onboard more livable. We sort out, and scrub the galley, store as much as we can and try to get the boat ship shape. We are astounded at the general mess below decks and spend the majority of time trying to secure things so that should we get bad weather to Port Lincon, everything won’t suddenly become airborne and kill someone. We’ve realized that it’s not the tradesmen but the owner and his crew that have presented such a poorly maintained interior.

 

 

Eventually things begin to look a bit better, but as the owner and his 2 companions will be on board for the first leg we can’t really change too much. Through polite smiles we suffer the situation and lo-and- behold we are less than an hour away from leaving, with hasty instructions from assorted plumbers, electricians etc. Paul the owner takes the helm as we have to go to the next jetty to refuel before we go and proceeds to broadside the freshly painted yacht against the refueling jetty. You could nearly hear the “I’m so glad I didn’t do that” emanating from Peter’s thoughts.

 

 

1930hrs and we push off, hastily prepared and full of anticipation. After clearing the break wall start beating into a nasty little sou’wester, no way to start a voyage. Within a few hours the first to go green is the British copper who proceeds to redecorate the windward railing. (Down wind son, down wind!!) Hugh goes below and comes up looking less than perfect, but suffers the hints of the mal-de-mere with stoic determination. Even after 10mg each of Phenergan tablets we’re all feeling somewhat average.  Owner and the guvner plant themselves at the wheel (we’re under auto helm) Owner Jr. goes to sleep in the coach house (and stays there asleep for close on 12hrs!) whilst Peter Hugh and I get into our regular shifts. The only moment of the night came when one of the galley drawers full of cutlery decided to throw itself out onto the floor making a hell of a racket – Hugh got up to see what the problems was, saw that I had totally ignored it and went back to bed leaving the slovenly culprit to clean up their own mess. Unfortunately it was Peter who last used the drawer, though not his fault – the catch was faulty another chore to see to in the daylight hours.

 

 

Have I mentioned how cold it is??? Even our hardy skipper claims the night a complete and utter discomfort and we virtually drop to our knees and salute the rising of the sun leaving pools of salted water under our arses as we defrost.

 

 

 

Wednesday Nov 16^th and we are now motor sailing at 8knt as we need to be in Port Lincon in time to jettison the owner and his entourage in time to catch their 1925hrs plane back to Adelaide. We make it into the marina without incident and amid their empty discarded ‘crisps’ packets and assorted non nautical detritus strewn over the boat we do our goodbyes. Now we can really clean up, sort out the coach house and make this boat truly ship shape. But first a shower, shave and a meal and some well earned sleep.

 

 

We love a country town. The meals at the marina bar are cheap and huge and on this night, entertainment is by way of the world cup qualifier between Australia and Uruguay of which everyone in the bar (including ourselves are experts on). Peter makes a half hearted suggestion to go into town for a few more beers and receives absolutely no support from Hugh or myself. Back to the boat by 2300hrs and our illustrious skipper begins snoring even before the glow of his bunk side light has completely faded to black.

 

 

Thursday Nov 17^th

 

 

We wake bright and early ready to set sail as soon as possible, some breakfast a bit of rearranging inside and out and we’ll be underway before midday. WRONG!!! Not only do we discover that the freezer has packed up but the batteries, although having been charged under motor all day yesterday and connected to shore power over night, haven’t charged. Peter begins the laborious task of trying to resolve the problems thwarted constantly by the fact that the wiring is not Australian compatible. We decide that another priority is to save the food so I get in the galley to cook as much of the meat as possible, making a variety of curries, casseroles and the ubiquitous Bolognese sauce, vacuum bag it all and store it in the fridge. At least we’ll eat.

 

 

Hugh wants to prepare some dishes and in the process of doing so sets off the gas alarms with monotonous regularity. No batteries, no freezer and now the ear piercing din of the alarms make as all so very optimistically cheery. On top of that, our weather window is narrowing as we wait. Predicted for the next few days are kindly winds, ideal for us to get a good headway into the Southern Ocean. We now have our second local marine electrician on board whilst we hope for a departure a.s.a.p.  Perhaps tomorrow, but we’ll see if we can cast off and begin the journey proper or if  there be any more dragons.

 

 

Detlef Bauer. 1830hrs CSDT Port Lincon SA.