Tuesday Dec 6 / Wednesday Dec 7
Nothing much to report for Tuesday, just going through the motions nursing the prop shaft and its wayward couplings. Peter squeezed his body into the engine room to check that his handiwork was still holding and discovers that the bolts on the other side of the couplings are also loose! Armed with appropriate tools and a few creative suggestions as to what should be done with the person responsible for servicing the boat, all of which seem to involve some bodily cavity.

The SE to SW winds seems to be holding nicely around the 15-20 knots giving us a comfortable ride and a relatively fast run up the coast.

Wednesday morning has us in sight of the huge radio towers that seem to sit like giant masts on the horizon. They’re right on the very edge of North West Cape on land only a few meters above sea level so they are easily seen well before one actually sees the land they’re perched on. Of course given that they are so visible from such a distance it naturally seems to take forever to reach them. We do though, around midday and head due south around the Cape into Exmouth Gulf and make our way into the marina and tie up to the refueling wharf. We’ve been told that this is where we’ll spend our time here but as our nasal passages are constantly assaulted by the fetid stench of a nearby industrial bin Peter coerces the marina manager to allow us to tie up on the end of the floating berths on the other side of the marina and considerably closer to the ablutions block.

That night we make our way into town and after a few beers and a meal at Pot Shots Hotel we take our weary bodies back to Last Chapter for some well earned sleep.

Thursday December 8

I can hear the kettle whistling its wake up chorus and it’s around 9am. Sleep blissful uninterrupted sleep has recharged the batteries for all of us. Peter’s on the phone to the mechanic who will apparently be there in an hour Hugh and I busy ourselves with boat maintenance. Hugh seems to have taken responsibility for the heads during the trip and has done an excellent job keeping them working; the secret apparently is vegetable oil!

I spend the morning with a chamois on the top deck cleaning all the glass and the abundant chrome. Within a few hours above and below decks are sparkling and surprise, surprise no sign of a mechanic. We all understand the concept of regional time / Island time / chronographically dyslexic time but constantly being on the receiving end of this lèse’fers attitude can become rather tedious. We fully intend to stay in port around 48 hours, enough time to do our laundry, emails, and supplies and knock back a few cold beers in air-conditioned comfort and this waiting on tradesmen is eating into serious drinking time! It’s midday and no sign of him and we begin to have visions of our mechanic arriving around the end of the day only to tell us the part we need will take 24 hours to get here and given that makes it end of Friday he cant fit it until Monday!

All this conjecture has put a dampener on the day. But hey why stop there? Peter in his frustration decides to go for a walk over to the marina office and on alighting hears a “Kerspalsh”. Reaching into his pockets he quickly tries to ascertain what it is that has taken a swim. Cigs, lighter, sunglasses, wallet, phone.

THE PHONE!!!!

Somewhere between the wharf and the boat in what we discover (throwing down a lead line) is around 3 meters of water sits a perfectly good non waterproof phone, probably laying in some nice mud or silt. Only one thing to do; don a wetsuit, mask and flippers and begin a rescue attempt of what will now no doubt be a rather less than functional phone.

Peter commits a couple of dives using the lead line as a guide and comes up empty handed. There is no sign of the black phone in the dark and murky depths below our boat.

A despondent Peter resigns himself to a trip into town while we wait for the mystery “I’ll-be-there-in-an-hour” mechanic arrives to purchase a new phone.

In the process of getting dressed again we here a delighted exclamation from our illustrious skipper the phone is after all that, actually in his pocket!!! Now I’ve given this a lot of thought and there seems to be only 2 possible explanations for this bizarre scenario.

1. (And work with me on this dear reader). Since the beginning of our voyage and contrary to the usual familiarity that time affords, Peter seems to be hitting his head on the coach house ceiling of the yacht with monotonous regularity. I must say the I have noticed that each time I do a yacht delivery (at sea for extended periods) my toe and fingernails seem to grow with speed and determination hither-to unknown in my regular terra firma life. Anecdotally, many other sea going types tend to concur with this observation. (Quick, someone phone Dr. Carl on Triple J.) It doesn’t take a great leap of faith to conclude that perhaps Peter is in fact getting taller as the trip progresses! Perhaps only by a fraction of a centimeter a day but enough to consistently misjudge his own clearance and give himself a good daily head smack. (Still with me?) It therefore stands to reason that the taller he grows the further his finger tips are from the base of his pockets. Ipso facto his mobile phone was no more than just out of reach!!!
2. On-the-other-hand, the man could just be an idiot caught in the temporary (we sincerely trust) grip of a mild senility!

Mechanic eventually does arrive 3 and a half hour later. Turns out to be very efficient, asses the situation and has it all fixed by mid afternoon and gives us a lift into town with our smelly laundry in tow.

For those that haven’t been to Exmouth here’s a brief description.

Barren.

There, that about sums it up.

Devoid of any vegetation taller than shoulder height and that on the verge of dying anyway. I think for the whole town one can count the trees on two hands, three of those trees are in the mall. At least I think it’s a mall. It’s about 10 meters wide and 30 meters long, has two general stores, one take-away a ‘cheap as chips’ type of outlet, a woman’s clothing store, and electrical store and an arcade (chic huh?) with a unisex hair salon, a music store, a haberdashery and Laundromat. I will say though that the trees in the mall are the most delightful frangipani.

Later that day.

Washing is done, emails sent but due to the tonight’s STREET PARTY, all the shops are closing early, so we’ll have to re-supply tomorrow. We’ve been promised a band, Santa and a general ‘knees-up” worthy of the festive season. Our excitement barely contained we head back to the boat to shower, shave and put on the glad rags for a big night out.

On arrival at around 7pm the shindig is pumpin’ with nearly one hundred people soaking up the entertainment and beer. Peter, Hugh and I throw ourselves into the fray and apart from the occasional overwhelming feeling of de-ja-vu when the band repeats songs (once immediately straight after they had just performed it) we actually enjoy ourselves and in the process happily invite the whole party back to the boat. Luckily either not too many heard this generous invitations or they just thought we were pissed yachtie wankers, so only a handful took up the offer. Just as well as we didn’t call it quits until 4am and many beers later.

Friday December 9

Please let me crawl up and die.

It’s around 0930 and I’m feeling very plain. I have no idea how the other two feel save the fact Hugh is vertical and kindly seeking out pain killers for me whilst Peter is on his 3rd coffee and has a conversation range that includes indiscriminate grunts and the occasional half coherent word vaguely resembling “Berrocca”.

Pumped with painkillers, coffees and a damn good shower we begin our day, albeit with slightly less enthusiasm than would be deemed seemingly professional for a delivery crew. To town we go with a priority of a greasy hamburger to put a lining back on our collective stomachs. It must be said that Hugh tended to show a little bit more restraint in the consumption of alcohol than Peter and I. (he makes up for it though with a near ravenous capacity to consume unnatural amounts of cashews!) and given his better disposition consumed his hamburger due to genuine hunger and perhaps a little bit of sympathy for Peter and I.

Shopping completed, we gathering last minute goodies like Berrocca’s when Peter makes a discovery that gladdens my very heart to the core. He has unearthed (probably the last in Australia) a “Bop It” in the midst of a jumble of toys on the top shelf of a news agency.

The “Bop It” is an unusual toy built to send any sane person around the twist within hours. Recommended for ages 8 and upwards this steering wheel shaped object asks you to follow one of it’s 5 commands set to a beat that steadily increases as you become more proficient. Peter and I fell victim to the “Bop It” in Darwin 12 months ago when it was introduced to us by the front of house staff of the local marina bar and restaurant. One session saw sunrise without anyone having mastered the infernal device and of course one becomes more determined and relatively less capable with each drink. Since that night I have searched high and low for a “Bop It” with no toy shop even acknowledging it’s existence, and now I have one in my hands!!! I have 2 surrogate nephews and a niece who I can hand this to, knowing that after a few weeks of “Bop It” it’s highly likely their parents may have to consider sending them to therapy! (Ain’t Christmas fun!) In the interim Hugh, Peter and I can give this toy a good going over whilst motoring through the doldrums.

As the afternoon has bought us some strong winds and because the local yacht club is only open Friday and Sundays we think it would be remiss if we didn’t pay our respects that evening. We shower and head off to the beach where the yacht club sits in isolation amidst the scrub and sand dunes. In a few years I fear the club will have changed dramatically as between it, the marina and the main road heading into town (some 2 or 3 thousand hectares) there is currently a series of waterways being dredged ready for the developers who have planned a resort along with casual and permanent accommodation and the infrastructure that type of development demands. A mini Sanctuary Cove by all accounts with all the trees having to be shipped in as well.

Exmouth Yacht Club is so much like many regional clubs, little more than a shed for a clubroom and bar, a small ablutions block, a few trailer-sailors parked ashore and genuinely warm hospitality. Bare foot on the lawn overlooking Exmouth Gulf cooking our own steak and sausages and chatting to the locals leaves us pleasantly relaxed enough for Peter to deem a night’s sleep in port and cast off at sunrise.

Detlef Bauer