The most useless item on a cruising boat? A calendar.

I can’t recall how often I’ve heard and agreed with this quasi joke. Unfortunately, though it is mostly accurate, it doesn’t take into consideration time frames imposed by natural seasons, plus the pressures of the human-created ones. And twice now, when I’ve been voyaging in Australian waters, a combination of the two have led to more-dramatic sailing than I truly enjoy.

In 1988, Larry and I decided to take a break from fixing up the small run-down cottage and boat shed we had purchased in New Zealand to sail over to rendezvous with cruising friends at Townsville, Australia: a great way to avoid winter, and to explore a bit of the Great Barrier Reef. At the same time, we were in contact with several other friends who were cruising through Polynesia and planned to head south to New Zealand to avoid the tropical cyclone season. It seemed only natural to invite them to spend Christmas at our first-ever “home base.”

So, between the natural calendar events (i.e., changing weather systems) and our “human-created” calendar event, we ended up caught in the worst storm of our lives as we tried to fight south out of the Barrier Reef so we could head for home before the cyclone season and in time for Christmas. (We were caught in a “squeeze zone”: a ridge of high pressure wedged against a stationary tropical low.) Obviously, we survived. Obviously, it didn’t turn me off to sailing. Obviously, we tried and mostly succeeded in avoiding being pressured by calendars after that. But now….

David, who I have voyaged with since 2017, is from Australia. He has three grown daughters living in scattered places. One has a home and slowly expanding family in Melbourne. This definitely influenced our plans. Since David often talked of exploring some of the isolated bays and hiking trails of Tasmania, I agreed: “Let’s go! We can sail across the Bass Strait to Melbourne and have our own home with us for the Christmas season.” His young granddaughter could come on board and play. We could play host part of the time and not be underfoot when little ones got overtired. So, a year ago, after cruising from New Zealand through the islands of Vanuatu and on to Australia, we sailed Sahula, David’s Van de Stadt 40, south to Hobart, Tasmania.

Despite being in the Roaring 40s, we had good winds or good anchorages to hide in as we explored the islands and rivers south of Hobart. Even when we ­meandered around the bottom of “Tassie” to the truly wild west coast, we were able to find well-protected places to wait out the occasional strong winds that blew in from the west, especially as the only calendar influencing our decisions was that created by the weather systems.

We left Sahula safely sheltered in Kettering, just south of Hobart, for several months while I worked in New Zealand to finish a book project, then we traveled to the US to launch it into the world. (It was late summer in the Northern Hemisphere but still winter in the Southern.) Sometimes, in our land travels, I looked at my preferred weather app (windyty.com) and felt pleased to be away from the wild winds and freezing temperatures of the Tasmanian winter.

I reassured myself, when summer in Australia approaches, the high-pressure systems tend to move south and shove the Antarctic lows below Tasmania. That’s when the winds should turn light, the weather kinder. Besides, we only had to sail north, then west, about 400 nautical miles. I checked my mental calendar again. Yes, once we returned to the boat, there would be at least nine weeks to make the journey, with several interesting islands to visit along the way. If we got a bit late, all we’d need was a three-day patch of good weather and we’d be home and hosed, as the Aussies say.

But the reality proved different. Once back in Oz, both calendar events and natural events colluded to provide what can only be called “interesting” sailing.

Instead of the two weeks we’d planned, due to weather and the inevitable extras that always seem to pop up, we needed four weeks to get the boat ready to go after her winter storage. Then the weather turned foul, just when we were ready to set sail. Each Tasmanian we met said, “Worst springtime we’ve had in years.” That was of little solace as we slowly chewed our way north, eating up day after day of our mental calendar by hiding in various nooks and crannies from the often storm-force headwinds. As much as we reminded ourselves, “This is cruising; relax and enjoy this anchorage,” we couldn’t.

Each day we’d scour the weather forecasts looking for that elusive weather window. We worked north until we were sheltered amid the wild beauty of Wineglass Bay. For four days, we checked the forecasts the minute we awoke, at noon and at 6, but the weather failed to cooperate. Low after low marched right through the Bass Strait, sending gale-force headwinds our way. Then we both spotted it: the promise of a fresh southerly breeze to speed us north to Flinders Island at the entrance to the Strait. Three different weather models concurred: 16 to 18 hours of fair winds, maybe blowing up to 25 knots, then easing off for several hours before turning to gale-force westerlies. With only 115 nautical miles to cover, it appeared we’d have plenty of spare time to reach a safe spot before the big westerlies filled back in.

At 0100, we were both wide awake. “That northerly wind has dropped off—let’s go,” David said. Bundled up against the cold, we headed out. We soon found that the wind had mostly abated but the sea hadn’t. We kept going, engine roaring, mainsail doing nothing at all. By daybreak there was no sign of the “fresh south wind” forecast by the Met office. But an hour later, I pointed out dark water to the south.

The engine was shut down with the first gusts, the yankee set, and we were soon scudding in front of a breeze that rose so quickly that within minutes we were reefing down, then reefing some more. Soon, we were running under staysail alone before 32 knots, gusting to 40. At first it was exciting, feeling the boat respond perfectly to each adjustment of the wheel. Then, as we approached the entrance to Banks Strait, the waters rushing from the Indian Ocean through the Bass Strait and curling around the islands and into the Tasman Sea, we began to bank up against the southeast gale-force winds.

Had we been in deeper water, I am pretty sure this could have been just exhilarating sailing. But as so many Sydney-Hobart racing sailors have found, the continental shelf extends far offshore here, and with only 40 meters of water, the seas become short and steep. The autopilot couldn’t cope. Nor could the self-steering vane. It became imperative that someone helm the boat carefully. I tried spelling David to find I could do only 20- or 30-minute stints because of our height difference. The helmsman’s seat on Sahula is built for someone 6 feet, 2 inches. I am only 4 feet, 10 inches and can’t reach it to steady my body as I control the wheel. “We have got to get a wooden step built for you as soon as we get to Melbourne,” David said after helming for almost nine hours straight. (I plan to hold him to that promise.)

The winds neither abated nor shifted to the west as we approached Flinders Island. This presented a worrisome new problem. There is a bar across the entrance to Lady Barron, the small port on Flinders. All the information we had showed that the leading lights should give us at least 4 meters of water at high tide. But the bar is known to shift quite dramatically. I began to be concerned that, with this wind, the bar could be breaking. If the entrance was impassable, we’d have to lay offshore, maybe for as much as 12 or 15 hours, and hope the winds eased or changed because the charts showed no other anchorage that would provide shelter in these winds.

Then luck and modern technology gave us the break we needed. Though no one answered our VHF call, one bar appeared on my cellphone. Google gave me the number of the port manager at Lady Barron. “No fishermen working out of here anymore. Ferries use the eastern entrance,” Garth told me. “So no idea of what the bar is like or where it actually is right now. But you might check out the hook at Harley Point. Some of the ­fishermen used to shelter there when things weren’t right.”

There is a strange feeling of disconnect when the seas suddenly seem to disappear as you round a wave-swept, barren point to encounter almost calm water. Yes, the gusts of wind still screech around you, and yes, the scud of clouds overhead show the gale still rages. But as you feel the anchor grab the bottom and the boat settle back, then you realize you’ve found a secure—if not absolutely steady—place to wait till things calm down, and the adrenalin charge that kept you performing fades out. Then, an almost giddy sense of accomplishment kicks in. Sails fully ­secured. Engine off. Hot soup boiling on the stove. Wind forecast to abate and change to the west in the morning. We both felt this giddiness and at the same time, a ­wonderful sense of accomplishment.

This sailing definitely hadn’t been fun. Being pushed by the calendar lured us out in winds we’d rather have avoided. But we’d done it, worked together as a team, and experienced some of the winds and seas that give the Bass Straits its ­well-deserved reputation.

And now the calendar felt less ­pressing because we had three weeks before the family started gathering. There was still more than 150 miles to go. But now there were signs that things would improve, with the next high-pressure system ­definitely farther south than the past ones.

We’d soon be on our way again. We both agreed, once the holidays were over, we would avoid having the pressures of a calendar or schedules, and instead set only flexible goals. But as I was writing this, a note arrived from friends back at my island home in New Zealand. It read: “You planning to be around during the America’s Cup? Lots of fun parties and races planned for around the island.” The mental calendar clicked in. More than 10 months to get there, only 2,500 miles….

A final thought: Crossing the bar after a good night’s sleep and with the wind more to the west was a bit on the dramatic side but presented no true dangers. We stayed only one day at Lady Barron because a favorable wind kicked in. A relatively benign 12-hour beam reach got us halfway through the Bass Strait to the River Tamar on Northern Tasmania, where we then motored 20 miles inland to the delightful small city of Launceston. A successful passage after all.

Voyaging legend Lin Pardey has spent the season sailing in Australia and is currently planning a return trip to her home in New Zealand. This past summer, her husband, Larry, passed away after a long illness.

Cruising the Bass Strait

Challenging? Yes. Interesting? Definitely. Unfortunately, few visitors to this area of the world take time to explore the islands and anchorages of the Bass Strait. Instead, sailors head south from Sydney to Tasmania to wait for a good weather window in Port Eden, then dash across the straits to beautiful Wineglass Bay. From there they enjoy day-hopping toward Hobart. It’s sort of sad, because the islands of the strait, and the rivers and small fishing ports of Northern Tasmania, can offer the uncrowded, off-the-beaten-­track experiences most of us yearn for. But cruising here requires good timing, patience, appropriate anchoring gear and some local knowledge.

Though I have met hardy Melburnians and Tasmanian sailors who talk of year-round cruising here, for those who are looking for less-challenging sailing, here’s a short weather primer. This is the Roaring 40s, an area of strong westerly winds and frequent fast-­moving low-pressure systems that sweep right around the bottom of the world. Lows tend to compress as they try to push through the strait, turning gale-force westerlies into storm-force tempests. To add further drama, the waters between mainland Australia and Tasmania lie on top of an ancient land bridge. Nowhere is there more than 150 feet of water, and often there is less than 60. So, even moderate winds can create steep seas. The shallow water also exaggerates tidal and ocean currents, which, at the eastern end of the strait, can run at up to 5 knots.

Fortunately, during late summer and early fall, the high-pressure systems that usually dominate mainland Australia migrate south. This provides much milder wind conditions, and also breaks the predominance of westerlies. Though this southern migration can happen as early as mid-December, February and March provide the best chance of fine weather for exploring the Bass Strait islands, small ports and rivers along northern Tasmania. For several years, the Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania has hosted a Round Tasmania rally in mid-February every two years. More than 50 boats take part in the monthlong 800-mile event. To date, rally participants have never been kept in port for more three days due to inclement weather.

Due to the downturn in fisheries in the Bass Strait, VHF communications with harbor authorities among the islands and in the small ports is limited. As noted, we had more luck using local phone numbers provided in cruising guides.

You will be highly dependent on your ground tackle out here. A few places such as Lady Barron anchorage on Flinders Island and Grassy Bay on King Island have guest moorings available for visitors at no cost. Unfortunately, these steel ­moorings are designed for big, rough fishing boats. With wind against tide, you are almost ­guaranteed to suffer topside damage if you choose to use one.

Especially among the islands, sea grasses and kelp can make anchoring difficult. The preferred anchors among Bass Strait cruisers are a fisherman-­type with sharp fluke ends that can dig through the kelp to find the sandy bottom below. If spending a whole season cruising here, I highly recommend adding one to your arsenal.

Cruising Victoria, a Guide to Cruising Victoria, the Bass Strait Islands and Northern Tasmania by the Cruising Yacht Association of Victoria definitely provided the most complete information. We relied on windyty.com and deckee.com for weather planning. The latter also provides tidal information based on your actual location. As tidal changes can be up to an hour different on opposite sides of larger islands, we found their info extremely useful.

If you are dreaming of an endless supply of the famous Bass Strait crayfish, put on your diving gear. Fishermen will not sell to you cheaply because the price has skyrocketed. Crays were priced at 120 AUS per kilo ($40 a pound USD) when we reached King Island.

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A s the steel bow of our Tahiti cutter Beatrice surged into the swells, at the helm I felt a long way from the milder climes of mainland Australia as the foreboding mass of Tasmania’s South West Cape loomed large on our starboard bow. The Pilot book describes a voyage to “Tassie” as the Ultima Thule of Australian cruising so my cousin, Christian, and I had spent a year planning and keenly anticipating this three-week summer trip that would require about 300 nautical miles of sailing. We were amidst the fabled Roaring Forties with very little shelter along Tasmania’s unpopulated southwest coast.

The previous day’s passage down the sheltered east coast from our departure point at the Oyster Cove Marina, near the island state’s capital of Hobart, took us through a pristine cruising ground that’s protected from the Pacific Ocean swells by a series of barrier islands. Gleaming beaches, secluded anchorages, welcoming ports and marinas dotted the tree-lined coast. Tasmania is famed for its marine industry that includes wooden-boat building and, of course, the famous 640-nautical-mile Rolex Sydney to Hobart Race, which I’ve enjoyed competing in. Hobart’s biennial Wooden Boat Festival is another major reason to sail to this wild and largely unspoiled region.

In any case, the initial stretch of the trip, in light northerly winds, was uneventful before we sidled into the sheltered anchorage at Recherche Bay to conclude our first day of sailing. Its name — like many others in the region including the barrier island of Bruny — was given by the early French explorer, Captain Bruny D’Entrecasteaux, in 1793. Another notable Frenchman in the island’s history was Nicolas Baudin, who created the first entire chart of Australia during his voyage in 1800. Christian, who speaks French, particularly enjoys Tasmania’s French Festival week where these connections are celebrated, though most of the island’s population descends from former British convicts. Unlike the British colonizers, the French had been mostly scientists and discoverers.

Diving off Beatrice into the cold clear waters of Recherche Bay, I swam down to the sandy bottom to check our anchor and scrub some weeds off the steel hull of our 32-footer before our evening meal and bed. We would have an early start to pass South West Cape the following day.

Into the Wilderness

In planning our voyage, Christian had been diligently watching the Bureau of Meteorology website for weeks, so he knew our window of opportunity was tight for the 70-mile leg from Recherche to Port Davey. North of Port Davey lay the old penal settlement of Macquarie Harbour, but its entrance name of “Hell’s Gate” suggested a precarious welcome. Alas, we could not be going there on this trip.

After overnighting in Recherche, we motorsailed off at sunrise to dodge yet more crab boats as we sped south on calm seas, bound towards South West Cape, leaving our last mobile phone access point behind. Before too long, we passed Australia’s southernmost lighthouse on Maatsuyker Island, where we encountered the first of the bull kelp beds. The 10-meter long stalks reached up from the seabed and seemed determined to entangle Beatrice‘s prop. Perched on the long bowsprit, I directed Christian beyond them.

We passed bays and tall cliffs until the peak of Frenchman’s Cap glistened in the growing sunshine, with the brooding mountains of the World Heritage-listed South West Wilderness region beyond. This had been the last bastion of Tasmania’s indigenous peoples — the Needwonee and Ninene — until the arrival of white explorers and latterly tin miners in 1892 at a bay off our starboard bow named Cox’s Bight.

Albatrosses arrived along with a pod of dolphins to escort us around South West Cape, its gray headland giving way to low, lying cliffs that ran almost uninterrupted for 14 miles to the entrance of Port Davey. A dangerous lee shore in any kind of southerly or westerly wind, it was not a place for sightseeing so we kept our tan sails full and Beatrice moving along under full sail: jib, staysail and main.

Closely watching my Navionics chart, I piloted us past the outlying Pyramid Rocks at the Port Davey entrance. The charts showed reefs all around so it’s a dangerous place in a swell, but the calm of our arrival showed the tranquility of this surreal landscape of glistening quartz headlands, shiny white sea stacks and green tidal reefs. A small shark swam by us and then several seals emerged to stare forlornly at the interruption to their wild seascape. Shearwaters sped past and pied cormorants stood sentinel on the outlying rocks as we glided toward Spain Bay, the first anchorage. Our peace was interrupted by a static hiss from the VHF radio and then the clear and friendly voice of Tas Maritime, giving a mild weather forecast for the following days. In addition, we also had our Sony SSB receiver hooked up to a whip aerial which gave us weather reports from the mainland.

Uncharted Waters

Looking closely at my Navionics charts and the corresponding Australian paper charts showed large amounts of “unsurveyed” patches throughout the hundreds of square miles that make up this sprawling waterway, with only a sole light on Whalers Point near the entrance. First surveyed in 1820 by John Oxley, who concluded “the whole navy of Europe might ride in safety from every wind,” Port Davey became the major logging area for the coveted boatbuilding wood Huon pine, along with celery top and lesser varieties. When tin was found, commercial interest grew strongly and the “nuisance” of the indigenous tribes was removed by Governor George Arthur’s decree of 1826 that aborigines could be legally killed. This led to the infamous Black Line of militia that crossed Tasmania to remove the remaining indigenous population. This bloody history has erased most indigenous culture from the area apart from some cave paintings and the many large middens testifying to 35,000 years of a people that was so hastily removed. Hiking over from Spain Bay to the ocean side at Stephen’s Bay brought me to several large middens where shells and whale bones were seen.

RELATED: Tasmania: The Best for Last

Also marked on the chart were the many wreck sites, which told another sad history about sailing ships running down their easting from the Indian Ocean on the ­prevailing westerly winds. Unlike the sextants used for latitude, the timepieces required to calculate longitude weren’t accurate so many a ship smashed into this wild coast as it overran its intended course toward Asia. One of the worst wrecks was the square rigger Briar Holme in 1905, which drowned nearly all aboard apart from a few who came ashore to die of ­hunger. The only survivor was a man named Oscar Larsen, who survived 100 days in the bush before a fishing boat found him.

Passing Bramble Cove, we could see the main shelter for larger vessels including whaling ships; the small, adjacent graveyard tells another grim story, as the stark vegetation and lack of wild fruit meant little sustenance for shipwrecked mariners. However, indigenous knowledge would have revealed edible roots and other bush tucker, but by then the indigenous people were long gone. Eventually government provisions were stashed and rabbits introduced to sustain shipwrecked sailors. During my hikes over the mountains and dense Melaleuca-clad meadows, there was no sign of them — only wombat tracks and wallaby droppings. Still, I walked warily in case the snakes called death adders lurked. Perhaps the rabbits were all eaten by the majestic sea eagles that soared above me.

Rugged Port Davey

Two large waterways comprise this ­mountainous region, which is a marine reserve and a World Heritage area. These are the ocean bay of Port Davey and the landlocked Bathurst Harbour, which is reached via the fairly deep Bathurst Channel. Its dark-brown waters are fed by the rivers from the peat clad hills. Exploration ­required heavy use of our 20 hp Bukh diesel until one day, while at anchor in Schooner Cove, it emitted a loud groan followed by a plume of black smoke. The sudden horror of being ­engineless — and several days from the nearest habitation — dawned on us as we quickly looked over the smoking red engine. Our noses followed the scent of burnt plastic to the Bosch kill switch. On cranking the engine we discovered, to great relief, that it started but, of course, wouldn’t stop. However, a long pull on the decompression lever returned Beatrice to silence, and we celebrated with two nips of Johnny Walker.

Climbing Balmoral Hill one sunny day I met some more of the local fauna: the ­pesky March flies, a persistent type of horsefly that continued biting even when swatted. Their stings were somewhat soothed by the view, which showed a rugged vista of rocky headlands and bays running west to Port Davey; to the east lay secluded yellow beaches and the narrowing channel that opened to the 5-mile-wide Bathurst Harbour. The unpolluted air allowed for long views with even the saw-toothed Arthur Ranges in sight. The northern view was dominated by the towering 2,500-foot peak of Mount Rugby. As the weeks passed, it would be my navigation beacon when hiking or buzzing around in our inflatable dinghy.

Exploring by yacht proved precarious, as our foray up the northeast corner of Bathurst Harbour brought us to a sudden halt on the white part of the chart again declared “unsurveyed” near Old River. While cursing John Oxley for a job unfinished, I hastily clambered on the out-swung boom after realizing we were on a falling tide with 10 tons of Beatrice resting her long keel on hard peat. An impersonation of an irate Tasmanian Devil followed as I danced on the boom to tilt Beatrice while Christian gunned the smoking Bukh to free us. Yet more Johnny Walker followed to calm the nerves and soothe the March fly stings.

Stormbound!

Hiking one day among the foothills of Mount Rugby along the Port Davey track — the only way into this region from the populated part of Tasmania — I noticed clouds gathering to the southwest as I rested for lunch overlooking Joe Page Bay. I was about to feel the fury of the Roaring Forties but little did I know how quickly it would arrive. Hastily, I made my way back to the dinghy on the small beach at Farrel Point and set off for the 2-mile dinghy ride back to Beatrice. After reaching the boat at Frogs Hollow Bay, it was not long before we heard the first howl, as the wind front crashed over the trees to knock Beatrice over nearly to her gunwales.

The falling barometer confirmed the change in the weather, so in the lull the following morning we sought better shelter and anchored deep into the mud at an anchorage called Claytons Corner. Then the real might of the storm was felt with gales and rain. Nearby Maatsuyker Island reported 74 knots. Braced in the forepeak bunk, I pensively listened to the groan of our 120 feet of chain and line as 50-knot gusts slammed into us. February in Port Davey felt very different from mainland Australia, where Sydney basked in 86-­degree sunshine while we shivered around our charcoal heater as ­temperatures plummeted.

Of the half dozen boats that were cruising the region, most took shelter nearby at Kings Point or in the more protected Casilda Cove. Water is never a problem with rivers flowing all around, and the Claytons and Waterfall Cove offer clean, fresh water. However, our homemade sauerkraut and tinned food began to pale after day four. By then, the second bottle of Johnny Walker was as dangerously low as our barometer. To pass the time we yarned plenty about life and families, to whom we sent messages and position updates via our Spot satellite tracker. I read my way through Christian’s library and particularly enjoyed Christobel Mattingley’s King of the Wilderness, about tin mining and the wildlife pioneer Deny King, at one time the region’s only inhabitant.

However, with cabin fever growing, we eventually tried our first escape from Port Davey, sailing out to meet 20-foot combers rolling into the swell-covered bay. The old sailing ships would have been embayed but the Bukh took us away very slowly as Beatrice‘s deep bulwarks disappeared into green water. Worryingly, we realized the wind would put us on a lee shore on the leg to South West Cape. The time was ticking by for us to make a decision, as the only port of refuge at Spain Bay was downwind, so we waited for a lull and put the helm down to turn around and tuck into its protected anchorage. It would be another four days before the weather turned in our favor, releasing us from what was a most memorable and adventurous visit to the well-named Ultima Thule of Australia.

When not traveling the globe, Australian yachting journalist Kevin Green can be found sailing his 43-year-old Contessa 25 off his mooring in Sydney’s Iron Cove.

The post A Tasmania Sailing Adventure appeared first on Cruising World.

Over the years, I have been to many boat shows, and I’ve enjoyed all of them. From a business perspective, they are the perfect setting for marine manufacturers and retailers to showcase their wares and innovations. From a consumer’s point of view, they draw enthusiasts from far and wide into a critical mass of kindred spirits. No matter if you are strolling the docks on a beautiful autumn day or crowded into a convention center, sheltered from a brutal Chicago winter, the atmosphere becomes one of fun, fantasy, inspiration and education. Good things happen.

Until visiting the Australian Wooden Boat Festival last February, however, I had never been to a “boat festival,” and did not quite understand the difference. While boat shows are essentially driven by profit, festivals are driven by passion. A boat show is about the future of yachting; a boat festival is about its past. A focus on the future tends to be individual, the past collective, thus a special bond seems to develop between festival participants. But there is another difference: uni­directional cellulose fiber, aka wood. Wooden-boat people are more than mere enthusiasts; they are true believers, adherents to an ancient religion. Their flame of faith may have flickered historically, but it has never been extinguished. Their connection to wooden boats and the tried-and-true ways of yore grows beyond a hobby to become a holistic lifestyle intertwined with elements of reverence and respect.

Thanks to a host of volunteers and perhaps some local municipal sponsorship, most festivals are free to the public. The “displays” are mostly the treasured vessels of amateur wooden-boat owners with no other incentive to attend than the pride of ownership. Somehow, the shared dedication of preserving elegant icons of an age past combines with every sailor’s need for a grand ol’ party to create a palpably friendly atmosphere.

There are three major and many minor festivals worldwide. Brest, in France, hosts Europe’s largest every four years, the next being in 2020. Because of its proximity to major European ports, this festival boasts the attendance of numerous historic Tall Ships plus a large complement of traditional recreational vessels. The docks hold an eclectic crowd, the Celtic music is loud and the food and wine are of the best French standard.

Port Townsend, Washington, which years ago might have been considered a hippie holdout in nautical terms, has matured into a vibrant sailing town, and is now recognized as the epicenter of traditional boating for the entire West Coast. From humble beginnings 40 years ago, the Port Townsend Wooden Boat Festival has grown into a world-renowned event. With more than 300 vessels on display, top-quality music, food, lectures and other family-friendly events, the annual September show bustles to overflowing. The early success of the Wooden Boat Festival gave birth to the Northwest Maritime Center, which has served more than 150,000 students of all ages in areas such as boatbuilding, sailing, maritime safety and community activism.

And in a galaxy far, far away, there is the aforementioned Australian Wooden Boat Festival held every two years in Hobart, Tasmania. Admittedly, this is down under even by Australian standards. But distance notwithstanding, with 455 vessels featured in its 2017 festival, it is certainly the largest “wood only” event and perhaps the largest in any terms. All claims of size aside, the AWBF is a world-class extravaganza. Any sailor with caulk in their seams should make this pilgrimage at least once in their lifetime.

Feature Vessels, Parade of Sails, AWBF 2017, Hobart, Tasmania, Australia

I finally did so and was thrilled with what I found. It all starts with authenticity. The Dutchman Abel Tasman first laid eyes upon this glorious island 375 years ago (more on that to come). It languished in European terms until the British established a colony on the banks of the Derwent River in 1803 and named it Hobart Town. It is Tasmania’s remoteness that has made it so significant in maritime history because, by nature, everything happened by ship.

Early settlers discovered massive groves of trees in the nearby Huon Valley. Huon pine (Lagarostrobos franklinii) is one of the oldest living organisms on Earth, with one tree calculated to be 3,462 years old. It is very slow growing, with a tight grain, and oozes with insect-repelling oils. It is said that the only thing slower than the Huon pine’s growth is its decay, making it the perfect ship-building wood. It gave birth to a massive ship-building industry, the legacy of which survives to this day.

Hobart has retained much of its historically quaint architecture. Fortunately, old taverns feature prominently. It is the perfect stage for celebrating the glorious era of sail. The entire waterfront became a floating beauty contest, simply open to the public without charge. Dozens of musical groups rotated between strategically placed amplified stations. The smell of ethnic cuisine wafted out from rows of food stalls. Wood chips flew at several boatbuilding demonstrations next to grizzled lobstermen handcrafting old-fashioned lobster pots from a native cane. Seminars included a host of local luminaries as well as international speakers, such as yacht designer Ron Holland, author Lin Pardey and photographer Benjamin Mendlowitz.

The main docks were dominated by gargantuan square riggers, such as Tenacious, the largest wooden ship built in the United Kingdom in over a century. After a little controversy involving a wooden “ship” that actually sits on land and serves as a restaurant in Dubai, at 213 feet overall and carrying 13,000 square feet of canvas, Tenacious now holds the official record of being the largest wooden ship afloat. The midsize square riggers and schooners included Yukon, Windward Bound, Lady Nelson and, arguably the prettiest of them all, Julie Burgess.

The floating docks shimmered with national flags, burgees and pennants. The docks glistened with hand-rubbed varnish and polished brass. My head and heart got turned in every direction. Fashion and function were not mutually exclusive; these were sailing sculptures. They were art you can leave out in the rain.

Here was the George Luckman-­designed-and-built Terra Linna, circa 1880, the oldest racing yacht afloat in Tasmania. But by no means is it the oldest design. A replica of the Aboriginal cork-weed-and-strip-bark canoe, lashed together with over 1,600 feet of handmade rope, paddled by. Its origins reach back an estimated 42,000 years. It is named Rrala, which means “strong” in the Palawa kani language. It serves as a humbling reminder that we contemporary sailors were not the first on the water.

Rrala passed under the elegant stern of Holger Danske, an Aage Nielsen 41, winner of the 1980 Newport Bermuda Race. I eavesdropped on the language of the aficionados as they perused the spectacle and heard adjectives more frequently reserved for wine bottles: sassy, sultry, robust, supple, approachable…

There were plenty of personalities to go with these unique vessels. On the diminutive Cape Stormy, I met the indomitable 89-year-old Peter Maussey, who in 1953, with his beautiful wife, Lesley, became the first Australian couple to circumnavigate. He is known as the “Million Mile Man;” between his cruising and yacht deliveries of many decades, he has logged up an incredible tally of trips and tales.

The docks were full of long sprits and high spirits. With close to a quarter million people in attendance, shoreside accommodations were tight. Problem solved: Bring in the cruise liner Ovation of the Seas, with 5,000 passengers treated to a bird’s-eye view of the show below, the highlight of which is the Parade of Sail. All the vessels gathered in the bay in front of Hobart and formed an exquisite sail-by for cheering crowds on the shore. If you love the sea and all that sails upon it, this cloud of canvas is almost a sensory overload.

Each biennial festival centers on a specific theme. This year’s was the celebration of the 375th anniversary of Tasman’s famous voyage. The local museum created a comprehensive historical display of Tasman’s journey replete with authentic memorabilia. The Dutch ambassador opened the ceremonies. A contingent of Dutch sailors came over with several historical designs, such as the 20-foot shoal-draft Tjotter class. A team of Dutch boatbuilders constructed a Regenboog (rainbow)-class boat from old celery-top pine and ultimately raced against a local Tasmanian crew in a Gnome-class sloop. Special Dutch food, music and classic vessels completed the celebration of that nation’s rich maritime history.

Why is this important to us? Because the theme of the 2019 Australian Wooden Boat Festival is Americana! This is an opportunity to share our amazingly rich maritime heritage with sailors from around the world and forge special ties with our antipodean brothers and sisters of the sea. Historians, boatbuilders, designers, speakers, musicians, authors and just plain intrepid tourists, take note. Here we can showcase and celebrate the graceful designs of John Alden, Nathanael and L.

Francis Herreshoff, Olin Stephens, William Atkin, Philip Rhodes, William Tripp and too many more to mention. (Who is your favorite?) And what of our mighty Tall Ships and schooners? Oh, Roseway, you still hold my heart. America has a deep and abiding connection to the sea, and that is so wonderfully preserved by our many fine maritime museums, such as Mystic Seaport, Maine Maritime, Peabody Essex, New Bedford Whaling Museum and so on. Imagine the contributions to this marvelous event they could make.

Pacific cruisers can start planning an itinerary now that will land them on Tasmanian shores by February 2019. They will find Hobart a safe and welcoming harbor. After the festival, they will experience almost limitless pristine cruising grounds offering spectacular geography and unique flora and fauna.

My wife, Diana, and I stayed aboard the Radford-designed, cedar-strip-planked Bindawalla courtesy of longtime sailing friends and circumnavigators John and De Deegan. I so enjoyed being smack in the middle of the action that I plan to sail our own Roger Henry over there for the next festival. I want to be downwind of all that pine tar and simply soak up all that tradition.

Upon its conclusion, I hope to explore the wilder southwest coast of Tasmania, enjoy the increasingly famous culinary delights and fine wineries, and perhaps sample a wee dram of what has been voted “the best whiskey in the world,” produced in a little distillery nearby. We are often told that life is a journey, not a destination. In a sense, the Australian Wooden Boat Festival in Hobart is a bit of both.

– – –

Contributing editor Alvah Simon is the author of the critically acclaimed best-seller North to the Night.

The post Classics Down Under appeared first on Cruising World.

From the mountain summit we looked down at Galactic, the 45-foot cutter that is my family’s home, and at the 35-foot catamaran Take It Easy, our only neighbor in the anchorage far below. From this perch we could see all the places that were familiar to us from studying the chart of Port Davey, the grand cruising destination of southwest Tasmania. But instead of the two-dimensional shapes on the chart, the bays and narrows of the inland waters were revealed as part of a three-dimensional landscape, surrounded and partitioned by ancient, folded mountains. Not far off we could see the open sea, where the Indian and Pacific oceans meet in the Roaring 40s.

It was a clear, windy day, and 40-something-knot gusts had the two boats dancing around the anchorage. Wade and Chris, the Australian owners of Take It Easy, shared my uneasy feeling — it was time to get back to the boat. So we started down. And then things got weird. It began as a dark cloud. Which was odd, as it was a clear day. The cloud got darker, and lower. And it was red-brown, not cloud-gray. Wade and Chris confirmed what I’d started to suspect.

“Bushfire,” said Wade. We picked up speed. Whatever was about to happen would be best appreciated from our boats.

Our cruise to Port Davey was my family’s final voyage in Australia, and it was fitting to end our time Down Under with a bushfire. When we had sailed into Australian waters four years earlier, the very first thing that happened was that a shark attacked our boat, at night, more than a hundred miles offshore.

What a continent.

When we first sailed to the island state of Tasmania, we were a crew of three: me; my wife, Alisa, six months pregnant; and our 3-year-old son, Elias. We were looking for a place to base ourselves for two big transitions coming our way: the birth of our second son, Eric, and a boat swap, from Pelagic, our dear old Crealock 37, to a new ride for a family of four. Pelagic had an open plan below, and after three years of sailing the Pacific with a toddler while paying our way by doing scientific research on my laptop, I was dreaming of an adult cabin and a children’s cabin, as far apart in the boat as possible.

“Doors,” I said to Alisa. “This family needs doors.”

So when we arrived in Hobart, our expectations were high — we were hoping to use the city as our base for a year. We’d never been there and knew no one.

Mainland Australia is friendly, but Tasmania is in a different league. In our first week, we had people over to the boat for dinner or went out to someone’s house five of the seven nights. Two couples threw a barbecue so we could meet all their friends and start to feel at home. After the dust settled on that first week, we knew we’d landed in the right place. When we bought Galactic in California a year later, we spent three months getting her ready, then put 10,000 happy miles under our keel wandering back to Hobart.

We spent another year in Tasmania, giving Elias, now 5, the chance to attend school. During his vacations we explored the sailing delights of southeast Tasmania. Hobart, we found, is surrounded by world-class coastal cruising. While there is a rich history of sailing there, the anchorages remain uncrowded today.

The area is beautiful and unique, and we had good friends with boats and young kids to share our adventures. For all these reasons, we fell in love with Tasmania, and even thought about staying.

But in our hearts we knew that we hadn’t sailed away from Alaska to settle down in Hobart. We began to make plans to leave. And before we left, we knew that we had to visit Port  Davey.

Wherever sailors are knocking around on boats, there’s some mythical, distant destination people talk about — the place that’s hardest to get to and more beautiful than anywhere else. In Tasmania, that place is Port Davey.

It’s definitely hard to get to; there are no roads in southwest Tasmania, and sailing there means braving the rugged south coast and the westerlies of the Roaring 40s. We’d heard it was beautiful too, and that it had an attractive history in the recent pioneering past of Tasmania. Who wouldn’t want to go?

On the day after Christmas we found ourselves raising the anchor in Recherche Bay, the ­jumping-off point for Port Davey. The forecast was for a one-day break in the west winds, and we were ­underway at 0400 to make the 70-mile passage.

As the day dawned, the rugged south coast of Tasmania was slowly revealed to us. In the distance we saw two other boats headed toward Port Davey — Take It Easy and our friends John and De on Silver Air. As we traveled farther west, the coastline got rockier and took on a delightful chalk-white color, thanks to quartzite in the cliff faces. Elias played, I read aloud, and Alisa baked bread to go with the leftovers from our holiday feast. Everyone was happy.

Well, nearly everyone. The little wind and swell we did have were dead on the bow. It was too much for Eric, who drew the short straw when it comes to seasickness. He settled into being miserable in his mother’s lap for the afternoon, toughing the day out until it was done.

We made the turn around South West Cape, the very southwest corner of Tasmania. The cliffs grew whiter and the sky got bluer — that peerless blue of the ocean-rich Southern Hemisphere. Meanwhile the treeless hills had an ocher-green color emblematic of the Southern Hemisphere’s ­higher latitudes — a color out of the 1950s National Geographics I used to read at my grandparents’ house, and which I only now recognized as I saw it with my own eyes.

As we dropped the anchor in Bond Bay, in the north arm of Port Davey, the silence was perfect. There was no evidence that there was anyone within 10 miles of us. We had that blessed feeling of having one of the finest corners of the world to ourselves. It’s times like this that have kept us sailing the Pacific year after year.

We explored the outer waters for two days, but when the weather deteriorated, we decided it was time to move to the place that makes Port Davey famous: the inland waters of Bathurst Channel and Bathurst Harbour. We moved on a leaden day with a rising wind, suitably dramatic conditions for entering such a spectacular waterway. At first I saw a continuous wall of mountains where the channel was meant to be. Then we came around the Breaksea Islands, and a gap appeared in the shore — by all obvious signs, a shallow cove in the coast. As we got closer the cove opened up, and suddenly we were looking down a narrow slot, a passage back into the interior, which promised secret delights to be explored. Only 600 yards of water separated the mountains on each side, but we had a fortune of water under our keel, 14 fathoms or more.

We watched the scenery spool by, a fairyland of miniature mountains given scale and gravitas by the way trees struggle to grow over most of this wind-dominated landscape. We also considered the weather; in Tasmania, you must always consider the weather. An approaching front promised hard northwesterlies going to harder southwesterlies, with associated gloom and rain. We pulled into little Casilda Cove, the banner bad-weather anchorage in the area. The coming winds were meant to barely reach gale strength, so we could anchor most anywhere, but there was something attractive about the cove, where you tie to the shore and let the winds whip overhead, Patagonia-style. Port Davey is beautiful unto itself, a delightful little corner of the world, but it’s also ­something of a theme park for Southern Ocean sailing. The mountains are small, the anchorages are close together and secure, and everything is on a miniature scale when compared to someplace like the Chilean fjords. The wind blew like stink, but the protection was so perfect that we tied stern-to as a diversion rather than a survival strategy.

Silver Air was already tied in, and De gave Alisa a hand getting our lines up the high bank and tied to trees. Take It Easy motored in and tied in farther up the inlet. The break in the westerlies had lasted only for the one day that we three boats had transited the south coast, and anyone who was in ­Recherche after that would likely wait weeks for the next break. For the foreseeable future, Port Davey would be a private wonderland for our three crews.

The next day saw rain on deck and cold below. But the boys had their Christmas presents to play with, and Alisa and I generally like rainy, windy anchorages. It must be the Alaskans in us. We reveled in the condensation on the portlights, the way the stern lines went taught in the gusts, and the cups of hot chocolate all around. We had all we wanted.

When the weather improved, Elias and I made our first-ever father-son mountain climb up Balmoral Hill, a perfect little Matterhorn of a peak. Then, after exploring the local beaches and tide pools, we cast off the stern lines and motored ­toward Bathurst Narrows. The lens of fresh water resting on top of the salt water was giving our sounder the fits, and the tannin-rich waters from the surrounding buttongrass plains were impossible to see through. There were few dangers and the chart was excellent, but the mystery of not knowing exactly what was going on beneath the surface kept me on alert.

We threaded the narrows beneath the rocky outcrops of Mount Rugby. To starboard were gentler slopes, promising good family walking. Before we explored those, though, we pulled into the shallow bowl of Bathurst Harbour and then around the corner, literally, to the anchorage at Clayton’s Corner.

We chucked out the hook, then dressed Galactic in fenders. We were expecting company.

On schedule, a tour boat came roaring out from the airstrip at Melaleuca Inlet, bearing day-tripper tourists on a whirlwind visit to Bathurst before they flew back to Hobart. The boat pulled alongside, and our friend Mary-Anne Lea stepped aboard to stay with us for a few days. Mary-Anne is a biologist with a keen appreciation for the natural history of Tasmania, and her visit enlivened our experience. Together we enjoyed the cycle of weather that came to dominate our visit. At first the days were fine, and we hopped from anchorage to anchorage and hiked the hills. When the weather made the inevitable turn, it was conveniently New Year’s Eve, and we celebrated belowdecks with homemade paper crowns and Alisa’s famous boat pizza while Galactic tugged against the anchor chain.

All too soon Wade and Chris were kindly ferrying the entire Galactic crew up the glorified ditch of Melaleuca Inlet aboard Take It Easy, to the airstrip for Mary-Anne’s flight back to Hobart. The cruising guide suggested that we would have likely been able to get Galactic‘s 6-foot draft up the twisting inlet, but I was happy not to try.

Back on Galactic, we started to make our way back toward the coast — our time was drawing down. But we stopped for family hikes along the way, and Wade, Chris and I took a day to hike up Mount Rugby. That’s when the fire made itself known.

Elias and I stood on the bow, watching waves of smoke cresting and pulsing overhead and holding out our hands to catch bits of drifting ash. It was a dry day, with the wind still gusting above 40 knots. Silver Air, having been defeated in the search for a secure anchorage out near the entrance, steamed back to join us. No harm came to us, but the fires burned day after day, and the smoke was with us for the rest of the trip, the amount varying only with the direction of the wind. At night we saw sullen flames on the distant hills.

After eking out one final hike to the spectacular outer-coast beach of Stephens Bay, we found ourselves again rounding South West Cape, this time heading east, back to Hobart.

Suddenly four years of our lives had gone by, in Hobart and the intervening year of sailing back from California. Elias now speaks with a discernible Australian accent, courtesy of his school year in Hobart. For the rest of his life, Eric will say “Tasmania” when anyone asks him where he was born. We’ll always have a unique connection to this place. We’d been lucky, as travelers, to find it. But traveler’s luck only holds if you keep moving.

While our voyaging friends migrated onward to the ­Indian Ocean, our delicious fate seemed to be staying in the Pacific. Since we’d run out of Pacific in this direction, it was time to turn around and see what the temperate southern latitudes had to offer us. In a few weeks we headed still farther east, across the Tasman Sea to New Zealand and the sub-Antarctic islands.

New places forever wait.

Mike Litzow is the author of South from Alaska: Sailing to Australia with a Baby for Crew, and he keeps his sailing stories current at www.thelifegalactic.blogspot.com. At press time, Mike and family were cruising the coast of Chile aboard Galactic.

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