We sailed out of Fiji with good conditions but we were very conscious of the date: It was December and we were well into the cyclone season which officially started on the first of November. From the start I was worried about it. For our entire trip so far we had sailed ‘responsibly’-- within the generally accepted parameters of responsibility that tend to govern the cruising community.
When commanding a vessel regardless of size the general rule is that if you think something might be reckless you don’t do it. This same attitude pervades aviation and diving, so my training as both a pilot and a scuba instructor nagged at me. I thought back to what I knew about cyclones in this part of the world. It wasn’t much. I knew in the Caribbean that if a hurricane came you would normally have a named storm to track across the South Atlantic, and there were places to run for shelter or you could sail a day or so south and be out of danger. In contrast in the Western Pacific the storms formed in the same area we were in and might either head straight west or hook around and head south all the way to New Zealand. All I had to go on were the pilot charts and some short passages in the World Cruising Routes book. It was not enough.
I talked our plan for heading straight to Australia with Alison, becoming increasingly worried and upset. I did not know whether I was putting her in real danger or if I was just worrying about nothing. As we discussed it the wind kept increasing and the clouds rolled in. Al still felt a bit sick and for the first time her normal queasiness at the start of a passage developed into full blown seasickness. Soon squalls closed in and we had a lumpy 25 knots of wind from the south. Bashing into the seas with one hand in a splint and with Alison sick made the decision pretty obvious. We would head for New Caledonia and leave the boat there for the cyclone season.
The weather was bad for the whole trip. A stationary front had formed along the line from Fiji to New Caledonia, and we sailed its length for five days, arriving at the reef entry before dawn of the sixth day. The land effect of the huge island gave us some flat water for the first time and I spent some time picking little flying fish off the deck and generally tidying up, and putting up the yellow quarantine flag. As the sun came up New Caledonia was revealed. The south end is quite arid, with low green bushes covering brown and red earth. Occasional land slips and cleared sections told of the nickel mining that went on. Further to our south the low, palm tree lined islands of the Isles de Pines sat on the horizon.
Throughout the day we sailed through the passages through the islands and reefs to Noumea. There were very few boats around. It reminded me a lot of Exmouth, my home town, with bare red land but crystal clear aqua coloured water over coral reefs and sand bars. The whole island is surrounded by reef, forming probably one of the biggest coral lagoons in the world. New Caledonia is over 140km long. We sailed inside it all day until Noumea hauled into sight in the late afternoon. We called Port Moselle on the radio and secured a place on the visitor’s dock, and they promised to call customs for us. Everyone was very efficient and first world about everything. Our motor and gearbox decided to work and we were soon tied up to the dock where True Blue was to spend the next eight months. Port Moselle is a well known hurricane hole and we planned to leave the boat until May, and fly to Sydney to establish a life there.

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The next few weeks were a frenzy of packing up the boat and preparing to head home. We had finally exhausted our US funds and needed to tap our Australian accounts. We had Alison’s bank card sent over express post, and it never showed up. After waiting over a week with no cash at all we got a money transfer sent. Now we could buy tickets, have nice dinners, and arrange someone to tend our boat while we were away. We removed all the canvas from the deck and rig, laid down the required cyclone lines and generally prepared the boat for a long layover. We bought some cheap bags, packed up, and had one last dinner in the marina restaurant. Early the next morning we walked down the dock, leaving Bluey for the first time in a couple of years. I felt a sense of excitement that we were coming home, but more the anti-climax of not making it to Australia that year as we had planned, as well as relief that I had not endangered Alison and the boat irresponsibly by sailing on through the cyclone belt in the cyclone season.
Of course there were no cyclones at all in the Western Pacific that month.

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In the next eight months we flew to Sydney then went and stayed in Orange for a couple of weeks. Our friends Dan and Lindsay came and visited us. We rented a little flat in Elizabeth Bay and got jobs. A lot of our money went on keeping True Blue in the marina in Noumea, but eventually we established ourselves on land again. I kept an eye on the weather patterns and decided to go and get the boat in August, when the trade winds would by well established but the chances of being hit by a Tasman Low were less. I spent time on the net learning more about the weather near Australia, and whether you can avoid cyclones in this area if one does form. From what I could find I thought I could avoid the full force of a cyclone but it would be impossible to eliminate the chance of having to ride out the tail end of one. I was glad we hadn’t taken our chances.
I had a new genoa made and arranged for a mechanic to repair the engine and gearbox while the boat sat in New Caledonia. I also bought an SSB radio, because for this passage I would be alone. Alison had found a job in the hospital down the road, but was not eligible for annual leave until she had been there for a year. On this passage, even though it would only be 800 miles long, if I injured myself or had a serious breakage it would be a lot harder to fix it. I hoped that if I called for help other yachts might be able to help me without going to the extreme of tripping the emergency beacon and being required to abandon the boat.
August finally rolled around and it was time to go. I had with me the new genoa and some new valves for the engine. The French mechanics had failed to repair the engine in time, but they promised that they could do it in a day or two after I arrived. Alison drove me to the airport and we said goodbye at the security gate. She was worried about the trip and cried as I walked away.

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The next three weeks in Noumea was a nightmare. The engine was out – the company I had asked to arrange everything had done nothing. The boat was a mess. The engine was finally put back together over the next two weeks but they didn’t fix the gearbox because they assumed that it was an adjustment. It wasn’t. It needed a new clutch as I had told them. After the mechanic replaced the engine I could still not use it, so I was faced with the choice of flying home to Australia again and trying again later, or sailing without an engine. I opted for the second.
I paid the harbour master to tow me out into the bay and spend a day scrubbing the hull. As I sailed out of the harbour I ended up getting caught across the bow of a 50foot catamaran and had to get myself off. Tacking in our boat is hard, single handed. Finally I got out into the clear water of the lagoon, and set the windvane while I sailed for the reef pass, all the time worried about whether I could sail straight out or if I would need to tack. Fortunately the trades held true for once and before sunset I was in blue water again.
The first night and the next day the weather held, but around sunset the wind began to veer towards the south. Soon it was blowing gale force and above. As we scudded down one large wave the bow buried and we slewed around. I went back to the steering to set it up again to see that the new stainless tiller I had made in New Caledonia was a twisted wreck. They had made it too light. I felt like crying—if I couldn’t set up some self steering I would have to steer by hand for the next eight days. I learned something new – don’t throw out your spares, no matter how rusty.
I eventually got Bluey to steer again by wrapping line around the old plastic circle from the autohelm. By this time I was exhausted and the weather was still bad. I went below and opened a packet of peanuts and a can of corn for dinner. I got through that and then chased it with a tin of salmon. Feeling stronger, I boiled the kettle and made a coffee. As I sat there drinking it I thought about what had just happened. I was angry with myself for not asking for the tiller to be strengthened. I missed Alison, the support she gave to me and the help she was in sitting watch and making meals in the most trying conditions. I had learned to cruise as part of two or more crew on a boat, and most of all it came home to me that single-handing was new and it was time to start learning again. I grabbed my kitchen timer, set it for 20 minutes and went to sleep.
Throughout the night and for the next seven nights I got up and checked for ships every twenty minutes In the early morning I woke up to an enormous crash. Food and gear was flying through the air. I was lying on the ropes that tied the lee cloth to the roof as the boat came upright again. We had been knocked down. I rushed up to check the rig, stopping only to pull a harness on. The rig was up and the sails intact. The dinghy was still on the deck. The seas were huge—they looked spreader high. Water was pouring off the decks and the cockpit was draining. I pulled in the scrap of jib and hove-to under mizzen alone.
I went below and towelled off. The next hour involved cleaning up as best I could. It was exhausting. I had no energy. I was scared and worried about the port over the nav station, which had come partially free from the impact. Every time a wave broke over the boat water rushed in from the top hatch, the ports, the hand rails. The wind dropped a bit so took a position and set her up again. Thank God the GPS still worked.
There was no real letup in the weather for the next four days. The wind dropped to about 20 knots, went right around the clock to the North for a day, which allowed me to make some valuable Southing, then around to the SSE and up again to over forty knots. The steering jury rig held and these was no further drama except for the lack of sleep. I decided to sleep for a couple of hours each morning but found I couldn’t get to sleep, so it was back onto the twenty minute dozes.
The last two days the wind died to fifteen then ten knots. Ships formed a long line along the Queensland coast. I called them on the VHF but they didn’t answer, making me wonder if my radio was broken. Eventually I drifted around the top of Fraser Island in the early morning. I was finally out of the shipping lanes. I set the alarm for an hour and a half, and got some real sleep for the first time in a week.
I woke to blue skies and flat water. There was just enough wind to push us along and I set us up close-hauled to sail the length of Harvey Bay. I called the coast guard and checked in. The radio did work. He asked for the last port, number of souls on board and their health, and sounded surprised when I told him.
“Any Illnesses?” He asked.
“Sick of looking at bloody water,” I replied.
I made it into the mouth of the Bundaberg river at 4:30 and followed the instructions to the quarantine bouy. I managed to sail up the river and caught the mooring pendant in one desperate lunge. We had made it.

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