Shute Harbour to Joes Beach
'Go with the flow' seems to be the mantra for the Whitsundays, also called the Shitsundays by some of the locals. We were to find out why both of these held true.
On the way to Airlie Beach we were welcomed into great hospitality by Ray's brother and family. Four generations had gathered in Gladstone to celebrate the first of the fourth. We would have been grateful for a place in the shed, but no that would not do. After a magnificent BBQ and dessert we were hustled into the last night's luxury of a bed.
On the road north dismantled giants with their escorts made their way to the mines. A creeper with a yellow trumpet flower like thunbergia had taken hold of many areas of bush around the Calliope River. It lit up the tree tops with dazzling bursts of
yellow. Cane flowers greedily sucked out the sugar while thick mud defied any harvester. Mackay and Gladstone had broken their residential banks and are now large centres. We made good time and found that Airlie Beach too, or rather Cannonvale was
marching inland with the building of yet another McDonalds milestone.
We decided upon Flametree Tourist Park as it was the closest to Shute Harbour and a regular bus service of sorts would come by, when it was good and ready. I had heard that one caravan park was excellent, the other scungy and to be avoided. The person at Reception was helpful and friendly. The tropical gardens
beautiful and well tended. The toilet block immaculate. Each shower cubicle had a bench, plenty of hooks and a glass shelf. The unrestricted showers sprayed soft water which foamed lavishly and had a strange soapy taste. Flametrees is Pet Friendly and there were plenty of dogs about on leads but I did not see one dog egg. The biggest nuisance was created by the guests themselves. We prepared our dinner in the open camp kitchen serviced by a gas cooktop, hot water wash up and microwave.
Before long an obese male ringtail possum looking more like a brushtail with mange came crawling across the rafters. Next he was hanging in there poised for photos with with arms
outstretched waving for his reward. Soon after a munch he rewarded the enchanted tourists by peeing all over the table, bench seat and fridge.
We were up and gone by 7am. Unsurpisingly Ray was first to close
the hatches on the marathon pack with a total of 12 days of food and water. He left his car and the trailer at the caravan park for $10 per day and caught the bus back to Shute Harbour where he found us anointing the last of the sunscreen surrounded by a sea
of yellow ships. We pushed off to escape the clutter of Ecos and
Packhorses and their fleshy euro crew.
The boats were mammothly heavy. The Artic Raider was sluggish and the waterline constantly gurgled in the wheel holes. Ray's boat looked like it was sitting better but he too said that he copped a fair amount of water over the front deck. Mark on the other
hand looked like he was sinking and it turned out he was taking on significant ballast. We were spat out of Shute Harbour at 7Kph on a tide which had only just turned. Giants eddies swirled but the girls were too heavy to dance pirouettes. A Navy destroyer silently cruised the waters which were passage to ferries of all
shapes and sizes. Getting past Long Island seemed to take an age. Aiming for Henning had us facing SE on a giant ferry glide while the E-SE blew enough to make a nuisance of itself.
After a flying start, 4 hours later the northern white sand spit on Henning was not getting any closer. By the time Mark had pumped out an unbelievable amount of ballast we lost all ground we had made over the past 30 minutes. This was a slog and it was rapidly loosing its appeal. We decided to go ashore on a beach off the southern tip of Cid Island and wait for the tide to slow before continuing. It was when I saw Mark struggle to put his sail in the mast step that I realised how tired he was. Time to stick close while Ray checked out the landing. It scored a pass on account of coral rubble with rocks, okay if really necessary
but not today. We suggested to continue on where a yacht had disappeared as we had seen what looked like another beach. With the sails up on a soft beam reach we came into Cid Harbour. Nearing the low we found ourselves in the middle of a tidal race. Standing about half a metre and higher it was the sheer volume of water that pushed up these waves, however, compared with the main
channel it was a breeze to paddle against and we drew up at Joe's Beach right on the dead low.
Not many of the Whitsunday beaches are very attractive on the low and Joe's is no exception. Starting out as as a mud flat strewn with coral rubble before limited coral reef, more rock rubble then a thin line of beautiful fine sand. Two coconut palm tree trunks marked the entrance to the camp site. It was charming -
sheltered and private with a beautiful shady canopy, a mammoth
table with bench seats and the flashest bush toilet I have seen.
Positively civil. Too bad about the March flies. It was war and they had reinforcements like I have never seen before. Apparently it was like this at Whitehaven, Nari's and Dugong Beach. They were plain nasty. The trees were adorned with snails and an
occasional small deftly woven basket.
We put Yip Yip to work and waited for the tide to bring the boats to us, resting before setting up camp after what had been an arduous mere 11Km.
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