Hmmm. Chalk that one up to experience. By the time we stepped
out on the muddy sand at Fisherman's Passage it felt like we had
had a real workout. A dark grey 4WD pulled up at the top of the
boat ramp and the driver offered us a lift back to Wynnum.
Somewhat bemused, we thanked him, but explained the car was here.
Oh that's alright then, I just wanted to make sure you two were
okay before I got in my boat to come and rescue you. He thought
we had started our paddle at Wynnum and he did not want us to
head back. Neither did I. Had he had asked the same question in
Wynnum he would have a car companion before he had finished the
offer. No, we reassured him it had just been a shitty end to
another day in paradise. He chuckled and said that if I had been
his wife he would have divorced by now and drove off. I mean how
good was that - a total stranger looking out for two twerps
caught out by the change. A change we knew was on it's way, it
was just a matter of timing.
It was a day for the birds. Melancholic meadowlarks trilled and
swallows swooped as we pushed off to circumnavigate of St Helena
and Green Island. It looked like the change was coming through
later that afternoon or early evening, and we weren't too
concerned as we planned it so that any SW would be up our clacker
on the return leg. With a 2.4m high after midday, by 10:30 there
was plenty of water in the mangrove passage which was alive with
bird song. Pollen floated on the milky grey water as an ominously
large fish drifted inbound with no obvious clues as to cause of
its demise. At the entrance the black walking stick necks of nine
swans glided northwards. At 11:30 approaching to St Helena we
came across the Moreton Bay Canteen. It was promptly declared
open for business. Temporary styrene seating was soon added to
the collection jammed under the rear deck lines.
The tide height and millpond conditions allowed us to get right
in next to the rock wall much to the bristling consternation of
pairs of pied oyster catchers. A massive nest had been built
behind the receiver of the tallest radio tower. Talk about room
with a view. The mangroves morphed into aged trees but the
density of the branches kept 5m intruders out. A truly beautiful
white bellied sea eagle circled closely, not once but twice.
Unusual but magnificent. The reason revealed itself in the fork
of the next mangrove. A huge lair, a mere four feet from the
water and fully exposed to the SE, it didn't seem like a wise
place for the king. While we didn't hear any pips or cheeps, we
were happily gaining a respectful distance when Mark disturbed
the Emperor and Empress. Two osprey totally hidden from view
lumbered out of the next cluster of mangroves and made us
grateful only to be swooped by butcherbirds or magpies. These
massively powerful birds would have your scalp. The tide
condensed terns, gulls, dotterels and other shorebirds into an
incredibly noisy chattering convention offshore. By the end of
the island the clamour had been swept away by a rising NE and we
sailed across to Green arriving at the spit at 1pm.
The first meal at the newly anointed Moreton Bay Canteen was
lunch held on Green's western beach in the company of a yachtie
who had come ashore with his two little girls, a jet skier who
had was taking his son and a friend for a burl, a tinny towing a
Hobie cat laden with young adults and the kayak crusher. After
combing the beach for cuttlefish for the neighbour's electus
parrots, a chat with the yachtie the cafe served up an enjoyable
munch on salad rolls in the warmth of the sun.
By 2pm wind had swung around to the NW and we pushed off to
circumnavigate Green. We were soon hooting around the northern
end and the wind remained strong enough to continue flying down
the eastern side. The regatta further south gave the second clue
when they started to heel over dramatically. By the time we got a
glimpse through the mangroves that shelter the southern point of
Green was a clear what we were in for. Talk about bad manners.
The NW had NOT informed the BOM that it was going to come in
early. The bay was rocking and we were sea sawing our way through
a short sharp chop right into a stiff 20 knots. At times there
was more velocity for good measure. For the first time ever I
found I could do nothing but point the Raider into the wind. To
go starboard equalled crabbing into the mangroves, to port
equalled go south. Unladen the Artic Raider had become an utter
proverbial pain as I got a real time demo of troublesome windage.
Mark in the Marlin on the other hand could go up to 45 degrees
off the direction of the wind without morphing into a crab. So we
ended up going whereever I could drive the Raider. And I mean
drive hard. An effort which would have normally delivered 8 -
10kph was down to 2 or 4kph. First it was NW, then W then SW as
the wind made its way around to the expected quarter. Punching
directly into it, whilst rough, it was controlled and, unlike
later, neither of us felt threatened, just unimpressed by the
relentless grind, a grind which did not ease up until we were
400m from Darling Point. By now that grind had made the prospect
of a catching taxi to Fisherman's Island look good even to a
Scotsman.
With the SW easing to 15Kn and suitable for a sailing crab we
picked up speed and encouragement, flying by the Wynnum jetty at
an effortless 11Kph. Our main concern was now mud vs water. Given
that we were in six inches of water on a falling tide I was
prepared to sail to get us out of there asap. Well, that was
quite something, sailing with a 30Kn SW up your clacker in an
empty Raider. Not for the faint hearted, even if all that was at
stake was some muddy dignity. The boat was alive and incredibly
twitchy. With rudder on full lock and a paddle as a braking stern
rudder the boat still wanted to round up. The force of the wind
was kind enough to blow a tiny chop that kept us adrift in Alex
Gutter, for a while. Then the inevitable. Mark came to a stalling
halt, but after sinking past his knee is soft mud yelled at me to
stay in my boat. This was not walking material. He flopped back
in, poled the boat around to face NE and tried mud yachting
(without the sail). It worked. The wind propelled him and the
boat forward. If it hadn't next step would have been to let rip
with the sail. By this time my sail was battened down and shallow
muddy water at the very edge of the channel never looked quite as
good as today. The last Km was more of the same grind as the wind
gave a flag the profile of a flying brick.
In my view anyone who says they can paddle into a sustained 30Kn
headwind and make progress is either powerful or doesn't know the
true wind speed. A boatie asked if we had come back from Peel as
a small group had left shortly before he decided to make a run
for the passage in what he also found to be trying conditions. It
wasn't Sandgate - they had left from Yundah Street as had Carol.
The wind was certainly out of sorts, more like a winter westerly,
one that switches on abruptly leaving few places to hide on
Moreton Bay. Certainly not the kind of day we expected to have.
Chalk it up and leave that one for the birds.
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