⛵ The Huia in Bass Strait #26
Part 1: Singlehanded across Bass Strait in an 86 year old open timber boat
As always, thank you kindly to those who became early-adopter paid subscribers or forayed into the list of other ways to support my work at the bottom of my newsletters - I really appreciate it!
The gusts funnel through the west facing side of Deal Island with tremendous violence, making their way down to the otherwise flat waters of Winter Cove. From looking at the charts the previous day, the cove appeared to be able to provide calm anchoring in virtually all conditions. There were moments of calm, yet these moments were just the quiet seconds before another gust would put Huia on her side. At just 26ft, without a cockpit or much of anything to give her windage, Huia still stretched her now doubled up nylon anchor rode, with little consideration for her sole occupant: Me, laying in a canvas bedroll on her squishy rotting timber floors with a homemade oilskin tarp over my head, as large drops of water found their way into my sleeping bag. The incessant wind created a kind of Williwaw effect over the windward hills, the largest gusts waking me up many times an hour, as I lay terrified of the anchor dragging, or worse, letting go entirely. On this tiny island, virtually in the centre of Bass Strait with winds gusting 50kts from the southwest, there was no where else to seek shelter nor anyone to help if something did let go.
It was desolate here, you could feel the loneliness creeping under the tarp along with the rain itself. On every voyage of any length, there is always a period of asking oneself why. Why are you doing this? Why aren't you at home where the greatest danger is forgetting to buy cream for your morning coffee?
As Huia heels in the stiff breeze at anchor, I play over and over a movie in my head of how the anchor is setup: A large fluted sand anchor loaned to me by a good friend. A stainless steel shackle I seized with two yellow zip-ties (because I didn't have any wire). Twelve metres of anchor chain, another shackle and then two bowline knots of nylon rode for thirty metres, which all eventually make their way to a large timber Samson post on deck. The movie I replay in my head is where the weak spot is in this arrangement. What will break and send me haplessly into Bass Strait? Are my zip-ties strong enough? Can I hear the Samson post bending or am I imagining things? Did I tie a good enough bowline? So many questions; so little peace.
The story of how I got to be here, aboard an 86 year old open cockpit timber boat in the middle of nowhere, alone, is much like every other story which sent myself and many others on such wondrous maritime adventures: Persisting upon the seed of a wild and romantic seafaring idea. The seed for this particular idea was planted during the long dark winter nights of Covid-19 lockdown in 2020, as I sat alone reading the voyaging accounts of Captain James Kelly. Just home from my attempt to drive overland from Tasmania to Norway by Land Rover (via Africa), an adventure cut short by Covid, my Land Rover was now firmly stuck in Cape Town while I was back in Tasmania. By sheer luck, I was able to fly home from South Africa just days before commercial flights were cut off, as the realisation of an overland dream (years in the making) crumbled before my eyes, in the midst of a global pandemic. What else was there to do, but dream of something new? Perhaps an adventure closer to home, an adventure beyond the grip of global chaos? An adventure in my own backyard, or even around it?
Captain James Kelly and three men had sailed & rowed a small open whaleboat around Tasmania in 1815-1816, on a voyage of discovery. While Bass & Flinders (as well as many whalers) had sailed along Tasmanian shores on much larger boats, none had yet taken the time to explore the myriad inlets, coves & rivers along its coastline.
With easily accessible swathes of the highly prized boat building timber Huon Pine already felled, Kelly hoped discover new forests to exploit along the heavily forested and virtually inaccessible western shores of the rugged Tasmanian coast. Kelly's voyage would later be re- enacted in 1986 by Bern Cuthbertson, then aged 62 (who's account of the journey was what I was spending my winter nights reading) - I thought perhaps this was my kind of adventure: Small, simple, remote and slightly mad.
However, the twists and turns of life got in the way of such dreams of adventure, as the idea fell deep into the recesses of my mind, as a new and unexpected adventure got underway with the meeting of someone who would become the love of my life. Through this chance encounter, a new path took place as we packed up our respective houses and purchased a 42ft cutter, departing for the Great Barrier Reef (and beyond) in the autumn of 2021.
Alas, even this grand adventure was cut short by Covid-19… As we became stuck in lockdowns at the border of New South Wales and Queensland. After six months of living at a marina in a small seaside town by the border, my partner became pregnant with our future son, and we decided to retreat back to Tasmania, burnt out by the stasis of lockdown and yet another broken dream.
As the reality set in of being boat-less again, I began dreaming of small open boats - a vessel which was agile, seaworthy and adventurous. I thought perhaps I could sneak in just one more voyage before our son was born - an adventure to make up for for the ones lost in Covid. The seed of the Kelly adventure cropped up again, as I began searching for an open timber boat similar to what Kelly might have sailed over a century ago. My search criteria was simple: Timber, gaff rigged and less than 28ft in length, for under $25,000. The boat could be anywhere in Australia, and the idea was to simply sail it home before our son was born within the next four months.
There was just one boat which matched my criteria, and her name was Huia.
Huia was built in 1936 from New Zealand Kauri, shipped over by the trading schooner of the same name, which traded exotic timbers from New Zealand to Australia. Built by Peter Locke, she was constructed as a 26ft fishing boat for catching Barracouta outside of Port Phillip bay, in Bass Strait. Gaff rigged with an enormous cockpit, these vessels are now revived and commonly known as Couta Boats, renowned for being fast, small and exceptionally seaworthy. Traditionally, their captains would sail out of Port Phillip heads to fish, later sailing back as fast as they could to market. Today, they've been revived as traditional racing boats, which can often be seen in fleets along the coast of Sorrento, their comparatively large gaff rigs powering along in a brisk afternoon sea breeze. In the realm of sailing, there is little more beautiful than a horizon full of traditional canvas.
Tim Phillips, owner of The Wooden Boat Shop, located along the shores of Port Phillip bay, is a builder of beautiful timber boats in both power & sail, now considered one of the main revivalists of modern Couta Boat culture. His restorative & historical passion for these boats has led to new builds, as well as bringing many original boats back from the brink of complete extinction. I had much to learn about these boats, and before long I was on the phone with Tim asking him about Huia.
Huia was located in Port Phillip bay near Melbourne, separated from my home in Tasmania by Bass Strait. Inspired by the Kelly voyage, a dream evolved to sail Huia across Bass Strait, through the Furneaux Group of islands and along the east coast of Tasmania. I told Tim as much, expecting him to be wary of such an idea - however his voice lit up and almost immediately he offered to provide me with anything I required for the voyage. The following day, I was the new custodian of Huia, a vessel which had been in the same family for near 50 years. With this new dream underway, I was now under time pressure to prepare and sail home before our son entered the world!
The final days of packing up our 42ft cutter were hot and disappointing. I had to fit the entire contents of the boat which we had been living on for nearly a year into a small Toyota Corolla, which I then needed to drive 1600km home before I could begin on the Huia project in earnest. En route home to Tasmania, I quickly drove past Huia to start making lists of everything I would need - like several boats before, I had purchased Huia sight un-seen.
Huia lay on her mooring without a mast. While strong in her bones, she was cosmetically somewhat neglected. I poked around and started to realise the enormity of the project, a most common thread in many sea-bound adventures. Nonetheless, I had crossed the Atlantic and Pacific alone in a 26ft boat before and I knew what lay ahead. With a fistful of paper notes and sketches of a canvas cockpit cover I was to make at home, I continued on to drop the contents of our life off, before returning by plane to begin work on Huia in preparation to depart as soon as possible.
With the help of The Wooden Boat Shop, I spent the following three weeks preparing. We re-rigged & stepped the mast, bent on the sails, re-loaded the lead ballast around the centreboard casing, made numerous repairs, mounted a tiller pilot to assist in steering, sewed in a third reef on the mainsail, installed a secondary battery, loaded the cockpit with plastic drums full of supplies, and I was virtually read to set off.
While Huia and I were prepared, unfortunately the weather was not. In part due to the season, as well as La Niña, the southeasterly breeze refused to give us a break. I waited and waited for winds to blow from a more favourable direction without any luck… What was I to do? Living on a boat going nowhere without a cockpit, exposed to the weather is tiring... There is no respite from the wind and the rain and without any forward progress, things start to become demoralising. I began to really wonder whether this was a good idea, as I slept under my canvas tarp in the rain at the marina, looking at weather charts for even the smallest opportunity to depart. Disappointingly, an opportunity never arose: I packed up and flew home, the clock ticking away with the imminent arrival of our son.
To be continued in Part 2.
Become a subscriber
If you enjoy my writing, please consider supporting my work as a paid subscriber & true patron of the arts!
Other ways to support
Take a look at the outdoor equipment I hand make at Kohutt - I literally make each piece myself in an industrial sewing workshop built from two shipping containers, located in the wilds of Tasmania.
If you happen to be planning a trip to Tasmania, come stay at our Airbnb, located in Eaglehawk Neck! You can enjoy a wood fired sauna, the skate ramp, surfing, wood fires, my epic book collection and look up in awe at all the tall eucalypts you are surrounded by.
Buy me a coffee - it’s an addiction I’ve had for 25 years and I’m not going to stop.
Purchase a copy of my book - either signed or as a Kindle book. (Purchasing a book directly from me avoids lining the pockets of Amazon billionaires - just say’in!)
Elsewhere
Instagram / Website & work / YouTube Channel / Kohutt / Airbnb / Goodreads / Documentary / Book
Reach out
If there is something you’d like me to riff on in the next edition or delve into further personally — simply reply to this email. I love email!