The Poynduc Podcast – Chapter 11

The moon’s half full tonight and it’s a still, clear night. The milky light shines beautifully on the wavelets of the Channel as we paddle across, as silently as we’re able. The good visibility makes us feel uncomfortably conspicuous, two hundred metres off the northern shore.

Desultory gunshots echo through the night. They’re still at it, then. Dogs bark.

We pull in alongside the yacht, trying hard not to clonk it with our bow or our paddles, afraid the hollow sound will carry. Then with our hands we walk our kayak down the hull to the boarding ladder at the stern. By the moonlight we can see what we couldn’t from a couple of kilometres away, even with the decent optics of my bins: she’s called First Light.

Well, well. How appropriate.

It’s the work of a few moments to tie up and scramble aboard, our bare feet slapping on the timber of the cockpit sole. I’ve brought a pry bar and a stout screwdriver with me for breaking and entering. I’ve never done this before, but it works a treat.

The ignition key is hung on a peg just inside the companionway. How convenient.

Down below, we risk using the red-light torch to survey the situation. The saloon is spacious and well upholstered, but we’re looking for the chart table and the main circuit-breaker panel. Both are quickly found. I find the battery master switch and turn it on. Good, there’s juice in the battery bank. We noticed a solar panel on the bimini when we were looking from the shore.

We agree not to faff about, but to get the boat off the mooring as quickly as possible, take her round the other side of Bruny Island, drop the hook off the pilot station and check her out at our leisure.

Ah, but wait. We wanted a tender to ferry all our loot from the shore. Back up on deck and out with the bins.

Nothing much in this little bay. Oh, hello though: there’s a boat alongside the jetty. A tinny, looks to be about four metres. Outboard on the back. Dare we?

We dare!

Starting the outboard is out of the question – even if it has fuel. Way too noisy and attention-getting. We’ll stay in the kayak: keeping low to the water, we’ll paddle in, cut the mooring lines with my serrated diver’s knife, and tow the boat back to First Light. It’ll look like a boat that’s come adrift. We hope.

Easily said, but the doing’s another matter. As we paddle into the little harbour, hoping we’re not paddling into a trap, the bow runs into an object floating almost submerged. A soft object. As we ram it, pushing it aside, it flips over and for an instant we see a pale face, upturned to the moonlight, mouth agape.

Fuck.

Looking around, we can see several more low forms, drifting on the oily water. We redouble our efforts at stealth. Any moment we expect to hear shouts, feet running along the boards of the jetty, shots.

It’s a lot harder to tow a tinny with a kayak than I expected. The damn awkward thing keeps on sheering off to one side or the other. In the end, Maya has to hop in the tinny and use her paddle as a rudder to keep it on course. It’s not very elegant, and I’m starting to think this was all a bloody stupid idea. But in the end, we get back to the yacht, apparently undetected. We haul the kayak aboard and leave the tinny trailing astern.

Right, then. Let’s get going.

I’m standing at the bow, ready to cast off from the mooring buoy. What’s keeping you, Maya?

The motor turns over, coughs, then stops. It sounds appallingly loud to my ears.

Fuckity fuck fuck.

Again. The starter motor whines in protest as it turns over the big diesel. Then nothing. Not even a wheeze this time.

A quick, frantic inspection reveals why. The fuel tank’s been drained, and the prick who siphoned it didn’t even bother to put the cap back on, so there’s probably rainwater in there. If we ever find any diesel and want to use the motor, we’ll have to drain and dry the whole fuel system first.

So, rather than slipping away unobtrusively, we have to hoist a bloody great white sail into the night sky.

It flaps and snaps in the fitful breeze. We might as well be yelling at the top of our lungs: ‘LOOK OVER HERE! WE’RE STEALING THIS BOAT! YES, THAT’S RIGHT, OVER HERE! COME AND SHOOT US PLEASE! THANKS AWFULLY …’

Then I cast off the mooring line, narrowly avoiding getting pulled overboard with it, the big sail fills with wind, and we’re away, into the night.

‘What a fucking fiasco that was,’ summarises Maya as I get back to the cockpit.

Well, I’m not the one who forgot to check the fuel gauge, beloved spouse.

Unbelievably, our comedy double-act receives no reaction from the shore. Not a peep. I guess they’re all worn out after a busy day murdering each other.

Sailing round Dennes Point and down to Variety Bay is remarkably straightforward after all that excitement. Maya’s clearly an experienced hand at this sailing malarkey. Who knew?

We have an impressive array of toys at our disposal, I discover as I poke around below deck. Radar, sonar, chartplotter, VHF and HF transceivers, AM and FM receiver, watermaker, wine fridge, electric hot water, sound system, DVD player …

The only snag is, we have no means of charging the battery bank, other than the little panel on the bimini. In a region not known for its abundant winter sunshine. No diesel means no alternator, means no juice going into the batteries. They’re well charged at the moment, but what we have is all we’re going to get, until we arrive home.

So we’ll have to be frugal.

Still … we have the best comms setup a yachtie can buy, and aerials atop a twenty-metre mast. When we get out into Storm Bay, away from the radio shadow of the high coast, we ought to be able to pick up stations from all over Tassie.

Under the present circumstances, reliable information is worth a lot. We agree that we’ll expend some of our precious watts on a good listen. Once we get to Variety Bay.

Well, we managed to anchor under sail without cocking it up too badly, I think. For which I can take no credit at all: I just did as Skipper Maya said.

The sky has become light, though the land is still wrapped in darkness. A hint of delicate rose tints the clouds above the Tasman Peninsula. It’s taken us the whole night to get to this point, after a sleep deficit that’s been building over weeks. No wonder I’m shagged.

I’m so tired I don’t even think I could sleep. My consciousness is light and fuzzy, as if I’ve already been hitting the drinks cabinet. Which, by the way, is well stocked. Whoever stole the diesel was clearly a very focused individual. I just wish they hadn’t left the fuel cap off …

Mitchell Davies, you’re rambling.

Radio on, then. Radios. Let’s see what we can find out. Perhaps it’ll change our minds.

We don the headphones, and get to it. I’m listening on AM and FM, while Maya monitors the VHF and HF bands. As soon as one of us finds something of interest, we’ll put it on speaker.

Ah, here we go.

… Australian Defence Force personnel have secured the perimeter of the Devonport docks … Armed criminal gangs active in Hobart and southern Tasmania … Safety of travellers on the Midland Highway and the Tasman Highway cannot be guaranteed … Pack essentials only and travel to Devonport with the utmost urgency … Report to the Red Cross centre and await further instructions … Ferries are being prepared for your evacuation to the mainland …

The faint, crackly monotone is drowned out by stirring classical music and a calm female voice, loud and crystal clear.

Citizens of Tasmania!

Remain in your homes and await further instructions. Disregard fake broadcasts spreading disinformation regarding evacuation from Devonport. No evacuation is occurring. Regular ferry services to Australia are suspended for the interim, until diplomatic relations are established with the new provisional government in Victoria. We apologise for any inconvenience.

Please be aware that martial law is in force and a curfew is in place. Persons on the street between the hours of five pm and nine am will be detained under the emergency powers. I repeat: stay in your homes!

We are working hard to reinstate the rule of law after the defeat of the cowardly anti-Government forces. Food distribution is being organised. Power and mains water will be restored soon. In the meantime, please cooperate with the Government to ensure calm and order. Only obey instructions from official Government representatives. Do not trust any persons claiming to be authority figures, even in uniform, unless they wear the blue armband with the insignia of the DGT.

This is Daniella Jones on behalf of the Democratic Government of Tasmania.

More upbeat music.

‘Well you can fuck right off, Daniella Jones,’ says Maya.

It’s the same on every channel I tune into. Daniella Jones and her crew have got hold of a powerful transmitter and a decent power supply. Probably the Mount Wellington Super-Transmitter, Maya reckons.

I’m outraged. The fecklessness of my fellow Tasmanians, allowing these chancers to get a toehold in our capital city. More than a toehold, by the sound of it.

Maya is more pragmatic, not to say: cynical.

‘Mitch, Mitch. What do you expect? The government breaks the social contract – the government gets dropkicked. What most people want: safe streets, food in the supermarkets, paid employment, basic healthcare. In return for that, they’re prepared to obey laws, go to work and pay taxes. If their democratically elected representatives can’t guarantee those things, they’ll accept any alternative that presents itself confidently enough, at least until their bellies are full again and the lights are on. It doesn’t matter if that alternative is some shouty wannabe warlord and her private army.

‘Our government broke the contract. Everything fell apart. No communication, no pay, no food, no healthcare, no power, no safety on the streets. Not their fault? Too fucking bad.

‘Look at us, supposedly law-abiding citizens. Intellectuals, scientists working for the benefit of humanity and the planet. People of principle. It’s less than two months since the internet went down, and we’ve already killed two people in brutally violent ways – sure, in self-defence – looted homes and businesses, and stolen half a million dollars’ worth of yacht.

‘Most people are no more principled than we are.’

There isn’t any petrol in the tinny’s outboard. Of course there isn’t. Neither are there any oars on board, so we have to improvise with the kayak paddles, to get ashore. Then back out to the yacht with our ill-gotten gains. Back and forth, three times, until our arms and backs are screaming with this awkward exertion. My damaged hand is throbbing.

The sun’s high in the sky by the time we’re done.

In all this time, we haven’t seen or heard any other vessels out on Storm Bay, or heard a vehicle ashore on the island. It’s eerily quiet, and I don’t trust the silence one bit.

Maya’s been checking our inventory, and she reckons we have staples to last us about eight months. Eight months to achieve total self-sufficiency. It doesn’t sound long, does it?

We discuss whether we can risk going ashore again on South Bruny, maybe at Adventure Bay, where there’s a general store. Conclusion: no. Neither of us has the heart for it. With a yacht full of provisions, and a fair wind blowing off the land, the pull of the open sea is too powerful, and the horrors of the land are too great.

Eight months’ grace it is, then.

However …

From where we are, we can’t make it home in one day, and we’re just a teensy bit too scared of the Roaring Forties, and a wee bit too inexperienced with this boat, to risk an overnight passage. Not to mention, I’m still not completely au fait with this whole wind propulsion concept, aka sailing, so Maya may need to be at the helm for the whole trip.

So we agree that we’ll have a proper shakedown sail: down the east coast of Bruny, round the bottom and westward across the Channel to Recherche Bay. It’s a chance to discover whether there’s anything terminally wrong with First Light before we face the full might of the Southern Ocean. While it’s not too late to back out; though God knows what plan B would be, now. It’s also a chance for Capt’n Maya to lick her greenhorn crew-of-one into some sort of seamanlike shape.

Recherche will be the ideal jumping-off point for our voyage home. It’s quiet, virtually deserted in winter even in normal times. It’s sheltered, but has easy access to the open ocean. From there, with a fair wind and a pre-dawn start, we can just about make it home in daylight. If we’re lucky.

As we leave Variety Bay, it gives me real satisfaction to cast adrift that bloody tinny.

It’s only slightly terrifying, sailing around the southern end of Bruny Island and across the Channel to Recherche. It’s also bloody spectacular, sailing past those towering cliffs with their organ-pipe walls of dolerite. Vice-Admiral Maya issues stern commands to her second-in-command, whose attention is inclined to wander towards the three-hundred metre columns of rock and the fur seal colonies he can just make out below them.

A gentle introduction, then, to the real terror which awaits us, sailing round the three capes back home to Poynduc? Hmm.

So began our week in Recherche Bay, my hypothetical friends and followers.

We’ve tucked ourselves as far into the bay as we dare, without a motor to get us out again. Passing boats, should there be any, will have to stand well offshore to avoid the reefs, and are unlikely to spot our mast against the tall eucalypts climbing the slopes behind us. We’re very close to Cockle Creek, where our trek towards Hobart left the South Coast Track and joined the unsealed road north towards the Huon – and the nocturnal ambush that’ll give us nightmares as long as we live.

We’ve been cautious. We’ve tried to keep below deck as far as possible. When we slipped over the side to bathe, we did it on the seaward side of the boat, and we were careful not to make any light after dark.

Still as the week has gone on, we’ve got a distinct feeling, bordering on certainty, that we’re being watched. The rocky shores of the bay are lined with tall trees and it looks quite deserted, but, as we know all too well, the road runs behind them, concealed from our anchorage.

We’d have left before now, but the weather stayed unsuitable. Each day dawned cold and windy from the west, with a low, sullen cloud base. We’ve agreed that when the wind veers into the north, signalling the arrival of a high, bringing a period of settled weather, we’ll go.

After all, when we leave here, there’s nowhere for us to go but home. There are no safe anchorages between the three capes that mark the south coast of mainland Tasmania: all of the bays along that coast are open to the prevalent southwesterly swell and storm-force winds.

So we’ve made the best of it. We’ve hunkered down, kept a low profile, and tried to rest and recuperate, despite our jitters.

The endless, fruitless waiting at Melaleuca; the grind of the South Coast Track in winter; the horror in the woods; the long paddle up the Channel, capped by the apocalyptic vision of Hobart; the death house and its closing gates. The nocturnal farce of stealing this boat. Then the cherry on the cake: Daniella Jones and the DGT. We’ve had a lot thrown at us.

At first, we made an effort to keep a listening watch on the radios, but we soon gave up. The reception in Recherche isn’t great, even with a tall mast, and it was just too upsetting and confusing. The endless bullshit and contradictions. At least three groups claiming to be the new government of Lutruwita / Tasmania. Or Van Diemen’s Land, for fuck’s sake.

Better to save the power for when it’s needed.

On the sixth night, last night, we saw a fire ashore. Just a small campfire, glimmering through the trees, over where the Cockle Creek campsite must be. An eerie confirmation that we’re not alone. Our last encounter with the locals wasn’t too friendly – and we’ve no desire to get reacquainted. Or to meet the ‘official representatives’ of the dictatorship du jour, whatever colour their armbands might be.

I’ve snuck up here on deck for a pee. It’s well after midnight, the breeze is mild, our stern is pointing south towards Cockle Creek and the stars are magnificent. Northerly breeze and clear skies: looks like we’ve got our weather window.

Time to go home.

Title image ‘Sea Cliffs, South Bruny’: pen and watercolour pencil on Bristol paper. The sea cliffs of South Bruny Island are among the tallest in the southern hemisphere, and as Mitch says, ‘bloody spectacular’.