A Rocking Detour--Stanley Island Aboriginal Art

It began like so many of our adventures do; a casual mention over drinks and a few half-recalled details. “It’s cave art—there are supposed to be 19^th century sailing ships, dugongs and turtles.”

When I persisted, we managed to narrow down the island; Stanley Island in the Flinders group and get a few directions, “go in through the mangroves until you find the trail.” Even the government website was a bit light on details, “This walk on Stanley Island begins at the Mangrove Landing in Owen Channel. The track crosses to the northern side of the island, continues along the beach and meanders through low woodland.”

Owen Channel, it turns out, is over two miles long. Fully half of Stanley Island has mangroves along this length. We anchored at one end and made our way down the channel by dinghy, bashing through big seas in high winds, completely soaking ourselves through, while playing eenie meenie with the mangrove landings (ahem, small croc-infested beaches…)

Mangrove Landing

Being a pessimist I suggested we start with the furthest beach, which after we crossed the fringing reef, turned out to be a long dinghy drag through shallow water (We’re in an area that tells us to bring up our dinghy at night because crocs are known to bite them.) Then we anchored the dingy and went exploring behind the mangroves and looked up a hill for signs of a trail. This is where we found the park signs telling us we had found Yindayin. (Not to complain—but if I were putting up a sign for a water access only park, I’d probably put it where you could see it from the water…)

From the sign we set off through a kapok orchard, if you’ve ever seen those old kapok lifejackets these are the orange-sized fruit where the fluff comes from; past meter-high termite mounds; and skirting the Castle Peak cliffs. We wound our way through huge middens with silver-faded shells; and past discoloured signs that told us about the island’s bush tucker, eaten green and fresh this was tasty, this cured tooth pain, this bore fruit.

kapok orchard and fruit

 

When we reached the beach on the other side Maia warned me that this better not be like the cave art we trudged up a desert cliff to see in the Sea of Cortez—there, the reward for our heat-stroke inducing hike were red handprints of a rather nebulous pedigree found in a cave full of bat guano.

After admiring a few shells we found the trail up from the beach and reached another aged sign, this one explaining that an elder from the Yiithuwarra people, and the last baby to be born on the site, had helped interpret the site. He also drew the last image to be created; a dugong, some 60+ years ago.

Following an overhanging cliff we reached ‘ships shelter’. Awe is a word that should be used sparingly. But as I took in the cliff face that curved around and over me—forming a wide cave with natural air conditioning—I was awe-stuck. Sailing ships: painted in red and outlined white overlapped each other and obscured other images. Some ships had the distinct sterns of 18^th century European galleons; while others had the more exotic eastern curves of Macassan praus; still others brought to mind early 16^th century Portuguese ships. Layered with the ships were other signs of daily life; an eagle ray, crocodiles, dugongs, turtles and symbols that were too surreal to discern. 

Then we signed the guest book--discovering we were about the 40th group of people to visit this year.

Following the cliff side further into the center of the island the cave deepened into what had been a living place for over 2900 years, right up until WW2. The people who had lived here experienced the tragedies we now know about; some of the men were inevitably lost in the beche-de-mer, pearl and trochus shell industries, the children were sent to missions, illness took a tremendous toll.

But before all of that, while the island still had everything the people needed to survive, someone captured the moment of contact and recorded strange ships as they sailed by.

The Reef at Last

Anchored on the Great Barrier Reef

We’ve been sailing north inside the Great Barrier Reef for about six weeks, but yesterday was the first time we actually saw it, dove on it and anchored beside it. Further south the reef is a bit thin and it’s well off shore. (Running a length equivalent to the US west coast, the GBR isn’t a continuous reef, but hundreds of small reefs linked together like a pearl necklace, with gaps.) Once you hit Cairns though, the reef starts to close with land, the water warms up to a more pleasant 24C and it becomes easier to visit. Easier, but not easy.

 

hanging out with a turtle

The Barrier Reef is what divides the north coast of Australia from the Coral Sea—and having sailed on the Coral Sea, I can tell you it’s a moody piece of water that alternates between calm beauty and frothing nastiness. This means when you visit the reef you need at least a few days of sustained calm to make it work. Otherwise you’ll find yourself anchored in heaving seas with invisible (but deadly) reef all around you. For context—the one place Captain Cook went aground and tore apart the Endeavour was on Endeavour Reef, two reefs over from where we woke up this morning.

Lots of sailors who pass through this area are content with anchoring behind islands and exploring the inner reefs. But I really wanted the experience of dropping our hook in what looked like the middle of the ocean, miles from land. The tour boats do it all the time, but they have speed in their favour: they head out early in the morning and return to a safe harbour by dusk. But because we’re on the move north, we didn’t want to go in and out of the same place.

So in Cairns I nervously watched as a high built in the Tasman Sea, the sign of the end to a sustained period of calm. As soon as we finished all our chores: we had our luff tape on our genoa replaced, our scuba gear serviced and new seals put in the outboard… We set off for Low Island and then Turtle Bay on Tongue Reef.

The reward was anchoring in an endless expanse of sea and then taking Maia for her first extended dives in three years. Her confidence and joy underwater were gratifying to see. The reef itself was lovely—lots of corals, though not as much colour as we saw further south. The fish life too was smaller and sparser than we hoped. Strangely, much of the reef is only a Habitat Protection Zone—which means you can fish as much as you like (no trawling) and even collect aquarium stock!

 

Despite the lack of abundance, our dives were beautiful. The night sky held a bright moon and the seas stayed calm. This morning the wind started to rise after dawn and we turned north. It’s clear the wind patterns are beginning to change and the season for travel up here is coming to an end—the time’s come to hurry ourselves on to Darwin.

Sunrise on the reef--no land in sight

Anchor down

This morning our anchor came up with the sun and we pointed the boat north and flew. The winds are perfect right now—it’s like being on a fast-moving conveyer belt carrying us to our next destination, and the next after that. Today we sailed to Cape Upstart (I think!) 50 fast miles. Yesterday it was Glouster Passage. Before that, Airlie Beach.

underway on a light wind day

Traveling this quickly—a new anchorage each night or two, connecting with friends for a few hours, getting to know a place for a day—has its own appeal. It’s like a kaleidoscope of impressions: here we ate fresh oysters off the rocks; here a homesteader gave me more oranges and passion fruit than I could carry and I made marmalade; here we barbequed on the beach with new friends; here I was shown a rock orchid and malecula forest…

not sure if marking a hiking trail with plastic beach debris is clever, or depressing

gorgeous rock orchids

The richness of each day is astounding. Even the simple things like finding a grocery store and the laundry is an adventure. Colours seem brighter and moments seem sharper. Travel does that—it pulls you out of your comfort zone and gives you endless amounts of newness. It makes you pay attention.

following a boat through Glouster Passage

Some of the best moments for me though are the quiet ones that come after the anchor goes down. It’s like shavasana in yoga; it’s a time to breathe deeply and let all those impressions, and the whirlwind of constant noise and movement (we’re on a boat at sea, remember) slow to a stop. It seems like if we didn’t anchor ourselves, all of it; the whales, turtles, blue water and kind friends would slip by without being savoured and tucked safely away in my memories.

We've not lacked for gorgeous sunsets

So our anchor is down. The boat is calm. And rugged hills rise up ahead of us. In many ways this is the start of our day. When we sail, not much except sailing gets done. If it’s calm enough Maia works through school projects, I write a bit and Evan does a few chores. Mostly though we read, eat when we’re hungry and look at the view.

beaching the boat to repair a thru hull

Being anchored lets us catch up on all the things that need doing, head to shore and explore or simply look at the view just a little bit more.

Gambling With the Suck to Fun Factor

Maia's dream beach

Ever have one of those days that starts out warm and sunny, moves into a perfect sail, and then brings you humpback whales? Not spouts in the distance. But a mama resting on the surface a few hundred meters away and a curious baby who decides to come and visit?

Baby heads over to see us with mama close behind

But then the day turns—your main motor doesn’t start, so you use your outboard. And when you sort out the main motor’s problem the outboard hops off the back of the boat and falls into the ocean (thank-goodness for that safety line). And then you tip the mocha flan that you made, to soothe your sad soul, into a dirty sink and the pickle jar explodes over the floor, where you notice a trickle of saltwater from a seeping thru hull (and you just hauled out…). And none of the good—not the sail, not the whale, can make up for the fact that some days just suck.

I think cruisers must be bad gamblers at heart.

abandoned rail track

Roo prints on the beach

Those perfect days, where you wake with the plan of sailing on but a quick morning hike shows you’ve stumbled upon an abandoned resort with a perfect beach and clear warm water, are the ones that keep you sailing from country to country, endlessly searching for the combination of magical elements that feel like a row of cherries in the slot machine.

our morning turtle

But mostly we plug coins into the slots, taking the little payoffs; the turtles, the sunsets, the clear water and empty beaches. They’re our reward for the endless repairs.
Endless repairs.

abandoned train

 

The good days though? They are so good. Yesterday we planned to travel. But I wanted to see shore before leaving Brampton Island. Evan needed to finish flushing the outboard so after communing with a huge, wise-looking turtle Maia and I headed to shore on our own. We set off down an overgrown rail track the lead us past shy kangaroos and outgoing butterflies and into an empty resort.

There was a Christmas tree in a window, a pool table with cues and balls, an ancient banyan tree and sailboats for guests. There were linens on the beds and furniture in the dining room. And it was empty except for two other cruisers. We learned the resort was abandoned after a 2010 cyclone. Eerie and perfect we thought Evan should see it.

So we spent the day on abandoned lawn chairs, drinking from coconuts, cooling in the blue water and exploring the resort. In the evening we joined newly arrived sailors on the broken jetty to watch the sun drop into the sea.

the only guest

what the resort lacked in bar service it made up for in ambiance.

 And today we’re sailing on, gambling that someday soon we’ll have another day as good as yesterday.

Our Wild Life

I don’t know if it was the possum in the shower or the ducks at our door that made me realize it, but despite living on the edge of a big city we’re still firmly linked to the wild world around us.

 

we don't take cameras in the shower normally (though we may start) but this is a water dragon.

For the record, possums are not normally found in our shower. Nor are water dragons…
(Though enormous freaky spiders are…) But both creatures somehow showed up in the shower stalls in recent weeks and needed to be caught and released. The water dragon was first. Looking like a squirrel (except we don’t have squirrels…) in the dim corner of the shower it scurried away (and right into Maia) when I tried to get a closer look (actually, when I screeched…).

We chased it for a bit and realized there was no way it could get back out the vent, where it had most likely come in from, without assistance. So we decided to catch it and set it free. Water dragons bite—we’ve seen them tussle with the ibis in the park and the giant birds don’t win. But this one was little and it seemed very sad about being chased around the shower so after cornering him, and promising we were there to help, I grabbed him behind his shoulders and set him back out into the wild.

 

typically this is about all we see of a possum

Possums are much bigger than water dragons. And Maia found the possum just after getting over the water dragon, when she was finally willing to go to the showers alone again. She quickly came back out and told Saskia, who told Zack (another boater). So the trio decided that the possum would be happier if he wasn’t in the shower and successfully rescued the old guy and set him free. And Maia decided she shower some other day…

But between the creatures and the fact our shower is flood-prone, and often looks like a bio-hazard, Maia doesn’t really want to bathe anymore, ever. It brings back a memory of traveling down the US west coast. Expect with more creatures…

 

our handsome neighbour

Not all our interactions with the wildlife are unsettling though—we have a huge pelican for a neighbour, and the kookaburras to wake us, and Maia has a gaggle of ducks who have been visiting her since they were ducklings. Initially they’d wait patiently outside the boat for her. But then they learned to climb aboard the dinghy so they could quack through a window for her. Most recently they’ve been climbing aboard and waddling up to the door. We’re not sure if it’s because she’s been slow to respond to their visits or if they are tired of competing with the catfish for the food Maia gives them.

Yesterday when Maia fed her ducks the catfish rushed the surface, bit the duck's foot and held on. Okay, so maybe we’re not in the midst of an exotic sailing adventure but you’ve got to admit its all pretty wild.

Our resident flying foxes