A Wild Ride Up to Hells Gates

‘I think we should sell the boat and buy a caravan,’ I said to Matt as I lay in our bunk, the boat bouncing and bucking underneath me, my stomach churning and head throbbing. I had had enough.

We were sailing up the lower part of the west coast of Tassie, on a 90 mile trip to Hells Gates, the entrance to Macquarie Harbour. But unlike our previous passage around the south west corner into Port Davey, this time the west coast was not so benign. This time we found ourselves confronting the notoriously wild west coast in some of its glory. It would turn out to be one of our most difficult trips yet.

But let me take you back…

Having managed to get a long range weather forecast using the internet at Melaleuca, we identified Sunday as a good day.  Winds were forecast to be westerly, tending south-westerly and then southerly – perfect for us as we’d be heading north-west up the coast.  Even more exciting was the week of very settled weather ahead, light, light winds for the rest of the forecast. Of course, it was too soon for the predictions to be incredibly reliable but it was definitely a good sign. I was pumped. Everything seemed to be falling into place.

We had had five great days at Port Davey.  Even though the weather hadn’t been perfect, considering what it could have been, we were pretty grateful and had made the most of it.  Although you could obviously spend a lot longer exploring the area, time was ticking and there was the ever present fear of being stuck!  So we were thankful for the time we’d had, and what we’d been able to see and do and now it was time to move on.

It was ten past eight in the morning when we hauled our anchor, and set off, motoring past the Breaksea Islands and through the South Passage, out to the entrance of Port Davey.  It was cold, foggy and grey. I had my one-piece Fladen suit on, as well as thermals, gloves, beanie and ugg boots.  Hoisting the mainsail as we left Port Davey, we were dismayed to find the wind was smack bang in front of us, a north-westerly.  Oh well, we said, hopefully it will swing soon.  But it didn’t.  The wind remained stubbornly on our nose for the next 12 hours.  Yep, 12 hours.  There was nothing we could do but push into it.  Our boat speed dwindled to two to three knots. It seemed that not only were we punching into the wind, we were also pushing some current. Our long passage looked like taking even longer.

The swell was off the side, causing a fairly uncomfortable motion.  I managed eight hours sitting pretty much motionless at the helm, coping ok.  And then I was due another seasickness tablet, so I decided to lie down and see if I could nap for a bit. As it turned out, I barely moved for the next 10 hours.

Not long after dark, the winds did finally swing to the south-west and now we were actually sailing, the motor turned off. When Tas Maritime Radio broadcast the latest weather forecast, Matt listened intently. The weather situation was described as a cold front passing across the state with a high pressure system following. The winds were still forecast to tend south-westerly and then southerly. Out to sea, on the horizon, Matt observed a dark ominous looking cloud. He flicked the radar over to the weather function and saw a thick band of red stretching across the screen. Oh, Bummer! That meant strong weather activity, most likely entailing squalls and rain.

There was already one reef in the main, but assuming that the front would bring stronger winds, he decided to put a second reef in the main. He called me up and I struggled into warm clothes so that I could steer the boat into the wind, while he put in the second reef. Watching the cold front move closer on the radar, we started to feel the impact, with the winds increasing in strength.

As the cold front passed over and started heading towards land, the cloud had an eerie orange glow to it. The rain arrived, but only lasted for around half an hour. It was quite a narrow band. The strong winds associated with the front remained for about two hours. With the wind instruments constantly reading between 30 and 35 knots, the boat speed picked up to an average of seven to eight knots. With bursts of even faster speed, we were flying, making up for lost time during our extensive slow motor sailing from earlier.

Matt rode it out up top, letting the boom out so that we weren’t heeling over as much. Finally, around 10pm, the winds did drop a bit and swung further south. Still making good speed, Matt decided to drop the main and since the winds were now behind us, use the headsail only, as he could more easily adjust it to control our speed. The issue with going faster was that we didn’t want to arrive at Hells Gates in the dark. There was an anchorage outside where we could wait until daylight, but we were unsure what conditions might be like in there and so chose not to risk it. The wrong decision, as it turned out.

I pulled on my Fladen suit and a life jacket and went up top to help Matt drop the mainsail. We have an agreement that neither of us goes outside the cockpit at night, unless the other is up and watching. No matter what. That night I was called up three times. It was completely dark, a pitch black moonless night. The boat was lurching around, rocking and rolling in the large swell.

I steered the boat into the wind and Matt dropped the sail. Then he headed forward to secure the halyard and zip the sail into its bag. Stupidly, we hadn’t put out the jacklines earlier when we should have, and so now Matt did not have the long lengths of line to clip his tether onto. He made his way up to the mast carefully, clipping on where he could. The lurching movement of the boat was throwing him around, but he was managing to keep his balance as he reached up awkwardly to deal with the sail. I watched intently in the darkness, keeping my eyes fixed firmly onto him.

And then, seemingly in a second, he was gone, flying straight towards the edge of the boat. I screamed. Matt!!! Holy ####. A bolt of fear shot through me. I couldn’t see him. Just his tether stretching out from the mast. It was my absolute worst nightmare. Completely terrifying. It seemed an eternity, but within a second, he was scrambling up, calling out, ‘I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m ok.’

Heaving a sigh of relief, I thanked the gods. Matt finished up with the sail and made his way back to the cockpit. I was shaking, still shocked by what had happened. But Matt was exhilarated, adrenaline pumping through him.

After calming down, I went back to bed, although no sleep was had in the horrible rocking motion. At 2am I got up to give Matt a break. Sitting downstairs, watching the tablet that was synced to our chartplotter, and clutching a spew bag, I felt worse than I can ever remember. With just a tiny bit of headsail out, and in the four metre swells, the boat was bouncing and rolling, up and down, back and forth, side to side. The movement was never ending. I felt like I was in a washing machine or on the world’s worst roller coaster ride. In the cupboards, things were clattering around, a constant clink, clank, clink, clank being the soundtrack of my nightmare. The floor was strewn with things that had fallen from shelves.

At 3am, Matt popped his head out, ‘Are you ok to stay up a bit longer?’ he asked. Numbly, I nodded, but it was the last thing I felt like doing. Matt turned to go back to bed, but then he changed his mind. I must have looked as bad as I felt. ‘You go lie down,’ he said and I wasn’t about to argue, gratefully heading towards the bed. But as I got there and started removing layers of clothing, my body revolted and I started vomiting. Three spew bags later, I lay my head on a pillow, and willed this trip to be over.

Matt remained up and when he neared the entrance to Hells Gate around 4am he circled around a few times, waiting for daylight. Once the sun rose, I emerged up to the cockpit and we headed for Macquarie Harbour. The seas were still lumpy and a big swell was still rolling through. Approaching Hells Gates we concentrated intently, lining up the boat to go through the narrow channel while waves broke uncomfortably close by in the shallows just off to our side.

And then we were through. Into the calm, calm waters of Macquarie Harbour. I sent Matt to bed for a well deserved and much needed sleep, and guided the boat across the harbour to Strahan. We had made it. Once everything was tidied up, it turned out the only damage had been to a clip on the extra sunshade over the cockpit. It had snapped in the strong winds. Not too bad a result at all.

We were now halfway up the west coat, with just one more long passage to go to get us to the top of Tassie. But I didn’t have to think about that now. Because right now we were in wonderfully sheltered waters with a week of incredibly calm weather ahead of us. It was time to explore Macquarie Harbour and the Gordon River. I’d been looking forward to this for ages and couldn’t wait.

That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

Friedrich Nietzsche