Tangling with Reality in Australia’s Bass Strait

A squadron of pelicans skims the sun-sparkled water. A bevy of black swans waddles across the ­exposed mudflats just to windward of us—no sight nor sound of city life, no other boats, nothing but us and the birds.

We’d sailed from New Zealand to meet my cruising companion David Haigh’s first grandchild near Melbourne, Australia, and to partake in family holiday madness. Westernport Marina, just a dozen miles from his daughter’s home, proved the only useful option for our time here. Being ­secured in the marina let us head off to lunches and evening entertainments without hesitation. But after three weeks of being tied cheek by jowl with 200 ­other boats and partaking of an overflowing ­social life, we needed a break, and this felt like utter bliss.

It would have been difficult finding this isolated anchorage without the aid of a chart plotter. Called Chicory Cut, it is just that—an unmarked cut in a vast area of mudflats. The nearest visible land is almost a mile away. Earlier in the day, when David got on his paddleboard at high tide, he found solid ground unreachable unless he was willing to wade for half a mile through knee-deep gooey mud. 

We’d chosen Chicory Cut because it’s one of the few places in the huge expanse of Western Port Bay that offers protection from southwesterly winds. We knew we could stay only two days. After that, northerly gales would make this anchorage untenable.

“Sure looking forward to sailing north to Queensland and the Barrier Reef in a few months,” I commented when David set out snacks for sundowners. “Great cruising up there.” He nodded in agreement, and then added, “Can’t see much to recommend this area.” As we watched the sunset, memories of our favorite cruising destinations filled our conversation. David spoke of his time exploring southern Turkey. I started with my love of Baja California, then moved on to the fun of western Ireland. 

Two days later, just ahead of the forecast gales, we returned to the marina. That evening, we met up with the Metheralls, who had a home nearby. I had become friends with these fun Aussies when my husband, Larry, and I anchored near their Salar 40 in French Polynesia 28 years ago. Our friendship had grown as we meandered farther along the “South Pacific Milk Run.” Their children, ages 8, 9 and 12 at that time, now had teenagers of their own. “Glad you found Chicory Cut. It’s our favorite anchorage,” Jan Metherall said. “Our kids loved getting covered from head to toe in mud, fishing, swimming, exploring all the cuts.” 

She described family excursions, first on a trailer-sailor, then on the small keelboat they sailed from one end of the notoriously windy Bass Strait to the other. The fun that the whole family shared led them to fit out the offshore cruiser that eventually took them right around the world. “Never found a more perfect cruising ground than right here,” Jan said. 

The Metheralls’ enthusiasm made me take another look at the photos I’d snapped during the four weeks it took us to navigate from southern Tasmania through the islands of the Bass Strait to Melbourne. We’d been frustrated by the ever-changing weather and the strong tides and currents. Only when we were stymied by foul winds did we relax for a few days at a time.

First there was Flinders Island: windswept, vastly underpopulated, not terribly inviting at first glance. My photos show another view of this story. Trapped by westerly gales at Lady Barron Island, we spent the first evening at the local pub. Its hilltop position provided a fine view of the myriad islands and channels around us. We were provided with long, hot showers. One of the locals offered us a pint, plus an invitation to join in for quiz night—if we were brave enough. Hanging on the bulletin board were two hand-drawn maps showing potential walks to a dozen ­viewpoints around Lady Barron and other good anchorages throughout this small ­archipelago. We might have found a dozen places to explore had we not been so goal-oriented.

Then there was our weather-enforced stop on the River Derwent. We’d ­motored 20 miles up the river to Launceston and secured the boat in the center of this humming little city. High above us, the clouds scurried before storm-force ­westerlies. But the bluffs along the river sheltered us as we walked through the Gorge, a ­dramatic jumble of rocks and river, and found a Victorian garden wonderland. We ­rented a car and explored the mountains of ­northern Tasmania. There, we encountered a snowstorm in midsummer, warmhearted rural people and spectacular English-style gardens. 

When the gales subsided, we day-hopped along the top of Tasmania, timing our departure to coincide with the west-going tide, arriving at a new anchorage each night, and never launching the dinghy—just eating, climbing into the bunk, and then getting underway each morning. Fortunately, when the next major blow was forecast, we were within easy reach of Port Stanley.

We motored slowly through the 50-foot-wide entrance to the tiny, stone-rimmed basin, then along the 600-foot length of the harbor toward the quiet fish factory at its head. There wasn’t a yacht in sight, only rugged fishing boats. Just when we began preparing mooring lines to go into one of the empty wood-lined pens, a call rang out from a bright-red trawler: “Go alongside that white workboat on the wharf. It’s not moving for the next week. You won’t have to put out fender boards that way. Harbor master? Gone fishing. No charges here. This is our harbor.”

A five-minute walk brought us to a ­tiny, picturesque downtown, where we were welcomed by friendly people who truly did want to know where we came from. Just feet from the boat, there was a track leading up a steep bluff and into the native forest restored by the local community. Wallabies hopped and birdsong filled the air. 

We sailed into Grassy Bay on King Island just an hour ahead of another westerly blow. Minutes later, a fisherman offered us the use of a car to get to a launderette. “And while you are at it, better take in a few of the sights,” we were told as he handed us the keys. 

Only about 1,400 people live here, ­farming and fishing. Tourism is almost nonexistent because transport from the mainland is limited. Yet there is an art gallery set on the rocky shore of Currie Harbour, a crayfish center. Colorful paintings adorned the outside of the old house. Windows revealed a cornucopia of colors inside. The door, closed but not locked, had a sign: Bring Your Own Lunch Cafe. There was no proprietor, just a handsome dining table set amid art and handcraft work from around the island. Another sign asked that washing up be done at the outside sink and the table reset as found. “Please put money for purchases in the box and write down what you took in the guest book.”

In hindsight, I can see why Jan and her family call this area a perfect cruising ground. How different our memories might have been had we approached this area like they did—not as an obstacle in our rush to get somewhere else, but as our destination. 

Reviewing my photos from the Bass Strait has reminded me once again that perfect cruising grounds are a state of mind, one that can be achieved only when you set aside the desire to keep moving on and learn to enjoy just being. 

After cruising more than 240,000 miles, US Sailing Hall of Fame inductee Lin Pardey is headed to sea again. Her latest book, Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond, ­encourages folks to go simple, go small, and go now.

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