DISASTER WHILE SAILING THE CORAL SEA

Carlo was about ten years old, that first (and last) time the Tychsen family came to the Royal Papua Yacht Club to sail on my boat. He was a rotund, greasy haired, well-upholstered young man whose mother had spoiled him to Hell and back. I hear that is the way with some Italian mothers – very loving, perhaps too loving. Carlo and I eyed each other off from the moment he waddled behind his mum and dad along the Yacht Club jetty. It was instant enmity. I am prepared to accept that first impressions can sometimes be deceptive but not on this occasion. It was a sort of … loath at first sight.

He looked at me, his dark brown eyes glaring through the black curly tousle of his hair. He was like an alley cat warning me that he would scratch and bite if I didn’t keep my distance. Now I have to say that I am never one to judge people without getting to know them first but in Carlo’s case I made an exception. No doubt his mum and dad loved him but he was from the Dark Side! I disliked him instantly and the feeling was mutual.

He wore a pair of beige shorts that were so tight on his plump buttocks that they cut deeply into his thighs giving him more than a passing resemblance to the Michelin Man. His canvass deck shoes were brand new, bought especially by mum for this, his first voyage out onto the open sea. His outfit was topped off with a pastel blue t-shirt that sported a little red-sailed yacht on the left breast pocket. Very appropriate, for a day on the ocean, I thought.

None of them had ever sailed before, so I thought it wise to give a short safety talk before we cast off on our pleasure trip to Fisherman’s Island (also known as Daugo Island named for the two villages on the island – Dag and Ugo). I stepped off the prow of the 21 foot Scimitar and greeted Graeme and Angela warmly, smiling weakly at Carlo with a mutual disdain. “Welcome to my little craft,” I said, “I hope you will enjoy a few hours away from the city in the beautiful Coral Sea.”

“It’s very kind of you to ask us,” replied Graeme graciously, “we are looking forward to a day on the briny.”

“I hope you don’t mind, Chris, but I brought a little picnic for us, in case we get hungry,” said Angela, “you never know.” I could see that Carlo was already salivating at the thought of an early repast.

Now I am not kidding when I say that Angela is an archetypical Italian woman. Stout would describe her build very adequately and jolly her demeanour. Her breasts and buttocks were generous, her eyes gay and sparkling and her whole appearance very Mediterranean being paradoxically dressed in a voluminous flowing bombazine dress that at once modestly concealed her legs yet proudly displayed her magnificent breasts.

The “little picnic” consisted of two large wicker hampers that Angela carried stacked in her arms, two family size eskies that Graeme carried and a medium portmanteau that Carlo dragged slothfully along the deck boards of the jetty. The mysterious contents of the “little” picnic would be revealed as the day unfolded.

During the safety briefing, I told them what we could expect by way of weather, there having been no adverse warnings on the morning’s forecast. I told them that we would be doing a few laps up and down Fairfax harbour to give us all a chance to get comfortable with the motion and the stability of the boat. I explained where everyone should sit and that we would have to concentrate very carefully on the tasks of raising and setting sails until we were clear of the harbour and out on the open sea.

Throughout this address Graeme and Angela listened carefully with serious expressions while Carlo picked his nose and generally looked uninterested. So I went into overdrive. “And remember, there is only one Captain on a ship,” I boomed, finally getting the brat’s attention. “And he is the one wearing the gold braid on his hat!” I exclaimed, setting squarely on my head the ship’s captain’s hat that Julia had once bought me.” Angela and Graeme laughed. Carlo glowered.

So with that, we boarded Scimitar, stowed the little picnic in the cabin and I fired up the 15 hp Mariner. My guests began to get excited as we reversed out of the mooring and wove our way around the other berthed vessels in the old marina. It was a slow and careful exercise as the corners were tight and most of the other vessels were larger and much more expensive than Scimitar. After a few minutes, though, we left the marina and I increased the speed to head out to the middle of the spacious harbour that lies majestically on the western boundary of Port Moresby.

I cut the engine and advised Angela as diplomatically as I could that she would be better staying put while the guys did all the work. She was happy with that suggestion so I told Graeme and Carlo what they had to do to raise the mainsail and jib sail. Carlo was not happy with my telling him what to do but Graeme nudged him along and he heeded me for the moment.

It was a gentle wind that caught the sails and I turned the prow towards the wreck of the World War II supply ship MV MacDhui. This vessel has lain in the middle of the harbour with her hull projecting up to 10 metres above the surface since 18 June 1942. She was first attacked by 18 Betty Bomber and 9 Zeroes from the Japanese air force while unloading aviation spirit. The vessel sustained a direct hit but limped to the wharf to offload the dead and injured. The following day, the same attacking squadron hit the MacDhui again finally sinking her with further loss of life. As a memento the Royal Papua Yacht Club had long since removed a mast from the Macdhui and erected it outside the club veranda.

As we sailed around the MacDhui the strange creatures that were hopping and skipping on the upturned hull of the ship engaged us. There were dozens of these lizards and they played gaily on the rusting steel as we watched. We were confident now of our ability to leave the safety of the harbour and make for the open sea, so I called for a change in heading and we headed for the shallow passage between Twin Island and the Western Heads. The wind was still fairly gentle and we sailed with building assurance that we were able to handle anything that the lovely Coral Sea could present us with.

The wind was blowing from the south-east which gave us a perfect run to our destination, Fisherman’s Island 5 kilometres to the west.

It was perfect; we just drifted along and soaked up the beauty of the reef and the crystal gentle, waters. Graeme had taken up a position astride the bow dangling his bare feet in the passing foam. Angela was watching wistfully at Fisherman’s Island in the distance and Carlo was splashing his hands in Scimitar’s wake. We were all silent, just enjoying the pleasure of the moment when two dorsal fins simultaneously broke surface at the bow. “Shark!” screamed Angela as Carlo dived for the safety of the cabin, “Help!”

Graeme recognised them for what they were and shouted, “No, darling, they are dolphins, aren’t they lovely?” The friendly fellows came so close to the boat we could touch them. Even Carlo recovered and came to the bow to marvel at the creatures. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they dived and were gone which was just as well because we were almost in the lee of Fisherman’s Island and had to prepare to drop anchor at our destination.

The water in the Coral Sea is especially clear and as we slowed it sparkled and shimmered. Carlo swiftly stripped to his swimming trunks and was first over the side with a splash that sent a geyser of foam high into the air. Graham and I followed down the short ladder at the stern so that we could help Angela into the water.

We frolicked and played for 20 minutes when Angela decided we should begin the picnic. Carlo and I climbed aboard and pulled Angela up as Graeme pushed her behind from below. It was tough going but we finally landed her. When she had recovered she opened the hampers and produced chicken, hams, salads, salami and a few bottles of icy cold, crisp, white pinot grigio. We dined in spectacular fashion and then lay back to rest, full and sated.

It was then that Carlo said, “Hey Chris, look at the clouds behind you.” I turned to look back across the reef to the south east to see a huge black storm cloud some 10 kilometres away.

That’s when I made a big mistake.

“Let’s get going,” I said, “pack the lunch away and raise the sails.” It might have been smarter if I had told everyone to sit tight and carry on eating and drinking.

But I didn’t.

We stowed the hampers and empty bottles and set off from the safety of Fisherman’s Island with both mainsail and foresail fully up. We made good speed over the first kilometre as the wind picked up in front of the storm. Then the wind strengthened and we were struggling to hold her upright.

Graeme and I reefed in both sails and the wind kept strengthening. Then it rained, big heavy spots lashed across the deck. As the wind became even stronger it was clear that we couldn’t hold her on the sails.

I started the outboard and asked Graeme to lower the sails completely. I was scared but I don’t think I showed it. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. I turned to tell Angela and Carlo to go below deck but they had already done so.

We were now perhaps half way back to Moresby Harbour and I decided to keep going, there really wasn’t much other choice. The wind was now deafening, the rain blinding and the boat pitched and tossed frightfully. Angela and Carlo were crying and Graeme and I hung onto the rails for grim death. I didn’t know one could be so scared.

Each time the prow dived into the waves, the motor would lift out of the water and we would lose forward way. There was nothing to do but try and steer easterly and hope that we would make it through the passage off the Western Heads.

As well as being soaked, deaf and blind we were so cold in our shorts and tee-shirts that it was like rounding the Horn in winter. On we went with only a slight hope that we were on the right course. We had been battling our way back to the mainland for over an hour now and the storm still raged. I had a feeling – no more than a feeling, that we were close to the final passage into the harbour.

The rain seemed to be easing and I heard a scraping noise as the keel struck bottom. It must have been a shallow reef, I thought, but then as the wind dropped and visibility returned I realised that the keel had scraped the rocks at the bottom of the shallow passage between the Western Heads and Twin Island.

Oh Joy! We were back in the harbour and safe.

Angela and Carlo emerged from the sanctuary of the galley as Graeme and I hugged each other in sheer relief. We didn’t bother doing a victory lap of the harbour but went straight to the mooring, tied up and climbed the stairs to the veranda of the Royal Papua Yacht Club and ordered a white wine for Angela, a coke for Carlo and two large whiskies for Graeme and me.

We sat on the veranda stools in silence. Not a word was spoken for some time. I don’t know what the others were thinking but my mind was focussed on the lucky escape we had all just had. How foolish to sail straight into a tropical storm and risk four lives.

I stared at the MacDhui’s white mast with its spreader which looked exactly like one of the three crosses on that Green Hill Far Away. I thanked God for deliverance and promised Him I would never take a boat to sea again.

And I have kept that promise.
Chris Skelding 1993