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| Day 110 |
26 July 2000 |
| Gove |
| "A Wing and A Grateful Prayer" |
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The four-to-eight watch this morning is delightful. The wind is
light from the south-east, gently pressing Duyfken over onto a
slight heel and pushing her along the track at three knots. The
stars glare out of the clear sky with an intensity we have not
seen for weeks and, with the moon, they light the sea around us
in a luminescent metallic sheen. It is the sort of morning that
makes any previous discomforts fade from mind, the sort of
morning we come to sea for. As the sky lightens in the east
before dawn I get a rare notion that it will almost be a shame
for the sun to rise over this scene and break the spell.
Almost a shame. The dawn is superb and daylight detracts nothing
from our surroundings. The pale sea sparkles in the sunlight,
gannets and terns wing out across the clear blue sky to start
their day's hunting and if the number of fish jumping is
anything to go by they will have a good day. But the best thing
is the quiet. No engine noise. Not only is the peace blissful
after so many days with the engines running, but it also means
that, for the first time since leaving Tual, we are sure of
making our destination without running out of fuel. For the
first time since I can remember, too, we are steering our
compass course with the yards trimmed to the wind, rather than
braced up sharp (angled acutely across the ship) for steering as
close to the wind as the ship will sail. We have become so used
to being unable to make our course that this feels too easy,
almost like cheating.
The landmarks rise over the horizon gratifyingly when they are
supposed to according to my hand-drawn chart of the approaches
to Gove. We start to hear the crackle of the radio as we get
closer to the port. We spy the fairway buoy through the
binoculars, and Gary puts the crew to work preparing for
arrival. Fenders are brought on deck and inflated, mooring lines
are broken out of their stow and flaked out along the deck and
the yellow quarantine flag is hoisted at the foremast head
indicating that we are healthy and request the health
authorities to allow us to enter Australia. I rummage around in
my battered briefcase for the customs and immigration paperwork
given to me by the Broome customs man. We huddle around in the
cabin filling in our entry cards, making the usual jokes about
criminal records and infectious diseases, laughing at each
others' passport photographs. 'In which country did you board
this flight?' It was a slow flight, even for a Little Dove.
Duyfken sails right up to the harbour entrance and then gets
becalmed. We come alongside the wharf in Gove with an amount of
fuel left in our tanks equivalent to the amount we saved by
sailing the last twelve hours. So we just squeaked in without
running out of fuel because the weather was kind to us right at
the end.
Customs, immigration and quarantine formalities complete, we
arrange to refuel tomorrow and adjourn to the Gove Yacht Club
for a cold beer.
And doesn't it taste good.
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Peter Manthorpe
Master
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