AUGUST 10-12 PREVIOUS | NEXT | HOME | CONTENTS | ABOUT | SEND EMAIL Stately Sailboat, Pesky Prawns, Splendid Snorkelling Monday, August 10; Whitsunday Islands Ninety-seven percent. According to Prosail customer surveys of their charters, that is the proportion of passengers who said that their sailing trip in the Whitsundays was the highlight of their travels in Australia. The absolute highlight. Better than Uluru. Better than New Year's fireworks over Sydney Harbour. Better than kayaking in Katherine Gorge, better than exploring the tropical rainforests, and better than diving on the Great Barrier Reef. There was a lot to compete with. I was rather skeptical about the accuracy of the statistic; nevertheless, my expectations were high and I didn't doubt that the charter would be a highlight of our holiday. My top spot award was being fought over by Uluru and Katherine Gorge, but the jury was still out. Perhaps if the crew got me to fill in the survey after I had been drinking heavily (at their expense, of course) when we returned to port after a wonderful cruise I would wallow into sentimentality and insist on telling everybody repeatedly that the trip was the best experience of my trip, and perhaps even my life. After such a wholehearted admission, I would probably tell the crew and all of my fellow passengers that I loved them, attempt some poorly coordinated hugs, and fall on my drunken face. We were picked up from our hostel and bused to Abel Point Marina on the outskirts of town. The dock was chock-a-block with racing and cruising yachts, diving boats, luxury cruisers and vintage craft. Tens of daytripping and overnight backpackers embarking on other charters descended onto the marina bottle shop despite the fact that it was only 9am, and emerged with armfuls of beer and boxes of wine. Denise and I rallied around a blonde Prosail deck jewel with the rest of the group intended for Iluka, and she led us across the floating docks towards the yacht. It was a magnificent craft, 20 metres in length, and its two masts and two forestays classified it as a ketch. The yacht's shining white sides gleamed at us from the stern up to the bow, where "Iluka" was spelled out in regal letters. The decks were made of smooth teak and provided plenty of room for 16 passengers and three crew to spread out on. A long low bank of cushioned lockers spread around the stern end of the deck could seat most of us, and it was here that we congregated once we had all gotten on board and filled the fridge with beer (you have to get your priorities right). Iluka at anchor. We took off our shoes and stored them away - we wouldn't be needing shoes on the boat for the next couple of days. That small physical transition to going barefoot signalled a larger mental swing towards relaxation and comfort. Our crew introduced themselves. Mick was the skipper, a short bronzed man of few words and an unreadable face. His tanned and hardened feet looked like they hadn't seen shoes of any kind in years, and the sun had bleached his hair almost white. I guessed him to be around 40, and his demeanour certainly was that of the responsible grown-up in summer camp. He gave me the impression of a world-weary man that had seen it all, and that to him we were just another bunch of vivacious kids against whom he had to protect his boat. At times during the trip, I thought he looked bored, but perhaps he was just relaxed. I imagined that he worked for all of his maritime qualifications with the dream of cruising around the Whitsundays on a yacht just like Iluka, but the dream never included having to share it with a gaggle of backpackers. Nevertheless, he was a knowledgeable and agreeable skipper, and I had no fear of placing my trust in his seamanship. Andrea and Kim comprised his crew, two nymphette deck jewels in their late twenties, with equally tanned skin and bleached hair. Between them, they filled the roles of cook, hostess and deckhand. They were pleasant and friendly too, but the turnover of 16 passengers every three days for weeks or months had affected them just like it had affected Mick - there was little genuine interest in getting to know us, for no sooner than they had learned our names than our berths would soon be filled by another bunch of backpackers. It was an unfortunate but understandable attitude. Mick gave us a safety briefing and orientation, and we introduced ourselves. Our nautical gang consisted of 5 English, 4 Scots, 4 Swiss, 2 Irish, and 1 Canadian, equally split between guys and girls. As we motored out of the marina, the nymphettes took us down below and showed us to our cabins. The interior of Iluka was stunning. Iluka's saloon. Delicately carved and varnished woodwork beamed at us from the floor to the ceiling. Entering from the deck, a well-equipped wheelhouse led down on one side to the rear cabins, and on the other to the yacht's broad saloon, where cushioned booths and polished brass conjured up an classic atmosphere of wealth and luxury. Six ensuite cabins provided accommodation for passengers, while the crew would sleep on the wheelhouse and saloon couches. Six separate marine toilets needed demonstration (a McCafferty's driver's dream); Mick entreated us to use them delicately, for he would have to put his plumbing hat on if any of them became blocked, an occurrence which he assured us was quite nasty for all on board. Once clear of Abel Point, Mick set the sails by flicking a few switches next to the helm. Hydraulic gears and automatic furlers whirred to life, and within a couple of minutes, we were cruising under wind power alone. Since we were supposed to be relaxing, not racing, there was no need to constantly trim the sails to attain maximum speed and optimum efficiency, and no need to watch for wind shifts or patches of light air. I was a little disappointed at the ease with which the boat could be handled, and at our classification as passengers rather than crew. Back in Sydney while planning our trip, Denise and I had chosen to cruise on Iluka rather than on Prosail's alternate offering - Matador, a maxi racing yacht whose passengers were expected to help out with the significant work needed to sail the faster craft. The decision wasn't made without some wistful regret on my part and some lively discussion between us, but I knew that Denise had little interest in the mechanics of sailing and wouldn't enjoy Matador so didn't force the issue. Now I was faced with the consequences. Sitting idly on deck under a cloudless blue sky, caressed by a fresh breeze, and cruising through a calm sea without a shred of responsibility, I reflected on my position. All things considered, the situation didn't look too bad at all. We headed northeast. Conversations started up between the pockets of backpackers spread across the sunwashed deck and the first beers were opened. We cruised as far as Maureen's Cove on Hook Island, where we moored and went swimming in the warm blue-green water. A high diving platform extended from the stern of Iluka, competing with the bow for the most popular place from which to plunge. A narrow railed platform reached out several feet over the water from the bow of Iluka, and this bowsprit provided a flashy, if somewhat precarious place from which to dive. En route to the cove, our companions had humorously attempted more than one Leonardo deCaprio/Kate Winslet Titanic-style impression on the bow, but Mick had seen the act a hundred times before. He barely cracked a smile. Lunch consisted of a huge and beautifully presented prawn salad buffet. None of your supermarket processed prawns either - these ones still had their heads and legs attached. Initially impressed by the gourmet presentation, my enthusiasm faded after I spent half my lunchtime tearing off heads and limbs and throwing them overboard in order to get to the tasty torsos. Very nice to eat, and very stylish to be seen eating, but I concluded that dining on processed prawns was a lot less effort. I am shamefully lazy when it comes to food preparation. I don't eat oranges because I am too lazy to peel the skin, tear the segments, extract the pips and wash my sticky hands afterwards. I avoid roast chicken because its too much trouble to get the meat off the bones. I buy processed cheese so I don't have to cut slices from a block. Peel potatoes? Forget it. I can just about put up with peeling a banana. Don't ever come to dinner at my place. After we had passed our empty plates to the nymphettes below to clear up, we lazed around in the sun some more, while Mick coaxed Iluka further up the coast of Hook Island to Butterfly Bay and anchored. Roughing It. There was an extensive coral reef located near the shore of the island, so several of us grabbed a mask, snorkel and fins and took to the water. Growing just a few feet below the calm surface, the undulating reef and innumerable fish who lived around it were breathtaking. I reveled in the exploration of the underwater landscape and its inhabitants - the colours were equally, if not more, vivid and diverse than those I had seen when diving off Cape Tribulation. Snorkelling was easily a match for diving in the bay, there being as much to see just below the surface as there was deeper down. The reef was teeming with fish, and I meandered happily about, pretending to be Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians. Even when all of the others had returned to the boat, the Canadian guy and I continued to explore - there was just too much to see to stop swimming. I stalked a fish from one end of the reef to the other. I chased others behind outcrops and into crevices. I held deep diving competitions with myself. I attempted to outstare one particularly bored looking fish (I failed miserably). I invited several of the chubbier fish back to the boat for supper, but each one politely declined my offer. After almost an hour in the warm water, Mick picked us up in the dinghy and ferried us back to Iluka. After I had dried off, Mick took Denise and I ashore to follow some of the others who had gone in search of a reputed butterfly city. We crunched our way across the sharp coral beach and headed towards the forested interior. Walking inland along a dried-up creek bed, we came across hordes of butterflies within minutes. They were all dark-winged, but what they lacked in colour they made up for in numbers. As we rounded a bend or topped a rise, hundreds of butterflies nearby would spring from their perches into the air simultaneously and flutter about randomly, like burned newspaper ashes wafting above a bonfire. I had never seen so many butterflies in one place - it was fascinating - their ubiquitous presence was almost threatening, reminding me of Alfred Hitchcock's creepy thriller "The Birds", and a couple of killer bee movies I had seen as a child. The only thing attacking us, however, were the mosquitoes, so we hastened back to the beach. The sky was turning pink and the shadows lengthening by the time Mick had ferried us back to Iluka. All 16 of us got down to the serious business of the evening - drinking. To encourage the onset of inebriation, we gathered around the stern and played drinking games until dinner was ready. Whatever ice remained to be broken between us was smashed to tiny pieces thanks to a hilariously complicated game with punishments including whinnying, redneck impersonations, extreme snorting, and mandatory alcohol consumption. After we had eaten, we gathered in the saloon and continued laughing, joking, drinking and storytelling. The cabin Denise and I shared adjoined the saloon and at one point I slipped inside to use our ensuite facility. No thanks to the prawns, I had a rather lengthy and aqueous encounter with the marine toilet. I was grateful when it pumped clear without blocking, but my relief was premature. To my embarrassment, I discovered that Iluka was more confined than I had thought. Through the toilet door and our cabin door, I could hear a couple of the English guys commenting to the others on the nasty whiff diffusing into the room from somewhere on the boat. My name wasn't mentioned, and I wasn't sure if I had been missed by everyone, but I knew that if I emerged from our cabin, the game would be up and my performance would be the running joke for the rest of the cruise. I was less than pleased with such thoughts. Cursing seafood of all kinds, I opened the cabin skylight completely and silently but frantically tried to wave the poisoned air out into the night sky. I listened through the cabin door to the voices in the saloon and waited while the thread of conversation drifted onto some engaging topic. When I figured that the cabin's atmosphere had been sufficiently purified, I climbed onto the berth and pulled myself up through the skylight onto the cool deck. There was nobody else up there. Only the lapping of water against the hull and the slow creaking of the boat's timbers broke the silence. A full moon emerged from behind a hurried cloud and bathed the deck in silvery light. After delaying for a few minutes, I crossed my fingers and went back down to the saloon via the wheelhouse. Luckily Ian, one of the English guys, was in the middle of telling a joke to an attentive crowd, so my entrance drew no more than a conspiratorial wink from Denise, who always seems to know everything. Phew. Got away with it. Mental relief compounded physical relief - the gods were smiling on me. Bouncing Bowsprit, Beach Breasts, Treacherous Trail Tuesday, August 11; Whitsunday Islands Snorkeling in Manta Ray Bay. As we munched on breakfast, Mick piloted us farther north along the Hook Island coast to Manta Ray Bay. We tied up to a mooring and did some more snorkelling in the morning sunshine. Several dark flat fish about three feet in length hovered around the stern of Iluka, competing for leftover muesli and unnerving a couple of the girls (including Denise) who were planning to jump in. After a few minutes of hesitation, Denise strapped on her fins and plunged in. She surfaced beside me with a grin, happy to have avoided landing on a big fish. We swam over to the reef and explored, both of us excitedly pointing out the colourful plants and fish to each other. What a fine way to start the day. Once back on the boat with a cup of coffee to heat up, we shut the skylights and portholes and headed out of the sheltered bay into a heady swell. The wind had picked up and the sky had clouded over. Iluka pitched to and fro, and seaspray sheeted across the foredeck. I clambered forward to where Joey and Gordon clung to the bowsprit, and secured myself for a roller-coaster ride. The bow pitched and tossed wildly, and we yelled in delight. One moment we would be several metres above the crest of a wave, and the next we would be dunked in the sea up to our knees as the yacht crashed Iluka's bowsprit. down into a trough. After being soaked, the bow would carry us high above the water again, where the whipping wind would tear across our shivering skin. Excellent! To be dunked while we were still wet was heaven for the instant we lingered in the warm water, but when we were lifted above the waves again, the wind felt even colder. The rinsing cycle of this sequence gradually became less frequent as the swell dropped, although the tossing bow continued to tease us by swinging down and retreating just short of the waves' crests. It took us a few hours to get to the isolated and undeveloped Whitehaven Beach on the east side of Whitsunday Island. Several of our group were looking a bit seasick from the rough trip, but once we had stopped and anchored they quickly recovered, and had no trouble eating lunch. Whitehaven is reputedly the finest beach in the island chain, but unfortunately the overcast afternoon prevented us from seeing it at its best. The sand is exceptionally fine and white, and the long beach remains pristine despite the constant stream of tourists who visit every day. Several other yachts were anchored offshore when we arrived, and a day-tripper ferryboat belched its passengers onto the sands north of us while we were eating. After lunch, Mick made a couple of shuttle runs into the beach with the others and before long I was alone on board with the nymphettes. I had chosen to remain on the boat and laze about, but quickly became bored and regretted my decision, so I donned my snorkelling gear, leapt overboard and swam ashore. It was, of course, farther than it looked, and the current pushed me up the beach, but I landed without incident. Iluka passengers on solid ground. Denise celebrated my arrival by burying me in the sand. Her confidence in sand sculpting had just been boosted by the successful construction of a sandcastle fortress with three of the other girls. She even gave me sand breasts (all natural, no implants!). I kept wiggling my toes and cracking the packed sand of my tomb, keeping Denise busy with repairs. The British guys played cricket and the others cheered them on or watched. Sunbathing was not an option as long as the grey clouds lingered. I swam back to Iluka, more to rinse the packed sand off than for fun, and once everybody was back aboard we raised anchor and headed north. We motored along in the lee of the Whitsunday Island coast, reaching a resort on the southeast end of Hook Island just before sunset. We moored and transferred ashore. The resort was reached via a winding and uneven forest track leading from the dock. Clusters of bats swooped and screeched overhead as we walked single-file through the forest. The resort turned out to be a few tents clustered alongside a bathroom block and a small bar/restaurant. It was refreshingly different to be able to walk on something that wasn't moving, and to be able to stretch out indoors without touching the walls and ceiling. The beer seemed to taste better on land too. We were seeking more of a cocktails-before-dinner experience than a night in the pub though - the nymphettes had stayed on the boat to prepare our evening meal, and we had a strict deadline by which we had to be back on board. Denise was relieved when we were called to go - she was on a losing streak on the pool table, and was looking for any excuse to retire without admitting defeat. Walking back down the forest trail to the dock was memorable - Denise had me wait for her while she used the bathrooms, with the result that we were left behind by the others. Night had fallen, and the moon was hidden behind thick cloud and a dense canopy of treetops. Once we had left the resort, there was no light of any kind to see by. The group ahead had only one or two torches between fifteen people - we could hear them cursing as they made their way uncertainly through the dark forest in single file. Denise and I were in even poorer circumstances, having only the sound of their receding voices to follow. We had trouble even finding the trail, and when we did, we had just as much difficulty staying on it. The inky blackness left us with no idea as to where the horizon was, and the contours of the trail could only be discovered by gambling on each footstep. Roots, rocks and ridges slowed our progress, and our companion's voices gave only rough clues as to where the twisting trail was leading. I was trying to catch up to the others to avail of their torch, but hurrying was not easy. Denise didn't want to hurry, but didn't want to be left behind either - confronted with such a dilemma, she just got angry instead, and began cursing me, our companions, our lack of torches, the stupid trail, and the unprepared skipper. I refrained from pointing out that it was her unhurried toilet trip that had delayed us. Instead I just made a face in what I thought was her general direction. We made it back to the dock without physical injury, and re-boarded Iluka. The night cooled down quickly, as did Denise. We ate and drank in the saloon, and when Ian had told us every last camel joke that he knew (and some that he didn't), we attempted a singsong. Our singing was pretty muffled since most of us were too shy to lead a tune, and because a few people, including Mick and his nymphettes, had already retired to their bunks. We still managed to recite several classic tunes though, including "The Wombles," "The Muppet Show," the old reliable "American Pie," the Swiss national anthem (courtesy of Swiss girls Petra and Petra). Stuart the rugby player, whose shoulders were broader than an elephant's arse, showed his sensitive side by going solo on Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight" and Jon Bon Jovi's "Blaze of Glory." It was embarrassing to watch and painful to listen to. Only the humour value of his agonised expressions kept me from jumping overboard. After he had finished, there were no requests for an encore. Back to the camel jokes. Thank God. Pondering Paintings, Concluding Cruise Wednesday, August 12; Whitsunday Islands - Airlie Beach Nara Inlet. I woke to the sound of a running motor, the whine of pumps and winches, and the clanking of pots and plates in the galley next door. Mick and the nymphettes were up and busy, and we were heading up into Nara Inlet, a long, narrow and steep-sided bay near the south end of Hook Island. Located on the eastern slopes of the inlet is the Whitsunday Islands' single Aboriginal cave painting site. Such a cultural attraction was not to be missed, so after breakfast we transferred ashore and followed Andrea up a steep path to a cave shaped by some overhanging rock. Sure enough, a number of faded white circular paintings adorned the sheltered cave wall. They looked only slightly more interesting than the graffiti some vandals had sprayed on the rocks next to the beach below. The faded shapes appeared to be early attempts at the design of a soccer ball. Perhaps one of the Aboriginals had been trying to illustrate to his mates how he had scored the winning goal in the 3568BC annual inter-island cup final. I found it difficult to get excited over the paintings, and cave art in general, especially since we had been spoiled by the examples in Kakadu. I totally respected the historical and cultural significance of the work, but it looked like something a four year old would insist on having displayed on the refrigerator door. Andrea tried to think of something culturally inspiring to say to spark our interest in the paintings, but she came up with nothing. Cave paintings were way out of her league. She was about as historically aware as an amnesic goldfish. I bet she thought that they looked like drunken soccer ball designs too, but she wasn't allowed to say anything without insulting her Aboriginal countrymen and shattering the illusion of a unified national spirit that she and parts of the shallow travel industry presented to equally shallow tourists. Approaching Airlie Beach. We hiked around for a while before returning to the boat for a refreshing swim and some morning tea. We set sail for Airlie Beach at about midday, and enjoyed a pleasant sail in cloudless sunshine through the afternoon. En route, the Prosail office radioed to the boat that space had opened up aboard the On The Edge catamaran for the following day's excursion. Things couldn't get much better. We docked back in Abel Point Marina just before sunset. I bid farewell to Iluka and said hello to a lengthy shower at our hostel. Most of our sailing party regrouped later on for more food and beer at one of the backpacker bars. We may even have had a bit of a boogie. 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