Ocean Watch

For months, I've been imagining my landfall in Australia, the final destination of my cross-Pacific voyage. I pictured sailing between atolls in sparkling waters and then being warmly welcomed by the manager of the marina that held my reservation. I might even, I hoped, see humpback whales, since the Antarctic pod is now wintering here.

Instead, my arrival at the south end of Australia's Great Barrier Reef was the toughest landfall of my entire trip.

It came out of the blue. Or black, I should say.

"What are you looking at?" crew member Gerard asked me the evening before our arrival.

I'd slowed the boat to make my grand entrance at dawn, and now, in the twilight of my last night at sea, I sat on the edge of the cockpit, brooding. I pointed ahead.

"That's one of the biggest, blackest clouds I've ever seen," I said, "and it seems to be parked exactly where we're going."

We stared at the mass that darkened the horizon. "You can't worry about it tonight," he said. "Who knows where that storm will be by morning?"

We found out. The day dawned gray and gloomy with a light rain falling. Still, the first of seven pairs of buoys marking the narrow channel of Bundaberg's river entrance was clear. We started in.

Then that storm dropped on us like a wild animal.

At first the side-on wind was my biggest problem, and I had to wrestle with the wheel to keep the boat from being pushed out of the dredged channel.

The wind strength increased and so did the wave height. In a shockingly short time, the waves grew to steep walls that raced across the shallows to slam into our side. I only thought the steering was hard before. Now it took all my strength.

When the waves hit the broad side of my heeling boat, they exploded, dousing us with sea water. We didn't care. By then it was raining so hard the salt washed back to the sea as quickly as it arrived.

It could be worse, I thought. At least we can still see the buoys.

The buoys disappeared. A wind shift now blew the driving rain straight into our faces, stinging our eyes and engulfing the navigational aides.

"I can't see the channel markers," I shouted to Scott and Gerard as we squinted into the storm. "Am I still in the channel?"

Just barely, we determined. Soon, Scott stood at my shoulder, directing me left or right by reading the GPS map while Gerard squinted both ahead and behind, calling out markers when he saw them.

As we entered the river, the storm eased, and soon we were moored at the quarantine dock, tired and sodden but safe and happy. And there I was indeed warmly welcomed.

That kind of storm is rare here, I learned, and every day since, the skies have been blue and the seas calm. On boats, timing is everything.

Days later, I'm still being welcomed by some of the most friendly and cheerful people on the planet. And unlike folks in New Caledonia, Australians know where Hawaii is and love it besides.

I've got a lot to look forward to.