# The Land of Oz.



## Cpt Dick Brooks (May 13, 2013)

Debut lay anchored under the lee of Howick Island, without hardly a drop of fuel left, after sailing under jury-rig 4,600 miles across the South Seas to Australia. There wasn't even enough fuel left in her tanks to even run the generator to lift up the anchor again. Now we had to wait... like it or lump it... until someone came over to see us. I flew the Q flag at the truck of the main-mast, and we waved at the many ships that daily passed up and down the main shipping channel only a few feet from our stern. But without an operational radio, that was all we could do for the time being.
After another week of solitude, HMAS Townsville moored alongside us on the port side. Her captain was astounded that a thousand ton ship had been anchored in Australian territorial waters for almost three weeks without them even knowing about it... especially as we were in their area of patrol. They were even more astounded, finding only the two of us on board such a large ship, especially as we'd just spent four months at sea, sailing her with a few pieces of rag more than 2,600 miles from the Tuvalu Islands.
They invited us on board their ship for a meal, and gave us boxes of food-stuffs from their storeroom. The fresh fruit and steak were received with relish. On finding out that our bunkers were dry, they gave us three tons of diesel-oil to make it as far as Cairns. Putting up several cases of rice wine with their cases of XXXX beer, a fine party was had by all.
At dawn the next day, we started the main engine and got underway towards the south. Just after lunch, Cape Flattery was on the starboard beam, and we set our course for Cape Bedford. During the evening we watched the lights of Cooktown go by, passing Archer Point lighthouse at 2025 hours.
We passed on the outside of Low Islets at four in the morning, threading our way through hundreds of prawn trawlers, with their bright dazzling display of deck-lights. Although we were both feeling quite tired from running the ship with only the two of us, there was no way we wanted to anchor to get some rest, being so close to our destination.
Several times I found Mariana slumped across the wheel when I returned from checking round the engine-room. She'd look up and smile, saying she was just resting her eyes. At dawn, Double Island was three to four miles on the starboard beam.
At 0845 hours on 12th July, 1985, we anchored at the entrance of Trinity Inlet by the Channel Beacon No I in thirty feet of water. All we could do now was have our breakfast, while waiting for the authorities to come out to see us. It was only as we sat in the wheel-house, sipping on a cup of tea, that it caught up with us what we had just done. The green of the shoreline and the tall buildings of Cairns rising into the sky beckoned us to come and explore them.
We sat in the wheel-house swivel chairs waiting for the authorities to arrive. The quarantine flag fluttered alongside the Australian national flag at the masthead, and my best Red Ensign lazily waved from the stern on the flagstaff.
Large motorized catamarans cruised by loaded with waving, gaily-dressed tourists on their way out to Green Island... the pleasure resort twelve miles off the coast of Cairns. Their captains came as near as they dare to our ship to entertain the holiday-makers on their way out to sea.
Debut was rust-streaked and salt-stained from stem to stern, having the appearance of just been battered by a terrible storm... as indeed she had, one after another over the last seven months at sea. She lay in the water... still and silent... looking as tied as we felt ourselves.
The white harbour launch raced out towards us, then swung round to come alongside on our starboard side. Once we'd secured her mooring lines the tall grey-bearded pilot stepped on to our deck and shook my hand. He sucked on his smoke-blackened brier while I told him our story.
He turned out to be the harbour master of Cairns Harbour, and promised me the charges would be quite reasonable, especially as I only wanted to lay at anchor in the inlet. I'd been very cautious about this fact, as we had so little money on which to live. When I was satisfied that we weren't going to be ripped off, Mariana and I went down into the engine-room to start up the main-engine.
The channel into Trinity Inlet is marked by a row of tall beacons on each side of the passage. Debut steamed between them in the bright morning sunshine, and the harbour master pointed out places of interest as we came nearer the town. We passed the modern luxury hotels, with their tower-blocks gleaming white and shiny. The drinkers were already sitting at the tables on the veranda of the yacht club, and tourists bustled around on the promenade and pier.
There were hundreds of yachts on our port side, riding at anchor in the swift-running ebb tide, or hanging on to their private moorings. The shore on that side was indented with small inlets, tangled with mangrove swamps and mud banks. On our starboard side, were the jetties of the cruise boats, each advertising their prices and destinations.
Further up the river was the naval station and the giant loading gantry of the sugar terminal. There was a large slipway... large enough to take Debut... but I very much doubted we'd ever have enough money to consider going on there. A creek turned off towards another yacht club, but we turned to port, heading further up the main channel.
Very much to my surprise, I saw John and Meredith waving from the deck of their yacht. They had their baby daughter, Emily, with them, and Meredith helped her to wave also. Patricia was rafted up on one side of an old B-class Fairmile from The Second World War, with a classic gaff-rigged yawl on the other side.
It was becoming very narrow and claustrophobic, after being out in the open sea for so long, and I wondered if we'd have enough room to swing with the tide without becoming stuck on one of the mud banks either side of us. When we were opposite a narrow creek on our port side the harbour master gave the order for Slow Astern, then to let go the anchor. Once the normal routine of clearing inwards had occurred... the customs taking our logbooks to confirm our unbelievable story... we went to see all our friends on their yachts, who we'd previously met before in Honiara, in Guadalcanal.
After spending five days at anchor and getting used to civilisation again, the next surprise was sprung on us. The white harbour launch came alongside with a bill from the Harbour Office. Apart from the excessive pilotage charges of Aus $245 each way, there was a bill for anchorage at Aus $28 a day. When I explained that we were short of money, and that the standard anchorage charge throughout the rest of the world was only a dollar a day, I was served with a notice to remove my ship from the Harbour of Cairns as soon as all the bills were settled in full, or risk having my ship impounded against her debt.
Once I'd reluctantly paid the Aus $630 to them, we were taken five miles outside of Trinity Inlet by the very same pilot who'd brought us in, and anchored near where we were anchored on our arrival. In Cairns, they rip you off every cent they think you're good for, then kick you out of the harbour again.
We were now anchored on the south-east side of the entrance into the harbour by Beacon No 4 in eighteen feet of water, with three shackles of chain. I'd taken Debut as far into Sandy Bay as I could, to escape the swell coming into the anchorage around False Cape from Cape Grafton. At low tide there was little more than a foot of water between the keel and the muddy bottom, but at least we were under the lee of the land without the risk of being ripped off again. All the best, Cpt Dick Brooks.


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