These days I don’t sail often. I live in London. My career and my group of non-sailing friends take up most of my time. I often pine after cheap Scandi 30ft keel boats on Instagram and imagine a life up a Norwegian fjord, but then I have to rush off to a meeting and a pint of Guinness and my nautical notions fade.  

One of my favourite moments of the journey was on the second day when we were steaming around the southern capes in rare mirror-flat clam, hot summer conditions were we stopped for a lazy lunch and a few drinks in New Harbour and went swimming and diving. After a glamour day, we saw this as a perfect opportunity to drop some cray pots in off the Breaksea islands. The red glow on the battered westerly facing rocks was amazing as we threw the pots overboard on Sam’s strategic calls.

Your bunk is no retreat. You are a vagrant chunk of ice in a cocktail shaker. You hold on to the berth with your toes and the muscles of your derriere, all the time scrounging out of the way of the Chinese torture-drop coming off the over-head. (Damn that shipyard man, you told him about that leak.) You don't feel like eating, but that damned fool Cookie (showing off) has fired up the alcohol stove. The cabin slowly fills with unconsumed alcohol fumes which make your eyes smart and which go right to the pit of your stomach before his miserable scrambled egg can get there.

“Our reference to the “inaugural Trans-Tasman Yacht Race” was specifically meant to describe the CYCA’s inaugural running of this event and not to imply that it is the first Trans-Tasman race in history. At the CYCA, we truly value and honour the legacy of offshore sailing.”

Turning, I saw little patches of ripples, darkening the water, spread slowly across the sea until the calm shiny areas were reduced to irregular strips on the new pattern of ruffled surface; then a faint breeze whispered in my ear and a breath of cool air caressed my naked back.
“Take in the awning,” I shouted joyously down to Bob; and swinging on to the main halyard, slid to the deck where the breeze stirring aloft was not yet felt. Life aboard exhilarated. Gerry was doing acrobatics descending the main rigging. Bob, with his credulous blue eyes wide open, and grinning from ear to ear for the first time in several days, worked furiously to clear the decks. Mattresses and pillows were tossed down the companionway.

The soft rush of water past the planking by your head carries you swiftly away to never-never land. Stepping up on deck, hot mug in hand, you cast an eye over the weather horizon as the just-risen sun pierces bright beams through low clouds over grey-blue water. The morning watch is reluctant to leave the helm. She has entered a state of harmony with the rushing water, the sighing breeze, the easy motion, the expanding light. Passing her the hot mug you go below to pour yourself another from the old copper kettle.

Whether it’s a weekend on the Gippsland Lakes, or a circuit of Proper Bay from Port Lincoln, or washing through the Great Sandy Strait in Queensland, an adventure on a shallow draft wooden sailing boat can bring as much pleasure as crossing any ocean.

Sailors being a conservative lot, evolution happened about as fast as continents drift. Even as rigging changed from hemp to stainless steel, and sail cloth changed from flax to cotton to Dacron, sail plans remained largely the same. By the 1960s most racing boats had discovered that a single mainsail worked better than two: yawls and ketches were abandoned in favor of higher-pointing sloops and cutters. But foretriangles remained split, especially aboard non-racing yachts without the luxury of plentiful and athletic crews

So he hightailed it to Sydney and ended up in the surf at Whale Beach – not that far from where he lives now. “I was a ten pound Pom” he told me. I find that hard to believe. I don’t think he was being literal. I see him arriving with a crate of Margaux and a vintage Morgan sports car with a set of plans for a beach house in the boot.

Participation in the discussion was broad, ‘animated’, lively, inclusive and positive. For the first time since the DV eviction notification, members of the HF were able to actually discuss the challenge of eviction, the specific needs of each project as well as any shared concerns in relation to the eviction threat to include developing a coordinated HF response.

Too many sailors are reliant only on training regulation set forth by authorities. They are educated that if they tick a bunch of boxes, they are safe. They think because a boat has an EPIRB, they are wearing their PLB in their lifejacket, and have ponied up cash for the best gear, that they are safe. Hardly! 

If you’re out and about on a Sunday Morning, and Radio National is feeling a little too highbrow for your mood, and Macca’s red-necked intolerance is sounding very 1980’s, and the adds on Sports SEN are driving you mad, then flick over to Triple R’s Radio Marinara.

Modern safety technology is brilliant, and training programs are essential, but neither are really effective without time on the water in real life circumstance, experiencing what works, and what doesn’t. Rules that limit this are dangerous.

The proposition that a measurement-based regime would encourage owners to better maintain or upgrade their yachts is illogical. Any classic yacht that races regularly will already be adequately maintained. Upgrades would add to a handicap, which is hardly encouraging. Inevitably, this would soon lead to the rise of an optimisation scramble lead by the professional "rating whisperers" who have become such a blight on IRC racing.

Spectating is breathtaking, but with a little persistence and the right greased palms, a ride with a competitor is not out of the question! Stay for a few extra days. It’s special!

“We’re very excited to see more native species now rats are no longer eating them. Seedlings of tamanu and puka are increasing and we’re seeing and hearing more birds. Wood pigeons and red-tailed tropic birds have returned to Home Islet. Crabs and lizards appear to be more abundant.”

“It is remarkable that an unlikely story about a mad heretic plotting a massacre has been repeated uncritically for almost 400 years,” Koehler says. His alternative scenario describes “extreme violence driven by famine”

As the techniques developed so did the control lines and on today’s craft, the Patí de Vela ‘skates’ feature an array of control systems that can alter the forestay tension on each tack (the boats have two forestays, one mounted on each hull) to control the bend of the mast and aid direction.

Due to the action of the tugs and bow thrusters, the Maersk Shekou continued to maintain a port swing of about 10°/min, away from the direct path of the STS Leeuwin II. However, Maersk Shekou did not make a clear turn, and moments later, its starboard bow flare collided with the STS Leeuwin II, dismasting the latter. Two crew members, on board the sailing vessel at the time, escaped via its gangway just as the collision occurred.

Other reports have the unstoppable showman driving a car down the city's Smith Street blindfolded and apparently guided solely by the gift of mental telepathy.

After that whirlwind of stunts, Calvert boarded the Sea Fox in Darwin with his crew, including the banana-loving Jimmy. Unlike the other passengers, Jimmy boarded the yacht in a cage and, it was claimed by Calvert, was the chimpanzee that played Cheetah in the 1940s black and white Hollywood versions of Tarzan. More diva than monkey, Jimmy was known for off-screen antics, from demanding the odd banana to drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes.