the danny gunn story – part 1 (chapters 1 – 8)

Life Story of Danny Gunn – School of Navigation Cadet 1954/55 - Part 1 of 4 of 60

The Danny Gunn Story – Part 1 (Chapters 1 – 8)

1 How I went to Sea – Early Life – Part 1..................................................................................................... 2



4 Pre-Sea Training – School of Navigation – Southampton – 1954/55 .......................................................... 8

5 Ship’s Party in Burnie, and deep trouble for me! ..................................................................................... 10

6 Our World Voyage - The Bad Start ......................................................................................................... 11

7 Australian Coast – Part 1 – Stanley to Eden............................................................................................. 13

8 Adventures in Torres Strait – The Reason Why - 1 .................................................................................. 15


1 How I went to Sea – Early Life – Part 1

All my “story-ettes” to date have been about my adult? life. Here’s a bit of background to tell you how

it all came about.

My father, Archibald Ernest Gunn, was a World War 1 veteran. In this post-nuclear age, it’s hard to

imagine that my own father went to war on horse, although I must confess, his horse was left in Egypt, when

some English Flat-Hat decided it would be a great idea to send him up a cliff, (without his horse), at Gallipoli. It

must have been a different FH who decided he should then go to France. It was a German soldier who then

decided to shoot him in the leg with a machine gun.

Dad was a country man from Gippsland in Victoria, and in about 1920, he went to King Island in Bass

Strait to take up a Soldier Settler property. It was still real pioneer stuff in those days, and he mostly cleared his

own land, on a large area “up north” called Egg Lagoon. During the late 20’s and early depression years, as

many others fell by the wayside, my father prospered, and became a major landowner and “mover and shaker”

on the Island. At his peak, he owned numerous dairies, and I think three cheese factories.

He married in the early years, but sadly his first wife and baby died in child birth. He then, would you

believe, married the matron of the little hospital at that time?. The old devil! Talk about adventure. Imagine a

sheltered genteel young Victorian lady sailing to an island in a small steamer or sailing ketch, to work in a little

weatherboard hospital.

They both died in their late 80s. I was born in 1938, the fourth child. Because King Island was still very

isolated, my memories are of an earlier era. I remember jinkers, buggies, drays, bullock teams, and sailing

ketches, Ah the sailing ketches! And aeroplanes with two wings!

For my first six years we lived on the property “Sea View” about four miles north of Currie, the island’s

town. When my parents saw a ketch coming down the coast from around New Year Island, they would get on

the party line telephone to Currie, and estimate the arrival time of the ketch in Currie. Then someone would

climb the “Bell Hill” behind Dolin’s pub, and ring the bell, followed by single strokes for the estimated hours

until its arrival. Then would gather the wharfies, shopkeepers, family member expectants, kids and dogs, to meet

the “Loatta” or “Naracoopa” as it rolled and pitched its way in from the open ocean to the rocky little harbour

and jetty.

When I was six, just before I started school, we moved into town, and my love affair started. I found

myself down at the wharf, and saw the ketches, and sailing crayfish boats, and my life changed. I became

literally obsessed with boats and ships. I could lie on the wharf and just gaze at the shape of a boat, and dream

for hours. Finally my despairing father gave up the idea of me ever being a farmer, and took me to Jack Burgess,

(Long Jack). He was one of a wonderful four brothers , Jim, Joe, Jack and Harry. An old sailing ship man, and

loved without reservation by me. Dad more or less gave me to him, and the only request I think was that I

shouldn’t be allowed to drown myself. How lucky I have been.

Then when I was ten, I went away to boarding school in Melbourne. Schooling on the island in those

days was pretty basic, so that any parent with the means, and the ambition for their children, sent them away. I

never lost my sea-fever, and dreamed my way through five years of grammar school, saved only by my


intelligence which enabled me to get through without actually doing anything. If I had only worked then like I

later did at navigation school in Southampton, I would know twice as much as I do now. But then I would have

been a different person, and I’m sure not as happy.

When I was thirteen, I applied for cadet entry to the Royal Australian Navy. This was highly selective,

and for whatever reason, they didn’t much like the look of me, and I didn’t succeed. No sour grapes, thank

goodness they didn’t. If I had gone into “the grey funnel line”, (Navy). I would have become an inbred

introverted little snob, (perhaps). My apologies to those who did succeed, nothing personal.

After this disappointment settled down, my parents assured me that all would be well, I could go to

university and do whatever I wanted to do. This seemed OK for a while, but finally I sat them down, sort of, and

told them I was still obsessed, and literally HAD to go to sea. I would die if I didn’t.

My long suffering father then took me to talk to John Haines. He like me was the son of another wealthy

land holder on King Island, but a generation older than me. He had gone to sea before WW II, in the beautiful

British shipping company Port Line. He served all through the war, in terrible situations including the horrific

Russian convoys to Murmansk. After the war and in poor condition he “came home to the farm” and became, or

nurtured, severe alcoholism, and became a fallen leaf. He sort of smiled at me and didn’t paint too grim a

picture, so then my parents more or less accepted our fate, and moved to progress my future.

Interestingly, years later I was talking to one of my ship captains, Tony Braund, who had known John

Haines in those earlier years. He had high regard for John, and made the point that the war and its stress affected

different people in different ways. He considered that John was one that the war really affected dramatically,

and was sad to know what had become of him.

Next step for my parents was to write to Port Line in Leadenhall Street, London, offering them a free 15

year old colonial chap. Next chapter later.

Saturday, 21 February, 2009


m.v. “Port Wyndham”

My first ship as an apprentice.


Once my parents had resigned themselves to the fact that I HAD to go to sea, they wrote to the Port Line

Ltd in London, and received a reasonably positive reply. “Yes, they did accept Australian apprentices into their

fleet, but only after the boy had successfully completed pre-sea training”. They named HMS “Conway”, HMS

“Worcester”, Pangbourne College, and The School of Navigation, Southampton. They recommended

Southampton, and gave the address of the Director, Captain W. Wakeford. Then the wheels began to roll.

The school did not require a specific education standard, rather I had to sit their exam under supervision

at my Melbourne school, (Caulfield Grammar). I later found that the general education of the young English

gentlemen at the School of Navigation was mostly superior to mine, but in the case of mathematics and physics,

I was well ahead, and had no problem with the entrance exam. The medical requirement was also

straightforward.

It was proposed by Captain Wakeford that I be interviewed by Captain A G Russell, the Sydney based

marine superintendent of Port Line, not for Port Line itself, but on behalf of the school. In the meantime,

suggested Captain Wakeford, he would ask his cousin Lionel Adams, a Melbourne business man who had

recently been at the school, to ask my mother and I out socially so that we could learn something about the

school. This was a great success, wonderful friendly people, and a happy evening.

Imagine how nice it then was to hear that Captain Russell would not be available to interview me, so Mr

Adams would do it. Although I still had a formal interview, it was so much better for having met him socially a

short time before. He gave me his tick of approval, and my career was launched. How excited I was.

An interesting little aside from our meeting with Lionel Adams. During the war, the aerodrome on King

Island had been mined with explosives that could be detonated runway by runway, or totally, if the beastly Hun,

or the yellow men from Nippon should try to land. On one very embarrassing day during testing, the entire

aerodrome blew up, with a Dakota DC3 on the ground. They managed to fly the plane off between craters, but

without passengers. It was one of the best kept secrets of the war, and would you believe, Lionel Adams had

been a passenger on that plane.

Another interesting and helpful spin-off was that it was suggested by the school that my sister Mary,

recently married in England, and our uncle Jack Braithwaite, a mining engineer in the British foreign service in

Nigeria, should visit the school. They must have made an impression, because soon after, Mary was contacted

by Wally Wakeford, asking if she could possibly do a few months as school nursing sister in place of yet

another cousin who was the usual nurse, but needed time away due to illness.

This happened, and it did me no harm at all when I finally got there. In between the usual beatings and

abuse that was part of the system, it did no harm for them to know that I was Sister Gunn’s little brother. She

had left by then. They still beat me, but a little gentler perhaps. More of that later, I digress.


At first it was proposed that I travel to England on an Orient Line passenger ship, the “Orontes”. Sister

Mary had recently married a merchant navy officer who was then serving on the “Orontes”. It seemed a good

idea at the time.

Then unexpectedly, we received a letter from Port Line. They stressed that their offer should not be

taken to mean that they would accept me as an apprentice, (that would depend entirely on my achievement or

otherwise at the sea school). But in view of the reason for my travel, they found that they had a spare berth on

their vessel “Port Auckland”, due to depart Hobart in early February 1954. The vessel was crossing over to New

Zealand to load for a month and then sail to UK via the Panama Canal. What joy, and how wonderful for me.

I would be signed on as a supernumary, at the rate of “one shilling per month”, and live, work, and eat

with the four real apprentices. Bear in mind that I was still only fifteen at this time. I had my sixteenth birthday

in Port Chalmers, round about the same time I first sneaked into a pub.

Because I would now be leaving from Hobart rather than Melbourne, it was necessary for me to pop to

Melbourne to say goodbye to all my grandparents, aunts uncles and cousins. I didn’t do anything so simple as

fly over and back. I persuaded the skipper of the Holymans trading ketch “Loatta” (Terry Levijne) to take me

over and back, sleeping on the settee in the little wheelhouse. As part of my ongoing obsession, I had done this

before.

During the trip over and back, Terry was deadly serious. He spent hours sincerely trying to talk me out

of going to sea. He was a delightful but sad man who felt that he had wasted his life. His entreaties had not the

slightest effect on me. I was on a roll, life beckoned, and nothing was going to change my mind. To be fair to

me, I turned out to be right, and him wrong, (in my case). I have loved my life.

Departure day arrived, and my father took me down to the ship. We were wonderfully received by the

ship’s master, Captain J G Lewis. He was an absolutely revered man in the company, the commodore, and a true

gentleman. I’m sure this meeting went a long way towards putting my father’s mind at rest about my future. It

didn’t take the two of them long to work out that in the convoy that took my father to Egypt in 1915, Jeff Lewis

had been second officer on another ship in that convoy!

Sunday, 22 February, 2009


mv “Port Auckland” in Auckland


When I joined the “Port Auckland” in Hobart, she had recently spent about a month in Australia,

discharging a general cargo from United Kingdom and Europe. Then she had been up to Risdon zinc works in

Hobart to load zinc metal in her lower holds, and was now ready for departure for New Zealand.

This was quite common then. Exports from UK to Australia were still quite massive. When these ships

loaded in New Zealand, the lower holds would be nearly full of frozen lamb. The carcasses were of course

nearly hollow and thus were fairly light. However the higher ‘tween decks would tend to be loaded with butter

and cheese, which was much heavier. By the time the ship “topped off” with bales of wool on deck, she could

tend to be rather top heavy, or “tender”. Under these circumstances, it was nice to have loaded some heavy

metal like zinc or lead in the lower parts. And of course that metal could be hard frozen along with the other

cargo in the hold.

The “Port Auckland” and her sister ship “Port Brisbane”, were nearly new, and were part of the massive

re-building program undertaken by most shipping companies after the war. I firmly believe that they were two

of the most beautiful ships ever built, and no expense and effort was spared to keep them immaculate.

I was allocated a junior officer’s cabin which was very comfortable. The four “real” apprentices shared

two two-berth cabins between them. Between these cabins was a study, for the large amount of paper work

required.

When the ship was well away from land on an ocean crossing, the apprentices would be on daywork,

involving physical labour. Work would start at 0600, with a break for breakfast between 0800 and 0900. Then

more work from 0900 until 1200, and from 1300 until 1600. Because we were expected to always eat in the

saloon with the officers, (deck and engine room) and the twelve passengers, this involved more changes of

clothes than someone on the stage.

Before breakfast, the work would generally be washing down decks, cleaning out our accommodation,

or taking a “trick” at the wheel. During the day, the work could involve chipping rust, painting, washing

paintwork, or holystoning the beautiful teak decks that ran from stem to stern. If there was good skilled

seamanlike work such as sending down or maintaining cargo gear, or splicing rope or wire, we would often be

put to work with the crew or quartermasters so that we could learn.

At 1630 (4.30 pm) each evening, once showered and dressed, we would then have about two hours of

instruction and study. The ship’s navigation officers were expected to give up some of their off-watch time to

teach us.

When the ship was sailing around the land from port to port, three apprentices would go on bridge

watch with the three watch keeping officers, while the fourth remained on day work.

I loved the routine but I must say that at first, I found the discipline of a full day working, with a

possible clip over the ear or a telling-off for slacking, quite hard. I was only fifteen, but I soon learned.


In port we would be on cargo duty around the decks and holds, drawing our own cargo plans as the

cargo came in, and doing the mundane associated chores like rigging guard rails around open hatches, rigging

portable lights in the holds before nightfall, and sometimes acting as watchmen for pilferable cargo.

It took only three days from Hobart to our first New Zealand port, New Plymouth.. After a few days

there we went on to Lyttelton and Port Chalmers. We didn’t work all the time, and the weekends were free, so

we were able to have a lot of shore leave and fun. There would be dances, ship parties, often with the local

nurses, and sometimes cricket or football matches against a local team or a team from another ship. Although we

were all under age, nobody seemed to worry about us going into pubs, although any sign of excess would be

firmly jumped on by our senior officers.

During the month in New Zealand, I had my sixteenth birthday. Then came the month long voyage to

London, via the Panama Canal, and a brief stop in Caracas Bay on the Dutch island of Curacao, where we took

on bunker fuel.

The days at sea could be long, but the weather was mostly glorious, and there was time for the skilled

game of deck golf (very serious!), and the usual knock-out competitions in crib, chess, darts, table tennis etc.

There would also be movies every few days, out on deck in the tropical evening air. A portable swimming pool

was rigged, made of timber sections bolted together, with a canvas inset.

There were always twelve passengers, living in luxury. People would have to book months in advance

for a passage. It was a fact of life that most of them tended to be elderly (to us), and young females were very

rare, and very watched. Anyway, a lowly apprentice or supernumerary was way down on the totem pole and

would have to be satisfied with a smile or a chat.

As the ship approached the English Channel, a strange malady called Channels, or Channel Fever, took

hold. It was pure excitement and anticipation. People that you had never seen smile, would be seen skipping

around grinning and talking to themselves. Very strange! Sailing up the Channel, then the Thames Estuary, then

the winding river, and arrival off the locks into the Royal Docks, (Victoria, Albert, and King George V), was a

hugely exciting experience.

On berthing, I was met by my sister Mary, and friends with whom she was staying in Buckinghamshire, the

Wards, who over the next few years were to become like family to me while I was in UK.

Saturday, 28 February, 2009


Old Cadet Building – Warsash – 2005

4 Pre-Sea Training – School of Navigation – Southampton – 1954/55

The School of Navigation at Warsash on the Hamble River was the school recommended to my parents

by Port Line. It had been established before the war, (in 1937 I think) by Captain W. (Wally) Wakeford who

had been an officer with the New Zealand Shipping Company. I’m not sure how he managed this, but he was a

man with supreme self-confidence, who could probably have “charmed the birds out of the trees”.

Unlike the other training establishments where boys entered at an earlier age and combined general

education with the sea training aspect, at Southampton, one did only one year instead of two, but wholly

concentrated on pre-sea training. For successful completion of the year, one received a remission of nine months

from the otherwise required four year apprenticeship/cadetship at sea. This compared to one year for two at the

other establishments.

The school was run on Royal Navy lines, with extreme discipline, and a carefully structured promotion

and leadership regime. Obedience to orders was absolute, not only from adult officer/lecturers, but from one’s

senior cadets as well. Naval type procedures were in place, such as guard rooms, rifles, marching, morning

divisions, saluting, and the odd bit of abuse. One was not allowed to ever walk anywhere but every action had to

be “at the double”.

It was a boast of the school that it had the highest expulsion rate, AND run away rate, of any school in

Britain. I’m not sure if this really was so. But if a cadet felt he had to run away, the system would help you, and

even ring for a taxi, but then you could never return. It seemed that the closer you lived to Southampton, the

more likely you were to bolt. I don’t recall any of us colonials or foreigners running away. I guess we had

nowhere to go.

After I had arrived in the UK in April 1954, I was made welcome by the Ward family in Denham,

Buckinghamshire. During the time before going to Southampton, I was at a cinema in London with sister Mary,

when I got a pain in my tummy. Later that night, out came my appendix, and I spent a few days in hospital, first

in Gerrards Cross, and later in Amersham. I don’t recall that it delayed my start at the school.

Starting at the school was an exciting but frightening experience. You were totally overwhelmed by the

system, and it absorbed your whole life. Day started with a whole school run, half a mile up the road and back,

in shorts, T shirt and plimsolls, winter and summer, snow ice, hail or heatwave (not many of them in

Hampshire), and hurricanes hardly happen either.

The day was absolutely fully occupied, with divisions, signals training (chilblains and all), lectures,

seamanship, boatwork, cleaning and polishing, and eating prodigious amounts of good food. After five years of

lousy food at my boarding school in Melbourne, I couldn’t believe the quality and quantity of food. On my first

day, I was hassled down to the refectory at 4.30 pm for the third time that day, to a high tea of bread and butter,

cakes, (tabnabs) and tea. This in spite of rationing still existing, (just).

After high tea I remember thinking: “Cor! It’s going to be a long time until breakfast”. To my surprise,

at about 6.30 pm, I was ordered into my full mess kit, white bum-freezer with brass buttons, epaulettes, black

bow tie, and highly polished shoes, and marched down to the refectory yet again, this time for a full dinner. No

elasticated or clip-on ties, it had to be tied manually, which was a bit of a trial at first.

With our youth, total involvement, huge amounts of food, and so many challenging activities, we were

all as fit as Mallee bulls, and we would all put on good weight, and gain a couple of inches of height.


During the first term, one was a Junior, the lowest form of life, at the beck and call of any cadet senior

to you. Abuse (never sexual) was rife, and life could be miserable if you were a loner, or different in any way.

As a general rule, unless there was blood on the floor or physical injury, the staff left the cadets to get on with it,

and discipline themselves. This was confirmed to me by my sister who had been the school nurse for a few

months before my start.

This fact was an advantage to me. Also of considerable advantage was the fact that I had been a de facto

apprentice for two months on the “Port Auckland”. Although all the other young gentlemen were destined to go

to sea, none of them actually knew what they were in for. This gave me a bit of a moral edge, and although I

was hazed by the seniors, it was never too bad, and I never seriously felt unable to manage, as some did.

School holidays were spent with the dear friends the Wards. During one of the holidays, the mother of

another Australian cadet, Bas Turner, took us both on a long car tour down through Devon and Cornwall, and

out to the Scilly Islands. With them, I also took tea with the Bishop of Portsmouth and a few upper class jollies.

I managed to hold my head up, and for my last term I was promoted to Senior Cadet Captain (Port

Watch). Great stuff, single cabin, and plenty of prestige. I don’t think I was actually a very good one, as I was

still very immature, as I realized more later. But I survived, and won some prizes also. My parents’ trust and

money was not wasted.

Being a top cadet at completion ensured my having an interview with Port Line Ltd, one of the “crème

de la crème” shipping companies, and of course my choice after my previous experience with them. My

interview with Captain Hugh Datson was successful, and I signed my 3.25 year indentures on 2nd

June 1955..

Just prior to my graduation, my parents arrived in UK for their retirement “grand tour” with 21 year old

sister Julie, (the younger sister of two) in tow. So before joining my first ship, I spent wonderful time with them,

touring, staying in London hotels, and because of my father’s interest, visiting plenty of horse shows and race

courses. Happy days!

Sunday, 08 March, 2009


5 Ship’s Party in Burnie, and deep trouble for me!

And now the story:

In about 1970, I was (still) a young Assistant Harbour Master/Pilot in Burnie. There was a brand new

state-of the-art Danish unit load ship called "Atrevida" at North McGaw Pier. The Company had organised a

huge lunchtime cocktail party up on the navigation bridge area, for all the marine tragics, agents, local

dignitaries etc, including masters of other ships in port, and as I recall, officers from an "O" class submarine in

at the time. I was duty pilot that weekend, and my wife Barbara and I had "made the cut". It was bigger then

"Ben Hur". Because I would have to pilot the ship out at 6.00 pm, I remained drinkless, and to make it worse,

someone reckoned oil had been seen in the waters of the port, and I spent a goodly part of the afternoon

wandering around the waters in a small launch "Oonah"

When I returned at about 5.00 pm, the party was still in full swing, and all hands, including my dear

wife, were in full flight. She reckoned she was off to Denmark, invited by the chief engineer. (I don't know what

it is about my family and engineers, because my daughter later married a chief engineer, lovely fellow).

So that the ship could sail, the bridge had to be cleared of reluctant party goers, so that it could be used

for its other very minor purpose, navigation.

Nothing daunted, the Master of a China Nav vessel, Ken Nettleship, (maybe it was "Kweilin" on

reflection), shouted - "Everyone round to my ship at Ocean wharf". I sailed the ship on time, with some

animated party goers cheering us off. I do recall some young navy officers expressing some doubt about whether

I was actually old enough to handle a big ship like that. I was about 30 at the time, but probably looked younger

having led a pure life?

With no further duty that night, I felt well free for partying, but decided that my dear wife would never

"make it through the night", so I didn't say a word, Home we went. After giving Barb a night-cap, I watched her

go happily to sleep. "Beaudy" I thought, - "She won't move for twelve hours or so", So back down to Ocean

Wharf I went, and what a party! Most of the others had an eight hour start on me, but I made up for it as best I

could. There were fun scenes that night that are a pleasure to recall in my dotage.

Some hours later I drove back to our home with a silly grin on my face, and on entering, went to check

on my "sleeping beauty". Well, she was sitting up in bed with a cup of coffee, and was nearly speechless with

fury. Really! Not so much because I had gone out, but that I had left her at home.

I rest my case, what do you think?


6 Our World Voyage - The Bad Start

These mini-stories have not been written chronologically, but by impulse. So this tale relates to our very

first leg of the 10.5 year voyage. Readers of previous writings may have noticed, or felt, that we were always in

control, and always came out on top. This was NOT always the case!

As the boat neared completion in Stanley in early 1980, we finished up all living on the boat as the great

day approached. In the last few weeks I had been spending regularly on an account at Bill House’s garage. He

would obtain anything I required for the boat, and it would be “on the bus” next day.

The day before departure, I drove to his garage, gave him the papers and keys to my old Holden

Kingswood Wagon, and he tore up my last month’s bill.

So on a fine St Patrick’s day, 17th March 1980, we bravely sailed out of Stanley bound to King Island

where I was born, and where my aged father lived in the old people’s section of the Currie hospital. It should

have been a smooth passage, the forecast was good, our local fishermen friends assured us we would have a

good trip, and old Danny here, local expert, had just spent more than three years piloting at Port Latta, living

with the constant awareness of local weather. Huh!

The distance to our first port of Grassy on King Island was about 80 miles, so should have taken less

than 24 hours. The route was around the Nut at Stanley, northwest to pass north of Three Hummock Island, pass

the lighthouse on Cape Rochon on that island, then a WNW course direct to Grassy.

As darkness fell, we were jogging nicely along with all plain sails set, and I left Barbara at the wheel

while I cat-napped down below and the children went to sleep. Although Barbara had no real boat experience,

steering in good conditions was easy because of our grid compass where all you had to do once it was set to the

course was keep the lines on the compass aligned with the lines on the pre-set grid. Easy!

Now although Barbara was not experienced, her awareness of the unusual, or the wrong, was highly

tuned, largely perhaps as a result of her years as a midwife. As she would say, anyone can deliver a baby when

things are perfect, but being able to spot pending problems and cope with them was the real art.

Two or three times she called me up on deck to say that the wind was freshening, and were we OK? At

first I assured her that all was well, but eventually even I had to concede that the wind had risen too much, and

the seas were rising nastily. We had to shorten sail, but I was still lulled by what I thought was a good forecast,

and thought we could punch on until we came under the shelter of King Island’s east coast.

That was not to be. We finished up “hove to” under storm sail, going nowhere, in fact blowing away to

leeward, towards the east away from our track, fortunately safely away from land. I thought I had made the boat

absolutely watertight, but the power of seas breaking on board can be quite massive, and as the boat plunged and

the seas broke over us, a large amount of seawater continually seeped, poured, down through the forward hatch,

where Mark and Gareth slept. This also permeated into the main cabin also. Added to this wetness was the fact

that anyone going on deck in oilskins was drenched, so when they came back below, their dripping added to the

general wetness. Only the aft cabin remained relatively dry and liveable.

The situation became worse and worse, although our ultimate safety was not really in doubt. Mark and

Gareth were not seasick, although pretty queasy, I was not at all sick, (but dead worried!). Barbara was sick but

as always never let it stop her activity. But poor Rachel was desperately sick, and as the time went on she

became very de-hydrated and the weight fell off her. We wrapped her in a dry blanket, covered by a sail, and

Barbara kept trying to get some liquid into her.

Eventually we were like that for about two and a half days. I became very tired of course, and on one

occasion I could see that the sun was going to appear, so tried to take a sun observation with sextant. When I

tried to work out the calculation, my brain was so stunned that it looked like gobbledegook. So I lay down and

slept for about two hours and it was miraculous. The moral is that if you let yourself become that tired, you can


become a danger to everyone. The result of the new sun sight showed that we had been blown about seventy

miles away to the northeast, and there was no way we were going to make King Island as it was.

To add to our woes, there came a constant banging heard from the front of the boat. We separately

crawled on our hands and knees to the bow of the boat, but could see nothing. A big mystery. Then we finally

discovered the scary answer. Before we sailed from Stanley I had done something which I would have thought

was reasonable. Instead of stowing and lashing our 35 lb CQR anchor on deck, I had put its point under our

chain bobstay that holds the bowsprit down, and winched the chain tight. During the massive plunging and

cavorting of the boat, and the crashing seas, somehow the anchor became dislodged, and swung in an arc back

and forth, hitting the concrete hull, until it had eventually carved a hole in the boat. Fortunately this water ran

into the space under the anchor chain, where a pipe through the ballast ran to the main bilge area, where an

automatic electric bilge pump immediately pumped the water out. Thank goodness I got something right.

Eventually we decided to run back to Three Hummock Island for shelter as the weather eased slightly.

As we eventually neared the east side of the island the wind had backed to the southwest and was bitterly cold.

The seas were nasty, some with no fronts, and some with no backs. As the boat was literally falling off the top

of some of these, and crashing into the troughs and vibrating, I thought: “My God I hope I did build this boat

right”. It turns out I did.

Being night-time, with no radar, I would have safely crept into Telegraph Bay, a large open part of the

island. But as we got south of the Cape Rochon lighthouse, I could see lights of fishing boats at anchor in the

closer, safer bay. So by taking an approach bearing of these lights we crept in until we were close to the boats,

and then anchored in total shelter from the wind, and away from those horrible seas. What a relief. I could have

cried.

Next morning the fishermen shouted to us: “Where the hell have you lot been?” When we told them

we’d been out in Bass Strait they were horrified. They had been safely sitting around playing cards and

watching TV. Next morning as they put to sea, one boat came close, and half a sack of crayfish landed on our

deck. Manna from Heaven, and a boost to our sagging morale.

This was a terrible experience, mostly for Barbara and Rachel. It could have spelled the end of the

voyage. Barbara insisted it was too soon to give up, but wisely insisted that we go back to Stanley to dry out,

recuperate, and refill with diesel.

So we entered Stanley, with me feeling very sheepish, but do you know? not one person ever mentioned

it, or mocked us, which they may well have done. Good people who understood. When I went round to Bill

House’s garage for something, he said: “your car’s still out the back, here are the keys, you might as well use it

while you’re here”.

Repairing the hole, above the waterline was easy, and we sailed again about three days later, made it

this time, and although we had our problems from time to time, nothing so traumatic as this. My family were

very brave and trusting people.

Thursday, April 01, 2010


7 Australian Coast – Part 1 – Stanley to Eden

The compass that took us around the World

We had returned to Stanley to lick our wounds, repair some damage, and top up with diesel, then we set

off for Grassy, the main port of King Island once again. This time we made it without incident and stayed there

for just a couple of days.

At this time my father was still alive and living in the old peoples’ section of the local hospital. He was

still quite active and a much respected person in the community.

After the short time in Grassy, we proceeded around the southern tip of the Island, Stokes Point towards

Currie Harbour. It was an absolutely glorious day, but quite windless, without even a ripple on the water. This

was fine as far as it went, but it meant we had to motor the whole way, which was a disappointment to me.

Because of my childhood love of the boats and the harbour, I had a dream to sail my own hand-crafted

boat into the harbour. When we arrived off the harbour entrance, I hoisted all the sails and waited a while,

thinking: “There MUST be some wind!” But alas there was none. So we motored into the harbour through the

rocky tortuous channel to the wharf. To add further to my woes, I was swinging the boat short around to

starboard to berth bow to seawards alongside the fishing boat “Helen D”. When I went astern on the engine,

nothing happened, and the bowsprit of “Bada Magara” nicely poked a hole in a crate-like cray pot on the other

boat. Soon mended and no problem, but a pity. It turned out we had left an outer jib sheet (rope) trailing in the

water when we restowed the sails offshore, and the rope had caught the propeller when we went astern.

We spent a wonderful few days in Currie seeing old friends and seeing familiar places. Throughout the

five years of boat construction, my father had declined to even mention the boat or acknowledge what we were

doing. He was a dyed-in-the wool farmer, and considered that if something didn’t moo, bleat, or bark, it was of

no account. I’m sure he thought that his youngest son had lost the plot. Therefore it was a great delight to me

when he was visibly impressed with the boat, and with a bit of help, insisted on being helped down from the

wharf, across the fishing boat’s deck, and onto our boat. A photograph of him and I at that time later appeared in

the local newspaper.

Time had passed on, and it was 4th April by the time we arrived in Currie.

While there, of course we had met up with our good friends Jim and Toni O’Connell. They had both

been childhood friends and we had all been at the little area school together before we all went away to boarding

schools. Jim had been my “best mate”. We had even started a grass fire together by smoking out in the distant

paddocks while coming back from British Admiral Beach!

When we were preparing to leave for Melbourne, it was decided that Jim would come with us for the

trip. He was a grazier and had the excuse of wanting to go to cattle sales in Melbourne. So in the afternoon of

16th April, we sailed out of Currie Harbour, and set off to the northwards past New Year and Christmas Islands.

The weather was fine, but there was a big long ocean swell rolling in from the west.


Jim was not a sailor and fairly soon succumbed to sea sickness. His voyage until we reached the shelter

of Port Phillip Bay was really not enjoyable but he says even now that it was a highlight of his life. We entered

through the Rip into the bay in darkness, and found an anchorage near Queenscliff to wait for daylight. Jim’s

recovery was miraculous and all was well.

Next morning we sailed across the bay, and entered the Sandringham yacht marina and club. As we

were gingerly motoring through the marina, Mark was keeping a lookout in the bow while I conned the boat

from the cockpit with the noise of the engine close below. Mark was pointing down at something, and saying

something that I couldn’t hear. Both he and his brother Gareth were very quiet speakers. While I was shouting to

Mark to speak up, we hit something. Believe it or not it was an old World War I submarine which had been sunk

as part of a breakwater. No damage, no problem.

Jim was met by his brother Bill, while my sister Julie and family met us. Once again we spent a great

time with relatives and friends, and the time flew past.

On 26th April we departed from Sandringham, went alongside for a while in Mornington, and then

Sorrento. On 27th we headed out to sea, and set course eastwards to pass Wilson’s Promontory on our way to

Eden. An uneventful voyage and we arrived in Eden Harbour on the morning of 31st May.

Eden was really the first unfamiliar place that we went to. It’s a really nice place, very friendly, a large

fishing port and ex whaling port. We were able to tie up at the inner end of the long fisherman’s’ wharf. For the

first time we were made to realize that it’s a curious fact that boats usually moor at sea level! And towns are

very often quite a way above sea level, and to yachties without transport, it can be a long walk and climb to

town. (But easy on the way home!). Darwin, and East London in South Africa also spring to mind.

On one occasion, we were asked as a favour to go out into the harbour, and tow back alongside, a large

catamaran whose engine had failed. This we did successfully, and got to know the crew. We were alongside,

with them berthed on the outside of us. It was an expensive craft being delivered to Melbourne by Ian Johnson

and crew.

On the day they were to sail, we noticed the skipper looking a little worried and nervous. It turned out

that his crew were still up in the RSL, and showed no sign of returning. So we offered Ian a beer. When his crew

finally did return it was obvious that they weren’t going anywhere that night. Not to sea anyway. So they also

had a beer with us. One thing led to another.

Before we left Tasmania, it had seemed like a good idea, and we had purchased a 20 litre cask of white

wine, and the same of red. This was from Tas Cooper down at Rocky Cape. We thought it would last us a long

time, but in fact it soon became not very nice.

While chatting to the other yacht crew, a few fishermen wandered past on their way back to their boats,

and stopped to chat. Then we realised we could get rid of our rotten wine. So we put the two casks and paper

cups up on the wharf, and the party was on. We finished up with guitars, banjos, singing, laughter, the odd fight,

and half the fishing fleet milling around. (To be continued)

Wednesday, April 14, 2010


8 Adventures in Torres Strait – The Reason Why - 1

During the first year of our 10.5 year world voyage commencing in March 1980, we had almost

immediately started to lose time. The first real instance of this was when I got a job as a fitter’s assistant by

accident, in Eden.

Then later in Sydney, Pittwater, the Hawkesbury River, and northern NSW ports, (all of which we

loved), we lost even more time. So by the time we arrived in Queensland it was quite apparent that we were

going to “miss the season”.

By this I mean that to happily and safely sail around the “top end” and into the Indian Ocean, one is well

advised to achieve this during the south-east trade wind season. Once December comes along, then the north

west monsoon arrives, corresponding to “the Wet” over northern Australia. This will mean adverse winds, high

humidity, torrential rain, poor visibility, not to mention a high risk of being caught and destroyed by a cyclone.

Having accepted this fact, we took work in Gladstone for three months, then slowly made our way up to

Far North Queensland. While in the delightful river town of Innisfail, Barbara successfully obtained promise of

a nursing sister’s job for a three month minimum period, starting a few weeks later. We then sailed on up to

Cairns, a short leg up the coast. We loved Cairns, but the mooring piles to which our boat was moored was

across the other side of the Trinity Inlet on which Cairns is situated. The dinghy ride to and from the boat and

shore was choppy, windy, and not very convenient.

So for the only time in our entire voyage, we back-tracked and returned to Innisfail, where the “Bada

Magara” was then anchored in the Johnson River, handy to the fish factory jetty, and a stone’s throw from the

hospital where Barbara was to work and handy to the primary school that Rachel was to attend for some

months, and within tripping distance of the Imperial Tavern, where we frequently kept “anchor watch” over

Bada Magara” sitting out in the river, while sipping a proverbial XXXX stubby of beer or two.

My attention was then drawn to an advertisement in the Cairns newspaper, calling for a skipper

(master) of the prawn industry mother ship, “Paluma”. I arranged an interview with the owner, Brett Devine, in

the Cairns Yacht Club. I was met off the bus by Brett’s cohort, (Keith the Island Trader), and taken to meet

Brett. Into the Club strode this larger-than-life youthful character in Stetson hat and cowboy boots. Brett

Devine! And so began a relationship, a bit of love and a bit of hate, that has lasted on and off until this day

twenty nine years later.

Once he accepted me, he then surprised me by whisking me around to the maternity ward of the Cairns

hospital to be vetted by his wife Maxine who was a patient there.

The “Paluma” had started her life as a wartime built MSL, (motor stores lighter), and had then been

commissioned into the Australian Navy as HMAS “Paluma”, and used as a survey vessel in the Barrier Reef

and northern waters for many years. On being terminated by the navy, Brett had bought her and done an

extensive re-fit and conversion into a highly efficient little ship that could carry 90 tonnes of (very) deep frozen

prawns, 100 tonnes of diesel fuel in her double bottom tanks, fresh water both in tanks and fiberglass tubs on

deck, and a supermarket area at the aft end of the accommodation.


The concept was to rendezvous with trawlers up in Torres Strait by radio, (VHF, MF-SSB, and CB

radios) and on one hand supply them with diesel and stores, and on the other hand buy their already frozen

boxes of high value tiger prawns (mostly). To that end, he had entered an arrangement with the Queensland Fish

Board, and one of their buyers would be part of the ship’s complement. It was a neat arrangement for the

fishermen, because once deals had been completed on board, we would pass details to the QFB via Townsville

Radio, and the wives or accountants could then draw on the money back in Cairns within a few hours.

Another very neat little arrangement that added to the operation was that the Federal Government had a

scheme in place to encourage industry in remote areas, whereby if diesel fuel passed through a certified

approved shore station, then it attracted a massive subsidy. Brett had stationed a 100 tonne capacity “dumb”

barge up at York Island, between Cape York and New Guinea. Once the fuel on board “Paluma” had been

pumped through the certified meter on the barge, and the fuel pumped BACK on board, we could then sell it to

the trawlers at about half price.

Brett obtained a fair number of his working crew from backpacker hostels. He would recruit tradesmen

such as electricians and fitters, and convince them that although he “couldn’t afford” to pay them much, they

could supplement their earnings working on trawlers while on the fishing grounds. This sounded great, but once

up there, they usually found that they were too busy humping prawns and working for Brett Devine, and hardly

ever got on board a trawler. His turnover of crew was high, but there were plenty more.

I later found that the reason he needed me was that he had been skippering the ship himself without the

proper qualifications. Finally in Weipa where they had gone to take on more diesel, the harbourmaster had

thrown the book at him, and told him that if he came back without a “real” skipper on board, he would prosecute

him. My good fortune.

Having got the job, I went back to Innisfail for my gear. On later arriving back in Cairns, Brett told me

that the female cook had just left, would my wife like the job for a few weeks? It would be a while before she

started her nursing job. So back down to Innisfail went I, this time in Brett’s wife’s car, and returned with a

bemused Barbara, and a thrilled little Rachel, and off the three of us set for Torres Strait. The operations

manager on board, and the person who could show me the ropes, was Geoff Charles who became a life-long

friend along with his wife Sandy.

More later.

Wednesday, 15 April, 2009

END OF PART 1

the danny gunn story – part 1 (chapters 1 – 8)

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