Anyway, I don't intend to present a blow-by-blow journal of our adventures ( if you want to see a full account, look up Laurie's web-site: http:www.laurieford.net/maatner.htm , or http://www.laurieford.net/flinrex.htm), but will give a précis account to show where we went, what we saw and the paddling conditions as we found them.

After an un-eventful crossing of Bass Strait to George Town on the Devil Cat, Laurie was there right on time to greet us and lead us to Bridport, home of the fourth member of our group, the intrepid Jeff Jennings. Here we spent the night in preparation for an early start to Little Musselroe Bay. We had a great evening soaking up a few final lagers ( Jeff and I ), while we viewed Jeff's mind-blowing collection of videos and stills that he has accumulated over many years of sea kayaking some of the most picturesque and challenging waters the world has to offer . . . right there in Tassy!

As we stepped from our cars next morning at Little Musselroe, and were nearly knocked- down by the howling westerly, and peered out to sea across the notorious Banks Strait, I half jokingly said to Laurie, "Surely, you don't intend starting out in this?", expecting his reply to be something like, "Shit no, we're not completely crazy cobber! We'll wait until the wind drops off a little". Instead of which he looked me up and down in stunned disbelief and said, "Yeah! Forty knots is ideal for sailing . . . we can spend a bit of time on Swan Island until the tide's right, then head across to Clarke".

The trip started out well with Jeff filming proceedings on video, and Laurie, with two sails up, running circles around us and running at break-neck speed down the face of every big wave that offered itself. His glee was soon to end though, after an extra strong gust of wind blew one sail to rags, and the second mast jammed in it's step, proving difficult to remove in a capsize and roll situation. The temporary loss of a sail only slightly slowed him down, and the sewing kit and patches were brought out as soon as we landed on Swan Is., and an expert repair was effected. In fact, this was the pattern for much of the trip . . . no repair job was ever beyond the realms of possibility, and the necessary materials were always miraculously produced, despite the fact that his boat always seemed half empty and weighed next-to-nothing!

Disaster struck early for Jeff too, when one of the locking latches on his waterproof video camera housing popped open and allowed water into the lens mechanism, and shorted some of the electronics. A hasty field stripping in the lighthouse-keepers house on Swan Is. failed to remedy the problem, so he phoned his wife in Bridport to have a replacement flown out to Lady Barron. Unfortunately for our hopes of having our trip recorded on video, the second camera proved also to be defective! Our brief stay at Swan Is. was punctuated by morning tea with cakes, and a special "Swan Is. Pizza", prepared by mein hosts and island caretakers, Ken and Susan Stoneman, which made tearing ourselves away to tackle the rest of the Banks Strait crossing at 6pm somewhat of a battle, and set a dangerous precedent for gourmet dining that was to plague Rex for the rest of the trip! But leave we did, and as we passed the lighthouse in glassy-smooth conditions, the Stonemans and their guests lined the cliff-top to wave their farewells. The real adventure had now begun!

The tides sweep through Banks Strait at an average 3 to 4 knots, with localised tide-races of around 5 to 6 knots. The best time to cross is about two hours before slack water/low tide so that the change of tide part way over would cancel-out the eastward drift by carrying you back to the west an equivalent amount, which is preferable to battling into a current head-on. However, having spent the day on Swan Is. waiting for the wind-against-tide effect to abate, we had missed the optimum time, and would now have to allow for the out-going tide to carry us on a wide arc out into the Tasman before we would reach our intended landfall at Moriarty Pt. on Clarke Is. An area that lies off this point, known as Moriarty Banks must be avoided at all cost! Laurie had warned us that if we saw we were being carried into this area of turbulence where the currents meet on a shallow bank, "You'd best cut your own throat and be done with!" With this warning fresh in our minds we headed cautiously north by north-west, taking the big glassy ocean swells on our beam.

A short while after leaving the sanctuary of Swan Is. a gentle breeze from the south-east had touched me on the right cheek, which caused me to steal a backward glance in that direction. A small, dirty looking fog-like cloud could just be seen there on the horizon. No cause for concern . . . we paddled on, and the breeze freshened sufficiently to raise sails.

Seven-thirty pm. and the light seemed to me to be fading rather prematurely, so I glanced to the south-east again and recall feeling rather shocked at how rapidly the little fog bank had turned into looming steel-grey storm cloud which now extended well to the east, and round to the south-west. I dropped back to Rex and suggested he look over his shoulder.
"Shit! 'Doesn't look good," was his retort.

The south-easter freshened to a brisk 20 knots with gusts that prompted me to stow my sail, while Laurie revelled in the conditions and made more sail. The tide against the wind caused the sea to 'lump-up' and become sloppy, and a few large drops of rain lashed our faces. The going became more and more difficult . . . paddle, paddle, support, paddle and support again. I wondered what the people who watched our progress past the lighthouse on Swan Is. would have been thinking as they saw the rapidly building storm-front closing in behind us. They would have been concerned for our safety, I'm sure, as only a sea kayaker can know the capability of these wonderful sea-worthy craft. The rest of the world thinks we're crazy! We managed to keep together reasonably well while there was light enough to see, despite the four metre swell, but once darkness settled upon us it became very difficult, and land was still a long way off. Laurie disappeared into the gloom in an effort to reach a safe landing site and set-up a beacon, before complete darkness made it impossible. I soon found it impossible to look behind to keep tabs on Rex, without losing sight of Jeff, so I started a flashing red light and attached it to the back of my PFD hoping Rex would be able to follow, then took a compass bearing on Clarke Island roughly where I'd last seen Jeff heading for, and 'went for it' determined to land on the first beach that presented itself. At this point I was extremely pleased that I had made the effort to rig-up a light for my compass in the weeks preceding the trip.

Just as I came within earshot of the breakers thudding on to a beach, I was relieved to catch sight of a glimmer of light dead ahead, but it disappeared and I felt I may have imagined it. There it was again, and I knew it was Laurie on the beach directing us in. In no time I was broaching onto a sand beach, and felt the elation of having firm ground beneath my feet. I was a little concerned for Rex, because he had no compass and I had no way of knowing if he'd been able to keep visual contact with my flasher, but five minutes later he too made a safe landing and was much relieved to have caught sight of Laurie's guiding light, just when grave concerns were starting to creep into his thoughts. So ended our first crossing of the brooding Banks Strait where the restless waters are never ever stationary. It certainly lived-up to it's reputation for being unpredictable on this occasion, and I hoped that it was just letting us off with a warning . . . the prospect of the return crossing in two weeks time would enter our thoughts often during our stay, and we often joked about it, but not without some real trepidation and respect!

Well before the cold light of dawn had shown on the eastern horizon, we were awakened by a phrase that was to become familiar to us over the ensuing days, "Leaving in five minutes cobber!" Laurie never seems to sleep; doesn't eat breakfast, and very little lunch; and always seems to be packed and ready to go. We hastily pack-up, have a swallow of water and a muesli bar, change into our cold, wet paddling clobber, and we're off through the small surf to find Moriarty Bay, where we'd hoped to be last night.

By morning tea time we were gliding across the Armstrong Channel, that separates Clarke Is. from Cape Barren Is., and shortly, entered the sheltered waters of Kent Bay where Capt. Bishop had established a base-camp for his sealing operations back in 1797-8. From here we rocketed through Sea Lion Narrows which runs at 10 - 12 knots, and slogged, in a tide-induced steep 'slop' around to Petticoat Bay, on the south east of Cape Barren Is. where we camped the night.

Interesting water effects greeted us 'round Cone and Jamiesons Points as we headed Nth-east, then finally, we rounded Cape Barren which was sighted and named by Tobias Furneaux in 1773 , then followed the coast to the Nth-west, via Harley Pt. We were trying to make up the lost time in an effort to reach the wreck of the "FARSUND" by 11 am. at which time Laurie and Jeff had arranged to meet-up with some friends who were shipping their kayaks over to Lady Barron on the "MATTHEW FLINDERS", then spending a week paddling on the west coast of Flinders.

We were only an hour and a half late in reaching the wreck, but there was no sign of any other kayakers. Strong currents ripped around the "FARSUND", and as we ventured in to take some photographs, Laurie was 'spectacularly demolished' by a sudden eruption of dancing pressure waves that simply appeared out of nowhere. There was no way that Jeff and I were going to venture in by the same route, but Laurie soon had himself safely re-installed and sail stowed away. We pressed on for Lady Barron after a brief photo session. Here we learnt that the ferry, "MATTHEW FLINDERS" had been grounded on a rock and wrecked the previous day, preventing the arrival of the sea kayaks we were to have met, so we carried our heavy kayaks up onto the lawn of the Ports Authority Office. Rex had been suffering a lot of discomfort from a hastily modified seat, so with his boat unloaded, Laurie set to work with a borrowed angle-grinder, CSM and resin, and did an expert rebuild. The locals here were most obliging, and one bloke even gave us the use of his Lada Niva to drive up to the general store for some 'goodies'. A gourmet counter-tea of scallops at the pub and a few beers wound-up a memorable day.

Next morning found us 'flying' through Franklin Sound before a brisk sth-easterly, heading for Trousers Point on the Flinders west coast. The pressure of such high speed sailing was more than Jeff's rudder pin could stand, and metal fatigue caused it to snap; the sudden loss of steering causing his boat to round-up without warning. He spent the last seven or eight K's to Trousers Pt., rocketing along, madly trying to maintain steerage with a high ruddering support, in a flurry of spray. A new pin was soon improvised, and normality restored at our nights camp.

A planned lay-day gave us time to climb the spectacular saw-toothed peaks of the Strezelecki Range, known as Flinders Peaks. The view from these usually cloud-shrouded granite ramparts was well worth the effort . . and the blisters!

Striking northwards for Emita where we intended checking-out the museum, we stopped for yet another gourmet feast of pies and pasties at the Whitemark bakery . . . despite objections from Laurie, that Rex's boat wasn't getting any lighter!

At Allports Beach near Emita we were entreated to a meeting with 'budding' sea kayaker, accomplished musician, juggler, . . . a.a.and local school teacher, Bruce Evans, who thoughtfully brought us some of his ( at this point in time ) very precious rainwater. The entire area was in the grip of the worst drought in recorded history. Bruce regaled us with a demonstration of his juggling skills, using skittles that he'd fashioned himself; each one requiring 8 re-cycled plastic Coke bottles! Being an ardent consumer of Coke himself, Laurie endeavoured to duplicate one of these skittles . . . but with only moderate success!

With yet another early start, we cut across the broad 11 km sweep of Marshall Bay, keeping Mt Tanner and the bluff of Cape Frankland under our bows. A cray-boat lay at anchor in the lee of Roydon Is. as we pulled in to an adjacent cove for a rest break prior to knocking over the final twenty odd k's 'round the cape, and in to Killiecrankie. Calm conditions in the lee of Cape Frankland allowed us to stay right in close to explore the boulder-strewn coastline; something Laurie said he'd never had the opportunity to do before due to rough seas on previous trips.

As we arrived in the sheltered Killiecrankie Bay, thunder-clouds were building rapidly, and Laurie decided to give camping a miss, in preference for his friend, Alf Stackhouse's comfortable guest bungalow. Alf was away for the day, attending a social wing-ding at Emita, but he didn't seem to mind that we'd taken-up squatters rights. Here we stayed for the next three days, trapped by the most horrendous storms you can imagine. Thunder and lightning, gale-force winds, and up to six and a half inches of rain that caused flash-flooding. We couldn't have planned to have been at a better place if we'd tried. A pub would have been nice, though even this wish was fulfilled by the kind donation of a couple of bottles of Alf's excellent 'home brew'! Business 'boomed' for the local store during our enforced stay, as Rex and I wore a track to their door as we set about reducing their stockpile of pies, ice creams, and other delicacies. It was a shame to have to leave such a 'garden of Eden'.

One of Laurie's tentative trip objectives had been to paddle the east coast of Flinders Island, despite the fact that it is made-up mainly of two great expansive surf beaches, punctuated only by Babel Island, and with few opportunities to land except in 'humungus' surf in bad easterly weather. Our delay at Killiecrankie, coupled with the fact that the wind had now gone 'round to a solid nth-easterly ruled-out attempting this, in favour of retracing our steps down the west coast, and taking what opportunities arose to visit such islands as Mt. Chappell, Badger and Goose. Jeff and I were both keen to stop and investigate the ruins of the aboriginal settlement at Wybalenna. This is where George Augustus Robinson, Protector of Aboriginals attempted to re-settle the remnants of the Van Diemen's Land tribes in the 1830's. The settlement was a failure and they died like flies, before being re-located to Oyster Bay.

Our camp at Settlement Pt. was unremarkable, except for the curious nocturnal behaviour of a local . . . er, 'Fisherman'(?). At least, we think he was a fisherman! He was observed carrying crates and boxes, a canvas swag and other paraphernalia out and loading it into an aluminium dingy, right on dusk. He left his Landrover with the door hanging open and the keys in the ignition, and headed off towards Prime Seal Island. At 4 am, we were awakened by his return, banging and clattering crates into the back of the 'rover, whilst singing loudly to the tune of what sounded like the William Tell overture!!? ' Wonder what 'wild herbs' are growing out there on Prime Seal?

The sea was calm as we nosed our way back across Arthur Bay, and despite a gentle breeze 'on the nose', the going was easy. As we rounded Long Pt. with Whitemark again in sight, we found we were battling a strong ebb tide current. I found Jeff's description, ". . . like having your paddles set in cement ", an apt one. Then a sudden cloud-burst obliterated everything beyond 50 metres. Just as it started to clear a bit, I heard a curious roar, and then a flapping sound behind, and looked back to see Laurie with both sails up, and Rex attempting to deploy his sails ( the flapping sound!). The wind had changed, and now a storm was sweeping in from the north-west, preceded by a tremendous gust of wind. Laurie came from 100 meters behind Jeff and I in a trice, and shot past to reach Whitemark well ahead of us. Rex never did quite get his sails sorted out before the gust hit, and not being able to get them down either, just concentrated on staying up-right until the wind blew him up on the Whitemark beach. I wasn't game to put my sail up with so much electrical pyrotechnics about . . . I was worried I might get my 'just deserts' for an ill-spent youth!

The weather here-abouts sure is changeable; it can blow from all points of the compass during any 'normal' day. The forecast seems to be a standard "Strong Wind Warning", but NO DIRECTION IS GIVEN! Can you believe that?

Anyway, while the rain and hailstones blew through, we had a quick game of pool at the pub, raided the bakery again, then changed back into our cold, wet paddling gear, and continued on our way to Trousers Point ( much to the amusement of the freight-handler at the wharf, whose shed we used as a change-room ).

We were cold and wet by the time we arrived at the camp-site at Trousers, and the Nth-westerly was roaring through the sheoaks and had the appearance of continuing through the night. It did . . . and all the next day . . . and into the next! Laurie would have gone next day, despite a 9km crossing into a 25knot head-wind and biggish seas, to reach Mt. Chappell Is., but agreed to wait a day to let things settle down a bit. We might as well have gone the first day, because things weren't really much better when we left the day after.

During our lay-day, Jeff, Rex and myself tramped around to Big River 'to advance our knowledge of Flinders Is'. (and to kill time). We had to do a bit of bush-bashing, and in so doing, upset one of the locals who attempted to bite Jeff. We weren't going to argue with the five foot reptile, and hurried off to get a change of underwear for Rex ( he's got a 'thing' about snakes!).

We packed anyway, and got started for Chappell by about 7.30am, with the hope of getting some assistance from a flooding tide. The wind at Whitemark was given as 19knots, but I reckon it was probably more like 25 where we were, right 'on the nose'. It looked like being a real slog.

As we drew away from the shelter of Trousers Pt. the seas became large and steep. Rex told me later that he was counting seven paddle strokes to reach the top of the biggest ones! I wondered why they weren't breaking. They reared-up ominously, as if they were about to break, but came to nothing. Except the one that got me, that is! I was caught-out nicely by a fairly unspectacular-looking wave that just stood-up a little steeper than the rest, and broke without warning. I was slightly quarter-on to it, and as it broke I made the mistake of reaching forward to my right to support into the crest. Unfortunately for me there was no back to the thing, and the highly aerated foam gave no support, and I capsized to my right. A roll should have been easy, but the wave breaking in my face had caused me to exhale what air I had in my lungs in an effort to clear my airways. I baled-out, rolled the kayak up and hopped back in, but before I could get settled I was rolled over again. I was just going for a re-entry and roll when Laurie drew-up along side and rafted-up to lend a hand. We were underway again in no time. In hind-sight, I would have been better to have done a low-support on my left and behind ( the down-hill side of the wave!).

After a tendon-tearing slog, during which a sudden eye-stinging rain-squall had obscured all visibility ( "wiped Chappell off the radar screen", as Rex descriptively put it ) we finally made a landfall on Mt. Chappell Is., home of the biggest and stroppiest black tiger snakes known to man! The first bite brought a yelp from Jeff, but a close inspection of the leg of his thermals revealed nothing more than a wounded scorpion that had somehow taken up residence.

We climbed the mountain before lunch, and only saw five snakes . . . the other 3995 must have been waiting for the rain to stop before venturing out!

A short hop across a strait brought us to Badger Island, where Alf Stackhouse has held a grazing lease for many years. One of the lower, more arable of the Furneaux group, the history of the island makes for interesting reading. It was first occupied during the lawless days of the sealing era of the early 1800's when absconding convicts, naval deserters and adventurers of every kind took-up residence with their kidnapped aboriginal women slaves/concubines/ wives (call 'em what you will) to eke out a living from sealing for skins and oil. After the seals were wiped out, never to return, a half-caste aboriginal woman, Lucy Beedon took up residence on Badger, where she established a school and set about trying to raise the general morality of the mixed-race of people known as the "Straitsmen". Her grave can be found in a pretty spot near Lucy Point. Despite seeing nearly as many snakes here as we did on Chappell, I could happily spend more time on this island, exploring and photographing.

As I awoke to a perfect dawn, Badger Island was to turn on a display that will live in my memory as long as I live. I had purposely oriented my bivvy-bag so that I could get a view through the mozzie-proof screen of the sky to the south and east, and the beautiful little bay. I like to look out and see the Southern Cross if I awake during the night. Anyway, as the eastern sky started to 'colour-up' with the rising sun, I was lying there watching, mentally preparing myself to leap out and grab my camera when the light was at its' best. A dark object broke the placid waters of the bay and arrested my attention. Unzipping the bivvy entrance, I sat up and was treated to a ten minute 'dolphin ballet'. A small pod of dolphins was breakfasting on fish not 20 yards from the beach with the rising sun colouring the scene, and here I was lying watching from my bed! It was as if it was choreographed especially for me.

By the time I remembered I should be photographing the performance, it was all but over.

With a feeling that 'nothing can top that', we headed for Goose Island with its lighthouse that marks the western approach to Banks Strait from Bass Strait. Landing on Goose would not be easy with any sort of sea running, but conditions were near perfect and we simply landed on gently shelving granite and carried our kayaks up out of harms way. Yet another visual feast was our reward. Goose is a tiny island that the seas would break right over in a westerly blow, and supports only pigface and a few stunted shrubs, and yet several families lived here for long periods in isolation in the days when the lighthouse was manned.

We waited on Goose Is. only long enough for the tide to change in our favour, then made a bee-line for Cape Sir John, 20 k's away on Cape Barren Is. Roughly mid way we stopped on Boxen Island; just long enough for Rex to leave his sunglasses behind. Laurie generously volunteered to go back for them, but upon returning claimed that he'd found them okay, but had slipped and smashed them on the rocks. He later surrendered them to Rex, declaring that they didn't match his eyes and he wouldn't be seen dead in them!

We were hoping for a 'cushy' night in the hut on Preservation Island, as a 'finale' to our two weeks amongst the islands, but it wasn't to be. The owner of the establishment and a few of his mates had flown over from Launceston for a few days, so we had to be content to bivvy on the 'front lawn'. This little island is the site of the shipwreck that sparked the beginning of the end for the Bass Strait seals. In 1797, the "SYDNEY COVE" was deliberately grounded adjacent to Preservation Island, and all hands and most of her speculative cargo of spiritous liquor, bound for Sydney, was safely landed to save both from certain destruction. The story of the ships Chief Officer, Hugh Thompson and Supercargo, William Clarke's amazing journey, first by long boat to the 90Mile Beach where they were again wrecked, and then on foot to Sydney to raise the alarm, is an almost unbelievable adventure. Only three of the original seventeen officers and crew survived the trip.

Our adventure was drawing to an end. All that remained was a two hour paddle 'round the sth-west of Clarke Is. to Rebecca Bay, then the 20 odd k's across Banks Strait. We'd hoped for a Nth-westerly to speed us across this formidable stretch of water, but it wasn't to be. In fact, it was right on the nose, but fortunately, only a gentle zephyr. By heading directly for Cape Portland, instead of going via Swan Is. we were able to extract a minimal amount of assistance from the wind, but towards the end of the crossing we suffered burn-out against an adverse tide-set. This soon changed after we turned our bows eastward for Lt. Musselroe, and raced along in a brisk tide-stream.

Equipment:
Laurie Ford, Sea Leopard - twin sails
Jeff Jennings, Greenlander MkIII- single sail
Rex Brown, Greenlander MkIII- twin sails
John Hyndman, Greenlander MkIV- twin sails
Approx. Distance Travelled: 380 kms
Greatest days' travel: 43kms
Average Days' travel: 38kms
Weather: Bad . . . except for the odd day . . . which was worse!
Wind: Strong . . . most days, Stronger on others
Highlights of the trip: "Swan Is. Pizza" / Whitemark bakery
Quotable quotes: ". . . leaving in 5 minutes cobber!" Laurie Ford.
" . . . an' two pies, one sausage roll . . . guess I better have one of those beesting cakes too! . ." Rex Brown.

Recommended reading:
The Furneaux Islands, Vol.1 by Richard Fowler.
Flinders Island, by Jean Edgecombe ( Algona Books).
The Wreck of the Sydney Cove, by Max Jefferies
Guiding Lights, by Kathleen M.Stanley

Maps & Charts:
Tasmap Topographic 1:100,000 "Flinders Is."
Tasmap Topographic 1:100,000 "Swan Is."
Nautical Chart, Eastern Bass Strait, Aus 445a.