AN HONOURED GUEST

Dad came on board Moonraker for a few days. We were in Townsville.  I'd been wanting him to come for ages, since it was his influence that set me on the path to sailing and so in some ways Moonraker was his fault (or to his credit). 

"Where is that damn jetty? I built it to last."
At Horseshoe Bay, 2011.

Townsville was appropriate, as it was in Townsville 52 years ago that he (and therefore I) began sailing.  With a young family in tow, and a professional reputation to build, he had been transferred from Melbourne by John Holland to manage the building of the new Townsville sugar jetty and a few other jetties. So, being back in Townsville was like coming back to the scene of the crime !

The Nonpareil on a mooring in Ross Creek
late 50s. 



Nice boat!



In the 50s, in Townsville he purchased the first in a long string of boats. She was a Herreshoff 24 named Nonpareil. The Nonny was the site of many an adventure about which family stories are still told. Dad was able to identify the exact spot on Ross Creek where the Nonny was moored so long ago.



Coincidentally, Townsville was also site of the success of the most ambitious of the range of yachts he has owned.  In Perth in the 70’s he (with the help of his son Boyd and various tradesmen in his employ) built a 33 ft Crowther-design Kraken racing trimaran, named after my sister Karen L. He raced it in Perth, mainly shorthanded, as Boyd will attest,  and occasionally with me and my mother as crew. But he but always felt it was underutilised.  Imagine his pleasure to find that it had gone on to great things. Rebadged “The Sting” and with a crew of 5 hefty blokes, it became a notable ‘go-fast’ racer in the 80s in Townsville. A picture showing it with spray flying, doing 30 knots and with its lee float almost buried is said to still grace the walls of the local yacht club. Dad spent a while on Moonraker chatting to Colin, the son of The Sting’s former owner (now deceased.) Colin was his dad's key crew member in The Sting's heyday. Endless detail was learned about how and why she went so fast (other than the excellent build, of course) and stories swapped of her glorious career.



The Great Helmsman, 50 years on,
but still at the helm off
Magnetic Island in a stiff 20 knot SE.



The yard-arm is still the most
useful time-keeping device.  Thanks
Helen!



Townsville is also now home to Helen Murdoch, Dad’s niece and my cousin. She with husband Ian not only put us in touch with The Sting connections but hosted us generously while we were there.  With their boat as yet half-built, the cruising light is in their eye.













MEDICAL EMERGENCY

It was well after dark.  We were snug on a mooring in Cateran Bay.  The gourmet meat pies to which I had been looking forward were ready for serving.   Then we heard a muffled hail.  From the cockpit I could make out a dinghy with outboard rumbling, standing off our stern, two people dimly discernable. 

Over the sound of the outboard motor I couldn’t make out all the words, but a youthful female voice with a marked English accent shouted. “Muffle muffle …you have any … muffle muffle muffle ….bandages? My sister has cut herself”.

A medical emergency!  I shout: “We have a first aid kit. Come and get what you need.”

The young woman clambers out of her dinghy, picks her way around hanging wetsuits and into the cockpit and thence into the saloon. I dig out our largish first aid kit, of which I am proud.   I indicate that she can take what she needs from it.  She dives in.  “My sister has cut herself on the coral and we are worried about scarring”.  Visions of horrific coral cuts flash to mind.  I hope it’s not on the face. 

There is a touch of hysteria in the way she quickly pulls out and discards item after item, and our lounge is soon covered by the things she doesn’t want. “Do you need antiseptic or antibiotic ”?  I ask.  Short response: “No we have that”.  “Do you need bandages?” I ask,  ineffectually watching as our substantial stock of sterile bandages and tapes hits the lounge. Impatient now, she said: “No. We need butterfly clips that pull the wound together so there is no scarring”.

I am doubtful now.  I don’t think we have any. I feel as though I have let the side down. I ask how bad the cut is.  “It’s about a centimetre long, on her foot”, she explains. 

A centimetre? The sister must be a famous foot model? I hold my tongue.

Having rooted through the whole medical kit and confirmed that there are no butterfly clips, she heads off, the contents of our kit by now fairly well distributed.  “I’m sorry,” I apologise abjectly as she clambers into her dinghy.  She turns back and mutters “It’ll probably scar now”.  Do I detect an accusatory tone?

I respond mildly: “Perhaps she can wear the scar as a badge of honour? ” The girl pauses:  “That’s what Dad said”. Then I notice Dad sitting patiently in the dingy. I can’t see him clearly but he is quite hunched, probably a sensible man but unequal to asserting control over his self-absorbed offspring.

As I go back down to pack away my wonderful first aid kit, I realise that there are two items I need to add to it.

First addition will be butterfly clips, in case another foot model stubs her toe.

But more importantly I need a bottle of those pills the army dole out to the injured and sick.   They go by the trade name TTFU Pills, and apparently work wonders when dispensed to young recruits when they feel that they just can’t go on. The recruits open the bottle to find no pills, but on close inspection the label is more helpful: TTFU (Toughen-The-Fuck-Up)*.  I need some of those pills, again in case another foot model hoves into view.

*I am indebted to Carmel and Nick from Thistle who introduced me to the concept of TTFU Pills, which were indeed dispensed to their son in his initial training. He went on to become the winning skipper of the Round the World Clipper Race, so I suspect they really work!