by Julie Hartwig
September 2005
Crossing the Wide Bay Bar. Those who’ve done it can probably tell a story about it for each of the fingers on their hands. Some would be truly terrifying accounts; others like walks in the park. The first half of 2005 had dished up plenty of horror stories with capsizes, a fatality and numerous other serious incidents, so it was with some trepidation that I faced my first bar crossing.
The opportunity presented itself rather suddenly: Brindabella II was heading south after her foray to the Whitsunday’s and the prospect of a day sail to Mooloolaba – including the bar crossing and some ocean cruising – was too good to pass up.
On Sunday September 18, 2005, Jon and I fronted up at the dock at 6.30, cast off the mooring lines and headed out of Tin Can Inlet. The air was crisp and still. The waters of the inlet were a mirror reflecting a cloudless pale blue post dawn sky, tinted with subtle pinks and oranges that the rising sun slowly chased away. As Brindabella burbled along, engine thumping softly, her wake rippled out behind her like arms embracing the magnificent vista of the Inlet. It was one of those magical mornings when it’s good to be alive living in that moment of time when the world seems untouched by anything ugly.
As planned, we arrived at Inskip at 0745, right on high tide, which would allow us to cross the bar with the first of the ebb tide. A light NW breeze had sprung up as we opened the Sandy Strait and a gentle SE swell rolled lazily in through the channel as we picked up Big Mick and headed east towards the infamous Wide Bay Bar, lurking somewhere out there to seaward. Having heard stories of and seen photographs of the bar in angry, destructive moods, my rather active imagination conjured visions of massive breakers and mountainous seas requiring copious amounts of experience to negotiate. I was prepared to sit back out of the way, hang on to the boat with fingers crossed and hope we got across in one piece.
Jon took the helm, steering a compass course to waypoint 3. He made it look easy, standing there, wheel held lightly in his hands, feet braced against Brindabella’s gentle pitching motion as she met the swells sluicing into the channel. Several minutes into the channel, Geoff invited me to steer. I was quite happy where I was, on lookout for the treacherous seas I was expecting we’d soon meet. But Geoff was insistent and I suddenly found myself holding a steering wheel and being told to steer 085 degrees by the compass on the steering console.
Jon and Geoff explained how to use Big Mick as a back bearing and how the two Inskip leads had to be “closed up” – this would indicate our arrival at waypoint 3 – and then held closed up when we changed course to steer to waypoint 2. I fully expected to be relieved of the helm once we arrived at waypoint 3, but no. Geoff simply gave me the new bearing – 055 degrees – and told me I had to look out for the Hook Point white on the port quarter which would indicate our arrival at waypoint 2.
Beam on to the swell, Brindabella rolled lazily from port to starboard and back again as each swell slid easily beneath her hull. Over to starboard we could see breakers on the South Spit – long, translucent blue tunnels capped with white foam. A constant reminder of the power of the waters we were sailing in. The rolling motion made it hard to hold the compass course and I was constantly oversteering and correcting in an attempt to keep the compass needle on the desired 055 degree heading. I eventually figured that the trick was to watch the incoming swells and steer into them until Brindabella crested the swell, then steer off as she slid down the back side. Using this tactic, I managed to stay within five degrees of the required course.
Geoff kept a constant watch on his navigating computer below, but somehow we missed the Hook Point white by about a hundred metres. A few quick calculations soon had us back on course heading to waypoint 1 – 120 degrees – with me still on the helm and wondering when all the rough stuff was going to start. Everything had been pretty tame to date: less than half a metre of swell, thirty-plus feet of water under Brindabella’s keel, and a NW breeze that had yet to crack double figures.
Then Jon and Geoff began watching the depth sounder and steadily the sea floor began shoaling: 35 feet, 32, 30, 28, 24, 18, 15, 14, 15, 21, 29. Half a foot of swell, Jon and Geoff reckoned. Almost a flat calm. The readings on the depth sounder continued to quickly fall: 35, 42, 50, 58, 65 feet and there the sounder stuck. The depths had apparently changed too quickly for the electronics to keep up so it jammed on the last reading it had deciphered. Nothing to worry about we were well into deep water. Another quick consult with the laptop, a new course to steer was passed – 155 degrees – together with the instruction to steer just off Double Island Point.
The panorama of Wide Bay opened out on the starboard side, with Rainbow Beach and the coloured sands as a backdrop. Four-wheel drives zipped along the beach like tiny ants as the beach hove into view and then disappeared as Brindabella rode the ocean swells.
It was around this time that I asked where the Bar was. “About half a mile behind us”, I was told. “Remember the shallow bit we passed over? That was it.” I had made my first Wide Bay Bar crossing without even being aware of it. All agreed I couldn’t have had a better day to do it; the conditions had been ideal. I baulk at saying it was a piece of cake. In crossing the Wide Bay Bar, your vessel is in Mother Nature’s hands. You take what she gives you and treat the Bar with the greatest respect. If you are lucky to have a good crossing, as I was, accept it gratefully together with the knowledge that the next time, you may not be so lucky.