On the third day, one day after my first ever sail, Pittwater was hit by the biggest storm in 20 years.
The winds were incredible, like you only notice on those really bad days peering out of your house at overflowing gutters, your backyard flooded, streets swollen with overrun drains, the trees all sideways, debris, branches, corrugated iron bowling around, your trampoline landing in another postcode. That sort of day.

I was on a boat, learning exactly how sideways a boat could get whilst tethered to a block of underwater concrete.
watching boats nearby sailing on anchor, dancing figure eights and careening broadly towards other fishtailing, heeled over boats. Not really anyone’s idea of fun, though certainly a distraction from the worry of my own welfare.

Over this 3 day period where it was too unsafe to get neither on nor off the boat, electrical troubles started occuring.
Here’s the situation: Two people, living aboard, using waterpumps, lights, refrigeration, charging phones etc with a raging storm and no incoming solar energy. The batteries ran down fairly quickly. This is where the battery charging situation was first noted.

Starting the engine to put charge into the huge batteries yielded a comforting sense of control, and just enough noise to block out the intimidating howl of the wind. It achieved precious little else.
The alternator was inadequate and couldn’t deal out the required load. This begins a whole other saga about marine electrics that I’m sure will have plenty of boaties chuckling in agreement.

It also begins a tale of my burgeoning understanding of energy consumption and a valuable lesson for the socially and environmentally conscious amongst us. Another time perhaps.

Anyway, there I am, lying awake with the boat bucking and skidding, trying to wear myself out so I could sleep, with little success. M suggested getting a hotel if I was too scared to ride it out. Safety or wussiness? Tough call. I asked him honestly, whether he actually felt safe (or was it just bravado?). He said ‘yes’. You can’t lie on truthboat.

Emergency vehicles were heard tracing their way through the hills where power lines had fallen; occasionally a flashlight danced through the rain as dwellers made hasty house repairs. In all, things seemed better, though at a more acute angle, on the boat.

On the second day, the spirited jostling from the storm was more familiar and I was too exhausted for fear to stay awake. I was rocked violently to sleep, snug in the ignorance and faith that everthing would be fine.

Days later when the wind eased and the storm settled into memory, a choir of chainsaws rang across the bay. Enormous industrial skip-bins were lined up outside supermarkets, filled with rotting frozen goods. Stores on the peninsula couldn’t open for lack of power, restaurants couldn’t cook, bookies couldn’t book, generator sales however, went through the roof.

A week after the first, Veritas went for another offshore sail. The muddy brown water gushing from the surrounding hills and rivers reached 4n miles out to sea churning the swell into a creamy chocolate milkshake as it frothed against the hull. Quite a sight.

Apparantly a yacht dragged it’s concrete mooring a nautical mile along Pittwater, other boats washed up on beaches, a few collided with each other and large debris like tree trunks were spotted floating throughout the waterways. An alert was put out to mariners of such large debris, including that of a car floating down the Hawkesbury. So much visible carnage everywhere. We rode it out fine.

Despite the few marine mishaps, the floating estate appeared to survive better than the wind torn roofs, the small fires, smashed windows, uprooted trees, fences and decorations that were common to the surrounding houses.

That was a bit of a revelation for this transitional land-lubber. Sometimes things are better on the boat.

–

Sometimes they are not.