We had one glorious afternoon off in Bundaberg after the photo shoot and the three of us girls high-tailed it to the marina showers. The salt, sweat and grime (and fishoil in my case, as the first mate had me oiling the standing rigging during not-the-smoothest-day-out and I quite successfully oiled myself as well) of ten days’ sailing having been washed away, we felt like new people indeed. We were so stoked that we took a picture so we could remember in times to come what it was like to be clean.
Now back to the vinyl sticker problem… We took an early start to our next publicity stop, Brisbane, and arrived a few days before we were due, which gave us a little time to figure out just what we were going to do about those sails. There was an interesting storm that was passing through as we neared the port, and we anchored in a pretty cool spot off of Morton Island, Tangalooma, a sanctuary with long white beaches and bright green vegetation. The next morning was tempting for a swim in the turquoise water, but by that time an executive decision had been made that we would hand paint the sails. Circumstances were dire and now the distilling company was threatening to sue us because we had sent the "wrong" ship... So we had to use any means necessary to make this tasting an unreal experience.
While I scrambled up to the t'gallant with another crew to strike the sail and lower it to the deck, the second mate and bosun did some paint tests on a scrap canvas. Our black oil-based paint bled through the canvas, so we would have to use primer underneath it. The captain made a call to the marina we were to dock at and asked about a warehouse or grassy area we could lay some sails out...
A few hours later, up the river and safely tucked into Rivergate Marina, we had a tracing party of four working on the t'gallant and replacing some missing letters while the rest of the crew struck the course and dragged that out onto a well-trimmed lawn just above our dock. After the tracing, the priming began, and then the black as the primer dried. We had four days to finish all 5 of the branded sails, which included the outer jib and the mainsail (these were branded on both sides), so our days began at 6am and finished when the sun went down. Mr first mate made himself head of the painting team (which was the entire crew excepting the cook at certain times of the day) because he had been trained at a prestigious art school where, he informed one of our hands who was herself a professional impressionist painter, they taught "real, proper drawing and art, not all the fartsy common feel-as-you-paint-it impressionism crap." So that was fun.
Miraculously at the end of the four days, we had all the sails finished and bent back on except for the mainsail. But we wouldn't be hoisting it anyway, so we had one side finished that we decided to hang off the boom and that was good enough for now. The evening before the big tasting event was to take place, the rep for the marketing company came down to discuss the photo shoot with the captain. She nearly gasped when she was informed it would possibly take more than ten minutes to take the ship off the dock, set the sails, turn around and come back in. Our skipper gently noted, "well, this ship weighs 300 tons, she has an old engine, and the tide will be moving through the river tomorrow, so she's not the easiest thing to just pull in and out." However, that had no effect and she seemed to leave with the impression we must be a bunch of mad idiots. That was only the start of the rudeness shown us by the marketers, but I digress.
The next morning was clear and bright with only a few clouds in the distance as we unfurled all the sails and cleaned up the ship to the last detail; we were sure this photo shoot and tasting were going to be flawless. The photo shoot went off without a hitch and those guys seemed quite happy with it. Then we waited for the tasting which was to start at two. It was about noon when the distant clouds rolled closer and became darker and more ominous, and then it started to rain... Thunder rolled and lightning struck an made it's way closer, and about then we were informed that the tasting had been moved to a secondary venue due to the weather. As we slogged up the ratlines to furl the sails, the second mate called down to me, "they say getting struck by lightning isn't a problem, so long as you're not near anything wet or high!"
Hopping further down the coast, we continued to paint the backside of the mainsail underway. There were a few rainy days, so geniuses that we were, we dragged the sail into the lower saloon but unfortunately the single fan we had was no match for the fumes and we had some very entertaining afternoons... The Newcastle tasting was cancelled as well, so we continued down and near the last week of November we pulled into Broken Bay, which is just a half-day's sail North of Sydney. The next morning we were due for our epic entrance to Sydney Harbour (technically Port Jackson) at dawn under full sail, to be photographed by a helicopter. But we had just the one day at Pitt Water to enjoy ourselves and catch our breath.
It was a Thursday, and we calculated that since it was the third one of the month, it should be Thanksgiving. It wasn't, incidentally, but we enjoyed an Aussie sort of thanksgiving with a big dinner and a birthday cake for one of the kids. It was a good day. We weighed anchor at midnight and booked it down the coast for the grand entrance.
I was lying in my bunk, listening to the rain on the deck above me and the rushing of the wind in the rigging and dreading the thought of getting up, when the silhouette of the second mate leaned into the doorway. "Good morning, it's wet, cold, miserable and it's time to get to work." I jumped into my bibs and foul weather jacket and slogged out onto the deck. It certainly was wet, cold and miserable. The safety lines were set up in the midships, and in the predawn mid-blackness I could make out the captain and the mates at the helm. We rolled heavily in the beam seas, and a slosh of green water swept across my bare feet, not the warmest, but also not the coldest I've felt. I didn't want to be awake. I was contemplating my warm dry bunk when the second mate came stomping forward. "You ready to unfurl the t'gallant?" I always got the t'gallant, no matter what. I guessed it had to do with being the youngest deck crew, but I usually didn't mind the climb to the highest sail. However, it was dark and we were rolling; this was going to be an effort.
I clamped my hands onto the shrouds and started the climb as the ship swung away from me and I became more horizontal. The roll slowed down, I wrapped my arms where I was and the ship rolled towards me until I was hanging over the ocean. Then we started back the other way, and I climbed a few more feet, and so it was the whole 90 feet up over the futtocks and finally onto the t'gallant yard. The yard was worse because I swung to the left and felt like rolling off the end of the yard, my feet at a sharp angle to the footropes, and then I swung to the right and felt like slamming into the mast. Anyhow I scrambled out to the end, took the sheet off the yard and worked toward the center unfurling the gaskets. The second mate nipped out on the starboard side and did the same thing, and it was very nice having another person up there to make you feel more sane. As we finished the sky was turning purply and the rain lightened a bit; it really was quite beautiful out.
The only issue was the overcast-ness, and indeed as we came through the heads at the appointed time we failed to sight any helicopter. We were also informed that Southern Swan would be hosting the grand exhibition at the Sydney wharf (because, you know, they had wanted the black ship this whole time), and so we would be relinquishing the bottle of rum and instead taking the five daysails that Swan was scheduled for. It felt like a kick in the gut, but that's life sometimes. In contrast, despite the craziness and all the goings-on, it had been a voyage of a lifetime. Some of the worst times, the funniest and certainly some of the best too, had all been part of the unique experience. Ironically, the mainsail we had painted turned out to be the new $30,000 main (the skipper owner was NOT happy, and it's still a mystery how we should attempt to remove the paint...). The helicopter did show when we were inside the harbour, and for all their troubles, there is the picture below that made the newspaper. Unfortunately you can't see our handpainted sails, but you will see those in the next picture, which is one that I took.
I have concluded that everything that the trip was about, promoting the rum company via the press, turned out to be pretty disappointing, especially after all that work. The marketing company were real jerks, and from a superficial (and possibly financial) perspective, the whole voyage was a waste of time. But on the inside it was a success. We had a great crew that came together as a strong team and did almost the impossible, we had two great captains that led us through the insanity and I came away with some great friends and a wealth of knowledge and experience. Thus must end the tale of the Bundaberg Voyage.
