Bum's Bay, Southport Spit

[Kyle]From Sand Hills, we made an intermediate stop on the way south at Slipping Sands, which we were hoping would be similar, only on a smaller scale, but it was really not much more than a beach. Our real destination was Bum’s Bay, which for some reason was just calling us.

An overnight stop at a calm Slipping Sands provided some beautiful moments

Bum’s Bay is just on the south side of the Southport entrance, making it an ideal staging point while waiting for suitable weather to make the offshore jump to the next port. Our day from Slipping Sands looked like it was going to be an easy one, with light winds and just a slight chance of thunderstorms in the afternoon. By the time we finally pulled into Bum’s Bay, however, we were wild-eyed and our nerves were frazzled.

Quite the storm and downpour on passage to Bum's Bay, at times it seemed like zero visibility

An hour or so earlier, we had been sailing along slowly using only the jib, with the wind almost dead astern. Dark clouds approached from the west and the wind switched to dead ahead. I started an engine and rolled up the jib (Maryanne was in the cabin on the computer).

Then it started to rain. It rained ever harder and the wind also picked up. I turned on our radar and started sounding fog signals. Then the wind increased even more. It arrived with a boom. It was no longer raining so much as the sky was gushing water. Neither of us could even see anything past the forward beam. The radar returns were completely overwhelmed with the deluge and I was way too busy to be fiddling with the gain.

The wind overwhelmed the engine’s power and pushed us to a stop and then backwards. We lost steerageway. I started the other engine, but even with both going and directing their washes over the rudders, I couldn’t turn the boat or push against the wind enough to keep us going where I wanted.

The wind was now in the high forties and staying there. In several places, the snaps on the cockpit enclosure failed and then the zippers either split or just pulled out of the fabric. Half of the panels started flapping like crazy, pounding into the ones that weren’t damaged yet. I didn’t dare leave the helm and Maryanne, who had her face just behind our big, wrap-around acrylic cabin window, was the only one who had any hint of visibility at all. We had no choice but to ride it out and deal with any damage to the enclosure later.

Begonia tends to want to ride about seventy degrees to the wind if allowed to drift freely. In winds under ten knots, this is hardly noticeable. When trying to set anchor or pick up a mooring ball in twenty, it can be downright annoying, requiring lots of asymmetric power to overcome. With a bit of speed, say two or three knots, she can be easily steered through the whole compass all of the way into the thirties. With the wind just below fifty, like it was now, we were being turned sideways and pushed downwind whether we wanted to be or not. I could use the engine power to add a forward or backward component to the vector. That allowed us to drift plus or minus forty degrees from directly downwind. That was enough to keep us in the channel and off of the sandbanks to either side.

I was doing a reasonable job of keeping us where I wanted by using lots of forward power when Maryanne yelled at me to stop. There was a small sailboat two boat lengths ahead. I started backing up slightly and was about to resume going forward again when she told me the sailboat was towing a small speedboat on a long line. What‽ More reverse had us coming so close to the edge that I was expecting an imminent bump when I managed to finally get the engines into forward gear again. The two tethered boats disappeared into the rain. We never learned their fate.

Another terrible set of gusts sent us edging almost onto the opposite bank before the storm finally passed and we were able to regain normal control. When the skies cleared, we were surprised to find that the banks on either side of the channel were not littered with wrecked boats that had dragged their moorings.

On arriving in Bum’s Bay, we thought the scene would be worse. Bum’s Bay has a reputation for being so crowded that it is virtually impossible to anchor within it with enough scope out for good holding and not foul someone else’s ground tackle. Subsequent study of the day’s radar images revealed that the violent magenta area to the north where we had been had been relatively small. Bum’s Bay got away with only a light sprinkle. Maryanne and I arrived looking like we were newbies freaked out over a mild drizzle.

The calm and the sunset at Bum's Bay helped relax us after the stressful passage {Maryanne: Bum's bay is the unofficial name (but the one that everyone uses) the real name of the anchorage is (we think) Marine Stadium. Nearby is a host of theme parks to enjoy (but we avoided).}

We managed to find a decent-sized spot between a cabin cruiser with a generator powered by a chainsaw motor and a wooden schooner whose skipper was casting a very wary eye upon us. That’s because we let out a whole lot of chain, then backed down until we were within slapping distance of his railing to make sure our anchor was set. Once we were sure it was buried, we brought half of the chain back aboard and he retreated back to his cabin. He was no doubt impressed with our diligence. We stayed aboard for the night to make sure we really would stay away from all of the nearby vessels during the whole diurnal wind and tide cycle.

In the morning, we rowed ashore with the intent of taking a long walk along the beach to the south of the Southport entrance. It was hot and we found the whole track devoid of any refreshments for miles (the first two cafes that were marked on the map were closed for repairs). By the time we made it to Main Beach, the working water fountain at the end might has well have been an ice cream shop and soda fountain. It’s amazing how delicious lukewarm water can be when you’re really thirsty.

The weather transformed (again) and we enjoyed a long walk the length of the Southport Spit

That rejuvenated us enough to make it further into Main Beach’s restaurant district for real. There, over a rather disappointing meal, we learned that Main Beach is the Gold Coast’s most posh area. That’s why my hockey puck of a sandwich looked lonely on a plate free of salad or fries.

The Gold Coast is nice, in a manufactured sort of way, but I found it much too crowded for my taste. There’s so much traffic that you actually have to look before stepping into the street. It was the same with Bum’s Bay. It was hard to get used to being only one or two boat lengths away from the other anchored boats. We decided to retreat back to Paradise Point until our weather window arrived for the trip to Tasmania.

Before we did that, though, we managed to purchase (and get delivered) a brand-new inflatable kayak. Our previous pool-toy version had served us surprisingly well, but now it was time for something more durable and higher performance. I was pleased when the guy pulled the relatively small box from his truck. It was no bigger or heavier than our other one. Then he got out the carrying bag and the paddles and the pump and the seats. It quickly became clear that this thing was going to pose a real storage problem. It was now twice the size and half again the weight of the toy, which we were also still carrying. Oh, man! For what we forked out, this thing better be nice!