Blackwattle's First Arrival into Oz

by Nancy Knudsen on 10 Nov 2007 So what is it like as an (almost)ex-pat, returning to Australia after five years absence?

It's extraordinary, but we've had the greatest sail of the five year adventure ON THE LAST LEG. During the seven day sail, we never average less than 150 miles a day (excellent for this Peterson 46 with only a high-cut yankee and not using a spinnaker), and don't make a sail change until the last few miles when the proximity of land alters the sailing conditions. A full moon dominates our night hours, and as the route passes many reefs and atolls we are continually surrounded by hunting seabirds.

We stop fishing, however, when a booby continually dives on our lure, ignoring our screams to frighten it away. We have heard sad tales from cruising friends of seabirds that have been successful in catching the lure and being hauled in by a grieving and remorseful crew. Another lands on our dodger, and soft hearted we are no longer – the pleasure in having the company of a resting feathered visitor is NOT compensation enough for having to clean the bird shit from the dodger on a hot day in port.

And now, for Australia. Excited as we are on sighting the coast of Bundaberg, we can't help observing that the coastline is a bland low level thing, hardly disturbing the line of the horizon, not at all in keeping with our sense of excitement – 'oh is that all?'

Finally the moment arrives. We thread our way a little up the Burnett River and dock at the Customs wharf. We call family to say ''hello'' on the satphone while waiting for Customs and Immigration. I am on a high, laughing at things that are not very funny, hugging Ted about once every five minutes and scurrying around cleaning things I had only cleaned five minutes before.

We're used to this Customs and Immigration procedure of course. Country after country, port after port, fat Customs men in smart uniforms, tiny Customs women with soft voices, gruff ones who ask for basksheesh or a beer, those who just want coffee, tall ones, short ones, those who want to act as tour-guide once we've checked in, those who strut around because they are so important, and fill the Blackwattle's saloon with their Importance vibes.

Yes, we've seen them all, but when the Customs man arrives this time into the cockpit, says 'Good Morning' and I start to answer with some welcoming words, my chest and throat get that stupid adrenalin-flowing filled-up feeling, and tears start without permission spilling over my lower eyelashes. Luckily, I have sunglasses on, and just stop speaking in the middle of a sentence. This leaves a sudden silence in the cockpit, which I fill by streaking down into my cabin.

Ted, abandoned to deal with Customs alone, follows me after a few moments,. ''Where on earth have you gone?'' he whispers.

''Don't leave him alone, talk to him'' I whisper back.

''No he's okay at the moment, he's reading through our documents – what's the matter?''

''It's the Australian accent.'' I sniffle, doing a little deep breathing, blowing my nose and patting my face with a few tissues.

''The Australian accent?''

''Yes, the Customs man speaks with an Australian accent.''

''What's wrong with his Australian accent?''

''Nothing it's just - Australian.''

There's a short pause. I'm not looking at him but I can hear him taking a big breath. ''Yees, that's right, Nance, we are in Australia.''

''Well I am not used to Customs men with Australian accents.''

He takes another breath, but doesn't reply. Then he give me one last sort-of-despairing look and disappears back to the saloon.

I sniff a couple of times, big breath of my own now, plaster smile on face, and follow him.

Yes, we're really here!

.........................................................

We're waiting for the quarantine man to arrive a few minutes later, and the Norwegian boat next door is getting instructions from the marina officer, big hefty sunburned fellow, as to where to berth their boat permanently.

''Yezkin gwavata namba noin naiow ifyez loik.''

''Excuse me?'' - Norwegians have very correct beautiful English.

He speaks a bit louder this time: ''OISED YEZKIN GWAVATA NAMBA NOIN NAIOW IFYEZ LOIK''

Skipper Ted thinks some assistance may be needed '' He's allocated you Berth No. 9, and you can go there now if you want to.'' says Ted.

''Yup'' smiles big hefty, ''Tenks mate, okey dokey, oil kamun givyez a hend ifyez loik. Seeyez aova there.'' and he wanders off

Ted waits until he's a few metres away, ''He's going to Berth No. 9 to take your lines.''

The Norwegians are grinning broadly. ''It's okay, we just about understood what he said just then – we'll manage no doubt.''

Yes, we're really here!

....................................................

We drive into Bundaberg, a sugar town, which produces Australia's iconic rum called Bundaberg Rum, or simply Bundy. It's 18 kilometres into town, a sign of things to come in this vast and hardly populated country. The difference from everywhere else we've been is dramatic. We are driving on a flat narrow bitumen road, but the fences that contain the greenly waving sugar crops are set back far enough to put a six lane highway through here.

The world here seems so flat and vast – it stretches off forever into the distance, no mountain as far as the eye can see. There are groups of wooden houses along the road here and there. They all have a thin pole at the side of the road, 20 metres from the house, with a small square box balanced on the top, for the mail of course. There are also large olive green rubbish bins standing to attention in a line beside the post boxes. I can't help thinking how wet you'd get collecting your mail if it was raining.

Fresh from the unruly rainforests of the South Pacific, wild roosters and their hens wandering free all over, densely packed trees heavy with their fruit, people everywhere wandering this way and that, this is a strangely ordered and unpopulated world. Nature is well under control. Mile after mile of wide grass verges seem to have been mowed just yesterday, planted trees are all in lines, the vivid green sugar cane is all of one height and all contained in vast squares of colour. And no people – they are all in cars, of course, zooming around at bullet fast speeds.

In the town is the same order. Dulux must make a fortune here. Everything stationery is painted, every parking lot is surrounded in a white line on the bitumen, the trees are trimmed so as not to interfere with the traffic. The town is pretty, and pert, in her Sunday best, fingernails painted, perfume on, shoes polished. The entire town is paved – an alien would never be able to tell what the bitumen concrete and tiles cover. Even in the pleasant central parks there is military precision in the way the benches and trees line up with each other and the grass is so perfect it looks artificial.

The locals all seem to have wide open hearts, of course, and vowels to match. It's so long since we've heard broad Aussie accents en masse, that we are as fascinated as the foreigners in the beginning.

''Okay laove, jest aover thaire – nao praoblem laove – thaireyagao - see yez lighter.''

The cruisers that have arrived have been well trained, from traveling through the many third world countries that we've all seen, to be a patient amused lot, who simply go with the flow of things. So the pace of Bundaberg, where it will happen tomorrow if it doesn't happen today, suits us all well, and the cruising community of over 50 boats who have just arrived are melding into the scene very happily.

The Port2 Port Rally, organised totally, as far as we can observe by half a dozen dedicated people, mostly women, provides the