The wind had been gale force for several days and the noise this made in the house affected sleep and temper. We were both a little worn down, but also looking forward to what today would bring. After all, this was exactly what we had signed up for: Maatsuyker Island weather in all its elemental glory.
photographer CRAIG SEARLE
September 16, 2010, started like any other day on Maatsuyker Island, with the alarm clock forcing me awake at 5.20am. It was dark, it was windy, it was raining and it was time to go to work.
Although the job description for this remote and windswept island in the Southern Ocean said Parks and Wildlife Volunteer Caretaker, part of the role involved working as a paid weather observer for the Bureau of Meteorology (BoM). This involved preparing three weather reports each day, at 6am, 9am and 3pm.
Life on Maatsuyker Island involved living the weather – it dictated everything and we became very attuned to what was going on. We constantly found ourselves scanning the clouds, checking the visibility, and often stopping as we were moving around outside, or even while washing the dishes, to watch the swell.
It was like looking into a fire – you could almost become hypnotised and find yourself staring, entranced, for many minutes.
My wife Debbie and I were well into our fourth month on Maatsuyker and life had settled into a comfortable routine. We shared most duties but the 6am weather was all mine, thanks to a deal we had struck early in our stay – I agreed to do the early weather report and let Deb have an extra hour in bed in return for her chocolate ration for the day.
On the day before that September 16 morning, we had been alerted by a phone call from BoM that a severe low pressure system was heading our way and we could expect big swells and strong winds. Such phone calls were pretty much the only way we had of finding out what was happening in the outside world. On Maatsuyker Island, 2010, we had no television, internet or mobile reception and relied upon phone calls from family and friends for updates, along with radio calls from the volunteers who manned the Tas Maritime Radio network (back then called Coast Radio Hobart).
The boffins at BoM asked us to get some photos of the big swells if the big weather did eventuate. They were talking about the possibility of an “extreme swell event”. We didn’t quite know what that meant, but it sounded exciting.
By nightfall on September 15, the swell was seven to eight and the wind was gusting to 120 kph. Wind of this strength is getting into cyclone range, or Force 12 on the Beaufort Scale. The fishing fleet had headed for home when the swells climbed over five metres. Although we had no face to face contact with the fishermen, we often spoke over the radio and their presence around the island provided us with some distant company.
For the last 24 hours we had been alone as the weather deteriorated.
. . .
By 5.30am I was getting dressed and making a cup of coffee, and listening to the wind. It sounded stronger than the night before and there were heavy showers of what sounded like hail. It was a dirty morning to have to venture out to compile a weather report.
The wind had been gale force for several days and the noise this made in the house affected sleep and temper. We were both a little worn down, but also looking forward to what today would bring. After all, this was exactly what we had signed up for: Maatsuyker Island weather in all its elemental glory.
One did not venture outside on Maatsuyker Island in weather like this without some elaborate preparations. On went over-trousers and raincoat. My beanie was next, tied on, and then the rain-hood, also tied on and with the toggles securely tucked away. Wind of this strength can cause damage if straps and toggles flick into the eyes.
My glasses were also tied on and gloves had wrist straps so that if I had to take one off to write something down, it would not end up in New Zealand. I checked that there was nothing in my pockets – the wind would quickly strip anything out of open pockets – and finally attached my headtorch and stepped outside.
The first few steps from our quarters were in the lee of the building but as soon as I hit the steps up to the weather office I could tell that the wind speed had increased overnight. There are handrails all the way up to the weather building and I held on tight and pulled myself along. As I struggled upwards, buffeted by the gusts, I was getting ready for the most dangerous part of the trip. The corner of the building is notorious as the wind seems to gather strength at that point and I had already been sat on my backside twice at this spot. I took a good grip on the last handrail, swung around the corner and fell through the doorway into the office.
Upon checking the computer I found that the wind had a short time ago hit 148km/h. No wonder I had struggled up the steps.
The Maatsuyker weather station contains a set of automatic sensing equipment, but there are some aspects of the weather that require a set of eyes: swell height, sea state, visibility, cloud type and cloud height all required careful observation for each report.
It was still quite gloomy outside. The first task was to measure the swell, so I grabbed the binoculars, turned off the office lights and my headtorch and headed back outside. I walked along to the corner of the building from where I could look towards our measuring rocks, about 2km away. I braced myself against the building, letting my eyes become accustomed to the low light, and peered through the binoculars. Even with the protection of the building I was constantly buffeted and knocked sideways by the wind as I tried to focus on the rocks and decide on the height of the swell. It takes several minutes to get a good average reading and by the time I finished my eyes were streaming and my nose running from the wind, which was not only strong but very, very cold.
I decided the swell height was about eight metres.
The weather completed, I made my way back to the house to dry off, warm up and have breakfast. As I bustled about the kitchen, I looked nervously out the window, hoping that when there was enough light I would be able to confirm that I had made the correct swell call.
Deb came into the kitchen and looked out the window. “What did you call the swell?” she asked. “Eight metres. What do you reckon?” After a few minutes she turned away from the window, “At least eight, could be close to nine.”
I ate breakfast, happy with Deb’s confirmation, on a day when there would be more than the usual scrutiny of our work.
We both did the 9am weather report and conditions had continued to deteriorate. The wind continued to gust around 140km/h and we were getting constant hail showers. It was freezing and any exposed skin really suffered. It was physically difficult to complete the outside tasks. While I started entering data onto the BoM computer, Deb headed outside to read the rain gauge. We had an automatic rain gauge but in wind like this it was notoriously unreliable so we also used the manual gauge. Even this was not very accurate as the rain and hail was blowing horizontally and most of it seemed to be going over the top instead of into the gauge. Trying to read the gauge was a challenge in the conditions but eventually Deb completed the reading and tried to put the top back in place. She was having trouble so reluctantly I left the shelter of the office and went out to help her wedge the lid back in place and weight it down.
Even with these measures in place, rain gauge lids regularly blow away on Maatsuyker, and so we kept several spares in the office. Maatsuyker Island is the only weather station in Australia with this problem!
At last we got the outside jobs done and collapsed back into the office. Fifteen minutes in this wind was like doing 15 rounds with Mike Tyson. The building was shaking and vibrating as the wind screamed through the guy wires that held everything down.
By the 3pm report, the swell had increased to an incredible 11 metres, a record at that time for Maatsuyker. We heard later that the BoM’s wave rider off the west coast was recording waves over 18 metres in height during the day.
I decided it was time to take the photos that BoM wanted so I grabbed the camera and headed down to the lighthouse, thinking that the lantern room would provide a good vantage point to capture images of the tremendous waves crashing onto Needle Rocks, south of the island. I relied on handrails again to get to the lighthouse and, as I opened the doors and moved inside, the noise was incredible. Lighthouses make a deep thrumming noise in high winds and this noise accompanied me as I climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the tower. When I reached the lantern room I found that the constant hail had iced up the windows making any chance of photography impossible. The only option was to go out onto the balcony so I carefully opened the 100mm thick steel door and poked my head out.
The noise, wind and horizontal hail hitting my face like needles forced a quick rethink. If I ventured out there was a real possibility that I could be blown off the balcony. Dropping to all fours I decided to try crawling out, keeping as low as possible. I got as far as the door and stopped. This was ridiculous and very dangerous. I retreated inside and, with some difficulty, closed the door.
Sitting on the floor of this 120-year-old lighthouse, the most southerly in Australia, I reflected on what was going on around me. A Force 12 storm was raging. Winds of 140kph were pounding the tower. If I was injured, the extreme weather conditions meant that no one could reach us to help.
The BoM would have to do without their photographs. It was not worth the risk.
During my time on Maatsuyker I experienced many emotions to do with the weather – exhilaration, awe, frustration, amazement – but this was the only time I was actually frightened. Discretion is the better part of valour and with that old saying in mind I retreated to the relative safety of the house.
During the afternoon we fielded calls from family, friends and Parks and Wildlife to check on our welfare. Radio stations called from as far away as Sydney to ask for interviews. People are fascinated by this little island and wanted to know what it was really like in a big storm.
I now knew what it was like. It was scary.
As we sat eating tea that night, after our biggest winds and biggest swells to date, and as the wind continued to howl and throw itself against the thick walls of the old head lightkeeper’s house, I turned to Deb.
“Want to do the 6am weather tomorrow?” I tentatively asked. “Not for all the chocolate in the pantry, darling. I’m quite happy with our arrangement.” It was worth a try.
Craig Searle is an eighth-generation Tasmanian who proudly hails from convict stock. A teacher for 31 years, he retired in 2011, having spent the last part of his career as an outdoor education specialist. He has a passion for wilderness, remote places and lighthouses, and has spent two winters on Maatsuyker Island. He lives in Scottsdale with Debbie, his wife and partner in a lifetime of adventures.
