Spirit of Ulysses – Nordhan N76

As we departed Airlie Beach, heading south, we caught an ideal window with light northerly winds. Our initial plan was simple: make Scawfell Island by nightfall, relax, and take it easy. But by midday, the weather was so perfect we couldn’t resist pushing further. After a quick check with Amy about energy levels, we decided to extend our journey, aiming for Great Keppel Island by the next afternoon, giving us a full Sunday on the island before heading for Gladstone. Conveniently, this would give us just enough time to anchor, tender to shore, and catch the AFL Grand Final at the local pub. (Staying awake for this is another blog entirely, I’m sure!)

The new route was plotted, taking advantage of favorable currents, and steering adjusted for a smooth passage. Everything seemed to be going perfectly until a broadcast crackled over the radio: “All ships, all ships, live fire exercise south of Mackay. Please refer to the Notice to Mariners 448.”

At that moment, I realized I had no idea what a “Notice to Mariners” even was, let alone where to find one! But with the words “live fire” echoing in my ears, I suddenly became very motivated to figure it out. A few quick internet searches later—probably the most efficient web browsing I’ve ever done—I found the notice and reviewed the details.

To my shock, our plotted course ran directly through the middle of the live-fire zone around Townshend Island! A few swift adjustments later, we recalculated our route to keep at least 2 nautical miles clear of the boundary. Since we’d be passing through this area at night, around 9 p.m., there’d be no chance of spotting any visual warnings.

Around 8 p.m., Amy took over, and I crashed for some much-needed sleep. By midnight, Amy was tired but still confident as I took the helm. I was ready for an uneventful night watch… or so I thought.

Not long after Amy headed to bed, my radar detected a small, unidentified object to port, roughly the size of a navigation marker. I couldn’t see any flashing lights, so I stepped outside to investigate. Nothing. Returning to the helm, the radar blip had vanished. Strange, but not alarming—yet.

Minutes later, it reappeared. Again, nothing visible. This game of hide-and-seek continued for the next hour. I tried everything, even checking the sky for birds or drones, but the object was persistently tracking us, running parallel at the same speed.

By this point, I was taking it seriously. I locked the radar on the target to gather more data. To my surprise, it maintained a perfect parallel course. Jokingly, I thought, “Could it be a submarine periscope?”

As we neared the end of the exercise area, the mysterious radar signature peeled off, slowing down and then turning back. It moved at around 3-4 knots. Was I right? Could that have been a periscope?

When Amy returned to the bridge just before dawn, I told her the whole story, half-expecting her to laugh. Instead, she gave me a knowing look. She had her own tale to tell. During her watch, something had appeared repeatedly on her radar to port—a long, island-like shape. She panicked, thinking she was sailing too close to land, but every time she looked out the same port door, there was nothing.

We pieced it together. It seems we might have had some company, quietly shadowing us through the live-fire area. Maybe we were a convenient shield for a submarine drill, or perhaps we were just being observed from a safe distance. Either way, it makes for a great story!

The moral of the adventure? Always, always do a thorough handover on shift changes. If I’d known what Amy had seen, I might’ve radioed for confirmation and, who knows, maybe even gotten a photo with our stealthy companion!

For now, we’ve got one heck of a sea story to share—a perfect addition to the joys and mysteries of life aboard Spirit of Ulysses. And yes, we made it to Keppel in time to catch the AFL Grand Final… how I showed up as much as Sydney for game is a tale for another time!