Actually, we’re not really in Airlie Beach, but it’s damn close and we’re promised a frequent courtesy bus that’ll whisk us into the nearby hot-spot pretty much at our discretion.

As we disembark the feeder bus, lugging backpacks from the trailer contraption that has followed us all the way from the train station like an obedient dog, the bus driver cocks his head to the sound of bird call and points up into the trees.

“Black Cockatoo,” he says, “really rare bird.” We look up and, no shit, what looks like two large, black parrots are perched on the branches of a near leafless tree welcoming us to the area.

I need an omen, anything that suggests life is going to get a little better after the horrors of the previous night, so I take this wholeheartedly. Two rare black birds. It’ll have to do.

We trudge our way up through the blistering heat to where we’ll be staying for the next few days. The hostel is laid out like a holiday park, twin rows of single storey chalets lining a road up to an office building and a rudimentary living area. We check-in and are welcomed by the seemingly perpetually stunned yet extremely helpful Ken, the proprietor of the place. After dumping our belongings into our shack, we return to Ken and tell him that we’re interested in getting out into the water on a sailing trip.

Ken immediately kicks into used-car salesman mode and plucks about a dozen or so colourful pamphlets from their plastic holders adorning both his desk and walls. They’re laid out in front of us like an excursion buffet, Ken rattling off well-rehearsed spiels about each of the numerous trips. Amusingly, Ken also seems to be fond of the phrase “shit-fight”. As in: “There’ll be a shit-fight for brekkie in the morning.” I hold my breath and do my best not to burst out laughing to his face. The second time he says it, however, I’m pretty sure I inadvertently pee my pants a little.

Ultimately we decide on a sailing trip on the good-ship Domino which promises to be intimate and spectacular. Intimate because it holds a maximum of eight passengers plus skipper, and spectacular because, for reasons that are never really explained, the captain and his vessel are the only operation in the area permitted to go to Bali Hai Island on a daily basis. Literally a tiny spit of an island near the north of the Whitsundays, Bali Hai is isolated, picturesque and boasts some of the best coral anywhere in the world – and that includes the Great Barrier Reef.

We also choose the Whitehaven Xpress excursion as, though definitely less intimate than the Domino sailing trip(the boat caters for around 50), it goes to Whitehaven Beach, a stretch of sand out in the Whitsunday Islands anecdotally considered the best beach in Australia. It’s so good, in fact, it’s where the slightly controversial Australian tourism advertisement that played back home (the one with the model frolicking around in the surf and asking “Where the bloody well are ya?”) was filmed. The movie Fool’s Gold with Kate Hudson and Mathew McConaughey was also filmed here. Shit movie. Nice beach though. In other words: if you’re looking for the epitome of what an idyllic beach looks like, you go to Whitehaven in the Whitsundays.

Both trips also provide the chance to do some snorkelling, something we’ve been looking forward to doing ever since planning this mammoth trip over a year ago. There is also promise of a barbeque and high adventure.

We take the free shuttle into Airlie Beach to get a look at what kind of town has sprouted up next to one of the most beautiful collection of islands the world has to offer. Unfortunately, Airlie Beach is not much to our liking. For one thing, it’s actually quite built up, something we are trying to consciously avoid during this leg of our trip. As the town focuses around a strip of bars and restaurants of the size we really haven’t seen since Sydney, we feel a little displaced; strangers in a strange town offering all the things we don’t want to experience travelling the globe.

The inhabitants of Airlie Beach are pretty much made up of your typical backpacker fare. And though we’re, technically, inherent members of this wayward tribe, we’re a few years older than your average “around-the-worlder” and the allure of staying up all night in bars and spending your diving money on pitchers of strange concoctions is not something we have much interest in.

We eat at a Mexican one night while a spell of bad weather rushes in from the ocean and sends sheets of rain slanting in on top of our burritos and quesadillas. Another night we’re lured in to the Hog’s Breath Cafe with the promise of a steak cooked for eighteen hours. As we sit on the first storey veranda overlooking the harbour, the dark leafy trees at our eye-level suddenly become alive with screeching and movement. What I initially assume are large birds, I quickly realise are giant bats swooping around the area and attacking one another in the trees. At least it sounds like they’re attacking each other – it could be bat-mating season in Airlie Beach for all I know. What I do know, however, is that if that’s them getting it on, I never want to be attacked by a bat.

First up of our double jaunt out to islands is the sailing trip. We’re dropped down to Airlie Beach by the perpetually cantankerous and transparently saccharine women who is obviously travelling herself but choosing to stay in the cabins and make some money annoying the guests. When she’s not managing to get us lost that is.

It’s here we’re greeted by the skipper of the Domino sailing boat, Reg. Originally from the Netherlands but very much a man of the globe now (he bought the Domino where she was built, in New Zealand, and then sailed her to Australia. He’s also sailed across the Pacific in the craft), Reg is affable without possessing that overwhelmingly fake “niceness” that comes with dealing with strangers who have just been entrusted into your care and expect to be entertained. He’s flagrantly honest at all times, especially when the boat starts falling apart later in the trip, but, in general, he emits a worldly vibe of experience and confidence that is both admirable and inspiring. Reg has seen it all. He’s not going to sit there and boast about it, but if you ask him – he’ll tell you stories of life on the open sea that will both enthral and scare the shit out of you.

My favourite turns out to be when he steered the Domino for 48 hours straight in a storm, his wife feeding him at regular intervals, blood pouring from the open wounds on his hands, his body wracked with pain and suffering I equate to chasing white whales and not sailing with one’s wife from one port to the next.

Joining our adventure are a German couple, Michael and Verena, who, after working for years for Lufthansa in Germany, decided a change was in order and moved to Sydney when an opportunity to work for Qantas presented itself. Michael is a quintessential German; vocal and eccentric, an engineer by trade who has a fascination with sailing. This fixation actually comes in handy later on when the aforementioned calamities strike the ship but, for the most part, he’s happy to bombard Reg with questions about jibs and main sails, how much this or that cost, when not enquiring about the virtues of a wooden ship encased in fibreglass versus today’s newer technique of making the whole thing out of fibreglass altogether.

We’re fortunate as, today, there’s only six of the maximum possible eight passengers on board, the final two made up of Stefan, another German who is travelling around Australia on his own, and Rob, an English chap who seems to have had a similar mid-life crisis to my own and, shunning the hardship of trying to find work in a recession, decided to just bolt for the horizon and see what happens. Apart from the paying customers, we’re also joined by first-mate in training Gary – a middle aged ginger bearded Aussie who we learn later has spent his life as a teacher but now wants to try out his sea-legs and become a qualified first mate – or whatever the actual term is.

After a perfunctory safety demonstration by Reg’s wife (“Can you swim? Great, welcome aboard!”), Reg guides the 40 footer out into the marina and sets off for the Whitsundays.

Sailing on the Domino was an absolutely thrilling experience. As we race across the marina, Reg berates other tour operators in the area who basically promise their customers a sailing experience but then motor about the bay all day, never once putting up the sail because, and I quote, “It’s too much like hard bloody work.” As the boat leans dangerously into the waves and we perch on the starboard side with the sea rushing below us, the water sometimes almost perpendicular to our feet, Reg regales us of the life of a sea-captain. He explains how he’s sixty-two and semi-retired. Having worked for the likes of Qantas himself (as a air steward no less. “Coffee, tea or me?” Reg asks jokingly), he has gone through a series of boats before the Domino. It sounds a little like a young man constantly trading upwards until he got what he wanted. The Domino, to him, is the pinnacle of his sailing dream; a boat big enough to live on (though he doesn’t, he has a house on one of the islands), but small enough for him to handle by himself.

We admire the view and Reg’s insightful anecdotes on life, sailing and growing old, skipping over the swells and out towards the islands. The Germans never stop nattering to him but he seems to take it all in his stride, correcting Michael’s limited knowledge of marine matters and dishing up glasses of orange juice when needed.

A couple of hours later and we reach the deserted Bali Hai. Along the way, Reg has noticed that the starter motor has given up the ghost, and with Michael throwing possible technical maladies at the skipper while Reg kicks and curses it, we resign to the fact that all close-quarter manoeuvring from now on will have to be performed “under sail” and not with the preciseness of mechanical guidance.

As an island, Bali Hai is remarkably small; more a tiny dot in an endless blue seascape and no bigger than half a football pitch. Reg ushers us into the trailing dinghy and then takes us in groups to the shore, leaving us there in order to return to the boat and pick up the Germans and Rob. I’m struck by the fact that, for the briefest of moments, myself and Sheila are the only two people on the entire island. We resist the urge to get naked.

We prepare for some snorkelling and survey our surroundings. I hear them before I actually see them – loud squawks of primal warning. Looking out over the makeshift bay of rocks and coral, we see a small squat column of gathered stones, like a silent cairn resting calmly in the breaking waves of the island, the top of this rocky outcropping adorned with a giant nest of branches. Resembling what I initially mistake to be a prehistoric lair, I quickly realise the shrieking is coming from a demanding osprey chick, its head barely visible over the filigree of brambles. I search the sky, and there sitting in the trees, like majestic sentinels, perch two giant osprey hawks.

We watch as the male and female take turns swooping into the waters, plucking a varicoloured fish from the sea before returning to the tree to examine their prey. The fish usually flap about in their hunter’s talons for a few minutes before the bird is adequately appeased that it’s truly dead and offers no risk to its offspring. It then glides into the nest and feeds the squalling youngster.

By this time Reg has returned to the island with the rest of the crew. We don our flippers and masks and walk backwards into the calm waters.

The coral around Bali Hai is truly outstanding. We visit a number of coral sites over the following days but what we see here is probably unsurpassed. Maybe it’s its seclusion or the low tide, but the coral at Bali Hai is literally like something from a nature program. With our masks and flippers securely fitted, we start investigating the area, skimming up and down along the coast while taking in the aquatic beauty below us. It’s hard to put into words just how clear and stunning the underwater world is. The various types of coral, some fixed, some swaying in an invisible current-breeze, always vibrant and awe inspiring. The fish are also plentiful and pretty much nonchalant to our presence. We see an eclectic range of species and creatures of various sizes from the tiny neon fish to a giant shuffling beast that looks like a barracuda.

After an hour of diving in among the coral gardens we surface and partake of a pleasant lunch on the island. Soon enough Reg tells us that it’s getting near time we were leaving. Before we go, we walk down to the nest to get a better look at the ospreys. With the adults keeping a watchful eye above us, we try to get a better look at junior but only manage to hear his incessant calls for fish. We take photos while Sheila complains at the lack of a telephoto lens. After a few minutes in the blistering sun we cautiously climb over razor-sharp rocks and board the boat.

The trip back is pretty much identical to the voyage out to Bali Hai with the added bonus of Reg asking me to take the helm and guide the boat in the general direction of our moorings. Sailing the boat is a thrill, something I didn’t think I’d actually get much of a buzz out of but, as the wind careens in and the boat starts to whip around in the force, the tiller starts to break free from my grasp and I find myself pulling or pushing it contrary to the wind and back on course with much satisfaction.

At some point on the trip back, one of the complicated mechanical doohickeys on the ship breaks. To the layman it appears to be a small box of levers and gears, some sort of contraption the boat’s many ropes are fed through and controlled within.

Reg curses and laments its cost and how he has literally just upgraded the “rope manipulation” technology on the boat. In other words, it shouldn’t be breaking so soon after purchase. Michael opens it up and start plucking small yet important looking metal plates from its now destroyed guts, much to the shock and bafflement of Reg. Ultimately, the lack of a fully operating “rope manipulating” system appears to do little but piss Reg off in relation to its pricey repair job. We can continue sailing safely with a little extra effort on the skipper’s and first-mate’s behalf. At least he’s managed to get the starter motor working again.

It’s only when we enter the marina at eight nautical knots, a fair gait I should add, and Reg attempts to down sail do we fully realise our predicament. For some technical reason I will never fully comprehend, but undoubtedly due to the banjaxed widget-box, the main sail will not descend. To put this another way: we’re racing toward the dock at twice the legal speed like the cruise ship about to slam into the island in Speed 2.

As Reg, Gary and Michael start scrambling up and over the rigging, the skipper turns to me and entrusts the long wooden tiller into my grasp with a steely expression. “I have to cut the sail,” he says, more serious than I’ve seen him all day, “here, steer the boat. Anywhere so we don’t crash would be great.”

Called into action, I focus on maintaining course and not hitting any of the other boats. At one point we need to do a 180 degree turn and make another pass at the marina entrance. Reg jumps down and steals the steering mechanism from my hands and throws the boat into a tight turn before going back to bouncing around the boat like a nimble pirate.

Eventually the main sail retracts and our speed lowers. Reg guides us over the final few meters still cursing the shoddy rope-box. It’s only when Sheila reminds him that it’s fortunate that we got the starting motor fixed does he visibly blanche. You can see his mind turning the variables over and over. No motor, main sail that won’t come down. How the hell are you supposed to dock a boat if you can’t control your speed?

We depart and thank Reg for a genuinely exciting day. Even if we didn’t have the highjinks at the end, the trip was full of memories. Of all the crazy things we’ve done on this trip, the bungee jumps, the sky-dives, the zorbing, the racing across the night in Hawaii, our sailing trip to Bali Hai ranks right up there, if not at the very top of all of the many wonderful things we’ve done on this around the world jaunt.

Bonded through the experience of life on the seas, we go for a few drinks with the Germans (Rob seemed to have just disappeared, likely just happy to be still alive). We talk about our lives and somehow get on to World War II. I’ve always been intrigued about talking to actual German people about their perception of the war but I appreciate that, socially, it’s always been quite gauche to bring it up. Like mentioning your friend’s extramarital affair in front of his wife years after she’s forgiven him. It’s just not done.

Thank Buddha for beer then, as I pick the brains of some very level-headed and knowledgeable Germans on the delicate subject. The conclusion (for those that are interested) was that Hitler started off with some good ideas and dragged Germany back into productivity – and then went bat-shit insane. We exchange email addresses with the guys (something we’ve rarely done on this trip. I genuinely don’t need to speak to the vast majority of people I’ve met on this trip again) and part ways.

Our second sailing experience in the Whitsundays was very different than our first considering the Whitehaven Xpress is a much more commercial and touristy excursion. The boat, much bigger and without sails, is faster than the Domino but completely lacks its grace and appeal. The team behind the trip are a family of brothers and one hard-working mother (who doesn’t actually make the trip out with us) who seem in their element joking with the passengers and generally being affable if not a tad cocky and all-knowing. It’s all smirks and high-fives as we thunder across the bay, completing the same journey we did the day before on the sailboat in a matter of minutes.  The ride is noticeably rougher as the boat launches itself off ramps of heavy swell, bouncing us around the cabin like weightless land-lubbers. After about an hour of this, we reach Whitehaven and I’m thankful for getting on solid ground again.

True to the brochures, Whitehaven Beach is breathtakingly picturesque. We take a walk up to a look-out point and marvel at the panoramic view. Then, from out of nowhere, Israeli girl from Fraser Island appears and we exchange some brief friendly comments, neither of us having any real desire to spend anymore time with the other. I remind myself to keep an ear out for her during the lunch-time barbeque when she will undoubtedly mention the “no pork” rule. I’m not disappointed.

The food is surprisingly good with a wide range of different meats and a large platter of succulent fruit. We eat well and walk up and down the beach as a constant stream of ships creep into the area and offload more and more tourists onto the white sands.

Back in the boat, we zip over to what is, for us at least, our second chance for some snorkelling. This time we rent stinger suits as the Brothers Dim seem sure there are jelly-fish in the water. It’s a scam to get more money out of the tourists, of course, but we go along anyway. After all, the thin Lycra suit adds an extra layer of warmth and does away with the need to apply sunscreen. Made up like a giant sperm cell — or if I’m deluded enough to even dream I look hot in a full-sized condom rigout, an aquatic ninja – we prepare for submersion.

Just as I’m dangling my flippers in the water and about to dip in, some large shapes emerge from the deep and start circling. It stops me in my tracks as, though I’m sure they’re not sharks, fish of such size inherently freaks the shit out of me. After one of the brothers starts to get antsy about me not getting in the water and letting other people sit at the back of the boat, I drop in and hope to whatever gods are looking that this monster fish doesn’t think I’m lunch.

The fish turns out to be a wrasse, about three metres in length and pretty docile when up close. Still, monster fish are a tad disconcerting so we stick to the reef and coral for a while before building up the courage to double-back and check out King Wrasse and his two equally large mates near the stern of the boat.

The second snorkel is fine but it’s nowhere near as clear or beautiful as our first experience out by Bali Hai. After drying off and settling in for the trip back, we eat some free cheese and try not to bring it back up again.

The Whitsundays are truly a paradise haven. It’s not all blistering white beaches and romantic sailing, however, as the surrounding towns offer little for those uninterested in raucous nightlife or the backpacking ethos but the views, the islands, and the real sailing more than makes up for it.

Dreading another train journey after the debacle of the last one, we make our way into town and then to the train station where we board for Cairns. It’s a daytime trip though, so, little chance this time of getting gassed.