All the Way Round (16 page)

Bundeena is on the northern side of the Royal National Park and the halfway point of my circumnavigation. During my planning, I had seen it as the completion of the hard bit and put a lot of effort into the details of the Broome to Sydney half, but was more relaxed about the second part of the trip. There were a few reasons for this. I didn’t see the east coast as too much of a problem; it is well populated and apart from the surf there weren’t too many issues for me to worry about. Also, because there were plenty of people who had paddled this coast I had lots of references to the problems facing kayakers.

The Top End was a bit more of an issue and so were the crocs, but I’d already decided to sort that out when I got there. There’d be plenty of locals with expert knowledge who could help me. Simple really. But, as I’ve mentioned earlier, in truth when I was planning the circumnavigation I had a few doubts as to whether I’d even get there: if I had to solve the problems of dodging crocs and rationing water in the tropics, it would mean I had done the hardest part of the trip and the end was in sight. To get so far that I had to worry about being eaten would be a good thing.

So getting to Bundeena was a triumph—I’d made it. After eight months I was back in Sydney. I had landed at Bundeena many times after a day or a weekend paddling down the coast but I’d never felt this tired before. My exhaustion didn’t allow me to recognise any achievement; I’d forced myself through it to get here and now it was taking over. I made a few calls to find that Paul Locker, a kayaking friend, had generously offered to give me a lift home from the coast. But there was a catch: I had to get myself to Botany Bay, which was 15 kilometres further north.

To paddle 15 kilometres would not normally faze me, especially as Paul and members of the New South Wales Sea Kayak Club were paddling out to meet me halfway. However, I was crushed to learn that I’d have to get back in the kayak the next morning. I’d reached my goal but now the goal posts were being moved 15 kilometres further up the coast. My mind had turned off its motivating force and was already sitting in my backyard with my feet up, beer in hand.

For most of that afternoon on a beach near Bundeena I sat and blankly stared out to sea. I was so close to home, and yet I felt so far away. This is what happens when your mind gives up.

Next morning it was incredibly hard to pack up and get going. I only managed to do it because there was no plan B and I was keen to catch up with fellow paddlers. It was the starkest example of the strength of mind pushing my body beyond what it’s comfortable with. The day’s paddle of 15 kilometres to Botany Bay while being escorted by friends was physically the easiest day I’d had in eight months, but mentally it was one of the most difficult to get started. During the harder days that I’d endured to get this far, which were far more physically demanding, I didn’t for one moment consider ringing for a pick-up. But I briefly toyed with the idea of asking Paul to drive the extra kilometres to fetch me from the beach at Bundeena so I wouldn’t have to get in the kayak again.

Eventually I pulled myself together and got going, but the first hour wasn’t easy. Then my welcoming committee of half a dozen NSWSKC kayakers arrived. Their familiar faces and enthusiasm helped my lethargy disappear and I no longer felt like I was paddling through treacle.

I made the barbecue the next day then spent Christmas with the family at home. There could have been no greater reward for my efforts.

6

Sydney to Cairns

A
fter celebrating my daughter’s eleventh birthday with the family, we drove down to Botany Bay on 5 January for a play on the beach while I packed the kayak and got ready to leave. We were meeting again in a few days at Forster for a bit of a family holiday, so that made saying goodbye much easier than the last time I left Sydney when I would be gone for months.

I paddled from Botany Bay up the coast to Watsons Bay inside Sydney Harbour, to meet with Rob Mercer and Sharon Betterage. Rob, a professional sea kayak instructor, takes groups for a paddle on Thursday evenings out through the heads of Sydney Harbour, down the coast for a few kilometres and then back; I’d been invited to join them.

It was a novel experience to have the land on my starboard side for a few hours. Because my trip was anticlockwise around Australia, I usually had nothing but ocean on that side. I was happy to support this weekly paddle that Rob provides free of charge for anyone who is interested. After practising rolling around in the roughest section of water they could find, an unofficial race developed on the way back. My kayak was fully loaded, I’d just paddled 25 kilometres from Botany Bay and I had a number of other weak excuses I was ready to use if anyone asked why I opted out and paddled back slowly.

Back at Watsons Bay, Rob’s group settled down in the pub to wish me well for the remainder of my trip. Rob and Sharon let me stay at their place and as we chatted about what to expect on the coast of northern Queensland they finished me off with more booze. Next morning, I felt less like heading off for a seven-month paddle and more like going back to bed, while Rob looked fresh as a daisy which made me feel worse. I saw through the facade, though, when Rob started driving me south to drop me off at Botany Bay, my starting point the day before. On Rob’s little group paddle south the evening before, it didn’t hurt to backtrack for a few hours, but to kayak the whole of the previous day was a bit much. I casually mentioned I’d rather restart at Watsons Bay, thanks Rob, and he turned the car around.

Rob and Sharon escorted me out of Sydney Harbour and then I was left alone again to head north. The coast between Sydney and the Queensland border held no magic for me. I’d paddled it before so there was no mystery, no desire to discover what was around the corner. It wasn’t really challenging; there would be surf, for sure, but also plenty of headlands, harbours and other places that offer shelter. Those who know the coast might think the way I dismiss it shows a lack of respect, but I was comparing it to the areas I’d paddled so far. If I stuffed it up and smashed the kayak in the surf, or got trapped on a beach for days due to weather, I could just walk across the road to a nearby café, make a few calls then relax until the cavalry arrived. That’s the main difference. It’s not that I was beyond coming to a sticky end, it’s just that the population on the east coast would make it easier to recover from any problems.

It was hard for me mentally to split the east coast into sections which would give me the short-term goals I needed to feel that progress was being made. I kept seeing Sydney to the tip of Cape York as one continuous leg, because there were no corners to turn. That meant that when I looked at the map, my progress seemed to be at a glacial pace. The enormous task ahead and the lack of challenges to get my adrenalin going, combined with leaving the family after two weeks at home, meant my motivation was at a low point.

There were a couple of things to look forward to: meeting the family at Forster, about 240 kilometres up the coast, around 8 January, then the Queensland Sea Kayak Club’s presentation on 5 February at Brisbane, about 1000 kilometres from Sydney. These were the goals I focused on to get me through what turned out to be a tough couple of weeks. My head was definitely not in sync with what I had to do and it’s fair to say that motivation was the biggest problem I faced between Sydney and Brisbane. My lethargy lasted about three weeks, and then as I saw I was progressing along the map and achieving my deadlines I snapped out of it.

I was just north of Newcastle about to head off along Stockton Beach, a 30-kilometre stretch of sand dunes, when an easterly wind started to build. This convinced me to head for the shelter of Stockton Campsite and call it a day. But I was caught out by the Christmas peak holiday fees at the site and felt the rates were too much of a bite into the expedition coffers. I was reluctantly preparing to head off for a crappy, windy camp among the sand dunes when Laurie’s latest ‘Nadgee Expedition Innovation’ saved the day.

While I was at Bega, Laurie put stickers on the kayak that read ‘Kayak Around Australia 2010–2011’. This simple idea worked really well if I wanted attention. When I pulled up at a beach, most people wouldn’t even look my way, as there are many kayakers who paddle the east coast, but the stickers advertised my intentions and quickly broke the ice, often leading to interesting conversations and offers of help. On the other hand, I sometimes found myself at some sort of invisible terminus where there was a regular thoroughfare of interested beach-goers and I’d get a bit tired of answering the same questions four or five times an hour while trying to cook dinner. In these instances, when I wasn’t trying to scab something from the unsuspecting, I’d simply cover the stickers with a bit of clothing and, bingo, I was just a grizzly, bearded old man on the beach with a kayak.

All in all, though, the stickers were a great success and Stockton was a good example. As I was readying myself to head off to ‘commando camp’ to avoid the forty-dollar fee, the stickers attracted Jeff and he was soon hearing my story. He invited me to camp as a guest on his family’s site, which was gratefully accepted. Jeff, his wife Lesley and their family ended up paying the camping fee for me and taking me out for dinner as well.

I left Port Stephens on 9 January and worked into 15 knots of northeast winds, which were forecast to increase to 25 knots with the promise of stronger winds the next day. The weather forecasters hadn’t given the usual three-day prediction but restricted it to two days, which was a bit of a worry in itself. I bounced around outside the entrance to Port Stephens before deciding that my only chance of spending time with my family waiting in Forster was to paddle into Port Stephens, up the Myall River and across Myall Lakes to Seal Rocks. If I persisted in staying offshore I’d be spending the next few days stuck on Broughton Island, 16 kilometres north, waiting for the wind to die down, and there wouldn’t be much of a family holiday.

I got as far north as I could until Myall Lakes ran out then I rang the family to come and pick me up, to be promptly advised by the kids that paddling up the river was cheating. By now it was obvious to me that I’d never have gotten past Broughton Island; it was difficult enough to paddle up the river and lakes against the wind. With the pressure of a time limit I was fine with making progress inland for the purpose of meeting my family. However, if anybody feels the need to point out that I didn’t actually paddle the entire Australian coast because I missed the sections from Adelaide to Victor Harbor and from Port Stephens to Seal Rocks, that’s okay; I’ll be blaming the kids when they’re old enough to feel guilty about it.

The family and I had a good holiday at Forster. The weather was a bit wet but nobody in the campground was complaining, as the TV was showing us horrific images of the flooding in Queensland. Starting in December 2010 a series of
floods
hit the northeast of Australia. The floods forced the evacuation of thousands of people from towns and cities. At least 70 towns and over 200,000 people were affected, and countless homes and properties were destroyed. Three-quarters of the state of Queensland was declared a disaster zone and 35 people were killed. For most of the trip I had to provision for lack of fresh water but this is a land of extremes.

I set off from Seal Rocks 15 January 2011 after another family farewell, but this time in a much better frame of mind than when I left Sydney.

As I paddled further north, the floods had moved down the rivers, which were now running into the sea. At the river mouths there was a sharp line which delineated the brown river water that was being pushed up against the clear blue sea. The amount of floodwater I saw flowing into the ocean brought home the fact that I could forget trying to seek refuge in the estuaries. I’d never be able to paddle against the flow unless it was almost high tide. This would only get worse the further north I went as I approached the areas most affected by the rains. There was also a lot of debris in the water, from trees to dead animals. In the ocean it had been neatly arranged into lines by the currents or was circling behind headlands in eddies.

The next day I was at Crowdy Head, where the seas were being stirred up by the weather leftovers of a cyclone. A 3-metre swell was running west onto the coast, and the harbour entrances were definitely closed out. It is an easy trap for a kayaker to think that with the construction of walls and groynes man has tamed the ocean, making a harbour entrance a safe passage to calm waters—it’s not. The gap you’re expected to get through is guarded by waves that break all the way across from wall to wall. The messy breakers are caused by the ocean swell competing with the outbound current over the battleground of silt which has fallen to the seabed, exhausted after flowing downriver. To add to the rather frightening prospect of getting smacked by a dumping wave while trying to paddle against the current and then being run over by boat traffic and washed back out to sea are the jagged rocks of the harbour walls. These complete the picture, ensuring complete success or complete failure. These were exceptional conditions, but nevertheless I wouldn’t champion the harbour entrances of New South Wales as one of man’s greatest contributions to maritime safety.

Warnings of big seas, dangerous surf and rogue waves were being broadcast on the radio and locals were surfing in what would normally be sheltered waters. It could have been my imagination but over the next few days I’m sure I noticed a few more broken bones, people limping or having some evidence of a recent visit to the hospital. Anyway I stayed at Crowdy Head until things settled down a bit.

I had originally planned to leave the following morning and I rather optimistically got packed up and moved my kit and kayak to the boat ramp. It was so early it was still dark. I wasn’t really sure what to expect but got ready in case it looked good enough to head off. But daylight came and revealed a sea bigger than the day before.

It took discipline not to launch—the weather was good and things didn’t look too bad from the shelter of the bay—but I reminded myself the swell was big and moving straight onto the coast, creating dangerous conditions. I knew I could make some distance through the day but when it came to finding a landing spot I would be faced with a real challenge. It shouldn’t really have been a dilemma—the signs were obvious that the conditions were too much—but like some sort of migratory lemming I had to fight a deep-seated urge to ignore all the signs and continue the journey.

It didn’t take long, however, before my decision to stay put was proven correct. The professional and recreational fishermen who had ventured out of the harbour in the first light of day returned within half an hour, all looking like they wished they had stayed in bed. So I moved away from the boat ramp and settled down to make myself as inconspicuous as possible for the day.

As I was packing that morning I noticed my shoes were missing; they weren’t by the tent door where I’d left them. So I went looking for them. I found them 100 metres away with the teeth marks of the offender in them. I caught the fox red-handed the next night as he had a rather disappointing forage for food and again made off with the inedible, smelly shoes.

That afternoon I had a visit from Barbara McGraw and Roger Price from Port Macquarie, who had found me through a member of the NSWSKC. We had a long chat that turned into a bit of a competition as we compared our various adventures. They won with a story of cycling from Sydney to England. In truth there was no way I could beat them—in October 2010, they both paddled the Hawkesbury Classic, a 110-kilometre kayak race near Sydney, when Barbara was 79 years old and Roger 74.

Late in the day, Roger drove me to the local supermarket because I’d run out of food, expecting to be much further up the coast from Seal Rocks by now. I also saw a weather forecast that brought the swell down to 2 metres and dropping through the day with a change in wind direction, so all looked good for a departure the next morning.

The East Australian Current runs from north to south down the New South Wales coast from Queensland and can be quite strong. While struggling to get past the headland at Hat Head, just south of South West Rocks, I stopped paddling, got my GPS out and measured myself going backwards at 4 kilometres an hour. My cruising pace was 6 kilometres an hour so if I worked hard I could get 3 kilometres an hour of speed up; I didn’t dare stop otherwise I’d lose ground quicker than I was making it.

As well as the current it was hot and getting humid. Out to sea dark clouds were building up, signalling a storm. I hate lightning. Some will tell you that statistically you have as much chance of being hit by lightning as you do of being killed by a falling fridge. But, because I’ve been hit twice before while climbing, I know that if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time that fridge will fall on you.

My problematic relationship with lightning began when I was climbing in the French Alps, leading a steep snow/ice-filled gully when an electrical storm built up around my climbing partner and me. We were looking down at the storm clouds as they developed and started generating lightning. It’s far more dramatic to look down at a lightning storm; you get a grandstand seat of the many flashes darting across the clouds rather than just the few bolts that fall to earth. It’s mesmerising as the building clouds light up in three dimensions and creep closer. The spell was broken when we realised we were no longer watching the storm below us, as it had wrapped itself around us. The lightning was no longer in the distance ripping clouds apart, it was blinding flashes right there among us, while the thunder which was previously a distant rumble left behind by the lightning was now an ear-splitting crack that had caught up with the flash to assault the senses. Combined they were a frightening show of force.