All the Way Round (13 page)

From the Head of the Bight the coast heads southeast. This brings it square on to the swell of the Southern Ocean which has rolled, uninterrupted, over thousands of kilometres to find what’s called the ‘Shipwreck Coast’ blocking its path. From the Head of the Bight to past Cape Otway, over 1500 kilometres away, I would be faced with big surf—that was a sure thing.

On 20 September I started the first leg, 150 kilometres from the Head of the Bight to a small place called Fowlers Bay. It was an open coast that offered no shelter from the swell. To make things a bit trickier, the first 110 kilometres was along a surf beach laced with reefs and rocks that were the same colour as the sand, so it was almost impossible to work out a safe passage from my position, sitting in the kayak out beyond the surf break.

I took a few chances and not all of them turned out for the best. The textbook landing is one where you paddle in on the back of a big wave, watching it break before you make a dash for the beach. This sounds deceptively easy.

I have heard a kayak instructor explain cheerfully on an instructional video that there was nothing to fear in surf, it was just ‘a bunch of white fluffy stuff’. That’s crap! When a big wave hits, tonnes of water fall on you. The wave is formed as the sea hits shallow ground, rocks, reef or, as in this case, a sandbar. The water sucks up, exposing the bottom, and making it a real possibility that, with the shallow water and a big drop, you and the kayak are going to hit something hard.

When tackling big surf I try to head in at a bit of an angle to the wave so if I get caught out there is less chance of the kayak being picked up and speared into the ground. A fully loaded kayak stands little chance of getting out of that unscathed. Not pointing directly at the wave means I’ll get thrown onto it side-on, then I ride it out, often upside-down, until the wave dies down when I roll up for a quick look around to see if anybody saw me!

But not this time. I paddled in on what I thought was the last big wave of the set. I’d made good progress towards the beach and was sure I was in the clear so slacked off a bit. Then I found myself paddling but not going anywhere. The clear waters, laced with foam, had turned cloudy as sand was sucked up. Things went dark as a shadow fell over me. I turned round to see that I was being sucked back into a wave which was already curling over my head. I had just enough time to regret taking it easy.

The speed and force of the wave smacking down on me meant I couldn’t tell you what happened. All I knew was I was swimming. I made a grab for the kayak as it got caught in a rip and we headed out to sea again. As I started to swim out of the rip, while trying to keep hold of the kayak and my paddle, I saw my water bottle drift off from the cockpit.
Bugger!
I didn’t want to let go of the kayak or paddle so I had to let it go its own way. I had a ‘Wilson’ moment as I remembered Tom Hanks in the
Castaway
movie as his imaginary friend, Wilson the volleyball, floated away from the raft. That was the first and last roll I stuffed up on the trip. I was pretty upset with myself, but finding my water bottle on the beach that evening was a consolation.

Apart from the treacherous surf, the southeasterly winds were slowing me down. If I needed a rallying cry, I’d remind myself that in this area southwest winds would mean bigger surf. Another one of those mind games I used to keep me going.

Next morning, with the headwinds and heavy surf of the previous weeks taking their toll, I was feeling weary. As I packed the tent away I looked sideways at the sea, knowing the exit would be tough, after which I would be faced with headwinds that would build as the day progressed. I had to keep moving. I had limited water and food and the weather could crack at any time. That was all the motivation I needed to convince my body to do what it really didn’t want to do.

In the mornings the surf is generally smaller than in the afternoons because the night-time brings lighter winds which allow the sea to calm down. Even so I managed to get my fully loaded kayak airborne off the back of incoming waves as they raced for shore—not a bad effort.

Fowlers Bay is a small tourist village which signals the start of the population growing along the coast. The paddling became easier as the coast was now broken up with headlands and bays, offering some shelter at the end of the day. Then all of a sudden the weather calmed down. The first warm day, with light winds and flat seas, came as a bit of a shock. I soon found myself using my clothes to keep the mozzies off me and not to keep warm. Three days later, after paddling the 125 kilometres from Fowlers Bay, I was down to a few basic foods and although not starving I was looking forward to a big feed.

Landing at a town, finding a place to stay, then doing what has to be done is not made easier when arriving by kayak. The first task is to find accommodation that suits the budget and doesn’t involve a huge portage from the ocean. This is often a caravan park. Then you can imagine me setting up my little tent among the four-wheel-drives, caravans and tents, which are often as large as a small apartment, and resting up. Not so.

After setting up the tent the priority would be to clean myself up and get a feed. Then I’d find access to the internet and update my web page and send emails. This was a great way of keeping in contact with friends and family. I much appreciated the emails I got that talked about the day-to-day stuff I would normally find a bit of a drag; they allowed me to stay in touch with the ‘other’ world.

After that I’d check the maps and work out the next stage of my trip, calculate the food I’d need and the water availability, and then I would go shopping. I really don’t have too much imagination when it comes to my food, and packed the same groceries week in and week out, only getting fed up when the goodies ran out and I was left with the basics. I could get ten days’ worth of food in the kayak with no problem other than having to eat all the heavy stuff first to lighten the kayak. I paid attention to my diet as I didn’t want to lose too much weight, because this translates to poor performance, longer recovery and bad thoughts.

A typical day’s food on this trip was:

• Breakfast—Muesli and powdered milk with extra dried fruit and a drink of water. I soaked the muesli overnight to make it easier to eat. This meant I had to stop ants, pigs, foxes and possums getting into it so I would put it in a pot in the tent; surprisingly I never spilt it once. Another advantage of having it in the tent was that I could eat it without getting out of the sleeping bag, so I kept warm for a bit longer on the cold mornings down south and I didn’t get attacked by insects at first light up north. I could be on the water an hour after waking up. I liked a quick start.

• Paddle food—I’d prepare the food for the next day’s paddling the night before. This included nut mix, muesli bars, chocolate, a small tin of rice pudding, apple, and chocolate spread on bread of some sort, depending on availability. One of my favourite tricks was to cook two-minute noodles the night before, stir in peanut butter and nut mix, and put it in a plastic lunch box—a real bonus for the longer days and hard sections like the cliffs. I’d eat and drink each hour to keep me going.

• Dinner—Rice or pasta with lentils, to which I added peanut butter, nut mix, a small tin of tuna and some chilli, curry or spices of some sort, with processed cheese or parmesan on top. I’d also add butter (when I was down south) or oil (up north) for the taste and to keep up my fat content.

The diet seemed to work—I only lost 5 kilograms throughout the entire trip—but when I got to town I’d avoid the foods I packed and go for junk; chips, burgers, pizzas, bacon and eggs, and coffee. I’d overdose on these luxuries to the point where I was ready to get back to my paddling food.

Next on my list of things to do in town was check the weather and ask around to see if I could find someone able to give advice on any areas I thought could be difficult. This was harder than it sounds because I could ask three people the same question and get three different answers. Then I’d ignore them all, because only when I got to the difficult area would I know if any of the advice was helpful.

The main problem was that often the advice came from those who had only been to the area in question in motor-powered boats. Also, some of the information made me suspect that the person offering the advice had never actually been there at all, but couldn’t admit it, making it up in an effort to impress their mates. A good example would be: ‘Oh yeah, just go up the river for 2 kilometres until you see a hut on the left.’ What they didn’t consider was that the river runs against you at 4 knots at low tide, and that crocodiles are plentiful in the area. And although crocs, when they hear a motor, sink to the bottom of the river until the noise is gone, when you paddle by in your low-slung kayak, they come and check you out! Then the 2 kilometres turns out to be 5 kilometres, which is no bother with a motor but a real pain in a kayak at the end of the day, and you can’t see the hut from the kayak but when you’re standing on a boat it’s as plain as day.

So a stay in town was usually a busy affair where I ate what I could and caught up with the outside world during my preparation for the next stage, while getting as much rest as possible.

I landed at Ceduna on 29 September and after a few minutes became conscious of the state of my clothes, my personal hygiene and the wild look in my eyes as I walked past someone poking their barbecue.

From Ceduna it was about 700 kilometres to Adelaide. I was feeling the strain. I needed rest, not necessarily more days off but shorter paddling days, better food and a break in the winds. However, I had planned to get to Adelaide by 19 October to meet the family for a week’s break. That was my target, and I wasn’t going to be late. I was going to see them get off the plane if at all possible. Then I could rest.

To keep going when everything told me to stop and rest is easier when there’s no choice, but every town I passed offered a clean bed, good food and a quick flight out if I wanted one. But I never considered changing my plans, it never entered my head to pack it in; it just wasn’t an option.

As soon as I left Ceduna I was hit with headwinds, dangerous reefs and cold conditions. The next few days had more of the same, which exacerbated my tiredness and my ability to deal with the unexpected was diminishing. I was exhausted. Everything was an effort, from putting up the tent and cooking dinner, to packing up and heading off into the wind. You would think that after six months at sea I’d be eating up the kilometres and have no issue with a forecast of 25–30 knots. But it was the other way round; I was dreading the winds, knowing I was too worn-out to deal with them and if I found myself in trouble then it could quickly become a desperate situation.

A few days later, 140 kilometres from Ceduna, I was faced with gusts of around 30 knots when trying to get around Cape Radstock. Thirty knots of wind when pushed against cliffs creates a violent and unpredictable force that will rip the paddle out of your hands, blow you over if you’re not on the ball, or push you backwards anytime you paddle less than furiously.

Once around the cape I pulled into Baird Bay and spied a few shacks. As I got closer I realised they were empty. I landed, had a quick look around, found a cold shower and called it a day. As I was in the shower the owners turned up. They were none too pleased with me for making myself at home. They had just arrived to make the place ready for their child’s birthday party, being held the next day, and here I was in their shower.

One of the few advantages of being battered about on the ocean and achieving a level of exhaustion that can only be reached through fear for your life is that not much that happens after you land can be considered a major problem. After I explained my situation and told them that I’d only just arrived and would be gone in the morning, things calmed down. Apparently, some uninvited fishermen had recently taken advantage of the huts for a few days and left a mess behind. This was why the owners were a little upset at finding me in the shower. Luckily for me, being a sort of aquatic vagrant meant I was let off the hook, as long as I wasn’t around for the party. Next day I wearily set off, having barely recovered after my night’s rest.

I approached Elliston, a small town on the edge of Waterloo Bay, on 5 October. To reach Waterloo Bay there are a few reefs to get past. Many stories of ships coming to grief on the rocks are told, but I only heard these stories
after
I got into town. I sat off the entrance to Waterloo Bay, which was guarded by the rollers that built up as they’re agitated by the reefs, and calculated my chances of getting into the bay’s calm water. I remembered that I’d been advised to line up the jetty as a way of finding the path through the reefs. I paddled fast as waves crashed a few metres left and right of the kayak but my course was free of whitewater, though only just. The waves built up only to drop away before reaching the stage of tripping over themselves in the rush to catch me. But I was soon through the reefs and gliding over the bay. Still water is only really appreciated when reached through a challenge.

I settled into Elliston with a quick beer and feed before an early night. The next day was a public holiday and all the shops would be shut, forcing a rest day onto a none-too-disappointed kayaker.

From Elliston I had a couple of days paddling the 120 kilometres to Coffin Bay Peninsula. I rounded Point Whidbey on a rare day without the wind blowing into my face. It was a very good day—I had just completed the Great Australian Bight and I allowed myself a feeling of having accomplished something. Any kayaker would be happy to cross this coast but to do it as part of the circumnavigation was extra special.

The obvious problems were the crossings of the Bunda and Baxter cliffs. But just getting to the start of the cliffs and then being able to continue with enough food and water after crossing them was almost as challenging, though perhaps less obvious issues. The reefs and surf at the start of the cliffs were surprisingly savage, as were the beaches on the western side of the Bight. Hidden reefs and rocks and the relentless swell of the Southern Ocean building up the surf made some areas downright scary. Factor in the cold water, lack of supplies and a remoteness that brings its own level of commitment and the Bight becomes a very serious undertaking.