All the Way Round (19 page)

I was just before the breakers off Baffle Creek. The wind was from before, pushing me closer as I casually prepared for the surf by lowering the mast with a cord running from where I was sitting to the bow and back to the mast. Then, somehow, due to the bend in the mast, one of the lines of cord used to keep the mast upright (called a ‘stay’) caught under the front hatch cover and popped it up, opening it to the elements.

My casual attitude was soon replaced by panic. I physically couldn’t reach the cover to put it back on. If I attempted the surf with no hatch, the kayak would fill with water, causing it to dive and possibly hit the bottom hard, I would lose the hatch and have to spend the night in a wet sleeping bag. Luckily, before the waves washed the hatch into the sea I gave it a prod with my paddle, followed by a couple of whacks with the edge of the blade and on it popped, just as I drifted into the first of the surf! Not even the heavy surf and realisation that Baffle Creek was not a good place to land could wipe the smile off my face as I broke back out to sea and decided to head to Rules Beach for an alternative landing site and my anniversary meal of pasta and lentils.

I stayed at a caravan park in a town called Seventeen Seventy. That struck me as a strange name for a town but apparently that was the year Captain Cook popped in on his way from Sydney. It is also recorded that a turkey-type bird called a bustard was shot by the crew during their stay. Being far-sighted, Cook probably thought Seventeen Seventy was a better name than ‘bustard’, which would prove way too tempting for those who would later deface the road signs approaching the town. Anyway, the significance of Seventeen Seventy for me was that it had the last surf break of my trip. The Great Barrier Reef shelters the coast from the ocean’s swell for the rest of the east coast northwards. Then across the top of Australia until past North West Cape on the west coast, there are no prevailing winds to generate significant swell.

From Seventeen Seventy I had a good run, managing to avoid the mainland and staying on offshore islands, starting with Facing Island off Gladstone on 14 February, then Hummocky Island on the Tropic of Capricorn. On the uninhabited Humpy Island the facilities were a bit of a surprise—I found taps and showers! This was the start of the Great Barrier Reef and I was much impressed with Humpy Island and naively assumed that freshwater showers would be regularly found at campgrounds as I progressed. I was sorely disappointed and soon learnt that a Queensland ‘campground’ would have a pit toilet but not much else. Simple things like a roof and a rainwater tank would not have been too hard to put up in many areas, but they were very rare in Queensland compared to South Australia and New South Wales.

After leaving Humpy Island a boat full of wide-eyed youths passed me then swung round and pulled alongside, inviting me to stay at the North Keppel Island Outdoor Education Centre for the evening. I repaid their kindness that evening with a short talk about my trip to the young men and women. At North Keppel, I could see that the tides were getting bigger and feel the stronger currents. I loaded up with water and some food from Chris, the centre cook, who will probably never know how close I came to staying for another few days after the fantastic breakfast and fresh coffee I had to start my day.

Between North Keppel and Mackay is Shoalwater Bay, a remote military training area with tides up to 9 metres and the strongest currents of the east coast. They are significantly stronger in this relatively small section than anywhere else on the east coast due to a couple of ocean currents that converge in the area. Before dealing with the currents, however, you have to contact the local military as the area is closed to the public during exercises. Fortunately this wasn’t an issue for me as there were no exercises happening at the time.

After paddling the relatively populated east coast for a couple of months I was getting the energising feeling of rising to the challenge in a remote area and was looking forward to facing to the wilder side for a few days. It wasn’t long before Brisbane, its holiday beach towns and the port of Gladstone were a distant memory as I reached areas where nature had kept control. There were many inlets, islands and rocks squeezing the tidal currents into a frenzy, next to the unchecked bush which stood indifferent to my struggle to get to Freshwater Bay.

Freshwater Bay was wide, shallow and still. The currents running south along the coast didn’t venture this far, it was sheltered and a good place to look for a camp. One of the best ways of finding a good camp spot is to look for signs—not broken twigs or moss on the side of a tree type of signs, but the kind of signs that direct traffic in town. Australia is very active with its signs on the beach. Sometimes the list of things the sign says you can’t do is so long it takes two signs to fit them all on. It would be easier to list the things you are able to do. Anyway, the upside was that the best camp spots were usually marked with a ‘No Camping’ sign which was easy to see from the ocean. In a remote military zone the next best sign to be found was a yellow ‘Warning: Don’t Swim—Crocodiles’ sign, thoughtfully translated into German for some reason. At Freshwater Bay I found a sign which led to a deserted camp hut with a table, chairs, water tank and no crocs or Germans—bingo!

On 18 February I paddled the 65 kilometres from Freshwater Bay to Cape Townshend in six hours, with a little help from the current and wind. Cape Townshend looked out across Broad Sound and Leicester Island. I was brought up near a town called Leicester, which is 100 miles north of London just off the M1; it seemed strange to find an island with the same name overgrown with tropical flora and fringed with beaches and long-aged rocks baking in the sun of the east coast of Australia.

From Cape Townshend I had to cross Broad Sound. This was where the currents were strongest, running over shoals and round islands at speeds faster than I could paddle an empty kayak on a good day. I set off the next morning for Marble Island, 40 kilometres into the sound, and all was going well—except that I was heading in the wrong direction.

I normally put the bulk of my food in the front hatch, then as it got eaten I would balance the kayak by replacing it with kit that usually goes in the back. It was important to make sure the kayak was not too heavy in the front or back as uneven weight distribution affects the handling. This time I’d put my radio in the front hatch under the compass. It didn’t occur to me at the time but the metal in the radio subtly adjusted the compass by 15 degrees. So there I was paddling off with determination and purpose into a very complicated stretch of water, made worse by the last of the flood tide, unknowingly going the wrong way—a great start to the day. I realised things weren’t right when I drifted past a small island that should have been a kilometre away. I pulled out my GPS and with rather less determination and purpose started to make up the ground I’d lost.

I got close to Marble Island in good time with no further mishaps until the tide changed and picked up strength, pushing large amounts of water around the island. At first the tide change was barely noticeable—I was paddling along thinking I was making for the island and wondering if there was fresh water and what I’d be eating that night. Then all of a sudden I woke from my daydream and realised I’d been in the same spot for fifteen minutes. The currents soon developed before my eyes and ripped up the sea, the water turned nasty and it was like paddling against a strong river. I looked all around me for a way out, but the whitecaps had completely surrounded me. I started trying to head for the shore, thinking the current would be less near the island, but it got stronger. Then I tried heading away from the island but the current got rougher over sandbars and rips. In the end I just plugged into it and over an hour later, after paddling as hard as I could, I reached calm waters and almost threw up as a result of the effort I’d had to put in.

I had timed my crossing of the area on the east coast with the greatest tidal movement at the time of year when it had its highest tides. Every 14 days the moon lines up with the sun to increase the gravitational pull on the oceans. This makes the seas slop from one side of the world to the other with a bit more vigour. But twice a year due to both the sun and moon being a bit closer to the Earth than usual, their combined gravitational strength creates king tides. This happens in early January, creating the strongest currents as the seas try and balance. It wasn’t the best time for a kayak trip in this area, but what could I do—wait two weeks for better conditions or just get on with it? If you were making plans to paddle this area you’d pick a better time of year, smaller tide range and perhaps a different direction, planning to make the currents and winds work for you, but I had a bigger picture to deal with.

The next day, after a bit of time at Marble Island spent waiting for the tide to come in, I set off for Curlew Island. It was a very hot, still day, which meant the seas were calm but the effect of the heat was doubled as it rebounded off the flat ocean with a strength that really took it out of me and made paddling hard work. Then, after a full day on the water, I almost got swept past Curlew Island by the currents. It was sapping at the end of a baking hot day to paddle against the current for an hour, but it had to be done otherwise I would’ve been swept out to the open ocean. At one point when I was in relatively weak water I stopped paddling and my GPS showed me moving sideways at 4 knots. I can’t tell you how strong the current was at its worst, when the water was squeezed passed a rock or island, as it was all hands to the paddle. I would have lost too much ground reading the GPS. I had to put in a lot of extra effort to make it to the beach on the north side but was rewarded with a great campsite.

From Curlew Island I made the mainland at Grasstree Beach just as a change in the weather brought a 30-knot southerly and storms which thankfully held off until I got out of their way. I was whacked and didn’t care where I slept. I found a house that looked empty and set up camp under their porch, hoping the owners didn’t turn up. It had been a challenging stretch from Seventeen Seventy and I was feeling drained from the effort, but it was one of the more memorable sections of the east coast due to the currents and remoteness. With the glow of achievement that comes from getting through a challenge, I fell asleep.

The next morning I made an impressive list of things that needed to be done:

• Check out the maps to estimate how many days of food I’d have to buy.

• Get to Mackay Post Office (35 kilometres away) to pick up a mast to replace my bent one.

• Get to a dentist as my tooth was aching.

• Get on the internet to send emails and update the web page.

• Buy supplies for my stay and the next stage north.

• Fix the tent poles which had corroded and split.

This may not seem like much of a list but I soon discovered that Mackay and the surrounding areas were very shy of campgrounds, particularly ones near the coast, and there was no public transport from Grasstree Beach to Mackay. Which means I was basically buggered. As I was pondering my options (there weren’t many), my neighbour started to show an interest in me. Not unreasonably he was keen to know what I was doing setting up camp in his friend’s house.

He introduced himself as Peter Petersen—he was polite and his questions were subtle, but I understood his concern so I quickly came clean. I explained my trip and how, when approaching from the sea, I couldn’t always find the campgrounds. I expected to be thrown out, reported to the police, or worse; however, Peter very generously offered to run me into Mackay to tackle my ‘To Do’ list as long as I did a quick interview for the local paper, to give them a chance to write an article on something other than farming sugar cane and mining. This seemed like a very fair deal to me.

Peter was a cane farmer from the area and gave me a quick rundown on what that involves with a visit to his farm on the way to town. When we returned I learnt that his dad, Harold, lived on the other side of my borrowed accommodation and I was invited to a birthday party that evening. They were both very kind and lent me the tools I needed to set up my new mast and the sail that Mick McRob from Flat Earth Kayak Sails had posted to me. I also rebuilt my tent poles, replacing split sections with the new ones Sea to Summit had sent.

While I was squatting at Grasstree Beach I also managed to catch up with Lesley Parsons, whom I used to work with in Sydney before she packed up to move to Mackay with her family to start afresh. I always admire those who leave behind a familiar and secure life to seek something better. It shows a self-belief and rarely is it a bad move. Lesley was quite happy and had never looked back.

I left Grasstree Beach on 25 February after three days of resting, fixing things and planning the next stage, 400 kilometres to Townsville, where I’d organised to meet my brother Jim. He was flying over from England to catch up with me and take part in a race near Sydney. Jim is a keen fell runner and climber in England and had entered the Six Foot Track Marathon in the Blue Mountains, where I live. He was flying into Cairns on 6 March then heading down on the bus to Townsville for a few days with me before continuing to Sydney for the race. I was mindful of the short time he would be in Townsville and although I’d travelled a fair way he was coming from the other side of the world, so I was keen to make it in time.

I got to Brampton Island without incident and on schedule, and found a small campground in the West Bay to call home for the night. This was the start of the Whitsundays, a very popular kayaking destination in the winter months of New South Wales when the kayaking down south can get rough. I had been looking forward to this section as I’d heard many stories of kayaking around here and I was keen for a pleasant few days with no surprises. It didn’t disappoint—the area truly is a haven for sea kayak trips. It has a generous spattering of islands that stand proud, showing off the tropical woodlands which fill in the gaps between the gentle golden beaches. It’s no surprise many sea kayakers paddle around this rash of photogenic camp spots for weeks on end using the winds to take them north from island to island.