All the Way Round (7 page)

During the trip I got blown over about half a dozen times and not once did I think of releasing the ropes that hold the sail in place, which would have made the success of the roll much more certain. I just tried harder and, somehow, up I came.

For the last few hours of the crossing I struggled with my mind which was insisting I was paddling across a channel and it would be okay to land at the bottom of the cliffs on the other side. Progress was painful, it was only the robotic rhythm of paddling that kept me going. Then suddenly the cliffs dropped away and I saw evidence of a town.

The entrance to Kalbarri is a complicated affair. During my preparations, I’d spent many hours studying it on Google Earth to give me a good feeling about it. But a photo taken from space at high tide looked different from the impossible maze of rocks and surf I was faced with. From my low viewpoint sitting in the kayak, I barely recognised the place as I tried to make judgements about how I’d get through the entrance. I was missing that good feeling. I was at the entrance to the harbour and could see houses on the shore, but between me and them it looked like angry, foaming white water. The Murchison River runs into the sea at Kalbarri and its final obstacle is a reef that forces the river to run north to south then bend itself back to run south to north into the sea. As I looked into the entrance I saw the surf breaking over rocks on the ocean side then rolling for 100 metres across the river onto a low submerged reef on the other side.

Recognising that I was reaching the end of what I was physically capable of, I stuffed the last of the chocolate in me and made a conscious effort to double-check my decisions. I knew I couldn’t afford to relax even though the end was agonisingly close.

Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw a surf ski winding its way through the war zone towards me. One moment it was there, next it was gone, hidden by surf. Was I hallucinating again? Or was it just wishful thinking? But then he appeared in front of me, and he was real.

I tried to prepare myself for the inevitable question and answer session about what I was doing out there and why, while trying to hide how knackered I was. But before I could speak he said, ‘You must be Stuart Trueman, follow me.’

I was floored. I had just passed the middle of nowhere, I knew nobody for thousands of kilometres, yet not only did this guy know my name but the only reason he was there was to show me the way through the river entrance.

I used the last of my energy to keep up with him and as we committed ourselves and he changed the angle of approach, the way through opened up for us. When the nose of the kayak pushed itself against the sand, I just sat there—spent, hollow, empty. The realisation of what I’d just done was nowhere; all I registered was I didn’t have to paddle any more.

After a few moments of staring off into the distance while my mystery guide held my kayak steady, waiting for me to jump out, my first thought was that I’d just spent 35 hours sitting in my own urine. I quickly glanced up and down the beach and noticed there were a few people around showing a bit of interest. I thought it would be better to be remembered for paddling from Steep Point than to be remembered for the stink. So before curiosity forced them to their feet to check me out, I half-stood half-fell into the sea for an attempt at hygiene. After a brief rinse my wobbly legs gained enough strength to allow me to walk up the beach and thank my guide.

Phil Hearps was a member of the Kalbarri rescue services and, unknown to me, the ranger at Steep Point had rung him and explained my plans. Phil estimated my arrival time and, knowing how difficult the entrance can be, he had been waiting for me.

There have been only two other paddlers who have crossed the Zuytdorp Cliffs to reach Kalbarri and they were the only two paddlers to successfully circumnavigate Australia: Paul Caffyn in 1982 and Freya Hoffmeister in 2009. Phil was there to guide Freya in, as he was for me.

Phil then handed my empty carcass over to Ken Wilson, who also has a history of helping kayakers cross this coast. Ken had also been there for Paul and Freya, offering all the assistance needed for an exhausted kayaker to recover. It was much appreciated, I really didn’t want to do the caravan park thing this time. I was taken to Ken’s house, which overlooks the entrance, then settled into Phil’s excellent homebrew and a few ‘wee sensations’ of Ken’s Glenmorangie.

Next day I was sore from head to toe and shattered, but the realisation of what I’d done had sunk in and was consolation. I had paddled successfully through what I’d always believed was the hardest section of coast; my preparation had worked. While I couldn’t afford to give myself too much of a pat on the back, as I still had a very long way to go, I was very pleased to get to Kalbarri. I idly wondered if anybody cared. Would my trip now be considered as a serious attempt to paddle around Australia? I had only kept in touch with a few friends and family via email whenever I was in a town, but my contact list was growing as I met people along the way. I updated my webpage with my progress, unsure if it was being viewed by anybody other than my nearest and dearest.

It took three days for me to get back into the kayak, and on 3 June I was paddling again. I was still not fully recovered from the cliffs and it took another three days of struggling with the paddle before I started to feel strong again. My next stop was Geraldton, 130 kilometres south of Kalbarri, and headwinds developed on this stretch as I expected. What was unknown was how strong they would be and how long they would blow for. After September the warmer weather brings constant southerly winds of 20 knots or over. To have to compete against a relentless, tireless opposition for days as it grinds down your progress is a demoralising prospect. This was why I was here during winter when it was bearable.

I pulled into Geraldton and rang Dave Evans. I met Dave on the evening before I set off down the Zuytdorp Cliffs. He was camping on a nearby beach and found me as he was looking for a spot of evening fishing. After I explained I was going to cross the cliffs, he didn’t think I stood much chance but gave me his phone number in case I got to Geraldton. He was surprised to hear from me.

Homebrewed beer was fast becoming a feature of my trip and over a glass or two Dave told me that the houses in the area are built to cyclone specifications. Not because they are under threat of cyclones but because of the strength of the summer winds. They hold windsurfing championships at Geraldton as the winds are so predictable and strong, with the lean of the trees sculpted by the force of nature confirming this.

I was told the 400-kilometre drive from Geraldton to Perth can get a bit dull and uninteresting. Well, not the paddle. The beach is protected by a reef for much of its length and as you approach Perth from Jurien Bay the reefs offshore build up to make it interesting. At times it was a bit hard to find a way through the barrage of breaking waves, but it was ten days you would definitely not call boring.

As I got closer to the capital city of Western Australia, Perth, the houses built up and it got harder to find a place to camp. I pulled into a marina for the night and after a fruitless search among the stone walls, jetties and signs, I found a small park at one end that was my only chance. I was being looked down upon by the walled palaces and apartments of the affluent end of town. I was sure someone would do the public a service and call the police if I pitched my tent, so I waited until after dark to set up camp.

While I was in the shadows, on the phone arranging a pick-up in Perth for the next day, a shiny Range Rover pulled up. They didn’t see me, but I watched in disbelief as Mum stayed in the car with the engine running and a youth got out, walked up to the kayak and tried to remove my spare paddles attached to the back of the kayak. He wasn’t quick enough. I ended my phone call and stepped out into the light. Not wishing to attract too much attention to myself, I only used short words and walked the youth back to his mum who showed considerable restraint by waiting for him to shut the door before driving off without a word to me.

That was the only time I had an issue with theft during the trip, and it was in an expensive part of town by someone in a car that had almost the same value as our house when we bought it.

3

Perth to Esperance

U
nlike on a remote coast, you can’t just rock up to a big city like Perth and pull the kayak into a nearby campground. Caravan parks are hard to find, never on the coast, and always full. So I tried to find a sympathetic kayaker who would be able to put me up for a few days while I prepared for the next stage. This normally involved contacting the local sea kayak club or emailing friends before I approached their area.

I had read about Terry Bolland and his 100-day solo kayak trips through the Kimberley. Among his many achievements was a trip when he ran, bicycled and kayaked around Australia. As well as running his shop, Canoeing Down Under, where he sells all things kayaking, Terry regularly heads off to the United States and paddles thousands of kilometres up and down rivers. He never seems to stop. I was keen to meet him and had previously organised via email for him to pick me up when I got to Perth and look after the kayak.

My time with Terry was an inspiration. He gave me good advice about paddling the south coast and, after looking at my rather tatty and inadequate clothing, he generously upgraded some of my gear. He also offered to lend me his satellite phone for my crossing of the Great Australian Bight, which I rather reluctantly agreed to. I was worried about getting it wet, and as I mentioned earlier it was against my personal ethics to carry one, but after some words of reason from Terry I was grateful for the safety net it would provide.

I had five days in Perth of overdosing on good food, coffee, booze and TV—it was great. Then it was time to leave, so I packed my gear and, almost as an afterthought, I tested my PLB the afternoon before I was to continue paddling. Bloody thing failed.

I was angry with myself for not testing it earlier, but relieved I’d tested it at all. The fact my PLB failed gave me a nagging feeling about the reliability of a device that was my only way of getting help should I need it. Terry raced me over to a Perth dealer who, rather rashly, advised that he would send it to Sydney and I would have a replacement in a matter of days. I had no intention of waiting and, as it turned out, it took a few weeks and plenty of phone calls to get a response back from Sydney.

So on 24 June I set off from Perth with Terry’s PLB, planning to return it when mine came back from the PLB doctor. Terry dropped me off and I headed south again.

By the end of my first day back on the water I had a sore right wrist. By the end of my second day I struggled into the Dawesville Channel, 70 kilometres south of Perth, with a constant stabbing pain. My mind was in turmoil. I knew the pain was not something I could ignore and I realised it was serious, because it hurt even when I wasn’t paddling. The wrist needed rest, but I still ignored the reality, deciding I would get some sleep and hope the cocktail of drugs I’d popped would fix me by morning.

It was bitterly cold that night and I only had my tropical sleeping bag, which wasn’t capable of keeping me warm in temperatures that dropped to minus 3°C. It was uncomfortable but my thoughts were elsewhere. I was focused on what could be causing the pain in my wrist, and I came up with two things. One was tendonitis, a painful inflammation of tendons in the wrist caused by friction when the lubrication needed can’t handle the job. The other was carpal tunnel syndrome, when tendons swell and put pressure on the nerves, which I’d heard can be extremely painful. Both conditions were undesirable.

Stories of kayakers having these problems with their wrists after years of trouble-free paddling, then needing months of rest, physiotherapy and even operations, ran around my head. I didn’t have time to spare for any of that; I didn’t have much spare time at all. I realised I had pushed it too far the day before, I should have paid attention to the pain. Hindsight wasn’t helping the situation.

Early on the morning of my third day out of Perth I sat fully clothed, still wrapped in my inadequate sleeping bag, and waited for the sun’s rays to gather strength and thaw me out. I was in a bad way, the pain not having faded despite me taking at least one of every type of pill I carried, and my next action was obvious. I made a few desperate phone calls to track down Rod Coogan, a sea kayaker who lived close by, and asked him to come to my aid. I kept telling myself that it was only a temporary problem, but while I waited to get picked up I realised this could easily be the end of the trip, and in frustration I broke down and cried.

This was
not
how I was supposed to fail. I’d had visions of limping up a beach, away from my smashed-up kayak which was being swallowed in massive surf, or being picked up by a tourist boat carrying the Swedish netball team after they’d witnessed my desperate knife fight with a crocodile. That was how to fail, not a sore wrist just south of Perth!

Next day I was on a flight back to Sydney. I knew that recovery would take more than a week of rest, so despite Rod and his wife’s generous offer to look after me, I headed home to spend the time with my family.

At home I got a feel for how the family had adapted to life without me: quickly. Sharon had initially tried to maintain her busy lifestyle and struggled at the start, but soon realised she would have to slow down. They now had a routine where I wasn’t included. The kids were more independent and helped share the load with Sharon, and they had plenty of support from our friends. This all helped me feel better about being away.

What I couldn’t understand, though, was if they’d managed to get by for almost three months without me doing the housework, why did I have to do it now? My argument that it would be hard for them to adjust when I left again didn’t work. I soon found myself washing up the dishes, mowing the lawn, varnishing the deck and chopping a huge pile of wood for the winter, not the recommended therapy for a damaged wrist.

I couldn’t let my rehabilitation take too long. During the summer months, high pressure systems position themselves in the Great Australian Bight for days at a time, producing easterly winds. This would mean headwinds lasting for days along a barren coast with two sets of unbroken cliffs running for 160 and 190 kilometres.

So I gave myself two weeks. I knew if I wasn’t fixed up in that timeframe then my recovery would perhaps take months and I might as well abandon the trip and go back to work.

As well as visiting my physio and forming a plan of attack, I got in touch with Mark from Expedition Kayaks, who offered me a crankshaft paddle to see if that would help. This type of paddle has a subtle bend in the shaft for each hand so there’s less flexing of the wrist, which can be the cause of tendonitis or similar nastiness. Another difference with the new paddle was it didn’t ‘catch’ as much water; it gave a bit as I paddled forward. That may not sound too good but it really doesn’t make any difference to speed, while putting less strain on muscles.

I did a couple of afternoons in the kayak to test out the paddle and the progress on my injury, being very careful not to take any backward steps in my recovery. The paddle felt very comfortable, so the Mitchell Blades ‘Bombora’ got the nod.

On 14 July, less than two weeks after thinking my trip was over and having a cry, I found myself back in Western Australia, paddling again. I was nervous. From my first day back in the water I would have to paddle long hours with a loaded kayak—it was all or nothing. The wrist would either fail, and that would be the end of the trip, or I would be able to continue.

I think what caused the problem with the wrist was simply doing up the cuffs too tightly on my waterproof paddling jacket, which I’d had sent to Perth to better protect me from the cold waters of the south. So I loosened the cuffs and they didn’t cause me pain again; however, the jacket fell apart while crossing the Bight. Once again Mark from Expedition Kayaks came to the rescue and sent me a new one, with adjustable wrists so I couldn’t self-harm.

The weather was good that day and it was great to be paddling again. The odd twinge in my wrist reminded me to take it easy for a while. But the hours drifted by and I gained confidence with every stroke until I no longer gave my wrist another thought. I doubt a sore wrist would rate in most people’s top ten problems facing a kayaker on their way around Australia, but that was the closest I came to not completing the trip. It was a huge relief when I had satisfied myself I wasn’t going to make things worse by continuing to paddle. I was back to the assumed state of good health which most of us take for granted all too easily.

I opened a small parcel of homemade biscuits and immediately felt homesick. The family and I had agreed to meet in Adelaide in October, which seemed a long way off. So to help me get over the feeling of abandoning them, again, I reasoned that when I turned at Cape Leeuwin to get onto the south coast I would be heading east, which was a direct line to Adelaide.

As soon as I relaxed about the wrist I started to think of what was ahead. I’d been given some sideways looks by several people when they learnt I was heading along the south coast in winter, and their doubt was having an effect on me. It was always worst when I sat around thinking about the obstacle ahead; when I got moving I felt much more comfortable as I got stuck in.

I had two capes with a fearsome reputation to negotiate, Cape Naturaliste and Cape Leeuwin. Capes have a bit of a reputation for bad weather conditions in much the same way mountains do. They generally represent a tip of land sticking out into the ocean, while a mountain sticks up into the sky. Currents and winds are forced around a cape; winds are forced up and over a mountain. The forces of nature eventually find ways past the obstacle and in their rush they’re compressed together to gather strength.

The 100 kilometres between Cape Naturaliste and Cape Leeuwin is the last leg of the west coast and is considered a test piece for sea kayakers in the area. The weather can change quickly and bring with it some big seas as swell, waves and currents combine.

From Busselton the sea was flat and gave me a warm cuddly feeling that all would be well. That warm cuddly feeling was left behind with the flat water as the seas built up around Cape Naturaliste. The cape is surrounded by an area of water called ‘The Quarries’, which should give some indication as to what to expect. Picture piles of dirt next to holes haphazardly spread over a large area—that’s pretty much what the sea looked like. I found out later there are three currents that meet at this cape and with the southwesterly winds mixing them up The Quarries make themselves noticed. It’s probably the best name anybody could have given the area.

The change in conditions was sudden. I’m not going to estimate the size of the swell but it took three or four paddle strokes to get to the top, which was steep, whitecapping and moving very quickly towards me. I soon realised it was so rough that to turn the kayak would expose my side to the breaking waves, increasing my chances of getting rolled over. So I didn’t like the option of running back to the flat waters of Geographe Bay.

I struggled on, using the lighthouse sitting high on the cape as a marker of my progress. But I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, and the lighthouse was still over my left shoulder every time I looked.
I must be against a current
, I thought.
Pull harder . . . dig deep.
It took a while for me to realise that I was actually making progress, though it was painfully slow: like walking around a pole, the view over my left shoulder at the lighthouse would stay the same as I paddled the 270 degrees around the headland.

Eventually I could see down the coast to Smiths Beach, 15 kilometres away. There was a headwind, but the seas calmed down as I moved away from Cape Naturaliste. I was drained, emotionally and physically, but I’d made it round.

The conditions deteriorated considerably the next day, so I took a walk from my camp at Smiths Beach into the nearby village of Yallingup. I had a big feed and caught up with the weather situation, which looked better for the coming days.

Coming around Cape Naturaliste had really shaken me up. I was worried that, after paddling for months down exposed beaches with bad weather against me, my nerves were going. As I pondered the coast that lay ahead I reasoned that my feelings of dread were only due to the constant stories of swell, surf and storms from surfers, fishermen or anybody who lived on the coast, and not from my lack of ability. In hindsight I realised I was just building on my respect for the ocean. As soon as I got on the water, all the dark thoughts dissolved and I enjoyed the day.

From Smiths Beach I landed on a deserted beach inside Cow Rock, a couple of kilometres north of Prevelly. I was almost tempted to continue paddling to the Prevelly boat ramp, which was marked on my map. But when I took a walk into the village later that day the view from the cliffs revealed a maze of reefs to negotiate before the ramp, which made my decision to pull in north a good one. This was where the Margaret River ran into the ocean, one of the premier surf spots in the country, not a place to explore in a loaded sea kayak.

I’d had a pre-dawn start that morning. The last thing I put in my day hatch was my head torch, so when I had pulled out a bite to eat during the day’s paddle, the torch was the first thing out, dropping to the bottom of the ocean. After walking into Prevelly I had to catch a taxi into the township of Margaret River, about 10 kilometres away, to buy a new one. If I was going to throw stuff overboard this was a good place to do it; Albany was the next spot where I could replace anything that got lost or broken. That was too far away to do without a torch on the shorter winter days—having no light for my pre-dawn starts could mean leaving gear on the beach, or worse.

Making the most of a rare spell of good weather, I rounded Cape Leeuwin on 20 July with only a wisp of wind struggling to ruffle the ocean surface. However, I almost got cleaned up as one of the many bomboras in the area exploded into life just after I’d innocently paddled over it.

A bombora is a rock or reef reaching up from the ocean floor to just a few feet below the surface. It may be no bigger than a table, but it sits far enough underwater to hide its presence. It is, however, close enough to the surface to cause a breaking wave when agitated by the swell. As I paddled through this area I kept a lookout for bomboras breaking, and using my deck-mounted compass made a mental note of where they lay as they gave their position away. The problem was they can lie dormant for quite some time; the greater the depth they lie at, the bigger the swell has to be to wake them up. Sometimes, if things were going too well, I would watch one break ahead of me then see how close I could get to it without being swatted by the sudden, violent, breaking wave. But every now and again a bombora would remain hidden, and I would paddle over it only to hear it erupt behind me. The numbers game meant I’d be caught out at some point, but not today.