All the Way Round (8 page)

This was the yin and yang of the last two capes of the west coast—Cape Naturaliste was rough, Cape Leeuwin appeared calm, but I sensed the waters around Leeuwin could work themselves up to a violent level quite easily and was glad I’d caught a calm day.

After a 55-kilometre day I landed at Flinders Bay, a little fishing village in protected waters just around from Cape Leeuwin. I was pleased I’d made the most of good conditions, a rarity for Cape Leeuwin, and was well placed for the next leg to Windy Harbour. Importantly I also felt progress was being made. I was now on the south coast pointing east towards Adelaide and although I could expect some rough conditions, there was a good chance the weather would not keep blowing against me all the time.

As I settled down for a few hours’ sleep on the beach, I was surprised to hear what sounded like a boat struggling in the dark. I soon realised that what I was listening to were the humpback whales gathering just offshore before heading back to Antarctica, singing to each other. The sound was really clear as it travelled through the water and up the sand to my pile of clothes which my head rested on. I fell asleep to the symphony of the deep.

Between Flinders Bay and my next stop, Windy Harbour, is a very exposed beach that catches the full force of the southwest swell. I wanted to avoid landing there, as the surf could keep me grounded for days, so I decided to paddle the 100 kilometres to Windy Harbour in one go.

So on 21 July I set off at 1 am. It would be a mistake to dismiss paddling 100 kilometres as being half as hard as paddling twice the distance. There is nothing easy about paddling 100 kilometres of ocean in a loaded kayak. You have to be organised with food and water, have a good weather forecast and be comfortable in your kayak. Even though I’d paddled twice the distance when crossing Zuytdorp Cliffs, I was amazed at how exhausted I was when I reached Windy Harbour at 3.30 that afternoon.

Windy Harbour was a great place to relax after the long haul from Cape Naturaliste, but there are no shops there, so I had to get a lift into Northcliffe 30 kilometres away. Here I found all the essentials for a touring kayaker: a café, internet, post office and supermarket. I fed myself, updated the web page, sent the kids some postcards then did my shopping before thumbing a lift back with a local man, Warwick. During the car ride I told him my story and was invited to dinner, where the highly likeable Warwick got me drunk. Naughty Warwick.

Despite my hangover and a tooth painlessly breaking in half on the last of Sharon’s homemade biscuits, I was feeling much more relaxed about things the next day. The coast was starting to offer some shelter, the weather was looking good and Windy Harbour was full of hardcore fishermen who didn’t show anything but respect for the progress I’d made. All the self-doubt after Cape Naturaliste had been chased away by a few good days, a lesson I took on board for the future. The bad times will be replaced by good times, you just have to wait.

Thanks to ideal sailing conditions, I left Windy Harbour and covered the 50 kilometres to Chatham Island by lunchtime. This was the first time I’d had tailwinds since North West Cape. I didn’t land at Chatham but pushed on to make Cape Nuyts, finding a little bay tucked away on the eastern side. There wasn’t much space for a tent but it was a great hidey-hole, and a few southern right whales completed the picture.

I saw many of these whales from here to the Head of the Bight as they made their way from Antarctica to breed. Often I passed the mothers and calves in the sheltered, shallow waters of the bays or behind headlands, where, I assumed, the mums were caring for the young ones until the time came for the journey to Antarctica. I also saw a few much more active males further out to sea, showing off with tail slapping, fast swimming and headstands to push their tails high out of the water. I guessed that these were attempts to impress the females with the aim being (as always) to empty their testicles before getting back to the frigid waters of the South Pole. With testicles at 500 kilograms each, it would likely be a significant issue for a long swim, not to mention the last chance they get to offload for about a year. While I sympathised with their situation, I gave the males a bit of space, unsure of the mindset of a group of well-hung, hormone-riddled, 45-tonne teenagers out on the town.

The south has more than its share of dramatic coastline. It’s got enough bays and headlands to hide behind and find great campsites, but also open stretches of paddling to plan for. The granite rocks form bold headlands with smooth, weather-worn features defiantly facing south. In the sheltered waters I often found seals lounging about, making the most of their time off by sunning on the boulders or drifting in the kelp. The prolific birdlife, seals, whales and dolphins, combined with the wild feeling of remoteness and serious weather, made me feel strangely comfortable. Maybe it was because this sort of coastal landscape reminded me of my climbing days in Europe, and the good times helped me appreciate the area over the next few days.

After West Cape Howe I made for Dunsky Beach. I’d been warned to avoid Shelly Beach as the surf there was very dumpy. As I approached I watched the surf which was fairly treacherous and thought, ‘Well, it looks bad, but good job it’s not nasty Shelly Beach.’ Then, just after landing, I was sheltering from the rain in a toilet block, idly watching a seal play in the waves, when I noticed a sign saying, ‘Welcome to Shelly Beach’. Oops.

While trying to stay out of the rain in the toilet awning, which was the size of an old telephone box, I was also cooking dinner and changing into dry clothes at the same time. Being half-dressed in a confined area with a naked flame while playing with a knife, things could only end badly. I was lucky to get away with a cut finger and spilling half my dinner of lentil and blood curry with pasta.

The weather had been kind to me since leaving Windy Harbour, until I turned round Bald Head towards Albany on 27 July and found a stiff 15–20 knot headwind determined to make me work the last few kilometres into Albany. I beat it, landed and while I was waiting for Paul Robertson of the Albany Sea Kayak Club, another local kayaker, Garry Mannes, walked up, got my story then left me to sort my gear before returning with coffee and cake. I was picking up some good vibes about Albany.

I spent the next three days in Albany, doing maintenance on the kayak and kit and making time to check out the town. My good vibes were not wrong—it was a friendly place with a great atmosphere and long history. One of the first things to sort out was my broken tooth, so the day after I landed I went to Paul’s dentist, Colin Bales, who fixed me up.

While being entertained by Paul I was introduced to Ken Norman, who proved to be an expert on the coastline of the Great Australian Bight. He had not only travelled it by motorbike but had also made numerous notes on his charts for future kayakers—well, at least that’s how it looked to me.

Ken put my mind at ease for the stretch between the Baxter and Bunda cliffs, which from the maps looked like a huge distance of unprotected beaches that in bad weather could sport some big surf that could pin me down. He also pointed out my best chance for water supplies and fishing camps. But Ken’s greatest contribution was he never once doubted I could do it. Coming from someone who had been there (not many people have actually travelled this coast at all) and who kayaked, it was a huge boost to my morale. Once again the power of one positive voice worked wonders.

I was sad to leave Albany but mindful that the seasons were moving on and I was keen to cross the cliffs before spring brought the easterly winds. However, on the morning I was leaving, the same troublesome tooth split in half on a piece of toast. It was something I could have done without, though I was quietly grateful it happened in Albany and not halfway to Esperance.

Seeing my disappointment, or being keen to get rid of me, Paul rang Colin, the dentist. At 8 am on Saturday morning I was back in the chair with various bits of hardware in my mouth while Colin rebuilt the broken tooth. I tried to look relaxed while wondering how upset Colin was at being woken up on his day off. Over the next hour I answered questions about the trip, through Paul. On hearing I was a tough sea kayaker, Colin dispensed with the painkiller; I’m sure it was his professional discretion and nothing to do with the fact he didn’t have an assistant with him. In fact, it didn’t hurt at all but I’m a real wuss at the dentist and wouldn’t complain if I was put asleep for a quick polish. Anyway, some of Paul’s replies must have impressed because Colin didn’t charge me. The good vibes of Albany were really buzzing now.

Paul took me down to Middleton Bay, where I was to start paddling again. Two whales were lazing 200 metres off the beach, a few swimmers were doing their morning laps in the mirror-calm sea and it all looked idyllic. Then Paul explained that in 2008, local surf lifeguard Joanne Lucas saved a man from a shark attack at this very beach. She wasn’t on duty at the time but she swam out, despite the blood in the water and the presence of the shark, and dragged the injured man 80 metres back to shore to be treated. For her bravery she was awarded the Star of Courage. I took another look at the swimmers and did a quick count.

Paul paddled with me out of Middleton Bay. We passed the whales and paddled for a couple of hours before he had to head for the shore, where he’d arranged a lift home with his wife. Although I’m quite comfortable on my own it was nice to paddle with someone for a while.

On my own again I paddled inside Bald Island to get to Cheyne Beach and while bouncing around in the narrow passage I saw a southern right whale heading straight for me—at speed. It looked very big as it broke the surface and had a quick blow only 50 metres dead ahead then I didn’t see it again. It had nowhere to go but right underneath me. For a moment I was concerned it might not have seen me. It’s one of those ‘superior being’ attitudes we have as humans which makes us think, ‘I haven’t been seen, it’s going to hit me.’ But I’m the one out of my element and as such unpredictable and clumsy. Humans are the aggressors most of the time so the whale should have been more worried about me than I was about it. Once you accept you are just visiting where nature rules, and show respect, you can relax and enjoy the show.

After a few days of good weather I’d covered the 170 kilometres from Albany to Bremer Bay on 3 August, where I attended to all my domestics at the local caravan park. I was quite impressed with the area around Bremer Bay. The clear waters revealed the life under the kayak. The coast was a variety of rocks, beaches and hills, with plenty of inlets hiding campsites that had a wilderness feel. I would have liked to spend a leisurely week exploring the area, but I had to move on and make the most of the weather, so I headed off the next day for Point Anne, which turned out to be a great spot.

I’d better qualify what makes a great spot. I’ve been asked many times which was my favourite area and I’m careful with my answers, as I’m aware that what can make my top ten may not rate for others.

The Australian bush is a wonderful place; it really is like the photos in the brochure. However, without water, food or shelter it’s hard to appreciate the wonder of nature as things get uncomfortable and can quickly develop into a serious situation. So, from my point of view, a spot might be great just because it has a rainwater tank and a bit of shade which, after a few days where the simple things in life are sparse, are worth more than can be imagined. However, if you’ve just left a five-star resort and driven to the same spot by car you may not see it in such a positive light.

As a kayaker, finding a sheltered landing on a day with big seas will be remembered by me as a special place. Someone else may paddle in on a day when the weather is calm and wonder why the hell I’d landed there at all.

It also depends on who or what else is there. When I land, I may meet a friendly local who looks after me, or I may meet a ranger and be told to move my campsite. One day there could be wildlife that’s beautiful and rare, the next day there could be creatures that want to bite or sting me.

So a great spot is really a subjective thing, but wouldn’t travel be boring if it was all predictable like a video game.

Point Anne had a sheltered landing and campsite. I found shade, water and a gas cooker. Lazing along the shoreline were about a dozen southern right whales and calves—there was even an albino calf sitting a few metres off the beach. For me, it definitely counts as a great spot.

From Point Anne it was 55 kilometres to Hopetoun where I got on the internet and discovered that the weather was going to turn bad in a few days. So while staying at Hopetoun Caravan Park I made plans to get 40 kilometres further down the coast to Starvation Boat Harbour before it hit, so I could sit out the predicted 30 knots of wind and 4-metre swell in a protected place. The only downside to waiting at Starvation Boat Harbour was its lack of drinking water. This could be a problem if the bad weather hung around and I got stuck there.

Luckily Colin Jenks, the caretaker at the Hopetoun Caravan Park, came to my aid. He took a day off from work and both Colin and his wife, Cathy, met me at Starvation Boat Harbour. They brought with them not only the water I needed but steaks, sausages, cabbage, eggs, yoghurt, fruit and a few fishing rods. It was a long way for them to drive and all I’d asked for was water, but Colin and Cathy went all out and made my day very comfortable. It may not seem like a big deal, but for me it was incredibly generous.

This was just one of many kind acts on my trip that rekindled my faith in the human race. When I landed on a remote beach I was often subject to similar generosity from the first person that talked to me. It was not unusual for me to find myself comfortable for the night in the house of someone I’d only met a few hours ago. What are the odds of that if people are mostly selfish and unsympathetic?

There was, however, definitely a difference as I paddled closer to the major cities, where a more guarded and defensive attitude prevailed. The influence of a busy, high-pressure, crowded environment seemed to encourage people to value money more than time. If I walked up to a house on a city beach today and said, ‘Look, I’ve not had a shower for a few days, my clothes haven’t been washed for a week, I’ve been eating lentils and muesli every day and I’m too tight to pay for a caravan park, can I stay at your place for a few nights to get sorted?’ I wouldn’t get too far.