All the Way Round (20 page)

My next stop was Hamilton Island. I spent a day not knowing where the next current was coming from, but I guess that’s the price you pay for not having nautical charts that detail the ocean and prevailing currents. I carried topographical maps, such as you would use for a bushwalk. There were a couple of advantages to topographical maps. They were cheaper than ocean charts, ․9 each not ․60, and they showed the townships and road access along the coast. This was invaluable in my search for water and food supplies, and if a road led to the coast there was a good chance it would lead to a boat ramp and sheltered waters.

I avoided the main resort area of Hamilton where I could see the planes landing and found my own little beach, only just managing to dissolve into the bush as a tag-along group of jet skiers filed by on their tour. There were a few other resorts around so I just rocked up and found a tap, filled my water containers and cleared off again, often with sideways looks from those lying on the beach. Feeding the resorts were ferry boats, sail boats, jet skis, planes and helicopters, which detracted a little from the experience of paddling through this beautiful area. I guess I’d been spoilt by having most of the coast to myself. It seemed this little bit had been put aside for the rest of Australia to play in.

The next day I got to Hideaway Bay, a small village on the mainland near Gloucester Island, and pulled in to search for drinking water. As I was closing in on the house I’d selected for the involuntary water donation I passed a fisherman. He looked too engrossed in trying to catch breakfast to consider bothering him for directions, so I continued zeroing in on my target. I landed and established nobody was home before finding an outside tap and helping myself to water. When I returned to the kayak I found the fisherman having a good look. Feeling a little like a schoolboy who had just been caught red-handed, I tried to act as though I hadn’t just trespassed, stolen water and was in the middle of my getaway.

Malcolm Sandman, it turned out, couldn’t care less, and was far from your average North Queensland fisherman. At 65 his job was teaching speed-skiing in Canada—not just skiing, but the type where they go so fast they can wear funny-looking helmets and nobody laughs at them. He was quick to invite me round for a coffee and breakfast and I accepted even more quickly, discreetly dropping my water containers before following him.

At Malcolm’s house you would never have guessed his occupation; there was no evidence of a life spent on the world’s ski slopes. I didn’t ask why he decided to buy a house in a flat, hot, remote coastline in North Queensland, which was about as far as you could get from people flying down frozen slopes in those funny hats. I guess it doesn’t matter what you do for a job, you need change to balance your life.

Anyway, fully refreshed I headed back to the kayak, after declining Malcolm’s offer of drinking water, and set off again. I got to Abbot Point later that day to find a very security-conscious port of some description, sporting some elaborate fencing and a growing number of vehicles with flashing lights that had spotted me approaching. With no need for water or supplies and sensing their welcome would be the yang of Malcolm’s yin, I pushed on and found an empty hut a few kilometres further on. Chairs, table, shade and a bit of water was a great way to end a day that started well and had a good bit in the middle.

I stopped at Cape Upstart not sure what I would find, as my map was a bit short on details, but was surprised to turn a corner and see a collection of holiday houses. I landed, and after a quick walk around found only a couple of the houses were being used so most would be empty for the night. I went about selecting my accommodation. High on the list of desirables were shelter from the rain, a chair and table and being close to the water. I wasn’t going inside anybody’s place, I would just be using any bit of roof I could shelter under and a little water. After narrowing it down to just two, the final decision was based on the one that was closest to the kayak. It featured a wonderful awning with a wide table and chairs right on the beach, so I moved in. I had to look about a bit for water as there were some elaborate setups to catch the rains and funnel them away to the various water tanks. Most had no taps, just underground pipes running directly into the huts.

I was set for the evening. I was careful to put food away into the kayak every evening to stop the wildlife having a go at my supplies, but often I’d be woken by insects, mice or possums having a sniff around. The hut I’d selected was nestled between rocks large enough to look down onto the hut on one side but were less impressive on the other. It had two storeys, with stairs leading up to a door on the upper floor which overlooked the tin roof I was sleeping under.

In the dead of night, in the pitch black, and just after a thunderstorm that I barely noticed, a couple of rock wallabies chased each other across what must have been a popular route up the stairs of the hut, then exited by bounding across the tin roof above me, to the rocks. It only took a couple of bounds from each of the wallabies to get across the corrugated iron roof but the noise instantly took me from slumber to a confused but alert state. This was way beyond the familiar sounds of scratching, crawling or burrowing I was used to. Even the thunder of a tropical storm would only cause me to roll over and go back to sleep. Although I quickly figured out what the noise was, it took me a while to calm down enough to regret my choice of hut.

My next night was spent 60 kilometres further along, on Cape Bowling Green, in a derelict shell of a hut. There were no walls, the roof was more holes than roof, barely held aloft by four rotting poles, and there were some mouldy foam mattresses on the floor. But it was all the protection I could find from the wind, so although it lacked chairs, a table and drinking water and didn’t really offer much in the way of shelter, it seemed unlikely I’d be woken by wallabies bouncing over my head.

I did, however, have a problem with the sandflies. By now I was pretty cluey about the habits of the dreaded sandfly and had avoided any serious conflicts. The problem is that it’s not always obvious you’re getting bitten until the next day, when things start to itch. They’re put off by insect repellent but it doesn’t necessarily stop them; the only guarantee is to cover yourself up, which can be a nuisance when it’s 35°C. Anyway, Cape Bowling Green is the training camp where sandflies learn to ignore insect repellent, find gaps in clothing and develop advanced stealth techniques. I took the worst beating of the trip. When they got inside my shirt they used all their skills to have a party where I was the host and didn’t know it. Picking a good place for a night’s sleep was getting tricky.

I got to Townsville on 4 March, the day after leaving Cape Bowling Green, and was looking forward to a change in the diet, a rest and the chance to catch up with my brother. I had paddled some very hot and humid days and had been regularly rained on day and night; I was ready for a bit of rest and recreation. I got myself into an air-conditioned hut at the caravan park and had a lousy night’s sleep, not being used to a double bed, clean sheets and cool air.

Jim’s training plan for the upcoming Six Foot Track race appeared to involve drinking lots of beer during the day, followed by a bottle of wine in the evening to help wash down all the pizza he had eaten. To his credit he did go for a jog each morning before we headed off for a big fried breakfast. His rigorous training regime worked—he did well in the race, finishing the tough 45 kilometres in a good time of 5 hours and 12 minutes.

On 10 March I found myself staying on Palm Island, sheltering from the rain under the awning of an empty hut with a couple of peacocks for company. It was eleven months since I had started my journey in Broome.

I headed for Orpheus Island after that, treating myself to a short day on the water. I stopped at a couple of resorts that were less than welcoming. To encourage me to move on, the second resort pointed out a camping spot with a toilet and facilities a few kilometres further away. It did indeed have a toilet but the ‘facilities’ were limited to a picnic table and a flat spot big enough for one small tent, just. The distance from the table to the toilet was ten paces through the bush and over a stream; I could wee into the sea at high tide from the table. It had rained all day and was not slowing down which, coupled with the frosty reception I had received from the resorts, gave me a tainted view of the place. Still, it wasn’t too uncomfortable and, determined to avoid the rain, I ate my noodles in the shelter of the toilet. Even a wet sleeping bag, which had mopped up the water that had found its way into the tent, didn’t feel too bad, and I was soon asleep.

For the length of the east coast of Queensland it rained six days out of seven, ranging from a sprinkle at night to torrential downpours where you just couldn’t imagine any more water being squeezed out of a cloud. When things got wet they stayed wet for days. Because my gear was packed in my kayak during the day, the humidity ensured nothing dried when I got it out. By now some of my clothes were growing mould and some of my food could cause a health hazard at the next town, but I was doing okay.

I was, however, very careful to quickly attend to any cuts, rashes, bites or unknown growths before anything went bad. This was one of my main concerns about paddling through the Top End and something I had looked into during my research for the trip. It’s often the least glamorous of problems that cause things to fall apart. I thought an insect bite was more likely to see me fail than a crocodile attack. Crocs were always talked about but rarely was I asked, ‘Get bitten by any insects?’ An insect bite will itch, get scratched, get infected, and then flourish in the hot humid conditions, quickly getting out of control and threatening to put a stop to my progress.

It had been raining so much that many towns between Townsville and Cairns were cut off. My brother was forced to forget the bus and fly back to Cairns to get to his race in Sydney on time because the roads were flooded. It’s hard for someone from Europe to understand that the two main towns of northern Queensland, which are approximately 300 kilometres apart, can get cut off from each other every year.

During my stay on Orpheus Island it rained all night and all the next day. It’s a real bummer to pack up in the rain. It’s almost impossible to keep whatever is only just damp from getting completely wet. By now the only thing I was making an effort to keep dry was the shortwave radio that I used for weather forecasts; everything else would probably stay wet until a change in the seasons.

Hinchinbrook is a very impressive island with, apparently, a dramatic skyline of steep peaks to enjoy as you approach, but I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t see the peaks, or much else, as it drifted in and out of view, little more than a dark shape through the rain. What I did see reminded me a little of Scottish gullies, laced with the last of the winter’s snow. The torrents of water appeared white against the rocks supporting the run cascading down mountains. But I was quick to remember the temperature difference as my memories of ice-climbing in Scotland briefly flashed by.

I approached Cape Sandwich with caution. A resort there occupied the next good landing spot and my last two resort encounters had left me less than optimistic of a warm welcome. As I approached I could see the curtains flapping in the wind and started rehearsing my most sympathy-inducing lines, tales of my ‘hardships’ on the water, in order to tug on the heartstrings of whoever was airing the cabins.

As I got closer things didn’t look right. The curtains were blowing through broken windows, trees were lying across roofs and there was no sign of people moving about. I landed and realised the resort must have been trashed during Cyclone Yasi a few weeks earlier. It would have been a pleasant two-minute walk from the jetty to the resort entrance, but now there was no sign of the jetty, the beach had been washed away and I had to climb over and through large, fallen trees all the way from the beach to the reception building.

It became obvious to me that the resort had been abandoned in a hurry. The trees had been stripped of their leaves and small branches in much the same way as they would have if a bushfire had been through the place. Paths had been washed away and the generator building was destroyed, but the bar and reception area were still sound, so I was set. After a quick, rather optimistic look behind the bar, which revealed only a half-bottle of methylated spirits, I set up camp in the main building. There was a dry area and everything I needed, even running water. Well, it was running off the roof into my pots, so that counts. Soon I was settled into my own personal resort, just me and 376 cane toads floating about in the pool with the debris. This was turning out to be a better resort encounter than the previous two.

At some point in the evening I rang Etta and Dave, who run Coral Sea Kayaking, to let them know I would be at Mission Beach the next day. They had kindly offered to put me up on my way through. Then I got a strange text message from fellow kayaker Keith Oakford that said, ‘Japan tsunami, get to high ground quickly!’ My first thought was that Keith was drunk and didn’t realise that no matter how high I got I couldn’t see Japan from Australia! I wasn’t about to abandon the resort and crawl in the rain over fallen trees to get to higher ground. So I cooked dinner instead. I later learnt that Keith had sent the message during the very early stages of the tsunami caused by the earthquake off the coast of Japan. In those first few hours it was reported that the wave of destruction was going to hit northern Australia.

Mission Beach was directly in the path of category-5 Cyclone Yasi on 3 February 2011. Winds of over 250 kilometres per hour snapped trees in half, flattened buildings and ripped roofs off houses. Residents reported the winds died down for 45 minutes as the eye of the cyclone passed directly over Mission Beach. Then torrential rain fell throughout the area, with Mission Beach recording 130 millimetres in just one night. From 9 March when I left Townsville to 13 March when I arrived at Mission Beach, the town had been cut off. The road was re-opened the day I got there. There was no doubt that Mission Beach had taken a flogging and much had been done to clean up and restore it, but there was plenty of evidence that nature was dishing it out to the little coastal town.