All the Way Round

by Stuart Trueman

  The first ten hours of paddling went well, I was on track and feeling strong. As the sun went down, I prepared for darkness. Everything is harder at night so the easier you make it for yourself while there is daylight, the less chance there is of dropping something overboard, or going for a swim in the dark. I put on another woollen thermal in anticipation of the cooler temperatures, put my head torch around my neck, cracked a glow stick, placed a fresh bag of food on the deck, and then took seasickness tablets. I’ve never been seasick in my kayak during the day, but it had happened once at night, so with no downside to taking the tablets I killed the chance of it occurring during the crossing.

  I had a full moon and calm conditions for the first half of the night—as good as it gets. But there’s no point in waxing lyrical about paddling in ideal conditions because I was sitting in litres of my own urine.

  After sixteen hours of paddling, the realisation that I was only halfway hit home. By now it was getting a bit harder to ignore my aching muscles and the thought of having to do another sixteen hours made the halfway milestone a bittersweet affair.

  One of those ‘worst-case scenarios’ I’d envisaged myself having to deal with years before while I sat in comfort at home was the winds picking up from the south after I’d paddled for hours. A headwind is the sea kayaker’s dread. The resistance of the wind is hard enough to deal with, but it brings with it oncoming waves. If strong enough, these waves roll over the deck, smacking into the kayaker’s chest, chilling them while slowing momentum—a double whammy. This is particularly a problem in a loaded kayak as the bow is sluggish to rise with the wave, opting instead to dive through. It’s a wearing process and not something to look forward to.

  I had asked myself, ‘What were my options if faced with the all-too-common 20-knot southerly wind during my progress along the cliffs?’ It would be very unlikely I could call on a passing boat, as there wouldn’t be any and even if there were I didn’t carry a VHF radio to contact them. I could paddle on, but kayaking into a strong headwind made an already hard task much harder, and was obviously dangerous. I could turn around and paddle back, but I knew myself too well; I’d probably keep trying to continue until the very last of my energy was drained and it was too late to consider returning. Then I’d have to use my PLB and hope I was found before I was dashed against the cliffs or more likely succumbed to the cold waters.

  My answer was a sail. This gave me an option to turn around, allowing me to make use of the wind to aid a return to my starting point. It may sound like a no-brainer at first but, as with most things, if you think about it hard enough it can turn into a difficult decision. Much of the sea kayaking world frowns on the use of sails, seeing it as cheating. I saw the sail as a safety device which had the benefit of aiding progress.

  Just as I had envisaged, the winds picked up from the south at the halfway point. Faced with 100 kilometres to paddle into a headwind of 15 knots was a demoralising situation. However, the thought of paddling back 100 kilometres was an even more depressing prospect, so I kept on going. After three hours the wind died down to nothing and I picked up speed.

  As the conditions settled down, I drifted off into the misty area of my mind created by lack of sleep and continuous exercise. But I was snapped back to clarity when I missed a sleeping whale by the length of the kayak. It was a humpback with its back showing above the water and its massive flukes spread out wide. It made me think of a teenager passed out in the most uncomfortable pose designed to take up the most space possible to ensure you couldn’t miss them. There’s no doubt which one of us got the biggest scare; the whale vented its fishy breath and slapped its flukes a few times but didn’t actually move, while my speed suddenly increased and the chance of me falling asleep dropped to nil for a few hours. I’m sure it was back to dreaming of far-off krill before my heart rate had a chance to drop.

  During the night I struggled to maintain my ‘40 kilo­metres in six hours’ schedule. I was tired and hurting from paddling for twenty hours. Even though I kept drinking and eating regularly, sleep-deprivation was taking its toll and I had to pop a few caffeine tablets. The hours before sunrise dragged and dawn took a long time to show itself.

  Morning brought mental relief but also 20-knot winds over the cliffs. I tried to get some help from the sail but all that happened was I got blown away from the cliffs and then blown over. I had stopped to eat a banana sandwich when a combination of a wave, a gust of wind and a dozy kayaker resulted in the kayak leaning at an impossible angle. I realised I was going over and grabbed the paddle, but got it at the wrong angle so instead of providing a hold on the water to prevent me rolling further, it just sliced through and I found myself still chewing my sandwich underwater. At first all I could think about was that my urine was now emptying into the sea, so I quickly shut my mouth.

  With the sail creating a huge drag, I only managed to roll enough for my head to resurface to gasp some air before I went back down. While underwater the second time I remembered my spray skirt was off, so the kayak was filling up with water and even harder to roll upright. If you need something more exciting than bumping into a whale at night to wake you up, try an unexpected roll, with the sail up and spray skirt off, to ensure the cold water gets everywhere.

  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.

  Map 3: The second leg—Perth to Esperance,

  24 June–12 August 2011

  3

  Perth to Esperance

  Unlike 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 st
ill 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!