All the Way Round

by Stuart Trueman

  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 sta
rt 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.

  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 atmos
phere 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.