Even though I was utterly exhausted with not an ounce of energy left, I still had one more obstacle to face—the manager of the Nullarbor Roadhouse. After what I’d just made myself do, I was not in a sympathetic frame of mind. So, as Terry drove me to pick up my supplies, I steeled myself for a confrontation … only to be informed at the roadhouse that the manager had thankfully taken himself away on holiday.
I rang home that evening to find my wife had been awoken at 2 am on the night of my crossing by the local police asking if I’d reported in. Someone had set off flares at a beach party about 200 kilometres from the cliffs, which had been seen by a ship. They reported it and word got to Eucla police who tried to ring my satellite phone, which was turned off, then Sharon’s mobile, which was also turned off. They then rang our local police station, who sent two policemen round to pay her a visit. Sharon knew I was tackling the cliffs and she knew a visit from the police at 2 am would not be to pass on their congratulations for a job well done. Of course she thought the worst. The South Australian police were involved because the flare was originally reported to them, which was why I was asked to ring them to let them know I was okay. Alaine was also contacted, but to her credit she didn’t tell me about this when I called in at the end of the cliffs; she knew I’d be shattered and that nothing would be gained.
I always try my best not to get the family involved in any of the hardships during my adventures. If I thought they were sitting around the phone worrying about me while I was making myself comfortable as I waited for the weather to change, I would have extra pressure on me to make a move. There’s not much they can do but worry about what might have happened. If things had gone badly then there’s even less they can do. So either way there’s nothing to be gained by getting them involved. But on this occasion things happened that were out of my control, wheels turned and imaginations were left to run wild.
I was at the Nullarbor Roadhouse for four days. One of the positives of recovering there is that it’s a great place to meet travellers. I met a Kiwi cycling across Australia, a couple circumnavigating the country in a small plane, a lady running around Australia, and all sorts of people driving on their way to somewhere far off. In the evenings I spent my time watching the caravan park fill up, then in the morning I’d have breakfast while it emptied, and in between I’d check on the weather; the wind was still blowing southeast with no change apart from a slight drop in strength.
Sharon’s side of the story
On that cold Blue Mountains night, I had been sleeping fitfully, tossing and turning, thinking about Stuart who I knew at that very moment was taking on one of the toughest sections of his around-Australia odyssey, the Bunda Cliffs in the Great Australian Bight. I was nervous and anxious about him crossing this unforgiving stretch of coastline, as I had been during the previous two sets of dangerous cliffs … and then at midnight the phone started ringing.
I immediately thought the worst—why else would the phone be ringing in the middle of the night if it wasn’t to deliver bad news? But I didn’t rush to answer it, and instead lay there trying to convince myself it was either a wrong number or a prank call.
Deep down, though, I had been dreading this moment since Stu first set off from Broome all those months ago. As thoughts and fears raced through my mind, the phone stopped ringing. Silence … but I was now fully awake, trying to stay calm and think logically despite the panic that was starting to grip me.
A knock at the front door came soon after and I immediately felt all my worst fears were about to be confirmed. With a sense of dread and a racing heart I leapt out of bed. I didn’t particularly want to open the door to bad news but I was desperate to stop our dog barking before he woke the girls. The last thing I wanted was to explain to them why there were two policemen here in the dead of the night.
‘Are you Sharon Trueman, wife of Stuart Trueman, the kayaker who is paddling the Bight?’ one of the policemen calmly asked.
This was a moment I had hoped would never happen. When Stuart set off, I was not so naive to think that nothing would ever go wrong but I had enough confidence in his ability to strongly believe that it wouldn’t happen to us. I was not prepared for this particular scenario and at that moment my heart was beating furiously and my legs were barely supporting me. With a very dry throat and hanging on to the dog for support, I managed a barely audible ‘Yes’.
It felt like an eternity before they explained the situation: if they were here to deliver bad news they seemed in no hurry to do so, prolonging my agony. Eventually they told me that an emergency flare had been reported in the general area of Stuart’s current position and the police wanted to know if I had any contact numbers for him other than his satellite phone, which was turned off.
My first thoughts were along the lines of, ‘No, I bloody well don’t have another number for him and even if I did, do you think there would be a) any reception and b) any way he would answer a mobile in the middle of a 36-hour crossing of a notoriously difficult southern cliff line in the middle of a winter night as he struggled to stay upright and alive?’
Of course I didn’t share these thoughts with the officers on my doorstep. Instead I invited them in and offered them the mobile number of Alaine, the kayaker in Perth who was manning the borrowed satellite phone Stu was using for this particular crossing. The arrangement had been that while he was on these cliffs, and the previous Baxter Cliffs, he would call in every 24 hours at 5 pm to report his location. The police called Alaine from my lounge room but, not surprisingly, she wasn’t able to give them any information either, so now there were two of us on different sides of the country wide awake and worried sick.
The next step was for me to call a senior constable in South Australia who was located near the border of South Australia and Western Australia. He was the officer first alerted to the flare sighting and the one who had called my local police station in search of more details. Still weak, dry-mouthed, shaking and cold—as I hadn’t grabbed a dressing gown in my haste—and still clinging to the dog for both warmth and support, I made the call.
The officer answered immediately but our conversation was very brief and yielded no good news. I told him that I couldn’t supply any further details on Stuart’s whereabouts except he had set off that morning from near Eucla and now, at 2 am, I estimated he had roughly covered two-thirds of the crossing and had been paddling for about eighteen hours. In return the only information I was able to get was that the flare was in the general vicinity of a little township called Yalata, or something like that, and we would have to wait until morning for further details … It was going to be a very long night.
The two local officers left shortly after this call and as I fumbled with the door locks I could do no more than collapse in a sobbing heap, my mind still in turmoil, unsure what to do next. The fact I could do nothing until the morning and had to face the next five or so hours imagining the worst was too much to bear.
I was able to compose myself enough to turn on my mobile phone, make myself a soothing cup of tea and get warm. The beep of a text message jolted me back to earth. I quickly scanned the screen for some positive news, but unfortunately it had been sent two hours earlier from the South Australia police, asking the same questions which I had now answered.
As I tried to digest everything that had evolved over the last few hours, my thoughts soon turned to how the police in South Australia knew of Stuart’s journey. Of course, I later learnt about the debacle with the manager of the Nullarbor Roadhouse and the chain of events that led to police officers visiting our home and me sitting tearfully on the couch pondering the future and what it might hold if the worst did eventuate.
Eventually, needing to speak to someone, I called Alaine, who I knew would still be awake and worrying. It was the best thing I could have done as she managed to calmly reassure me that, all things considered, the possibility of the emergency flare being from Stuart was very remote. We discussed all the facts and went over the scenario, and thi
s made me feel more positive and relaxed enough to get an hour’s sleep just as dawn broke.
With a very tired but brave face I was on autopilot the next morning as I went through the chores and got the kids off to school, feeling pleased as they hopped on the bus that they had no inkling of the night I had endured. But as soon as the school bus turned the corner, and with a very strong cup of coffee in my hand, I was back on the phone to the officer in South Australia.
He was able to confirm that the flare had been spotted at a location about 170 kilometres east of where Stu was paddling and they now thought it had been set off from a remote Aboriginal reserve.
Twice in twelve hours I shed tears, but this time of sheer relief.
However, I still didn’t feel completely free of worry until Alaine called at five that afternoon, saying she had just heard from Stuart in person. He’d told her that he was extremely tired, the crossing had been hard and, to quote, ‘I’m not doing that shit again’. Alaine and I agreed that it would be some time before we told him of my ordeal.
Ahh, the highs and lows of an adventurer’s wife and what we endure … life is never boring!
We may not be physically slogging it out nonstop for 36 hours by sea kayak along 190 kilometres of cliffs, but the emotional obstacles can be just as challenging, especially when you have young children whom you have to be strong and capable for. I think this other side of life with an adventurer goes largely unrecognised, unfortunately, because it’s not a glamorous or death-defying story. But having my photo in a glossy magazine isn’t important to me—having my husband home in one piece is.
From the Head of the Bight the coast heads southeast. This brings it square on to the swell of the Southern Ocean which has rolled, uninterrupted, over thousands of kilometres to find what’s called the ‘Shipwreck Coast’ blocking its path. From the Head of the Bight to past Cape Otway, over 1500 kilometres away, I would be faced with big surf—that was a sure thing.
On 20 September I started the first leg, 150 kilometres from the Head of the Bight to a small place called Fowlers Bay. It was an open coast that offered no shelter from the swell. To make things a bit trickier, the first 110 kilometres was along a surf beach laced with reefs and rocks that were the same colour as the sand, so it was almost impossible to work out a safe passage from my position, sitting in the kayak out beyond the surf break.
I took a few chances and not all of them turned out for the best. The textbook landing is one where you paddle in on the back of a big wave, watching it break before you make a dash for the beach. This sounds deceptively easy.
I have heard a kayak instructor explain cheerfully on an instructional video that there was nothing to fear in surf, it was just ‘a bunch of white fluffy stuff’. That’s crap! When a big wave hits, tonnes of water fall on you. The wave is formed as the sea hits shallow ground, rocks, reef or, as in this case, a sandbar. The water sucks up, exposing the bottom, and making it a real possibility that, with the shallow water and a big drop, you and the kayak are going to hit something hard.
When tackling big surf I try to head in at a bit of an angle to the wave so if I get caught out there is less chance of the kayak being picked up and speared into the ground. A fully loaded kayak stands little chance of getting out of that unscathed. Not pointing directly at the wave means I’ll get thrown onto it side-on, then I ride it out, often upside-down, until the wave dies down when I roll up for a quick look around to see if anybody saw me!
But not this time. I paddled in on what I thought was the last big wave of the set. I’d made good progress towards the beach and was sure I was in the clear so slacked off a bit. Then I found myself paddling but not going anywhere. The clear waters, laced with foam, had turned cloudy as sand was sucked up. Things went dark as a shadow fell over me. I turned round to see that I was being sucked back into a wave which was already curling over my head. I had just enough time to regret taking it easy.
The speed and force of the wave smacking down on me meant I couldn’t tell you what happened. All I knew was I was swimming. I made a grab for the kayak as it got caught in a rip and we headed out to sea again. As I started to swim out of the rip, while trying to keep hold of the kayak and my paddle, I saw my water bottle drift off from the cockpit. Bugger! I didn’t want to let go of the kayak or paddle so I had to let it go its own way. I had a ‘Wilson’ moment as I remembered Tom Hanks in the Castaway movie as his imaginary friend, Wilson the volleyball, floated away from the raft. That was the first and last roll I stuffed up on the trip. I was pretty upset with myself, but finding my water bottle on the beach that evening was a consolation.
Apart from the treacherous surf, the southeasterly winds were slowing me down. If I needed a rallying cry, I’d remind myself that in this area southwest winds would mean bigger surf. Another one of those mind games I used to keep me going.
Next morning, with the headwinds and heavy surf of the previous weeks taking their toll, I was feeling weary. As I packed the tent away I looked sideways at the sea, knowing the exit would be tough, after which I would be faced with headwinds that would build as the day progressed. I had to keep moving. I had limited water and food and the weather could crack at any time. That was all the motivation I needed to convince my body to do what it really didn’t want to do.
In the mornings the surf is generally smaller than in the afternoons because the night-time brings lighter winds which allow the sea to calm down. Even so I managed to get my fully loaded kayak airborne off the back of incoming waves as they raced for shore—not a bad effort.
Fowlers Bay is a small tourist village which signals the start of the population growing along the coast. The paddling became easier as the coast was now broken up with headlands and bays, offering some shelter at the end of the day. Then all of a sudden the weather calmed down. The first warm day, with light winds and flat seas, came as a bit of a shock. I soon found myself using my clothes to keep the mozzies off me and not to keep warm. Three days later, after paddling the 125 kilometres from Fowlers Bay, I was down to a few basic foods and although not starving I was looking forward to a big feed.
Landing at a town, finding a place to stay, then doing what has to be done is not made easier when arriving by kayak. The first task is to find accommodation that suits the budget and doesn’t involve a huge portage from the ocean. This is often a caravan park. Then you can imagine me setting up my little tent among the four-wheel-drives, caravans and tents, which are often as large as a small apartment, and resting up. Not so.
After setting up the tent the priority would be to clean myself up and get a feed. Then I’d find access to the internet and update my web page and send emails. This was a great way of keeping in contact with friends and family. I much appreciated the emails I got that talked about the day-to-day stuff I would normally find a bit of a drag; they allowed me to stay in touch with the ‘other’ world.
After that I’d check the maps and work out the next stage of my trip, calculate the food I’d need and the water availability, and then I would go shopping. I really don’t have too much imagination when it comes to my food, and packed the same groceries week in and week out, only getting fed up when the goodies ran out and I was left with the basics. I could get ten days’ worth of food in the kayak with no problem other than having to eat all the heavy stuff first to lighten the kayak. I paid attention to my diet as I didn’t want to lose too much weight, because this translates to poor performance, longer recovery and bad thoughts.
A typical day’s food on this trip was:
• Breakfast—Muesli and powdered milk with extra dried fruit and a drink of water. I soaked the muesli overnight to make it easier to eat. This meant I had to stop ants, pigs, foxes and possums getting into it so I would put it in a pot in the tent; surprisingly I never spilt it once. Another advantage of having it in the tent was that I could eat it without getting out of the sleeping bag, so I kept warm for a bit longer on the cold mornings down south and I didn’t get attacked by
insects at first light up north. I could be on the water an hour after waking up. I liked a quick start.
• Paddle food—I’d prepare the food for the next day’s paddling the night before. This included nut mix, muesli bars, chocolate, a small tin of rice pudding, apple, and chocolate spread on bread of some sort, depending on availability. One of my favourite tricks was to cook two-minute noodles the night before, stir in peanut butter and nut mix, and put it in a plastic lunch box—a real bonus for the longer days and hard sections like the cliffs. I’d eat and drink each hour to keep me going.
• Dinner—Rice or pasta with lentils, to which I added peanut butter, nut mix, a small tin of tuna and some chilli, curry or spices of some sort, with processed cheese or parmesan on top. I’d also add butter (when I was down south) or oil (up north) for the taste and to keep up my fat content.
The diet seemed to work—I only lost 5 kilograms throughout the entire trip—but when I got to town I’d avoid the foods I packed and go for junk; chips, burgers, pizzas, bacon and eggs, and coffee. I’d overdose on these luxuries to the point where I was ready to get back to my paddling food.
Next on my list of things to do in town was check the weather and ask around to see if I could find someone able to give advice on any areas I thought could be difficult. This was harder than it sounds because I could ask three people the same question and get three different answers. Then I’d ignore them all, because only when I got to the difficult area would I know if any of the advice was helpful.
The main problem was that often the advice came from those who had only been to the area in question in motor-powered boats. Also, some of the information made me suspect that the person offering the advice had never actually been there at all, but couldn’t admit it, making it up in an effort to impress their mates. A good example would be: ‘Oh yeah, just go up the river for 2 kilometres until you see a hut on the left.’ What they didn’t consider was that the river runs against you at 4 knots at low tide, and that crocodiles are plentiful in the area. And although crocs, when they hear a motor, sink to the bottom of the river until the noise is gone, when you paddle by in your low-slung kayak, they come and check you out! Then the 2 kilometres turns out to be 5 kilometres, which is no bother with a motor but a real pain in a kayak at the end of the day, and you can’t see the hut from the kayak but when you’re standing on a boat it’s as plain as day.
All the Way Round Page 11