All the Way Round
Page 19
I knew it was unlikely I’d starve but a little more likely I’d run out of water. What concerned me most, however, was having to paddle 50 kilometres a day for the next four months while rationing my supplies. I would have to be accurate with my estimates of how long each section might take. This was not always easy, particularly in an area that I hadn’t paddled before, and it wasn’t just a few kilometres but the entire northern coastline of the continent. If I got my estimates wrong, I could be running out of both food and water. To have to ration supplies would wear me down, meaning I’d take longer to cover ground, which would increase the number of days on half rations. That is the start of a downward spiral where adequate rest, sufficient supplies and an appropriate distance covered compete with each other.
What did make my calculations easier was the predictability of the weather. Unlike the southern coast there were no low-pressure systems to confuse the prevailing winds, leaving slow-moving and predictable high pressure systems to direct the weather. This meant the wind direction was constant and in my favour, only the strength varied, from calm to 35 knots, so I knew that at worst I would lose only a few days to the weather.
The factors I took into consideration when calculating how far I would get included things like:
• The weather—I would have to paddle against the southeast winds as I headed down the west coast of Cape York Peninsula and I was a little unsure how much the wind would slow my progress. While it was becoming increasingly unlikely, it was still cyclone season and a cyclone hundreds of kilometres away could pin me down and wreak havoc with my plans.
• Currents—Would the currents slow me down? This was a particular concern around Cape York where they are known to be very strong.
• Landings—How much of the coast could I land on in the Gulf of Carpentaria? I’d heard stories of mangroves running for kilometres, which would make landing impossible, and of mud flats stretching for many hundreds of metres out from the shore, which would mean dragging the kayak through waist-deep muck to a camp. If there were only limited landing spots, I might have to cut short the distance I tried to make each day.
• Crocs—Apart from the obvious dangers of being eaten, I’d heard a story of a guy stuck on a beach for a couple of days because a crocodile was patrolling the shoreline waiting for him to get in his kayak and become lunch. I could lose precious time waiting for a croc to move on.
• Fresh water—Just because someone says there’s water doesn’t mean there is water, or that you can find it in the first place. I’d found rainwater tanks that were empty because the taps had been left on. That is the definition of disappointment.
• Injuries, sickness, bites, stings, etc.—Once I’d committed to a section, I might not be able to stop, otherwise I could find myself in a downward spiral of food/water versus progress. Then it wouldn’t matter how sick or injured I was; unless I kept going the situation would only get worse.
I had four months to cover approximately 5500 kilometres while dealing with these issues, and I was keen to get going because I knew the longer I sat around the bigger the problems could become.
I still wasn’t sure I could cover the distance in the time left. I had allowed for this, though, and one way of saving time to make sure I could get back to Broome would be to head directly across the Gulf of Carpentaria from Weipa to Arnhem Land. This would save me weeks of paddling the extra 1500 kilometres around the coast of the gulf.
The 650-kilometre paddle across the gulf was first done by Eric Stiller and Tony Brown in a double kayak during their paddle from Sydney to Darwin in 1992, then by Andrew McAuley in 2004, and Freya Hoffmeister in 2009 during her circumnavigation of Australia. Freya opted to cross the Gulf of Carpentaria to save a few weeks and enable her to achieve her goal of beating Paul Caffyn’s circumnavigation time.
When you look at a map the crossing has prevailing winds which promise a trip in pleasant tropical waters with favourable tailwinds. But the kayakers who had crossed it told of very uncomfortable crossings. Big waves, generated by the southwesterly winds that regularly reach 30 knots, combined with strong currents as the gulf breathes the tide in and out, gave them an unpleasant ride. I met captains of big prawning ships that told of dealing with challenging conditions on a regular basis in these waters, so a kayaker would definitely feel it.
The crossing would take six or seven days, assuming I covered 80 kilometres per day. I would have to carry enough water and, as cooking would be too dangerous in the kayak, I would need eight days of prepared food. There would be no landing, so I would have to sleep in the kayak. For this I had sponsons to make the kayak stable enough for me to rest. But I would have to sleep while sitting upright and being rocked about by the seas. It was a daunting task, but I had planned for it in the early stages of the trip, had the extra equipment needed, and was mentally prepared to tackle it if it looked as if I was running out of time.
I had decided during my visit to Sydney that I wasn’t so far behind schedule that I had to do the crossing and miss out on the gulf coastline. When I reflected on my trip the most memorable parts were the remote sections, the wildlife and the people I met. I would get none of these if I did the open crossing, and I really wanted to see the coast of the gulf. This would put an extra 1500 kilometres onto the trip and make finishing in August less likely, but I had decided it was worth a go.
I was sure the general feeling of those following the trip would be one of disappointment if I had to finish in Darwin. I struggled with my obligation to those who had made contributions. I knew that following the gulf coast would make finishing on time a close-run thing, but I still believed it was possible. However, I couldn’t afford to mess it up now; I didn’t have time for things to go wrong.
If the main objective of a trip is getting to a particular point, then a trip can be viewed as a success or failure quite easily, which puts pressure on the team to get to that point. But if you don’t have a destination as an objective and just restrict the trip to the time available, then you can simply enjoy the journey. Enjoying the trip should be enough of a personal reward to sacrifice the more recognised goal of destination. (Enlightenment from someone who spent over fifteen months paddling back to where he started from.)
I set off from Cooktown on 7 April. After a week of luxury it was a struggle to leave my motel room and head off into a rough day with a 25-knot wind full of rain, but eventually I launched with no thought of the crocodile that witnessed me arriving. I soon got used to the conditions and after a while had forgotten all about the luxuries I had left behind. I was quickly adjusting to peeing into a bottle again and snacking every hour in the rain.
It took three days to get to Cape Melville. They were windy, rainy days that I wouldn’t describe as relaxing. The winds were going my way and had built up some steep waves, making for a wet, bouncy trip. I used my sail but had to keep my wits about me because when things go wrong in 25 knots with a sail up they go wrong quickly.
The use of a sail is considered a form of cheating by some kayakers. Cheating implies that there are rules, but my trip only had my ethics. Over the three years between deciding to paddle around Australia and actually getting to Broome, I swung between the sail, no-sail decision for the first two years.
The argument for the sail was that I saw it as a light, simple, effective, no batteries, low-maintenance safety device which could allow me to save myself. It also had the positive that it could be used regularly on the long leg from Brisbane to make use of the tailwinds to blow me north. Throughout all sections of the trip there would also be the occasional day where I could take the strain off with a sail. There was no doubt it would make things easier and that’s the biggest advantage of this safety device over the others.
More kayakers are attempting long crossings and pushing the boundaries. Should things go wrong their safety relies on mobile phones, satellite phones, two-way radios, devices that automatically send their location via an email. There are many things assumed:
/> • that the electronic device works—for example, you haven’t forgotten to turn it off and that the batteries are still good—but salt water and electronics are not a good combination
• that there is reception
• that someone can find you
• that someone can reach you
• that someone can rescue you
• that you will live long enough to be saved.
With a sail to help get me out of trouble I was still in control of my little world, increasing the chance I would not have to rely so much on outside assistance if things went wrong.
The argument against taking a sail was quite weak. The only reason I could come up with was how my achievement would be viewed by others—Paul and Freya did it without sails, why couldn’t you? But I’d decided that if people compared me with Paul Caffyn, I’d already succeeded, because they weren’t comparing me with the half a dozen paddlers who didn’t get all the way round.
Purists would argue against sails no matter what. But these same paddlers will not necessarily argue against the electronic gizmos, rudders or a support crew. Despite most of my trips being done in a kayak with no rudder or sail, I decided the scale and seriousness of paddling around Australia demanded a different approach. Making distance in a kayak with a rudder and sail is easier. The trip was hard enough and this was the edge I was looking for that was still within my boundaries of being self-sufficient.
If, at the end of the trip, I was asked if could I have done it without a sail, the reflex answer would of course be ‘Yes’. I asked myself this question in anticipation while on the trip and I came up with this answer: ‘I could have completed the trip in an extra two weeks, but I would not like to have tried.’
Okay, that’s the sail controversy out of the way; back to Cape Melville.
On Cape Melville there are the ‘H2O Rocks’. This is a small rocky cave where a freshwater spring exits onto the beach. Water is very important in this area and to mark the spot the rocks sport graffiti reading ‘W’ and ‘H2O’ in metre-high letters, advertising what’s available. All the photos I’d seen of the spot showed grateful kayakers filling their water containers in fine weather, but the day I got there the wind was blowing 35 knots and it was raining. The photo I took shows me dressed up for bad weather and looking like I’m a bit over the days of strong winds and rain. Not even a supply of fresh water could cheer me up.
I spent my one-year anniversary, 10 April 2011, on Flinders Island. It was a great place to celebrate. I found a shelter with water tanks so I had a wash and prepared the maps for the next stage. I was feeling good and was congratulating myself on my progress when I remembered that both Paul Caffyn and Freya Hoffmeister had finished their circumnavigations by this time. I soon got over that and went back to feeling good about being on an island in Far North Queensland. It’s actually a group of half a dozen islands, most of which are kilometres across with woodlands running down their slopes to mangroves or rocky shores before sliding under the sea.
A few days later I was at Lockhart River, and glad to be there as I had almost run out of food and fuel for the cooker. I picked up the food parcel I had sent to the police station, but soon realised I hadn’t packed any methylated spirits. I couldn’t buy any at Lockhart River as it was a ‘dry’ community and as such there was no alcohol, including metho. I hadn’t seen that one coming, but it wasn’t a real problem as I could just cook on fires. I preferred the stove, however, as it was quick and I’d got it down to a fine art, cooking my dinner while putting up the tent. The romantic notion of collecting wood and getting a cooking fire going was actually a time-consuming pain. All I wanted to do at the end of a long day was eat and get in the tent before the insects came out to make me their dinner.
I camped on the beach, under a shelter next to the boat ramp. I was disturbed in the night by a couple of nervous horses roaming around. Next morning I got a lift into town with one of the locals, who explained that there were originally three horses, but one was attacked by a crocodile as it was standing in the ocean seeking relief from the flies. This had happened right next to my camp a few weeks before. Sensing my concern about leaving the beach later that day, my advisor set about trying to make me feel better: ‘Oh, it’s okay. We mostly get little crocs at the boat ramp. The big ones are over there.’ Then he pointed to the coast … less than a kilometre away.
It takes a while to realise what’s wrong with the picture when you see families on the beach, fishing and picnicking, with kids playing on the sand. Then it hits you—nobody is in or near the water. Nothing needs to be said, no frantic mothers screaming at kids to get out of the water, it was just not done.
Not surprisingly, no one came down to the water’s edge to help shove me off. I was pretty nervous even though I’d done this many times before where there were crocodiles. But the murky waters, the two remaining, anxious horses and the locals watching from a respectable distance made me think bad thoughts even though I hadn’t seen anything to be worried about. Then again, they say it’s the ones you don’t see that you have to worry about …
After Lockhart River I stopped at Restoration Island and met up with Dave Glasheen. This was a place I was keen to visit. Almost every kayaker who has been through this way calls in to see Dave, who is approaching his 70s and has been living on the island as Australia’s Robinson Crusoe for about 20 years. But his idyllic lifestyle is under threat as authorities are threatening to evict him due to lease details. He’s very hospitable, likes to talk and is knowledgeable on many subjects. It was wonderful to chat with him and find out about the area.
Restoration Island is famous as the landing spot of Captain Bligh, who was cast adrift in a longboat during the mutiny of the Bounty. Bligh and loyal crew managed to sail the small craft 4000 miles over open ocean from Tofua Island in Tonga, one of the greatest feats of maritime history. While Dave struggles to remember Bligh landing in 1789, he can remember Dave Wilkinson, Don McIntyre, Dave Pryce and Chris Wilde landing during their re-enactment of the journey in 2010. That was a great adventure which will always stick in my mind, not least because it was sponsored by Talisker. I can only dream of being on a trip sponsored by a whisky distillery.
From Restoration Island I island-hopped my way north, thinking that was a good way to avoid the crocodiles. Close to Captain Billy Landing, I paddled past Macarthur Island, which is part of Australian sea kayaking folklore. In August 1999 Arunas Pilka was wading just off the beach after a day’s paddle when a croc swam up from the reef and grabbed him on the thigh. Dave Winkworth saved Arunas’s life by running into the water and jumping on the croc, wrestling with it until it decided Arunas wasn’t worth the bother and swam off. Arunas got a helicopter ride, Dave got a medal and the croc went hungry. I chose not to tempt fate as Dave wasn’t around and so headed to an island a few kilometres further north.
It’s unlikely you will find crocs on the open ocean but as you get closer to land the likelihood increases, so about a kilometre offshore, be it an island or the mainland, I prepare for a ‘touch up’ from a croc. I pack everything away off the deck, pull up the rudder and get on high alert. As I get closer I’m scanning for any movement on the shore, any croc slides or obvious signs in the water. I always assume I’m going to get hit—by putting myself in this state of readiness, if it happens it’s not going to be a surprise and I’m mentally and physically ready to deal with it. The downside is that it’s very tiring and a real drain at the end of the day.
The island I was aiming for was about the size of a couple of football pitches and was surrounded by reef on three sides with a beach on the northern end. As I threaded my way through the coral towards the beach there was a bang on the kayak. In my hyper-tense state I was sent skyward. It was only a little shark, but it nevertheless gave me the jolt I needed to sprint to the beach. I landed and had only walked 20 metres from the kayak to check out a camping site when I turned to see a croc lying in the water, almost touching the kayak with its nose.
Next morning I ate breakfast and packed the tent away, all the while keeping an eye on the water for a pair of eyes to pop up, and wondering how long they could stay underwater for. Was it two minutes, twenty minutes or two hours? I wasn’t sure what I’d do if the eyes did show. I couldn’t launch too far from where I camped because of the coral and I couldn’t outlast a patient croc as I didn’t have much spare water. With no sign of him, but also knowing stealth is what crocs have used to survive since the age of the dinosaur, I quickly pushed off and paddled fast, feeling better the further away from the island I got.
The 700 kilometres from Cooktown to Cape York felt like real crocodile territory. It was lowlying with plenty of river estuaries and mangroves, just the sort of country where they could be anywhere. Even paddling around the islands I felt insecure. Although an island doesn’t have the mangroves that lined parts of the mainland, I could only land on one side. The wind and currents had created a beach on the sheltered side but there were exposed reefs around the rest of the island. This gave me limited options for landing, and I like options.
As I approached Cape York I realised I’d almost finished the entire east coast of Australia. It had taken five months, but I’d given two presentations, spent four weeks with the family, paddled through the aftermath of a tsunami, a flood and a cyclone, and sat dumb and happy as the closest person to the epicentre of an earthquake. I’d spent the last three months paddling in the rain for six days of the week and had overcome a serious lack of motivation, but in a few days I would be turning left and starting to head west.