All the Way Round

by Stuart Trueman

  The second option may seem like the obvious, romantic one, to carry on regardless, in the spirit of days gone by, towards some unknown saviour. But as I mentioned before, the seriousness of the decision is lost on you unless you have previously suffered from lack of water in the tropics. The reality is that all the stories of salvation are told by those lucky enough to survive. There are far more stories that will never be told. Those who are unable to tell their tales would speak of being faced with two choices: to work at finding water, where you will quickly use what moisture you have as your body dries up and grinds to a halt in agony, or to sit in the shade making the water last, hoping time will improve the situation somehow. I didn’t fancy either.

  I landed on the gradually sloping sandy beach where my supplies were supposed to have been dropped off by a local fisherman. It was a beautiful little bay with the shore dotted with boab trees, the icon of the Kimberley. Nervously I started looking around for signs of my supplies and, trying not to get my hopes up, casually walked over to where I could see the sand dunes had recently been disturbed, and there it was: a wooden crate with my food in it beside a plastic jerry can full of water. Relief washed over me, then manifested in shouts and a dance on the beach that could only be performed by an old man who had spent most of the past year sitting on his bum.

  My food situation had gone from desperate to what seemed obscenely decadent in an instant. Peter had sent double what I needed and I now had enough food to last two people at least a fortnight. Unfortunately I only needed enough for me for a week. I couldn’t carry it all and had to leave some behind, but I did take all the water and treated that like gold. The quality of food Peter sent was above my normal standard and Darwin to Broome was one of the few legs where I actually put weight on.

  The Kimberley was one of my most anticipated sections of the trip. I had wanted to paddle the waters of the Kimberley since starting kayaking in 1997. It was even one of the considerations when I was planning things. I knew the Kimberley would be last if I started in Broome, so that would be a huge incentive to get it all done. I had a bit of time up my sleeve now, so from here to Broome was a reward for getting from Darwin in good time. I could afford to ease off a bit and have a look around.

  There was another reason to slow it down a bit and that was because I wanted to cross King Sound at neap tides, the lowest tides of the month. King Sound was my last big obstacle before Broome. The tidal range is 10 metres and they fill and empty the sound that runs down to the town of Derby at speeds of 10 knots—that’s 18 kilometres per hour. Tales of other kayakers describing whirlpools opening up before them and sucking them in as if a giant plug had been pulled out, of large boats being dragged onto reefs and of vertical waterfalls created as the current squeezes between cliffs, all convinced me to cross at neaps.

  From Lacrosse Island I made the most of the currents running south to north on an ebb tide, which meant I started early, made good ground and finished soon after midday, giving me the afternoon to explore. I was surprised to see quite a bit of traffic: tinnies, sea planes, yachts and choppers, all ferrying people to and from the resorts in the Kimberley. Well, let’s just quantify that. Precisely four tinnies, one sea plane, two yachts and one chopper, but that was busy compared to the coast I’d just paddled from Cape York. The tinnies all avoided me, as usual, even taking the trouble to change course and make a wide arc around me, and the plane and chopper were in the distance, but one of the yacht owners stopped for a chat. He actually changed course and made an effort to come and see what I was about and that was the second boat since the middle of the gulf to pay me any attention. All the fishermen must either see kayaks daily or don’t want an interruption to their busy day spent watching the water.

  I rounded Cape Rulhieres, where I found a big charter yacht called Major Tom anchored just inside Koolama Bay. I soon found myself eating homemade muffins and drinking coffee with two scantily clad women and the skipper—definitely a step up from anything in Joseph Bonaparte Gulf. The skipper advised on the conditions ahead, telling me that the winds were forecast to pick up to 30 knots over the next two days. He also told me that Cape Londonderry, which was my next cape, was not a place to tackle in strong winds. There were reefs and currents rubbing against each other to create seas that had previously sunk the little dinghy he towed. Unsure if this was just a ploy for me to take my leering eyes elsewhere, I said my goodbyes and after accepting a bag of those yummy muffins I caught the last of the ebb tide.

  The tides were now 9 metres and the winds were from the southeast. If I got it wrong and tried to paddle in a strong tidal current running the opposite way to the winds, it would be very rough and I wouldn’t be able to make headway against the current. Timing was important in this area generally, but more so in the eastern Kimberley as the wind had less of an effect the closer to Broome I got.

  In the end Cape Londonderry turned out to be a cakewalk. As with a lot of advice given by non-kayakers, it was handed out in good faith but didn’t take into account the vessel I was travelling in. There are definitely times when a kayak can be an advantage. Off the cape was a large reef and I had no problems paddling about 200 metres from the shore in 2 metres of water. The strong currents ran further out around the reef and did look like they were causing some rough seas in the deep waters a yacht would have to use, but I was quite comfortable where I was.

  I set off from Cape Talbot on 7 July for Troughton Island, 65 kilometres to the west. The morning went well but as I got closer to Troughton I started to feel the currents. Well, when the water is running at 5–8 knots you can see the water move, particularly when it’s also blowing 25 knots. I knew the currents were strong because the seas were much bigger and steeper than the wind alone could have made them. The last three hours were a struggle as I dealt with this.

  When you’re being thrown around by the wind and currents at the end of a 65-kilometre paddle, you start to doubt your compass and GPS for no other reason than you really want it all to end. I saw a bump on the horizon and started to head for it, convinced it was where I should be heading for. It took a while for me to realise I’d started to swing around to the north as I paddled towards my ‘island’, which was in fact a ship heading to some far-off port. This was another example of my mind convincing me to ignore the compass and follow my imagination, despite knowing it was the wrong thing to do. After years of going the wrong way, it still takes some convincing for me to admit I’m wrong and put my faith in a magnetic needle.

  I took a deep breath and swung back around to head west. Troughton Island was very low and hard to see until I was about 5 kilometres offshore, when the buildings that make up the airfield appeared. Not quite there, no time to relax. The island only had one section of coast which was not protected by the reef and where I was able to land, so I had to get to the southern side. As I got closer the currents increased as the tide squeezed the ocean around the island, and the swell got bigger, steeper and rougher, with the rocky shore warning of the outcome if I stuffed it up. The positive side was I didn’t think there could possibly be any crocs out this far on a barren island with almost no vegetation. (I found out later that three crocs live around the island.) Motivated by how close I was to safety I kept up a good pace and worked my way through the currents and reefs to a small, no-frills boat ramp marked by a couple of poles.

  As well as being very low, Troughton Island is flat, only about 1 kilometre long by half a kilometre wide, and used as an emergency airfield. It has a couple of large buildings that act as hangars and a couple of other small buildings. Peter Osman had arranged for a food parcel to be sent here with one of the maintenance crews that fly in. I just assumed the crew would do their job then fly back out, leaving the place empty. So I was surprised to hear a generator running when I landed, but not as surprised as the caretaker was when he came to meet me in a loincloth, thinking I was his wife.

  Peter and Kim King were the caretakers of Troughton and, because of my food parcel and Peter Osma
n emailing them, they were expecting me, but not until sometime the next week. The island is manned mostly to keep the generators and other bits of kit in good order should the growing number of aircraft and helicopters servicing the gas industry need an emergency stopover. I was given a room for the night and after Peter and Kim fed me a yummy dinner, I settled down to watch TV for the first time since Darwin. The news was all bad and the adverts were for things I couldn’t fit in the kayak, so I went to bed.

  The next day the wind was still blowing but was forecast to die down the day after, so Peter and Kim let me rest up. I spent the day recharging batteries, both literally and metaphorically, and updating the web page and replying to emails. I thought it was quite cool to let everybody know via the internet I was on a remote island off the coast of the Kimberley. But I suppose it’s expected that we get to the net these days, wherever we are.

  On 10 July, after fifteen months of paddling, I was at Krait Bay, an iconic place for Australian kayaking. This is where commandos trained for Operation Jaywick during World War II. This daring act saw the commandos, posing as fishermen on a small fishing boat, cross the ocean before paddling by kayak into Singapore Harbour and attaching mines to shipping vessels. They then paddled out, undetected, before the mines sunk the ships. Everybody got back safely from a successful operation. There were a few reminders of those days at Krait Bay but I couldn’t find the old mine that was supposed to be there; however, I did find a croc tooth on the beach and was happy with that as a souvenir.

  A couple of days later I paddled into Port Nelson at the same time as a large cruise ship, a bloody massive white thing, which was not too hard to see. I was sure we were both heading for the same place at the southern end of Port Nelson, ‘The Mermaid Tree’. This is a very large boab tree that was found by the crew of HMAS Mermaid in 1820 when they stopped in the bay for repairs. To make sure they were remembered, the crew carved the name of the ship into the ample trunk, which is clearly visible nearly 200 years later. This makes it a must-see for the many cruise and charter boats passing through the Kimberley, not to mention any kayakers intent on scabbing from the unsuspecting tourists.

  The cruise ship was still anchored offshore as I reached the area, so I managed to get a resupply of water when I pulled alongside. As I landed, about 50 immaculately dressed tourists were massing on the beach, ready to return to the mother ship, but before they cleared out I had a job for them. Taking advantage of their interest, I quickly introduced myself, then gave the closest few a bag each and got one on the end of the kayak, and we all carried my kit up the beach. And just in time it seemed: their 23-minute stopover was finished and the beach master was getting agitated because they were going to be on the beach an unacceptable 26 minutes. I made up my mind there and then that no matter how old I got, I’d never do one of those trips.

  I had a quick look at the old tree that had been vandalised by some bored sailors in 1820 then took up a vantage point to spy my next potential ship of charity. I put my tent and kayak in plain view of the new tourists arriving, thinking that after the excitement of seeing a tree they would check out the bloke camping in the middle of nowhere. This plan didn’t work. I thought perhaps I had underestimated the significance of the tree, but afterwards realised I was not on the tourists’ itinerary for the day so could not be included in their activities.

  Time for plan B. The tourists were making for the boats waiting to ferry them back to their cruise ship so, trying not to look too hurried, I timed my walk to intercept them before they escaped. The direct approach worked and I ended up with beer, fruit and lollies—a good result.

  Now I was on to something. As I had plenty of time before those neap tides arrived in King Sound for my crossing, I spent a productive day chasing tourists across the beach, being careful to hide any previously obtained goodies should they venture up to the tent. But it had to end before the same boats returned, when my story of hardship, starvation and not having any beer would be wearing thin.

  Next morning another ship arrived and three boatloads of tourists jumped onto the beach to check out the tree before breakfast. I’d had enough of the handouts by now and just set off, stopping by the ship to say hello, but was unable to resist the invitation to go onboard for a coffee. I was still enjoying my coffee when the ‘Tree Party’ returned, and as the last tourist stepped aboard I heard the anchor being raised. In disbelief I hurried into my spray skirt and jumped into the kayak, which was tied on the stern. The bastards weren’t about to disrupt their schedule for me. I had just gotten back in my kayak and untied as the ship pulled away, leaving me in the froth from the propellers. It was 26 minutes after the tourists landed on the beach. Thanks for the half-cup of coffee.

  After an hour of paddling there was no sign of any other boats and I had the place to myself. This is the freedom of the kayak. Non-kayakers look at me and see nothing but hot, hard work, paddling in a cramped space, while being dangled inches from crocs and sharks in turbulent waters. They don’t see what I see.

  For me the water was alive. I could feel the currents and had to work with them to make progress. The wildlife came to investigate this non-threatening movement in their world. A ray, with a span as wide as my outstretched arms, jumped clean out of the water before me and then something disturbed a shoal of fish under the kayak which prompted them all to jump out of the water. There were so many that some hit me on the body and head, with one giving me a fat lip. I smelt of fish for the rest of the day.

  Without the noise of a motor I was aware of what was happening around me, and I was paddling at a pace that let me take it all in. This wasn’t just going from A to B, I was experiencing the coast.

  The fractured cliff lines with boulders scattered below looked like formidable fortifications that time had breached and overgrown. With its weak points exploited by beaches, the coast had softened. The rubble, smoothed by wind and waves, revealed layers of greys and oranges which triumphed over the struggling green growth of life exhausted by the sun. There are few places I’ve been to that have endured an age so well. When I took it in I felt at ease; it’s as though generations were also seeing through my eyes and collectively sighing with relief as they recognised their past. It was a special place.

  I was heading for my next food drop at Kuri Bay Pearl Farm. It’s one of the original pearl farms of the area, sitting near the southern entrance to Brecknock Harbour. I had a bit to wait before leaving my little beach near High Bluff as the tide was too far out, exposing a slippy, rocky obstacle course to get to the water. Then I had a good run, with the current carrying me into Port George and Brecknock Harbour. I got to the pearl farm at high tide, landing almost at the door.

  The farm was a very picturesque cluster of white-painted buildings of all sizes leading up to the boss’s palatial residence on the hill. It was all tucked at the end of a bay among the hills, well protected from the occasional passing cyclone that threatens the area. You could take a photo with the caption ‘1965’ and it would almost be believable, apart from the TV antennas and the phone box out the front.

  I was well received by Ben, who was expecting me as my food parcel had been delivered. I was soon showered, had my laundry done and was sitting with the crew for a few beers to wash down a scrummy lunch. All very civilised. The crew spend long days tending to the oysters strung out on lines among the pristine waters of the area. It’s hot work that has to be done all year round, and deserves a cold one at the end of the day.

  After a good sleep I had a slow start the next day while I waited for the tide to bring the water back. I was given a ride in a powerful runabout to see some humpback whales, who were at the northernmost range of their migration and were about to turn round and head back to Antarctica.

  I rang Sharon from the public phone box to let her know I was going to make the planned finishing date of 28 July in Broome. She had already booked the flight while I was in Darwin, demonstrating more confidence than I had that I would make it on time.

&
nbsp; After leaving Kuri Bay I had the option of either crossing the much-feared Montgomery Reef or taking the longer but safer route around Collier Bay. I had heard many stories about the reef, the general opinion causing me to draw a big skull and crossbones on my map to remind me to avoid the place. It was now spring tides and the water was rising and falling 9 metres twice a day. It was the absolute worst time to head off to a known danger spot, one that even regulars to the Kimberley steered well clear of.

  At the point where I could either turn right and head out to the reef or continue south with the 2–3 knot current that was enticing me towards Collier Bay, a couple of runabouts motored up to me on their way to the Montgomery Reef for a day’s fishing. I was invited to spend the day at their camp which was not far away, with the suggestion I set off the next day. With no rush and keen to get some local knowledge of the waters, I headed back to shore while they headed off to the reef.

  I easily found the camp at an excellent location where a creek runs into the sea, complete with a big groper who swam almost to the door to be handfed at high tide. There was a permanent hut where all the cooking, eating and socialising were done, and a neat row of tents under a shadecloth for the fishermen. There were all the comforts of home but you got a true feeling of wilderness camping.

  I did what was suggested and made myself at home. In fact, I did such a good job of settling in that I ended up staying for a few days to look after the place for the owner, Peter Tucker, who operates his fishing tour company from there. I could have stayed for a few more days, it was such a great spot. As I was lounging around a boatload of locals turned up for the night as they passed through. Peter had known they were coming and had said to expect visitors.

  One of the ladies told stories of how, as a young girl, she would get about the area on a bed of mangroves lashed together with reeds. The raft would sit just on the water, or just under, depending on how many people were on it. They had paddles but I couldn’t imagine they would be gliding through the water like my kayak; instead they used the currents to get around. It seemed incredible to me that they would set off on a pile of sticks, putting themselves at the mercy of the flowing water. There is evidence of locals heading off to an island that is so far away you can’t see it, collecting birds’ eggs and coming back a few days later. Imagine that: sitting on a bunch of sticks drifting out to sea towards a tiny island you can’t see, for some eggs; then without compass, maps, weather report or drinking water, but stuffed full of eggs, plopping it back in the ocean and drifting home. They must have been good eggs.