All the Way Round (26 page)

Next morning I awoke to strong winds—a bad sign. The winds normally build up during the morning then die away in the afternoon as the day warms up, creating a sea breeze. On most of the coast a sea breeze will blow from the sea to land, replacing air that rises from the ground as it heats up. Here, the wind starts its day blowing from the land to the sea, so the effect of the air heating up over the land and floating away is to pull air from the sea to replace it. This dampens the offshore winds in the afternoons.

Because of this my plan was to set off in the late morning so that most of my paddling would be done in the calm of the afternoon. This was the fifth consecutive day of 20–30 knots of wind and I was sick of the short choppy seas they generated. In these conditions I was getting waves occasionally breaking over my head. I couldn’t take my spray skirt off to pee so, once again, I had to sit in my own urine all day. To get anything out of the day hatch meant water getting in. I couldn’t take my hands off the paddle or relax otherwise I’d be upside-down. As well as all that, from Maria Island I started to head north, which meant the winds and waves were hitting me side-on.

My plan for a late start to avoid the strongest winds before the sea breeze kicked in didn’t work. This was one of the days when things didn’t calm down at all. All day I took waves side-on, short sharp ones that heaped up enough to break over my shoulder every so often.

I finally found a little island called Willipilli Island. It was so small and low I almost bumped into it before I saw it. It was a desperate place to camp. There was only one small spit of sand to land on, with the rest of the island being guarded by rocks. It was probably 2 metres above the water level and I had landed at low tide, but after a quick check it appeared that the highest spot didn’t get submerged on a regular basis. I looked around, surveying what I could see of the mainland coast 5 kilometres away. From where I was it seemed that the next best option would be to drag the kayak through mud flats, over rocks and through mangroves, with a small cliff as the final obstacle, before making camp on the mainland. It was getting dark and although this was hardly a comfortable spot, at least I knew I could get off safely the next morning, so Willipilli Island it was.

The tides were still diurnal, which didn’t make it any easier to calculate when high tide would be. There was a lot of local variation and the high tide at Cape Arnhem might have little to do with high tide at Willipilli Island. To add to my confusion a diurnal tide sometimes means a little, almost insignificant bump in the middle where the tide will change for perhaps an hour or so. This can be just enough to make you think it’s high tide as the water starts to drop but an hour later it continues its run in.

Okay, I think I’ve written enough to justify my lousy choice of campsites; now I’ll describe what can happen when you mess it up.

I was sure the tide was running out so I set up the tent on the only flat ground on the island, a strip of waterlogged sand just above the current sea level. Because the tide was running out and would do so for another ten hours, I thought there would be no problem. Nevertheless I left the kayak high on the sandbar and was prepared to exit the tent in the night should the spot get swamped. I also put out a marker to show where the tide was, which allowed me to judge whether the water was slowly coming in or moving out.

Just after dark as I was starting to relax I shone my torch out and saw my marker being washed away. Damn. I jumped up and packed everything away as the sea reclaimed the only flat ground large enough for the tent. I then settled on a flattish rock, curled up in my sleeping bag, and dropped off to sleep. I’m not sure how long I was asleep but I woke just in time to save my sleeping bag from getting a soaking. Now the water was coming in quickly and I realised I’d totally messed up my calculation of the tides. I dragged the kayak to the highest point of the island and just lay down next to it out of the wind. I had a fitful night’s sleep as the sea level rose on all sides. At high tide the wind would flick up spray from the surf, which drifted onto my face, giving me nightmares of being washed away.

Around this time I felt I’d been conned by the naming of Willipilli Island. I’d seen larger groups of rocks that nobody had felt the need to name, let alone give the lofty title of ‘island’. On the plus side, with no option of getting comfy or dropping into a deep sleep, it was easy to get up in the morning. I just stood up in the pre-dawn light, dragged the kayak a few metres and was off.

As I made progress the coastline gradually changed from mud flats and low-lying, featureless land to sandy beaches and rocky outcrops with the occasional hill. This caught me out at first. Since rounding Cape York the countryside had been flat, with the tallest thing on the horizon being the stands of trees. The furthest I could see was about 12 kilometres, which would take me about two hours to cover. Now the higher land meant I was seeing features that were over 20 kilometres away. I didn’t realise this initially and it was a shock when I wasn’t hitting a chosen landmark in the usual two hours. I was making all sorts of excuses to myself—blaming the current or not having enough rest for days, or cursing the side-on winds, or thinking perhaps I was getting sick. In the end I worked out I was travelling at the same speed as usual, it just didn’t seem like it.

Sixty kilometres north of Willipilli Island I spied a few propped up sheets of corrugated iron that might once have been huts and called it a day. I found a freshwater stream that was deep enough for a wash and clean enough to drink, a far better camp than the previous night. Finding water was a real bonus as it meant I didn’t have to call in to Groote Eylandt. Although it promised all the luxuries of supermarkets and drinking water, it was a little out of the way and I’d have to paddle into the wind to get there. Now I could keep a more direct line to Cape Arnhem.

The cape was a major milestone for me for a few reasons. It would signal the completion of the Gulf of Carpentaria. Nhulunbuy was only 30 kilometres further on from the cape and it sported some major tidal flows.

To reach Cape Arnhem, 220 kilometres from my iron-sheet shanty, I was spoilt for choice in deciding where to aim for each day. There were many pristine, deserted islands off the coast or sheltered bays on the mainland. I decided to use both as they each had their advantages and disadvantages.

The bays of the mainland offered a chance to explore the long beaches but I had to be wary of dingos and pigs trying to get a feed from my supplies, and I would have to watch out for the water buffalo. I had been told these wild buffalo were a long way from the domesticated types you see on TV, who seemed resigned to pulling a plough through rice fields. I had been given the impression they would walk away from trouble but would have no problem putting their head down and getting stuck in if you didn’t make it easy for them. They are very big and don’t have a terrific turning circle, so I would have to be careful when wandering about that I didn’t meet one coming the other way.

About 100 kilometres from Cape Arnhem, at Trial Bay, I saw hoofprints on the beach so I knew they were close by, but it still came as a shock to see three sets of wide horns swaying low as they walked towards me. Well, for me it was a shock; they shat themselves, did a less than elegant quarter turn and crashed through the bush in three different directions, so they would probably have described the meeting as terrifying. That was the last I saw of them, though, so they went down on the list as ‘Very big and could be scary if one sat on you while you were in the tent’.

The advantages of camping on the islands were that there was nothing that could sit on me or eat half my supplies in one mouthful, but there were sometimes only small beaches to explore. I do, however, have a soft spot for islands and every time I land on one it seems like a great reward for travelling by kayak.

As I approached Cape Arnhem I was feeling the strain. My food had lasted as planned and I’d eaten reasonably well, but I was now losing weight and tiring easily. I could feel the currents generated by the tides, which sometimes would be with me and other times not. The water was clear now that I’d moved out of the shallow muddy waters of the gulf but there was still the odd shark giving me a touch-up. I even pulled a small shark tooth out of my rudder at the end of one of my days. Because I’d eaten the majority of my supplies, my kayak was lighter but even so the hard days were proving difficult to recover from.

I rounded Cape Arnhem, which is guarded by some fearsome currents that you wouldn’t want to tangle with if they are kicking up. I knew this beforehand, thanks to the tidal information I’d gathered from the
Kestrel Bay
at the Sir Edward Pellew Islands, and so timed my arrival at Cape Arnhem close to the turn of a low tide, which meant I could catch the water napping before it decided which way it wanted to go.

A few hours later, on the last day of May, I pulled into Nhulunbuy, truly satisfied with having paddled all the way around the Gulf of Carpentaria.

When planning the trip I’d imagined paddling the coast of the gulf to be something of a benign slog with the main concerns being managing fresh water and supplies and being wary of crocodiles. But it had been quite a bit harder than I’d imagined, especially with all the long portages across ground that ranged from hard sand to sticky mud. There was also the pressure of having to cover a lot of ocean with the supplies I carried, and the remoteness gave it a really serious aspect should anything have gone wrong. I was caught on the hop with some of the rough sea conditions, which I wasn’t expecting, and although they can’t be compared to the south coast seas they still demand respect.

Overcoming the hardships was part of the journey that is easy to explain. If you are going to head out there, it’s a bit of a given that there will be obstacles that have to be overcome. Why go in the first place? Well, for me, travelling through a remote and wild place is its own reward.

Nhulunbuy

I landed by the biggest building on the beach, which luckily for me was the surf life-saving club. I’d had an offer from Alan Cross, who had been following my journey via the web page, to recover at the surf club during my stay in town. I gave him a ring only to discover that he was at the airport on his way to Brisbane, but Maree, his wife, came to my rescue and I soon found myself at the best address in town. I had my own apartment (which was used to hold meetings when people weren’t sleeping under the table) with a view of the beach and just a short walk into town.

I was a little curious as to what members of the Nhulunbuy Surf Life Saving Club (SLSC) did on a coast where there was no surf. I found the answer as I listened to the stories people had of members sitting in the clubhouse watching others paddle surf skis back to the beach, followed by crocodiles. Nhulunbuy SLSC members paddle fast.

Nhulunbuy is a hard place to find on a map, it’s hard to get to and is a hard place to figure out. It is stuck out on the end of the Gove Peninsula. When looking at the map, and knowing Nhulunbuy is the port servicing the bauxite mining in the area, I couldn’t imagine finding much more than the basics needed to sustain the mining community. I thought I’d struggle to find much more than a few tins of beans and a six-pack of beer to get me through to Darwin. But I was pleasantly surprised by a small but comprehensively equipped town with a well-stocked supermarket, a great library, a 50-metre crocodile-free pool, a golf course complete with a lake (and crocs in it), and many clubs, regular sporting events, shops and schools. It was easy for me to forget how remote I was as I breakfasted on bacon and eggs before heading down to the library to check my emails then do a bit of shopping before heading back to watch another sunset from my balcony.

I was probably the only person around who wasn’t directly connected to the mining operation but that didn’t stop me making good use of their canteen in town. I was there so often I was happy to let everybody think I was part of the team, although being the only one not wearing a high-visibility safety shirt was probably a bit of a giveaway.

At the end of the first day without paddling, my sores, cuts, grazes and rashes dried out. While continually on the move they didn’t get the chance to develop a scab because I was constantly wet; I didn’t give them much thought, other than treating them with various creams at the end of the day. But now they had hardened up and for the first few hours of the next day I moved around like the Tin Man from the
Wizard of Oz
. There was no one injury that was a particular problem but as a whole they were annoying.

I was appalled to find my PLB failed its self-test. Somewhere between Weipa and Nhulunbuy, it had stopped working due to water getting in. It was the only means I had to let the outside world know if I was in trouble. I reflected on the coast I’d just covered and the consequences of being in a situation where I would have had to use the PLB only to find it was buggered. This was the second time on the trip I’d found my PLB was nothing more than a placebo and I was none too pleased.

While still a little ‘hot under the collar’ from the possible consequences, I posted some of my thoughts on the internet. I got a replacement flown over from Darwin for the next leg and, thanks to members of the NSWSKC, a public relations exercise got into full swing which attracted the attention of the PLB manufacturer who refunded me the cost of the replacement. There are lessons to be learnt here for others who assume their safety is assured just because they carry a PLB.

The surf club turned out to be quite a social place to be on a Friday night and I was starting to realise I was enjoying my stay a little too much. It was hard to leave but if I had hung around any longer I’d have felt compelled to get a job and that was sufficient motivation to see me on my way. So I left Nhulunbuy on 4 June.

The tides were around 3 metres, and as they rose and fell the water was forced between the islands and over reefs and sandbanks as the currents tried in vain to achieve a flat ocean. I didn’t carry nautical charts, which would have shown the way the water flowed during the flood or ebb tides, so that meant I had to work it out for myself.