All the Way Round (29 page)

I surveyed my potential portage to the high-tide mark 200 metres away. It started on the mud, then required pushing through mangroves, tottering across rocks which were covered in slippery crud, until finally heaving the gear across the beach, up a 4-metre bank and, bingo, onto the croc-proof safety of flat ground above the high-tide line. It would be hard enough to do this when I was carrying nothing but my bags, but with a kayak balanced on my shoulder it would get really tricky. It may not seem like anything to get worked up about but there would be serious consequences if I injured myself, such as twisting an ankle, which would be easy to do. The tide was coming in and was around 7 metres. Whatever injury I had I would have to get to high ground and abandon any kit still on the beach. But if I had left my PLB in the kayak, I would have to crawl back over the rocks, through the mangroves and through the mud to retrieve the PLB. I could then set off the PLB and crawl back to high ground before the tide caught me. Then, if the PLB worked—and don’t forget I’d had two fail on the trip so far—I could expect a helicopter rescue which would mean I would have to leave all my gear behind and the trip would be over. All because of a risky portage.

There were many instances where I had to pay attention, because any injury would have meant the trip was over. I was often tired, hungry and thirsty at the end of a day, but I always made sure I paid attention, kept alert and took the safe option, which allowed me to continue the next day.

In the end it took about an hour and a half to get my gear to safety. My portage wasn’t helped by the many birds making a huge racket as they competed for real estate and hunted for food all over the island and surrounding waters. Later that afternoon the tide was in, and from my vantage point I could see the croc was sneaking his way through the mangroves towards the birds on the shore. On my little rise I was out of his reach, and wasn’t too bothered, but kept an eye on where he went. He must have been the one that made the tracks I’d seen when landing, and was about 3 metres long. As I was cooking dinner I heard the sound of his mouth snapping shut. It’s an unmistakable noise, two perfectly fitting jaws coming together with great force. The constant chatter of terns and gulls and the honking of the pelicans stopped completely for about five seconds; it was amazing. I hadn’t realised just how much noise they were making until they shut up. I imagined them looking around, all trying to figure out who had just become lunch. Then they started up again and the croc slid back into the mangroves.

I passed the border back into Western Australia with only a slight sense of progress being made. In vain, I kept a lookout among the scrub for a monument, sign or pole that celebrated the invisible line that man had put across the country, separating the Northern Territory and Western Australia. It was then that the size of the state of Western Australia started to become tangible in my mind. When described to me in kilometres, it was just a number that really did not resonate. However, being in the flat, warm waters of the tropics and remembering the cold, stormy area from Cape Leeuwin onwards into the Great Australian Bight, I had a real grasp of the distance.

It was a bit late in the trip to get a handle on the scale of things. When described as a 17,000-kilometre paddle, I could somehow dismiss the actual distance by splitting it up into manageable sections, then putting them back together when planning.

Perhaps a more realistic description of the distance would have been: ‘You will travel from where the sea is warm and calm, with dugongs frolicking, where there is no discernible winter and summers are hot and humid with regular cyclones. You will continue south, so far south that the sea and wind will be cold all year round and huge surf and storms can be expected on waters where albatross glide. The distance between these two areas will represent one-quarter of your journey.’ That may have meant more to me than the number 17,000.

As I moved into Western Australia and the western shores of Joseph Bonaparte Gulf I started to see the rocks, cliffs and hills of the Kimberley. It was a relief as I approached Lacrosse Island to leave behind the low, muddy, croc-rich area of the gulf and find I was paddling across clear waters towards sandy beaches flanked by rocky headlands. The paddling was much more pleasant as I could hug the coastline with its interesting rock formations and many safe landings. The clear water was less forbidding than the unknown, unseen and sinister side of paddling over Milo-coloured seas.

The welcome change in scenery was a distraction, but my mind was preoccupied with working out options if the food and water drop I was expecting had not been delivered to Lacrosse Island. I had every faith in Peter Osman’s organisational skills and reliability, but I also knew how serious the situation could become. I had not been able to find drinking water since Port Keats and was down to just a couple of litres, which I would normally use during cooking and to get me through the night. I had about a day’s food left, but would have to use the precious water to rehydrate it. So if I got to the island and the food and water wasn’t there and I imposed severe rationing, I would have enough water left for one more day’s paddle, sustained by a couple of meagre muesli bars.

With my one day of paddling I could head south to Wyndham, but I had been told it was easy to get lost in the many channels leading 90 kilometres to the town and it was likely there would be loads of exciting moments with crocodiles. Or I could head north and hope to find a fisherman or sailor who stayed still long enough for me to catch them and ask for some water.

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 Osman 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.