All the Way Round (30 page)

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.

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.

After listening to how generations had been getting about on these waters long before me, I suddenly felt soft for having doubts about the next day’s paddle across to Montgomery Reef. Sure, there were currents and rocks and the islands on the reef were lousy with crocs, but I had a fast kayak, I knew which way the currents and tides would be heading, the wind had died down and if all else failed I had my PLB. So I got myself together, gathered my gear, told myself to toughen up and set off.

Montgomery Reef is a circle of reef that is 25 kilometres across, ringing a few low-lying islands in the middle. At high tide the ocean covers the reef, filling the circle with water, but at low tide the reef stands out of the sea by about 3 metres with the water still trapped inside. From a kayak outside the reef you look up at a wall of rock streaming with water; from inside the reef the water laps at the top of the wall, slowly leaking through any little gaps it can find. As the tide rises again the wall of rock sinks lower and lower until it disappears and all of a sudden you can see the islands which are circled by the reef. It’s quite amazing to witness the 9-metre tides rise and fall during the day, but I didn’t normally notice as I was raised or dropped 9 metres over six hours. I could only feel the push and shove of the currents as they went on their way. This was a tremendously graphic demonstration of the amount of water moving around this area.

I did see an adventurous charter yacht anchored in the middle of the reef and I got to within 500 metres but they didn’t see me. We both spent the night at the Kingfisher Islands, a kilometre apart, and then I met the captain and the tourists on his boat the next day at Silver Gull Creek.

I had been told I should visit Phil and Marion, a pair of local characters living in the Kimberley, at Silver Gull Creek. To get there I had to pass inside Koolan Island through ‘The Channel’. This was a very narrow stretch of water that I knew was going to be running like a river with the currents. I had been told it would be impossible to paddle against and I’d missed my opportunity as the tide had turned by the time I got there. Well, I could land and rest on a beach until the water turned, or go and have a look. So I went for a look. The water was running out strongly and created its own eddies where the current flowed back on itself as it rubbed along rocks, but I thought I could make headway if I hugged the cliff-lined shore. The further I got along Koolan Island the wider the channel became, so the current eased. It would certainly have been easier with the water going my way but I managed.

Koolan Island was a real disappointment. After travelling thousands of kilometres of untouched coast, finding an open-cut mine in one of the last pristine wildernesses of Australia was obscene. Gone were the trees and bushland, replaced by uniform tabletop mountains of dirt. Given the country I’d travelled through over the past few weeks, to turn the corner and see the trucks gradually reducing a large island to dust was unfathomable. Who could have sanctioned such an act of vandalism? I’m not against mining but there are places where it’s obvious it just doesn’t belong, and the Kimberley is one of those places. Unfortunately there are always people who can’t see the value in something that doesn’t make money.

You could easily pass Silver Gull Creek without knowing it’s there. I paddled inland into a complicated bay beyond the channel, with no sign of a creek or anything else, but then I saw white squares painted on the rocks, the sign for fresh water.

I knew I was close, then a couple of little fishing boats zipped by, giving away the path up the creek. I took a photo so I could show others what to look for if they planned to paddle this way. While checking my photo I noticed a log off to one side of the inlet. I looked up to see the log was now right in the middle of the inlet and heading straight for me. I turned around and did my running-away trick, but couldn’t go too far this time as I needed to get to Phil and Marion’s place to refresh my water. I waited for the fishing boats to zip back out and I flagged one down. The croc sank below the surface when the motor boats went by so they hadn’t seen him, but they gave me a tow 100 metres past the entrance anyway and left me to continue up the creek without any teeth marks in the kayak.