All the Way Round (31 page)

Phil and Marion live on a small patch of land where they have built their home. They get by selling jewellery that Marion makes. Tourist boats regularly visit for a chat and a dip in a freshwater tank the size of a small truck that is filled from a spring that allegedly has healing properties and is a constant 30° C all year. (Just round the corner there is another spring where the water is freezing!) This is a real drawcard for those who have been out for a few days on boats touring the Kimberley. They get a freshwater dip and the women can go shopping at Marion’s jewellery store. Win–win.

I had a dip in the tank and bought some nice jewellery for Sharon and my kids, too. I couldn’t think of a better souvenir from this area—a clean bum and some bling. But soon I found an even greater attraction to Silver Gull Creek—Phil’s beer! He makes a wicked homebrew and, just to be social of course, I had a few . . . Although Phil has a few years on me there was no way I could keep up, so I paced myself to pass out soon after dark. I awoke to the sight of Phil cooking Marion breakfast, still holding a beer. Marion explained to me, between cigarettes, that she had lost half her lung to cancer and so Phil receives an allowance as her carer. It was the least he could do to cook her breakfast each morning.

After a life of sailing and drifting around the world, Phil and Marion struck me as full-time adventurers; I was just a part-timer by comparison. Sadly, this great couple live with the threat of being moved out of their place by the authorities. That would be a huge shame. They do only good things for the area and the tourists who visit. If authorities have to get rid of someone, I would suggest they go next door and get rid of the mining company.

Next day at high tide Phil and Marion gave me a tow out of Silver Gull Creek past the croc guard. The other benefit of getting a lift was that I wouldn’t be subject to the ‘Silver Gull Salute’. This involves Phil and Marion going to the top of a small cliff and giving their departing visitors a couple of brown-eyes as they head off with their cameras snapping away. Having greatly enjoyed their company, I could have stayed for longer, but I was so close to finishing my trip that the urge to continue overruled another day on the beer with Phil—only just.

I got to Mermaid Island on 22 July, around neap tides. From the island I looked out across Sunday Strait, the narrow gap through which King Sound inhales and exhales 10-metre tides twice a day. From my camp I could see the currents ripping through the strait as streets of agitated water heading off into the distance. It was an intimidating place to be, with me knowing if I got this wrong I’d be swept away at 5–8 knots into open water where it would be hard to work my way back. Or I could be swept over reefs, over falls or into a whirlpool as the current gathered strength, forcing its way through gaps in the cliffs and past headlands at 10 knots.

My plan was to cross Sunday Strait during the slack water at low tide, which was at 4.30 am. That meant leaving at 4 am and making the crossing in the dark, so I wouldn’t be able to see any of the whirlpools or signs of the stronger currents. I got up at 3 am and by 4 am was on the water heading for East Sunday Island, knowing I would get swept north. With my calculations I’d drift level with Meda Passage at the northern end of Sunday Island. Some cloud cover meant that it was a dark night; I was very alert, listening to the sounds of the ocean and trying to note all the differences in the sounds of the waves. Which direction were the sounds coming from? What waters could make such a sound? Was there vegetation that had been plucked from the shore, which would mean I was on the edge of a stronger current? My imagination magnified the noises, my mind was in hyperdrive and I could see myself being swept north far faster than I actually was, so I changed course a bit to compensate and then put more effort in.

This went on for a couple of hours until I could just see the dim outline of some islands and make out the whitecaps that usually signalled a beach break. More of a worry, however, was a dull roar coming from up ahead. I only had about half an hour until daylight so I slowed down, gingerly making headway and trying not to get into trouble.

Then dawn broke and the lights got turned on. Despite the self-doubt, I discovered I was just off the northeastern tip of East Sunday Island, exactly where I’d planned to be. Just to the north was the appalling sight of 2-metre standing waves, ripping up the ocean across Meda Passage for as far as I could see. This was the roaring noise I had heard in the dark. I paddled hard and tucked in along the coast, managing to miss it all and thankful I hadn’t tried to negotiate that mess without daylight.

Each headland and narrow waterway formed a concentration of current and all I could do was keep sharp and make allowances as soon as I started to get swept away, but it’s hard to keep calm when you’re being swept out to sea at twice the speed you can paddle. Eventually, though, as the waters dispersed and the current’s strength failed, I was able to get back on track. I arrived at Cape Leveque at 9.30 am, just as the tourists were finishing breakfast and winding up to go for a walk on the beach before it got too hot. The excitement was over and I was looking forward to winding down. I’d managed the last major obstacle before Broome and now there were only a few days of easy paddling left. I thought that deserved a walk up to the café on the hill.

You can drive in to Cape Leveque. It is the first place since Darwin that tourists can easily get to in air-conditioned comfort and as well as the café there are a few shade huts on the beach and a shower block. I sat in the café, drinking a coffee and listening to a conversation. Those at the table next to me were horrified at how much the dirt from the roads had showed up on their black BMW. Over the last couple of days I had dealt with a crocodile, got drunk with a couple of old salties and crossed some of the strongest currents in Australia, in a kayak, in the dark. It was hard for me to sympathise with their problem.

I knew I’d better quickly adjust my attitude to the day-to-day issues facing people. Nobody should be expected to take into account how I had spent the last sixteen months if I displayed a lack of interest in the colour of their BMW. It was a great lesson to have just a few days before getting to Broome, where I would be less able to avoid what people considered the serious issues of the day.

The last section of coast was a pleasant wind-down, with the rocky headlands sinking into the ground and bays and gullies smoothing out into long beaches for the last 200 kilometres to Broome. Despite being so close to finishing, it hadn’t dawned on me what I’d done. I had no sense of achievement at having paddled around Australia. I was happy my plan had worked, that my choice of kit, my diet, the timing and my body had held it together for the duration. I was also satisfied that I’d found the limit of my endurance, in both the 36-hour crossings of the cliffs and the sixteen months to complete the circumnavigation. I was finding aches and pains as I got closer to Broome and definitely didn’t feel like going around again.

On 27 July I was camped within sight of the lights of Broome. The next day I was being met on the water by Sharon. Along with Belinda, who runs Broome Adventure Kayaking with her husband Richard, she would escort me to Ganthium Point—the finish line. I knew that after landing I would soon be back to my busy life so I asked myself how I felt about finishing my trip.

On one hand I was sad it was over. The life of travelling by kayak was very rewarding and the Kimberley had been a particularly satisfying section to finish on. On the other hand I was glad to be going back to my family and my ‘other’ life, as this one was very hard. I knew it wouldn’t take long for me to be over the idea of getting back to the comfortable life, but I had already planned the next trip to aim for.

All that reasoning didn’t really answer my question of how I felt. Then I found the word—numb.

I had been dealing with crocs, sharks, storms, surf, currents, lack of drinking water and the cliffs. I had been suppressing any fear or anxiety so I could continue every day. Perhaps I was still suppressing my emotions.

I had been paddling for 1.3 years; this was just another day of paddling, there was not much to get excited about because I’d been doing it for so long it was now a way of life. Who gets excited about just another average day? It’s not as though I was leaving this life for an exciting adventure, I was just going to go back to regular living. I was looking forward to being with my family and not packing up the tent and dragging my kayak down the beach every morning. I didn’t feel like celebrating my completion of the trip, it was more about finishing a way of life.

My last day was only 15 kilometres and started with humpback whales and turtles and ended with a crocodile and microphone. Belinda escorted Sharon out to meet me 3 kilometres from the finish and the three of us paddled in together. There were about 100 people on the beach to greet me, which was quite a crowd. I landed and got out of my kayak but didn’t know what to do. They were all looking at me and I felt like I was expected to do or say something but I didn’t know what. Then an ABC radio reporter stepped up to do a live interview with me about the trip before I’d taken three steps onto dry land. That broke the ice and during the interview the crowd dwindled as they wandered off to watch some poor, metre-long croc being ‘saved’ after having the misfortune to wander into the area.

Then it was off to Richard and Belinda’s, where I ate a large amount of pizza washed down with a few beers.

9

Broome to Sydney (home)

L
ess than two weeks after landing in Broome I was back at work, then a couple of months later I had my 49th birthday. I would gladly have put off both, but there are some things that just have to be.

I regularly got asked, ‘How did you settle back into things?’

Getting back to the ‘other world’ was really not a problem—I’d done enough to have had enough. After a while I even gave up eating chocolate bars for breakfast and started using the toilet to have a pee. I was keen to have some stability back in my life and not have to pack up and head off each day. My two young daughters also made it easy for me to make the jump from paddling seven hours a day to being involved in a regular family life.

The kids had changed a lot over my time away—they were both physically bigger and more independent. They were getting themselves to and from school and making dinner, as well as developing skills in avoiding homework and downloading music. With regard to the trip they had gone from simply accepting that Dad was off paddling for a long while to an understanding and appreciation of the effort involved, allowing them to see it as an achievement. For a few days I enjoyed the elevated status of ‘Dad, who has paddled around Australia’, but as the novelty of me being home wore off it was soon back to ‘Dad, can you fix this?’

I knew the best way to overcome any post-trip blues was to quickly set new challenges and get stuck into them. I had already decided on my next trip, but that would be a couple of years away, enough time for me to build up some brownie points at home and some leave at work. I needed short-term goals to keep my mind and body occupied, ensuring I was kept busy while I adjusted.

One of those goals was to get into racing kayaks. All that’s needed is to paddle fast for a couple of kilometres. After plenty of food and a good night’s sleep, in an empty kayak and on flat water, how hard could that be?

However, the reality is that after more than a year of plodding along in a fully laden sea kayak it was all I could do to stay upright in the wobbly, finely tuned racing kayak I used on the river. After a while I got used to my wobbly kayak but it was like learning to paddle again. The differences between the more aggressive wing paddle used in racing and a traditional touring paddle are more subtle than their appearance. On the trip I’d been happy with a relatively low, relaxed stroke, but while racing you need to keep the wing paddle high and use shorter, quicker, powerful strokes, which I wasn’t used to.

As well as a tippy kayak and a different paddle design, the rudder cables on the sea kayak had been crossed over. This helps when you want to turn the kayak with the rudder and a lean, allowing it a tighter turn. My flat-water kayak did not have its rudder cables crossed, which meant to turn left I’d have to use my left foot not my right. This may seem like a no-brainer but after sixteen months it was wired into me that to turn left you use the right foot and lift the left knee.

To complete my challenge of adapting to racing, there was no way I felt fit. I had lost a lot of muscle during the trip and, after a few weeks of doing bugger-all apart from eating and drinking, my arms were now extending their vacation. I felt not only unfit but also weak. So my first attempts at flat-water kayaking were less than impressive. I almost fell in while getting into the tippy kayak, I made awkward paddle strokes as I wobbled along, I was slow, after the warm-up I was knackered, and due to the rudder cables I kept wandering in front of the many kayaks passing me. One day I overheard someone say, ‘Just paddled around Australia? I don’t think he’s going to make it back to the boat shed!’ It took two months before I started to feel comfortable on flat water.

Another challenge I set myself was writing a book about the trip. Strangely, although I haven’t written much more than the occasional three-page article since I’d been at school, I thought it would be easier than it was. If I’d known how much time and effort it would involve, it is doubtful I would have started. It took longer to write this book than it did to do the trip. It’s like everything you know little about; it seems simple until you actually start it, then you find out what you don’t know. Nevertheless it has been a wonderful way of extending my journey by reliving the memories.

Soon after getting back home I did a presentation at my kids’ school. This was partly to dispel rumours going around the teachers that I had been in jail for the past year and partly to explain to my kids what I’d been up to. There was a good chance they would sit still and pay attention if it was in a class environment, but I stood no chance of getting them to sit through half an hour of photos at home.

After a kid-friendly presentation that focused mainly on cuddly animals, sandy, sun-drenched beaches and colourful fish, I opened the floor to questions. I get asked the most interesting questions by kids, but there was one that really floored me: ‘What was the most fun you had?’

I couldn’t answer the ten-year-old boy. I was ready for ‘How did you go to the toilet without toilet paper?’ or ‘How many sharks did you see?’ but my head was spinning as I realised I hadn’t had any fun! I stood there fumbling for words to kill time while I wondered how I was going to admit to the whole school I couldn’t remember a single fun day. I couldn’t see how I could describe sitting alone on a remote beach watching the sunset as ‘fun’ to a little boy; more like contented, relieved, relaxed – words old people use instead of fun. I even had doubts that to describe paddling at night and watching dolphins dance under the kayak with their movements lingering on through the sparkling phosphorescence compared with running around laughing your head off with your mates.

After a bit of confusion in my mind and self-doubt as to the worthiness of doing something for over a year that wasn’t fun, all I could come up with was, ‘You can’t have fun on your own because with nobody to share it with, you can only enjoy yourself!’ Then I quickly moved on to a crocodile story to change the subject.

I think in hindsight my definition of fun was too narrow. Now that time has passed since kayaking around Australia, I can easily use words like fun to describe my journey, even to a ten-year-old.

When I’d completed other adventures, I’d had a feeling that I hadn’t reached my limits, which left me unsatisfied and with little option but to make the next trip a bit harder. I had taken a fresh approach to all the other kayakers who had planned to paddle around Australia and started at the other end of the country at a different time of year. To have completed the trip, on time, without major incident, allows me to think that my research, preparation and a realistic view of my ability were fundamental to my success. Knowing that I got the planning right is as rewarding as physically being able to paddle the distance.

During the trip I got close enough to my limits to be satisfied that I’d explored my own ability far enough. The cliff sections were reaching the limits of what I could do in one leg. The Great Australian Bight touched on my physiological limits as I dealt with months of dangerous, remote paddling and the circumnavigation tested my endurance.

So the itch that started for me as a teenager seeing those climbers in the Peak District and which continued to irritate for almost thirty years has finally been scratched. That doesn’t mean I’m not heading off on trips anymore; it just means I’m not searching for my limits. I’m now more at ease knowing what I’m capable of and no longer have to chase myself up and down the coast in a kayak.