All the Way Round (18 page)

Jessica, of course, continued to sail single-handed around the world and returned to many accolades and awards. I’d like to think the voices of dissent were the minority that just shouted loudest and were made public simply to sell the news, while the majority were silent, waiting to congratulate her for her efforts.

To be criticised by the mass media when departing then to be awarded Young Australian of the Year for her accomplishment is a validation of adventure by the Australians who appreciate what’s involved and recognise the value of the achievement. That was how I saw it, and it helped me. I had to deal with many comments—such as, ‘Rather you than me’, ‘Plenty of sharks along this coast, mate’, ‘This is the most dangerous part of the Australian coast’, and so on—and although most were innocently made, the negative vibe had a wearing effect on me, making me feel as though I wasn’t normal, like I wasn’t quite right—to the extent that one of the first things I did when I got to a township was to try and blend in and feel as though I was conforming. I’d get clean, put on clothes that were the same as everybody else, buy a paper, sit in the corner of a café and read and watch others being normal.

When I was in my twenties I climbed cliffs—lots of cliffs. I mixed with other climbers and went to places where climbers went, I read climbing books and when I wasn’t climbing or reading about it, I thought about climbing. As my personal world revolved around getting up rocks, I thought everybody not only climbed but climbed harder than me. Then I started getting office jobs and I realised that the majority of the population didn’t spend every weekend hanging off holds the size of postage stamps.

However, I discovered people do other, extraordinary things. As you take the train to work, you may be sitting next to a grandmother who is bringing up a seven-year-old girl on her own; that big hairy guy may have been working for charities for the past twenty years; that skinny one possibly works at the hospital providing support to the terminally ill; and the guy who took your train ticket slid down a mountain on a biscuit-tin lid. The person next to me may not look like they climb mountains or paddle kayaks, but it’s a fair bet that I haven’t achieved what they have.

I believe that many other adventurers think like this and feel that what they have done does not hold a higher status than the achievements of others.

I think that if your main object for a trip is to impress rather than enjoying the journey then motivation would be harder. There are few who would admit to seeking adventure for fame and fortune. The rewards can be far greater than that.

I had been in contact with Ken Eyles, the manager of the Byron Bay Dive Centre, who with Perry Bartholomew had paddled from Byron Bay south to Sydney in November 2010 raising money for the Red Cross. He put me up in the very nice accommodation normally given to his dive clients, from which I watched a very busy centre operate. Divers would arrive back from a day out with huge smiles on their faces, telling stories of experiences that would remain with them for life. It was great to watch the transformation from groups apprehensively taking in the safety brief before heading off to being dropped back still high from the adventure.

Next morning I continued my adventure north. I left Tweed Heads, the last town in New South Wales, with the seas at 2–3 metres and the winds blowing at 25 knots from the south. I covered 30 kilometres in two and half hours and made the narrow entrance at the bottom of South Stradbroke Island on a bouncy sea. I was cautious of the entrance as I knew the current would be running out against the wind and swell heading up from the south, resulting in rough, confused seas. As the tide dropped, the large body of water inland had to squeeze out into the ocean through this narrow gap, which meant the tidal current would be very strong. If I capsized in the narrow entrance among the surf, I’d be swept out to sea and I’d better have hold of the kayak as I went or it could ruin the whole day.

With all this in the back of my mind, I approached slowly and watched the surf, thinking it wasn’t going to be as bad as I imagined. With the current running out, the waves were steep and big but didn’t travel much. I was close enough to see the calm waters beyond the jagged rocks of the break-walls when I felt the kayak being lifted up by an awesome wave. The stern was pushed up quicker than the bow, leaving me a view down to the foam-streaked ocean as I slid down the steepening face. I was cautious and decided not to race down the face, opting to put the brakes on enough to let the wave destroy itself in foam without me being there. Then I paddled fast into the shelter behind the wall, adrenalin helping me against the current until I reached the calm of the Broadwater.

I was paddling as fast as I could but, because I was fighting the current, a camera crew had no problem keeping pace with me as they walked alongside, asking if they could get a few words from me at the beach. Not a problem. I was stoked, firstly that I managed not to stuff up on the wave at the entrance, which would have been caught on film, and secondly because someone had thought to send a welcoming committee as I arrived in Queensland.

I landed and thought of some suitable, humble words to describe my ten-month paddle from Broome and to calm down from my dramatic entrance. But the camera crew weren’t the least bit interested in my trip, it wasn’t in their brief. They’d been sent out to film the local surf life-saving crew as they went about their business, rescuing an imaginary, bikini-clad, damsel-in-distress in the bad conditions as part of a training exercise. The crew took some footage of the surf boat flying through the rough entrance to Broadwater and just filmed my close call as I happened by.

It wasn’t quite the welcome to Queensland I thought I was getting, but it did get shown on TV somewhere. However, I’m sure I would have made the national news bulletins if that wave had clobbered me and it was caught on film.

Slightly alarmed by the thought that I was more concerned about almost stuffing up on camera than I was of actually being forced to go for a swim in strong seaward currents, I headed up the calm waters of Broadwater on the inside of South Stradbroke Island to Tipplers campground.

Next morning, just after working out that I would be paddling against the current if I headed up the channel inside North Stradbroke Island, I saw a couple of kayaks on the beach. That was all the distraction I needed to wait until the tide turned. The kayaks belonged to Tanya and Gary, two members of the Queensland Sea Kayak Club who realised who I was as word had been passed around advertising a presentation I was to give to the club on the coming Saturday. Then another six members of the club arrived, making quite a flotilla of kayaks. They were all heading off for a play in the surf but unfortunately I couldn’t join them because I had to make a move in order to catch the tide, otherwise I could be late for my own presentation.

It wasn’t long after leaving the group that I saw my first Queensland dugong in the waters of Moreton Bay. It was always a big event to see dugongs but this one was a bit unexpected. Normally I only got to see a dugong tail as the animal dived, but this time I saw its head and face as it was figuring out what I was. This was extra special and was a good ending to a great day.

I found myself camping at a place called the ‘Tangalooma Wrecks’, where sixteen boats had been purposely sunk to create a small breakwater, providing shelter for small vessels caught in bad weather. The campground wasn’t full when I stayed but it was a good spot and quite popular with day-trippers. The wildlife in the water was plentiful, with many rays, sharks, fish and dugongs and, in the distance, beyond the rusting wrecks, was the skyline of Brisbane.

On 1 February I set off from the Tangalooma Wrecks for a 70-kilometre paddle to Maroochydore, trying to make the most of the outgoing tide by staying just inside the deep water of the shipping channel. My great plan came a bit unstuck when, in bad visibility, with drizzle hanging in the air, I saw the faint outline of a ship’s bulk. I couldn’t tell if the ship was coming or going, just that it was there. Then things happened quickly as the ship changed course and I could now tell it was heading right for me. It may seem that in a big ocean the chances of being hit by a ship while kayaking are the same as being hit by lightning or that falling fridge. But they move frighteningly fast and are deceptively big, so my plan to use the deep waters of the shipping channel to catch the outgoing tide was as smart as walking down the white line in the middle of the road to avoid the traffic. The nondescript marker buoy I was heading for signalled a sharp turn the ships needed to make as they zigzagged their way through the sandbanks of Moreton Bay to Brisbane. So we were both heading for the same point on the ocean. I made the buoy just as the ship made its move left. I again thought of Jessica Watson and what must have been a very scary collision, in the same place as my near-miss, on her first day out.

I landed at Maroochydore that afternoon and soon found myself being well looked after by members of the Queensland Sea Kayak Club. I stayed with Gary Forrest, a highly respected sea kayak instructor who had the numberplate ‘Kayak 1’, just in case you missed the promotional paintwork and various kayaks on top of his car advertising his business. The presentation I did for the club a few days later on 5 February was well received and a generous amount donated through the auctioning of kit. Rod Coogan was a standout; he donated almost everything a kayaker could want for an expedition and more. There were paddles, jackets, tents, shoes and spray skirts, and Gary donated lessons to teach you how it all worked on the water.

Again, meeting with like-minded people was a terrific shot in the arm as I realised that there was a good appreciation of what I’d achieved. They understood, they got it, and I didn’t feel as though I had to make an effort to blend in because I was mixing with people who didn’t ask ‘Why?’

I had now accepted donations from, and given presentations to, the three main sea kayak clubs in Australia. For the sixteen months of the trip I spent a shade over ․20,000. Half of this was donated by the sea kayakers of Australia, and because of their generosity and support I didn’t have to visit my bank manager to ask for a loan. I spent ․5000 on equipment before I got started, so all up I spent ․25,000 to paddle around Australia. This doesn’t take into account lost wages, the pause in mortgage payments and so on, so at a rough tally the trip cost me a bit less than ․100,000. When the financial aspect is calculated it can be made to sound like a big number; I could have abandoned the trip and bought a Porsche. But would you read a book about me buying a Porsche?

I have to admit that knowing there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of people following my progress put me under pressure to deliver. But as soon as I started to move again and I distanced myself from the internet, I was alone, no longer influenced by my cyber-followers. I could see how knowing your progress was being watched could be a huge motivation. However, with a regular blog or web page there could be pressure from sponsors or followers to provide updates, news and excitement to feed the ever-hungry internet, and this need to entertain could get in the way of making progress safely. I was happy with my compromise of updating my progress on the web when I found a convenient computer in town.

From Brisbane I was treated to southerly winds which blew at about 30 knots for the next three days. This got me through to the inside of Fraser Island to a small place near Hervey Bay called Urangan. I landed just after high tide at an exposed beach which offered nowhere to escape the strong onshore winds. Desperate for a comfortable night’s sleep, I walked across the road, knocked on the door of the closest house and asked if I could set up the tent in the garage. It wasn’t long before I was settled down at the home of a retired sailor and his wife, fending off offers of tea, ice cream and dinner.

Next morning I found out why the coast here was called ‘The Great Sandy Strait’. The tide was out and I couldn’t see the ocean, just sand flats for 10 kilometres over the horizon. It would take a few hours for enough water to float a kayak so I went and found a place for breakfast and had a leisurely start to my morning.

It was almost an uneventful day, but was livened up by what I now refer to as the foot pump incident. The foot pump is a simple piece of equipment, fixed to the bulkhead down by my feet and used to empty any water in the cockpit back to the ocean, where it belongs. It is operated by pumping with my foot, which activates the suction and throws the water out through a hole in the deck. It allows me to keep both hands on the paddle while emptying the water, which is really useful when the seas are rough.

Every now and again a small bit of seaweed that made it into the kayak would get sucked into the pump and get stuck in the valve. This meant there wouldn’t be enough suction to pump the water out. Usually it wouldn’t be a problem and I’d pick out the bit of seaweed after I landed at the end of the day. But not this time. With the pump refusing to do its job, I was bobbing on the sea, mopping out the cockpit with my sponge, when a wave swamped the kayak. I had no chance of preventing a roll as my hands were busy and not on my paddle, so over I went. While underwater I shoved the sponge into the cockpit so I wouldn’t lose it and grabbed the paddle, then rolled upright. And that’s how I found myself several kilometres offshore, in a breaking sea, with a cockpit full of water that I couldn’t empty because of the faulty pump. I had a few options but instinctively began with the obvious one of swearing loudly at the pump. To my surprise, and relief, that got an instant result as the pump seemed to realise this was not the time to mess around. It started working again so, pumping furiously with one foot to empty the water, I hurried to secure the spray skirt to prevent any more ‘swamping’, while using the paddle to brace against oncoming waves that threatened to roll me again. Fortunately, I was soon on my way.

February 11 marked ten months since I had left Broome and I found myself approaching Rules Beach, 50 kilometres north of Bundaberg. I took a quick look up Baffle Creek and it looked as if I could find a camping spot upstream. I was lowering the sail and putting anything not tied on into the hatch so I wouldn’t lose it in the surf when tackling the bar protecting Baffle Creek when I had another drama. After leaving Brisbane I’d been hit by a strong gust of wind as I passed a headland, which put a slight bend in the sail mast. This was a bit of a pain, not while sailing, but when lowering the mast, as I had to be careful to make it fall correctly.