All the Way Round (28 page)

Eventually I found some calmer water just the other side of the headland and pulled away. It was then I noticed the roar the ocean was making; it sounded frustrated that I’d got through. I pulled into the nearest beach to recover with an early lunch. Boy, had I misjudged things! All of a sudden I felt cold and almost collapsed as I was released from the stress.

It took a few hours but I set off again. Only to be caught once more in shoals that aggravated the waters causing waves to break over my head. The wind didn’t die down much and I spent most of the day paddling against the current. I eventually found a beach and, after a portage and a hasty meal, settled down to reflect on the day. I didn’t manage much reflection, as I fell asleep too quickly.

I decided to smarten up. I couldn’t fight these currents, so I had to work with them. The most dangerous stretch was going to be the crossing back to Darwin across the Vernon Islands. This was where the currents were at their strongest. I could easily find myself being sucked into the islands, shoals and reefs or pushed out into the Timor Sea. If the current had proved too hard for me close to shore where I was expecting only 1 knot, what could I expect out in the Vernon Islands where there were dire warnings of strong currents?

The days would start with 20-knot winds from the east blowing over a current running west to east. This wind-over-tide created rough waters. Around lunch time the winds would die down and the current would reverse and go my way. So I had the mornings off and made my way along the south coast of Melville Island in the afternoons with light winds and the current helping me along.

The crossing to Darwin from Melville was 70 kilometres; high tide in the Vernon Islands was at 11 am, which gave me from 10 am to noon of relatively slack water to cross the maze of reefs and shoals west of the Vernon Islands. If I had worked the currents out correctly, I should get some of the incoming tide to help me for the last leg of the crossing into Darwin.

To the east of the Vernon Islands the tidal range is 3 metres, to the west it is 6 metres. This means the level of the water rises and falls twice as far on one side of the islands as it does on the other. This in turn means that along the south coast of Melville Island the direction of the tidal flow changes mid-cycle. That is, when the tide starts to drop it will run from west to east for three hours then the tide will continue to drop before it turns and runs from east to west. This made the calculations needed for the crossing very complicated. My mind was unaccustomed to working out much more than the change expected after buying a beer.

Because of my limited mental agility, I changed my plan of attack a few times but settled on heading west of the Vernon Islands and threading my way through the shoals to Lee Point on the mainland, then making my way to Darwin. With all I could do having been done, I got a good night’s rest and even managed a sleep-in. I left Bonkalji Beach at 9.30 am on Saturday 17 June and arrived in Darwin at 5 pm with no real dramas.

It had all gone to plan. The waters were definitely moving but the winds didn’t pick up and my calculations had proved correct. Not riveting reading for you but I was relieved there was nothing worth writing about. Getting it wrong around Cape Keith was a valuable lesson and I learnt from it. I planned my crossing to be so uneventful that I couldn’t even make up anything interesting to say about it, and I’m pleased to report that’s how it turned out.

8

Darwin to Broome

A
kayaker from the New South Wales Sea Kayak Club, Keith Oakford, had kindly arranged for me to stay with his sister Cris and her husband Grant in Darwin. I landed at the Darwin Yacht Club, which looked as good a place as any to land, then gave them a call. I’d been lucky and landed at a convenient place for Cris. Within ten minutes my kayak was loaded onto a Mercedes and I was heading off for a shower. On the drive back Grant was telling me they had sorted out the ‘Dog Box’ for me to stay in. I was a little worried, but reasoned that all I needed was a bit of shade in a quiet spot, with drinking water available, and anything beyond that would be a bonus.

The ‘Dog Box’ turned out to be the term for a rather luxurious apartment used for guests at the back of their house. I had to laugh when Cris asked if I thought I’d be comfortable. Well, I was in a quiet suburb of Darwin, in my own apartment with a double bed, an ensuite and a massive flat-screen TV. It was the last place you’d expect a water buffalo to trample you while sleeping, so I was sure I could make do.

After borrowing some of Grant’s clothes I was quickly whisked off to a beer garden to watch the sun go down over the ocean. Thanks to Keith and Cris and her family, I was immediately comfortable, freshly showered, with a place to recover, all my gear was safe and I was drinking beer less than two hours after landing in a new city. This assistance helped enormously, financially, psychologically and physically, and it meant I could relax straightaway and start preparing for the last stage.

I had only intended to stay three days but at the end of the third day I really didn’t feel like getting back in the kayak, so I took an extra day to chill before leaving on the last leg. It was hard to leave the ‘Dog Box’ but I couldn’t stay all week.

On my last evening in Darwin we were at the ‘Ski Club’ beer garden when I spotted three Nadgee kayaks on top of a car. I wandered over and found out they belonged to a group of scientists who were heading to the Kimberley to do some wildlife studies. They were going to use the kayaks to get them around the coast for the two weeks they were there. We optimistically made some loose plans to meet up should we be able to contact each other, but the Kimberley is a big place and unfortunately it didn’t happen.

I left Darwin on 23 June, refreshed and keen to explore the final leg of the expedition. It was a 60-kilometre day to Port Patterson, where I looked for somewhere to camp. The first opportunity I had was a little island that was marked on my map as ‘Military Use, Out of Bounds’. I decided to have a look anyway as the military often get some good spots to play in. I walked up the dunes and surveyed the island. A scene from a World War II movie was laid out before me. There was not a living thing beyond the outer rim of the shore, it was all bomb craters, burnt-out vehicles, and lots of signs advising you not to go exploring in case you stepped on something that goes bang. Okay, I was off, heading quickly for the next island with a beach.

I set up camp and had a good night’s sleep, feeling secure that the steep 3-foot-high sandbank I’d set up on would protect me from Mr Crocodile. However, in the morning I noticed croc tracks passing just 100 metres from my tent, heading towards the ocean. The island was long and thin, and the croc had walked across the narrowest part to save him swimming around. When I set up camp I was happy that my tent site, being elevated, was safe as far as crocs approaching from the ocean went, but I never considered one walking across the bloody island and coming up behind me.

The next few days of paddling were uneventful, with calm weather and minimal currents. I sometimes had a problem finding a convenient landing spot for the night’s camp as the beaches were often guarded by mud flats or reefs at low tide, but there was usually something not too far away that could be found at the end of the day, especially as I was becoming less fussy about where I would make camp.

On 27 June I arrived at Tree Point at the mouth of Port Keats, about 300 kilometres from Darwin. Peter Osman had arranged for a food drop at Port Keats (Wadeye) with the park rangers who look after the area. When they found out the food drop was for a kayaker who would be ‘dropping by’ to pick it up, they offered to come out to the entrance of Port Keats to give me a lift down the river. I struggled with the ethics of this for . . . Well, not at all really. The idea of paddling 30 kilometres up a river to pick up some more lentils, only to have to paddle back out again the next day, didn’t appeal to me at all. So I was happy to call them and let them know I would be making my way upriver the next morning, and we agreed to meet up on the water.

Next morning dawned and I had a slowish start, thinking I’d give them a chance to get to me quicker and that would mean I’d get my lift sooner. Hardly the attitude of a hardcore sea kayaker, but if I was going to get a lift I might as well make it a decent one. I’d only paddled up the river for about an hour before they found me. As we made our way towards Port Keats, I could see why the rangers offered to come and pick me up. Closer to Port Keats the river got quite narrow with steep muddy banks laced with mangroves and a steady parade of crocodiles sunning themselves. Without the lift I would have been paddling under both banks, which closed in to 3–4 kayak lengths wide, while crocs sat on the top looking down on me. That would have been very scary; in fact, I would have more than likely turned around and headed back out to sea without my supplies.

There was a lot of interest from the rangers about my trip but mostly they were concerned about me and the crocs. I was told that while I was soundly sleeping at Tree Point the night before, a croc took two dogs a couple of kilometres from my campsite. I was even more grateful for the lift after learning that, and it’s obvious when you know the area that paddling into Port Keats is not a good idea. The rangers put me up and looked after me well. The next morning they drove me to Injin Beach to see me on my way, which was a far better option than towing me back out down the river.

When I looked at the maps and charts for the section from Port Keats to Wyndham, it was hard to plan with any certainty where I could find places to land. There were strong currents running through the gulf and the massive flow from the rivers, still full from the Wet Season, added to the confusion of the water. With the labyrinth of waterways created by the river deltas, there were many crocodiles in the area, but hopefully they would stay upstream and not be a bother to a kayaker out on the ocean.

Joseph Bonaparte Gulf is called ‘Blown Apart Gulf’ by the locals because when those southeast winds pick up they really blow and, along with the currents, the waters get roughed up. So I was looking at strong currents in crocodile-infested waters with very limited landing opportunities along this stretch.

I left Injin Beach and got a taste of what the currents are capable of when I turned the headland into the gulf. There was plenty of water moving around Pearce Point colliding with reefs and sandbars. It was close to slack water at low tide and there was no wind, so it was as calm as it gets, but I got a feel for what could turn up.

I made it to Fossil Head, just about the last headland, before it all dropped away to muddy estuaries. My landing attracted a few local boys, who ran around from the other side of the headland to see who I was. They soon got more than they bargained for when I gave each a big bag or one end of the kayak to carry to the beach. They soon lost interest after that and drifted off.

From there I paddled to Turtle Head across what looked like a giant chocolate milkshake. There was so much movement in the water that dense clouds of sediment were being thrown up to the surface as the rivers tossed the murky waters out to sea. The swirling, dark water was very unnerving and, not being able to see the low coastline, I lost confidence in my compass course. Thinking I was being washed out to sea, I resorted to the GPS. Then for no reason I lost confidence in the GPS and adjusted my course to head further inland, eventually making out the very low shoreline just where it should have been in the first place.

The fears of being off course were all in my head. Even though the compass and GPS told me otherwise, I was convinced I was no longer in control of where I was going, and once that thought had planted itself in my mind it became a powerful force. It would have been easy to give in and follow my corrupted sense of direction, but in the end you have to question and justify what you are doing before it goes too far. I’ve had arguments with my compass before while navigating mountains in fog and on long kayak crossings where there is no sight of land. Despite these previous disputes and the dangers of heading in the wrong direction, it’s hard to give back control to the compass; that’s how convincing the fears can be.

I got to Turtle Head Point just after low tide and was faced with a very long, muddy trek to reach the sand of the beach. The insects were fierce, attacking me before I had even got out of the kayak. I tried using the wheels to ferry the loaded kayak but they soon clogged up with mud, so I had to pack them away. The tide was coming in and starting to accelerate across the mud. I grabbed my bags of gear and tried to pick the least muddy track to hard sand, but after just 50 metres I turned to see the water lapping at the kayak. I put the bags down and returned to the kayak just as it was starting to float. I then had to half-drag, half-carry the kayak across the mud, all the while watching the tide race ahead of me at such a pace that the sea made it to my bags before I did.

Then the 20,000 starving insects that hadn’t already discovered me got word I was wearing only shorts and had both hands full—their dinner was served. I repeated the relay a couple of times until I had out-run the water and was safely above the high-tide mark, by which time everything with six legs had eaten.

I had a look around as I caught my breath. It didn’t look good. I was on a sand spit that reached out to a rocky headland. The sea was going to crawl up the beach from both sides, leaving me about three kayak lengths of dry sand to camp on at high tide. It was the highest tide of the month this particular night. I could see where the previous night’s high tide had reached, and I knew it would be higher than that. I looked back and water now covered my tracks across the mud. I was wondering why I hadn’t just waited an hour then paddled in on the incoming tide when I saw a 3-metre croc patrolling the coast.

Turtles were nesting, and they usually make for the beach on the highest tide of the month because they can get closest to the sand just above the high water mark and lay their eggs. The crocs know this and are active at this time, looking for a crunchy turtle snack as the egg-laying females make their way onto the beaches.

I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I had no choice; there was nowhere that looked any better. I gathered all the driftwood I could find to make a low barrier around the tent on three sides then placed the kayak across the remaining side, my equivalent of circling the wagons. I knew the few branches I’d piled up would not stop the croc but I hoped it would make enough noise to wake me up in time to heroically run away.

I figured the croc would wait until high tide when he would only have a few feet to cover before he got to the tent. High tide was just before dawn, so I set my alarm for a couple of hours earlier in a bid to get the jump on him. As I made dinner, I could see the top of his head out on the calm sea. I walked 100 metres down the beach to wash the pots and he followed me, slowly manoeuvring in as I washed up at the water’s edge. It only got tricky when he dropped below the surface to creep closer and I lost track of him. It was the quickest pot-washing session of the trip, and I’m pretty quick most nights.

There was no issue while the tide was out because the croc would have to walk almost 500 metres to get to me, so I slept okay until my alarm went off two hours before dawn. I shone the torch out over the water, looking for his eyes reflecting in the light, but there was nothing. I settled back down but was unable to sleep and just lay listening to the sounds of the night, which were mostly the insects waiting for me to get out from my tent to provide breakfast.

Then, in the first light of day, I saw a shape just off the beach. It was no more than 50 metres away in the low surf right below the tent . . . I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to be moving up the beach with the surf and then lying on the sand until a bigger wave obscured its movement up the beach. Shit.

I wasn’t worried about him getting the jump on me now that I’d seen him, but how the hell was I going to get off the beach with the croc so close? I’d have to carry the kayak to the water’s edge, go back and get my bags, then load the kayak. That would give him enough time to position himself and decide which bits of me to eat first and what to save for dessert. But I couldn’t hang around hoping he’d go away, as I’d soon run out of food and water; besides, he had all the time in the world, I didn’t. I knew I would have to make a move.

As the morning light got better I looked out again and saw my crocodile was actually a tree, with its roots catching on the sand making it roll irregularly. I looked up and down the beach for miles. It was the only tree in the water for as far as I could see and it just happened to be outside my tent on that morning.

With no crocodile to contend with, or slimy portage through mud to the shore to tackle, I was in good shape as I headed off. Things continued to go my way, as I found the current was with me during the morning. I was moving at 10 kilometres an hour without trying too hard.

Towards the afternoon I made for a likely-looking island for the night’s camp. I got there close to low tide and landed at the only place I could, a muddy estuary with mangroves up by the shore. I was about 400 metres from any campsite but this was as close as I could get as the rest of the coast was rocks. I pulled up, got out of the kayak and immediately sank up to my knees in the mud. Then I noticed the track of a croc that must have just dragged itself down to the water. It was quite a large track. The tide hadn’t finished going out and the track went all the way to the edge of the water. That meant the croc must have left just as I arrived. There was only one way in and out of the bay so I must have paddled over him as he swam beneath me.