All the Way Round (6 page)

Another part of my preparation for these cliffs was the mental challenge. Sitting at home, years before, I tried to imagine what I’d feel like as I looked down at the start of the cliffs. But when you’re sipping coffee at home, planning an adventure in an air-conditioned room, fully rested and frustrated that you’re not there already, it’s easy to imagine yourself being able to handle the realisation that the next day you will have to commit to an endurance event which could be your last.

It’s totally different when you’re actually there and it’s no longer a fantasy. It doesn’t matter how good you think you are at handling a hard call, you won’t know until it happens. Nothing other than the proof of experience is worth much at all.

For me, the alternative of just ignoring the problem of not having the motivation to tackle the cliffs, and just assuming I could make the right call when the time came, was too much of a risk. There was too much at stake. If I decided to skip the Zuytdorp Cliffs I would have to continue my paddle around Australia with a piece missing. That would eat away at me and spoil my enjoyment of the rest of the journey. It would be more of a disappointment than running out of time to complete the circumnavigation.

I saw these cliffs as the crux of my trip and I wanted more than an assumption I’d be able to spend the evening before the crossing with a warm fuzzy feeling. So part of my preparation was a solo nonstop paddle 230 kilometres from Victoria to Tasmania across Bass Strait in 2008.

I set off from Wilsons Promontory, destined for Stanley in northwest Tasmania, on 11 November 2008. It was a huge mind game to paddle all day and night then realise when daylight returned that I still had a full day’s paddle ahead of me. I knew that the first light of dawn would be a major goal but the time after dawn was the hardest, not just because of the physical tiredness but the mental side.

In the early morning of the second day, I reached around to open my day hatch to get some food, lost my balance and slowly rolled over. It was a moment’s loss of concentration, but finding myself upside-down with a kayak on top of me in the cold waters of Bass Strait was the wake-up call I needed. After a couple of attempted rolls I was still not upright. While I was underwater winding up for my third attempt, I noticed an eerie light wherever I looked. With my lack of sleep and oxygen deprivation, my first thought was that I was having a near-death experience; then I realised my head torch was still on. My rolling finally worked, but only after I noticed the water bladders in the cockpit had shifted to one side, so each time I rolled upright their weight just tipped the kayak back over.

I gathered myself after rolling, then had a really strong urge to paddle off with disregard for the compass. I could see nothing but ocean, there was no land or landmarks, but nevertheless my brain was convinced I should ignore the compass and head off that-a-way. The warning lights came on when I casually noticed there was a tennis court off to my left. It had the net up, an umpire’s chair, and was surrounded by a high wire fence to keep any wayward balls from hitting passing kayakers. But strangely, the court’s surface was water.
Ha!
I thought,
I must be hallucinating!
I was pleased with myself for recognising it as a figment of my imagination, even though my reasoning was deduced from the fact that its surface was water and not because there shouldn’t be a tennis court suddenly appearing in Bass Strait. It took discipline, trust in my preparation and the realisation of my state to convince me to follow the compass and take the correct heading, and after 35 hours of paddling I landed safely at 6.30 pm.

Completing the Bass Strait crossing gave me a tremendous psychological advantage. Knowing I could commit to crossing a long, serious stretch of water gave me peace of mind that I would be up to it when faced with the challenge again. I also learnt which foods were best, how much water I needed for the trip and what worked for me when paddling at night. As well, I was introduced to hallucinations and what to expect when my mind and body started to reach their limits. I can’t say it was a totally pleasant experience but at least I knew what I was in for with the long crossings on this trip, and that I could do it.

I’d felt the force of the southerlies on my approach to Denham, noting the fleeting forecasts of good weather quickly come and go along the cliffs. All the information I could gather confirmed that my window of opportunity was approaching.

When I wasn’t on the move I imagined the worst of the problems that could happen while tackling tough obstacles ahead—I have enough experience to dream up some really shitty scenarios to avoid. Some I can prepare for, others I just have to hope don’t happen. The good side is that I’m prepared when things don’t go well, and relieved that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be; the bad side is I wear myself down with endless what-ifs.

Before I reached the cliffs I briefly thought I would like to tell my family that I loved them, and explain what they should do if I didn’t make it, but I quickly dismissed the idea—even mentioning the real task ahead would make them worry for no gain. However, it was important to me that, if I didn’t make it, I protected myself against the legion of voices that would bring themselves out of the dark, condemning the attempt, considering themselves experts purely on the basis of having an opinion. So I sent a seemingly innocent email to a kayaking friend, explaining my strategy, the weather and timing, with the hope that it would help in my defence should I get caught out.

It is 50 kilometres, or a day’s paddle, from Denham to Steep Point, the start of the cliffs. Then I would have to paddle continuously for more than 35 hours along the Zuytdorp Cliffs to get to the sanctuary of the little town of Kalbarri. Each day into the future the weather forecast would become less reliable. If I arrived at Steep Point and the forecast changed for the worse and didn’t look like clearing up, I would have to paddle back to Denham to wait for another chance.

On 28 May I was at Steep Point, the northernmost point of the Zuytdorp Cliffs, looking at the swell smash into the western coast of nearby Dirk Hartog Island, the surf leaving a ribbon of fog hanging over the cliffs.

My preparation being as good as I could get it, the weather forecast being as good as I could expect, and with all my food bagged and everything ready, I surprised myself as I realised I was totally comfortable with the task ahead. There was nothing else to do. I smoked my pipe and was content and relaxed, the rewards of thorough preparation. I had a good night’s sleep—something you can’t fake—confirming my state of mind.

I set off at 8 am. For the past few days I’d paddled the friendly waters of Shark Bay: no swell, no surf, dugongs grazing on seagrass, small sharks, rays and turtles cruising around in the shallow waters. But half an hour after pushing my kayak into the water at the start of the cliffs, the mood changed dramatically. I was in a 3-metre swell with breaking waves running over them, the water was a bottomless dark blue, while albatrosses and whales confirmed I was paddling in the open ocean.

I needed a pee but, with waves breaking over the kayak, opening the spray skirt and using the bottle kept for the job would invite the cold ocean waters to fill the cockpit. So I just carried on paddling and momentarily enjoyed the relief, sitting in my own warmth. There was no point worrying about it—after relieving myself the first time, how could it get worse? Later I calculated I drank 12 litres during the cliff crossing, and I didn’t once bother using the pee bottle. I’ll bet that quashes any romantic thoughts about sea kayaking you may have had.

The cliffs are an impenetrable fortification that rise up 200 metres and stretch for 200 kilometres, with almost no sign of weakness to allow even the most desperate a thought of salvation from the ocean. The swell, which had been running without pause for hundreds of kilometres, was suddenly checked with a roar and an angry foam explosion. But such was the size and power of the swell that it had enough energy left to bounce off the cliffs back out to sea, confusing the incoming swell. To keep clear of the competing sea and find rhythm in the ocean, I had to paddle 6 or 7 kilometres from the coastline. From that distance the cliffs themselves took on a softer aspect, but it didn’t matter how you viewed them, they would offer no comfort if things went wrong.

To make it seem less daunting, I split the crossing into five six-hour segments—covering 40 kilometres each—then divided the segments into single hours. I spent most of each hour calculating the distance travelled and deciding which snack to eat next. I had packed enough water and five bags of food which provided me with a variety of snacks to eat every hour. In each food bag I had the choice of banana sandwich, muesli bars, chocolate, nut and fruit mix, small tin of rice pudding, and a tub of cold cooked noodles mixed with peanut butter and dried fruit—yum.

The first ten hours of paddling went well, I was on track and feeling strong. As the sun went down, I prepared for darkness. Everything is harder at night so the easier you make it for yourself while there is daylight, the less chance there is of dropping something overboard, or going for a swim in the dark. I put on another woollen thermal in anticipation of the cooler temperatures, put my head torch around my neck, cracked a glow stick, placed a fresh bag of food on the deck, and then took seasickness tablets. I’ve never been seasick in my kayak during the day, but it had happened once at night, so with no downside to taking the tablets I killed the chance of it occurring during the crossing.

I had a full moon and calm conditions for the first half of the night—as good as it gets. But there’s no point in waxing lyrical about paddling in ideal conditions because I was sitting in litres of my own urine.

After sixteen hours of paddling, the realisation that I was only halfway hit home. By now it was getting a bit harder to ignore my aching muscles and the thought of having to do another sixteen hours made the halfway milestone a bittersweet affair.

One of those ‘worst-case scenarios’ I’d envisaged myself having to deal with years before while I sat in comfort at home was the winds picking up from the south after I’d paddled for hours. A headwind is the sea kayaker’s dread. The resistance of the wind is hard enough to deal with, but it brings with it oncoming waves. If strong enough, these waves roll over the deck, smacking into the kayaker’s chest, chilling them while slowing momentum—a double whammy. This is particularly a problem in a loaded kayak as the bow is sluggish to rise with the wave, opting instead to dive through. It’s a wearing process and not something to look forward to.

I had asked myself, ‘What were my options if faced with the all-too-common 20-knot southerly wind during my progress along the cliffs?’ It would be very unlikely I could call on a passing boat, as there wouldn’t be any and even if there were I didn’t carry a VHF radio to contact them. I could paddle on, but kayaking into a strong headwind made an already hard task much harder, and was obviously dangerous. I could turn around and paddle back, but I knew myself too well; I’d probably keep trying to continue until the very last of my energy was drained and it was too late to consider returning. Then I’d have to use my PLB and hope I was found before I was dashed against the cliffs or more likely succumbed to the cold waters.

My answer was a sail. This gave me an option to turn around, allowing me to make use of the wind to aid a return to my starting point. It may sound like a no-brainer at first but, as with most things, if you think about it hard enough it can turn into a difficult decision. Much of the sea kayaking world frowns on the use of sails, seeing it as cheating. I saw the sail as a safety device which had the benefit of aiding progress.

Just as I had envisaged, the winds picked up from the south at the halfway point. Faced with 100 kilometres to paddle into a headwind of 15 knots was a demoralising situation. However, the thought of paddling back 100 kilometres was an even more depressing prospect, so I kept on going. After three hours the wind died down to nothing and I picked up speed.

As the conditions settled down, I drifted off into the misty area of my mind created by lack of sleep and continuous exercise. But I was snapped back to clarity when I missed a sleeping whale by the length of the kayak. It was a humpback with its back showing above the water and its massive flukes spread out wide. It made me think of a teenager passed out in the most uncomfortable pose designed to take up the most space possible to ensure you couldn’t miss them. There’s no doubt which one of us got the biggest scare; the whale vented its fishy breath and slapped its flukes a few times but didn’t actually move, while my speed suddenly increased and the chance of me falling asleep dropped to nil for a few hours. I’m sure it was back to dreaming of far-off krill before my heart rate had a chance to drop.

During the night I struggled to maintain my ‘40 kilometres in six hours’ schedule. I was tired and hurting from paddling for twenty hours. Even though I kept drinking and eating regularly, sleep-deprivation was taking its toll and I had to pop a few caffeine tablets. The hours before sunrise dragged and dawn took a long time to show itself.

Morning brought mental relief but also 20-knot winds over the cliffs. I tried to get some help from the sail but all that happened was I got blown away from the cliffs and then blown over. I had stopped to eat a banana sandwich when a combination of a wave, a gust of wind and a dozy kayaker resulted in the kayak leaning at an impossible angle. I realised I was going over and grabbed the paddle, but got it at the wrong angle so instead of providing a hold on the water to prevent me rolling further, it just sliced through and I found myself still chewing my sandwich underwater. At first all I could think about was that my urine was now emptying into the sea, so I quickly shut my mouth.

With the sail creating a huge drag, I only managed to roll enough for my head to resurface to gasp some air before I went back down. While underwater the second time I remembered my spray skirt was off, so the kayak was filling up with water and even harder to roll upright. If you need something more exciting than bumping into a whale at night to wake you up, try an unexpected roll, with the sail up and spray skirt off, to ensure the cold water gets everywhere.