Read Online All the Way Round by Stuart Trueman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stuart Trueman
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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
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
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