My first task however was to pack and transport my gear over the dunes and down to the water’s edge. I firstly placed everything into their rightful bags, then unpacked them when I forgot something - which was frequently - and then repacked them. I was thankful that the dark clouds were not raining on this process. I placed and aligned the bags according to the storage compartments in which they would be located. Having given myself a head start the previous evening I heated some tinned spaghetti and made myself a cup of tea which allowed me to use up the last of the milk I’d bought upon arrival.
After rolling up the tent I was ready to begin the job of getting it all to the beach. I picked the kayak up on my shoulder and marched it across the campground, along the sandy path through the dunes, across the beach, and down to the water’s edge. Low tide as it was and reckoning an hour before I’d be ready, I placed the kayak above the current mark to allow for the rising sea.
I then jogged the 300 metres back to where my equipment was awaiting collection. OK, it was not 300 metres. I know this because I paced it by conducting what I call a stretch run. Something akin to a skaters’ push and glide by my reckoning. A leap and stretch ensures a good metre even when measured in the soft sand. So not 300 metres, but exactly 294 metres as counted. I made four further trips to the kayak loaded with as much as I could carry. I would normally make more trips but with less luggage. Today, knowing the longer distance I had to cover, I pressed items to my torso with my loaded arms, and even carried items between by teeth.
By the time I’d carried everything to the kayak, I had made five trips to the water, through the soft sand, fully loaded. One with the kayak and four with my gear for a total of 1½ km. I had made four return trips (not five of course), and I jogged each one of these to make sure time was not wasted. This added up to an additional 1.2km. So in total I had run or carried gear through the soft sand for a total of 2.7km, or 2.65m to be more precise.
Ready to depart at 7:50am it had taken me a good couple of hours, or in today’s language of fitness fads, I’d put myself through my own private version of a Boot Camp … and I’d not even commenced the day’s paddling!
When at last I did begin, the wind was already fresh for this time of the morning. Blowing as it did from the north-west, at least it favoured me. The coastline offered only more of the same long unbroken stretches of beach backed by low dunes. I could see in the distance the feature known as the East Cape and knew that this scenery that had predominated of late, would soon change as I began a more northerly bearing. For now I was continuing in an easterly direction.
At 10:15am the seas had become quite choppy and I had noticed a lightening in the sky as the clouds began to break. I held a suspicion that this might signal the change in the weather that had been promised, even though it was still well shy of midday. The legs were complaining and requesting a stretch, so the decision to beach was an easy one.
I chose a spot that my GPS told me was close to a small river mouth with some marsh conditions present behind the dunes. After successfully navigating the small surf, I was dismayed as once again the shoreline wash filled the cockpit with water and sand after I’d climbed out. I am yet to understand how to avoid this frustrating occurrence.
The small river behind the beach. Note all the driftwood.
This picture clearly shows the uninspiring coastline that had predominated for much of late.
As I was hauling the kayak up the beach, now heavier with the unwanted sand and water, I noticed that it was getting perceptibly lighter by the minute, and then the breeze became a wind that hit with gusto. I’d covered 19.9km at an average of 8.5km/h but would paddle no further this day. I began carrying my belongings up to the dunes whilst behind me the air and water quickly began to a hissing and spit. It was not a confused sea. It blew hard and flat, and in one direction only. I have a recollection of once reading something about different winds and their effects on the water and seem to recollect that there is a particular point at which the seas become almost ‘flattened’ with long (sometimes parallel?), lines of spume forming on the waters surface. I may be wrong and will need to research this but today‘s effects were not dissimilar to this scenario?
In case anyone doubts it, this image shows well what was going on.
The sun was no longer inhibited by cloud and I felt exposed under it’s fierce beat. The wind and the grey beach’s fine sand that it was picking up made me think of a blast furnace. I found the most protected site available. It was where the grass had just taken hold in a very low lying dune. It also suggested to me that it may have been an access path or road for the locals to get their 4WD and quad bikes onto the beach.
I quickly discovered that there is very little difference between a parachute and my tent. They are both made of nylon and are extremely lightweight. They both have a bulbous design and shape that perfectly catches the wind. They both have the ability, if one is not careful, to catch that wind and carry whomever may be attempting to hold it down, with it. Apart from a few seams in different places, the only significant difference that I can think of is that a parachute has a means that allows the person attempting to control it, to empty the trapped air inside. My tent does not meaning that I could not simply turn off the fight and struggle. The wind was blowing in excess of 30 knots and there were no lulls. It never gave up. I seriously thought that I might.
The struggle was a significant one before I finally managed to secure the tent. It had bucked and reared for a long time before I was able to settle tame it. Feel free to picture me lying across the flattened tent in a star position whilst the exposed nylon fabric snapped and clapped all around me as the wind did its best to break me. By reaching out as far as I could and pushing some of the pegs I’d bought especially for sandy terrains I would secure a couple of points from which I would then try to build upon. These pulled free on numerous occasions as extra strong gusts would undo my work until I was eventually ‘lucky’ enough to get a sufficient number in to hold it fast.
It still looked precarious as it twisted and turned, testing its hold. I was not confident so I began making use of the huge amounts of driftwood littering the beach. I built my own windbreak. Some of the pieces were large and I had to struggle to carry them. Other pieces were small, but useful in plugging the gaps the larger pieces left. Finally, I was left feeling reasonably confident that my tent would not blow away, especially now that I could place some of my heavier belongings inside. I would do my best at a later stage to rid the inside of my tent of the fine grey sand that had covered the floor. I don’t like sand inside my tent… wet or dry.
A lot of wood.
There was still plenty of daylight left although it had taken me a few hours to get the tent up and build the windbreak. I think it was about 2:00pm. The inside of the tent was baking hot under the sun and it was full of sand anyway, so I wondered over to the small river where I’d been observing three fisherman working the river with a net. I waded across myself in the waist deep water to inspect the fruits of their labours and was surprised to see a crate full of fish. The larger ones I was told were mullet. They were about 18” in length. There were also a lot of small ones which they called herring. They were the size of whiting but meatier I would say. I am not a fisherman. I had expected to see fish the size of sardines. They were friendly and even offered me some of the herring. I declined because I suspected that this was more than just a hobby for these guys and they had worked for most of the day.
They told me about some oysters further upstream so I put on my shoes, grabbed my penknife, and walked up through the river that was now low with the tide. In some places I feared that my shoes would be sucked right off my feet and into the mud, and a lot of effort was spent before I came across one very small patch of mostly cleaned out shells on a couple of rocks. I found about five for myself that I was able to pry loose and take back with me to my campsite. I surprised myself when I opened them without too much trouble. They tasted wonderful… as does everything I put into my mouth these days. The act of gathering my own food did however offer me an added level of satisfaction as I sucked that salty creamy flesh from the shells. I did not even mind that I had to spit out a bit of crushed shell with each morsel that entered my mouth.
\There were no lemon trees that I could spy.
With all the driftwood about and the time on my hands, I decided that a fire was in order and dug a small setting in the lee of my tent and its wall of wood. I placed more wood around it to offer added protection. It was not a good idea in hindsight. My cooking utensils are designed for a small but highly efficient burner. I spilt no less than three saucepans of water into the fire and burnt my hand badly enough to give me blisters on one of these occasions. The wind made sure the flames burnt wildly and uncontrollably and it was not the sort of peaceful campfire that I had envisioned. In hindsight I don’t know what I was thinking when I made the decision to build it.
By now it was approaching 6:00pm and in spite of having paddled less than 20km I was extremely tired. My burnt hand was hurting, my legs had received way too much sun and wind, there was sand all through my tent, and I had not made the destination that would have offered me a shower. As it was I wriggled into my sleeping bag and was soon fast asleep dreaming of eating freshly shucked oysters served on a plate at a table covered by a fresh, clean white linen tablecloth washed down with a chilled white wine.
