The Waikawau Bay Palace (or A Man Named Travis)

The previous evening and night (Thu 3/12), had been tough. After a gruelling paddle into winds that had caused the ocean’s spray to burn my eyes, I had finally located a sandy beach in the gloom. Somewhere behind the grey clouds that brought intermittent rain squalls, the sun was preparing to dip beneath the horizon. It had also turned cold, very cold.

Now sand on a fine sunny day causes little problem and may in fact be a portent of fun and frivolity. On this particular day however, the habitants of these weekend retreats had all closed their doors although quite frankly the many drawn curtains suggested this was as a result of the holiday season having not yet commenced rather than an act of defiance towards that foul afternoon. There were no shops with storekeepers that I could approach. Quite simply not a soul stirred and who could blame them and the sand was not for me welcome!

With the squalls turning into a dumping with uncanny timing just as my bow touched upon the beach meant that the normal sense of satisfaction and achievement after a tough day in the saddle was to be delayed for some time to come.

Upon leaving the campsite at Port Jackson I had optimistically thought that with the weather forecast a 50km paddle to Whangapoua Harbour was achievable. The beach upon which I now found myself was to be an opportunity to stretch the legs and refuel. To get this far, a distance of 29km according to my GPS, to Waikawau Bay, had taken me 6 ½ hours and from the moment I rounded the first point at Cape Colville, just 2km into my paddle, I found myself faced with headwinds. The NE/NW winds were coming from the SW and as I rounded the next headland, hoping that this would offer some respite, I was alarmed to discover that they only got stronger and estimated them to be blowing at 20 knots!

I weighed up my options and came to the conclusion that I could reassess my final destination i.e. stop sooner as would turn out to be the case, or alternatively do an about-face and return from where I’d come i.e. head downwind, but would do so after attempting to make the next prominent headland some 6km distant. Unfortunately the coastline in these parts offers few spots to beach or pitch a tent and simply bringing to a halt my struggles and making a landing was not an option.

The next headland offered only more of the same and by now I had determined that apart from turning around, Waikawau Bay would be at my limits, whilst all the time keeping an eye out for anything that might allow an opportunistic landing and campsite. I chose again not to turn around but clenched my teeth and with a few choice words thrown aloud into the insistent wind, soldiered on. Those words of course slapped me in the face as quickly as they’d been expelled. I faced a 7km stretch on this occasion before I would arrive at a headland that on rounding, would offer me an 8km beeline opportunity to make for Waikawau Bay. I still had to overcome the immediate stretch however and I was still not convinced that this would be achievable.

I did make it and when Waikawau Bay came into sight the winds did at least drop and a new bearing meant that they were now more across my port bow rather than directly into my face. The seas however remained disturbed from the earlier blows and a distinct swell was now coming at me in place of the reduced wind velocity. I dared not imagine what this swell might be doing to the beach. The bay offered two sandy beaches. The first, long and open, appeared deserted of any habitats apart from two small farmhouses, and it was facing the weather too. The second, smaller beach had a facing that offered some reprieve and the homes I could see were dotted around it.

So you will understand that when I removed myself from the kayak at 5:00pm, I was cold and that I was tired, and that the dumping rain and pending darkness were not welcome. A quick reconnaissance confirmed that no one was about. There was however a clearly marked sign that indicated that camping on the beach was not allowed. I had no choice. I decided that if someone approached me I would plead for shelter, or failing that I would inform them that I was not camping, I was sheltering, surviving even. Surely a rule (law?) exists, such as when a sailor is in distress and those in the vicinity are obliged to come to their aid, that meant I could not be turned away?

I decided on a location that on a dry, sunny day would have been picturesque, nestled as it was amongst the low lying boughs of an indigenous pohutukawa tree. Today the runoff was manufacturing numerous canals through it right before my eyes. This was as far from the water’s edge that I could get and the high tide mark appeared some 10 metres below this site. With the water somewhere between low and high, I had 30 metres to carry my 30 odd pieces belongings. I was aware that the tide was coming in and that it would peak at about 8:45pm but for now I had to extract and then carry my bags with clothing, food, sleeping bag, & communications equipment, as well as paddles, helmet, pump, water bladders, PFD, sleeping bag, mattress, tent, etc … and of course my kayak, up the beach. I cannot remember how many trips this numbered. I can recall that I was tired, wet, and cold, and that I ran to try to keep warm. It was also a vain attempt to limit how wet everything got. The rain’s intensity only increased.

And the sand… I had to place everything in it. The wet sand. I then had to pitch my tent on it. The rain was pelting down and whilst it was pitched in a short time, I had to then place most of my belongings inside it for fear that someone might appear (from where I don’t know), and steal my belongings whilst I huddled inside. Everything was wet and covered in sand. The kayak and paddles had to remain outside of course. My state of mind at that stage was such that I believe I was hopeful that they would disappear so that I might bring to a halt this extreme foolishness that I was partaking in.

When I finally climbed inside (bringing in more water), I had to sit on my behind whilst at the same time elevating and leaving my feet outside so that I might remove as much sand from them as possible. It was the sort of sand that sticks, and annoyingly it was stubbornly lodged between each toe in large volumes. I could no climb into a sleeping bag without first doing this. All the while more water was entering the tent.

Once my feet were relatively free of sand I allowed them to enter with the rest of me allowing me to shut the tent flap and begin removing my soaking rash vest and shorts. These I threw in a corner. It’s a small tent so this took up a lot of space. I then located a cloth and began wiping down each piece of baggage and equipment that was sharing the small confines and did my best to get them relatively dry and free of sand. I say relatively dry because nothing short of an industrial blower would have got rid of the damp. After about an hour I had done a reasonable job and was able to inflate the mini-mattress and roll out the sleeping bag.

It was about now that I realised that even though it had been about 3 decades since I last spent a rainy night in a tent, they had still not made the them waterproof! The phenomenon where anything that touches the walls of the structure somehow pulls water from the outside to the inside was taking place! Surely this is something that could be fixed by tent manufacturers around the world? Regardless, my belongings were once again wet (as opposed to moist), and puddles were forming around the base of each piece. I took solace from the fact that it was just water, and not water and sand.

By now it was after 7:00pm and with the small stove not being of any use*, I opened a cold tin of tuna. It tasted magnificent! I also ate some nuts and dried fruit and feeling much better all of a sudden began to contemplate a peaceful and much deserved sleep when a sudden and particularly violent squall smashed into the tent. When it abated I took the opportunity to sneak one last glance outside. This was to make sure my kayak had not floated away in one of the flowing channels that were now burrowing their way under the foundations of my tent, and to confirm that nobody had ventured outdoors to tell me to be on my way.

*In truth I believe my stove has been designed with Himalayan mountaineers in mind, however I’m unsure if they would use them outside of their tents or inside. As mine gives off thick black smoke in firing up and shutting down, I was not prepared to light it inside, and I was certainly not at that time going to step outside again for the sake of a warmed tin of baked beans!

It was then that I noticed the incoming tide and recalled the German tourist‘s comments when departing my previous port during a conversation on how best to take advantage of the tidal currents, “It will be a full moon tonight.” That of course suggested bigger tides than normal and this meant that my assessment of the high water mark was now shaky indeed, and certainly waves were now breaking on the edge of a level plateau of sand that led directly to my tent. The resultant wash was pushing to within 10 metres of my current position and by my estimation it would be another 2 hours before it peaked. I recycled some of those words the wind had thrown back at me some hours earlier. This was quite definitely the worst thing that I could have asked for!

I could not go to sleep and instead began rolling up my sleeping bag, releasing the air from my mattress, and placed everything in a position that would allow quick and immediate access should I be required to make a hasty withdrawal. I even considered leaving everything inside and simply grabbing the tent from one end and literally dragging it up the embankment into someone’s front yard. The flimsy nature of the tent’s fabric - we’d already proven it could not hold back the rain - ruled this out as an option.

So for the next two hours I had to shake myself to remain awake. I opened the flap of the tent on a regular basis of 10 minute intervals to view the steadily encroaching tide having given up any notion of keeping out the rain that poured in on each occasion. The telltale seaweed from the previous tide that I had utilised to gauge the high water mark, was now being pushed incessantly towards me by the resultant wash of each and every new wave. I would under normal circumstances have simply upped and moved immediately, but these were as you will understand, anything but normal circumstances. I felt sick to the core with anxiety.

With the sea less than a metre from a point in the sand that I had marked as the ‘Grab Everything And Run Like Hell’ point, I looked at my watch and with it showing 8:45pm, decided that the inextricable march had in fact abated. I unpacked my damp sleeping bag and fell asleep immediately. It was blissful despite the din of the wind and rain, or during the desperately brief interludes, the sound of gurgling rivers of water that I could distinctly hear as they made their way both around and even under my tent.

I am unsure whether it was my anxiety that woke me the following morning, or whether it was the sound of the breaking waves once more marching nearer. It may have been both. Certainly I was still drained at 6:30am and I longed to return to my dreamy sleep. It was a place far removed from the reality of the nightmare I was encountering in the woken state.

This likelihood had certainly crossed my mind the previous evening, and it was now upon me. Furthermore, the storm activity with its large seas and the resultant surge, ensured that a new mark was quite possible and that I must once more maintain a vigil. So I again marked a spot in the sand and for the next 2 ½ hours I continued to watch as the tide again threatened. Again I felt sick with the thought of having to pack and relocate. The wind was still gusting and the rain still unrelenting. The horrible sand of course, remained all about. When at last I felt that same sense of relief me as the tide peaked, I was too tired to feel any joy. I simply fell back to sleep and did not wake until sometime after 10:30am.

The weather at this time had taken a break from its fury so I ventured outside and met the first two people I had seen in over a day. A couple of lads who were obviously enjoying a weekend on the sherbets in between some fishing, weather permitting. They were amazed that I had spent the night on the beach and simply shook their heads in disbelief when crouching they saw my tent nestled up against the bank amongst the branches. “I’ve seen waves crash against that bank behind you.” one stated with his heavy Kiwi accent.

Not wanting to risk another high tide and anxious to move to a new location I asked about a campsite and they advised that there was one indeed at the larger beach just to the north but that it was back behind the dunes. This explained why I had only seen a desolate and barren beach on my way past the previous afternoon. By following the road over the hill I would find it I was informed.

I jogged through the lifeless town, over the hill, and down the other side where I saw the Waikawau Department of Conservation campsite manager’s lodgings and office. I presented myself whilst relaying some of the horrors of my previous night and in the same breath asked the woman, Mel, if she knew of anyone with a truck or van who could help me move... so as not to upset the locals by camping on the clearly marked No Camping beach.

Mel went out back and returned with Travis. Travis would help me. I offered to return on my own so that I could ‘prepare’ everything for a quick exit however he insisted on driving me back over the hill just as soon as he hitched the trailer. In a short while the 4WD and trailer were outside waiting for me. I had in the meantime questioned Mel about last night’s weather. I was very concerned that what I’d experienced was not an uncommon occurrence in New Zealand, and that my adventure was indeed as foolhardy as many had suggested. Such events had no figured in my dreams of triumph. These had mostly taken place amongst images of warm days and blue skies whilst dolphins playfully arced across the bow of my kayak. I was assured that the night had been extraordinary and that they had almost been flooded. I learnt that Mel was married to Travis, and they had two young children in the house.

Relieved to have learnt that the night had been no ordinary one, I jumped in the car and I learnt on the way that Travis surfed (I liked that), and that he had even played (or trialled), with the Penrith Panthers Rugby League team in Sydney suggesting a rugby background. Again I was impressed. … and now he had left the warmth of his house and a game of Air Guitar with one of his sons to come out in the gloom and help me move all my gear and kayak from the other side of town.

I jumped out of the car upon arrival and ran ahead along the beach to begin grabbing all my belongings. Travis followed and took them from me so that I might gather more. Whilst doing so, the rain again began to fall heavily. It was just not with the violence of last night. When I made it to the trailer Travis was heading back to my tent site. He had changed into wet weather gear that would not have been out of place on a North Sea fisherman from the series The Deadliest Catch. I felt responsible of course, as I was, for this injustice, and ran as fast as I could so as to reduce the guilt I was feeling. I even wrapped up the tent and the remainder of its contents into one big, wet, and very sandy, sorry mess of a crumpled bundle and simply ran it back to the trailer and just threw it inside the boot. Together we carted the kayak up to the trailer and it was expertly strapped in by this amazingly well graced man, whilst all the while the rain continued unabated.

Travis drove me through the large farm-style camping site beyond which lay the dunes and then beach. Whilst crossing two bridges spanning different creeks he explained that he liked to go to Samoa with his mates on surfing holidays. I bored him with my own account of yesterday’s struggle on the seas. We arrived at a high knoll which he explained should remain dry, and upon which stood a solid besser block (a type of brick) public toilet block. The place was of course barren of ay campers and I immediately decided that the walls of this structure would offer me the best possible protection for my tent. He agreed and pointed out that camping under any trees in this weather might be hazardous. Whilst walking around the block I peeked inside and saw a spacious dry expanse along with 3 cubicles, a trough, and wash basin. It was the Gents half. It was clean and nothing like the public amenities one might expect to find in a major city. When I looked at the crumpled wet mess that was my tent I made an immediate and easy decision. With nobody about, why could I not make the inside of the toilet block my abode?!!!! Travis agreed.

We placed the kayak up alongside the main wall and I put all my other belongings inside the Gents. It was dry, sand free, I could stand upright and move about freely. It was quite simply the most beautiful thing in the world to me at that moment. Travis left me expressing my sincerest gratitude although I know that nothing I could have said would have truly conveyed my thanks.

For the rest of the day I happily arranged and rearranged all my belongings. Firstly I walked everything outside and washed and rinsed them of all their sand in a large puddle located near the entrance, or alternatively held them beneath the streams of water running from the roof. Clothes, towels, kayak skirts, and even my tent, all now clean of that horrid beach, were hung out to dry on every available beam, door, wall, hook and nail that I could find. They sufficed, and the stiff breeze making its way around the entry overcame even the damp air. I watched the moisture lift from my tent as the rain continued to fall. I had a smile on my face that could not be removed. The thought of still being on that beach increased the smile to a idiotic grin.

The tent dried quickly.

I set up my stove on the ‘bench’ that framed the men’s urinal. Please understand that it was clean. The campground had not been used for most of the winter. Their were no dank smells, no graffiti, and whilst dry, the flow of wind up and under the eaves determined that the place was as fresh as any recently aired home could be. I placed my toiletries by the wash basin, whilst one cubicle became a reading room (nothing new in this concept!), and another, the focus of my drying efforts as certain other articles were able to be repacked and folded away as they themselves became dry. The tent interestingly, dried faster than anything else even though I had literally dunked it in the deep puddle. It was extremely satisfying to pack it away, dry and clean, back in its bag. The third and final cubicle saw my now dry air-mattress laid with one end up against the porcelain and the other protruding beneath the gap beneath the door that exists in public amenities of this sort.

My bedroom it would become!

I cooked wonderful meal of tuna and mash and followed it up with a dessert of freeze-dried Neapolitan ice-cream. Interestingly it is consumed as is i.e. water is not added. I was certainly happy and content once more and the dreadfulness of my previous night and morning were now firmly behind me.

No Miele appliances here but it worked a treat!

And behind your ears too, Gonzo!

I left my lantern on for a while and made some notes before settling warm and dry into my sleeping bag. I was soon asleep dreaming of blue skies and dolphins playfully skirting my kayak on the smoothest of waters. All the while the winds and rain battered vainly against my castle. Courtesy of Travis and Mel I had been upgraded from Hell to the Waikawau Bay Palace.
I slept restfully until their was a hammering on the Palace’s roof at about 1:00am. The rain had intensified once more and it was frighteningly cold. I had a sleeping bag officially designed for temperatures as low -5° C, and I was inside a sleeping bag liner, whilst wearing my thermal long johns and I could still feel an iciness penetrating all these layers. This was no ordinary downpour.
Remembering Mel’s comments earlier in the day on how close they came to being flooded I knew that I must help if help was needed. I had my triple layered Shark Skins nearby waiting to be tested. I had purchased the long legged pants and long sleeved top for the coldest parts of my journey. The three layers consist of a a polar fleece lining, a neoprene middle, and a wind and UV proof exterior. Over these I put my waterproof pants and on top a dry suit with firm rubber seals around the neck, waste and wrists. This gear was designed for just such conditions and I now had an opportunity to repay some of my appreciation to this selfless man and his family.
Impervious to the conditions I located and strapped my top of the line headlamp to my forehead and ventured outside. The light of my beam showed the heaving drops of rain that I could feel hitting my face. With my limited sailing experience and witnessing over the years of Sydney’s heat-relieving and sometimes boisterous southerly winds, I estimated gusts of wind at 50-60 knots as I made my down the hillock upon which I was located. As I neared the flat it became apparent that there was a lot of water flowing. I came to the first bridge which I would have to cross to get to their home. It was nearly knee high under water and flowing strongly. I was able to negotiate this successfully but the expanse of water between this bridge and the next was deeper still and I had no idea what lay beneath my feet. Wherever my light fell there was water heaving towards the coast. It was over 50m to the next bridge and there was simply no way across. I had no choice but to turn around and return to my shelter hoping that all would be well. Was this any worse than the previous night asked myself. Probably not, I answered.

The next morning I awoke to find patches of blue sky and the conditions of the previous two nights looked to have moved on. I made my way towards the home of Travis noting the vegetation laying across the bridges and amongst the railings. The creek over which the bridge spanned whilst still running strongly was nearly 2 metres below my feet. I noted the long flattened blades of grass lining the creek’s banks. The paddock that lay between the two bridges was strewn with gravel and silt, whilst seagulls waded in the now shallow water that still lay there.

When I arrived at the home I noted water marks 1½ metres high on the back fence. A vehicle showed debris lying on the top of its bonnet. A dinghy and its trailer were pushed sideways with only a tree having stopped it plunging into the water course. Worryingly I noted that the water had reached as high as ½ metre on the front sliding glass doors. These were the same doors that so kindly allowed me entry on the previous day when I was seeking help and refuge.

Three kayaks that would normally be hired out during the busy Xmas holiday period, were lodged at various angles downstream in the creek that passed by the site. One was pressed hard up against a self-made dam of chopped firewood that I’d noticed stacked neatly by a shed only yesterday. I would return later to retrieve these as a token gesture.

Large ceramic pots lay broken and I could see where what was presumably a vegetable garden before the torrent had gouged it away. Foam boxes used for seedlings rested upside down, now empty of their contents.

The hopelessness of the task was reinforced by the children’s toys that were strewn across the backyard. They now lay half buried in silt. They had presumably been stored in a large bucket that lay nearby itself half full of the same silt. This silt had overrun the backyard where the toys would have once been used in the same children’s games.

I learnt later that the family had gone to sleep at about midnight, believing that the worst was over. At 3:00am they had to evacuate to a friends place whilst the water was so high and the torrent so strong that the wheels of the 4WD in which they clambered barely mad contact with the ground and itself, nearly floated away as they made good their escape. Meanwhile I lay dry and secure thanks to their kindness and hospitality.

The campground at Xmas time is the busiest period of the year. Much of it is now washed away. I can only hope that Travis and his family receive from the concerned parties i.e. the Department of Conservation, the insurance company/ies, the local government responsible for the water catchment etc., the same kindness and hospitality that they selflessly extended to me.