Day 81, Feb 16 2010
I woke with my lower back experiencing spasms and it took a bit of stretching before I could move comfortably. Apart from this and the small matter of having to negotiate some sticky mud on my doorstep that had been exposed on the low tide I was away with a minimum of fuss. The river still offered me access to the sea albeit a narrow and shallow one.
Even at low tide I still had access to the sea.
It was another grey day but the wind that had sprung up late yesterday afternoon had disappeared. I was going to aim for Paekakariki about 25km away or Paraparaumu 45km if things were going well. The conditions were promising for the latter with a slight south-east breeze being forecast.
I was feeling strong and had covered 15km in the first two hours. For the next hour with Mana Island on my left and the Porirua Harbour on my right I thought I noticed a current running against me. This caused me to dig deeper. I think that Cook Strait’s reputation for rips and currents was playing on my mind, but in spite of (or because of), I was making good time.
I paddled across the harbour’s entrance sighting Plimmerton within its bounds. On the other side I was once again close to the coast enjoying the proximity of the shores but this did not last for long. I was soon moving away from it as I pointed in the direction of a jutting landmark that would take me a few kilometres from shore for a distance of nearly 20km.
The conditions remained gentle and I was getting into an excellent rhythm. I’d soon covered the 20km and noted with some satisfaction that I’d already reached Paraparaumu and that it was only just after 2:00pm. Gentle waves lapped the shallow shore as I paddled onto the beach realising that the town was a bustling one. I decided to buy a hamburger and ask about a place to camp.
I went off in search of a hamburger and advice.
The burger from Maclean Street Fish Supply was superb. The second best I’d had in fact and I rated it 9/10. It had the extras like carrot, and the essential but sometimes omitted beetroot, on a lightly toasted bun giving it just the right amount of crunch. The advice I received about the campground suggested another mile further up the beach and then back behind a row or two of houses.
I was in the water an hour later and estimated the necessary distance but found no joy when I ran up the beach and across the road. I asked some strollers who initially said there wasn’t before suggesting a further hundred metres up the beach.
Growing frustrated I launched again before once more beaching. After a gentleman I was pointed up another path. I jogged up the beach, about 80 metres with the tide so far out, and then across the road before sighting a sign pointing me even further away from the beach. It was simply too far away for me to get all my gear and kayak to. I decided then to paddle on. Better that I find a remote dune to pitch the tent than struggle in the built up area.
I had at least three more hours of daylight, and loaded up on the hamburger as I was, felt happy about pushing on in the knowledge that a kilometre today was a kilometre less tomorrow. I felt as strong as I have felt on the whole journey and my rating was excellent. Knowing I’d already covered more than 40km actually spurred me on in the thought that I could put some serious mileage under my belt.
The coastline here was not particularly inspiring. A long grey sandy beach backed by grassed dunes which were in turn backed by pine forests broken only by creeks and rivers that were responsible for the brown silty water that I was paddling through. The waterways worked their way across the level flood plains that fed off the Tararua Ranges. This was very different to the steeply sided hills and cliffs that had preceded this part of the coast but in spite of the change, appeared dreary to me. Maybe it was the damp weather?
I am often asked what I think about when I’m out there for so many hours. My initial response is that if I think about what I’m thinking about, I’m not thinking about it… In truth probably the same things that I expect most people think about.
Such things as family including my parents who ring every night without fail, my more adventurous brother who thinks I’m a prissy with respect to my loathing of sand in the tent … and other things too I expect but is also probably impressed whilst enjoying reading of my toils, another brother who could do this trip in a fraction of the time it is taking me if he chose to, another brother and his family who have only just returned to Australia and who I am desperate to catch up with again, their beautiful wives and girlfriends, and my wonderful nephews (“Hi Cords and all!!!”)
I think of friends, the trip so far, the trip ahead, my share portfolio, sport, what I will do when I finish the trip. Ouch!
I think about my pace and how the body is feeling. At other times I have to remind myself to look at the coast and take it in.
I think of where I’m going and look forward to a meal and rest and the sense of satisfaction that follows a good effort.
When I begin to get tired I tend to focus on the watch, breaking down the hours whilst awaiting the rewarding drink and food that marks each successful completion of that hour.
I think about what I can write about.
In many respects a lot of the things, with the exception of the trip specific ones, are likely to be the same as most ordinary people except that in my case I possibly have more time to do so with less distractions.
…and all of a sudden I was approaching Otaki Beach. I had marked Otaki down as a target for the following day’s leg and here I was a twenty-four hours ahead of schedule!
I paddled towards a boat and asked the guys if they knew where the campground was. “Halfway along where all the houses are, 150 metres back from the beach.” I was advised.
I beached for the fourth time that day but again it proved fruitless. I found a woman to ask and was pointed further yet down the beach. “Two hundred metres before the surf club.”
A sense of déjà vu began to descend on me as the day grew late. I paddled on again and then came a glorious sight. I could see two surf skis in the water adjacent to the surf club. I had felt strong all day but found reserves that surprised me still. I was not going to let them escape.
I was extremely confident they would be from the surf club, and that in their club house I might be able to store the kayak meaning an unencumbered trip to the supposed campground no matter how remote from the water it proved to be.
Beached with the Otaki Surf Club in the background.
I was in luck because Paul, on one ski, was the club captain and his friendliness and obliging nature were a gift to me after the long haul. It was all “Of course!” and “Why don’t you stay here?” He and Nic, the girl on the other ski helped me carry the kayak and all my belonging up to the club house before pointing me in the direction of a hot shower and then a food store close by.
It was getting late.
I had the pleasure of meeting the club’s committee members including Neil, Peter, Anne-Marie, and Dom. It was fortunate for me they happened to have a meeting that evening as the word “life-savers” gained new meaning for me.
The Otaki Surf Club.
I’d covered 65km averaging 7km/h and it was ten hours since I’d left Makara Beach. A very satisfying result heightened by the generosity of the Otaki Surf Club and its members. The sunset that evening was extraordinary and most propably would have been even if it were not for the fiery sky.
Kapiti Island against a fiery sunset.
