Day 79, Feb 14 2010
I was not in the best of moods. Too much sitting around. I’d wasted my time waiting for an opportunity to cross the Strait although admittedly this was always going to be a possible outcome. I’d also spent way too much time enjoying the wonderful Kiwi hospitality but this was having the effect of making me lazy.
It had been seventy-eight days since my departure and yet I’d only paddled on thirty-three of them. Gisborne shows itself as the point at which the momentum began to slow. Before arriving in Gisborne I’d been away for forty-five days but had paddled on twenty-five days or on more than half. Post Gisborne I’d paddled on only thirteen days out of forty-three!
Whilst some of the downtime was unavoidable e.g. waiting for equipment in Napier, I had also experienced a lack of motivation. Some I believe was a result of still having the South Island ahead of me and the uncertainty that came with whether I should tackle it and part also due to the wonderful people and places I was encountering.
I remember well my shock when noticing the significant drop in the temperature of the water and a definite iciness to the winds as I approached Cape Palliser and it probably compounded my doubts about the South Island that had germinated earlier in the trip.
So despite having announced my decision to drop the idea of the South Island, my drive had stalled and I still harboured some of those doubts as I launched from the beach at Petone that was conveniently located across the road from my home for the past nine days.
With Norm the proprietor of the Lodge doing everything to help and assist me off - he discovered one of my large marine maps under the bed whilst conducting a last minute check of the room for me - I climbed into the cockpit at 9:05am feeling like I was taking on a new challenge whilst not having completed the first.
A fresh northerly blowing down the valleys and pushing out the harbour provided assistance but seemed to be at odds with the forecast which was for southerlies. I was banking on the southerlies to carry me north to Makara Beach, about 45 kms away by water although only 14km to my west as the crow flies.
For the first forty-five minutes my biceps complained about the strain having forgotten what was demanded of them but with recall soon quietened. The breeze and chop pushed me at a good pace as Wellington city passed by on my right and the inter-island ferries on my left or port side. My pace at 7.9km/h was good despite the layoff and two hours later I was turning westwards as I exited the harbour.
My route took me directly across a well defined bay that led to one of Wellington airport’s main runways and with the winds as they were, I watched plane after plane descend over me on their landing approach. I immediately began to worry that I was somewhere that I shouldn’t be.
There were no other boats in the bay that I was now crossing and despite not having noted any signage I began to imagine that I might be the cause of a serious incident. Meanwhile the winds blowing out of the bay - the same winds into which the planes were flying for their landings - were getting seriously blustery and were threatening to unbalance me as they struck me side-on. I was now worried on two fronts.
Trying to concentrate on maintaining my balance I began imaging that I’d not seen a plane for a couple of minutes. Had I shut down the airport? There was nothing to do but soldier on. A capsize directly under the flight path of the country’s capital city airport whilst being somewhere I shouldn’t would deliver a crushing blow to my pride as I imagined the front pages of tomorrow’s papers.
Relieved to have avoided the humiliation of a capsize and safe from the worst of the winds I began to focus on the far side, watching the cars pulling up on the headland. A silver sedan caught my attention. Were they watching me? An ‘official’ vehicle have surely have flashing lights? A missing hubcap confirmed in my mind that it was not there for me. For the second time in a matter of minutes I felt a sense of relief wash over me.
I passed Houghton Bay and could hear the music of a jazz band carrying on the wind. With the sun brightening the outlook for the first time in days I noted a sandy beach, awnings and umbrellas. A part of me longed to head in, using the excuse of the winds for a hasty cessation to the day’s paddle.
Fighting the urge I pressed on but in doing so became increasingly concerned about the wind that was not easing as one would if it were to give way to a southerly. It was doing quite the opposite and as I rounded Sinclair Head, taking on a direction that was more northerly than easterly, I was blasted by a gust that lifted water from the ocean and turned it into a stinging spray.
For the ferries this was calm sailing, I'm sure.
My headway was only minimal and that was between gusts. When it did gust I could only make sure I remained pointing directly into it or risk capsize. The blades of my paddles too posed a huge threat as the wind did it’s best to find a way to catch me unawares. It did not take me long to realise that I could not, as opposed to would not, push on. I turned towards the rocky shore which was thankfully only 20-30 metres away. I literally had to lean into the gusts that were blasting my beam whilst keeping the blades down low and my grip firm.
I pulled the kayak up onto the rocky shore whilst I surveyed the water. The wind was still strengthening! It was only five minutes past midday and I’d only covered half the distance to Makara Beach. I knew however that the wind with its present direction would only get stronger, if that were possible, further along the coast.
On the rocky shore.
A mountain-biker stopped to talk and helped me lift the kayak higher above the water line. I had spied a ravine above me that proved to offer some protection from the blustery conditions so with plenty of time on my hands I began to unload and cart my belongings up the hill.
My kayak high and dry in the ravine looking across Cook Strait.
The sun was out and perhaps surprisingly, my mood was buoyant. The ‘excitement’ provided by the morning’s paddle had left me feeling invigorated and now with the sun out, and the rugged and remote location that I now found myself in, my taste for the adventure had been reignited.
Furthermore I had a secret weapon against winds like this. My time in Wellington had been put to good use in that I’d purchased something that was made of the same materials as a tent but in its shape was more like a large sleeping bag. I could lie it on the ground, place my small blow-up mattress inside it along with my sleeping bag and it would not blow away like my other tent.
I'm calling it the 'cocoon'.
I carried the now empty kayak up the gully and rested it at my chosen site. Unlike the desolate surrounds the protected gully had an abundance of lush plant life obviously nourished by the water that sometimes flowed. I even noted four or five different flowers that added splashes of colour to my refuge.
For the rest of the afternoon I watched with amazement as the wind shredded the water’s surface. I observed in the distance the telltale signs of one of the Strait’s infamous rips and through the haze and more distant still, the peaks of the South Island standing tall above the horizon.
The wind was shredding the water's surface. I have not altered the image in any way!
Note the forecast for Sunday: "Winds Mainly.... "
It was too windy to cook anything and I was surprisingly sleepy so I curled up in my ‘cocoon’ and read for a while before falling asleep early. It was not an entirely restful sleep. Strong gusts winding down the ravine and even there in my sanctuary the noise of the slapping nylon was amplified to a thunderous level. Although the winds eased as the night grew longer the uneven ground ensured that my sleep remained fitful.
In spite of this I remember waking on one occasion at about 3:00am with the winds spent and watching one of the huge ferries with its white lights ablaze as it crossed the otherwise black waters. I could hear distinctly the thrumming of its engines as it passed by. It would have been entirely oblivious of the pair of eyes that watched from the ravine. I felt safe and secure and knew that my adventure was well and truly back on track.
