Day 113, Mar 20 2010
Some days are there to test you or at least that is what I tell myself when things get tough and I want to cry. At least that’s what I tell myself and it seems to help.
I’d slept exceptionally well by my standards, meaning that I’d woken on less than half-a-dozen occasions and that I’d slept past 5:00am.
It had rained overnight and I lay in bed a while, believing that if I was successful in escaping the clutches of the river mouth, I had only a distance of 30km or four hours ahead of me. I was wrong.
I took a look at the river mouth that had prohibited my departure on the previous day and assessed from afar that I was more likely to get away on this occasion. It was a grey morning but there was no wind and I had high hopes for reaching Kawhia (see blog entry re the Maori haka), which was my target for the day.
Feeling no urgency, I went so far as to indulge in some hot chips before commencing. I don’t usually eat anything before setting off but after enjoying a bucket a few day’s earlier, I thought that a good feed might help sustain me.
Some days are there to test you or at least that is what I tell myself when things get tough and I want to cry. At least that’s what I tell myself and it seems to help.
I’d slept exceptionally well by my standards, meaning that I’d woken on less than half-a-dozen occasions and that I’d slept past 5:00am.
It had rained overnight and I lay in bed a while, believing that if I was successful in escaping the clutches of the river mouth, I had only a distance of 30km or four hours ahead of me. I was wrong.
I took a look at the river mouth that had prohibited my departure on the previous day and assessed from afar that I was more likely to get away on this occasion. It was a grey morning but there was no wind and I had high hopes for reaching Kawhia (see blog entry re the Maori haka), which was my target for the day.
Feeling no urgency, I went so far as to indulge in some hot chips before commencing. I don’t usually eat anything before setting off but after enjoying a bucket a few day’s earlier, I thought that a good feed might help sustain me.
Ready to go.
I climbed into the kayak shortly after 10:30am and began making my way out the river. I watched a woman run along the exposed sand beside me with a child of about twelve whilst another woman lagging behind shouted with some urgency at another boy of a slightly older age who was lagging somewhat to hurry up. I was slightly embarrassed to do so, but had to ask the question, “You’re not running because of me, are you?” It turned out that they were.
Like spectators at the car races it‘s the crashes that they crave, and I had no doubt they didn’t want to miss the chance of carnage that would be offered by my attempting to tackle the potentially treacherous bar. Not wishing to disappoint I advised that there was no need to get out of breath on my account because I’d be stopping before making my attempt to enable me to assess the situation.
I did stop, greeting the fishermen who I’d spent nearly an hour with on the previous morning. It looked far calmer and certainly more orderly. Some larger set waves provided me with cause for concern but on the whole it was achievable I surmised. The best route was straight ahead, directly in line with the river’s outflow.
My eager followers began arriving breathlessly and I thanked them for their support. They missed the sarcastic note so I took a more direct approach and asked of the two boys which one was there to perform the rescue. The elder (they were brothers), simply pointed towards his younger brother. A bloody fourteen year old comic.
I wasted little time pushing away from the bank and making directly for the river’s heart eager to gain as much assistance as possible from its flow. A lull appeared between sets and I dug in, but on this occasion held back having noted that the larger waves were breaking further out. I wanted something in reserve.
As it was I reached safety with little incident, though I’ve no doubt it was much to the disappointment of the onlookers. Waves did threaten on two or three occasions however I was able to crest these just in time. Hopefully the sight of the bow pointing up to the sky before crashing down on the other side avoided the need for any refunds. Certainly the almighty shudder with which the bow slams down always gives me cause for concern and I’m continually monitoring the hull for signs of stress when back on terra firma.
There was next to no wind but for a hint from the west and the cloud cover offered me protection from the sun. A short dash, or so I thought, with the Saturday paper beckoning despite it having just ticked 11:00am. Though distant, I could clearly see the headland that very nearly marked my goal… or so I thought.
Like spectators at the car races it‘s the crashes that they crave, and I had no doubt they didn’t want to miss the chance of carnage that would be offered by my attempting to tackle the potentially treacherous bar. Not wishing to disappoint I advised that there was no need to get out of breath on my account because I’d be stopping before making my attempt to enable me to assess the situation.
I did stop, greeting the fishermen who I’d spent nearly an hour with on the previous morning. It looked far calmer and certainly more orderly. Some larger set waves provided me with cause for concern but on the whole it was achievable I surmised. The best route was straight ahead, directly in line with the river’s outflow.
My eager followers began arriving breathlessly and I thanked them for their support. They missed the sarcastic note so I took a more direct approach and asked of the two boys which one was there to perform the rescue. The elder (they were brothers), simply pointed towards his younger brother. A bloody fourteen year old comic.
I wasted little time pushing away from the bank and making directly for the river’s heart eager to gain as much assistance as possible from its flow. A lull appeared between sets and I dug in, but on this occasion held back having noted that the larger waves were breaking further out. I wanted something in reserve.
As it was I reached safety with little incident, though I’ve no doubt it was much to the disappointment of the onlookers. Waves did threaten on two or three occasions however I was able to crest these just in time. Hopefully the sight of the bow pointing up to the sky before crashing down on the other side avoided the need for any refunds. Certainly the almighty shudder with which the bow slams down always gives me cause for concern and I’m continually monitoring the hull for signs of stress when back on terra firma.
There was next to no wind but for a hint from the west and the cloud cover offered me protection from the sun. A short dash, or so I thought, with the Saturday paper beckoning despite it having just ticked 11:00am. Though distant, I could clearly see the headland that very nearly marked my goal… or so I thought.
The headland, very faint, but just able to be seen.
The coastline was interesting enough, although my focus was on that headland. It did not at first appear to draw any nearer but this was normal when viewing something so distant. After the first two hours however this begun to change and another hour later I was at Albatross Point.
Albatross Point.
Rounding it I was offered excellent protection and smooth seas and I took advantage of this to review the GPS, mop out the cockpit, take on some food and fluids, and shift the butt which had been complaining again. In fact it was an annoying and gnawing discomfort that was detracting considerably from the enjoyment I should have been feeling, however misguided. It was something I was going to have to address, but that would be later.
My GPS had informed me that I had a further 11km to go. It was now 2:00pm and I surmised that the paper was less than two hours away. The westerly had even cooperated and had freshened slightly and would now be directly behind me as I headed towards the break in the coast that clearly marked the entrance to Kawhia Harbour and presumably therefore, the campground that was “Kawhia’s only waterfront accommodation”.
I could afford now to pick up my rating and did so. Nearing the wide entrance I noted the cascading water that marked a strong outflow but was able to skirt this by staying to the side and digging deeper I soon found myself within what can only be described as an inland sea. It carried on for ten kilometres inland and was well over five kilometres wide in spots. Despite the wide expanse, Kawhia was nowhere to be seen?
An inland sea.
I paddled on a short distance, away from the currents. Whilst I had an idea, I need to pause and get my bearings. The GPS confirmed that I must cross the harbour and then paddle up the harbour before round a low lying point that was visible, but probably another four kilometres distant. It was now after 3:30pm.
The current was clearly a strong one. I refrained from crossing immediately and paddled on to a point that would allow we to cross at a later stage and attack the point on a diagonal to the flow. This strategy still demanded a good deal of exertion but was I surmised it to be a better one than paddling directly across the harbour with the current across my beam and then paddling directly into it. I reached my goal forty-five minutes later, but with little now left in the tank.
The reward of seeing the homes and boats of Kawhia a short distance inside the point lifted me and I pushed on. I noted that the water was appreciably shallower, but it was a passing impression and I paid it little heed.
A few moments later I pulled up near a boat ramp asking for guidance. I was offered mostly blanks looks before someone suggested “a couple of hundred metres just around the corner“. A little further on I asked some more people and whilst not confident that suggested “just past the jetty a little further on“.
At the jetty I asked the same question again, and after a pause and some clarification from myself I was told by a man on his boat that it was “just around the next point’. I had been working against a current the entire time and laughed aloud on hearing this. I did not think his answer was in the least bit funny but thanked him nevertheless and wished him a good day.
I reached the point and rounding it was devastated to be greeted by a huge stretch of tidal mud flats but no sign of a campground. I was being broken down bit-by-bit. I wondered if I should turn around. There was no going forward. I chose to get out and walk across the mud. There was a house a couple of hundred metres away , across the mud, and through some reeds. Maybe the campground was just past it?
I located it. It was a further three hundred metres along the road. Bronwyn greeted me and was only kind and hospitable. I was tired and broken. I asked if there was another campground back where I’d come from. “Yes, but not on the water.” was the reply. I probably made some comment about mud between sobs. My kayak was half a kilometre away and half that distance involved mud.
The current was clearly a strong one. I refrained from crossing immediately and paddled on to a point that would allow we to cross at a later stage and attack the point on a diagonal to the flow. This strategy still demanded a good deal of exertion but was I surmised it to be a better one than paddling directly across the harbour with the current across my beam and then paddling directly into it. I reached my goal forty-five minutes later, but with little now left in the tank.
The reward of seeing the homes and boats of Kawhia a short distance inside the point lifted me and I pushed on. I noted that the water was appreciably shallower, but it was a passing impression and I paid it little heed.
A few moments later I pulled up near a boat ramp asking for guidance. I was offered mostly blanks looks before someone suggested “a couple of hundred metres just around the corner“. A little further on I asked some more people and whilst not confident that suggested “just past the jetty a little further on“.
At the jetty I asked the same question again, and after a pause and some clarification from myself I was told by a man on his boat that it was “just around the next point’. I had been working against a current the entire time and laughed aloud on hearing this. I did not think his answer was in the least bit funny but thanked him nevertheless and wished him a good day.
I reached the point and rounding it was devastated to be greeted by a huge stretch of tidal mud flats but no sign of a campground. I was being broken down bit-by-bit. I wondered if I should turn around. There was no going forward. I chose to get out and walk across the mud. There was a house a couple of hundred metres away , across the mud, and through some reeds. Maybe the campground was just past it?
I located it. It was a further three hundred metres along the road. Bronwyn greeted me and was only kind and hospitable. I was tired and broken. I asked if there was another campground back where I’d come from. “Yes, but not on the water.” was the reply. I probably made some comment about mud between sobs. My kayak was half a kilometre away and half that distance involved mud.
If you look carefully you may be able to just make out the kayak.
... and if not.
The mud. Each step was a nightmare despite the neoprene booties I wore. The initial sensation though only fleeting was extremely disconcerting and might be compared with stepping onto a slimy boat ramp. This was then overtaken by the true nature of the mire. The initial lack of uncertainty was overridden as the foot began to sink, as if being swallowed, creating its own perfect mould, with the resultant vacuum effect meaning that it only reluctantly released it grip as I attempted the next step, all the while threatening to suck my boots from the very soles they were protecting. I had not yet tried it whilst juggling half a dozen bags in my hands, let alone with a six metre kayak across my shoulders.
Bronwyn patiently put up with my mutterings and offered me a trolley which it must be said, saved me an enormous amount of work. Whilst it was not able to cross the sludge it did avoid the need for multiple trips along the roadway.
Bronwyn patiently put up with my mutterings and offered me a trolley which it must be said, saved me an enormous amount of work. Whilst it was not able to cross the sludge it did avoid the need for multiple trips along the roadway.
The trolley, loaded.
It hurts to think about it, but I eventually emptied the kayak of its load and with the trolley laden, wheeled it to the campsite. I then returned for the kayak but with the time now nearing 6:00pm, it was too late for the newspaper. There was barely enough light left to pitch my tent.
I was being tested I told myself. Quite for what, I have no idea.
The trolley still to be unloaded. No time for the newspaper.
41km had been completed.
