The Gonz Goes

Reconnaissance

2010-04-07T11:20:00.001-07:00

Day 130, Apr 6 2010
My planned departure had hit a snag. When I had made the decision to paddle up the Manukau Harbour and follow an ancient Maori portage route to the east coast, the swell forecast had promised me a respite that would provide an opportunity to paddle out from Piha Beach. From there I had hoped to paddle around the headland and cliffs to Karekere Beach, and its stretch of sand that led all the way back to the harbour mouth. Today that swell forecast had changed and any new opportunity might be days away.

The surfers were having enough trouble. A kayak had no chance and I had no desire to 'star' in an episode of 'Piha Rescue'.

I made my way down to the beach to assess the conditions with my own eyes. My fears were confirmed as I noted a solid swell. The day had drawn a number of people down to the beach and the Piha Rescue television series’ cameramen were on hand to capture any incidents. Worryingly they suggested that it might be weeks before I might find the conditions I was searching for and as I had no desire to become a subject for an upcoming episode I had no choice but to seek an alternative.

"Surf Control, Surf Control, this is Piha Lifegaurd tower. Some idiot on a kayak just got washed in, upside down onto the beach taking out every swimmer in its path. It's a catastrophe!"

Studying my maps I calculated that the trip Karekere from Piha by road was almost exactly ten kilometres. If I was going to tackle a stretch of sand of a similar distance, then surely a paved road of a similar distance to get there was not out of the question even if it would require a pre-dawn start if I was to get to Manukau at the turn of the tide.
The incredulous looks and comments I received from the locals when suggesting my new plan provided me with some cause for concern but I’d received the same looks when they’d first learned of my exploits in getting this far. A reconnaissance was needed.
I began the walk and it quickly became apparent that the road was both very narrow and very steep. For an hour-and-a-half I climbed the winding path that I’d hoped would offer me my way out. With very few opportunities to pull off to one side, the thought of sharing so many blind bends with cars in the dark worried me.

Lion Rock from altitude.

The ascent too was nothing short of extreme. The seven kilometres I covered to the Karekere Beach turn-off was a real test. I was not surprised when I noted that the path I was attempting to follow included a section of something called the Hillary Trail. Hauling a six metre, sixty kilo loaded kayak was completely out of the question.

I kid you, not!

I made my way back down the hill, stopping and crossing sides regularly to allow cars to pass. I needed a new plan and it came in the shape of a true blue Aussie V8 ute. I approached Corrie, an ocean surveyor, who had already been extremely helpful in sharing his knowledge of New Zealand’s oceans, and I soon had my ride.

I needed a new plan.

Kayaking With 'Legs'

2010-04-05T23:02:00.000-07:00

Te Whau (Whau River)
Tomorrow, with the surf at Piha prohibting a beach departure, I will wheel my kayak, on a trolley purchased specifically for the task, along approximately 15km of beach to a point just inside Manukau Harbour. From here I launch the kayak at 10:20am being low tide, at which point the tide will begin to flow back in.
It is worthwhile noting that today I spoke with the Manukau Coastguard to discuss and confirm my plans. Whilst the claim that the waters here are the most dangerous in New Zealand might be up for debate, one undeniable fact is that the Manukau bar was responsible for the worst maritime disaster in New Zealand history when the British man-of-war HMS Orpheus* sank as she tried to enter Manukau Harbour on February 7, 1863. The tragedy cost the lives of 188 British sailors and marines out of a complement of 256.
* I have included a link with this entry for those interested in the history and reporting of the incident. Simply click on this entry's title to read the reporting of the incident in the press at the time.
I am looking forward to a quick but safe paddle to a spot called Green Bay where once again I will put the kayak on wheels. Here I will follow a route that in earlier times was utilised my the Maori for travel between the Manukau Harbour (on the Tasman west coast) and the Waitemata Harbour (on the Pacific east coast) . They paddled their canoes to Green Bay and then carried them over a short stretch of land before returning to the water and paddling down the Whau and the Avondale Streams. This is remembered in the name for Portage Road, which runs alongside the Avondale Stream and which I shall transport my own vessel to some arranged accommodation.
On Thursday I aim to re-enter water near Avondale Racecourse and then taking a course that will see me paddle beneath Auckland’s Harbour Bridge before skirting the CBD and from there it will be a short paddle back to Ferg’s Kayaks and the very spot I left over four months ago.

Like A Fairy Tern?

2010-04-05T18:22:00.000-07:00

I am determined to return by my own actions, to the point where my journey began ...

A Maori chant for hauling a war canoe across land to another waterway.

Leader: Ka tangi te kiwi. (The kiwi cries.)
All : Kiwi! (Kiwi!)
Leader: Ka tangi te moho. (The takahe cries.)
All: Moho! (Moho!)
Leader : Ka tangi te tieke. (The saddleback cries.)
All: Tieke! (Tieke!)
Leader: He poho anake... (Nothing but guts...)
All : To tikoko, tikoko. (...to propel you forward.)
Leader: Haere i te ara. (Keep to the path.)
All: Tikoko. (Drive forward!)
Leader: Ko te taurua te rangi. (Pairing up is heavenly.)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader: Ko te hao-tane. (It's the man-catcher.)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader: Homai me kawe. (Give and take.)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader: Me kawe ki whea? (But where are we taking it to?)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader: A - ki te take. (Ah! to the launching site.)
All: Take no Tu. (The launching site for war.)
Leader: E hau... (O wind...)
All: Toia. (Heave away.)
Leader: Hau riri. (Raging wind...)
All: Toia. (Haul away.)
Leader: Toia ake te take. (Pull towards the launching site.)
All: Take no Tu. (The launching site for war.)

A halt, and then a fresh start -

Leader: Koia Rimu, haere! (That's great, Rimu, come on!)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!
Leader: Totara haere. (Come on Totara.)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader: Pukatea haere. (Come on Pukatea.)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader: Homai te tu. (Give me strength.)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader: Homai te maro. (Give me determination.)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader: Kia whitikia. (To get there.)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader: Taku takapu. (My belly.)
All: Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)

Leader: H - ihi, e !
All: Ha - ha, e !
Leader: Pi - pi, e !
All: Ta - ta, e !

Three long syllables denoting that a long and strong pull is to be made to overcome difficult ground.

Leader: Apitia. (Join up.)
All: Ha! (Ha!)
Leader: Apitia. (Join up.)
All: Ha! (Ha!)
Leader: Ko te here. (Bind together.)
All: Ha! (Ha!)
Leader: Ko te here. (Bind together.)
All: Ha! (Ha!)
Leader: Ko te timata. (It's beginning... (to really move now))
All: E-ko te tikoko pohue. (Ah! the shoveler of vines.)
Leader: E-ko te aitanga a mata. (Ah! the half-grown child.)
All: E-ko te aitanga a . (Ah! the child paddling with a te hoe-manuka! manuka stick!)

A halt, and then a fresh start -

Leader: Ko au, ko au. (It is I, It is I.)
All: Hi, aue. (Oh yeah!)
Leader: Mate ko te hanga. (The job is almost done.)
All: Hi, aue. (Oh yeah!)
Leader: Turuki, turuki. (Take the strain, take the strain.)
All: Paneke, paneke. (Heave forward, heave forward.)
Leader: Oioi te toki. (Brandish the hatchet.)
All : Kaua ea! (Don't let up!)
Leader : Takitakina. (It's been led here.)
All : Ia. (Yeah!)
Leader : He tikaokao. (Like a rooster.)
All : He tara'o. (Like a fairy tern.)
Leader : He parera. (Like a duck.)
All : Ke, ke, ke, ke. (Quack, quack, quack, quack.)
Leader : He parera. (Just like a duck.)
All : Ke, ke, ke, ke. (Quack, quack, quack, quack.)

Ps "Nothing but guts." I like but, "Like a Fairy tern." seems to lose something in the translation.

Stay tuned!

The GOnz

Mortality

2010-04-05T08:11:00.000-07:00

Days 125-128, Apr 1-4 2010
The day following my crossing of the Manakau Harbour entrance saw me feeling extremely fragile and despondent. Shattered, broken even. Whilst this was in part contributed to by a particularly bad night’s sleep, when after the exertions of the previous day the body was crying out for nothing but complete rest, it had more to do with the fright I’d just experienced, as well as the culmination of events at Raglan, and before that Mokau, Marokopa and Patea all in quick succession.
I’d begun to feel like I was dodging bullets in a game of Russian roulette. Whilst this may be an analogy, the consequences of my own actions were potentially just as deadly and the avoidance of such consequences had more to do with luck and good fortune than any resources I possessed apart from possibly from some stamina* and an ability not to panic.
* Discovering reserves of stamina is not altogether extraordinary when you feel you may be in peril.
In many respects, whilst I was able to escape the clutches of Manakau’s flow, which I have now read is the largest of any harbour in the world, it was the most worrying moment of the whole trip. In some respects the fact that I could see the potential for danger ahead of me, but was still unable to escape its grip, contributed to the sense of dread that I experienced. Having time to think about it, worried that my energy levels would expire or that a wave would swamp me leaving me to the mercy of the rip I was fighting, was an ill feeling.
It was apparent to me, even at the time, that the situation had been largely brought on by a lack of understanding and respect. This could have been avoidable with better preparation and research. Unfortunately as the journey has progressed the experience has been getting tougher. Tougher for a number of reasons including the time I have been at it, now over four months, the cooler weather, and the more tempestuous sea conditions of the west coast. These in turn may have brought on a certain impatience on my part and this is a dangerous ingredient to add to the mix.
Whilst I spent most of my second day at Piha pouring over my maps and planning how I would approach the next 320km, the distance to Cape Reinga at the tip of New Zealand’s North Island, it became very apparent that it poses far more risk than anything I have yet encountered. Essentially just two extraordinarily long exposed beaches that are pounded relentlessly by large swells generated in the southern oceans. Swells that have helped build sand dunes of up to ninety metres high and an environment that has attracted little in the way of settlements, and therefore shelter and assistance for me should I require it.
I was still digesting this when the front page story of New Zealand Herald’s Sunday paper drew my attention. A 15yo boy had been swept away here at Piha just a week before my arrival, though his body has not yet been found. I noted the helicopters still searching for his body whilst I myself was still making my way in from the sea. The same story also reported on the drowning of an 18yo youth only on Friday. It occurred at Murawai Beach only 15km north of here, at a place that was to be my next scheduled stop.

The helicopter is hardly visible but may be seen as a small spot beneath the green shrubs towards the centre of the cliff face. It looks extremely small and insignificant against the mass of rock ... similar to how I am beginning to feel when out on the ocean.

As if these tragedies were not enough, a separate story told of an experienced New Zealand kayaker who had gone missing off the coast of Scotland after heading out for a paddle. The search has been called off after all attempts to locate him had failed, and he is presumed drowned.

Frightening.

I am keenly aware of my own mortality and have no desire to put myself in positions of serious risk despite what some may believe. As a result I have decided that after over four months and two thousand kilometres, to conclude my adventure. There will yet however be a twist to the story, which I will report on very shortly… so stay tuned!

Manic Manukau

2010-04-01T17:29:00.000-07:00

Day 124, Mar 31 2010
Today, I would be left feeling badly shaken and very vulnerable, and yet the day had begun perfectly. I woke feeling strong. My lower back and hamstrings displayed none of the tightness or soreness often prevalent upon arising. The conditions were sublime, dreamlike even. The offshore breeze continued to diminish the swell but was lighter than the previous day when it had provided me with cause for concern. I farewelled Damon at 9:00am thinking that I might pull over someplace before Manukau Harbour and aim for Piha Beach, which was in excess of 50 kilometres away, the following day.

My brother, just visible on the viewing platform at Sunset Beach, as I departed.

Paddling exceptionally smooth seas I was once again able to stay relatively close to a coastline that wavered little in its straightness. For the initial part of the journey very tall and steep sandy slopes or cliffs converged with a long stretch of beach.

Jagged.

At one stage I came across half a dozen surfers, a group of friends, who had driven their 4WD vehicles to a location with a small but perfect wave breaking on its shores. I was envious of the fun the uncrowded wave promised but pushed on.

A small but perfect fun wave and they had it all to themselves.

The beach soon disappeared and I was thankful for the passive conditions. On a normal day this stretch of coastline would appear uninviting and certainly be unapproachable with a landing impossible. Today it was spectacular and beautiful.

Specatcular and beautiful.

I was making good and easy progress when I approached the Manakau Harbour entrance with its northern shore clearly visible. At 2:00pm, after five hours paddling, I had less than twenty kilometres to go. Apart from some minor flurries of wind that at times came from behind and sometimes, more frustratingly, from head on, conditions remained excellent.

A different view if the swell had been running.

With no obvious landing spots and such good conditions, the idea of pushing onwards to Piha, seemed the logical thing to do. The Harbour entrance offered no obvious signs of danger as I pointed towards the opposite side. Of course it was a perfect opportunity for the easterly breeze to direct its energies out towards the open sea but nothing so strong to be a concern.

As I angled away from the near coastline towards the far side...

As I angled away from the near coastline towards the far side I was already beginning to congratulate myself. I thought myself only hours away from a well earned rest but I soon noticed that I was being carried outwards and was having to change my bearing to compensate.
For the first time I noticed some surf way out to sea though even now I still thought it to be too far away to be of concern. This slowly but surely began to change however as I noted the waves drawing nearer and nearer. I realised that I was being swept outwards despite no obvious signs on the water surface.
I increased my efforts although my energy levels after over five hours were at a low. I hurriedly consumed an energy bar and ‘power’ gel (in essence caffeine), understanding that I was now being drawn out to sea towards another breaking bar. The difference between here and Raglan was that it was mid-afternoon and my energy levels were close to being depleted and yet at this point in time I was had no choice but to look for more.
I was worried, very worried. Scared is when you’re riding the Big Dipper at a fairground. It’s scary but there’s very little chance of anything actually going wrong. Frightened is when the waves are big and there is a risk that I’ll be dumped and thrown into the sea, but at worst, be washed up onto the beach, feeling sorry for oneself and having to pick up the pieces. Worry for me is not knowing what might happen, wondering if I might soon find myself in a situation that will require a call for help. It’s a feeling that sits in the depths of the stomach making you feel sick. It did however provide resources that I’d thought were depleted.
I was now right on the edge of the surging surf that had previously been so far away. The current itself was creating its own swell. As the quickly flowing water surged outwards over a shallow reef or bar, it undermined that swell, causing waves to literally fall over themselves. In a very short time the waves that had earlier appeared well off to my left were all around me.
I was aware that I was making some progress (northwards), but this was mixed with an even greater deal of ‘outwards’. A capsize here would ensure that it was all out to sea. The very surf that so worried me however also offered me an opportunity. As each swell approached I was able to use its energy to surf against the current. Alarmingly for me, when it disappeared I was quickly being drawn back out again. I was acutely aware that at some point I would have nothing left to give.
The process repeated itself numerous times until I began to notice that I was slowly making my way across the line of surf and swell that marked the bar. As I surfed each wave I was slowly but surely edging across towards the opposite edge of the danger zone and then the turbulent conditions were suddenly all lying to my right.

Fragile, broken, despondent...

In front of me the water was devoid of surf even if the mushrooming surface still indicated a strong flow. I was however now north of the harbour entrance although as I noted after a quick look at my GPS, 2 ½ kilometres out to sea. The breeze here was also more prevalent than it had been close to shore and I now had to tackle a 15 knot headwind as I attempted to make it back towards the safety of shore. I was not yet free of worry.

Slowly making my way back towards shore.

My motor was hurting and there was still a good current that threatened to carry me back again if I relaxed my efforts. It was not until 3:20pm that I felt like I’d escaped the clutches of that horrible encounter. I’d struggled for nearly an hour-and-a-half. I was tired and felt extremely fragile. It was slow going and at 4:25pm I still had over 4 ½ km to go. At 5:15pm my bow touched the sand of Piha Beach and a shaken Gonz climbed out of the kayak.

Relief.

The 57.4km covered in 8 ¼ hours felt more like 157. If it had not been for the relief I was feeling, I’m sure it would have felt more like 257!
I received some help from tree guys who were returning from a day of fishing. They kindly lifted my laden kayak up on top of their own boat after putting it on its trailer and delivered me to the campground where I would have to think very carefully about my future… or to be more accurate, whether I wanted one.

Help with the kayak would soon be at hand.

Offshore Winds

2010-04-01T14:23:00.000-07:00

Everything was perfect, except for the unsettling offshore winds.

Day 123, Mar 30 2010
The very winds that had flattened the seas threatened to reach an unmanageable strength of 30 knots according to the forecast. Even staying close to shore in the lieu of the coast does not offer complete protection and can even be more difficult to manage in that they can be swirl in strong gusts and tend to be unpredictable. They tend to funnel down onto the water through the ravines that cut their way between the steep hills and cliffs and can be extremely unbalancing as they hit side-on.
It was not an easy decision because it was a sunny day and the seas were extremely flat with a very small swell for this part of the coast. I was possibly taking the easy way out but nor did I have any desire to be blown out to sea, back towards Australia.
Damon and I relocated to a small cabin closer to the beach known as Sunset Beach. It would be a simpler task to enable me to put to sea from this spot than the more distant campground.
Sam, a lifeguard from the Sunset Beach Surf Lifesaving Club, kindly collected the kayak from the campground with the use of a quad bike and trailer. We stored the kayak in the Club’s grounds overnight.

A Good News Story... Finally!

2010-04-01T13:38:00.000-07:00

I was paddling past this extremely remote part of the coast and noted two tiny figures on the lower ledge that appears just left of centre on this image...

... one figure appears to the right of the picture, a fisherman, providing perspective.

How did they get down to this spot? A ladder! Try placing it against the first image for still more perspective. Above, and slightly to the right, of the guy in the picture above. Unbelievable!

Day 122, Mar 29 2010
It was getting more and more difficult to get up in the morning. The sun too seemed reluctant to rise. When I’d started my trip sunrise had been near 5:30am. Now it was after 7:30am and it was far cooler too. Some of the incidents I’d found myself in of late weren’t helping either.
Despite my lack of enthusiasm I began paddling at 8:45am. A brother, Damon, had arrived in New Zealand a couple of days earlier and we’d arranged to meet at Port Waikato which I hoped to reach… if I was successful in getting away from Raglan.

Here we go, again.

It was a clear morning with a rare easterly blowing. An easterly blows offshore, flattening the sea and swell and was therefore something I was thankful for. The tide was still coming in although it was not far from high. This meant a slower trip out to the entrance than it had been three days earlier when it had already turned and had swept me out so quickly.

The bar still ahead... ominous or inviting?

Conditions looked much improved and the channel that led away from the entrance was far more settled. I noted waves to the left and right of me but none directly ahead. It felt like slowing going, paddling against the current as I was, and it was not until 9:30am that I felt I’d passed the outer reaches of the bar and could begin tracking north up the coast.

Waves to the right and left, but certainly far more settled.

I’d initially had it in my head that Port Waikato would require a 60km paddle, so I was pleasantly surprised to note that it was nearer 50km when I checked my GPS. The coastline too was relatively straight, meaning that I could hug the shore - never more than a kilometre away - and avoid the worst of the winds that were blowing directly out to sea, neither helping nor hindering me.
I’d lost two caps in the vicinity of the bar at Raglan. One upon arriving, and a second, that had been purchased whilst at Raglan as a result of the first loss, on my previous and unsuccessful attempt to leave. So for the very first time I was paddling without cover on my head. I put on lots of zinc and sunscreen to compensate for this but could do nothing about the constant water thrown up by the paddles that landed on my head and ran down my face. Closer I suspect to the Chinese water torture than water-boarding (simulated drowning).
Raglan in fact had been unkind in more ways than one. I’d omitted to mention in my account at the time that I’d also ruined my phone. It had not appreciated the salt water I’d found inside its casing after our extended swim. Possibly worse however was that I’d also lost one of the cushions I’d put so much effort into having couriered to me from a rubber factory in Hamilton. I’d had high hopes that it would solve the problem of my aching backside.

The coast...

Fortunately, none of this proved a problem and from this point forward the paddle was mercifully uneventful. I watched the green hills and cliffs slip by, keeping a watchful eye on the lingering swell affected by the offshore breeze and marked by bright white plumes of spray as a result.
Certainly, I began to feel tired after the first four or five hours and this played a part in what direction I took when I rounded the final headland. I noted that the river mouth (the Waikato is New Zealand’s longest at 425km, and comes from the Maori and translates as ‘flowing water'), was a further few kilometres along the beach that had just presented itself. I also noted surf activity there so the decision as you can imagine was not a difficult one. I was on this occasion going to avoid the bar altogether!
I was already heading in, making for the more protected corner whilst having observed a number of surfers in the water, when one put both arms up in the air. I knew immediately that it was my brother. I knew now without any doubt that I’d picked the right spot to land. I had help at hand!
We greeted each other before I continued in towards the shore. For what it is worth I ‘surfed’ a wave in. It peeled left and my kayak went left and I never once felt like I was in trouble. Quite exciting and unexpected. Unfortunately such clean waves are few and far between.
With my brother’s assistance we loaded his car with my belongings whilst I began the “400 metre” walk to the campground wit the kayak on my shoulder. I stopped after covering at least that distance, standing on a street corner wondering which way next, and when my help might return when I noted a small navy blue tip-truck coming up the road with an empty tray.
I was still in the process of deciding whether I should flag it down when I noted the that the smiling face behind the wheel was none-other than my very resourceful brother! Transporting the kayak the still required kilometre was not now going to be a problem. Damon commented that I looked "lean".

It had taken 7 ¼ hours to paddle 50.8km. At approximately 1:30pm I passed 2,000 km on my journey. It had taken me fifty-three days to cover the first thousand whilst the second thousand had taken sixty-nine days.

Patience

2010-03-27T21:08:00.000-07:00

Days 120 & 121, Mar 27 & 28 2010
The forecast was suggesting that the swell would drop off on Monday. I would spend the weekend in Raglan and wait for better conditions.
I took the opportunity to head out to the harbour entrance and climb a hill that provided an excellent vantage point.
I could clearly see the waves on the perimeter of the bar that had caused the problem. I could also see the channel that had carried me out.

It is worth noting that the weather report indicated a 2.5 metre swell on this day. It had been 4.0 metres for me with a fresh breeze.
I believe that when I capsized I was washed into the waves on the far side and these carried me in until they dissipated in the deeper water where I was ultimately able to climb in and surf back to shore.

Precarious

2010-03-27T20:46:00.000-07:00

Day 119, Mar 26 2010

Before I began my preparations I sent a text message to Emma at the Raglan Chronicle regretting the fact that I’d missed her unexpected visit yesterday whilst stating that I was departing this morning. Speaking into my camera I was anything but enthused about the day ahead. It was another grey day that hinted at more rain. The fresh south-wester did nothing to perk me up even though it offered hope that Port Waikato, some 65km distant, might just be within reach.

Getting ready.

I had a chance meeting with Derek, a local resident who I’d come across climbing out of his kayak a couple of days earlier, just as I was climbing into my own kayak. He was on his bike and introduced me to his cycling partner on this dour morning, David. David it turned out was from the Chronicle. This association explained to me how the local newspaper had become aware of my presence. It was nearing 9:30am and with a potentially long day ahead of me I had just enough time to say goodbye, but not before brushing off their concerns regarding the conditions posed by the bar. I’d conducted a reconnaissance of the conditions from the beach the day before. My perception had been that despite the 4.0 metre swell showing up on the weather maps it was not overly apparent over the bar.

On the way.

The outgoing tide was in full flow and it was not long before I passed through the harbour entrance. I stuck to a deep channel that was about 40 metres wide carrying me out to sea being at a good rate. I was struck by how choppy it was here, but noting the surf either side of me, believed that this confirm my impressions from the day before.

Approaching the harbour entrance.

My confidence was soon eroded however when I noted previously unseen waves directly in my path with no obvious route to avoid them. It didn’t matter that I ceased paddling. The strong current had cut down the distance between me and the newly perceived threat in a devastatingly short amount of time and I was caught by surprise when a wave suddenly appeared in front of me where before there had been none.
I knew that I was in trouble as soon as I saw it. I was upside down again, and could only fumble for the handle that allowed me to extricate myself from the upturned kayak in the now turbulent waters. So unexpected had this turn of events been that the camera had still been on deck, and running at the time! It was my immediate thought when my head broke the surface.
I turned the kayak over and noted, not surprisingly, that it was no longer attached to the deck. I took hold of the safety line to which I hoped it was still attached and gathered it in. I was unsure as to what I would find on the end of it so it was with an enormous sense of relief that I discovered both the camera and mount still attached… and running!

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I saw it.

I was very conscious of not letting the kayak be swept from my grip as had recently occurred to me on arriving at Marokopo. On this occasion I was a lot further out to sea and did not have the camera packed away. I also had the paddle to think of. It too was attached to the kayak by a line, but how well this would hold up to the forces applied to it, was a risk I preferred not to test.

About to hit.

I put one end of the paddle inside the flooded cockpit, took the camera’s strap between my teeth, and hugged and gripped the kayak’s cockpit rim with all my strength as wave after wave began battering us. With each wall of foam that hit, my grip on the kayak was threatened. I felt myself dragged through the water as each new wave attempted to tear the kayak from my grip.
I had no idea how long this would last. I was a long way from the shore and I wondered whether the current might still carry me out beyond the waves that continued to batter me. Worse still, might one cancel the other? Would the current carry me back out to the waves that had just pushed me in some way?

In trouble.

At one point in time, with a slight lull between waves, knowing that there was nought to do but ride it out, I actually turned the camera back on, although it was only for a short while as it took one hand away from the kayak and I could barely hold on with two. I took the very next opportunity to open one of the bulkheads and secure the camera in it before the next wave hit.

Worry, or is that fear?

I may not have been frightened, but I was worried. Very worried. I was in a situation that I was not sure I could escape from. Were there people watching me from the shore? The sight of me doing nothing but hanging onto the kayak half-a-kilometre from shore as wave after wave pounded me would no doubt raise concerns. From my perspective I simply held on in the hope that either the waves or the current would win out and thereby offer me an opportunity to take some steps of my own. It would not have surprised me in the slightest at this point if I’d heard the sound of a helicopter above me.

This wave passed me by... just.

I’m not sure how many waves I had to ride out. On at least half-a-dozen occasions I was forcibly dragged after the kayak, submerged in the wave, only stopping when that same wave gave up its hold on the half-submerged vessel. I finally sensed a change in the water. Was I back in the channel where the water was again deeper?
I had to get back to shore. I switched the water pump on, but each and every bit of chop simply washed over the hull topping up the flooded cockpit as quickly as it emptied. My only option was to climb into the craft that was extremely unstable in its flooded condition and secure the skirt to stop it refilling.
I’d managed to climb aboard and point the bow to the shore - it was still hundreds of metres away - when a swell rose behind me causing the kayak’s bow to dig deep and cause another capsize. I’d not had time to secure the skirt so it was no problem to quickly right the kayak and try again.
On this occasion I was able to secure the skirt whilst the pump continued to try to make an impression on the huge amount sharing the cockpit with me. I thought I was in for another repeat when another swell picked up the kayak and drove me down its face but on this occasion the kayak maintained its course with the bow pointing straight and true.
It was in fact the most exhilarating ride I’d ever had and not only because it was carrying me towards safety. For well over a hundred metres the kayak surfed towards the shore on a beautiful unbroken swell. I had never travelled so far, so quickly. I was no more than thirty metres from the shore when it finally dissipated.
I’d thought to myself that the trip might be over when I was out there, but now that I was back on the beach I was even more determined to finish. This was one of my very first thoughts. It was of course because of the relief that I was feeling, but I was in better spirits now than I had been whilst I was preparing to begin earlier in the morning.
I mopped up the final remnants of my drama from the cockpit and walked the kayak inside the mouth of the harbour. I could see from here just how strong the current was and there was no way I could have paddled against it.
Funny, but hugging the shore as I paddled back towards where I’d started from, I noted and enjoyed immensely the interesting and picturesque shoreline. I’ve no doubt that a river or lake would have been a far less taxing challenge. I’d say “next time”, however I’ve a feeling that my kayaking days won’t endure much past the completion of this journey.

Wow, much better!

Whose idea was it to tackle the ocean anyway?

When I finally stopped paddling I immediately ran up the street towards the offices of the Raglan Chronicle. I had a story to tell!

Note: I would note later using the camera that the time of the capsize was 9:58am. When I finally climbed back into the cockpit and turned on the camera it was 10:55am. By my estimation, allowing for the time between reaching the beach and then climbing back in, it took me nearly forty five minutes after the capsize to get back to the safety of the shore. An appraisal of the bar from a high vantage point a few days later suggested to me that the waves I'd encountered were nearly one kilometre from the shore.

Video of the incident (Raglan I, II, & III), can be accessed by the "CHECK THESE LINKS OUT!" component of the blogsite.

Raglan

2010-03-24T23:26:00.000-07:00

Day 115-118, Mar 22-Mar 25 2010

Some blustery days with spots of rain but the kite surfers were loving it.

The harbour entrance.

Kayak History

Kayaks were originally developed by indigenous Arctic people, who used the boats to hunt on inland lakes, rivers and coastal waters of the Arctic Ocean, North Atlantic, Bering Sea and North Pacific oceans. These first kayaks were constructed from stitched seal or other animal skins stretched over a wooden frame (made from driftwood, since many of their habitats were treeless). Kayaks are known to be at least 4,000 years old. Native builders designed and built their boats employing their experience in combination with orally–transmitted traditions.

Hang time! Twenty feet above the water?

The word "kayak" means "man's boat" or "hunter's boat", and native kayaks were a personal craft, each built by the man who used it (with assistance from his wife, who sewed the skins) closely fitting his size for maximum manoeuvrability. A special skin jacket, Tuilik, was then laced to the kayak, creating a waterproof seal. This enabled the eskimo roll to become the preferred method of regaining posture after turning upside down (kayakers consider "capsize" to refer to separation of paddler and vessel) especially as few Eskimos could swim; their waters are too cold for a swimmer to survive for long.

The shoreline near the entrance to the harbour.

The builder used found materials to create a kayak measured to his own body. For example: the length was typically three times the span of his outstretched arms. The width at the cockpit was the width of the builder's hips plus two fists (and sometimes less). The typical depth was his fist plus the outstretched thumb (hitch hiker). Thus typical dimensions were about 17 feet (5.2 m) long by 20–22 inches (51–56 cm) wide by 7 inches (18 cm) deep. This measurement system confounded early European explorers who tried to duplicate the kayak, because each kayak was a little different.

Getting ready.

Traditional kayaks encompass three types of boat: Baidarkas, from the Alaskan & Aleutian seas, the oldest design, whose rounded shape and numerous chines give them an almost Blimp-like appearance; West Greenland kayaks, with fewer chines and a more angular shape, with gunwales rising to a point at the bow and stern; and East Greenland kayaks that appear similar to the West Greenland style, but often fit more snugly to the paddler and possess a steeper angle between gunwale and stem which lend manoeuvrability.

Sail, kite, chute...?

Most of the Eskimo peoples from the Aleutian Islands eastward to Greenland relied on the kayak for hunting a variety of prey — primarily seals, though whales and caribou were important in some areas. Skin on frame kayaks are still being used for hunting by Inuit people in Greenland today. (source: Wikipedia)

My 'home' for the past few days.

I am hopeful that one of these will bring some relief to my butt!

Raglan’s Riches

2010-03-23T18:47:00.000-07:00

366 paces, almost impossible to see the kayak I'd already carried out there.

...unless I use the zoom.

Day 114, Mar 21 2010
I’d have slept better but for the well-past middle-age Poms who were my tent neighbours. He, extremely unfit looking but wearing a Manchester United tracksuit, and she, a bottle-dyed red head who was thinning alarmingly on top, grunted and groaned their way through the night on what I must presume was one of those large blow up Coleman camping mattresses going by the sounds that it was contributing. Awful!

Having just commenced my journey.

My test continued because upon rising the tide was even further out than it had been yesterday. The difference today was that I was prepared for it. I did however wonder if this inland sea drained completely at low? Low in fact was at 8:00am so I had a couple of hours to prepare during which time I presumed there would be enough water to begin. As it was I had to carry the kayak 366 paces (yes, I counted), out to a spot I hoped would have water some time after the tide had reversed its run. This of course meant that once I started, I would once again be paddling against it.

I never strayed from the shore.

By the time I was ready to commence it was nearing 10:00am and the water was in fact lapping the hull. Fortunately too, by remaining within a few feet of the shore on my way out towards the harbour mouth, I avoided the worst of the incoming tidal flow. Approaching the sea the fishermen working the bar were good enough to wave me under their lines whilst I continued to hug the shore. So far, so good! I’d expected the worst but had encountered no real problems. It had taken fifty minutes to get to this point.

They kindly lifted their rods, allowing me to sneak under their lines and stay close to the shore away from the fierce current.

...in fact so close that I was almost on the beach!

From there it was an uneventful paddle for the next two hours as I targeted firstly Taranaki Point (1:00pm), and then Papanui Point (2:25pm). There had been very little wind and not much chop or swell, whilst the sun only made irregular appearances. The beach surrounding Kawhia’s harbour entrance had given way to steep cliffs and repeated headlands which became more and more impressive as I began to head east towards Raglan from Papanui Point.

Hard to see but a waterfall here.

The sun’s appearances were becoming more frequent and the coastline ever more striking. My only complaint was the ongoing discomfort being experienced by my seating arrangement… something that I have resolved to address or risk it destroying my mental state.

Spectacular cliffs.

I was soon paddling through waters made ‘famous’ by the iconic 1966 surf movie Endless Summer. On its day there is reputedly a long peeling left-hand wave that can stretch for as far as six hundred metres. I offer reputedly, because on this day there was nothing. Something that I and my kayak, with all due respect to the local surf crew, were extremely appreciative of.
With the surf being non-existent and the time having just passed 4:00pm I approached the harbour and where I observed the colourful spectacle of some twenty odd kite surfers dashing back and forth across the entrance.

Nothing tedious about this part of the coastline.

I snuck inside the entrance where I was provided with directions to the campground where I pulled up half an hour later. It was 4:40pm and I’d covered a distance of 43.21km.

Maori Haka

2010-03-22T21:09:00.000-07:00

I came across the following on a website promoting Kawhia...

The Maori haka performed by the All Blacks, has become famous around the world, though few realise it's origin or meaning.
Te Rauparaha, the warrior chief of Ngati Toarangatira, originally from Kawhia, had visited Tuwharetoa to solicit aid against the Waikato and Ngati Maniapoto tribes.
That aid was refused him because of his treachery some years before when he had attacked and killed some of Ngati te Aho at Te Onepu.
It seems that the party had planned to descend to Lake Rotoaira to procure fish when one said, 'Why go fishing - there is food for the taking,' and he pointed to the smoke rising from the Ngati te Aho village.
Te Heuheu Herea, who was himself related to Ngati Maniapoto, softened the refusal by advising Te Rauparaha to follow the forest track over Ponanga Saddle to seek refuge with Te Wharerangi at Motu 0 Puhi.
However, when he arrived there, Te Rauparaha found that Te Wharerangi, although hostile to him, felt obliged to extend some protection to his unwelcome guest against the taua (war party) led by Tauteka and already in hot pursuit.
Accordingly, he told Te Rauparaha to seek refuge in an empty kumara pit nearby empty kumara pit nearby and then asked his wife, Te Rangikoaea, to seat herself over the entrance to the pit.
As the chiefs of the pursuing party approached Rotoaira, they recited incantations to enable them to locate the whereabouts of Te Rauparaha.
Thus led to believe that he was at Motu 0 Puhi, they chanted further incantations to prevent him from escaping southward, and as Te Rauparaha sat crouched in the pit he began to feel the effects of the spells being cast on him.
In addition to assisting in the concealment of the Ngati Toa chief, the main reason why Te Rangi koaea was ordered to sit over the pit was because of the neutralising effect that she, as a woman, had on incantations.
The female genital organs were supposed to have this power and, as influence of the incantations reached Te Rauparaha, he felt their effects bejng neutralised by the chieftainess sitting above him.
He imagined them being whirled round and round and being absorbed, and, to give vent to his feelings, he exclaimed,
Aha ha!
Kikiki kakaka kauana!
Kei waniwania taku tara
Kei tarawahia, kei te rua it te kerokero!
Then he realised that the protecting powers of the chieftainess could be destroyed if amatory advances were made by her husband, and that to save himself he would have to be watchful and see that his protector was not disturbed.
Thus he whispered:
He Pounga rahui te uira ka rarapa;
Ketekete kauana to peru kairiri.
Mau au e koro e
Hi! Ha!
Ka wehi au ka matakana.
Ko wai te tangata kia rere ure? Tirohanga nga rua rerarera
Nga rua kuri kakanui i raro!
When the pursuers arrived, they enquired of Te Wharerangi whether he had seen Te Rauparaha and were informed that he had fled in the direction of the Rangipo desert.
For a moment they did not believe him, but later hurried off in pursuit.
When all was clear, Te Wharerangi asked his wife to let Te Rauparaha out.
During the time Tauteka was talking to Te Wharerangi, Te Rauparaha muttered under his breath...
'Aha ha! Ka mate, ka mate!' - 'I die, 1 die!'
When his pursuers were convinced he was not in Te Wharerangi's pa but had made for Taranaki, he exclaimed, 'Ka ora, ka ora! Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru nana nei i tiki mai whakawhiti te ra!' - 'I live, I live! For this is the hairy man who has fetched the sun and caused it to shine again!
As he took his first two steps out of the pit, he said, 'hupane, kaupane!' and as he stood clear he shouted, 'whiti te ra!' - 'The sun shines!'
Going on to the courtyard of Te Wharerangi and before Te Rangikoaea and the assembled people, Te Rauparaha performed his famous haka...

Aha ha!
Kiki kakaka kauana
Kei waniwaniwa taku tara.
Kei tarawahia, kei te rua i te kerokero!
He pounga rahui te uira ka rarapa;
Ketekete kau ana to peru kairiri
Mau au e koro e
Hi! Ha!
Ka wehi au ka matakana,
Kowai te tangata kia rere ure?
Tirohanga nga rua rerarera
Nga rua kuri kakanui i raro!
aha ha!

A Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!
I die! I die! I live! I live!
Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!
I die! I die! I live! I live!
Tenei te tangata puhuru huru
This is the hairy man
Nana nei i tiki mai
Who fetched the Sun
Whakawhiti te ra
And caused it to shine again
A upa ... ne! ka upa ... ne!
One upward step! Another upward step!
A upane kaupane whiti te ra!
An upward step, another.. the Sun shines!!
Hi !!

A Test

2010-03-22T20:57:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Not to Be

2010-03-21T20:07:00.000-07:00

Day 112, Mar 19 2010
In complete contrast to the previous evening. Last night had been almost balmy. I was up and ready to move on and had thankfully discovered a far shorter and less painful route to the river’s edge that also placed me closer to the river mouth which I was aiming for. Most importantly however, it did not have the mud flats to contend with when the tide was out, as it was on this morning at 8:30am.

Looking upstream. On the previous day I'd paddled up around the bend where it bent back tightly towards the right.

Despite the low tide I did not have to contend with the mud flat and the river mouth was not far.

I paddled towards the river mouth only to be greeted by surging surf. I landed on one side and took a quick look but saw no obvious means of escape so I paddled across to the opposite side where three fisherman were trying their luck.
Upon landing I made my way towards them. They were obviously interested in what I had in mind and I asked them for their thoughts. I got the impression that they were very keen to see me try but had little real or useful insight that they could offer.

One of the fishermen. There was just way too much water to battle.

I thought about walking and swimming the kayak out through the waves but got only as far as my waist before realising that it was too deep and there was just too much water coming in with very little relief between waves.
I stood there for another hour trying to keep warm whilst watching to see if the conditions might alter enough to make an attempt feasible but it was not to be. I made my way back up the river to where only hours earlier I’d launched.
I returned to the campsite and checked myself back in. Hugh offered me the use of a shed with a bed in it for the price of a tent site which I was thankful for. Better to store my equipment, I got a mattress, and it saves the trouble to pitching and then packing away the tent.
A couple of extremely nice women, Leanda and Margi (KD Lang fans), who’d watched me wash in yesterday at the river mouth drove the car to where the kayak rested and allowed me to throw all my gear inside saving me four trips and leaving me with just the kayak to carry back.
By midday I’d had a hot shower and two egg & bacon hamburgers although Hugh, who’d had a night out, had to start again after forgetting to cook the patties. I later had a three hour afternoon nap.
I took a stroll late in the afternoon/early evening and the seas had definitely eased off auguring well for another attempt the following morning.

Dog Day Afternoon

2010-03-21T19:12:00.001-07:00

Dog Day Afternoon
Day 111, Mar 18 2010
Another extremely cold night did not hinder an early start. It was a clear and crisp morning and the sea was as calm as I’d seen it. Today had to be the one if I was ever going to get off the beach. I knew from my observations over the previous days that the waves were at their least destructive on low tide, but low had been at 6:00am, well before the sun had risen.
The best I could do after the necessary hike and cartage down to the beach was a launch at 8:35am. Standing on the beach I felt confident… if I could time it well enough and avoid the bigger set waves, I should get away. I selected a spot where I could see that there was deeper water heading out to sea. A channel that carried out that same water that the incoming waves had recently born in, and in relative terms, a spot that saw less surf.
It was a gut wrenching sprint that extracted everything I had until I was safely out beyond the breaking waves. The equation is a simple one that recognises the benefit of spending the least amount of time possible in the impact zone but it demands an energy sapping dash.
The strength drains quickly with absolutely nothing kept in reserve and you wonder if you’re going to make it as a wave rises in front of you. You have to get over it before it breaks but you’re already at your limit giving it all. The crest threatens to collapse ahead of you but then the bow rises and the icy cold wall of green water slams into your face, doing its best to halt the progress that has already begin to wane, but you break through it and the hull comes crashing down on the other side and there is always a momentary wobble when you wonder if you‘re going to end up in that cold water. Then another waves appears…
I made it but was shaking after the intensity of the exertion and had to gather myself. It can be a fine line between success and failure and on this occasion I’d barely scrambled across that imaginary line.
My hands were numb from the cold and it took some while for things to warm up. There was a real clarity to everything this morning and dare I say it, a touch of winter. I watched as an offshore breeze blew plumes of spray from the tops of those same waves I’d just avoided before the beach gave way to a jagged shoreline.

The beach gave way.

Real clarity.

The remnants of that same swell that had contributed to my being held hostage at Mokau was still rolling under me when at 11:00pm I took a reading from my GPS and decided to put in an hour’s hard paddling. A part of me thought that Kawhia might be reachable but I had the closer target of Marokopa which was closer by 7.5km at the conclusion of that hour, leaving a further 18km. At 1:30pm I checked again and Kawhia was still over 40km distant and therefore out of reach. I settled on Marokopa, a small settlement nestled on the banks of the river by the same name.

Jagged coastline.

It was a good morning for photos of the coastline.

By 2:00pm I was assessing the river mouth and the surf conditions that marked its entrance. I wondered if I should push on and take advantage of the daylight hours that were left in the day and risk a landing on some remote location and free-camp but the known won out and I decided to tackle the surf in front of me.
I caught a wave and when the inevitable broaching occurred I felt in control as I lent the kayak towards the wave with my paddle blade placed in the foam to brace me. As the wave’s energy dissipated however my compensation proved too much and I capsized, actually rolling towards the wave. It’s a fine line…
I emerged from the upside down, now flooded kayak, still some fifty-odd metres from shore when a following wave ripped the kayak from my grasp. I watched helplessly as it washed towards the shore and away from me. I’d not been faced with such a scenario such as this and had to try to swim into shore burdened with my life jacket and its array of equipment i.e. radio, drink bladder, flare, cell phone, etc, my cap and sunglasses hanging around my neck, and the large neoprene spray-skirt around my waist.
Fortunately I did not sink but bodysurfing in was out of the question. I quickly realised that backstroke was the stroke best suited to my situation but quickly became concerned that the river’s flow was working against me. I was worried and simply threw up my arms to harness the power of the surf each time a broken wave washed over me in an attempt to ensure that I too was carried towards land in the same manner that my craft had been. In this way I made slow but sure progress and after a while was wading towards my upside down kayak washing in the shallows. Mercifully it and I were just to one side of the fast flowing river mouth.
I was cold now and not happy. It did not help that the sun had disappeared behind some clouds. I began pumping out the water from the cockpit whilst fighting the strong tug of the current that threatened to once more pull the kayak from my grip and into the strong flow that poured through the surf and out to sea. Once emptied I walked the kayak along the river’s edge. This was not easy as the sand dropped away steeply and it was very soft. A mistaken step would see me in the clutches of the river. A fine line…

I began making my way up the river against the current.

Once I was far enough inside to avoid being swept back out to sea I jumped in, paddling close to shore to avoid the stronger flowing centre. I kept my eyes peeled for the campground that I’d been told was just “a couple of hundred metres up the river”. I beached and ran up the bank but only saw a few houses so I climbed back in and paddled another few hundred metres before stopping again.
I began to go for a walk before noticing an old woman who’d walked down to look at the strange craft she’d just witnessed paddling up the river. She advised that I paddle further up (against the current), and around the bend where the campground would be readily identifiable.

Quick, before the dog comes!

Another few hundred metres where the going was becoming difficult due to the shallow water and I was sure I’d found it. I’d spied a boat ramp and conveniently located just across the road were three caravans. I beached for what was surely the last time today and walked towards the caravans. The block on which they were located was not much larger than a backyard but this was a small town after all. I could not however see anywhere to check in and the place appeared deserted so I entered the yard next door which displayed signs of activity.

The evil looking pit bull that tore out of the shed, barking ferociously at me, frightened me far more than anything that had befallen me that day. I wanted to let it know that I was not here to threaten it or take over its domain but that idea went out the window as it closed the gap. I still had the paddle in my hands and raised it in as menacingly and threateningly a manner a I could muster as it bore down. In truth I was gripped by terror and it must have been perfectly obvious to anyone who could see me.
At the very moment I believed it was about to lunge and lock its vice like jaws onto a part of my body - the jaws that we all hear and read so much about - a woman began frantically calling it back. This was not looking good. The dog wanted to ignore her but after more yelling and calling it began to back off bit by bit, barking less and less, obviously disappointed that the ferocious attack that it was hardwired it for, was being thwarted.
“Hello!” I offered, trying to sound and appear not in the least bit ruffled, whilst at the same time realising that the paddle which was still held aloft above my head ready to flail, probably gave me away. The dog was still circling and I simply wanted to be away so I don’t know why I asked if the campground I was seeking was the small plot next door. Further up the river I was informed, “You can’t miss it.” “Great, thank you!” I backed away keeping a wary eye on the beast that was so close to surrendering to its genetic impulses and ignoring the woman who was still yelling at it to hold. A fine line…
In this instance I was only too happy to get back into my kayak and move on. I did moments later spot the campground. It was over the road that was beyond the marshes and beyond the fifty or so metres of tidal mud flats between it and me. I soon discovered that the office where I needed to introduce myself, was at the far end of the site, another two hundred metres up the road.

The tide was out... a long way.

My footprints. Still the kayak to go...

It was almost 4:00pm and I was feeling cold and miserable so I was thankful when ‘Yvette‘ offered me the backpackers lodge that was not being utilised for the price of a tent site. I still had to trudge through the that sticky, slippery, and slimy mud, and then along the street, with all my belongings (four trips), and finally the kayak, before the hot shower I so craved was able to be taken.

The mud was slippery before the feet began to sink. Yuk!

I’d been through the surf, paddled the ocean, swum against a river mouth, kayaked against a strong current, trudged through mud for 46.63km… It was not getting any easier. Why hadn’t I listened to those people who’d suggested a tropical island in the Pacific?

Some days just don't finish quickly enough.

Mokau

2010-03-15T15:13:00.000-07:00

Days 107-110 Mar 14-17 2010

The surf is currently prohibiting me launching from the campground near the Mokau River, a spot renowned in New Zealand for it's whitebait. South-westerly winds have been blowing now for days contributing to a three metre swell.

The forecast however is for the winds to swing around to the south-east although at 25 knots. I am hopeful that with the easterly and therefore offshore effect, this willl flatten the surf sufficiently for me to get away very soon.

In the meantime I have found coffee and newspapers at the Whitebait Inn along with connection to the internet... I have not yet sampled one of its 'famous' whitebait fritters.

The black sand is a result of ironstone. It will grind a kayak's keel back in short time.

The hard compact sand at low tide attracted this adventurer. Ironically there was not enough wind for him to get going.

The ridge behind the campground and beach.

The Mokau River mouth.

The Mokau River.

The Awakino River mouth.

The campground and beach nestled between the Mokau and Awakino Rivers.

Is This The End?

2010-03-14T18:38:00.000-07:00

Days 105-106, Mar 12-13 2010

Note:Very strong winds and a need for some rest after four days of paddling meant that yesterday was a rest day and used to write my account of what had passed.

I’d slept as well as I could remember with my first waking moment not until 4:00am. Some sort of record. It had been the cold. The sky was clear and I’d made my preparations the previous evening so everything was go. The forecast was for 30 knot south-westerlies (again), very rough seas, and a 3-4 metres swell, but with such a morning and winds that would be behind me, I felt that it was not a day to sit idle.

Only moments after announcing my decision Ken was at my front porch ready with the tractor and trailer. We placed the kayak on the river’s edge making the task of loading a relatively simple one although Ken may dispute this. He very nearly had to throw himself into the river when a tidal surge threatened to steal the boat away. Thanks Ken!

I climbed in and looked at my watch. It had taken well under an hour with minimal effort required on my part. If only every day had a start like this. Offering my thanks and bidding my kind hosts farewell, I was able to paddle the hundred metres or so out to the sea with the high tide. A small surf posed no problems and I was able to turn around and give a final wave to those on the beach who’d walked down to see me off.

Where the river meets the sea.

The sky above was blue and what breeze there was from the north-east was too slight to have an impact on my progress. I felt buoyant (no pun intended), strong, and relaxed although I noted a bank of clouds behind me though they appeared not to have that leading edge that signifies severe turbulence.

The clouds had caught up with me and obscured the sun too.

Shortly after 10:00am those same clouds had caught up with me and had begun to obscure the morning sun though this did not stop me plotting a straight line course that left the cliffs a kilometre off to my right. It did not stop me hearing and when I chose to look, seeing the impact they had of the seemingly gentle swell that ran beneath me. My thoughts jumped forward to the beach landing I was planning about 45 kilometres ahead at Seaview Holiday Park nestled between the Mokau and Awakino Rivers. There was certainly some trepidation despite my upbeat mood.

The cloud above me did not herald the 30 knots I’d heard mentioned by the forecast and I was again thinking to myself how inaccurate and how difficult it must be to predict the weather for such a relatively small land mass in the midst of a huge ocean. There were slight changes in the wind direction from the north-east to the north-west but it never rose above 5 knots.

For a short time I was concerned that the coastline was passing me by too slowly and I was wondering if I’d paddled into one of those unfavourable currents that I’d been warned about but had thus far discarded as being from people who wanted to sound dramatic and big-note themselves but really had very little first-hand knowledge.

I took a reading on the GPS and another an hour later at midday and it told me I’d covered somewhere between seven and eight kilometres. Not slow at all! I put it down to the fact that I was now a couple of kilometres from shore and that this in itself made the shore appear to pass slowly. The GPS also told me that I had 23km to go. Not much more than three more hours which meant within striking distance. Did I paddle for more than three hours on my first day when I departed Auckland?

It was about this time that it began to rain and for a while visibility was reduced to a level which meant that it was difficult to make out the coastline. I made sure that I looked at my compass in case it disappeared altogether remembering my discussion with the kayak manufacturer when he asked if I wanted the compass. I thought it was a bit of a gimmick and said as much until he pointed out that in heavy rain or fog it can come in handy. The sense of solitude and peace that I felt out there in the rain was one I enjoyed thoroughly. It would not last however.

At 1:00pm I had 17kms to go. For a while the breeze died completely and with it the rain ceased to fall. I again began to question the veracity of the weather forecast. I was only a couple of hours from my destination and there was no sign of a south-westerly wind, let alone 30 knots. I even began to consider ways in my head to evaluate the accuracy of the forecasts believing that such an appraisal would be very useful for and may even have been doing so when it hit.

It was 1:55pm. There was little warning except for possibly a brightening of the sky. It did not build gradually. One moment it was still and the next I had 30 knots over my left shoulder. The sea was in tandem with the wind. One moment it was smooth and glassy, and the next it was throwing up big intimidating walls of swell.

The wind hit without warning.

The smooth seas disappeared in an instant.

There’s something disconcerting about sitting in a kayak when the seas get big. I believe it’s something to do with the fact that you’re locked into the cockpit by the skirt with just your upper body protruding a couple of feet above the water whilst these big angry walls march towards you with their peaks threatening to tumble on top of you, as you’re witnessing them do all around.

Everything looks bigger when you're sitting down.

When I’m on a surfboard and a frightening wave approaches, I simply bail out, which means I throw the surfboard away and hope for the best and usually the wave washes over you meaning that you can repeat the exercise when the next even bigger wave approaches.

I'd feel better simply swimming in such seas compared to being locked into the kayak.

With the kayak however I’m literally strapped in. It’s a part of me and everything I own and rely on in New Zealand is with it. I can’t let it just wash up on the beach like a surfboard might, and then simply go and retrieve it. It holds my tent, sleeping bag, camera, first-aid kit, computer, clothing, maps, diary… and despite the stronger than most Kevlar construction, the forces that it would encounter would leave only one possible outcome, and it is not one I can afford.

I was in an interesting situation. A part of me wanted to capture the seas on camera which meant hanging around trying to get the lens to see what I was seeing. Another part was worried that the seas could or should only get larger the longer they were exposed to the wind, whilst another part did not even want to think about what I was going to encounter when I got to shore where the swell would presumably be crashing onto the long exposed beach I had to aim for. A part of me even wondering if this was going to be the ending that the pylons of Patea threatened but could not deliver.

I checked and had 11km to go. There was no chance that the time it would take to cover this was going to drag. I kept an eye on the swells that every so often stood up larger than most with their crests threatening to spill down on me. It’s simply a lottery whether they do so and I watched this game of chance going off all around me but thankfully my numbers didn’t drop on this day.

By the time I’d spied my target I’d already made my preparations. In fact I’d done so as soon as the front hit. For the first time on the trip I grabbed my drogue and placed it with me in the cockpit. It is a sea anchor similar in shape to a parachute that is tied to a rope (15m in my case), which is in turn affixed to the stern \of the kayak and allowed to drag behind the kayak. It has the effect of placing a drag on the stern and is thereby reputed to help keep the kayak pointing straight. I say reputed because I’d not previously tested the theory. The 3 metre swell and resulting surf conditions that I was expecting would no doubt present the perfect opportunity!

I put away my cap and sunglasses, fully expecting to end up in the drink at some point and in another first, I strapped on my helmet. In writing this account I am going to quote the New Zealand Herald (Mar 15, 2010), which today reported on the successful crossing by Shaun Quincey in a row boat from Australia to New Zealand -

“She anxiously watched pounding waves at lunchtime when her son, who swam the last 300m because it was too dangerous to row to shore…”

An amazing effort, no doubt. By the sounds of it Shaun did well even to hit New Zealand because at one point it looked like he might miss it altogether. It does for me put things into perspective when a guy and his craft who have just crossed the Tasman Sea no less, tell us that landing is too dangerous and bails out of his craft!

I could clearly now make out the campground fronting the beach and in truth wasted little time in turning towards the shore after first deploying the drogue. My assessment from where I sat was that the surf appeared not to have anywhere near the size that I’d expected based on the swells that were passing under me. A 3 metre swell in my language translates to waves with a face of more than 10 feet. A frightening concept in any language.

I noted masses of turbulent foam but not the large backs of crashing surf that for example I’d noted when covering a leg into Gisborne when I could clearly see huge swells standing up as they approached the shore and pitching forward as huge waves onto the coastline.

So, with no point in hanging around out the back I simply pointed towards shore and began paddling, feeling the effects of the drogue dragging on the stern. I’m not sure that I was entirely happy with the fact that it was holding me back and cast multiple glances over my shoulder in expectation of sighting a climbing wall about to crash over me.

When a wave did build under me I simply paddled looking for a hasty end to the situation that I was unwillingly facing. Better to get it over and done with I thought. The kayak lifted and pushed forward and rode down the face before violently slewing to the left. Here goes I thought, but the bow bounced off the top of the wave and the whole kayak swung through an arc of 180° to the right so that I was now facing the opposite way.

Again I expected to capsize as the force of the wave played with me, driving me brutally towards the shore. I had absolutely no control over what was occurring when all of a sudden the wave began to reform and I suddenly found myself slipping over the back of this force that had carried me half way to the beach.

I found myself well inside the impact zone of the larger waves that were breaking out the back, and amazingly in an upright position. It was too good to be true. I possibly made a mistake here, but so excited was I with this unexpected turn of events that I began to undo the skirt that made the kayak and I, one. At this point I was not willing to chance my luck for a second time. I wanted to be able to make a quick exit.

Looking back out.

When the following wave hit, the cockpit immediately filled with water which simply ensured that we rolled over caused as much by the instability of the water-filled cockpit as anything else. In hindsight it may have been better to try to ride it out, but I was out and willing now to be simply be washed to shore whilst holding onto the half submerged kayak.

An enormous sense of relief.

We took turns. The kayak pulled me when a wave hit and I pulled it, or attempted to, between waves. I was soon able to touch the ground with my feet with both the kayak and I seemingly in one piece. I was smiling and felt enormous relief as I turned round to survey the mess that I‘d come through.

Still in one piece.

The campground was just a short walk up the beach and I had survived another day. I knew however that the seas would require a significant change to enable me to execute a launch from this long and exposed part of the coastline.

It's a wild and desolate coastline.

It had taken me just over 6 hours to survive the 43.83km paddle.

Winter?

2010-03-14T16:39:00.001-07:00

Day 104, Mar 11 2010

I was sitting in the campground’s communal kitchen at 5:30am. The sun was yet to rise and I had the place to myself and was taking the opportunity to download the camera, and charge my various pieces of equipment.

The radio was on and the forecast was for the south-westerly to continue at 20 knots with cloud and rain, and for it to increase to 30 knots the following day with heavy rain, and the temperature to drop to 7° C overnight. Ouch!!!

I wanted to push on and take advantage of the favourable winds while they lasted and had two options to consider. Ahead of me were two campgrounds that I calculated to be about 45kms away. They were only kilometres apart.

I looked up my notes in preparation for the day and noted that one, the Onaero Bay Holiday Park had four cabins. My mind was made up to move on but I’d ring this one just in case a cabin was available, however remote my chances. The weekend was approaching and New Plymouth was hosting WOMAD, a large music festival attracting thousands of visitors. If a cabin was not available I’d aim for the other, slightly more distant campground.

A cloudy morning in start contrast to yesterday evening.

Despite the presence of foreboding clouds there was no rain and I was able to pack up in dry conditions even if it did take a while for the dew on my tent to dry off. I made a telephone call to Onaero Bay moments before I was ready to depart. After initially receiving the impression that I was out of luck (not unexpected), I was ecstatic when Jan informed me that there was in fact a cabin available. Was I happy? MOST CERTAINLY!

Dark clouds in the sky as I make my way towards New Plymouth.

Although I’d risen early it was approaching 10:00am when I commenced under dark clouds and the threat of rain. The wind although south-east, was no more than 10 knots but it was for the time-being blowing across my beam and I was conscious of the problem that this might pose if it strengthened to the forecast 20 knots. The sea was lumpy. Mt Taranaki was obscured by a thick blanket of cloud. A brief glare of early morning light there was informed me that I was now beginning to head east.

Liquid silver. I was beginning to head east.

My first goal however was to reach New Plymouth, clearly identifiable and approximately 10km distant. I’d covered this distance in just under an hour-and-a-half, paddling on the far side of the middle of two rocky outcrops. A large and readily identifiable chimney stack marked the beginning of the port of New Plymouth and thereafter I observed in the distance the homes and office district spread out along the coastline.

Chimney stack marking the beginning of New Plymouth. The sea was lumpy.

My plan was to point out to sea, away from this part of the coastline because of my concern about the wind picking up to the forecast 20 knots. If I stuck to the coast and it strengthened, I would have to battle the elements hitting me broadside. By pointing high whilst the conditions allowed it, I hoped to be in a position to turn downwind when or if the conditions deteriorated.

New Plymouth The large and readily identifiable chimney stack.

Two-and-a half hours into the paddle and my angle had taken me approximately four kilometres offshore. The coast was barely visible through the rain and mist hugging the coastline so I checked the kayak’s compass in case it vanished altogether.

It was at this juncture I made a turn of nearly ninety degrees and it put me on a bearing that would send me in almost a straight line of 23km to my goal. Importantly I now had the weather squarely behind me. I’d have welcomed a strengthening of the wind at that point.

Getting close.

Despite, or because of, the lumpy conditions I was unable to gain any benefit from the seas. This changed however as I neared the coast. The sky brightened and the wind picked up in its intensity. The randomness of the lumps abated as the seas lined up allowing me to take advantage of their energy.

Approaching some cliffs towards the conclusion of the day's paddle.

With the clouds now having vanished I spotted a number of homes above a break in the cliffs believing I’d reached my destination. The so-called estuary appeared to be little more than a dry creek bed and I wondered at the description it was given in the brochures. My suspicion intensified when I walked up the beach still unable to sight the campground with my inviting cabin. It was then that I switched on my GPS and established that I’d stopped 1.2km short of my goal!

A premature stop! An 'estuary', it was not.

This meant flooding and getting a drenching as I pushed out through the surf, and then some minutes to ‘mop’ the resultant water from the cockpit before I was able to spot the correct landing. I paddled between two impressive rocky outcrops (for the heck of it), before landing on the beach and pushing up the estuary which was anything but a dry creek bed.

Threading the eye of the needle... for the heck of it.

The ‘needle’.

I was standing waist deep in the river mouth taking photos, with my kayak having drifted off some distance away, when Ken waved to me from the shore. I must have looked a sight. I’d estimated my time of arrival at being between 3:00pm and 4:00pm when I spoke to Jan earlier in the morning. It was now 3:40pm and Jan had sent Ken down to the beach to see if he could see me.

The estuary wall and time to paddle.

A time to walk.

After admiring the smooth rock face that channelled the river to the sea I followed Ken’s directions and with some walking and some paddling, it was not a difficult task to make my way a hundred or so metres up the waterway to where I spotted Jan and Lola high on a bridge with Ken standing on the river bank beside a small jetty.

My much appreciated greeting party.

It was a wonderful greeting for me, in part because of the uniqueness of the river that provided me with access, but also due to the help these people proceeded to provide. In moments they’d emptied my kayak of all its load and had it sitting in a trailer behind a small tractor. Ken then helped me carry the now very light kayak to a safe and secure location and by the time I’d walked up to my waiting cabin all my belongings were being neatly placed on the small landing at the front door!

Trailer service.

I had a hot shower revelling in the thought of the unexpected fresh linen on the comfortable bed in my cabin. It had a level of luxury that I had certainly not expected for the price. A copy of the day’s newspaper with some coffee and milk took it to another level again. The price was a bargain.

The temperature could drop below zero for all that I cared.

43.6km was achieved in 6 hours.

Agony and Ecstasy

2010-03-14T16:15:00.000-07:00

Day 103, Mar 10 2010

I had an early highlight when greeting a fellow camper on the shore who’d just been out in his kayak. Upon asking him how he went, I was cruelly delighted to learn that he’d turned sideways and capsized when coming in on a wave and that he’d lost his paddle float. He had obviously not been prepared for the early morning swim because he was wearing shorts, t-shirt and a poly fleece vest!

I was unsure whether to impart some of my own learned wisdom or to offer him a generous hug, so I simply suggested that this was quite ‘normal‘. It was only out of respect that I did not throw myself onto the sand and pound it in absolute mirth.

I took advantage of a channel running up against the headland to make good my departure.

I’d noticed a channel that ran along the inside of the headland when arriving at low tide the previous afternoon and chose this to make good my departure. A small group of interested spectators watched me leave just before 10:00am.

The forecast was warning of a 20 knot north-westerly to hit “in the evening”. I decided that in my condition and with the late start that Oakura was a risk as it entailed a paddle of over 40km and possibly nearer 50km. Cape Egmont however was easily accessible at just over 20km away.
The area is renowned for its surf and I concluded that this region, probably more than any other I‘d come across, deserved the title of the country’s premier surf region. Numerous rocky reefs offered a hint of their potential even in the prevailing small swell conditions.

The fact that it was a clean sunny morning helped me favour the location but as the morning progressed I took to dipping my cap in the ocean due to the heat and a slight headache. This was nothing however compared to the deep pain in my butt and hamstring.

Searching for a more permanent solution to the simple shifting my weight, I tried placing one, and then two, sponges beneath me in the hope that it would relieve some of the pressure that was building up as a result of the extended periods in the seated position. I repositioned them a number of times searching for the ‘right’ placement. As with my previous efforts the relief was only temporary if for slightly longer periods.

Despairingly, looking for yet another adjustment, I removed them altogether, and was surprised when the feeling of relief seemed deeper, and even more surprised when that relief endured. Did this confirm that the pain I’d been experiencing was a sciatica issue as someone had suggested the previous day, and had I somehow bludgeoned it into submission?

With such a short distance to cover I’d paddled quite hard, but was disappointed when Cape Egmont offered no obvious spot to beach and no obvious camping ground in site. It looked quite desolate in fact. It was only 1:00pm so I paddled for another half-an-hour looking for an alternative.

Mt Taranaki and the lighthouse at Cape Egmont.

At 1:33pm I turned on the VHF radio and listened to an updated weather forecast. The threat of the north-westerlies seemed to have evaporated and at 1:45pm I turned on the GPS and was heartened to note that Oakura was only 24km away.

The coastline did not look appealing here and I calculated that even if it took me another four hours, I’d still be able to reach Oakura at 5:45pm. So telling myself that the satisfaction would make it worthwhile as a way of dispelling some trepidation, I made the decision to push on.

Mt Taranaki looking impressive, but the coastline was not appealing.

Not long after making this decision the south-easterly strengthened to 15-20 knots and I found myself making excellent time. It was interesting in that the swells being generated by the wind were not large. They were in fact very small, however they were constant and formed up in well defined lines one after the other. There wasn’t any of the disorganised chop that can interrupt these lines and the kayak was able to surf them for long extended periods, travelling far quicker than I could paddle and offering me a rest every time we picked up one of these ‘runners’.

Motoring!

The bow is briefly submerged as it catches up to some swell.

At 3:00pm I again looked at the GPS and it was now telling me only 11.4km to go. I was flying! The excellent pace lasted right up until I landed on the beach directly in front of the campground. It was only 4:20pm, nearly an hour-and-half inside my original estimation, and I felt great.

I’d arrived feeling deeply satisfied as the afternoon sun reflected off the water.

I believe that the beaches up to the mean high tide mark in New Zealand appear to be recognised as public roadways.

My tent pitched.

Feeling immensely satisfied, I’d soon identified a quiet corner of the campground to pitch my tent and happily walked the mile necessary to reward myself with two ‘Barrel’ burgers… a combination of meat pattie, schnitzel, bacon, ham, egg… I’d easily have eaten three.
I returned to my tent and wondered what the approaching clouds would deliver.

Approaching clouds.

In less than 6 ½ hours I’d covered 50.77km. An excellent result!

A ‘Raft’

2010-03-14T16:04:00.000-07:00

Day 102, Mar 9 2010

I’d not slept well thanks to a 10° C night and soreness in my back above my right glute. The sleeping bag and two layers of thermals were not enough to stop the bite and I wondered if my chosen bedding was going to prove inadequate if the weather continued to cool.

Under such circumstances I was not encouraged to embrace the clear morning that dawned and recognising that Opunake, my planned target, would again demand only half a day‘s effort, I could afford to wait for the sun to climb above the hills to deliver its warmth.

Things began to improve once I got moving and I was extremely thankful when a couple of interested campers were kind enough to carry my kayak, partly loaded, down the bitumen road to the water saving me at least three trips.

Support crew!

It was again a 10:00am start but today I determined to begin at a more leisurely pace. I’m unsure whether it was this or simply the fact that I had the previous day under my belt, but the upper body felt more relaxed than it had yesterday.

Mt Taranaki offering a spectacle.

The backside and hamstring however was continuing to cause me discomfort. I would frequently have to cease my paddling to allow me to lift my butt from the seat in the search for relief, and then hope that by repositioning it, I would gain some, if only temporary relief.

Another point to aim for.

Whatever it was, it distracted me from the cliffs that continued along this part of the coast though my natural inclination to stay offshore meant I saw then only from a distance. They seemed less spectacular than yesterday’s probably due to a decrease in size. Taranaki however continued to grow in size, and I was treated to a number of glorious views although there was always the haze that indicated the distance between us.

Mt Taranaki looming larger.

The sun was shining and the following breeze was fresh, whilst the previously river affected brown water had changed to a deep emerald green. I was making the most of these conditions when I suddenly realised that I’d paddled amongst a huge number of birds sitting on the water. They were birds I’d seen countless times before but never in such numbers. There were literally hundreds of them and they allowed me to get very close before taking flight.

A 'raft' made up of hundreds of mutton birds.

I would learn later that day, when the hosts of the campground to which I was headed would lend me a book, that they were mutton birds. I learnt also that I should refer to them in the collective as a ‘raft’ of birds. I felt much more comfortable with this because the word ‘flock’ didn’t seem in the least way correct.

Approaching Opunake. In most instances it's a wonderful feeling when the destination approaches.

It was not soon after this encounter that I came upon my destination, Opunake Beach. It was a pretty site with a distinctive bay framed by headlands at either end of the beach, and the campground immediately behind it backed by lush green foliage. Possibly the prettiest surf beach in a traditional sense (Australian style), that I’ve come across in New Zealand… Bondi without the cafes and g-strings perhaps? A tidy and well-equipped campground without being garish offered a welcome place to pitch the tent at the end of the day.

I’d paddled 36.5km in just under 4 ½ hours.

No Excuses

2010-03-14T15:50:00.001-07:00

Day 101, Mar 8 2010

I felt that it might be prudent to take a stroll to the breakwater and review the conditions before beginning my preparations in earnest. There was no surf and no wind and the sky was blue. It was time to move on.

I was standing beside the kayak at the boat ramp saying goodbye to some of the campers who’d become my friends over the past 11 days when I was interrupted by someone shouting “Hey Aussie, you can’t go anywhere without this!” Bill came marching down the road with my paddle in hand. I’d left it at the campground. Perhaps it was a subconscious decision on my part to overlook this somewhat important piece of equipment. Not having a paddle would certainly have provided me with sound justification to head to the Red Rock Café. I mean it’s not an oversight that I’d ‘discover’ an hour into the trip would it?

"Hey Aussie!"

Paddle in hand, I left the boat ramp for the second time but on this would not return. The gentle swell posed no real threat although I must admit to a momentary pang of doubt as an incoming wave threatened.

A momentary pang of doubt.

The plan was to make Ohewa Beach, a 30km paddle, which I felt was reasonable considering my lack of ‘exercise’ over the past fortnight. Just one day’s paddle in fact.
Conditions were excellent and it was an altogether uneventful trip. There were some impressive cliffs to observe. I could not recall having encountered vertical cliffs on my journey?

Impressive cliffs, although not something you‘d wish for if conditions on the water turned ugly.

Mt Taranaki (Mt Egmont), occupied a lot of my attention when I wasn’t looking ahead and despite the haze the 2 ½km high volcanic cone was an impressive sight as its proximity neared.

Mt Taranaki just visible.

My right glute (buttock) and hamstring gave me some grief and demanded constant adjustments to my seating position as I attempted to find relief. I’d lost the cushion that had worked so well when I’d capsized against the pylons and the arrangements that I’d made i.e. the two neoprene stubby coolers glued to the seat, in recognition of this fact were not working well.
Nor did the body appreciate the reminder of what was expected of it and I was thankful that my targeted beach was reached in four hours.

Ohawe Beach

The campground was located up a slight incline and although some effort was required to march my belongings up the hill I was thankful of the respite. The sun was shining and with it still being early in the afternoon I had plenty of time.

Camp Sign

34kms had been covered in 4 hours.

Patea

2010-03-03T12:02:00.000-08:00

The breakwater remained impassable.

Days 94-100, Feb 27 Mar 7 2010

Whether it was anxiety brought about by the tsunami warning or the resultant day’s excursion added to the excitement of my encounter with the pylons three days earlier, I am unsure, however I felt decidedly ‘lazy’ upon waking despite it being another perfect day.
I lay in bed until 9:00am and did very little except to walk the couple of kilometres up the hill to the small township of Patea where I indulged in bacon & eggs, a cappuccino (or two), and a read of the newspaper. The walk taking me past the local golf links and it’s resident greenkeepers.

Hazards?

Patea Golf Course Greenkeeper.

The following day was spent prepping and organising for a departure the day after. This has the effect of getting my head in the right place. Small but critical tasks such as adjusting the seat, filling water bladders, reviewing maps, tightening ropes… they all help me psyche myself.
Despite my preparations however I was not ready to tackle very strong and gusty north-westerlies so I took the opportunity to visit a farm compliments of one of my newfound friends. Chooks, horses, cows, and pigs all. I felt sorry for the 350kg pig who had outlived his usefulness because the sows were unable to bear his weight. I’m not sure if the quiet word I had in his ear suggesting he commence an exercise routine was understood.

350kg and too big for the girls.

Another day and the winds had still not abated so the local café again saw to my needs while I reviewed the form for the upcoming weekend’s sports.

St George’s Anglican Church built 1885 with "an A-frame construction of five equilateral triangles, two sides of each forming the roof rafters which are carried down to floor level... projecting beyond the walls functioning as buttresses, providing stability in the coastal Patea winds."

When I rose on Friday the day looked promising but the weather report advised that the winds would be back with a vengeance that afternoon. This was confirmed whilst sharing my thoughts with a holidaying commercial fisherman. He went on to warn me about the 5 knot north-to-south current I’d have to tackle that ran all the way down and into Cook Strait, but then seemed surprised when he learnt I’d come up from there.
The day was not wasted however as I was kindly driven to Hawera and Tawhiti Museum. A renowned, privately owned museum that uses life size exhibits and scale models to capture the heritage of the early European settlers of South Taranaki. It is an extraordinary recreation and all the work on one man, Nigel Ogle, a former school art teacher. A great day out and extremely educational!

Saturday morning and gale force south-easterlies. Despite its favourable direction I had learnt my lesson when I’d last attempted to depart Patea and its breakwater in the same such conditions. I would be patient and wait for the still conditions that should follow whilst not missing the opportunity for a leisurely morning at ‘my’ café.

Coffee and newspaper.

Sunday’s forecast looked good for Monday so I once again began my preparations whilst saying goodbye to Patea.

An impressive home. It appeared to be unoccupied.

Tsunami

2010-02-27T22:13:00.000-08:00

Something is working against me. I packed up the tent and prepared everything for my departure but just as I got ready to carry the kayak down to the water I was informed that a tsunami was on the way as a result of an earthquake in Chile and that it would be wise to seek out higher ground.

It was my good fortune that I ran into a wonderful woman and her two sons who I'd met at a dinner the previous evening and it was not long before I was being driven up into the hills following the Patea River as it wound through some extraordinarily wonderful scenery.

The Day After

2010-02-27T21:59:00.001-08:00

Like the card says, "YOU F!#? IT WE FIX IT!"

Nothing to do but collect the kayak and the day was perfect for paddling and the breakwater nothing like the fury that I tackled on the previous day.

The following day... can you believe it!

The offending pylons looking totally innocent.

I had a look north. Conditions were perfect but I had a kayak to collect.

Ready and waiting.

Cameron to the rescue and heading back home but not before a guided tour of the beaches between Wanganui and Patea.

Disaster!

2010-02-27T21:40:00.001-08:00

Day 91, Feb 26 2010
The wind had howled all night and I wondered during the waking moments whether it was a continuation of yesterday’s strong north-wester or had the forecast south-easterly that I was banking to carry me up the coast, kicked in. I had it in my mind that the latter could carry me over 65km to Opunake if I gave myself the time.

When the 5:33am weather report suggested once more that the south-easterly would be prevalent I wasted no time in rising and hauling my gear and kayak down to the boat ramp despite the drizzle. It was only just getting light as I pushed out into the flow and made my way to the river mouth and its double breakwater wondering what lay ahead of me.

Ready to go.

As I approached, my initial thought was that whilst still messy but that it was manageable. I began slowly keeping my strength in reserve. As I progressed the waves increased in size to a degree that had not been obvious before. They were relentless with only moments between each wash and I was soon digging deep and leaning back to climb the steep walls of foam. My momentum was slowing however with no respite offered and seeing the waves suck and pitch at the entrance I realised that an exit was beyond me.

I gave it a go. The breakwater's southern boundary is just visible beneath the waves.

I had no choice but to attempt to bring the kayak cumbersome kayak around in the narrow confines of the two moles and without time to prepare I was unceremoniously dumped, very conscious of the nearby cement walls towards which I was headed.

I fumbled and could not immediately find the skirt’s strap that would allow me to escape from the upside down cockpit. I made the mistake of attempting to lift my head for a gasp of air but failed to find the surface and felt a moment of panic before relaxing, slowing down and seeking out the handle that with a tug allowed me to separate and surface.

I righted the flooded kayak and part-paddled and part-swam it to a small sandy landing to take stock and pump out the water. I realised that I should have jumped out at this spot and reconnoitred before attempting what I had. I ran across to the adjacent beach outside the breakwater but it was not going to offer me an opportunity to get out beyond the surf.

I landed on the small sandy beach and took stock. It did not look good.

I knew that my only option was to paddle back from where I’d come and that today I was going nowhere. I was gutted after all the effort I’d put in for an early start and my hopes for a long and exciting surf up the coast but there was nothing else to do.

Having emptied all the water I climbed back in and paddled out a short way with a view to rounding the pylons that marked where a jetty once ran before the construction of the breakwater. I had to round them to return to the boat ramp. Just as I was turning a wave collected me. I was ready however and lent into it as I had recently learned and avoided another capsize.

Elation quickly turned to horror however as my sideways surfing kayak headed straight for the pylons I’d been hoping to round. There is no way to steer a kayak being washed in as it was and I could only watch as I collected two pylons broadside and was brought to an immediate and shuddering halt.

It was extremely fortunate that one pylon impacted in front of the cockpit and the other behind because as soon as the kayak’s progress was halted the continuing wave ensured that we overturned for the second time that morning.

Moments before launching with the pylons that I wished to round clearly visible.

On this occasion it did not take me long to climb out, and after first allowing a second and third wave to press the hull against the two structures against which it was temporarily wedged, I was able to push the kayak off the pylons and into the water that I had been hoping to reach before the impact.

I made it to the boat ramp but soon discovered some serious damage to the hull. A big flap of the exterior’s gel coat could be lifted from the Kevlar where the rear impact of the pylon had occurred and a structural crack showed on the opposite side. The impact had occurred in line with the rear bulkhead and peering inside I noted that it too had cracked where it met the hull.

The impact zone.

A serious crack on the side opposite to that which hit the pylon.

The kayak was going nowhere and with this realisation I actually smiled. I had felt worse before the crash when realising that the surf would hold me hostage to Patea. Now, the reason was different and for some reason easier to cope with.
Thought of this being a fitting end to my trip went through my mind. At best it would take days to repair if, and it was surely a big if in a small town, to find someone to be able to do them. It occurred to me that the hull’s integrity may have been compromised and that repairs would not be possible even if I could find help.
I continued to smile whilst beginning to think about how I would get back to Auckland and what I would do with the damaged craft. Was it relief that I’d not been hurt that made me smile or was it the thought of spending time at the local café drinking coffees and reading the newspapers whilst waiting for possible repairs, or was it the thought that my endeavours had reached a conclusion? Maybe it was for all those reasons.
By the time I’d returned to the campground, put up my tent, and had a hot shower it was 11:00am, it was six hours since I’d woken in preparation for a day I’d hoped would see me cover in excess of 60km. I had no idea when I woke that I would find myself in tis situation.
I walked the couple of kilometres to town and walked into the workshop of the general engineers, McCarty & Hunger Ltd. In the small town it offered me possibly my only hope. John (Hunger), Cameron and Deborah heard my tale and began discussing possible options before making some calls on my behalf. I had not hoped for as much so was very thankful.
After a few calls they had located a bloke back at Wanganui who said he could do it, and that he would do it that afternoon! Of course I had no vehicle to drive the 50+ kilometres and after some discussion it was decided that a trip to Wanganui could be justified by taking a load of scrap metal there to the recyclers.

The truck.

The trailer.

At 2:00pm my damaged kayak was being strapped on top of a load of scrap for the trip to Wanganui. I was off for a road trip and Cameron turned out to be a great companion. We arrived at West Coast Panel Paint & Customs where I was introduced to Garret. Despite his specialty being hot rods he took a look at said he’d repair it overnight. Wow!

The yard.

Cameron was happy to drive me back in the morning so after dropping off the scrap metal we returned to Patea. On the way back I noted a very choppy sea and wondered if it had all been for the best whilst realising that my journey was not yet over.

Smoking

2010-02-27T21:31:00.000-08:00

Are warnings sufficint?

Day 90, Feb 25 2010
It had rained heavily for most of the night and the forecast was for northerly and westerly winds of 20-25 knots. Both were in effect headwinds and with stretches of sheer cliffs up ahead it was a simple decision to stay put. I would hope that the south-easterly winds forecast for the following day eventuated because they would push me towards my goal. An inspection of the seas later that day from a vantage point confirmed the wisdom of the initial assessment.

A large surf was rolling in through the breakwater.

The day gave me a chance to reflect on the ‘best’ achievement of my adventure and that is in my not having had a cigarette in over three months. I gave this some thought whilst reading today’s New Zealand Herald which covered two stories related to smoking.

Looking south from where I'd come the previous day.

The first headline read “Smokers have lower IQs, says study”. It went on to list four ’famous smokers’, Albert Einstein, Winston Churchill, Sigmund Freud, and Kate Moss. I’ve a feeling there is an odd one out?
The non-smokers listed four persons including George W Bush so some might argue (I would), that these lists (Kate Moss aside, unless of course she is a genius in which case my argument is strengthened), do not support the results of the study that suggests the tobacco industry targets those with lower IQs. Personally I’m not sure that a study is needed to determine that people who smoke are stupid?
The second headline read “Uproar over ‘oral sex anti-smoking ads”. Apparently feminists and pro-family activists in France are up-in-arms over a campaign to discourage young people from smoking, that shows male and female teenagers kneeling in front of a man, as if being forced to have oral sex with a cigarette taking the place of the man’s sexual organ. Quite what the activists hold so important over the deaths that smoking causes is not readily accessible to me but I’m sure it’s equally important.
I have a question. Does a government have a responsibility for its constituents’ safety and well-being and therefore health, and if so when it acknowledges the damage and death as caused by smoking, why do its own laws make it legal? Personally, I cannot understand why there are suggestions that the tobacco industry should be held to blame when the movement legalises the product that it is selling.
I know that many will say that we are all ultimately responsible for our own actions and I agree with this to a large extent, but when sophisticated companies with marketing geniuses whose task is to get people to take up what is scientifically acknowledged as being an addictive product then what chance do those with lower IQs have when the government legally condones the practice.
And to those who say we are responsible for our own actions and who might say it is not the government’s responsibility, I wonder if you disagreed when the law was passed that made wearing a seatbelt as compulsory?

Perfect

2010-02-27T21:13:00.000-08:00

Day 89, Feb 24 2010
The morning suggested that the good conditions of the previous day had persisted into this one. Garfield, who had so kindly put up with me over the previous two days handed me an ice-cream container with the words “have some real food.” I resisted peeking inside and simply packed it away with everything else, humbled by the kindness that was being shown to me.
Phil who had shared so much of his knowledge of the upcoming coastline was there as promised to wish me luck as I pushed off with the time barely 8:30am. I passed Carl in his kayak on the way out. He was checking his fishing lines. “Two Lemon Sharks!” he told me, and two less for me to worry about?

What, sharks!!!

I made a straight line across the bay, towards the 20km distant Waiinu. Conditions were as good as they could be, almost perfect in fact. There was the slightest of breezes, just enough to take the sting out of the sun that was about to come out from behind the thin cloud cover that was disappearing as the day’s warmth intensified. I could count the days since the commencement of the trip with such conditions on a single hand. Everyone has been telling me that summer has been arriving later and later with each passing year so maybe, just possibly the day was a portent of things to come?
I passed Waiinu at 11:30am and was 21km from my staring point. More condensation on the inside of the camera housing saw me take the opportunity to land on the beach to try to address the problem. I could not resist taking a look inside the ice-cream container and was delighted to see numerous pieces of fried chicken, donuts, a pear and orange. I ‘tasted’ one piece of the chicken and left not a morsel for the fish when I finally disposed of the bone. Sensational!

I beached and had a piece of chicken. Yum!!!

Fifteen minutes later and I was back on the water and an hour later, with conditions still ideal, I noted small cliffs no more than 30 metres high with a number of caves eroded into their faces. Some I noticed ran right through creating tunnels. Unfortunately the images are not good. I have since discovered that the lens of the camera itself was covered in residue and am hopeful that the future quality may see an improvement. Regardless, the different scenery was appreciated and I took the time to take a closer look angling the kayak toward the shore.

Caves on the shoreline.

By now I had only 14km to go to make my destination as I noted a slight fluctuation in the breeze. Over the course of the day I had seen it swing from the north-west, to the west, then to south-west, and now the south. Never however did it exceed 5 knots.

I paddled closer to shore to inspect the numerous caves.

With the GPS telling me just 7 ½ km to go there was a change and this time it swung back to the north-west and picked up to 10 knots. Just enough to frustrate me as it meant paddling into it whilst the sun too was casting its glare into my face with my mainly westerly bearing as I made my way around the land feature distinguished by Mount Taranaki (formerly Egmont).

Paddling into the setting sun the wind picked up briefly giving me some concern.

It crossed my mind that although I was only kilometres from my goal, Patea, I might have to pull up short if the wind intensified as it can be prone to do. It was therefore with a great sense of relief that one hour later it died just as quickly as it had risen.

I caught a wave in.

I could now clearly make out the near and far breakwaters that marked the entrance to the river on which Patea lay. The surf that was breaking either side of it was significantly less pronounced between the walls and I had no problem picking up an unbroken swell that carried me 150 metres before I had to begin paddling.

The boat ramp was in my sights.

The boat ramp that I had been told to look for appeared shortly after and I was on land just before 4:00pm with a short walk up the street to the campground. I’d covered 49km in just over 7 hours.

Having arrived.

Wanganui

2010-02-22T17:20:00.000-08:00

Wanganui Surf Club.

My favourite. Wanganui's first ever club members. A hardy and devoted looking group who I suspect had some fun times. Sadly, I noted on the Club's Roll of Honour that Morry Richardson (top right), lost his life in the Great War.

Days 87 & 88, Feb 22 & 23 2010
Over the next two days I visited the impressive township of Wanganui with its well maintained buildings of the late 1800s and early 1900s fronting the tree lined main streets.

The Opera House, a stunningly grand old lady.

Victoria Street.

A lot to like.

Back at the clubhouse looking over my maps I gained invaluable insights from Phil into the coastline leading most of the way to the northern most tip of New Zealand, whilst also enjoying his conversations and observing the obvious pleasure he gained from the club and its relationship with the ocean.

Training.

I had the absolute pleasure of sharing the clubhouse with Garfield, named after the famous cricketer and his delightful daughter. Garfield saw to it that my every need was attended to even going so far as to cook me dinner. A true gentleman with impeccable manners and proud to demonstrate the very best of traditional Maori hospitality.

Strategy.

Glen, who introduced me to the Club’s President, James and then showed me around town as I attended to the requirements that would put me in good stead for the next stage of my journey.
I was staggered to learn that the Wanganui Surf Club had just celebrated its centenary year just months before and gained great respect and enjoyment from the old black and white photos adorning the walls.

1927-28.

'Ladies' Surf Club... the year 1941, offers a clue.

Nippers!

Look at the guy on the left!

Surf canoe using 'Canadian' style paddles.

Surely

2010-02-22T17:17:00.000-08:00

Day 86, Feb 21 2010
I woke with swollen eyes and sand stuck to my cheeks, not that it had disrupted my sleep. I’d woken only once and that was just before midnight with the sound of sand rasping against the tent still audible to my ears despite the sand that filled them.

Not a pretty sight.

The 5:33am marine weather report suggested north-west winds (again!), of 20 knots. At least by my reckoning that was 5-10 knots less than yesterday and if I got going early I could knock off most of the remaining 18km before it struck. Surely?
Sunrise was now at least an hour later than when I’d first begun the trip. This meant that when I arose at 6:45am, after a few stretches for the lower back that was providing me with some lingering discomfort, I was able to watch the sun rise above the hills bringing its warmth to the chill air.

The Sun was rising later now.

I was able to return to its rightful place most of the sand dune that had taken up residence in my tent over the course of the previous afternoon. A lack of dew ensured that it was less reluctant than it might otherwise have been.
Right on 9:00am, I began in earnest. There was no capsize this morning. It looked possible at one stage when a wave could not make up its mind whether to break before or after me, deciding instead toi hedge its bets and break directly on top of me.
I have learnt from a previous experience to hold the paddle parallel with the kayak to help it ‘pierce’ the wave. This is far preferable to bracing it out in front of the body, perpendicular to the kayak, and then having the force of the wave push it as far back as the bridge of one’s nose. A painful experience even if in some way effective.
I was determined to try to get at least two good hours of paddling in which I calculated would have me within striking distance of my goal. My pace therefore was solid and I felt a sense of relief as each hour passed knowing that I was that much closer. I watched for any telltale signs of the forecast breeze on the water, feeling that it would only be a mater of time before it arrived. At 10:15am I noted 10km to go as I noted a suggestion of a breeze . Just before 11:00am I saw the airport’s control tower telling myself there was no way I was not going to make it today. My confidence had begun to grow markedly with the strength of the breeze not threatening and just 5km now to travel.
I noted literally scores of tents and cars on the beach leading towards Wanganui and wondered whether the area was a designated free camping area. It was a Sunday I noted to myself and with a clear sky maybe everyone was taking advantage of the good conditions. I learnt later however that it was part of a huge fishing contest with NZ$40,000 in prize money up for grabs and that it had attracted over 800 contestants. The windy conditions meant that not one Flounder was caught, which was the aim, and the prizes had to be awarded for alternative categories!
It was a welcome change however for me to see so many people after the past few days and it was not soon after that I had the breakwater that marked the entrance to the river on which Wanganui was located clearly in my sights.
Five minutes before midday I paddled into its mouth and about 200 metres upstream before asking a fisherman for directions to the Castlecliff Campground that was advertised as being “on the beach”. My instructions were to paddle back out the river and onto the beach beside it using the surf club as my marker. The campground was up the road that led directly to the club house. I thanked him whilst learning that his only luck that morning had been in catching a couple of sharks. I learnt that they were only “small ones”, after seeking clarification.
Turning back towards the entrance from where I’d come I began to think about the surf club thinking to myself that there was a very good chance of it being attended to on a sunny Sunday. The club house stood out proudly and once I’d secured the camera (I do learn), I began my approach through some messy surf conditions. My new found ‘skills’ stood the test and I arrived right-side-up.
It was 12:20pm and the local rescue boat was just that moment being wheeled out of the club house. I made my way up the beach, quickly introduced myself and sought the charity of the club regarding the storage of my craft.
I was introduced to Phil, a former Club Captain (1973/4) and senior figure for the current batch of patrolling lifeguards. The offer of a mattress was immediately forthcoming and it was with scarcely concealed glee that I accepted another wonderful offer from the life-saving fraternity of New Zealand.
Glen, a patrolling lifeguard was soon helping me up the beach with my kayak, identifying a home for it in a spacious workroom, and thereafter pointing out which hot showers had the best pressure, where to find the toilets, kitchen… before offering me a cup of tea. What do you say when you are just bowled over by such generous people and fortunate circumstance without appearing insincere. I hope they understand my appreciation.

The Graveyard

2010-02-21T20:24:00.000-08:00

Day 85, Feb 20 2010
It was a beautiful morning, clear and bright with an offshore breeze blowing although this did not stop me finding my tent to be literally saturated with the effects of condensation. I hung the tent out to dry in the breeze on the branch of a large tree that had been washed up onto the beach as driftwood.
With the tent dry and stored away I appraised the surf. I felt confident, enough so to leave the camera on the deck. I was away at 8:40am but had to make an almost immediate return to the beach after the camera and mount were both washed off the foredeck. I frantically hauled both in and whilst holding the camera’s strap in my teeth turned the kayak side-on and waited for the first wave. It carried me safely back onto the beach where I’d pushed off just moments before.

Yes, I was stupid. Enough said.

I placed the camera and mount safely inside the day compartment where I would be able to access them once I got out beyond the surf.
For the second time in minutes I climbed into the cockpit whilst waves washed over the deck and into the cockpit before I could secure the spray-skirt. I have read that even the most experienced kayaker’s struggle to avoid this although it does little to avoid the frustration that I feel every time it occurs.
I made my way out for a second time. I had almost made it out the back beyond the surf and had to negotiate a final set wave and its wall of foam, which in a sense I did, only to teeter upon doing so. I felt the kayak unbalance and for a moment felt both I and the kayak hover between success and failure. Unfortunately failure won out and I capsized for the second time in two days.
Whether it was the additional water in the cockpit contributing to the instability of the kayak, or fatigue on my part having had to repeat this exercise twice in a matter of moments, a combination of both, or something else I’m not sure. Certainly the exercise of attempting to power the fully-laden craft out through the surf is extremely taxing in both an aerobic and anaerobic sense. It demands both power and endurance at the same time and leaves little in the tank upon completion.
Again however luck was on my side because I had not been far from success and I was able to straddle the flooded kayak and paddle it beyond where the waves were breaking whilst the electric bilge pump did its best to remove the sixty plus litres of unwanted seawater from my cockpit. It took some while even with the manual hand pump working in tandem.
While I’d been attending to this the breeze, a north-west headwind, had freshened and the conditions which I faced once I got going were quite choppy. I told myself just 28km and that even if I had to battle away the reward of making it to Wanganui would make it worthwhile. I was mentally prepared for a slog and kept telling myself this, reminding myself of winds I’d battled into on previous occasions. The winds might even back off I reminded myself when thinking of some of those times. It had eased off yesterday afternoon too I thought to myself
The wind grew steadily stronger and the chop got worse. I persevered for an hour before checking my GPS. The effort required to make what seemed like minimal headway felt disproportionate. The indication was 4.5 km/h. I estimated another 4 hours at this rate to reach Wanganui. I cold do it I told myself. It was not quite yet 11:00am.
Almost immediately however my resolve was broken when the wind picked up yet another notch. It was now approaching 20-25 knots and the chop was typical of a very fresh sea-breeze. The kayak’s bow seemed to spend more time pointing up and then crashing down than it did on progressing forward. At 11:20am I called it quits.
I pointed in towards the shore and again surfed into shore without a capsize. When the kayak broached I was ready for it and felt confident enough to lean towards the wave bracing with the paddle‘s blade on that side.
It was somewhat ironic I thought, that on the two occasions of late when I had capsized, I’d been attempting to head out to sea. Not something I’d previously had a problem with, whilst on surfing into the shore, where previously all my problems had arisen, I was now achieving success.

My kayak, safe from the foaming seas.

The beach was amazing. There was even more driftwood on this part of the coast than on any other I’d seen. I looked at it in wonderment as the wind blew tendrils of fine sand along the beach’s surface. It made me think of an old black and white horror movie depicting a graveyard with the bleached driftwood mimicking exposed bones, and the streaming sands looked like the ground-hugging mist created by the guys in special effects.

A graveyard.

I climbed the dunes and was happy to find a deep depression that was protected from the worst of the winds. Because it was so early I decided to make use of all that wood and began to build a windbreak, which over the next three hours got bigger and bigger whilst also providing me with a seriously good workout. It meant too that I was able to put the tent up with relative ease. This is not to say that I did not have a struggle, just that I think it would have been impossible without.

I spent three hours collecting wood and building my windbreak.

As the afternoon wore on and the sand that had been dampened by previous days of rain, dried out it no longer satisfied itself by blowing along the ground. It was now getting stinging my torso and getting into my eyes. I sought shelter in the tent resigning myself to the fact that the sand was in there with me in handfuls.

My tent in the lee of my 6' high windbreak.

The wind eased off sufficiently around 8:00pm for me to boil some of the little remaining water I had in the lee of my windbreak for some noodles without having to crunch the black iron sand between my teeth with every mouthful. I fell asleep soon after with sand in my ears, eyes and nostrils.
I’d covered less than 13km that day. After the 65km I’d achieved a few days earlier, I’d gone to the other end of the scale. It all balances out. I was still 18km short of Wanganui.

A Wet Start in More Ways Than One

2010-02-21T17:58:00.000-08:00

Day 84, Feb 19 2010
Another wet morning and Peter, Sonja’s husband, and Lance their son, were early and at my door at 6:45am. We put all my belongings in the cabin of the ute and with me sitting in the tray holding onto the kayak Lance drove me the five-hundred metres up the road to the Foxton Boat Club’s boat ramp.

At the boat ramp and ready to depart.

I was fascinated when Lance informed me that he was a pest controller and that he trapped possums, a protected native marsupial in Australia that was considered a pest here in New Zealand. Hunters attract the possums by smearing flour on the trunks of trees and strategically placing spring-loaded, flat jaw, snares. Possum fur is highly valued and at over $100/kg (12-15 possum pelts) is potentially a lucrative industry to New Zealand. Wow!
I said goodbye and thankyou to Lance and made my way along the smooth waters of the river towards the mouth. I felt confident enough of my ability now to tackle the surf and leave the camera mounted on the deck to capture the moment even though it was a good deal rougher than when I’d entered two days prior.

Not a hint of what lay ahead.

This turned out to be a mistake because when I hit one of the larger waves breaking out the back, the camera was separated from its attachment although I only noticed this upon bursting through the other side. In hindsight this was quite understandable with the force of the water it was subjected to but here I was in the midst of breaking waves in a dirty and fast flowing river mouth with an extremely expensive camera and housing somewhere in the water beside me hanging on, hopefully, by a tether.

Safely over a wave.

I had no choice but to stop my paddling and haul the line in praying that the all-important camera was still at the end of the line. It was, but by the time the next wave hit I was stationary and inevitably swamped and rolled. The camera was my immediate concern however and I was determined to hold onto it irrespective.

An image captured by the still running camera after its separation.

It was fortunate, despite two or three more waves crashing over the kayak and I - I had one hand firmly on the camera and one firmly on the kayak - that the river’s current swept us further out and safe from the breaking waves.

It took me twenty minutes to pump the cockpit dry and assess the outcome of the swamping. I had lost a water bladder that I stored in the kayak beneath me legs, but the manual pump, sponges, and cushion seat were all still with me having been ‘trapped’ inside the cockpit of the upside down kayak. All-in-all an outcome that I was thankful for because it could have been worse, so much worse, if I‘d lost the camera. I shudder even now when I type this and think of that scenario.
The brown silt loaded sea was extremely lumpy with a north-east breeze and chop crossing with an obvious south-east swell. The first sign of swell I’d encountered for literally weeks. I’d sighted a weather report on the television that morning for 30knot south-westerly winds and a 3 metre south-west swell with very rough seas. Of the three it was the swell that concerned me but for now it seemed not to be of the size suggested. I would have to maintain a vigil and would land if it looked like it was becoming unmanageable.
The township of Wanganui was 65km away. With the southerly winds forecast I imagined that this might not be out of my reach. Despite the delay at the river mouth I’d had an early start so I retained a faint hope that I might yet make this goal.
After the first two hours the seas actually got smoother and the swell did the opposite to what I had feared. It got smaller. The north-east breeze did not however make way for the southerly winds highlighting once more the fickle nature of New Zealand’s weather and the danger of relying wholly on the weather forecasters who I am sure are the first to acknowledge the unreliability of their science. What this did do was put Wanganui firmly out of reach on this day.
I continued to make my way along the unrelenting beach that was the coastline when at 1:00pm I began to feel ’flat’. It felt like I’d run into a current that was determined to work against me. Whether I’d simply hit the wall early or not I’m unsure, but for the next hour my progress felt laboured. I looked at my watch and with it indicating just past 2:00pm I made the decision to beach. With Wanganui almost certainly out of reach, but having covered more than half the distance to it from my starting point at Foxton I was comfortable with the decision.
With some trepidation I began making my way towards shore and the breaking surf. I was quite prepared and possibly even expecting of my second ‘swim’ for the day, so it was with a sense of both excitement and relief that we safely negotiated the waves. I am firmly of the belief that expecting the kayak to broach has completely altered my approach to the landings through the surf.

On the beach, right way up!

I put up my tent in the dunes as the clouds were burnt away by the afternoon sun.

My tent nestled behind the dunes with the clouds having completely disappeared.

The location and terrain provided a sense of wilderness as I cooked a celebratory freeze-dried meal of “Mexican Chicken” with a packet of noodles.

The kayak, high above the tide mark.

I had paddled slightly less than 40km and only had 28km to go to reach Wanganui. I looked at the surf through which I’d arrived whilst thinking of the 3 metre forecast and hoped that it would not prove an impassable barrier to my departure tomorrow. I did not have much water left after losing the water bladder at the beginning of the day.

Cyclone Rene

2010-02-21T16:41:00.000-08:00

Day 83, Feb 18 2010

The low pressure system that was the remnants of Cyclone Rene meant that it was a wet and rainy day in Foxton. I stayed indoors for most of the day keeping dry and catching up on the blog.

Importantly also it was arranged that Sonja's husband Peter, and son Lance, would meet me early in the morning and drive me ad the kayak up to the boat ramp for a launch. Short of me waiting half the day for the tide to come in, or me being able to paddle through mud, this would be essential.

People often ask me if I have a support crew. I will need to amend my answer because in truth I have had a team of many helping me all along the journey.

Goodbye Otaki, Hello Foxton

2010-02-21T16:21:00.000-08:00

Day 82, Feb 17 2010

Paul, the much-time Otaki Surf Lifesaving Club Captain, full-time forensic psychologist, arrived as promised to provide me with access to the kayak whilst helping carry it down to the beach on a damp grey morning with not a hint of breeze. Perfect conditions for paddling. I was aiming for Foxton, a distance of 30km and less than half that of the previous day.

After the previous day’s effort I felt that I could take my time so it was 9:25am before I began. It took me another hour to find my rhythm and a level of ’power’ in my stroke. At 11:00am the sky and water turned silver, the first indication of the gentle north-east breeze that would follow half-an-hour later. The drizzly rain persisted.

The sky and water turned silver.

The scenery offered nothing more than a long grey-sanded beach stretching for as far as the eye could see. It was backed by grassed dunes and plantation pines behind them. The water here was silted from the multiple streams, creeks and rivers feeding into the ocean. Only small waves washed up onto the shore posing no threat to me.

At midday I checked the GPS and it informed me that I only had 12km to go when I was expecting it to tell me 16km. This was a bonus of course.

I arrived at the large river mouth, again relying on the GPS to tell me that Foxton lay not far within despite the fact that the rain and mist meant meant that I could not immediately see it.

I, nor the camera, could see much at all.

I gained some assistance from the breaking surf marking the entrance before heading for the far shore to avoid the worst of the outgoing current.

I gained some assistance from the waves surfing inside the river mouth.

I could now see homes but the campground advertised as being “adjacent to the river mouth” was not discernable. I stopped and made my way across the tidal flats and onto a rise spotting it in the distance. I thought that it might be possible to gain access to it by a waterway that could be reached by paddling a bit further upstream.

I soon realised however that it was too shallow for me to make it all the way through the reeds and had to abandon this tact and leave what was in effect a marsh, to the various wading birds that made it their home.

With the campground out of reach - it was simply too far away to consider carrying the kayak and all my gear - I began to grow frustrated as the rain continued unabated. It was not long after as I backed out of the marsh that I spotted a sign reading Foxton Beach Motel about one-hundred metres away along the river’s shore.

I parked the kayak on some rocks and walked along the foreshore path seeking guidance before deciding to accept a room. I watched in amazement as much of the river that I’d paddled upon turned to mud flats on the outgoing tide. Once Sonja, one half of the husband-and-wife team that ran the show, understood the reason for my bizarre appearance she quickly pointed out that I would not be able to depart from the same spot if the tide was out. The water continued to recede in front of my eyes leaving the kayak high, if not entirely dry.

Sonja offered me the motel’s garage to store the kayak and a special drying line for my wet clothes that could be hoisted into the same room’s loft. I paid for two night’s stay planning to rest my shoulder’s that were ‘tired’ from the accumulated efforts of the previous few days and use the time to catch up on the blog.

I’d paddled a distance of 31.39km and spent just over five hours on the water.

Making Up For Lost Time

2010-02-17T23:08:00.001-08:00

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.

The Home Stretch

2010-02-17T19:43:00.000-08:00

Day 80, Feb 15 2010

Despite a sore back, the result of the unavoidably uneven ground of my campsite, I was excited. The view below me was in stark contrast to the one I’d observed the previous day. The water was calm and offered no clue to its previous agitated state.

The view below me was in stark contrast to the one I'd obsevred the previous day.

My day reached an early high when in a single instantaneous moment of intuitive insight I worked out that by wearing my watch on the outside of the long-sleeved top I wear to keep New Zealand’s unforgiving ultra-violet rays at bay, I could read the time without having to stop and pull back the sleeve. Absolutely brilliant… and it had taken me less than three months to work this out.

The only thing that could spoil today would be the Karori Rips. An infamous rip so strong that -

“In April 2008, a resource consent was granted to Neptune Power for the installation of a $10 million experimental underwater tidal stream turbine capable of producing one megawatt. The turbine has been designed in Britain, and will be built in New Zealand. It will be 14 metres in diameter and constructed of carbon fibre. It will be placed in eighty metres of water, 4.5 kilometres due south of Sinclair Head, in waters known as the “Karori Rip”. Power from the turbine will be brought ashore at Vector's Island Bay substation. The turbine is a pilot, and will be sited in slower tides for testing. Neptune hopes to generate power from the unit by 2010. The company claims there is enough tidal movement in Cook Strait to generate 12 GW of power, more than one-and-a-half times New Zealand's current requirements.”

As it was I noticed only a minor ripple on the water’s surface and I made sure that I stayed close to shore just in case. It was with a sense of irony that I noted the massive wind turbines on the hills, whilst wondering to myself whether the blades would have been spinning faster during the previous day’s blow or whether they simply change gears whilst maintaining similar revolutions from an outsider’s perspective?

I passed the impressive 65m high Karori Rock with later investigations revealing -

“This lighthouse went into service on October 20, 1915. It was established due to the loss of the SS Penguin in 1909. The tower took over a year to build under difficult conditions. The original light was a 500mm drum lens, illuminated by Acetone-acetylene equipment. It was originally planned to place a watched light on nearby Tongue Point, where there was space for keepers' houses, but the development of acetylene gas-powered automatic lights was so satisfactory that Karori Rock Light was established instead. It was one of New Zealand's earliest automatic lighthouses. It was always difficult to service due to severe weather.
SS Penguin was a New Zealand 824 ton inter-island ferry steamer that sank off Cape Terawhiti near the entrance to Wellington Harbour in poor weather on 12 February 1909, and subsequently exploded as cold sea water flooded into the red-hot boiler room. Of the 105 passengers and crew on board, only 30 survived the sinking. This was New Zealand's worst maritime disaster of the 20th century. The ship struck Thoms Rock, near the mouth to Karori Stream in Cook Strait before sinking. Although women and children were loaded into the lifeboats first, these foundered quickly in the rough seas. Only one woman survived, and no children. Other survivors drifted for hours on rafts before reaching safety.”

Karori Rock

Conditions were glassy and I was feeling wonderful. Whether it was the epiphany arising from the wristwatch or something deeper I’m uncertain however I was reminded of my high spirits on the very first day when I first launched the kayak from Ferg’s.

What was certain was that the water was appreciably warmer here than when I paddled around Cape Palliser and the air too had lost it’s bite. Furthermore my compass was now pointing northwards and with every stroke I knew that I was heading towards, and not away, from where I’d started. This in itself was extremely motivating. At the time I thought up various phrases such as ‘last leg’, ‘final furlong’, ‘home stretch’, ‘down hill’, ‘bell lap’ to describe my progress up the west coast.

About to turn north...

My goal for the day was simply to reach Makara Beach. This had been my goal yesterday before the winds foiled my plans. As such I had just 25kms to paddle which was itself a similar distance to that which I’d covered the previous day. A good way to ease myself back into the swing of things.

Someone's 'secret' bach (beach cottage) nestled into the base of the rock face.

By 1:00pm I had paddled up the small estuary in the far corner of the north facing bay. It was a very different picture to that which I’d observed just two days before when Norm from the Foreshore Motor Lodge had kindly driven me for an ‘inspection’. On that day it was stormy with 130km/h winds blowing directly into the bay!

I spied a perfect camping spot in between a couple of boatsheds. It offered protection from a strengthening sou-wester and a grassy level spot to pitch the tent. The big bonus however was that there would be no trudging back and forth laden with gear.

I spied a perfect spot!

With the tent pitched I ignited the stove a cooked a celebratory meal of noodles and rice.

Wild Winds

2010-02-17T19:13:00.000-08:00

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.

Waiting in Wellington

2010-02-11T21:56:00.000-08:00

Days 70-78, Feb 5-13 2010
I decided some time ago that I was not up to a circumnavigation of the South Island. I was naïve when it came to my understanding of New Zealand’s weather where it is far cooler than I’d naively expected. I heard a weather reporter this morning suggest that Auckland was in for a “stinking hot day”. It was forecast to reach a top of 25° Celsius, barely more than a warm winter’s day where I’m from.
Despite my reluctance to tackle the South Island I had resolved before my arrival in Wellington that a crossing of Cook Strait was definitely something that I’d like to do, and that with a visit to Picton and Nelson encompassing the Marlborough Sounds, it might be enough for me to call it quits.
Whilst Cook Strait at its narrowest point is only 23km wide it is as Wikipedia notes “one of the most dangerous and unpredictable waters in the world”. For once I was not prepared to simply rely on weather reports and my own confidence in the water.
I made a couple of phone calls. The first to Philip Rush, the man who has swum the channel more than anyone including two double crossings, and a second on his suggestion, to a local kayak store. Philip did suggest I get back to him if needed and in hindsight I wish I had.
I did learn that for a crossing the first requirement is to select a day with low mean tides i.e. when the difference between low and high tides is minimal. The second requirement is calm weather. People can wait months for these two factors to come together. As it was the tides were ideal just three days after my arrival but I was in two minds about the weather and in hindsight I missed an excellent opportunity.
Leaving aside the opportunity I missed the weather report for today offers an insight into conditions that are indicative of what I’ve witnessed of late -
Issued by MetService at: 4:24am 12 February 2010
Valid to: 12:00am 13 February 2010
Forecast:
*** GALE WARNING IN FORCE ***
Northerly 20 knots rising to 35 knots tonight. Sea becoming very rough. Poor visibility in rain easing during the morning.
Outlook:
Outlook following 3 days: Rising Saturday morning northerly 50 knots. Changing Saturday evening southerly 25 knots, then dying out overnight. Developing Sunday morning northerly 15 knots. Changing early Monday southerly 20 knots.
Conditions like this have seen me remain in Petone near Wellington .
With a crossing of the Strait almost certainly not happening - the tides will not be right again until after February - I have got myself ‘up’ and am now committed to tackling the west coast of the North Island. When I commenced the trip I did not know if I’d last a day or a week and I have now covered over 1,300km and have had some wonderful experiences but I’m not yet ready to conclude the journey.
I have learnt over recent days that the kayak’s broaching when coming in on the surf is quite normal so I will be approaching this particular aspect differently and I am in fact now relishing the prospect and challenge as a result of this knowledge. A good thing considering that the west coast is more prone to surf than that which I’ve already navigated.
So now having fattened myself up after the significant breaks of late I am ready now to commence what I am calling the home leg. If successful it will see me paddle up the entire length of the west coast of the North Island, around the North Cape, and then back to where I started in Auckland.
My plan is to leave on Sunday presuming that the 50 knot northerly winds have blown themselves out.

Wellington Welcome

2010-02-09T17:37:00.000-08:00

Day 69, Feb 4 2010

An unhurried morning saw me talking to guests and befriended locals. The kayak was loaded and waiting for me down by the lake’s edge where I’d carried it earlier. I’d also climbed the hill behind the hotel to make a phone call to a gentleman who’d requested that I let him know when I expected to depart. He was going to fly his aircraft up from Blenheim on the South Island and make a couple of passes. I was excited by this alone!

Last minute adjustments.

It was just before 10:00am when I climbed into the kayak whilst keeping a careful eye on the water at the lake’s entrance. I was immediately caught up in the current and swept along in the opposite direction to that which I wanted to go. I finished securing the spray skirt and dipped my paddles into the water. The tide was coming in and I was unsure of my ability to paddle against the current. I was prepared to simply walk and tow the kayak along the lake’s edge, past the mouth, and onto the open beach if my progress on the water stalled.

I zig-zagged across the lake.

Moments after I’d launched Mr Richard Batchelor flew over me with impeccable timing. With a big smile on my face I watched as he made a couple of passes overhead. On one occasion he stalled the plane when above me… I presume intentionally.

With impeccable timing.

Rather than try to paddle directly into the current I chose to cut across it at an angle of 45° before turning in an imitation of a zig-zag pattern and making towards the opposite side. This way I was able to make reasonable progress whilst monitoring the faster water up ahead. I was close to the point where I was going to jump out and asses whether I could in fact paddle against the tide or whether I’d simply have to walk it around when I sensed an opportunity to dart around the near corner. It was nothing other than a calming of the waters but I decided to make a run for it.

A view from the sky with The GOnz just visible.

My progress felt good but it demanded maximum effort and exertion. I got through the choppiest section and avoided any significant waves but it was some minutes before I felt safe enough to back off and regain my breath. I had however navigated it with a minimum of fuss and most importantly not made a fool of myself in front of those watching from the shore.

Making a run for it with Richard watching from above.

I had aimed for the roughest section despite some earlier advice suggesting otherwise. This was based on a belief that the rougher sections indicate shallow water and therefore less water with less flow as a result. A lot of the advice I receive is based on how motor boats would tackle certain conditions but a kayak is a very different craft. Their main worry is the rough water with the current less a worry due to the power that their motors offer them. For me it was the current that would halt my progress whilst the rough water in this case simply added some excitement. The calmer waters are also deceptive because it is here that the flow is strongest and eddies in the deep water are potentially far more dangerous to a swimmer than water running over a shallow bank.

Richard had still been making passes but now he dipped his wings before heading back across the strait. I watched as the plane disappeared in the distance feeling alone once more as I pointed towards the distant headland that would mark my exit from Palliser Bay. Whether it was break and good food at the Lake Ferry Hotel, the excitement of the plane above, or the early lifting of the heart rate whilst entering the sea again or a combination of all I made good time.

Richard dipped his wings before heading back across the Strait.

This leg was uneventful except for one particular moment of an unexplained nature. It was early on, occurring at almost exactly 10:30am. I was just getting into my groove when I heard a large release of air just behind me over my right shoulder. I turned immediately but all I saw was a large swelling on the water’s surface indicating that I’d just missed something. It prompted some real excitement as I felt the adrenalin coursing through me because I believe that it may have been a whale. The release of air I’d heard just seemed to indicate something larger than a dolphin but alas, there was no indication after that of anything to offer me a further clue.

A sunbaking seal.

I reached the headland and the rocky spit that extended from it at 12:30pm. The GPS told me that I’d covered 19.84km at 7.4km/h. I felt like I’d paddled with a good rating and determined to slow down in case I burnt out early. I enjoyed the variety that paddling around the rocks brought whilst also observing the antics of a couple of seals.

An inter-island ferry, the size of a ship.

One hour later I turned into the entrance of Wellington harbour. I had not seen so many houses since leaving Auckland. Another check of the GPS told me I still had over 16km to go which surprised me. I’d misjudged the size of the harbour and it was far bigger than I‘d expected.

Kelp beds inside the entrance to Wellington Harbour.

I pushed on passing some large kelp beds, watched the large inter-island ferries (the size of ships), on their way to Picton and after some time began to search for a surf club at Eastbourne. I’d been in contact a few days earlier asking if I would be able to store my kayak there. The only problem was that I could not find it and none of the people I asked had any clue either. I knew I was looking for something small because I’d been told at the time of telephoning that they only patrolled on Sundays.

Eastbourne looking like the Amalfi Coast but no surf club.

I thought I had located it when I saw a red flag in front of a small shed near a pier but on beaching discovered that it was in fact Days Bay Boatshed specialising coincidentally in kayak hire. I asked ‘James’ if he knew where the surf club was and he suggested it may be back in the direction from where I’d come however this was not guaranteed.

Days Bay Boatshed. I thought it was the surf club I'd been looking for.

Hearing this from a local did not encourage me to paddle back into the wind on the chance that it was back there so I asked the obvious question. It would be alright to store it there for a couple of days so after removing most of my belongings and placing them beside the road I phoned a taxi and a short while later had arrived at a camping ground. This one however, unlike most I’d been frequenting, this one was not anywhere near the water, if you ignore the fact that it was beside a toxic creek in an industrial area. Welcome back to civilisation.

Don't Pay The Ferryman

2010-01-31T18:53:00.000-08:00

Days 63 - 68, Jan 23 - Feb 3 2010

I needed to regroup and consider my next moves. A crossing of the Cook Strait would mean two days paddle, passing Wellington and a launch from either Makara or Titahi Bays. The small amount of research I’d conducted on this notorious stretch of water suggested that I first needed small neap tides and then agreeable weather conditions. The required tides were weeks away so I had time up my sleeve.

The Lake Ferry Hotel was great value and at times it felt like only I and the locals knew just how good it was. I made the most of it and spent an extremely enjoyable and relaxing time there meeting the wonderful locals and recharging my batteries. They needed it.

This was the view from the Lake Ferry’s outside setting and on this day I saw it at its best and yet I felt like I had the place all to myself!

I saw the lake in all its guises.

Some history -

On Palliser Bay: “Whilst Captain Cook sailed past in 1770, naming it Palliser Bay, another European, Durmont D’Urville anchored off Lake Onoke in 1827 but the huge surf presented him from landing and he named it Useless Bay.”

The entrance to the lake turned into a spitting cauldron with the arrival of a strong southerly two days after my arrival.

I was asked where I was going after my arrival and when I suggested that I would paddle back out the way I’d come I was warned against it. I was also informed that it was not long ago that two men on jet skis had ignored warnings from the locals and had to be rescued by helicopters!

No apparent dangers here?

On the Lake Ferry Hotel: “European settlers entered the region known as the Wairarapa in early 1840 following the route from Wellington to Lake Onoke. Following a drowning in 1850 it was decided to establish a safe ferry service and appoint a ferryman. He needed accommodation and a supplement to his income so a liquor licence was issued and in 1851 the Lake Ferry Hotel was established and Mr Ardley became the first ferryman/publican.” I’ve a suspicion that any improvement in safety may have been minimal?

A dredging team from the early days. (from a photo hanging on a wall in the Hotel)

Lake Ferry was only half-an-hour’s drive from the very pretty town of Martinborough which I visited to get an internet connection. Wine lovers will know it for the high quality (and high prices), of its Pinot Noir wines.

Note: I spent nearly two hours on the phone with Sony attempting to understand why desiccant, a consumable product included with the camera housing and designed to absorb moisture, was classed as a ‘spare part’ and could not be purchased directly from them or any of their outlets. I was left none-the-wiser.

Silly Sony Spoils Seals

2010-01-31T18:51:00.001-08:00

Day 62, Jan 28 2010

The day dawned as brightly as the previous one had concluded. A slight breeze ensured that there was no dew on the tent and I was on the move at 6:00am. I noted with some interest that I was a bit stiff after the previous day’s effort, something I’d not felt in a while, but despite this was looking forward to the day. With the promise of rounding Cape Palliser and near it the North Island’s southern most point it marked another milestone as I began to head west towards Wellington and ever closer to a launch across the infamous Cook Strait.
Just prior to launching I had a good chat with Frank Campbell, a retired commercial fisherman who was about to go out and check his cray pots. No matter what we spoke about, Frank was always able to draw a parallel with the fairer sex. I had raised my concern about the surfing ability of the kayak to which he advised, “You’ll never find the perfect boat, just like you’ll never find the perfect woman.” His comment was possibly valid too… the bit about my kayak, and I took a good deal of solace from it.

Looking like an extra from The Omega Man.

The good-natured chat saw my start delayed so it was not until 8:20am that I began what should have been an excellent day. I was only minutes in to the paddle, wishing to photograph the spectacular backdrop to White Rock with the clarity that comes with the dawning of a new day when I noticed the condensation inside the camera’s housing.

Knowing the importance of the day’s landmarks I determined to put over at the fist opportunity in an attempt to rectify the problem. I spied a landing less than an hour later and paddled onto the finely pebbled beach. After pulling the kayak up the steep slope out of reach of the heaving water I removed my gloves and dried my hands as best I could and wiped the inside of the housing out before resealing it.

I was moving again without much delay but just as I came across some more seals playing in a rocky alcove I realised that my endeavours had been in vain. The lens had fogged up once more meaning I had to beach again.

This time I inserted a small towel in the hope that it would absorb the moisture that was coating the inside of the housing. Unfortunately the cool water and breeze that was now ruffling up from the south meant that I’d only worsened the problem as the towel’s moisture was extracted from it and relocated on the housing.

It was gut-wrenching knowing that I was going to be severely curtailed when it came to capturing images of such a critical point on the journey. Scenes of the seals doing handstands right in front of my eyes, ones that should have brought joy, only reinforced the disappointment I was feeling. I had covered 9km in two hours whilst yesterday I’d have covered this distance in less than half the time.

I pushed on and soon rounded Cape Palliser noting the 250+ steps leading steeply up to the cast-iron lighthouse that was built in 1897. I groaned at the beauty of this rugged outpost as I looked forlornly through the camera lens.

Approaching Cape Palliser. If you look carefully you may be able to see the steep track leading up to the lighthouse. More than 250 stairs!

I soon smelt rather than saw the North Island’s largest permanent colony of seals. They came into my sight shortly thereafter. There must have been at least a hundred of them and after their initial disquiet regarding my presence at the base of the rocks that were their home, they soon began to enter the water swimming all around me.

The seals would steal looks at me as they jumped out of the water.

They would poke their heads up out of the water and stare at me along their whiskered pup-like noses. Some would amusingly stick their flippered feet up in their air and this was all I would see of them for minutes. Others would dart beneath me twisting and turning as they passed. I sat there for ten minutes or so using the camera in the hope that I would be able to retrieve something.

Despite my frustration with the condensation on the housing’s interior, I watched with amusement as seals would invert themselves for prolonged periods leaving only their webbed feet and backsides showing.

If anything it was the bracing nature of the southerly wind that got me going again. It had the feel of the Antarctic where I imagined it had originated. That, or the pain that came with knowing the potentially wonderful images would be blurred at best.
My heading was now a westerly one as I passed Black Rock, the southern-most point of the North Island. Here I gave myself and a seal a good fright when I rounded a rock with inches to spare. The rock was on my right and I glided past it with only two feet of water between myself and it. As I slid past the outcrop I heard a grunt and turning to face the rock was all of a sudden looking eye-to eye with a seal whose size if compared to a dog was Great Dane in its proportions.
It was effectively cornered and for a moment I feared that it had nowhere to escape. The mind can process a lot in a small amount of time when pushed, and in that instant I imagined that this stinking hulking mass of blubber would launch itself directly at me in an attempt to gain the safety of the open sea that I was barricading it from.
It was with a great deal of relief then that it showed itself to being extremely agile despite me less than flattering description of it, because it moved with deceptive speed and launched itself away and in front of me, diving into the water with inches to spare before I regathered myself and made sure that I steered a wider berth around the upcoming rocks.
I was now at the entrance to Palliser Bay and at its far end was Lake Ferry, my goal for the day. I stopped once more inside the bay at Te Humanga Point just as the southerly breeze freshened further. Noting on the GPS that I still had a further 15.2km to go I was thankful of its direction if not its icy nature. I determined to make the most of it and timed the final leg with a view to pushing myself over its duration.
I should have felt exalted. A favourable wind for the final leg, a wonderful previous day’s paddle, a great camp the previous night, and more recently a significant landmark passed at Cape Palliser. Despite all this I was feeling dark. It was the camera and I was simply wishing for the day to conclude. This was my motivation and I averaged 9.5km/h over the last 15km.
At 2:50pm I had reached the mouth of Lake Onoke. It was a narrow opening, about fifty metres in width with an obviously strong flow running through it. At the time I imagined it as a river mouth. I noted some fishermen trying their luck in the strong currents whilst I assessed the entrance and decided on my strategy.

I approached wide…

I approached wide, away from the fishermen, paddling along the shoreline with a view to avoiding any flow running perpendicular to the beach. At the last moment I swung directly into the mouth giving it everything. The kayak raced over the churning waters but I did not give up having discovered on my attempt at the Wairoa River that things can change quickly. I was also aware of the fishermen watching me so I kept paddling until I felt I was well clear of the current’s grip.

I gave it everything.

Feeling satisfied that I was safe of its clutches I swung the kayak around to review my path and absorb the looks of the no-doubt hugely impressed fishermen. I was sitting there letting the heart rate drop back to something like normal whilst giving myself a pat on the back and handing out self-congratulations when I noted the shore sliding past but not in the way I would have expected it. It was then that I realised that the current was flowing in on the tide meaning that I could have just sat there and been carried in without any effort at all! I moved on quickly wishing now to avoid those same fishermen and their appraising looks.

Looking back I soon realised that the current had in fact carried me in! The fishermen can be seen on the left whilst my route brought me in on the right.

I did not have far to go spotting the campground just a few hundred metres inside the lake. After pulling the kayak onto the rocky shore I was disappointed to note a sign on the office window directing me back towards the hotel I’d noticed not far inside the lake’s entrance. There was nought to do but get back in the kayak and paddle back towards it. I was not happy.

The Lake Ferry Hotel.

Again I climbed out of the kayak and again I pulled it up onto the rocks. I was reluctant to have to return to the campground after just having paddled there and back again so I asked whether there were any rooms in the hotel. I was shown a comfortable room and quoted a price that was no more than I’d been paying for a powered tent site. “I’ll take it!” I exclaimed without hesitation.
I carried my belongings and then kayak up across the road to the hotel and then had a satisfying hot shower. The hotel was oblivious to the cold southerly winds I’d been feeling and I soaked up the warmth of the sun deciding that this would be a good spot to stay whilst keeping an eye on the weather and deciding on my next moves.

Should I Go or Should I Stay Now

2010-01-31T18:48:00.001-08:00

Day 61, Jan 27 2010

It was damp and miserable outside and I was not in the least way enthusiastic about stepping outside so I simply lay there. The tent seemed to appreciate its foundation of stiff dune grasses. They essentially meant the tent was sitting off the ground, thereby providing good drainage and a dry interior for me. I’d never spent a day inside the tent and thought that maybe this would be it. The weather report told me that the next southerly change was not due for another four days although I also noted that today’s forecast was for a stiff 35 knot nor’easter. I had a day up my sleeve according to my schedule but I decided to wait another hour before making my final decision.
Just before 9:00am (it was 8:40am), I sensed a break in the rain and climbed outside the tent. I needed twenty minutes with the breeze that was already blowing to dry the tent and then I could pack it away I told myself. In the hope that this would occur I began breaking camp whilst vigorously shaking the tent’s fly and then wiping it down to speed up the drying process as I kept an eye on the approaching weather for signs of the next downpour. I observed rain squalls sliding by ominously close to my campsite, but by the time everything else was packed away the tent was almost perfectly dry. I began to collapse it in a hurry worried that the rain would return and spoil the satisfaction I felt from delaying my start.
Despite the delayed start - I was in the water at 10:10am - I knew that I would have time enough to make up for it and if the winds kicked in as forecast I would do it quickly. For now the breeze was hovering around 15 knots. A good start but certainly not the excitement of 35 knots that I could expect later. One thing I did note was that despite the prediction for strong winds the swell would be less a metre… a good portent for my landing later on. My amended plan was for a place called Tora. This was short of White Rock, an optimistic target I estimated to be 60km further south, but one I’d have hoped for if I’d got away early.
It was just after 11:30am when I greeted the Amy-Ann, and it crew of three cray fishermen. We chatted for a while but after declining the offer of a couple of crayfish* I moved on wishing to make the most of the following conditions.

"Ahoy the Amy-Ann!"

* Note to self: Must customize kayak design to include holding\tank for crayfish.

By midday the winds stiffened and were approaching the 35 knots predicted making for exciting surfing when the wind swell and chop lined up in an accommodating manner. The GPS indicated exciting speeds in excess of 20km/h when it did. With the grey sky now replaced by a blue one with white puffs of cloud I was congratulating myself on the decision to get going.

Strong Winds!

At 2:00pm, making excellent progress and averaging over 10/km/h I made the decision to push on for White Rock. It would be wrong not to take advantage of the conditions I told myself. I also knew that the satisfaction I garnered from being back on schedule would be a suitable reward.
I noticed a couple of large rocky outcrops up next to the shoreline that offered the potential for some respite from the wind and chop, and if they delivered I would stop, stretch the legs, mop the cockpit (water seeps in as a result of wash from surfing) and take on some food and drink before tackling my new goal. The first of the two outcrops melded with the shore so I paddled to the next one.
On its lee, a small inlet exposed itself between the rocks and boulders that marked the shore. It was only a few metres wide and twenty metres deep, but ample for my narrow, shallow drawing craft. Smooth water lead right up to a gravely landing. It was perfect and I got a sense of how the ancient mariners must have felt upon finding protected harbours when running from storms.
I was observing the exposed seaweed as the rocks they enveloped glided by before I drew my attention to the landing in front of me. I’d begun slowing the kayak down in readiness when I looked more closely at what I initially thought was a large piece of kelp directly where my bow was pointed. It wasn’t moving but had begun to take on the appearance of some sort of animal, but what, I could still not discern. I’d just lifted my salt-encrusted glasses in an attempt to better see it when a small grunt to my right made me turn my head and I noticed for the first time, one, then two, then three seals lazing on the rocks enjoying the sun that was now dominating the day. A lazy head here and there looked up as I sat there whilst I convinced myself that they would not attack me and that they were in fact seals and not the more aggressive sea-lions I‘d seen on a television documentary once. They were so well camouflaged that I’d not noticed them on my way in but now as I looked around I began to pick them out one by one.
The lump in front of my bow now took on greater definition as I noticed his head, tail and fins. He or she had still not moved however, so I edged even closer talking softly in the hope that I could get its attention without causing alarm. I was still unsure as to whether these guys might go into attack mode (their heads are not dissimilar to a dogs) and was thinking solely of myself being only a few feet away. I should not have been afraid because it lifted its head in a manner that suggested it would rather not, yawned deeply, and then dragged itself up before hopping to one side and sliding into the water beside me and swimming back out past me. Wow! I occupied the now vacated landing, noticing for the first time the odour. It was rich and thick, almost sweet, but certainly sickly and I had no doubt from where it came.

Hello Mate!

I began filming but realised with frustration that the view was impeded by condensation on the housing’s interior. I’d noticed earlier that the water had become distinctly cooler and knew that this was the trigger. There was nought I could do however because I could not open the housing under such conditions.
I took half-an-hour to observe these amusing creatures, refresh myself and ready the kayak for the next leg by mopping out the water in the cockpit, adjusting the seat, and checking that the compartment covers were secure. I was only just past the half way mark but with the speed that I was doing estimated that I should make it before 6:00pm.
I returned to the water and after a quick distraction whilst I watched a couple of seals doing handstands in the water before they became aware of me at which point they displayed speed and agility, leaping out of the water repeatedly in the manner of a porpoise.
At 4:00pm the wind began to ease off but I was so close now that it mattered not. I rounded the point that marked the entrance to the bay in which White Rock was located and was immediately impressed by the steep ridges behind the beach. I guessed 400m but later discovered they were 600m high. I did have the sun in my eyes and it was reflecting brightly off the water as I covered the final 4km.

The sun was in my eyes despite the 600 metres high ridge in front of me.

The feature that gave this spot its name was easy to identify in the middle of the beach and I had the simplest of landings. I spoke with a gentleman, seeking assurances that I would not upset anyone if I pitched a tent, and he suggested that there was a sigh hereabouts advising that it was acceptable as long as I showed respect.

White Rock

The wind had died, the sky above me was clear, the moon had already risen above clouds on the horizon that were reflecting the setting sun’s last rays. I celebrated by cooking adding water to the labelled pack announcing minted roast lamb, vegetables and mash. I looked at my watch. It was 9:00pm but the day WAS only just turning to night. It had been a good one.

A fitting end to the day.

Supplies

2010-01-31T18:46:00.000-08:00

Day 60, Jan 26 2010
I was approaching the southern-most tip of the North Island and with it, Wellington was now within reach. I had also been informed that I should be aiming for Mana or Plimmerton as a launching pad for the Cook Strait crossing. To reach these I would have to pass the entrance to Wellington Harbour, and begin a northerly heading up the west coast. Two hundred kilometres was the approximation.
Over the previous couple of days, after discussing the coastline and looking at my maps with the local store owner, I’d planned my route and the stops I could make on the way. In addition, two important points became apparent to me. Firstly, unlike my initial impression - one that had first been initially cultivated by the New Zealand Coastguard’s national rescue coordinator - the Wairarapa coast offered numerous beaching opportunities, weather permitting. I’m not suggesting that the information shared with me was incorrect, only that I interpreted it wrongly. I’d envisaged steep cliffs reaching down into the sea but in fact the steep slopes generally levelled out immediately prior to the coastline.
The second thing that became evident was that apart from Riversdale just 25km south to my south, there would be no opportunities to shop for food supplies or stock up on the all important water until Lake Ferry, the final stop before Wellington. I have been making use of a small rucksack to carry my food supplies and will carry in it about five freeze-dried meals, three or four packets of 2 minute noodles, and about half-a-dozen muesli or protein bars depending on what had been available at the last shop. I also had a tin of sliced peaches stored away. Enough food for a week without having to curtail my habits which have seen me quite comfortably dine on a single meal at the conclusion of a day’s endeavours, whilst acknowledging that I will more than make up for it when a takeaway food store is handy.
In terms of water, I have a bladder that inserts into a sleeve on the back of my personal flotation device (PFD). It has a tube running from it that I can draw from as required. It holds up to 2.5 litres and I usually add to it a powdered supplement that is marketed in a manner that suggests it will assist with refuelling and recovery during and after endurance events.
I also carry with me three heavy duty water bladders, one each of 3.0 5.0, and 10.0 litres. I have not yet utilised the largest but on this leg would fill the two smaller ones, a first. They add considerably to the weight I’m carrying although this fact is not a determining factor when it comes to my planning. The 2.5 litres on my back can be made to last three days whilst I also require a small amount of water to cook my meals if I’m camping remotely.
In addition I have my favourite 2.5kg container into which I add at each opportunity a predominance of peanuts, sultanas, and dates along with a smaller assortment of other mixed nuts and dried fruit, and in addition a small amount of sugar in the form of fudge, toffees and even ‘milk bottles‘ mixed in. These treats are savoured when a mouthful turns one up. From this mix I will gratefully take a couple of mouthfuls on the hour for the duration of a paddling leg.
I had noted eleven possible stops on route to Plimmerton. Four of these were marked as likely even if optimistic whilst the remaining seven were contingencies. I’d had time to plan it well and was looking forward to getting this stretch behind me, still mindful that the Coastguard had flagged the Wairarapa as a tough stretch.
I arose at 6:00am and was away at 8:10am, delayed only slightly by some campers and beachcombers who I was only to happy to talk with. I made for Castle Point with the lighthouse perched above and was immediately greeted by a pod of dolphins hurrying in the opposite direction. They were oblivious of my approach until the last movement and I believe that I actually gave one or two a fright as they veered powerfully with dramatic effect.

Raining and approaching Castle Point.

Beneath the cliffs I waved to the same friends I’d been talking with moments earlier in the campground as they sent down words of encouragement. The surface was glassy although still lumpy with the after effects of the winds and storms of the previous few days. It was also grey although when the rain increased it flattened the water’s surface.

The rain flattened the water’s surface.

By midday I’d covered 25km and was sitting about a kilometre off Riversdale Beach. Despite this I was still clearly able to identify a surf club on its shores by the red and yellow flags on the beach, the inflatable rescue dinghy on the sand and what appeared to be a surf rowing boat and a number of people standing around it. Could they see me, I wondered? The rains had backed off and it was getting lighter.
The paddle hereon offered little. The conditions remained grey, but mostly dry. Typically, I was some distance from the shores as I targeted distant jutting land features to shorten the distances. At 3:00pm I reached Flat Point, my target for the day. A rocky reef jutted out from the point which was as its name suggested ‘flat’. It was not much more than a sandy peninsula.
I paddled out and around the line of rocks and small surf marking it whilst observing a large fishing trawler making its way down the opposite side towards the shore where a tractor and large trailer awaited it. It did not look overly inviting a place to camp. There were only a couple of homes visible and some extremely large sheds. Being only 3:00pm and still damp, I pushed on towards the large beach that followed. I was getting tired but knew that every extra stroke now was a bonus having passed my goal for the day.

I dragged the laden kayak up into the grasses saving me work and time.

Half an hour later I decided that now was as good a time as any. There were farm houses scattered along the coastline but right here was as distant from any. In these situations I prefer to stay hidden in case my pitching a tent might for some reason offend. On this occasion I actually dragged the kayak, still loaded up into the grasses on this occasion. The beach was neither steep nor deep and I had my newly reinforced keel.

One hour later I was inside my tent.

One hour later I was inside my tent. The timing was impeccable because the sky again darkened and with it came the rain. I chose to eat simply, opening the can of peaches, having a muesli bar, and cooking up some rice.

The sky darkened.

I did not stay up long, just time enough to make some notes and read a few pages of Wilbur.
Note: On six occasions during the paddle I had to take a toilet break. A result of the layoff at Castlepoint and drinking tea I wonder? I can normally get through the day without the need.

Survive the Sea

2010-01-31T13:40:00.001-08:00

Days 57-59, Jan 23-25 2010

The previous day’s motivation to make landfall at Castlepoint had been well founded. The southerly change’s effects were properly felt overnight when for the second time on my trip I found myself in the midst of extraordinary rains, only this time I’d not had to seek shelter in the ladies’ toilets!

My decision to forego the tent - it was still damp as a result of having been packed wet the morning before - in favour of a ‘cabin’ at the Castlepoint Holiday Park had been a wise choice. With 150mm (6”) falling overnight in less than twelve hours, the creeks were unable to cope with the massive deluge.

Dry in my cabin.

Although I was oblivious to it at the time, sandbagging had taken place in the campground and a number of campers in their tents had to be relocated. As I walked out to the ruggedly spectacular Castle Point the following day I could however, still see the effects of the downpour.

“Water Hazard” Although the level had dropped considerably by the time this picture was taken, the creek that ran through the centre of the campground had overflowed.

I ‘drowned’ once but it was some years ago. In fact I was just 2 ½ years of age. I don’t believe it was this event in a suburban swimming pool that has inspired the regard in which I view the ocean. Certainly I don’t recall the incident and I get the feeling that those who do would rather not.

The outflow up the road from the campground. At one point it was flowing over the road and one panicked resident triggered the town’s siren, an eerie wailing that makes me think of air raid sirens as seen in old war movies.

I have been informed that it took place at the home of the late, famous, pioneering, female aviatrix, Nancy Bird Walton. If I felt inspired and thought to replicate Nancy’s pioneering crossings with my own attempt on a backyard pool, the facts would seem to suggest that I did not soar like a bird, nor for that matter, swim like a fish.

Tsunami Evacuation Route signs have been common along the coast although the flooding here was of a different type.

Unaware that the house had a swimming pool - this was well before fencing became mandatory - I had been allowed outside with three other children to play whilst my own mother and her tennis friends proceeded to the kitchen to wash up after a post match lunch. Being a tea-towel short it was my mother who volunteered to check on the children.

Historic town cemetery.

A resting point for the early settlers.

Edwin Henry Burling aged just 14 years.

A tragic and premature death.

Stepping outside and seeing a pool located in the far corner of the large yard it may have been the small solitary gumboot on the pool’s edge that drew her attention. It was certainly not the other one, because it had sunk to the bottom. There is a theory that I’d been attempting to retrieve this one because I was found floating above it. Of course it may simply have fallen off whilst I was attempting the take-off?

A monument to Lost ‘Soles‘ (sic), located near the beginning of the walk up to the lighthouse.

Jumping into the pool in her whites, my mother seized me and carried my limp, lifeless body to the house and placed me unconscious on the floor with her friends. She was obviously frantic. I suggest this because she ran to the car and drove immediately to the nearby surgery whilst meanwhile I was still lying on the floor back at the house! It was for this reason that doctor had to excuse himself from his patient and race back to me.

The impressive boardwalk up to the lighthouse.

It was ‘lighthouse’ weather.

The view north.

I’ve been informed that by the time they returned, I was conscious and gasping for breath having ‘exhaled’ a large amount of water. We think one of the other women had possibly thumped me a couple of times. My full recovery was then completed by the good Dr. John Dowsett. It was a apparently a very close call and one which still haunts my beautiful mother.

Built in 1913 for ships travelling from Panama to Wellington.

Ruggedly spectacular.

I find it extremely difficult to believe, but apparently my speech was still “very limited” so the truth of how I came to be in the swimming pool was never ascertained. Being 2 ½ I suspect that it was more a case of simply not having the vocabulary to explain how my velocity at the point of take-off point was impaired by the imbalance caused by an undercarriage issue i.e. a loose gumboot that would not fully retract.

Young, unaffected children delighting in the joys of the sea.

A Race

2010-01-29T16:33:00.000-08:00

Day 56, Jan 22 2010

I did not want to get stuck in some wild location in a wet and sandy tent so I had all the motivation I needed to get out of bed that morning. Listening to the scheduled marine forecast on my radio at 5:33am confirmed once again what had been predicted as long as a week ago. A southerly change at midday of around 15 knots, strengthening to 30 knots in the evening.

Castle Point offered a campground and I was determined to get there even if it meant slugging it out with a 15 knot southerly for two or three hours. My calculations suggested a paddle in excess of 50km. I was prepared to give whatever it took just as long as it was only 15 knots. 30 knots and I would have no choice but to seek shelter wherever that happened to be. The more distance I covered before the change, the less I would have to cover after it. I decided however to paddle within my limits because it would be important to have something in reserve when the battle began.

Firstly though I had to pack up, get the kayak down to the water’s edge, load it, and make sure everything was tied down i.e. hatches and helmets secured properly. The tent like the day was damp. It had rained overnight so this meant rolling up a wet tent. For the first time I didn’t care…. well I did, but it didn’t stop me. The race had begun.

By 7:05am I had begun. I told myself that I’d gained an extra hour by leaving before 8:00am, or 7km. A good start. My ETA at this rate would be between 2:00pm and 3:00pm, or three hours into a headwind. The small surf posed no problem. My confidence was such that I mounted the camera on the deck and filmed the launch.

Conditions beyond the break were ideal. Hardly a whisper of wind and calm glassy conditions on the sea’s surface. A good start or an omen of what was to come I wondered. I focused and searched for an early but easy rhythm.

Glassy!

At 8:30am a commercial cray boat drew up alongside and I had a conversation with the three inquisitive fishermen explaining what I was up to whilst seeking from them their own understanding of the weather forecast. Essentially the same as my own although strengthening to 35 and not 30 knots later in the afternoon. I bid farewell after declining their offer of a crayfish. Time was ticking. I briefly allowed myself an image of lobster on a large white plate, chilled white wine in a large clear glass laid out on crisp white linen. Soon, Gynes, soon.

I maintained a vigilance on the horizon, and the clouds above the ridges, for any sign of the pending change. It occurred to me that just as the change might arrive an hour or two later than predicted, it was just as likely to arrive early. I had to keep moving.

It was around 10:00am that I became conscious of the fact that I was a few kilometres off shore. This had not been a conscious decision. In fact my review of the coastline before leaving had led me to believe that I would be able to stay close to the shore for the whole trip and benefit from the scenery.

I amended my bearing by 45°, heading back towards the shore but interestingly battled to maintain it. I did however notice a lot of sheep dotted on the hills. Interestingly this was the first time I had come across the country’s iconic sheep in large numbers. Up until that point I’d suggest I’d seen more goats!

I'd seen more goats than sheep until this point. Look carefully.

A short time later (I made a note at 10:25am), having just passed a large river mouth, I had an amazing encounter with a pod of dolphins. I first spotted them over my right shoulder coming up behind me. The still surface was like a blank canvas for them to leave their mark on and their graceful arching through the waters as they neared me was beautiful to watch in itself.

I switched on my camera in case the opportunity to capture them presented itself although they had disappeared for the moment. Then all of a sudden they were arching through the water first on one side of me and then the other. Then I had one each on either side providing me with my own escort.

My escort.

I was watching them slice through the water directly under my kayak, clearly visible in the perfectly still waters. They would roll onto their backs so that they could watch the kayak (or me?) as they did so.

So close!

Then they began to pierce the water directly across my bow, so close that I thought they might playfully tip me with their flukes as they darted one after the other. Just when I was thinking that there might only be two or three of them, I counted five as they broke the surface together and then a bit later, I witnessed a single line of eight dolphins arching their backs in unison through the water. A parade drill could not offer the same synchronicity.

Two, three, four, more....

The spectacle lasted for a couple of minutes during which time I came as close as I ever have to these wonderful creatures. My fears that the camera may not have been on proved to be unfounded, and whilst only able to capture that which lay directly in front of the lens, the spectacle is clearly demonstrated. It was a very special moment.

Special!

Note: The encounter, as captured on video, may be accessed by clicking on the soon to be added link above, simply named “A Special Moment”.

Naturally I’d picked up the pace when my friends joined me but had probably burnt up some energy. It was however, definitely worthwhile. Just before midday I realised that I had once again moved well offshore so I again made a conscious effort to head closer back towards the shore. Was it a result for aiming for the distant landmark that I presumed to be Castle Point, my destination. More than likely, I suspect.

I checked my GPS and it told me I had 18.4km to go. Three hours at the very most, but closer to two. I was getting close and with more than 8 hours of daylight left it would take 30 knots to stop me arriving at Castle Point.

Still the listless conditions persisted and I grew happier with each stroke of the paddle as I neared my goal. Still I noted no discernible difference on the horizon or the ocean’s surface that would forewarn me of the now overdue front.

I was soon inside the final curvature of the coastline with the houses of Castle Point clearly identifiable. It was 2:15pm when I noticed the first ripples on the water’s surface. It was not however even 5 knots and I had only a few kilometres to go. I could not contain my joy and a smile crept over my face.

I couldn't keep the smile from my face.

I noticed the impressive headland and the lighthouse sitting atop. I could even see the campground clearly sitting beside the beach. Once again I went through the ritual of packing things away for safety. I decided to head slightly north of the campground itself, judging the waves to be slightly smaller there.

The impressive headland.

On three occasions I edged in only to turn and make my out again as waves threatened. I finally decided that the time was right and made a dash for it. I surfed a small wave holding it straight for a good while before it began to slew sideways. Once it begins there is no stopping it, but on this occasion, as soon as the bow met the wave, it straightened itself out again! I wondered whether anyone had seen the manoeuvre because it would have look good.

The surf.

At 2:30pm I was pulling the kayak by its nose through the shallow water back towards the camping ground and not long after I was safely ensconced in a small but totally functional cabin. Within minutes of doing so I was patting myself on the back because the wind picked up and the heavens opened. That night there was flooding in the campground and down the road too. 150mm (6”) fell in less than twelve hours. Meanwhile I was hanging my wet tent out to dry in my cramped but dry and comfortable quarters.

It had been a truly memorable day with plenty of good fortune.

I’d paddled 51.87 kms in just under 7 ½ hours.

Drama On The High Seas

2010-01-29T13:56:00.001-08:00

Day 55, Jan 21 2010

I woke early, anxious to keep moving. A north-easterly was already blowing at 20 knots and I’d just listened to the weather report predicting them to rise to 30 knots at midday with rough seas. From this direction it would be directly behind me. This wind had proven rare over the length of my journey with north-westers being the more prevalent. When it had. it had provided an exciting ride.

I’d carried the kayak and most of my gear down to the beach before 8:00am. Chip kindly showed up to bid me farewell. He’d been planning to go on a ‘tuna run’ today with family and friends but the weather did not auger well for this.

We chatted briefly before he held my bow whilst I climbed aboard and secured myself into the cockpit at 8:20am. There was a small surf to contend with but after the previous day’s efforts the benchmark had shifted considerably, and such conditions as I was faced with here would no longer register any concern.

With the strong wind pushing me along and the consequent swell and chop I made excellent progress and experienced the excitement that had been promised. I experienced strong winds and poor visibility as frequent rain squalls passed me by.

I pointed in the direction of Cape Turnagain through the cloud and rain whilst taking a bearing on the compass before it disappeared in the mist. With the wind and seas behind me, the more direct route of about 30km was a far more sensible one than following the line of the shore.

The paddle with the assistance of the elements was not a taxing one however I did run into trouble when around midday, some kilometres from shore, I felt my rudder catching. It did not take me long to realise that a carabiner clip I’d attached to the rear carry toggle had slipped down and become entangled in the rudder‘s workings.

Pressing each peddle alternatively seemed to release the catching rudder but it meant frustrating delays and surfing the swell required constant adjustments to maintain the correct heading. I put up with it for an hour before I began to worry that I might be doing damage of a more permanent kind if the clip began to wear or exert pressure on the rudder itself and its attachments.

I decided that despite the abysmal conditions I would have to rectify the problem and this meant climbing out of the cockpit and swimming down to the stern of the kayak. I was kilometres from shore in driving rain and a heaving sea.

I released the skirt, climbed out of the kayak and lowered myself into the water. It was cold! Sliding down to the stern whilst being sure to maintain contact with the kayak. I grappled with the offending clip. The kayak was lurching heavily in the choppy conditions and I could feel it’s weight pulling me back and forth through the water as swells lifted the hull up and down.

I could feel it’s weight pulling me back and forth through the water as swells lifted the hull up and down.

Releasing the carabiner, I returned to the cockpit and whilst I was attempting to scramble aboard, a rogue wave caused the kayak to pitch suddenly, sending me literally head-over-heels and back into the icy water on the opposite side.

Head-over-heels!

The weight of the loaded kayak ensured that it did not escape me in the strong winds and my second attempt to board was slightly more successful and I was able to begin pumping out the water that had entered the cockpit in my short absence.

It didn't go anywhere.

I had thought that the incident would make for good viewing and had turned the camera on accordingly to capture it, but I had not counted on the inglorious, albeit acrobatic, dunking upon trying to re-enter.

At 1:50pm I reached Cape Turnagain, so-called because Captain James Cook had to turn back when approaching the cape due to bad weather. I had bad weather too, but I’d been running with it. Like Cook however, I was soon being offered some protection by it and conditions mellowed considerably.

My goal had been a place called Herbetville but as I paddled along its shores I decided that it looked uninviting. It was set back from the shore and I could discern no obvious sites to pitch a tent and with such miserable conditions there were no folk about to seek advice from.

It was not yet 3:00pm so I paddled on in the hope that I might simply find an attractive spot to land and a site to pitch the tent away from any signs of civilisation. The foreshore appeared to offer opportunities for a landing so I pushed on for another half hour.

I noticed a beach with some large rocks a small distance offshore offering some relief from the surf and paddled near these. The grassy slopes levelled off before reaching the beach and I decided to beach. Again I succeeded in staying upright as I surfed a small wave in.

I noticed a beach with some large rocks.

Regrettably, this and other recent successes in this area have had something to do with timing and selecting the right spots, but mostly just though good luck rather than any improvement on my behalf when it comes to handling the kayak on an incoming wave.

I soon found a level spot back from the beach where soft clumps of spongy moss covered the ground between the large tufts of grass. I carried my belongings up to the chosen site and then moved my kayak up into a small cutaway at the back of the beach above the reach of the tide.

The kayak in a small cutaway.

I pitched the tent as the cloud lifted and the light improved and was able to treat myself to meal of Thai Chicken (freeze-dried), and a bowl of rice.

I pitched the tent.

I wanted to fuel up because tomorrow threatened to be a really tough slog. Another southerly change was due later in the day and I had at least 50km to paddle to get to Castle Point and the promise of its camping ground. If I did not make it I might be stuck for days without any food or water apart from what I was carrying.

I carry enough food to last at least about a week without any real trouble, along with at least 5 litres of water as well as water purifying tablets if things get really tough but I do not in all honesty expect to ever have to use these.

I went to sleep knowing I’d best be off early the next morning if I was going to make the most of the conditions before the forecast change.

I’d paddled 51.41 kms in just over 7hrs.

A Heart Stopping Launch

2010-01-29T13:39:00.000-08:00

Day 54, Jan 20 2010

I lay in bed this morning knowing that I had only a 40km paddle ahead of me to get to Aramoana, a small settlement down the coast where a landowner had been forewarned of my possible arrival by my current hosts. I was in no rush.

It appears that certain farming lands have been in the hands of families for a number of generations, although difficult times of late have begun to see the lands subdivided and the land sold off to various interests. Traditionally a certain family name was associated with lands of a particular region. The Mackenzies here in the valley, the Speedies over the ranges, and the Macallisters by the coast. Lands that was traditionally given over to sheep or cattle are now seeing exotic crops grown or holiday homes springing up.

I was still lying in bed when I heard an almighty thump against the side of the house just behind my head. Upon rising I was informed that a feral rabbit had taken fright when the family dog, still a pup, had chanced upon it. Unfortunately for the rabbit it had launched itself directly into the side of the house, stunning itself and making easy prey for the excited canine.

I watched with morbid fascination as Fred, this mix between a collie, labrador, and poodle lay there on the dew-damp lawn and devoured the hapless prey in its entirety. The flesh beneath the pelt was a pale grey blue colour. The head lay to one side expertly disengaged with a chomp of the jaws. There was a lot of crunching as the limbs disappeared and the torso began to get smaller with every rip, tear and chomp.

There was no blood that I could discern. I could not have watched if there had been as I have a weak constitution. I was surprised at how neat and tidy the whole process was. There were no intestines, no excrement to be seen. The catch simply got smaller and smaller. Just the tearing and crunching.

Soon there was nothing left but the head which patiently lay to one side. This disappeared next. For a moment only two long ears were visible. One on either \side of his muzzle before a quick adjustment and an eye slipped out, held in place only by a white elasticized membrane-like tissue.

Another chomp saw it separated and drop to the grass. The ears disappeared in unison. There was nothing left but the single eye lying there on the green grass.

Fred licked its lips before nosing and sniffing the grass there in front of it, between and beside its front paws. He quickly found the remaining eye, snuffled it up, rose, and moved on. The grass showed not one sign of what had just taken place.

I finished my coffee and the crust of my toast that had been spread with local New Zealand creamed honey. A deliciously satisfying way to start the day. Prue, if only I could commence every day in the same fashion. Thank you, thank you thank you!\

Fred and friends!

The sun was out and I had to be off. With Rock’s help we carried the unloaded kayak to the sand and then returned for the bits and pieces. Prue informed me that she’d notified people all the way down the coast of my pending arrival and that they were expecting me. Wow! At my next stop, Aramoana, Chip would be there I was informed.

I was watching the surf. This was a real surf. Admittedly not frighteningly big, but consistent and breaking a good way out. The larger sets were possibly approaching 4’ and dumping. I had not had to tackle anything like this before. A set wave badly timed would almost certainly spell disaster.

I was convinced that I’d be washed back to shore but wanted to attempt it anyway. I believe I though that with a couple of attempts I might succeed if some good fortune came my way. I had no doubt that it would provide a spectacle for my hosts and told them so.

Rock stripped down to his trunks and grabbed the bow’s toggle. I’d not asked him to, but he was going to pull me out as far as he could, holding the bow into the oncoming waves before releasing me. Whilst still in the shallows I climbed into the cockpit and secured the spray skirt before he began moving into the deeper water.

To be honest I was not convinced that he’d be able to maintain his hold the craft but he did so. He kept going, far further than I’d expected. As it got deeper, waves were breaking over him but he still held on. He held the toggle with two hands now, backing himself into and under the foaming waves.

With the surging water up around his chest I told him to release me, partly because I just couldn’t see how he could hold on any longer as he was. I touched the rudder peddles and used the paddle to keep the bow pointing into the oncoming waves. Anything less than straight on would almost certainly mean that I’d end up back on the beach probably looking for paddles, pumps and cushions in the wash.

I held back waiting for an opportunity to gun it. There was no sense in paddling hard if waves were only going to knock me back. When I sensed it, which was thankfully almost immediately, I dug the blades in with everything I had.

I lent back to lift the bow over the first few oncoming walls of foam, the momentum of the laden kayak working a treat. I was more concerned about the unbroken walls that threatened to line up out the back and break immediately in front, or worse still, on top of me.

For an instant I thought that I was doomed as I saw the approaching threat, but they held off and the bow rose steeply up the unbroken wall before cresting the peak and slamming down hard with an almighty thump on the other side.

This repeated itself a couple of times but I continued to paddle with what I had left. I could feel the energy draining quickly but knew that the bigger sets could potentially break further out still and I had to make sure I was safe from this possibility.

Finally feeling safe, I stopped paddling. I was shaking with excitement. My heart was pounding from both the excitement and the exertion. Fear had driven me, I have no doubt of that. It was an exhilarating beginning to the day’s leg with the time at 10:45am.

I have to thank Rock at this point. Quite simply, unbelievable. I hope he and Prue were able to get a sense of the excitement that their help made possible. I am looking forward to speaking with them to see how they saw it. Were they aware just how much an adrenalin rush the launch was for me or did it look mundane from where they were standing? Did Rock even get back to the beach to see it… he was quite a way out when he released me?

It was sunny and I had a slight 5 knot north-easterly breeze helping me along. There were none of the depressing thoughts I’d felt at this time on the previous morning. Today I was buzzing.

The fish appeared to be enjoying the conditions today. I noticed a number of swirls on the water’s surface indicating good sized fish as I approached. Then, just after midday, a kingfish of about 1m in length swam unconcernedly past me in the opposite direction on my port side. It was not fazed, being only a couple of metres away to my left. He was heading north as I headed south. We looked at each other on passing, no more.

Half an hour later I stopped to chat to some recreational fishermen in their boat. Pulling alongside I noticed that I had an extremely strong current working in my favour. I had to back-paddle to continue the conversation. They weren’t having any luck. Possibly due to the current I thought. I mentioned the kingfish and wondered whether they might have more luck throwing some lures over the back.

I noticed a heavily populated camping area right on a beach protected by a large exposed reef extending well out from shore. Had I been told there was a camping ground at Aramoana? Could there be two in such close proximity to each other?

I paddled towards the shore up alongside the reef. I could see a boat in the more protected waters having some fun with a rope and board. I put the question to them and was told Aramoana was the next bay around. This correlated with where I’d marked it on my GPS, indicating just another 4-5 kilometres. I turned back out to sea and paddled around the jutting reef and the waves that marked its shallow depth.

Shortly thereafter I turned into the bay that was home to Aramoana. A strong outgoing tidal flow was obvious after the favourable currents I’d experienced earlier in the day. Here it was causing the water to stand up and I had to keep a wary eye on proceedings with shallow reefs causing waves to form and break.

Aramoana.

Having learnt my lessons, I halted to pack away my camera and anything else that might be at risk if I was dumped coming into the beach. There was a decent surf funnelling into the small well-defined bay and it was being encouraged by the tide and a fresh breeze.

I lined myself up with two large triangular markers on the shore believing them to be a guide to the line I should take into shore. Was there a small river there and the line was for boats marking a channel for them to enter safely?

I sat there for a while attempting to gauge the pattern of the swell and resultant waves before making my move towards the beach. Watching over my shoulder I got a fright to see two waves walling steeply up and threatening me from behind.

I immediately stopped paddling and attempted to halt my momentum and paddle in reverse. The weight means that the result of my actions is not immediate and I thought for a moment that I was doomed. I’d only just halted my forward motion when the first wave rose beneath me picking up the stern. For an instant I was looking down at the nose of my kayak thinking I was to be pitched down the steep face but the swell passed safely underneath.

By the time the second wave met me I’d started to move slowly backwards but again it was a near thing. For a moment I was looking down the length of my foredeck wondering if the lip would catch me a drop me. When it released me I watched it pass I noticed the crest beginning to break just metres further in towards the shore. It was a near thing.

I kept paddling backwards and reassessed the situation. There appeared to be less waves forming at the northern end of the bay alongside a jutting reef. Was there an outgoing rip there indicating deeper water? It looked more likely so I moved towards it and then made my run for it. I noticed a vehicle pull up and a gentleman wade into the water in the area I was headed. Was he there to greet me? I wasn’t sure. A small wave formed under me as I paddled in but on this occasion I was able to keep the kayak straight before touching upon the sand.

It was Chip waiting for me, and with him he had two friends to help! Chip mentioned that he’d been impressed with my arrival. I told him that it usually ended very differently. I mentioned the markers and was informed that they indicated the boundary of a marine reserve. They had nothing to do with indicating a safe passage!

My help!

With one person each holding the bow and stern and the other two holding one side of the cockpit each we carried the kayak up the beach and onto a well manicured grassy area alongside a public ablution block.
Camping was not strictly allowed but Chip had informed the neighbours and I shouldn’t expect any difficulties. There had been a campground here in earlier times I was told. I was pointed in the direction of a separate block for a warm shower. I thanked Chip and his friends for their kindness and hospitality. I was in again in debt to these wonderful New Zealanders.

Aramoana appeared to be a compact, tidy settlement with a small number of smartly designed homes fronting the beach, a large and impressive wool shed, and land behind it given to cattle and sheep grazing and avocado farming. I sensed a degree of affluence.

The wool shed.

Having had a warm shower I pitched my tent on the lush grass under some large Norfolk pines and cooked a meal of rice on my stove. I then topped up my water bladders having been informed that the water was drinkable despite the signs warning otherwise. I was concerned that the stretch of coastline that would take me to the southern-most tip of the North Island would offer little opportunity to acquire either food or water so I made use of the water bladders that has mostly been ignored until this point.

I pitched my tent on the lush grass.

I turned in. There was a pattering of rain during the night but on the occasion that I did step outside the sky was clear and the stars shone brightly. I had paddled 44.49km at a moving average of 7.9km/h. A very good speed without any serious wind behind me. It was thanks to the favourable current.

Cook On Cannabilism

2010-01-29T13:16:00.001-08:00

In this situation we were not above two cables' length from the rocks, and here we remained in the strength of the tide, from a little after seven till near midnight. The sea broke in dreadful surf upon the rocks. Our danger was imminent and our escape critical in the highest degree; from the situation of these rocks, so well adapted to catch unwary strangers, I call them ‘The Traps.’
There was not a man aboard Endeavour who, in the event of the ship's breaking up, would not have preferred to drown rather than be left to the mercy of the Maoris. For as Endeavour slowly circled the North Island, those few words spoken by the Maori boys – ‘Do not put us ashore there; it is inhabited by our enemies who will kill and eat us’ – began to grow into a hideous reality. Yet even as fresh evidence came to light that these people were indeed cannibals, the ship's company still refused to believe the truth their eyes told them.
Tupia inquired if it was their practice to eat men, to which they answered in the affirmative; but said that they ate only their enemies who were slain in battle. We now began seriously to believe that this horrid custom prevailed amongst them, for what the boys had said we had considered as a mere hyperbolical expression of their fear. But some days later some of our people found in the skirts of the wood, near a hole, or oven, three human hip-bones, which they brought on board: a further proof that these people eat human flesh...
Calm light airs from the north all day on the 23rd November hindered us from putting out to sea as intended. In the afternoon, some of the officers went on shore to amuse themselves among the natives, where they saw the head and bowels of a youth, who had been lately killed, lying on the beach, and the heart stuck on a forked stick which was fixed on the head of one of the largest canoes. One of the gentlemen bought the head and brought it on board, where a piece of the flesh was broiled and eaten by one of the natives, before all the officers and most of the men. I was on shore at this time, but soon after returning on board was informed of the above circumstances, and found the quarter-deck crowded with the natives, and the mangled head, or rather part of it (for the under-jaw and lips were wanting), lying on the taffrail. The skull had been broken on the left side, just above the temples, and the remains of the face had all the appearance of a youth under twenty.
The sight of the head, and the relation of the above circumstances, struck me with horror and filled my mind with indignation against these cannibals. Curiosity, however, got the better of my indignation, especially when I considered that it would avail but little, and being desirous of becoming an eye-witness of a fact which many doubted, I ordered a piece of the flesh to be broiled, and brought to the quarter-deck, where one of the cannibals ate it with surprising avidity. This had such an effect on some of our people as to make them sick. Oedidee, the native who had embarked with us some time before, was so affected with the sight as to become perfectly motionless, and seemed as if metamorphosed into a statue of horror. It is utterly impossible for art to describe that passion with half the force that it appeared in his countenance.
When roused from this state by some of us, he burst into tears, continued to weep and scold by turns, told them they were vile men and that he neither was nor would be any longer their friend. He even would not suffer them to touch him. He used the same language to one of the gentlemen who cut off the flesh, and refused to accept or even touch the knife with which it was done. Such was Oedidee's indignation against this vile custom; and worthy of imitation by every rational being...
One of the cannibals thereupon bit and gnawed the human arm which Banks had picked up, drawing it through his mouth and showing by signs that the flesh to him was a dainty bit. Tupia carried on the conversation: ‘Where are the heads?’ he asked. ‘Do you eat them too?’ ‘Of the heads,’ answered an old man, ‘we eat only the brains.’ Later he brought on board Endeavour four of the heads of the seven victims. The hair and flesh were entire, but we perceived that the brains had been extracted. The flesh was soft, but had by some method been preserved from putrefaction, for it had no disagreeable smell...
This custom of eating their enemies slain in battle (for I firmly believe they eat the flesh of no others) has undoubtedly been handed down to them from earliest times; and we know it is not an easy matter to wean a nation from their ancient customs, let them be ever so inhuman and savage; especially if that nation has no manner of connexion or commerce with strangers. For it is by this that the greatest part of the human race has been civilized; an advantage which the New Zealanders, from their situation, never had.
One of the arguments they made use of to Tapia, who frequently expostulated with them against this custom, was that there could be no harm in killing and eating the man who would do the same by them if it was in his power. For, said they, ‘Can there be any harm in eating our enemies, whom we have killed in battle? Would not those very enemies have done the same to us?’ I have often seen them listen to Tapia with great attention, but I never found his arguments have any weight with them. When Oedidee and several of our people showed their abhorrence of it, they only laughed at them.
Captain Cook

PS I have not verified the valisdity of this but it seemed apt after rounding Cape Kidnappers to include it. The GOnz

To Sea Again and 1,000 km

2010-01-29T13:04:00.000-08:00

Day 53, Jan 19 2010

It was tough. Even though I’d carried a number of items the previous evening from the motor lodge, where I’d been staying the past six nights, to the surf club, about a kilometre away, I still had at least two trips, fully loaded, to get all my belongings to the kayak. … and I still did not know if my GPS had arrived.

The plan was to get to the surf club about 7:00am. Chris would open the roller door for me giving me access. I arrived on time fully laden. I carried as many bags as my hands could grasp, hung the binoculars, radio, phone and sunglasses around my neck, put the cap on the head, the rolled up mattress under my arm, and the new cushion between my teeth. About a kilometre to go up the suburban streets before most people were up and about. The door was opened and Chris helped me carry the kayak down the pebbly beach to the water’s edge, but above the surging breakers.

I made my way back for the remaining items, gave my room a once-over check, locked the door, returned the keys, and made my way back along the streets to the beach with another full load. I’d payed my bill the previous day in preparation.

It’s the items that you clasp between the torso and arms that tend to go first. Unfortunately, picking them up off the street or path generally means letting go of everything because you need your hands to pick up the item that has slipped from your grasp. So a complete reorganisation takes place as you discover new ways to hold, hang, clasp, clutch, press, grip, squeeze, and drape pieces of luggage and equipment. I stuck two muesli bars into the top of my board shorts.

I began packing everything in its rightful place. I’d become quite efficient at it by now. In the early days, the times I had to unload everything upon finding an item that had to go in earlier, were frustratingly frequent and always drew groans of exasperation. So it was that I realised immediately, rather than later, that my map case was missing. The fact that I picked this up sooner rathe than later did not lessen the exasperation.

I was not enjoying the morning. The break from the routine had seen my motivation diminished. It was nearing 8:00am and I’d planned to be in the water at this time paddling the short distance up to the marina so that I could run into the chandler’s and collect the GPS which I hoped had arrived.

I jogged back to the motor lodge, rang the bell, got the key, and returned to my just-vacated room. It was not there. I looked ion the cupboards, in the bathroom, under the bed and under the table. Not anywhere.

I returned the key and began the jog back to the surf club running over in my mind my movements and actions of the past week. I could recall going over the map inside the club with a couple of members but apart from that, nothing.

Upon returning I discovered that everything had been locked up. Chris had gone to swimming training and the lifeguards were not due to commence their patrol until 10:00am and once they did, I had no idea if the map case was upstairs where I’d first bunked anyway. It was just that I didn‘t know where else it could be.

The maps, large, highly detailed, marine charts, mostly on a scale of 1:200 000, were important to me because I’d been making notes on them as I travelled. Rolling them out on tables, sharing them with locals and visitors I’d met on the way, circling around to review the upcoming coastline and garnering information on the conditions was always enjoyable. It was this very information that I would transfer onto my GPS, letting me know what lay ahead and how far I had to travel. I had also been mapping my route on them, so they would be important keepsakes when the time came to conclude this folly.

There was nought to do but wait. It was now after 8:00am so I made a call to Richard at the chandler. It had arrived. My planned goal was to paddle to Waimarama (my estimate was 50km), where friends of my parents’ friends had offered to accommodate me. I considered delaying my departure until tomorrow, making a fresh start minus the lunacy I was putting myself through. I was looking at my watch questioning whether enough of the day was remaining. It was not even 9:00am. Enough time, no doubt, but would I find my maps? If not, maybe it was time to simply call it quits, here and now?

The lifeguard, Ryan, arrived at 9:00am. Early! I had the key and very quickly located the missing case neatly stacked up against the wall where I’d obviously placed it some days earlier.

The surf, which had been bigger over the previous days, was still (always) a concern but provided no mishap. It was 9:30am. I had a few kilometres to get to the inlet that housed the marina and nearby was my GPS. The day was fair but my mood was not.

I parked the kayak next to a pontoon and made my way across the street, paid the balance owing,m and returned to my berth where I spent ten minutes trying to tell the thing that I was not in Taiwan, but Napier, New Zealand. Was it broken? No, I had to slowly turn, twice, in 360°circles before it gained its bearings. I’d had to do it with my previous one too. It was in the instructions.

10:35am, two-and-a-half hours later than planned, and I was finally away. Paddling out past some recreational fishermen on the boardwalk, one yelled “Off to Australia?!!!”

“No, from there.” I responded. Probably a little too acerbically but it had not been one of my better mornings. The truth was that I was feeling like I’d had too many such mornings. Lost flags, forgetting to secure compartments, Gonzo disappearing on me, a paddle…. waves, wind… and sand. I’d lost my momentum and was barren of enthusiasm.

I made my way past the ports breakwater noting that the swell of the previous days had not disappeared completely as it surged in and out of the massive concrete blocks designed to absorb and dissolve the relentless energy of the sea.

Giant cement blocks.

Leaving the port and Napier behind, I made a straight line for Cape Kidnapppers. It meant moving away from the coast that would eventually join up with me again at Kidnappers but shortened the distance considerably.

Tge huge roc off Kidnapper's.

Captain Cook named it Cape Kidnappers after one of his crew members was abducted by a local Maori tribe. I have also been informed that they later made a meal of their captive …and I thought I was having a bad day. I was unaware that cannibalism had existed within the Maori tribes?

Cape Kidnappers is also known for having the largest colonies of gannets - three colonies in total with up to 15,000 birds in all during their nesting season which occurs towards the middle of the year - however I noted only two colonies from the water with far less than this number.

A four hour paddle in benign conditions saw me arriving just after 2:30pm. I noted a distinctive cone shaped wedge of rock directly off the point that was dividing the swell like a knife before it heaved and met again in a confused swirling state on the near side. A shallow reef exposed itself as the larger waves and wash drew water over the impact zone. My first impression was that it was too shallow and too dangerous to risk the shorter route between it and the mainland, but after watching for a moment and weighing it up I made a dash for it.

The kayak surged and lifted on a small swell and raced towards the impact zone in the middle. I’d waited for a lull and anything that helped me get out of there in the least amount of time was a bonus. The momentum carried me across the line that marked the reef connecting the rock to the mainland and after a mad sixty second dash I was safe on the opposite side.

The excitment gave me a much needed lkift.

The excitement added to the scenery invigorated me and I knew that I had brushed out the cobwebs that had threatened to overwhelm me earlier in the morning. I was more than halfway to my destination which was now visible in the distance and the sun was out.

I knew too that I had now reached a significant milestone*. My one thousandth kilometre! Who would have thought that someone without any experience or training would end up paddling the equivalent distance of Sydney to Brisbane, or London to , or even New York to .

* The metric equivalent of ‘milestone’ gets tangled on the tongue doesn’t it?

I was closer to the coast now and was enjoying being out on the water again. With only a couple of hours to go I turned on the Ipod and sang aloud before spotting Waimarama Beach just before 6:00pm. I noted the surf club which had been mentioned and who had been alerted to my possible arrival. I also saw the creek’s outflow which had also been mentioned. I aimed nearer this but noting that there was a reasonable swell running and I first packed away my camera, mount, GPS, and sunglasses.

Picking my moment I began the paddle in and had actually surfed a kind gentler unbroken wave in half way before slipping off the back of it. Despite my best efforts this signalled a broken wave to draw up behind me and we went through the now all too common ritual of ending up sideways before the customary roll upside down.

It mattered not, although Rock who‘d been keeping an eye out for me and displaying much appreciated concern, bounded down the beach and into the breakers showing no regard for the chinos. Once again I’d got lucky and landed directly in front of the house. With his cousin Hamish, and friend Geoff, the four of us carried the kayak up the beach and lay it down on the grass.

We lay it down in the grass in front of the house.

It was just before 6:00pm and I could not have been happier. Not even the dunking at the end could dampen my spirits. The cobwebs had received a thorough hosing.

The view to the beach.

I was offered a hot shower, which I accepted , provided with a clean towel, and then enjoyed the wonderful company of Rock and Prue in their superb holiday house, eating freshly caught fish cooked on the barbecue, before turning in. It was the best possible way to finish the day.

I’d paddled 49.5km and it had taken 7 ¼ hours at a moving average of 7.4km/h.

Update

2010-01-24T17:08:00.000-08:00

Hello All

I have been unable to establish a connection on the internet and am sending this update from a campground at Castle Point. I may not be able to load my stories and images until I reach Wellington or thereabouts although I hope to get there by Friday afternoon although it will mean four days with long hours in the saddle. Conditions are looking favorable however.

Quickly -

Left Napier last Tuesday feeling down, but spirits improved rounding Cape Kidnappers... one of Captn James Cook's crew members was abducted here and made a meal of. Arrived Waimarama staying overnight with wonderful hosts in superb, rustic beach house. 1,000km milestone reached. Approx 50km paddled this day.

Launched the next day (Wed) through a significant surf that left me shaking with excitement . Paddled to Aremoana Approx 45km. Pitched tent...

Thursday 30 knot NE winds, rough seas, and driving rain made for an exciting leg. On one occasion had to exit kayak kilometres from shore into the icy waters to fix a problem with rudder. At one point I am tossed upside down from one side of the kayak to the other. All caught on video to be loaded later! Rounded Cape Turnagain... Cook had to turn around due to bad weather. Camped in some dunes 5km south of a place called Herbetville. 40-50km?

Friday I had an encounter with dolphins that has to be seen to be believed. I thought they might tip the kayak they were getting so close. Conditions were glassy and I have some amazing footage. I was racing to beat a forecast southerly change of 35 knots due to arrive at midday. It arrived 15 minutes before I arrived at my planned destination of Castle Point just before 3:00pm! Another 40-50km?

Have just spent 3 days here at Castle Point. Impressive landmarks and lighthouse. A large high pressure system is imposing its influence on New Zealand now and I am hoping to make it almost to Wellington if not further to a launching spot for the Cook Strait crossing. Prepared for four of my biggest legs yet but conditions look ideal and everything is in order.

The Gonz

Stuck in Napier

2010-01-17T18:32:00.000-08:00

Days 46-51, Jan 12-18 2010

I spent my first two nights at the Westshore Surf Club and enjoyed it immensely. My only complaint was that there were too many good people around, and too many distractions. If I was going to have to wait around I wanted to ensure that I did not enjoy myself too much, and that I addressed as many tasks as possible.

Gisborne had not delivered on all my requirements with the most important being a replacement GPS of the same type I’d broken nearly two weeks earlier. It had proven to be an almost essential navigational tool and one that I decided I could not do without. The coastline and conditions once I rounded Cape Kidnappers, were likely to only get tougher and I was not prepared to proceed with it.

The port of Napier at dusk.

A visit to the local ship chandler on the day of my arrival i.e. Monday, had seen one ordered from Australia. They had almost every model in stock, except for the one I needed and therefore it had to be freighted from Sydney. I was informed to expect a delivery on Wednesday.

On Tuesday I ordered a replacement camera mount from Sydney. It’s loss when the kayak was tossed and rolled up a beach by a wave had dramatically affected my ability to capture video images whilst on the move. It would arrive on Thursday much to my delight and I’m very much looking forward to capturing some exciting images on the camera.

I had cause to revisit the chandler whereupon a gentleman overheard that I was kayaking along the coast and asked me what I was paddling. I advised him of the brand and was surprised when he indicated that he knew it*. He made kayaks and skis so I explained to him my concern about the effect that dragging the kayak up the beaches was having on my otherwise indestructible hull.

* I was amazed whilst at his factory to be shown a mould of my Australian brand kayak sitting up in the rafters.

I was soon in his car hooking up a trailer so that we could collect the kayak from the surf club and get it back to his factory where he promised to apply an aluminium oxide strip along the area of concern. It would protect the hull from the cutting effect of the sand that replicated a coarse grit sandpaper. It would be ready the following day and for just NZ$75 I felt I was getting excellent value and service.

On the trailer and ready to be dropped back at the Surf Club.

That afternoon there was a carnival on between the kids of Westshore SLSC and Ocean Beach SLSC so I volunteered to help in any way I could but mainly ended up watching \as children of 10-16 years competed in cold blustery conditions. With the wind it felt like it was 15° C and I was in awe of their toughness. I told them that it was no wonder they bred such tough rugby players, whilst also explaining that in Australia we’d only step out of the house to grab more wood for the fire in such conditions!

It was freezing!

On Wednesday I relocated to a motor lodge a short distance away but slightly closer to the town centre, where I later purchased a cushion that I hope will alleviate some of the discomfort I’m experiencing in the glutes (buttocks).

On Thursday I walked to the kayak factory and then returned to the surf club with the kayak in tow. Extremely happy with the result. Further discussions regarding my kayak’s design have almost certainly convinced me that it will not handle surf conditions and I will need to weigh this up carefully as I proceed down the coast.

I later returned to town and visited a computer service and repair shop and have finally had my Sony software loaded onto my laptop meaning that we can at long last view the video footage I’ve been taking and more importantly load clips onto the web to share with everyone.

I have been attempting to purchase some desiccant for my waterproof camera housing for the past month without any success. It is meant to absorb moisture and help reduce condensation from forming on the interior of the casing. Having tried camera shops, camping and adventure stores, hardware stores, pharmacists, electrical appliance stores, dive shops, and chandlers I made a search of Google and was pointed me in the direction of tampons as a substitute. I am now travelling with a packet of ultra absorbent tampons onboard the kayak.

The GPS had still not shown up by the following Monday. Very ordinary on someone’s part, but I’ve remained productive and have been able to get familiarise myself with the new Sony software and load a number of videos onto You Tube with links on the blog site. The weather too has been very ordinary, so this has lessened the frustration but I am now getting restless. I am less than 40km from having covered 1,000 km and do not want to stall any longer. Tomorrow, we hope!

The weather was ordinary. This enterprising couple of campers took advantage of the cover provided by the lifeguard's tower to cook their dinner!

Deaks on Sunday Interview

2010-01-16T17:22:00.000-08:00

Newstalk ZB is a nationwide New Zealand talkback radio network. Deaker on Sunday as hosted by Murray Deaker is a show with a focus on sports. Murray "Deaks" Deaker, ONZM, is a sports radio and television talk show host, acclaimed sports author and New Zealand icon. Murray Deaker has had a number of high profile interviews, including the last interview with Tige Woods before his tabloid controversies of 2009.

Click on the above to hear Murray Deaker interview The Gonz on December 13.

The Gonz thought he might receive some sympathy from the Kiwis regarding his surname, they having been the butt (LOL!), of countless 'sheep' jokes over the years, but the name Ramsbottom-Isherwood was just too much to overlook. The cheek of "Deaks"!

The Gonz is now inviting contributions of adjectival phrases that give the credit that is due to the proud family name.

A couple of examples to get you going -

The voluptuously voluminous...

Voluptuously: Giving, characterized by, or suggesting ample, unrestrained pleasure to the senses.

Voluminous:1 : consisting of many folds, coils, or convolutions, 2 : having or marked by great volume or bulk, 3 : filling or capable of filling a large volume or several volumes.

The magnificently and generously proportioned...

Ewe Beaut... not adjectival?

Please forward any contributions to sheepsass@gmail.com .

If we receive any sort of response I'll publish them so that we may ask for feedback on the best ones before announcing a winner!

The Gonz

Westshore Surf Lifesaving Club, Napier

2010-01-15T20:09:00.001-08:00

Day 45, Jan 11 2010

I’d woken to the faint patter of raindrops on my tent. In truth I was relieved to still have a tent after the battering it had taken during the night. My impression was that Napier was only a short paddle away of three or four hours so I chose to lie there for a while hoping the faint rain would cease altogether and allow me to pack up without the damp. The forecast I’d noted, was supportive.

I was somewhat annoyed that my face was displaying the symptoms of an allergic reaction. My forehead and sensitive skin parts such as the neck, eyelids and ear lobes were puffy and covered in fine subtle blisters with a slight prickly itch. I’d noticed the signs a couple of days earlier. My own diagnosis suggested either the goji berry mix or the sunscreen with a leaning toward the latter. My use of both coincided with the first signs of the allergy but the sunscreen seemed the more likely. Not washing it off at the end of the day had to inflame the situation. I would return to the zinc to see whether the reaction calmed.

The sky lightened and a slight drying breeze drew me out to take advantage of the conditions. I have learnt that the tent’s nylon dries quickly with a slight breeze and although the forecast looked to be accurate, I packed with haste.

The clouds lifted and the sky lightened.

Turning my phone on I was excited to find that I had a faint reception and used this to contact a Napier campground with a proximity to the water. Could I paddle up the inlet or land on the beach I asked. The response was less than enthusiastic whilst I was also informed that the town was a distant four kilometres away. This was in response to my own suggestion that I might be in town for a few days. I had paddled for forty-four days and twice four-hundred kilometres, and this woman thought a forty minute walk would intimidate me? She went on to inform me that the campground was 400 metres from the beach. I’ll carry the kayak there I replied.

A final look at the maps and I established that the Westshore Surf Club was a perfect place to arrive. There should be lifeguards on duty and it was as close a spot to any to the campground. I also thought that it might offer me a place to store my kayak whilst I was in Napier.

I determined to remain positive and told myself that I was only moments away from sitting down at a cosy, warm and dry café for a cappuccino and read of the New Zealand Herald. It was 9:30am when I left my cove and I was hopeful that Napier was three hours away at the most. No more than a sprint in the context of what I’d been enduring of late. I was genuinely buoyed by the thought of such a short dash.

The remnants of last night’s blustery conditions were present in the way of some chop but only a gentle south-east breeze. Not knowing exactly where Napier lay in terms of a bearing, I followed the line of the bays, beginning at least to recognise some of the landmarks as they passed.

Just under an hour into my paddle I observed an inflatable dinghy approaching with a family aboard so I waved at them and asked them where on the coastline that lay ahead was Napier. It took a short while to understand what they were saying partly because the answer was so unexpected. Napier was the landmass way off in the distance that looked like an island.

“Napier?!!” I questioned, just to be sure. The scent of coffee that had been drawing me on disappeared on the breeze whilst the text of the Herald became blurred and then illegible. I’d begun to appreciate distances and judged Napier to be nearly thirty kilometres distant when I was probably hoping less than twenty. It was a blow.

The skipper of the dinghy warned me about cutting across the bay. I think he mentioned something about a reef and forecast winds but I was trying to recover the aroma of coffee beans. I pushed on dejectedly for another three-quarters of an hou , tracing the coastline as advised. I reached what I knew to be Tangoio Bluff. The final landmark that preceded a very large, beach-lined bay that led all the way to Napier itself in the distance.

Tangoio Bluff where I pulled over to change tops.

I pulled into the cove beside the steep headland that was the bluff and removed a top that was rubbing at my neck and swapped it for my rash suit. I determined then that I was going to cut straight across the bay and save myself the distance and resultant time. Should conditions change for the worse, the bay’s relatively gentle curvature meant that I would not be far from the safety of land. I knew too that the threatening winds would blow me landwards so any risk was minimal.

Sure enough, the wind’s strength began to increase just as I commenced the final leg across the open bay. I aimed higher to allow for drift and to help ensure that I did not arrive downwind of my planned landing point. The wind and chop annoyed me, doing its best to make the final leg a frustrating one. It simply got stronger and stronger over the course of the next couple of hours whilst I had no idea of exactly where to head so I continued to point high, gaining no favours.

I could soon make out the commercial port and once it began to offer me some protection I searched the shoreline for a hint of the surf club. I began to look at roofs, attempting to determine if any were in keeping with surf club architecture, but it was the bright orange inflatable rescue boat on the beach that first caught my attention. A quick glance through the binoculars confirmed my initial hope and I began a line that saw me bear away from the wind for the remaining half hour.

Not Bondi.

I beached at 1:38pm meaning that the paddle had taken me almost exactly four hours which was in fact what I’d offered my friend at the campground over the phone. I spoke with the lifeguards and delivered\my request. They soon returned with club member Chris Swain. Chris was the DHL National Surf Coach of the Year in 2009 and a very successful competitor at a national level in his own right. He very kindly suggested that I stay at the club which I gratefully accepted.

A home amongst friends.

Not long after, Brian Quirk, a club stalwart and Life Member of the SLSNZ shared with me some of the club’s history and successes. When I mentioned that I‘d done a season of patrols with the Freshwater SLSC in Sydney I was surprised to learn that Westshore had purchased their first ever surfboat from Freshwater back in 1966, and that she had been named Kooloora II, the same name as the street I lived in for nearly three years until recent times. A small world indeed!

Some club memorabilia and my bedroom for two nights.

Ps I ordered a replacement GPS from Sydney… due to arrive Wednesday!

YouTube Video Links

2010-01-14T02:30:00.000-08:00

Keep your eyes on the section "Check These Links Out!"... you'll be able to watch videos!