Up the Creek... with a Spare Padddle

I woke and noted the signs of a sunrise out my tent’s opening, but just around the corner out of sight. It was enough to see the first light on the first day of the new year. The wind had mostly abated sometime during the night though there were still signs of the swell but on a far more settled sea. The sky was clear and I felt ready to take on another leg of my journey. Could I cover the fairly large distance to Gisborne today or would the still present south-westerly wind put paid to this, being into my face as it were?

I noted with some relief this morning that my tent displayed no signs of the damp dew that always seemed to be present no matter how clear a day it was. I was far more comfortable rolling it up and storing it dry as it was. With so little distance to cover between my site and the kayak’s resting place beside the pool I packed quickly and efficiently. The fishing reel did not turn up but this was a minor issue.

I’d just applied a smearing of zinc to my face and was congratulating myself as the high tide sent ripples searching into the pool. I slipped the kayak into the pool and ……………………

…………...................

...................................................................................................................................................................?

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

It was suddenly painfully obvious as to just what the second item was that I’d carefully placed next to my fishing line on the previous day. MY AUD$450.00 CUSTOM MADE CARBON FIBRE PADDLE! I guess I was fortunate that it wasn’t anything as obvious as the kayak itself.

AAARGH!!!!!

IDIOT, BLOODY ‘unprintable’ IDIOT!!!!!

The giddy heights I’d reached moments earlier were well and truly lost… like my paddle. What was I doing out here? How could I be so stupid? Should I just call it quits now?

AAARGH!!!!!

IDIOT, BLOODY ‘unprintable’ IDIOT!!!!!

The first hours of my new year did not auger well for the rest of it, or maybe I was just getting the bad stuff out of the way? I removed the spare two-piece paddle from the rear deck where only moments earlier I’d strapped it, still oblivious to the fact that I was missing one of the most important components of my trip. I did take a cursory glance up the beach and even out to sea, but with a high water mark that swallowed the seashore in its entirety I knew the paddle was long gone.

Still stunned at my own stupidity, I pieced together the spare and pushed the kayak into the pool and glided it straight into the ocean. If not for the lost paddle (hard to overlook), I’d have been patting myself on the back for a perfect launch.

I soon rounded the cape that had greeted me with such horrendous conditions on the previous day. On this morning the wind was down to a very manageable 5-10 knots, still from the south-west, the seas had abated to smooth, though there was a solid, mature and well-defined swell. A swell that would excite surfers with its clean lines, size and power. It was the first time I had come across a ‘real’ swell since the commencement of my trip. On the smooth seas it excited rather than frightened, just as long as I stayed away from the beach where I could see large feathers of spray that informed me it was breaking well out and likely with a pitching motion rather than a tumbling one. Not a wave I wanted my kayak in the proximity of. As it was, like so often on the trip, the long line that took me to the next point some 10km distant, meant that I was well out from the impact zone.

Helpfully, the wind dropped still further and I began to take a shine to the spare paddle. I initially had some concern that it felt ‘different’. It felt shorter for a start (I would later determine that it was 2cm shorter than the other), and the feathering or angle that the blades are set when compared to each other, was not the same. I believe that I put the two halves together at a lesser angle than would be considered customary.

Regardless, I began to slip into a rhythm and with the promise of reaching Gisborne if I put in a big day, began to focus on hamburgers, milkshakes, hot showers and the like, to relegate my disappointment and anger to the back of my mind. No point in beating myself up! I felt confident too, that in Gisborne, I would have a town that would allow me to purchase a comparable paddle off-the-rack. I also began to list on my slate all the things that I could fix and address in this town.

Replacement paddle.
Replacement fishing line & lure.
Sony for desiccant and video software.
Ipod earphone plugs.
Fishing knife.
New rash suit.
Repair GPS.
Order camera mount.
Search for ay sign of Gonzo.
Repair sleeping bag tear.
Replacement paddling gloves.
New map case (watertight!)
Swimming costume.
Paddling pants offering padding.
Water supplement.
Dry bag 13L.

I decided and then told myself that once or if I made Gisborne, I would ‘reward’ myself with a few days off to get all these things done. There was a lot to do after all, and the upcoming coastline would be throwing up new challenges. This would then mark a fresh start for my once-in-a-lifetime adventure. I began to enjoy the feel of my spare paddle further still!

On these longer paddles I tend to simply break the day down into hours and reward myself with a drink (6 good mouthfuls), and a handful of nuts and dried fruit as each hour passes. The more long paddles I do, the quicker the time seems to pass. Where once concluding four hours would have seemed to take forever, it now passes more quickly. Nor at this time do I focus on the fact that I may well have another four hours to go, but simply continue to look forward to concluding the next hour and the small reward that accompanies it.

When a glance at the watch suggests I’m still some minutes shy, I might count one hundred strokes, five times, for a total of five hundred strokes. In these ways, an eight hour paddle, which may sound like an unbearable duration to go without a stretch or significant break, passes in a reasonably satisfying manner.

On making the next point I noted large but random waves breaking on hidden reefs well out from my own paddling line. The thing with a large swell is that the bigger waves, or set waves, can mean such an increase in size, that they connect with features below the surface that are otherwise immaterial. As such a flat ocean surface, that had previously showed no sign of being anything but a benign sea, might all of a sudden throw up a big wall of water that can come tumbling down in a powerful cascade sweeping up all before it.

My sunglasses with their polarised lenses, helped alert me to possibly shallower features beneath the water’s surface that might trigger such an occurrence, and I watched ahead of me too, for the intermittent waves that would warn me to steer a new course. At ay rate I headed further out still just to be safe. On occasion I still saw waves break but fortunately they dissipated in deeper water by the time they reached me. It was oddly exciting as I zigzagged my way along this part of the coast with cliffs to my right and waves to my left.

I had some concern that I may not be correlating the coastline with the tourist’s pamphlet that was strapped down to the deck in front of my cockpit. I missed having the GPS and the confidence that its satellite tracking offered me but as further landmarks slipped by my confidence grew in terms of my being able to pinpoint my location and gauge my progress.

When just after midday, the slight breeze that was still the sou-wester, swung to the north I grew increasingly confident that I would make my target of Gisborne. Further bays with their tiny townships and identifiable camping areas passed by, and I was soon able to pinpoint the headland in the distance that marked the entrance to Poverty Bay, knowing that inside this bay, was Gisborne itself.

An hour later the wind began stiffening and as I began to take advantage of the resultant chop I grew more confident still. By my estimate it was blowing at 15-20 knots now and I was certainly racing along with ease. It took me almost exactly an hour to reach the entrance to Poverty Bay from the preceding point and at 2:00pm I estimated that the distance between these points to have been almost 10km suggesting excellent an pace.

Arriving here I began to register some concern, witnessing for a second time on this leg, rogue waves around the point. They appeared to be the result of a shallow bank and displayed more consistency than my earlier encounter. I tossed up whether I could sneak inside, between the breaking waves and the point, but ruled this out even though it meant paddling the longer distance, further outwards and then around. From the wider angle I noticed more swell breaking inside the bay, and with the seas getting rougher in the now stiff sea-breeze, I hoped that I would reach a safe conclusion to what had been to-date, a good paddle.

I observed a commercial fishing trawler make for the bay and followed its wide arc trusting its passageway. I wondered if they were watching me and questioning my sanity in being out here at this point in time. Would they I wondered, be putting a call through to the coastguard saying there was some fool out here when there shouldn’t be. The wind and swell had definitely begun to spice things up a bit, however I was still paddling strongly and felt that they would note this.

Further inside the bay I had to bear back towards the inside of a small island to avoid more waves breaking on its surrounds. I paddled across a shallow reef that almost connected this feature to the mainland and then noted a number of boats and surfers on a decent looking wave on the more protected side of the island. My suspicion was that this was a break that required a good-sized swell to break and today a crew was taking advantage of the conditions. I watched for a short while however even here the wind quickly blew me out and across the bay although on this occasion it helped me skirt another section of waves before I was finally able to follow a direct and unaffected line towards the township of Gisborne tucked up in the corner.

I noted the port with a ship moored inside its breakwater. A long beach lay to its left and I noted the solid surf breaking along its shore. I made straight for the port however once inside, it seemed not to lead anywhere useful. I had been told that the camping ground was right on the beach in this same corner so I snuck back outside and scanned the beach but could not see the telltale tents or caravans. Without the surf I’d have simply paddled onto the sand and explored the surrounds for myself, but today this was out of the question.

I then noted some lifesavers in their inflatable rescue boat (IRB), and whistled for their attention, beckoning them over. I asked them where the campground was and it was confirmed that it lay just behind the beach in this near corner. Could I paddle inside the breakwater I asked and I interpreted their answer as to be in the affirmative and paddled back inside.

After a small while I began to feel that I was moving away from where the campground lay. I flagged down the occupants of a small runabout and my feeling was confirmed. I turned once again and made my way out of the breakwater passing once again the lifesavers in the IRB. They were keeping an eye out for Moko, for whom they had some responsibility. Moko is a single dolphin (they rarely leave their pods), who’d made a name for himself on the international stage due to his interaction with the swimmers and surfers here.

This time I understood their advice to mean that I really needed to land on the beach, or get into the river mouth that was hidden from our view, but lay right in this near corner of the beach. I noted some rocks in this same corner and watched the waves breaking across them and watched what happened when the set waves arrived. It was certainly more protected and less exposed to the swell in this corner and after some discussion with the lifesavers - I told them I was worried about taking out swimmers - simply made a timed dash for it. My adrenalin drew on energy I did not know I had left and I made it inside without mishap. Phew!

I beached at 3:40pm and could see the crowded campground but it was securely fenced off. The beach was crowded with holiday makers and I quickly asked some where the entrance was and was disappointed when it was pointed out a good few hundred metres back along the beach… where the surf was too big to beach.

I decided to paddle up the smooth and protected waters of the river and see if I could sight an accommodation option on its banks with easy access. I enjoyed the paddle up the smooth waters passing a band that was warming up for a night of festivities with fireworks along the river bank awaiting ignition at some pre-determined time. Gisborne was in the midst of its annual Rhythm and Vines Festival. I did not however see anywhere to stay, much less alight. Growing frustrated I again made my way back towards the river entrance and beach.

This time I alighted and left my kayak on a grass bank with the help of a volunteer. They are always surprised at just how heavy the load is! With so many people around I was confident that I could abandon it for the time it took me to go to the campground office and return. I jogged up the promenade in my life- jacket and cockpit skirt, attracting stares with my white, zinc-painted face, sun hat and dark glasses.

Arriving at the campground I was quickly identified as ‘Gynes, the kayaker’ and handed a note with a phon number. Apparently a dark Spanish girl had dropped in each day for the past three days enquiring as to whether I’d arrived. I met this girl only briefly on departing Waipiro Bay some days earlier. The lost paddle was now just a distant memory… no, long forgotten!

I remembered why I was there and had no choice but to take a room. All the tent sites were occupied and the place did look full. I gratefully accepted it and then asked if they might have a truck or ute into which I could throw my gear. I could then carry the kayak myself. One woman phoned her partner and it was arranged that he would meet me down the beach. A girl from the reception even came with me, to see the kayak and alert the chap when he arrived. Excellent I thought.

We arrived back at the kayak and I began unloading it and carrying the contents up to the carpark awaiting his arrival. I had well and truly finished, and was waiting whilst attempting to engage the girl in conversation, when I noticed a ghastly smell. A white ute was making its way towards us. “God, no!” I hoped. “There he is!“ the girl confirmed. It was the arrival of my help. People literally wilted away as it approached. What was that stench I wondered. I was embarrassed as he stopped beside me and my gear, usefully clogging up the carpark and ensuring that all attention was on us if it was not already.

A young, short-statured, Maori ‘bro’ stepped out of the cabin in his fashionable oversized shorts (or undersized longs?), basketball singlet, and unlaced sneakers, topped of by large white-framed sunglasses and headphones. “Hello?” I half stated, half questioned.

He did not, or could not, hear me but simply responded by announcing loudly to all, as you do when you can’t hear anything yourself, “Stinks, doesn’t it! They’re rotting sheep carcasses!”

“Yes.” I gagged meekly. I wanted to get out of there. To stop drawing attention to myself. I love attention but this was most definitely not the triumphant finale to my day’s paddle that I had in mind.

A car, no doubt frantic to escape the stench of the festering carcasses, squeezed past only to hook its tow bar on the wooden railing barrier defining the carpark. My helper loved this and yelled “Go on! Give it some gas!” I groaned.

The driver gave it the required gas. I knew that it was not because of any instruction from my ‘mate’ but because of the very same desperation I too was experiencing. To simply get as far away as possible. The car ripped the railing from its nailed base bringing another shout of glee from my ‘friend’. “Go on! It’s not your problem, let the council do it!” he happily and very loudly offered. I groaned again.

I began picking up my gear eager to conclude this torture. There was one small corner of the ute’s tray that was barren of the large ballooning bin bags. I noticed may with rips where hoards of flies focused their attention. A large piece of raw ‘something’ was stuck to the metal tray cooking itself in the sun and attracting more flies near where I carefully placed two of my gear bags. I gagged once more.

Then to my absolute horror, my help, I think his name was Willa, picked up some of the gear and simply threw it haphazardly into the back to nestle on, in, and amongst, the stink that was the source of all the pain I was now feeling. I was now gagging and groaning in uncontrollable multiples as Willa continued to throw my gear in the back.

When I advised him that I would see him back at the campground he seemed to think that we were loading the kayak itself onto the ute. “NO!!!” I screamed back at him. I was close to tears. I then had a vision of the Spanish girl, who I did not know, walking up at that moment. I think I probably did cry then.

Later, after I’d ‘thanked’ Willa, I would end up placing everything that had been in the ute in the shower recess and leave it running for ten minutes. Everything stank.