Preamble:
It may be only 85 km from Tidal River
to Yanakie, but paddling a sea kayak around the southern most point
of the Australian mainland is not without challenge. Wilsons
Promontory is, after all, in Windtoria, where the gales blow from the
west, except when they blow from the east. In the two weeks leading
up to our departure, true to form, gales blew from the west until
they blew from the east, then switched back to the west again.
At some point, as we were all running
out of time to fit the trip into our various schedules, a weather
window, or more appropriately, a weather sliver, appeared in the
steady forecast of east, west gales and the trip was on.
The drive to the Prom, from the south
coast of NSW was way more grueling than the paddle. At one end we
got caught in the insane traffic that marks the coincident beginning
of school holidays and start of the long Australian Easter break –
as if one or other by themselves isn't bad enough. At the other, we
drove into a wild easterly gale that threatened to rip the doors off
the car every time we opened them.
Finally, however the five of us met up
in Tidal River at Parks Victoria's incredibly expensive basic
campground ($60 night!). In the weeks leading up the trip, there had
been endless surveys of various weather forecasts and discussions on
where we should start, finish, and where we might hole up in the
event of the guaranteed gale. None of us thought we would get all
the way around the Prom without a gale or two. We had seven days of
food, and three or four days of water, five single kayaks, one with a
disturbing leak and a non-functioning electric pump, sails, tow
ropes, and sundry other camping and kayaking equipment – and, we
would use every bit of kit.
The currents running around the Prom
are disturbingly strong. This is, after all, the southern most tip
of the Australian mainland, and the massive semi-enclosed lake that
is Bass Strait floods in and out four times a day. Rae, who has
paddled across Bass Strait twice, once on the east side, and a second
time solo on the western crossing, has by far the most experience
with Bass Strait currents, and Doug and I looked to her for guidance
in managing this added complication.
Day 1: Oberon Bay Attempt:
Easterly wind at 36 knots with gusts to
56 knots. 3 kilometres.
It was windy, really, really windy,
blowing from the east, so, at Tidal River, on the west side of the
Prom, we were facing a very strong off-shore wind. Our goal for the
day was to shuttle cars, then paddle south to camp at Oberon Bay.
Rae thought that leaving at 3.00 pm would minimize the distance we
had to carry our fully loaded kayaks – Russell Beach is wide, flat,
and the tide runs a long way out. We could float our boats part way
down Tidal River, but, despite the name, the tide does not seem to
come up into Tidal River with any real regularity.
We left two cars at Yanakie, where you
could barely stand up in the wind, packed our boats, had lunch, and
waded our kayaks down Tidal River to where the small creek fans out
onto sand at the mouth. We will still a hundred meters or more from
the surf, so the straps came out and we lugged all five boats down to
the surf.
Was it a good idea to launch? I'm not
really sure. The off-shore wind was so strong that there would be no
chance of a rescue if someone got in trouble, and a not
inconsiderable possibility that one or more of us would be blown out
to sea. It was one of those times, all too common when kayaking on
the ocean, where you can (semi) reliably only look after yourself.
But, after a long day of driving, two weeks of weather checking and
postponing the trip, inactivity was virtually impossible, so we
launched.
I am the smallest paddler, in the
biggest boat, so I always struggle a bit more than everyone else and
I battled to paddle down to the south end of the beach. I was
worried about getting dumped by a rogue wave, so hung off the beach a
bit, but the further off the beach I was, the quicker I got blown
off-shore and paddling back in was hard, slow work. By the time we
fought our way to the south end of Norman Bay, I was already thinking
we should turn back.
Conditions would be worse in Oberon
Bay. Boulder Saddle, the low point between Oberon Bay on the west
side of the Prom, and Waterloo Bay on the east, is only 80 metres
high, with Mounts Boulder and Wilson lying to the south and north
respectively. The easterly wind would be even stronger as it
funnelled through the saddle from east to west and the possibility of
us being unable to paddle east into Oberon Bay seemed very real.
In the shelter of some rocks at the
south end of Norman Bay we grouped up and a quick and unanimous
decision was made to turn around and paddle back to Tidal River.
Paddling back was slightly easier, possibly I was less gripped on the
way back, but I was still blown off-shore consistently and Rae kept
calling me back closer in to the surf.
We landed and dragged ourselves (wet
through, of course) and our boats up the beach out of reach of the
tide. There really was nothing for it but to settle down at Tidal
River for the night and hope for more favorable conditions the next
day.
Day 2: Southeast Point.
Easterly wind with gusts to 41 knots
backing to NE wind 14 knots. 25 km.
By morning, the easterly gale had
declined to a mere 20 knots. We met on the beach ready to go at 8.30
am and the last minute weather check indicated the decreasing winds
would continue to fall and would swing around to moderate
northeasterlies by evening. By Rae's calculations, we would have
favourable currents until early afternoon by which time we hoped to
be reclining on the beach at Home Cove with all the tough paddling
behind us.
Such are dreams. And, the first half
of the day was mostly dreamy. Paddling south across the mouth of
Oberon Bay, the off-shore winds were strong enough to convince us
that yesterdays decision was correct. It would, however, have been
nice to have that extra 7 kilometres taken off the agenda for this
day, but again, such are dreams.
South of Oberon Bay we had easy and
exceedingly pleasant paddling all the way to South Point, the
appropriately named most southern point of the Australian mainland.
There was little wind or swell on the west side and we paddled
closely along the colourful granite slabs that define Wilsons
Promontory. Stunted, windblown trees were bent over high up the
cliffs.
After a few hours, we drew abreast of
Wattle Island, and just ahead, a string of granite islets trailing
out from South Point marked the southern tip of continental
Australia. Beyond South Point, there is foaming water and rising
waves, and I remark to Doug that “Things are about to get real.”
We pass South Point and our progress
slows, eventually our forward pace will drop to only 2 to 3 km per
hour. The current and swell is obvious here but things are not too
hairy yet. We pass the big gouge in the coast that is Fenwick Bite
and then the lighthouse, which stands starkly atop the cliffs of
Southeast Point, comes into view.
I estimate that the next 3 kilometres
took us one hour to complete although my watch is put away and I am
merely focusing on keeping pace. As we approach the lighthouse, a
big swell begins to develop and off Southeast Point there are 3 to 4
metre cresting waves and a mass of rebound and clapotis. Mark
paddles way off shore as he usually does while Doug and I stay closer
in. Neil and Rae have fallen behind.
Above the roar of wind (a headwind now)
and waves as we bob about in this wild bit of ocean I faintly hear
Rae blowing her whistle. Doug and I are about to head off-shore
further to avoid breaking waves and I am not keen to go back to where
Rae and Neil seem dangerously close to the cliffs. Stupidly, I don't
even consider that they may be in real difficulty. I am more
concerned with how hard won the distance has been and how I would
rather not surrender any ground. Wisely, however, Doug insists we go
back.
Neil is in some distress as his hips
have cramped up and he really feels he must get out of the boat.
Mark is now a speck off in a seething, white foamed ocean and we four
agree that he is now on his own and travelling as a solo paddler.
Rae, Neil and I paddle into the shelter of South East Point but there
is nowhere for Neil to land so he gets out of his boat and floats in
the water. Somewhat disturbingly, I notice that Rae is pumping a
large amount of water out of his boat with a hand-pump. Apparently,
Neil has a leaky boat and non-functioning electric pump.
After about 15 minutes, Doug paddles in
from the lighthouse and reports that he can just see Mark, but he is
far out from the cliffs, seemingly going nowhere fast. Although he
does not want to, Neil gets back into his boat and we paddle out of
the shelter of South East Point and into the turbulent ocean again.
Out of nowhere, Mark appears again and we are back paddling as a pod
of five.
Paddling past the lighthouse conditions
are wild. The waves are easily 3 metres high and the entire length
of a kayak seems to fit on the face of each wave as we paddle up and
over the peaks and drop into the troughs. We are clearly against the
current which is further churning up the ocean with bouncy rebound
and exploding haystacks that shoot 2 metre high pyramids of water
into the air. Although I feel stable, any capsize here will be
dramatic and I have to keep saying to myself “It's just like GreenCape, it's just like Green Cape.”
Our progress is agonisingly slow.
Although it is only 4 to 5 kilometres to Home Cove it will take us
two hours unless conditions dramatically improve. And, just as I
manage to crawl ahead of the pod again – surely a sign that the pod
is in trouble – Rae's whistle blows, and this time I turn smartly
back. When I reach the pod, Neil is being supported by Doug and Rae
is towing both boats back around to the west side of South East
Point. Neil looks desperately ill and I fleetingly wonder if we need
to activate a PLB.
But, Rae has the matter well in hand,
and, despite the surging swell, which actually stops her kayak dead
and pulls her back up the face of the waves, she is gaining
ground, and with relief we pull into the shelter of South East Point
again.
It is just another day when little
discussion is needed. Although Neil is no longer vomiting, he is in
no condition to paddle 15 km back to Oberon Bay, and, frankly, I
wonder who among us is. It is a difficult but not impossible spot to
land. Some steps have been cut into granite boulders at the waters
edge, and there is a vague and dilapidated old track up to the crest
of the ridge where we can camp.
The only way to get the boats ashore is
to manhandle them up slippery granite boulders for which Doug and
Mark seem best suited. Accordingly, they both jump out of their
boats and scramble ashore. Rae and I tend the kayaks, while the lads
work out a way to get the boats up on to a rudimentary platform above
high tide. Doug's plastic boat goes up first to work out the system
which is enhanced by laying down scraps of wood from the fallen down
stairway to use as rollers.
I swim ashore next, and while Doug and
Mark haul boats up onto the slippery rocks, I unload gear and carry
loads up the slope above. The lads have the brunt of the work and it
is an awkward environment in which to be hauling laden boats, but
eventually, we get all the boats and all the people ashore. Neil is
wiped and lays down fully dressed, while Doug strings a hand-line
consisting of two tow ropes tied together up the steep, loose slope
to the ridge above.
It has been a long and challenging day.
We cook dinner down on the rock slabs, which, if you are able to
ignore worries about how we will get off next morning, is a
spectacular dining location. By 8.00 pm, all the tents are set up on
the ridge, and we have crawled into bed to sleep. Before dark, I
walked down the walkway on the east side where the maintained landing
area for the lighthouse is now situated. The ocean was wild, windy
and big, with huge swells washing far up the rocks. Not a chance of
landing a kayak.
Day 3 Refuge Cove:
N to NNW wind, 16 to 24 knots, gusts to
40 knots. 18 km.
I wake early the next morning to the
deafening silence of light winds. Walking down to the east side
landing area, the sea is almost unrecognisable from the previous day.
I am immediately seized by a sense of urgency to launch while
conditions are good. There are lowering clouds all around and a
squall could blow in at any time.
Doug and I wake the others, then hustle
down to the boats and get ready for the day. Had we been on our own,
we would have launched immediately, paddled the 7 kilometres to Home
Cove and had breakfast on the beach. But, we are with a crew of
carbo-crashing junkies who must eat before we leave; although I am
not sure that slurping down 60 weetbix pulverised into an
unappetizing powder can actually be called eating.
In any case, it takes a frustrating
long time to begin the arduous process of packing boats on the sloped
granite slabs, sliding them into the water on wooden “rollers”
and setting them adrift in the bay. Rae's boat goes in first and
gets sent out into the bay a little too aggressively which leaves Rae
with a longish swim. Next is Neil and his boat, then Mark's Dart,
and finally the two plastic boats.
Only Doug and I are left on shore as
the dark storm clouds to the west finally loose wind and rain.
Instantly, a 15 knot wind blows the sea into a half metre chop and
threatens to dash all the boats onto the rocks. The next 15 minutes
is chaos. I get into my boat, but Mark has my paddle and is too
afraid of smashing the Dart on the rocks to bring it over to me.
Without a paddle, the wind quickly pushes me towards the rocks. Rae
tries to tow me out but is herself in danger of breaking apart on the
rocks and is forced to retreat. Inexorably and inevitably, my boat
rides up sideways onto the boulders and tips me out. I get beaten
around trying to get my boat off the rocks, while Doug and his boat
are being similarly battered.
Somehow, we manage to get the boats off
the rocks. Mine is full of water, the rudder cable has been
dislodged and my sail ripped in half. Fibreglass boats would have
been destroyed. Even after emptying my boat and reattaching the
rudder cable, the rudder is sloppy, unresponsive, and the entire boat
ponderous and heavy. I am worried that one or both of my hatches has
been breached.
There is nothing we can do, however,
until we reach Home Cove, so we head out around the lighthouse for
the third time and paddle surprisingly easily north along the coast
and into the sheltered waters of Home Cove.
Home Cove is delightful. A small
sheltered beach backed by dense forest. A tourist boat is parked
near the beach and some befuddled looking penguins are shifting
bemusedly from foot to foot on the beach as if wondering why they
have been abandoned so far from their natural habitat (the pie shop).
An inspection of my hatches reveals no
leaks and I am able to fix my rudder and sponge the last water out of
my cockpit. The weather, however, is cool and drizzly, not conducive
to a long stop so we soon head back out. With another two days of
westerly gales forecast (what a surprise) we are planning to camp at
Refuge Cove where we will have access to fresh water over our
enforced rest days.
While no less dramatic than the west
side of the Prom, the east side does have the benefit of many
sheltered bays and coves which offer easy landings and camp sites.
We paddle up the length of Waterloo Bay and then around granite slabs
on the shoreline past Bareback and Larkins Coves until we reach
Refuge Cove.
There is another penguin boat
sheltering in the bay, a huge boat with about five paying guests
which certainly raises some questions about the economics of these
tour boats. We land near the Boaties camp which is at the north end
of South Refuge Cove and whose only real amenity is a new outhouse.
It is drizzly and cool, so the tents go up quickly and Doug and I
string our tarp up as a communal rain shelter.
Everyone seems a bit weary and glad to
stop even though it is only midday. After lunch, the weather clears
up and I wander up to Kersops Peak where there are tremendous views
south to the lighthouse and north over Refuge Cove. It starts to
seem more than a little odd to be onshore not paddling in the best
weather we have had thus far.
Dinner is enlivened by strong debate
about our plans for the next few days. Two days of westerly gales are
forecast, before the wind switches to the north. Barring any more
unforeseen weather changes, we should be able to make Yanakie in two
days of paddling. The decision to stay at Refuge Cove for the next
two days is as unanimous as any decision made among a group of five
headstrong kayakers and we retire to our tents with thoughts of a
sleep in next day.
Days 4 and 5: Refuge Cove
Westerly gales 40 knots gusting to 65
knots, heavy rain
Two days of gales, heavy rain, and the
end of the weekend mean that Refuge Cove is very quiet. There are no
more tourist boats, and the few yachts that are moored hunker down,
most occupants don't even come ashore for a short time. We engage in
the usual rest day activities, short walks between rain squalls,
stretching, reading. Our tent, which holds up surprisingly well
during 60 mm of rain gets inundated with fine brown dirt which blows
through the mesh walls and coats all our gear in a grungy dark dust.
Day 6: Biddies Cove
NW winds to 11 knots. 35 km.
We have a long paddle day ahead of us
but we are all well rested from our two enforced camp days and get
away early the next morning. The wind has abated overnight, the
yachts have fled, and the Prom feels gloriously empty.
As we paddle north, the terrain becomes
less rugged. Granite headlands give way to long beaches backed by
low lying scrub plains. There are a few small rocky headlands and we
pass by Rabbit Rock and Rabbit Island and stop for lunch at pretty
Johny Souey Cove.
There is an estuarine river at the back
of Johny Souey Cove and some open level campites along the shore of
the lagoon all inexplicably marked “No Camping” by Parks
Victoria. I find the “official campsite” which is up a short
steep hill, sloping, lumpy and covered with a forest of bracken fern
and other foliage. It is a desperate campsite indeed. Again I
wonder if anyone that works for National Parks has any idea what it
is like to sleep outside in a tent.
After a long lunch break, we head north
again with the currents helping our progress. The remainder of the
paddle is along long low beaches and the water becomes even calmer as
we are protected by Snake Island and long sandbar that runs parallel
to shore.
Doug and I have camped at Biddies Cove
before and it is just as we remember it. Sandy dunes scattered with
salt tolerant vegetation and scattered granite slabs. Diminutive
Mount Singapore, under 150 metres high, lies abuts camp on the west
side.
Dusk is approaching and we have paddled
35 km and are happy to have our evening swims and set up camp with
our last camp kitchen on a large granite slab behind the tents.
Day 7: Yanakie
Light westerly winds switching to
strong NW winds
It seems appropriate to finish the
final 18 km of the trip with some help from the rising tide and the
morning sun radiantly piercing the clouds over Snake Island. It is
impossible to see Yanakie on the low land to the west so we use a
combination of Rae's GPS and compass to head west.
Arriving at Yanakie, I am sad and glad.
Sad that the trip is over but happy that despite challenging
conditions we have successfully paddled around Wilsons Promontory.
