The Undead

The Sunday paddles are, at least as a regular event, over. This is actually the second time I’ve binned the Sunday paddles. The first time was back in 2024 when interest and attendance was repeatedly poor. I don’t why I thought I could turn a trickle into a deluge after the passage of two years with more people than ever out of the game unless perhaps I have a God delusion and think that I can somehow turn water into wine, bread into fish, and non-interest into enthusiasm.

Mentally, this is a tough call to make because I am essentially giving up and if there is one thing that really signals weakness to me it is giving up. Seth Godin, in his book, The Dip, argues that winners know when to quit and when to keep going. Dips are temporary set backs which require a no quit attitude while cul-de-sacs are dead ends where no amount of perseverance will create a path forward. Dips are a bit like over-reaching during a training cycle. You get fatigued, a bit stiff and sore, but, if you manage your training correctly, you are stronger and fitter than ever at the end of the training cycle. I am so used to pushing the fatigue (both mental andphysical), soreness, even boredom at the repetitiveness involved in training that I take that attitude to everything. It works for training but it will never turn a cul de sac into a highway.

When you come back to first principles, the purpose of the Sunday paddles was myriad and yet none of those many goals were being met. In group situations, there is always a social element, and, as I live like a hermit because of my difficulty in finding people who enjoy doing what I do, that was an important goal. But I also wanted to be out with people who like being challenged and valued improving their skills. At the outset, the Sunday paddles were meant to include some skills practice, but very few people are interested in improving their skills even when doing so will open the door to a much wider range of possible experiences. Sea kayaking, particularly under calm conditions is actually a low skill sport where you can complete many, many trips with very little skill.

Last Sunday, I actually had three people show up. One regular (who I will continue to paddle with outside the Sunday paddles) and two paddlers from the ACT who wanted to go from ungraded to Grade Two. I ran them through some of the basic skills that constitute the Grade Two skill set although I could tell by they way they held their paddles, sat in the boat, just generally moved that they were a long, long way off. Initially, I thought I might be able to tick them off on a rescue if not the actual paddle skills but even that was not possible. If you can’t competently complete a simple rescue in calm conditions there is no way you’ll manage in a real situation.

Way back in 2020 after the fires came through and the lockdowns followed, I ran Sunday paddles for almost an entire year and they were quite successful. I even had double digit participants and we did a lot of really interesting paddles in a great variety of conditions. It’s hard to admit that those days are over, but they are and no amount of wishful thinking will bring them back. In a way, it’s a metaphor for everything in life. I used to be able to squat my body weight, but I can’t now and no amount of training will get me back to that point. I can hang on to what I have and I can maximise what I can do, but I cannot, like Jesus, turn the dead into the living.

Never Use a Long Word When a Short Word Will Do

 Every day go back to the beginning and rewrite the whole thing and when it gets too long, read at least two or three chapters before you start to write and at least once a week go back to the start. Earnest Hemmingway.

Many years ago I ploughed my way through Nassim Taleb’s weighty tomb “Antifragile: Things That Gain From Disorder.” The book is full of interesting insights and ideas – many of which are pertinent to our times (no government has ever promoted resilience because governments by their nature promote dependence) – but, the thing I remember most about the book was a few sentences early in the book where Taleb defended his option to reject any suggestions made by the book’s nominal editor. After reading that paragraph my mind continually returned to rub against the notion that Antifragile would have been a much better book with more editorial input.

Grace Tame’s memoir, “The Ninth Life of a Diamond Miner” is such a book, but more so. Tame’s book is chaotic, confusing, and contradictory. In other words, it is a book in desperate need of editorial input. Compared to Tame’s book, Taleb’s Antifragile is written with the precision of an Earnest Hemmingway novel; the author who famously wrote 47 different endings to “A Farewell to Arms” and was known for his stringent rewriting process.

The Ninth Life of a Diamond Miner was nominated for a number of book prizes in 2023, but, thankfully, won none. This is not a denigration of Tame, but a reality that the book is very poorly written, difficult to read and requires dedication to get through. Even Tame’s most ardent fans – she is broadly supported by left wing Australia – found the book a challenging read and many readers fell into the DNF (did not finish) category. This is almost unheard of on the solidly left wing Good Reads platform where anything right of Karl Marx’s “The Communist Manifesto” gets a one star review.

I did not read the book, I listened to the audiobook version. Although I am good at sticking with heavy reads – I was engrossed by Niall Ferguson’s “The War of the World,” a heavy read at well over a thousand pages - and I read dozens of non-fiction books a year, Tame’s book is too discursive, too wandering, and too tangential to sit and read. Listening allows the “reader” to do other things and is simply the only way I could get through the book.

Tame’s story is well known in Australia so there is no need to repeat it here. The book traces the period of her life from birth through to winning the Australian of the Year Award in 2021 which, at times, feels too revealing, too nakedly honest. I’m not sure that the reader really needs to know about all of Tame’s later sexual encounters, or the drug taking, drinking, cutting, general chaotic nature of her life before and after what she calls “disclosing.”

Dispassionate readers have to wonder whether the chaos which seemed to permeate Tame’s life was a precondition to the abuse or a reaction. The book is so disordered and chronologically disjointed that it is impossible to tell. In “Troubled: A Memoir of FosterCare, Family and Social Class,” Rob Henderson (well known for his thesis on “luxury beliefs”) writes about the chaos that characterised his own upbringing and acknowledges that the leading indicators of success in life are relatively simple: marry before having children, finish high school, work full time. Tame’s life is nowhere near as destabilised as Henderson’s. She had loving and caring parents (albeit they were separated) and a large and supportive family network all in close proximity. Despite claims in the book that her background was somewhat impoverished, both parents had good jobs, the family had multiple properties, there were overseas trips and no apparent physical or emotional neglect and certainly no economic barriers. The abuse, in fact, occurred at a prestigious private girls school in Tasmania.

There is a sense throughout the book that Tame at one time both resists being cast merely as a victim of crime and yet finds comfort in various psychosocial diagnoses: autism, neurodivergence, ADHD, cutting disorder, anorexia nervosa (her words, and not the modern nomenclature now in use) which allow her to enter the now sacrosanct category of victim. Many of the experiences she describes as being evidence of one or all of these various issues appear to outsiders less caught up in their own mental torture and with the benefit of more life years to be the normal ups, downs, and round-abouts of any individuals life. No-one really fits in, we all struggle with our identity, making and keeping friends is difficult (although Tame, for all her psychosocial and autistic issues seems to fare much better than most in this regard), and, although these things get easier with age, they never disappear. At 60 we can be as fraught with self-confidence issues as we are at 16. Such is life, and it is made no better by the modern tendency to rumination fostered by therapy and endless affirmations of completely normal personality variations.

There is no doubt that Tame was failed by the system. When the grooming started, Tame was under treatment for disordered eating so she was seeing therapists and her mother had met with the school and requested that Grace never be alone with the abuser. The red flags were there but somehow Grace remained enmeshed with her abuser for six long months. This is both an indictment of the system and a sign that we should never trust strangers – no matter what position they hold in society – to be the carer for our vulnerable people. No therapist can replace the love of actual family and there is something dystopian about the way modern society appears to believe that various professionals (I use the term loosely) know better than we know ourselves. We should all be less gullible.

The book lumbers along under heavy prose with far too many adjectives (and randomly inserted expletives although I like a good expletive myself) often stacked one upon the other as if the author had one hand on the keyboard and the other on the thesaurus as she typed. There is a general sense, amidst much self-deprecation, that Tame is trying to convince the reader of her intellect by using the longest words and most arcane language available. Many times I was reminded of Orwell’s famous advice for writers “Never use a long word where a short one will do.”

Part of the difficulty of the book is that Tame frequently wanders off into random political discourses almost all of which fall solidly within the left leaning frame of reference and are delivered with both conviction and venom. One feels that her opinions are less well thought out and more the repeating of tropes held dear to the hearts of the (almost) communist left. Many of these are simply wrong. For example, she claims that America has no social safety net or public health care, while the reality is that the USA spends trillions of dollars on social welfare programs; a greater percentage oftheir GST than Australia spends (which is a big spender on social welfare programs). True, there is more economic disparity in the USA than in Australia, but Tame is simply wrong about many things she presents as categorical facts.

In Australia, where we have a government instituted Minister for Men’s Behavior Change (an Orwellian position), Tames thesis is a message for our times. Men are bad, women are victims. Grace Tame was a victim and her abuser deserved more prison time (I’d happily see him live out his days in prison). The fact that he was released from prison and then garnered scholarships and funding from the Australian government to attend university is a slap in the face to all Australians and Tame is right to be angry about that. The problem is, that the leftist agenda that Tame vociferously supports is how we arrived at this point in Australian history where abusers are more deserving of compassion and care than victims. Intersectionality works both ways and has enabled Machiavellian types to thoroughly game the system. The law of unintended consequences holds true even under the empathetic left, perhaps even more so as incentives go unrecognized.

Tame’s great contribution to solving the problem of pedophilia, grooming and exploitation could have been explicating why some women and girls are so vulnerable to victimization by men. Unfortunately, there are no answers in this book. The nub of the issue, what was really in Tame’s consciousness over the months she was groomed and abused, is entirely hidden. I finished the book feeling that more was concealed than revealed by this purportedly bruisingly honest and authentic memoir.

Solving the problem has to be a two pronged approach. Men, obviously, have to stop committing crimes against women and girls, but we also need to understand what it is about females that makes them uniquely vulnerable to male predators. Unlike the mostly low socio-economic class white victims of the UK grooming gangs, Tame was not from a low income family or a child in foster care whom no-one really cared about. She was (and is) an intelligent strong and determined young woman from a loving and supportive family, with friends and hobbies, and sports she participated in. And yet she fell victim to a predatory teacher. Why was that? What programs or social norms are needed in society to give women and girls the necessary skills to recognise and avoid suffering the same fate as Tame? Because if women are as strong and adaptable as Tame posits (and I believe they are) then we need to activate those strengths to prevent this inexcusable cruelty and wanton destruction of potential. Relying on psychopathic predators to reform their behaviour is not enough. We need to arm vulnerable people, but most particularly women and girls with the skills to recognise evil.

It's Not Unusual

It's not unusual to be loved by anyone
It's not unusual to have fun with anyone.

Les Reed and Gordon Mills

Only me for the Sunday paddle this week, which, if I could be pompous enough to use a double negative is not uncommon. Another way of saying this is it’s pretty common. Sometimes, not uncommonly - in other words, often - I wonder why I bother. I’ve only got 13 people on the list, and most of these are out virtually all the time due to a mix of feeling unfit, suffering illness or injury, away somewhere else, or just plain can’t be arsed. On average, per person attendance is actually zero trips, which really is an achievement on my part!  I don't think many people can claim that distinction.  

I need new paddle partners, something that is quite obvious from the previous paragraph, so I keep going in the deluded hope that someone young and keen will appear; but, at 63, after over four decades of adventuring, I feel like I have rarely in that 45 years NOT had trouble finding partners. It’s a very common theme among folks who like doing outdoor activities. Partners are hard to find. Which is a bit counter-intuitive when I scroll my Instadrivel of Facepalm feed which is full of shiny, happy people letting me know what a bad arse they are.

If I was going to be solo, the thing to do was obviously to try to crank out the requisite kilometres (generally 20) as fast as possible. That’s a way to make something more interesting and challenging. The Sunday paddles are generally conducted at a fairly lackadaisical pace and take a lot more time than I would allocate were I alone, so when I am alone, I always think about seeing how fast I can go.

My speed log (from Garmin) shows the effect of wind and swell. Around 8 kilometres/hour over to Yellow Rocks in calm conditions then a gradually declining speed which was initially due to lumpy seas and swell heading to the Tollgate Islands but soon enough became the product of paddling into both a headwind and a swell as I went south to Black Rock.

People often think paddling into the wind is the hard part, and it is if you are slow. There’s been more than one Sunday paddle which has ended in a tow because someone is paddling way too slowly to make headway in the wind, but beginners find downwind and down-swell conditions much more challenging. Paddling into the wind, the bow is well anchored and if you can just keep plugging along, the kayak feels very stable. Paddling downwind and down-swell beginners can quickly become very unstable. It helps to keep the kayak moving, catching waves is way easier – apart from the power and cardiovascular output required to paddle fast enough to catch the waves – than wallowing in every wave trough.

I was working to try and catch waves on the way back but they were a couple of kilometres an hour too fast for me to easily get on and when on, I had to keep paddling hard to stay out front. By the time I got to 16 kilometres, I was actually feeling a bit whipped from sprinting! The last kilometre was a little cool down around to the next beach and back at a very leisurely 6 kilometres/hour pace.

Life is Good

The fine weather during April has slid into equally good weather in May, and, after six weeks of solid training all I can think about is doing things instead of merely preparing to do things. On Saturday we went rock climbing in summer weather – warm and a bit sticky, especially for May. Sunday, Splashalot emerged on the promise of “interesting conditions” for my regular Sunday sea kayak but the strong wind never eventuated so instead of a downwind paddle with a solid easterly swell, we went to catch some waves on the Batemans Bay bar. The swell had popped up to an average of two metres with much bigger sets coming through which makes for good waves on the bar. Nick’s Big Foot (the footplate installed in Expedition Kayaks plumb bow kayaks) came adrift so he finished up the rides without any ability to sit himself firmly in the kayak.

Monday I headed out for a rip around the Mogo trails on my mountain bike. There was a misty drizzle as I rode to the trail-head which thickened a bit and became outright rain down at the Botanic Gardens so I cycled home in the rain cutting the ride short as all I had was a light and very worn out wind-break.

Tuesday and Wednesday we went up to Tianjara Falls to climb. The weather was perfect, some sun on the crags around the middle of the day, not too cold, and no westerly wind slamming against the cliffs. I usually plan our climbing trips up on the Braidwood Road for later in the year because early season we are always so out of rock climbing shape, particularly if it’s been a hot summer or we have been off on a big sea kayaking trip over the summer. But this year, we went early. Half to escape the ticks that infest the coastal areas and half because it always gets hard later in the year to find a few consecutive days that are warm enough and without the incessant winter westerlies.

The professional climbers love cold conditions to increase friction, but Doug and I are old, and all the cold does is prevent us from ever warming and limbering up. The climbs feel much harder than they should when that westerly blows and you are deep in shade the entire day. The Floatel, as we call our van, was fantastic. We parked in a bit of state forest and had a quiet camp with a view to the ocean and a big full moon overhead. I walked about in the woods as the sun set, happy that I can do that again without having to worry about aggravating any injuries. Life is good.

Autumn Training Days

We have had fantastic weather this autumn – clear days, light winds, cool mornings, sunny days – it reminds me a lot of Canada in the fall (the Canadian word for autumn) when the air was so crisp and clear that if you stood on a mountain top you felt you could touch the sun. It feels almost a waste to spend the month of April training strength four times a week, doing my physiotherapy exercises seven days a week, and just gradually creeping up my aerobic activity, but I am glad I did. I am feeling way stronger than on my return from Tasmania and my painful hip has all but resolved.

It’s really easy to fall into the trap of training and somehow forget that all the training is meant to support performance. Gym numbers, even for a person like me who has been training for decades, creep up, outdoor performance is much harder to massage towards improvement because it involves more than just moving heavy things around. Proprioception, skill acquisition and retention, body control, flexibility, strength, power, endurance, mind control, these all influence actual performance. And, of course, learning is reinforced by failure. No-one gets any better at anything if they don’t risk failure. Failure in the gym can be either avoided or controlled. Failure in the natural world is much less malleable. Kayaks flip, climbers fall off, mountain bikes crash. But what is this one life for if not to find out what you can do when you try?

Short and Sweet: A Paddling Story

I got foot, hand and mouth disease on a recent visit to Sydney so when not a single club member signed up for my three day paddle trip over Anzac weekend I actually felt a bit of relief. Still, one ex-club member wanted to paddle so I pivoted to a two day non-club trip over Sunday and Monday paddling only a short distance each day but camping overnight. Pivoting is the new thing that people talk about as if it is some kind of super-power which distinguishes you from the masses, but humans have always adapted; if we couldn’t change strategy we would have lost the evolutionary lottery long ago.

Short paddles for overnight camping aren’t really my thing, neither are short bush-walks, bike packs to camp or carrying mounds of trad gear to climb a 10 metre route in the middle of nowhere. Even when I was younger and didn’t get as fatigued carrying heavy packs, I couldn’t see the point of lugging all the extra weight about to do something over two days that you could do in one. Plus, there is all the extra time packing and unpacking, and, when sea kayaking, everything is wet and has to be dried out afterwards. Doug and I took two tents because of my highly contagious viral illness so I had two tents to put up and dry when we got back home instead of one. Somehow, every dry bag ended up wet as did both our sleeping bags. Heavy dew by the ocean I assume.

The weather and sea conditions were forecast to be excellent and I had a quiet beach in mind for a camp, we would paddle with a friend we hadn’t seen for a long time and I wasn’t really up to much heavy training anyway so I set off with a very positive attitude.

We had a lazy paddle south in surprisingly bumpy conditions given there was barely any wind and the swell was only about a metre. Strong winds had been forecast off-shore and these can cause lots of rebound when they blow from the east so it could have been that, or the East Australian Current could have been setting up an eddy along the coastal fringe. When we turned the corner at the prominent point to the south the sea state immediately calmed. There were big schools of fish everywhere but frustratingly as soon as you approached they flashed off into the deeper water.

Our little beach had a sheltered easy landing and it was really nice to brew up a nice hot cup of tea and put dry clothes on. The autumn sun set early over the high cliff behind us and the quiet beach became even quieter as full darkness set in.

I won’t lie, I was thinking about my comfortable bed at home but had a reasonable sleep in my very damp tent although I was a wee bit chilly in the early hours. At dawn, I crawled out and had a walk in either direction to warm up. I’ve been to this beach before but had not appreciated how good the rock platforms book-ending the beach are. Lots of deep rock pools with clear water, fish and crabs, along with tunnels through the platform where the water surges in and out.

Doug and I had two big jugs of coffee which I enjoyed tremendously despite my mouth sores and then we packed up and headed off. I was expecting calmer conditions and was not disappointed. There was no wind, the swell had eased slightly and all the rebound and clapotis from the day before was gone. We passed big schools of fish in multiple places, watched the seals lying lazily in the sun or semi-sleeping in the water, and even had some dolphins surface right beside the kayaks as we headed north. It was one of those mornings where it would be hard to think of a better place to be.

It was Anzac Day weekend so it is important to spare some space in our heads to remember the brave men and women who have served our country and continue to serve in our armed forces. There is a lot of chatter these days about Kings (who are democratically elected whether you like them or not), Fascism and Hitler, yet few of us in the developed west now have to experience the horror of war. Like everything else, we have grown accustomed to outsourcing difficulty and danger to other people while we proselytise from behind keyboards. But we should never forget that real men and women, mostly young, made tremendous sacrifices so that we could live as free people in a free land. Lest we forget.

Images by Doug.

Back to the Longhouse

This came across my Instagram account this morning, an analysis of a recent climbing fatality in Idaho’s City of Rock National Reserve. It is a brief, concise and respectful (if that is important to you) synthesis of the incident with three bullet points at the end which are all easily implemented and would have prevented the death of a very young man.

Doug leading Corny Hesitation, City of Rock

It is a stark contrast to the endless validation of feelings that define the Rescued Podcast. True, no-ones “lived experience” is substantiated, but also, the recommendations, if followed, would prevent someone’s lived experience from becoming a death experience. In the choice between life and death, most normal people choose life. The Longhouse does not have to imbue our entire existence, nor should it. The idea that we have to unquestioningly swallow down any and all instances of foolish behaviour is a destructive force which perpetuates human ignorance and even misery. Ironically, the greatest proponents are women who rage against the patriarchy while not seeming to recognise that it is oppressive to deny people the ability to learn from their mistakes and develop true resilience.

Cruel Shoes, City of Rock

In the spirit of full disclosure, I should add that Doug and I once an adventure trying to abseil down a multi-pitch route in the City of Rock with a "short" 60 metre rope.  Luckily, our feelings didn't matter and we let logic guide our decisions.