Harry signed me off on the final task of my grade 3 Sea Skills somewhere off Cape Frankland as we paddled from Royden Island to Killiecrankie on a south to north crossing of eastern Bass Strait. On assessment day, a few weeks before, I had been instructed by the inscrutable Finn to turn my kayak in a circle around his stationary kayak using a reverse sweep stroke on one side of the boat only. Doug, who was also being assessed for Sea Skills did this with alacrity while I disappeared out towards New Zealand, going backwards certainly but not in anything resembling a circle.
The key, of course, as all astute readers will have worked out, is using a rudder, but I almost never use a rudder either turning the kayak or going backwards and, as I have pronounced left-right dyslexia, I simply could not make the thing work. I am the person who, at 59 (and I am embarrassed to admit this) has to put their left hand up into the letter L to work out which is my left side and which is right (L for left). Doug has got used to this not so amusing penchant, and will frequently ask, when my driving directions have him about to deliver the car straight into a lake, brick wall, or other non-drive able thoroughfare, “Is that a left – left or a right – left?”
Eventually, with a lot of intermediary coaching, I worked it out, but, as with many skills we are tested on over the years, I’ve already forgotten how it works and, in all likelihood, could never do such a thing again. In between training for sea skills, which mostly involved hanging upside down in the kayak in surf and rolling back up again, we were paddling long distances to make sure we were fit for the lengthy crossings that are the nub of any Bass Strait crossing.
It’s a good thing kayak expeditions are enjoyable because I can’t say the training was all that much fun. It was a rough type of summer out on the water and I was sea sick most days. Sometimes Quick Nick would meet us for a paddle somewhere and chasing him down on a 50 kilometre day is enough to make me heave at the best of times. On our longest day, 60 km, about half way through the distance, I inadvertently scooped up a large blue bottle with my paddle. The trailing stinger got wrapped around my hands and forearms, and, while I was trying to scrape the wretched thing off, the tentacles twisted across my face from forehead to chin. The poisonous creature was impossible to get off and we only managed it by scraping the tentacles off with a knife. By the time we got back home, I was criss-crossed with large and painful red wheals.
Eventually, of course, the training came to an end and we were off on the trip. With some smooth talking, we managed to get three kayaks onto a single crossing of the Bass Strait ferry. This, in my opinion, is the crux of any Bass Strait crossing: getting the kayaks, if you have more than two, onto the ferry. After discussing the issue with all the people I knew who had paddled Bass Strait, we settled on the “be really nice to the ferry people and see if they will help you out” approach. This did work, although I feel that the youth who insisted we fill out all 38 luggage labels in quadruplicate using a quill dipped in albatross blood before he would let us begin the laborious process of strapping the kayaks to the transport trolley took things a bit too far.
Ours was not the most creative solution, that honour goes to south coast paddler Pete Cole who managed to convince a tourist to stick his 5 metre plus Nadgee through the window of his RV and into the living space behind. Pete, however, is famous on the south coast for being able to talk a priest into giving up the faith. One time we were “resting” on a beach on the south coast when a local resident came by to tell us that we could not “rest” there. Two hours later, when the dear lady finally got away from Pete she had agreed to return first thing next morning with fresh coffee and bacon buns for all of us.
This is a trip report full of digressions, which, is really because the paddle itself went pretty smoothly. True, Doug was taken down for 48 hours after he ate a dodgy piece of bacon for breakfast – I can almost hear the chortles of the vegan crowd. We did manage to blow the boom from the mast of Doug’s sail paddling in gale conditions out of Spike Bay, and these same conditions resulted in my rudder falling off about fifteen minutes later. I am pretty sure I learnt a few new Finnish curse words as we pulled into Preservation Island for the second time in half an hour to repair this other equipment failure, but one never knows when new swear words will be useful.
Waiting for freighters between Deal and Hogan Islands, PC: DB
The 4.30 am wake-up to leave in the dark from Killiecrankie for Deal Island was a bit rough and paddling out of the bay in complete darkness (no moon and thick sea fog) as the reefs broke around us was spooky, but sunrise on the water is always a delight and, to my own surprise I was so relaxed on the long crossing that I almost fell asleep and had to snort a few of Harry’s No Doze to keep myself awake. When I’ve had three litres of strong black coffee in the morning and people say “you might be addicted,” I respond, “and your point is?” If I haven’t had coffee, my reply cannot be reproduced in a family magazine.
One thing I had tried to sort out before the trip was the “cough, cough” delicate matter of “making water” whilst on the extended island hops. Easy for the blokes, but not so easy for us ladies. I’d asked all the women I knew who’d done such trips how they’d managed, and, strangely, not a single one could remember. I remember. Who can forget straddling two boats 40 kilometres out from Killiecrankie?
Prior to leaving, I’d gone so far as to purchase a “feminal.” What a device. The advertising literature shows a coterie of women peeing like race horses in various outdoor locations. One try of this useless piece of plastic was enough for me to come home, cut it up into small pieces and place it into the weekly recycling bin.
But, I’ve digressed again. Deal Island was a paradise. Admittedly a windy paradise, but beautiful nonetheless and the walks on the island – to the lighthouse, up to Barn Hill or over to one of the many bays on the island – were just delightful. I almost think I’d do the entire thing again just to get back to Deal Island.
On Hogan Island, we sat up one night wrapped in sleeping bags to watch the Fairy Penguins come ashore. As dusk set in, a large seal began patrolling the rocky beach and soon enough, we watched as a penguin was tossed into the air by the seal. A bloody but one-sided battle ensued, as the seal flung the penguin about for fully 15 minutes before devouring it. Pacific gulls swooped in and cleaned up the scraps. It was a moment straight out of a David Attenborough documentary. The penguins, undeterred or perhaps with no other choice, still came ashore, hopping, jumping and waddling up surprisingly steep slopes to their burrows.
At Entrance Point at the mouth of Corner Inlet, with only a dozen kilometres remaining, we took a selfie to mark the end of the trip and ended up with a photo of a bunch of old people looking like deranged escapees from a secure facility grinning manically at the camera. A month or so after the trip, Harry’s partner Dee asked me “What did you guys talk about?” “Nothing,” I said, “We are three introverts.”
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