Crossing the Ditch Read online

  9

  See Ya, Australia!

  Staring up at me was a maimed chicken carcass, drowning in a hollandaise sauce – our last proper meal on land. The nervous chatter from our family and friends didn’t really register as I held my knife and fork, looking down and reflecting. I was getting pretty edgy by now: I wished I had the paddle shaft – instead of cutlery – between my fingers.

  There were a dozen people at the table in a restaurant in Forster, on the mid north coast of NSW, where we’d begin the expedition in the morning. Justin’s and my parents were there – they’d been so anxious (and initially hostile) about our plans, but here they were, showing their support when it mattered. A few mates had come too. Tom, a good friend from school, had jumped into playing a lead support role in the previous week or so. Almost unintentionally, he’d become our manager of sorts. He knew how emotionally charged up we were, so he took all the “other-stuff” pressure off us, leaving Justin and me to prepare Lot 41.

  While it was fantastic that everyone was there, to be honest the whole scene felt a bit claustrophobic, and the conversations around me were slightly overwhelming. I knew, though, that with 15 hours till our departure they were all feeling the way I was. The chatter was just their way of trying to soothe the atmosphere and swallow up a bit of time.

  Surprising myself, I stood up and blurted out, “I need some space…I need to go for a walk.”

  Everyone looked shocked – they’d travelled all this way to see us off, and now I was telling them I wanted to be alone. I guess we all deal with stress in different ways. Some people eat, others smoke and drink – I just needed a bit of solitude.

  As I turned my back to walk away, air exploded into my lungs. I scampered to the water’s edge to see, feel and touch the spray off the breakwall. The ocean was getting under my skin – it felt like I was entering expedition mode.

  I had the iPod going and horribly clichéd music (but I loved it!) blared through my earphones. The theme song from Legends of the Fall, Enya and “Blowin’ in the Wind” by Bob Dylan were on repeat. As I stood by the water, the power of the ocean surged and crashed against the rocks, blasting spray all over me. It was weird – it was like the courting stage, when you know nothing about each other, and the spray from the breakwall almost seemed like that first kiss.

  As I gazed at the dark ocean, suddenly I felt quite lonely. I wanted some wise mentor to rationally talk me through the feelings that were welling up inside; someone else who’d been there, experienced the same anticipation, to take me through the rest of the countdown.

  I was so focused on what lay ahead – and so oblivious to the outside world – that it didn’t even occur to me to wonder how the dinner had ended up. But with Justin at the table, I knew my main course had found a good home. I strolled to the dock where Craig was doing some last-minute rewiring of the bilge. Realising I had nothing much to offer, I headed back to the cabin I was staying at in the local caravan park to try to snatch a few hours’ nervous kip.

  That last night, I actually slept pretty well. Waking just before dawn, I went for a walk, and as I did, I noticed my hands wanting to touch everything around me – from the smooth leaves of gumtrees to the coarse texture of sand on the beach. I took my shoes off so I could feel the ground. The gravel, the dirt, the sand – I wanted to absorb it all; brand my memory with the sensation.

  When I got back to the cabin, Jonesy and Tom were beginning to stir.

  “Morning, J.”

  “Morning, Cas.”

  “Hey, Jonesy, how would you like to go for a paddle?”

  “Aw yeah…where to?”

  “Dunno, mate…How ‘bout New Zealand?”

  “Sounds good to me. Wee bang!”

  The day was finally upon us. We were there.

  After a pretty relaxed breakfast, we made our way down to the jetty near the town centre, where Lot 41 was waiting. She looked ready, although the question we’d asked ourselves for years resurfaced: were we really ready? We’d always told ourselves that on the day of our departure we wanted to look at our kayak and set-up and know that the weakest link in the operation was us. Box ticked: Lot 41 was ready to go for a trot. That final morning was filled with checking, rechecking and triple checking our critical gear and ensuring we had everything on board and ready to go.

  Once the boat was prepared, we got swept up in a whirlpool of media interviews and meeting the local people of Forster. Almost three years earlier, Clouds had described to us in great detail the strong, warm current that roars down Australia’s east coast, the EAC (East Australian Current). He’d been watching its position closely over the previous month, wanting to find the optimal location to leave from. As it was the closest point on the coast to give us access to the current, Forster was the obvious place – although we’d only reached that conclusion three days before the launch.

  It was critical that we caught the ebb tide out of the harbour, as the water flows at an exceptionally fast rate. Our departure time of 1pm was dictated by the tide tables. Unfortunately, because of the huge volume of water flowing out of nearby Myall Lakes via a very small opening, the tide tables were incorrect, and we found ourselves nervously waiting for an extra hour. We were to learn right the way across our passage that the power of the sea would dictate our every move. We couldn’t fight the ocean: it was up to the Tasman to allow us a passage across.

  Some other kayakers had come to paddle us out of the heads and were able to test the tidal strength for us. We got the green light – the tide was ready. We jumped into the cabin of a moored vessel and got dressed in our battle fatigues: one pair of merino wool thermals each. These would be the only set of clothes we’d have until we reached the shores of New Zealand. Then we vigorously rubbed Sudocrem – which had the consistency of thick, thick zinc cream – on our backsides, underarms and anywhere we expected to get chafed.

  How we both longed to just be out there. Separating us from the ocean were the formalities prior to departure, and once our passports were checked off by Customs, it was time to farewell our families and friends.

  The disappearance of Andrew McAuley heavily clouded the atmosphere on that wharf. You could see on the faces of everyone there a look of “Are we ever going to see you again?” Mates who’d always taken the piss were soberly quiet with tears welling up. There were no jokes, only silent embraces. As I held my baby sister Lil, I began to sob – I could feel her pain and suddenly wanted nothing more than to go on a holiday just as we had as kids and be surrounded by my family. Then there was Mum: she held me just so tight. How do you let your son go on a journey you’re afraid will be his last? Dad had left early that morning. He couldn’t deal with the intensity of that final farewell.

  Before stepping into the kayak, Jonesy and I embraced each other powerfully. It was time to rock.

  Justin popped his head into the cabin to switch on the power for the bilges and tracking beacon. Silence. There was nothing – no power.

  “Shit,” came Jonesy’s reply. Then he continued, “Quick, call Craig – we’re going to have to delay departure.”

  With our goodbyes said, cameras rolling, and the crowd cheering, postponing the launch would have been slightly embarrassing.

  I calmly asked, “Hey, Jonesy, mate – are you sure the main power’s on?”

  Wiping the sweat from his face, Justin muttered, “Whoops!” Crisis averted.

  The moment we sat in Lot 41 we’d succeeded in our mission. Just to be there, we’d fought countless setbacks and inner demons. Never could another naysayer give us grief about being talkers…not walkers.

  As we paddled out of the marina, a local began to chant: “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie.”

  Most of the crowd of 400 responded: “Oi, Oi, Oi.”

  It continued. “Aussie,” “Oi,” “Aussie,” “Oi.”

  “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie.”

  You probably know the rest!

  Making our way to the edge of the breakwall, we were engulfed by a flotill
a of kayaks. Being among our fellow paddlers helped soothe the nerves. On our right-hand side was Bruce Richards, one of the owners of Pittarak kayaks, who’d been with us right from the start. We’d discussed the idea of paddling across the Tasman with him four years ago when the idea was a mere foetus. Back then, Justin and I had never been to sea in a kayak. He saw two hopelessly naïve kids who had a long way to go. As we paddled out, I remember turning to Bruce for comfort and saying, “How does she look?”

  “Bloody fantastic,” Bruce replied. “I’m just so proud of you both.”

  That was about the most pertinent reassurance we could’ve got at that moment.

  “Thanks, Bruce…thanks for everything.”

  The kayaks dropped off one by one, as did the larger vessels. Bruce was determined to be the last man standing; to be out at sea with Lot 41. Then he’d get to paddle back to land in isolation. He’d probably be reflecting on his first contact with us four years earlier, when we were two kids with an idea much bigger than he thought we could digest.

  We paddled through for six hours, breaking every hour for five minutes to chew on a bar or some nuts. This would become our routine on the Tasman. It was important that we kept our glycogen levels up so we could paddle for hours on end without fatiguing too quickly. (The energy we used while paddling was similar to trekking. Our heart rates were usually around 105–130 bpm.)

  Lights began to flicker up and down the New South Wales coast as dusk approached. We were 20 kilometres out to sea, knowing that tomorrow we’d leave the sight of land. Tomorrow we’d be well and truly alone.

  With land still not far away, that first night was reminiscent of another sea trial as we drifted 16 kilometres south-southeast with our sea anchor deployed. We nervously went to sleep half expecting to have to get up in the middle of the night to paddle our way off the coast. Waking every couple of hours, we had to keep an eye on our drift. At 2am we’d moved 10 kilometres east of Sugarloaf Point – 30 kilometres south of Forster – and out of immediate danger of being washed back onto the shore. The speed we were travelling at indicated that we were on the edge of the thunderous East Australia Current that Clouds had warned us about.

  DAY 2

  We woke at 5.30am and were in the pits paddling by 6.30. Jonesy was feeling a little seedy after spending some time on the laptop looking at the ocean current maps, so he took a Phenergan, one of my hardcore seasickness tablets. But he felt it weighing down his eyelids and struggled to fight off sleep all morning. Just before midday, he sucked on some ginseng bark, which did a decent job of keeping him awake.

  “Mate, I’ve got no idea how you take these things twice a day without falling asleep!” he called out from the rear pit.

  “Anything’s better than feeling seedy out here, bud,” I replied.

  The weather was stable, progress was exceptional and spirits on board Lot 41 were high. After a mere 24 hours, we’d travelled 78 kilometres southeast from Forster and we started playing the “When will we arrive in New Zealand?” game. My first guess was 16 December, while Justin, who’s always been the one to err on the side of caution, guessed 18 December. A dose of optimistic naivety is often a critical personality trait of anyone setting out to achieve an unlikely objective – we were no exception.

  It was on day 2 that we invented the simple, but riveting (to us) “24-hour stat game”. It beat “I Spy” hands down. Religiously, each day at 1.15pm – the time we’d left Forster – we’d guess how far we’d travelled in the previous 24 hours. The person whose guess was closer won an extra bite of chocolate or a jelly bean. Okay, it wasn’t exactly Mastermind, but it was this kind of game that kept us amused out at sea.

  Flying along in the EAC, we were greeted by our first albatross. We weren’t expecting to see these majestic birds until we were at least a week out to sea. With their monstrous wingspan, improbable aerodynamics and delicate gliding, they really are the Airbus 380 of the natural world. They have an intangible, regal presence, quite similar to the lion back on land. They reign supreme.

  As we deployed the sea anchor at the end of the day, we felt quite chuffed with our progress. Although we were well out of the sight of land, surprisingly we weren’t too fussed. In fact, we were loving it.

  Pat – who’d steered us through the food and sleep deprivation exercise with his army mates a few months earlier – had agreed to be our eyes and ears on land. Every night at 8pm, we’d have our daily schedule, in which we discussed a pre-determined 10-point checklist – weather, physical health etc – and agree on a suggested bearing for the next day’s paddle. Unfortunately, our sked that evening wasn’t what we wanted to hear. We’d apparently travelled too far south during the day and risked being swept up in an eddy back to Australia – right back to Sydney, to be precise. Pat wanted us to get out and hit the sticks all night, but after 12 hours in the pits we were shattered.

  We discussed our options and agreed to get four hours’ kip and then start paddling again at 3am. The elation of our fast start hadn’t lasted long. Mother Tasman was about to put us through the first of a series of obstacles. She was beginning to test our resolve – snapping like a scorpion at the slightest complacency or disrespect.

  Nevertheless, we were still feeling pretty good as we settled into our sleeping bags.

  “Goodnight, Cas,” Jonesy called out. “See ya in a coupla hours.”

  “Night, mate…See ya, Australia!”

  10

  Nude Manoeuvres On The Hippy Trail

  DAY 3

  Aagh! Unfortunately, the four hours’ sleep we’d allowed ourselves on that second night was rudely interrupted every half an hour by a mouthful of cold Tasman sea splashing over my face. The cabin of Lot 41 was no bigger than two coffins stacked on top of one another, and when both of us were inside, with hatches battened down, the stuffiness and condensation were almost unbearable. Moisture would drip from the roof and our skin would stay damp and clammy. At every available opportunity we’d leave the cabin door or portholes open to allow some fresh air to waft in.

  The stern of Lot 41 faced up into the wind, so we were safe from the majority of waves, but the occasional rogue would surge from the bow and soak me, as my head was at the door. This was part of our initiation at sea and a step towards understanding the different sea states. By the end of the expedition, we intuitively knew how far we could leave the door open or which porthole not to close. This game we played each night had big stakes: the more the door was open, the more fresh air penetrated the cabin and the better we slept. But if we got too adventurous, we’d cop a mouthful of water.

  At 3am, fighting the sleep monster who was dragging our eyelids shut, we got up, knowing we had to get a good 15 hours’ hard yakka in to escape the “Sydney eddy”. Paddling in the dark for the first time on the expedition, we nervously made our way into the pits, swamped by the rich blackness of the Tasman – it looked like an endless void of crude oil. Putting my wet thermals on, a rogue wave crashed over the top of me, threatening to tear me out of the kayak. I was scared. As I scurried like a rat into the front pit, I began to dry retch. I’d been here before – I was about to vomit. Sickening memories from the delivery to PNG six months before and countless uncomfortable days off Sydney’s northern beaches began to consume me. Then a lava flow of breakfast and the previous night’s dinner erupted uncontrollably out of my mouth.

  My immediate reaction was anger: we didn’t have the rations to waste. I knew how quickly my strength would melt away if I couldn’t hold my food down – the expedition could be over before we’d really begun. A cloud of semi-digested food permeated the surrounding water and I recognised chunks of food I’d eaten before we left Forster. It made me weirdly homesick. I’d never been one to chew my food properly – as a kid, I’d always got into trouble with Mum for scoffing down my meals.

  As I sat in my pit and secured the spray skirt (a neoprene cover worn around our waists that sealed the cockpit lip to stop water from coming in), I began to feel more comfort
able, with the oilslick sea temporarily kept at bay. Justin slid over to his pit and we began paddling in a half-dazed state into the darkness. Today would be a defining day – if we rested too long, we’d find ourselves back in Sydney Harbour…

  The monotonous black hours rolled by and we found ourselves constantly nodding off, our chins smashing against our chests. I’ve never been one for No-Doz, but that morning I became a convert. Our adage throughout the rest of the voyage became “Why suffer when you don’t have to?” Some people might extend that question to: why were we out there then? At the time, we were asking ourselves the same thing.

  Engulfed in complete darkness we paddled in silence. Night paddling is quite pleasant when you can steer off the stars, rather than focus on the compass. We were greeted by a dreary dawn, with the jet-black night giving way to an overcast sky that radiated a spectrum of dirty greys across the landscape.

  Endurance events in the past have always taught us that with the coming of the light on a new day, morale is automatically charged up. After a couple of hours in the pits, the motion sickness started to abate and I found myself able to hold down food again. To our relief, the seas began to subside and by 9am we were faced with a stunning morning. Throughout the journey, it never ceased to amaze us how quickly the sea state could turn nasty and just as easily switch the other way.

  We were able to rip off our waterproof jackets (kayakers called them “cags”) and enjoy the tranquillity of a 10-knot northerly. Looking at our marine charts, we’d exited the Australian shelf and now had 4 kilometres of ocean beneath. The water had also changed colour – it was now a deep azure. Bubbles danced off the paddle blades on entry and swam in the clearest water we’d ever experienced.

  Apart from the expected blisters on our paws, the biggest discomfort was an outbreak of pimply-looking lumps that formed on my entire back. We didn’t know whether it was an allergic reaction, nutrition related or something else. Fortunately, we were able to paddle with our shirts off that afternoon, which gave it a bit of a chance to air out, and the lumps cleared up a few days later.