Feature - December 2006 Sea Kayaker Magazine

Drained
The first mile or so went somewhat smoothly, but soon we were hemmed in by sandbars, and it was impossible to tell if we were paddling into a dead end or toward deeper water. We studied the birds ahead of us. If they looked stationary, we assumed they were perched on a sandbar and steered away from them. If they were wobbling slightly, and therefore floating on water, we turned toward them. After a couple of miles, our hopes looked like they were being washed away with the last of the tide. The water was literally being sucked away from underneath us. Our gamble had landed us in the middle of an ever-expanding desert of soggy sand. It would be at least a mile or more to drag our kayaks to the nearest high ground or a long day spent on a sandbar until the tide came back in at midnight. With options like that, I wasn’t about to give in while there was still an inch of water under my kayak. In one last backbreaking effort, we heaved and dragged our heavy boats through gritty mush until we found enough -water to float them, then a few inches more that let us sit in them. We paddled awkwardly for half an hour until we stumbled across a deeper channel and were able to take proper strokes again.
A few hours later, we were within sight of Cape Grim at Tasmania’s northwest corner. This was a major milestone, as it marked the start of the intimidating southwest coast—the section we feared and looked forward to the most: remote, wild and nearly uninhabited. I’d built the coastline up in my mind as the most treacherous place I’d ever paddled, and my heart was pounding as we rounded the notoriously stormy cape. I kept looking for signs of the huge swells that I’d feared, but the windmills on the headland were scarcely turning, and the swell was smooth and only gently rolling. At first I didn’t quite believe how calm it was. The reality is that this coastline is like any other in the world—it can be wild, but it can just as easily be tranquil.
Good weather lingered until we were 30 miles from Strahan, almost halfway down the west coast. Overnight, the swell started to live up to its reputation and picked up to almost 25 feet. We had our first big surf launch at Granville Harbour. I had expected anything with “harbor” in its name to be an easy place to land and launch, but on the southwest coast of Tasmania, the harbors are often fair-weather ports, where a headland or a reef only provides some protection from the swell on calm or moderate days. We put our helmets on as we watched walls of white water crash down into the rocky inlet. At times, the whole bay closed out, and I tried not to imagine what would happen if we got caught in the wrong place. After waiting for a break between the sets, we started our desperate sprint out to sea. We just made it out over a set of towering waves before they broke.
We stayed out to sea all the way to Strahan in a 25- to 30-foot swell—the biggest I’ve ever paddled in. For the first few hours, we were close to cliffs, and waves rebounded off the rock wall, creating confused pyramids of water even 500 yards from shore. I felt slightly seasick for the first time in my kayaking experience and was frightened by how quickly I lost sight of Trys and Gemma. It was a relief when the cliffs gave way to a long beach and the sea changed character. The clapotis was replaced by regular thick waves rolling in from the southwest. The walls of water were the size of a two-story house. The swell was like runnels on a carpet moving toward us. Mostly we pointed toward Strahan, but a few times the curling waves looked so frightening and powerful that we couldn’t stop ourselves from turning into them.
Over and Out
Strahan is protected from the southwest swell by a long headland to the south, so as we approached the harbor entrance, we were sheltered from the worst of the surf. Some swell still wrapped around the point, but it was much reduced to about six feet. Unfortunately, we didn’t pay enough attention to these waves, and we drifted too close to shore about a half-mile from Strahan. A rogue wave broke on top of Gemma, and I saw the back of her kayak rise up vertically, turn 180 degrees and slam into the water. For a few seconds, Trys and I couldn’t see what had happened, but when the wave receded, Gemma was in the water a few yards from her kayak. She’d rolled up but was knocked back down again by the wave. She ran out of air and bailed out, and her kayak was driven away from her by the surf.
Trys and I had to act quickly. We were still about 500 yards offshore and couldn’t tell how big the breakers were closer to the beach. I figured that it was an extra big set that hit Gemma and we were still just outside the main break zone. If we rescued her quickly, we might be able to get her back in her kayak and paddle out to sea before another big set came. Unfortunately, it was hard to be quick because Gemma was about 10 yards from her kayak. Trys paddled off to get the boat while I had Gemma crawl onto the back of my kayak, and I started paddling out to sea. My already loaded boat now felt like a lead weight, but we were making slow progress.

I lost sight of Trys, and it soon became clear that she and Gemma’s boat had been driven toward shore by the waves. I was 500 yards offshore from a surf beach with Gemma in the water without her boat, and I had no idea if Trys was OK. The only option left was to paddle in with Gemma on deck. Even with the swell behind us, we seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. I knew Gemma was getting very cold. She’s normally very sharp, but I had to keep reminding her to get up out of the water and kick to help us get into shore. I looked around and noticed a six-foot wave building right behind us. It would crash down right on top of my kayak. Gemma could be hurt if she was slammed into the boat, and I was sure that I couldn’t keep control during the impact with her weight on my stern.
“You better let go for a minute, Gem—there’s a big wave coming.”
There wasn’t time to explain, and she looked frightened to be alone in the surf again, but she let go. I turned my kayak sideways to the approaching wave, and just before it hit me, I put my paddle in the high brace position and leaned into it so I was almost horizontal. It hit hard just as it was breaking. Water surrounded me. I held my breath and waited to see if my lean was enough to keep me from being flipped over. White noise and froth filled my ears and eyes as my kayak skidded and bounced down the wave. I felt the kayak hit air, and the hull shuddered when it crashed back down. I had been thrown ahead of the wave and could now see. The wave decreased in power enough for me to turn around so I could go back to help Gemma. I’d paddled seaward for only about 20 seconds when I saw her bobbing in the water, smaller unbroken waves washing over her head.
“Are you OK?” I asked. She nodded but looked cold and exhausted. “Grab onto the kayak,” I said.
We crept in toward shore and finally reached shallow water where Gemma could walk to safety. We saw Trys on the beach pulling two kayaks onto dry land. She’d had real difficulty trying to attach her towline to Gemma’s boat in the surf. The swell took her toward the beach, and one wave violently pushed Gemma’s kayak into hers, capsizing her. Trys rolled back up and found that her towline was caught on her map case. Fortunately, she was practically on the beach and could get out and make it safely to shore. It was the first time she’d tried to use a towline in surf, and she vowed never to do it again.
We were shaken by how quickly complacency led to a capsize and a series of dangerous events. Both Gemma and Trys had lost gear that they’d stored in the cockpit and under the deck lines—our emergency fiberglass repair kit, a platypus water container, wetsuit shoes, half a spare paddle and a Frisbee. Gemma was cold, but with an extra jacket and a hat on, she said she could paddle the remaining half-mile or so into Strahan.
We had two days off in Strahan as a storm passed through. We ate lots of fresh bread and enjoyed a bit of civilization. We also recovered most of our lost kit on the beach.
On the third day, we left Strahan for the most committing section of our trip. For the next 200 miles, until we reached Cockle Creek on the East Coast, there would be no roads, no people and few sheltered places to land. In hindsight, we left too soon, as the storm was not yet over, but after two days in a town, I felt out of touch with the sea and anxious to get back to her.
It was rough on the open ocean, and we had to give reefs and the turbulent water surrounding them a wide berth. The sea was nearly all white. It took us 45 minutes to get a mile or so around the lighthouse at the harbor entrance, but after that, we turned south into slightly calmer waters and picked up the pace a bit. Although we were pretty safe at sea, the sheer noise of the ocean was intimidating. We were all preoccupied by where and how we would land. Progress was slow, and our options limited. We headed toward Birthday Bay, where our map showed a small headland that should offer some protection from the southwest swells.
As we approached the bay, we could see big breaking waves on the horizon, and my heart sank. We edged closer, and realized there was a reef between us and the bay. Once we skirted around the outside of the reef, we could see that there was a clear run into Birthday Bay through two-foot surf. The headland offered good protection, and a rip current also helped to minimize the waves. It was a perfect place to land.
High pressure accompanied us for the rest of the southwest coast. Most days there was some wind, but we made good progress and really enjoyed the beautiful mountains and unusual pyramids of rock rising from the ocean. We were very tired after almost a month on the water and had slowly edged the alarm clock from 4 A.M. to 7 A.M.