Hi Laurie,
My name is Graham Albrey, I've just been checking out some of the articles on your web site. Congratulations, its an excellent read and it brought back some vivid memories for me, as I was one of the six Western Australians to complete the Bass Strait crossing in December 1994.

During that trip I kept a diary, which sits tucked away in a drawer here where I sit and tap out this letter to you. I'm wondering if you would like me to write it up for you to add to your web site. Assuming you would be interested, I shall proceed and hope that it is of interest to you and your visitors.

As you are no doubt aware, the reasons, aims and attractions of an adventure such as this, usually vary between participant and this trip was no exception. This can some times lead to certain frictions developing within the group, as it did on this trip. I had previously paddled with only two of the other participants, one of whom I new quite well, the other I had paddled  with on just one short training run, during which he had impressed me greatly with his paddling prowess. All five of the other participants worked together in, shall we say, a government department. In fact they had worked very closely together for quite some time, under circumstances that we mortals can only try to imagine. So they were a very tight unit and I was aware of this all along, knowing that I was always going to be somewhat on the outer. At this time it may be appropriate to include some of my own relevant resume.  Having grown up next to the ocean in the south west capes region of Western Australia and as a teenager spent many weekends at places like Yallingup, Smiths Beach, Margaret River etc., I was no stranger to big ocean conditions when I first sat in a sea kayak at Mallacoota Vic in 1984. During the nine years that I spent at Mallacoota I worked as a deckhand on various abalone boats and it is to this that I attribute most of my close quarters experience where rock, reef and ocean intermingle. I also became good friends with Larry Gray during this time and he inspired me greatly with storys of adventure along the coast of the Croajingalong national park and southern NSW. Larry and I spent much time together during his preparation for the first Australian Expedition to the Arctic in 1985 and also during the design and trial period of his now famous Pittarak sea kayak. I actually bought the 14th Pittarak to have come into existence, made by Larry, in his back yard at Mallacoota. It is this craft that I later paddled across Bass Strait and it still hangs in my shed to this day. Working approximately 50 days per year only, on the ab boats, allowed me plenty of opportunity to pursue kayaking in these beautiful environs, and in a relatively short period of time I gained much experience, pushing the bounds of my known capabilities ever higher.  I n 1992 I moved back to WA. , where my kayaking interests eventually brought me into contact with Ken (Dusty) Miller, one of the group that did the Bass Strait crossing with me in 1994.  the other participants were myself,(Graham Albrey), Mick Smith, Peter Cape, Craig Newnham, and expatriate Taswiegian Bruce (Stumpy) Payne. I shall transcribe the diary of this trip as accurately as possible, Given that it is a 'personal' record, and as such may require some editing. The entries are not on a daily basis but I have endeavoured to catch up on what happened in the intervening period as each entry was made.

I take up the story on 16/12/94, the day prior to departure from Tidal River.
Had breakfast at a cafe in Ringwood with Bro (a Mallacoota friend) before heading over to Middle Park to meet up with Hugh Sullivan and Greg Caleo. I'm impressed by these guys and after going through the details of their planned Wyndam to Broome expedition and going over their budget, I was able to get my estimated costs down to around $3000. I have decided to the trip with these guys. I like them and their attitude to life. They also have a lot of info and experience of the Kimberly.  Had lunch at a little cafe opposite the south Melbourne markets with Greg, Hugh, Sharon and Colin. They are coincidentally going off to Mallacoota tomorrow to paddle from there to Wonboyn and return. Also met Hugh’s Mum again. Went from there to the outdoor retailers strip on lt. Bourke street. Bought a 10 litre water sack, another camera and some matches. Phoned Dusty from the car, he and Mick had just driven into Melbourne from Perth, and were continuing on down to Frankston. We agreed to meet tomorrow at the prom, but yet another coincidence, found them right next to me at a set of traffic lights on Princes Hwy. Through open car windows we decide that I would follow them on to Frankston and Micks parents home. Mr and Mrs Smith are very hospitable folk and treated us to a huge meal of pate, salmon, marinated chicken, salads, fresh mango, strawberries, blackcurrants, cream and percolated coffee. Also all the beer and wine we could drink. I've just had a hot shower and have a bed to sleep in tonight before going off to Wilsons Prom in the morning. I will meet Cliff and Lorraine Prain (my cousins) tomorrow at Foster.  They have agreed to store my Subaru at their place until I get back to Melbourne and even offered to drive it up to Dandenong for me at that time. I will call Mum and some other friends at home tonight.

17/12/94   9.00pm   Hogan Island.
Phoned Darcy and Franc (my sons) yesterday on the way to Foster. Had lunch at a cafe in Foster with Cliff and Lorraine, before meeting all the other guys at another cafe in Foster.  Arrived at Tidal River 4.00pm,  loaded  Anjea (my Pittarak) ready for early departure. Stumpy was kind enough to offer me some army ration packs, which I gratefully accepted, but then had to find space for. Didn't sleep very well with all the anticipation and knowing that the alarm was set for 2.30. Crawled out of my tent at 3.00, ate breakfast and packed the tent sleeping bag and a few other things into Anjea, then we helped each other carry our heavily laden kayaks from the camping ground down to the waters edge. On the ocean and away by 5.00am. Big paddle today, 85km, almost 12 hours in the seat. Last 40 km under parafoil. Saw what I think was a killer whale surface about 70m from where Craig and I were rafted up at Moncuer Island, while waiting for the others to catch up. Great ride from Moncuer to Hogan with 25kt south westerly and following 3m swell. Early night tonight. Hope Cliff and Lorraine picked up my Subaru. Craig, my allotted partner is a strong paddler but he is a bit sore tonight. Mick also pulled up a bit wrist sore. I'm ok. Great weather for it, 15- 25 kts S.W. today. Deal Island tomorrow weather permitting. Army ration dinner was good. Bed now.

3.50am      27/12/94.  St. Albans Bay,   N.E. Tasmania.  (10 days later)
Its blowing a gale outside right now. Tent seems to be holding up ok, but its a but of a worry. This is the first entry for over a week and a lot has happened.  The paddle from Hogan to Deal was about 7-1/2 hrs with 8-10 kts S.W.
At Erith Island.
As with the first leg, I'm finding it somewhat frustrating having to paddle so slowly and then stop every half hour so as not to get too far ahead of the slowest kayak. This is a plastic Puffin, which I don’t think is really designed for ocean paddling, let alone the conditions that may be encountered out here in Bass Strait. To make matters worse, Peter is using a very short paddle, more suited to a wave ski. This, I feel shows a certain amount of contempt for the situation that he is in. This is after all, Bass Strait, one of the most volatile stretches of water in the world. To venture out here unprepared in any way at all is, to my way of thinking, fool hardy, not to mention the extra risk that he automatically places the rest of the group under. Personally, I have a very healthy respect for the ocean. It allows us to pass through here in such fine conditions, as long as you play by her rules and take nothing for granted.    The currents around Deal  are very strong.  Pulled into the beach at Winter Cove at around 4.00pm. Beautiful spot.
  West Cove - Deal Island.
 The following morning we were on the water at 7.00, heading south for an hour or more in order to take best advantage of the forecasted S.W. gale, then changed course for Craggy Islet, passing by Wright rock, off to port along the way. A squall came through just as we were leaving Winter Cove that morning, but much to my relief that was all that it amounted to and the rest of the day was paddled in mostly glassy conditions. We got to Craggy Islet at around 5.00pm, pulled the boats up on the rocks for a quick brew in total glass off conditions. The forward compartment of Dusty's kayak was completely full of water at Craggy Islet, as we discovered when trying to lift it onto the rocks. This was due to him having cross threaded the screw on type hatch lid that morning prior to leaving the beach at winter cove. Inside were his wallet, airline ticket, down sleeping bag and other various items that do not function at all well when saturated with water. This could have been fatal had conditions not been as favourable as they were and to me, this was a very basic mistake. One that should never be allowed to happen. we departed Craggy at about 6.00pm for the 2 & 1/2 hour paddle  to Blythe head, on Flinders Island, in the most serene conditions imaginable. Very memorable, with the glassy ocean thick with fluorescent jellyfish in the twilight. Arrived on Flinders Island at around 9.00pm, after 13& 1/2 hours in the seat we were all happy to eat and crash out as a slow steady drizzle started to fall outside the tent. The next morning it was blowing 25-30 kts S.S.W. and I was glad to be paddling in the lee of Flinders Island. I was somewhat amused to see the other guys try to fly their parafoils when the breeze was far too shy, and yet further along at Killiekrankie Bay, when the breeze had swung more to the E. and at about 30-35kts, they would put them up.??!!  I had an embarrassing moment at Cape Franklin, where I was rolled by a larger than usual wave whilst paddling through a gap there. I think the lads were impressed with my prompt roll up and only too happy to drink the carton of beer I had to buy being the first to go over. We arrived at Leka at around 6.00pm to a warm reception from Mick's Dad's friend's brother, Bill, an interesting character who has a property there called "West End", where we all had a lay day the next day, an unforgettable time for us all. What a party. With a bathtub full of huge crayfish, a freezer full of tiger snakes and more wallabies than you could poke a stick at, we ate and drank ourselves to oblivion. The band members started to arrive in the early evening and we all partied till the wee small hours. Very memorable.

9.45am   27/12/94    St. Albans Bay    N.E. Tasmania.
Still blowing 30kts + S.W. outside. Don’t think I'm going any where today, unfortunately because I am keen to get to Devonport. I'm supposed to be working for friends Helen and Dave immediately after new year in their eco-tour business at Mallacoota,  taking total novices out to Tullaberger Is. in sea kayaks. Not something that I relish the thought of, but I had given my word that I would be there. Helen should know as well as anyone however, that you simply cannot apply a timetable to sea kayaking.   Getting back to West End;... Bill, who has a crayfish licence leased out to someone else and runs the Scallop factory at Whitemark, had arranged for the boys in the band to have a jam at West End that night and they also contributed to what was a huge feast, very much enjoyed by all present and washed down with copious amounts of amber fluid. A great night had by all.   The following day, Bruce, one of the previous nights visitors and a neighbour of Bill's, took us all in the back of his Landrover to another neighbours place, Arnie whose place really was something to see. I could only describe it as a work of art, made entirely from things found washed up on the beach. A huge sprawling place of about 10 different constructions including a spa, sauna, bath house, bakery, a house for each season, too much to write about.
All the group at Arnie's.
I took some photos of the house and a couple of Arnie, a Swede of such amazing character, I found him to be inspirational.  Bruce then took us into Whitemark where we ate at the bakery and  had a beer at the pub. Bruce then drove us back to West End where a few more beers went down with wallaby stirfry ( I got to bone out the wallaby ) and a few party tricks and jokes from us visitors.  The next morning we departed  West End and paddled down the west coast of Flinders Island into a stiff S.E. wind. Fortunately I was able to paddle along a lee shore most of the way apart from a few of the larger bay crossings which required a few hours of hard slogging. Craig, my allotted partner stayed with me for some of the way but his loyalty was being tested. The other guys defied all logic and continued to paddle out wide in the wind and waves. A shorter route for certain, but it was costing them dearly in energy consumption. Also their kayaks, ( 4 southern auroras and a plastic some thing or other), have wide, flat, rockered hulls and are therefore inherently slow, laterally rigid and difficult to control in strong wind, even more so without rudders as they were. The gap between what I call the 'disciplined team' and the 'cunning rogue' was getting wider. every thing that I had learned in over 10 years of kayaking and other coastal activities was being defied by these guys and I just could not be a party to that. One must have immense respect for the ocean and its might, if one is to look at living as a long term thing. Such as cat must have when walking amongst sleeping dogs, ready to dart up the nearest tree, fence or whatever other refuge is available, should just one dog awaken. In my opinion, these guys were, at times leaving themselves wide open to the wrath of Huey, leaving themselves unnecessarily short of energy should they suddenly find they need it and not seeing anything of the coastline along the way.(Definitely cat.1 Laurie)   Cruising along the coastline at a leisurely pace as I was, I was able to meet them at the point of each of the small capes along this stretch.  Craig, by this time had decided where his loyalties lay. Eventually I arrived at Whitemark 30 mins ahead of them. After a quick snack and drink we all paddled off to Trousers Point on the S.W. corner of Flinders Island and made camp under the she-oaks.
Off Flinders Island.
I felt a distinct air of isolation around the camp fire that night. The next morning we were on the water at 7.00 and headed out across Franklin Channel towards Cape Barren Island, with strong tides taking us to the west.  Once again I found it necessary to spear off from the group and head some what into the current, coming ashore on Long Island for a brew and a cigarette at around 10.30. After a half hour break I paddled out to meet the other guys, just completing the Franklin crossing so only paddled for another half hour before joining them in a break at Old Township Cove, on Cape Barren Island. We then paddled down to Preservation Island, where in 1789 the sailing ship ' Sydney Cove' was wrecked when the skipper ran her aground to save her from sinking. Some 70 odd people were stranded on this tiny island for 4 months back then, while some of the crew rowed a long boat to the mainland and trekked along the coast to Port Jackson to save themselves and send help for those still on the island. This was to be one of the highlights of the trip for me, so you might imagine my dismay when the 'team' did not even want to stop there. They had never heard of the history of Preservation Island or the Sydney Cove and did not appear to be interested. I was dumbfounded. They eventually agreed to a brief stopover but stayed on the beach at the western end of the island while I paddled around the east side looking for a monument or some reminder sort of reminder of the disaster that took place here 200 years ago. What I did find in the limited time that I had been so graciously allowed, was a shack, unoccupied but in regular use, with surrounding sheds, an airplane and evidence of regular vehicle use. I would have dearly liked to stay the night here, and knowing now what was to transpire later in the day, I probably should have done so.

 From Preservation, we paddled to Clarke Island, with a strong current and 20 kts of breeze behind us.  The team flew parafoils on this leg, so I took the opportunity to get a good hard paddle in by choosing not to fly mine. In this way I figured they would keep up with me, but an hour later at the S.W. corner of Clarke they were still a kilometre behind.  With the swell making, the sun getting low in the sky and the current racing past Clarke in an easterly direction, I followed Dusty's directive to find the first suitable landing and did so at around 7.30pm with the light fading. I immediately climbed a granite outcrop to launch my parafoil as a beacon for the team following. when they didn’t turn up that night , I wasn’t overly concerned and thought they had either missed the parafoil in the dim light or may have had some delays at the corner of Clarke, where the seas were a bit tricky. As it turned out, both had happened. Dusty had capsized in the tidal race and not being able to roll it back up, had found it necessary to swim it into the rocks and drag it up to empty out the cockpit.  They had then paddled straight past the somewhat hidden beach where I had landed, apparently not seeing the parafoil, (undoubtedly too far offshore) and onward to Moriarty point. When I was not to be found there, Dusty sent two of the others off to look for me, in the dark. This was a decision made with the best of intentions I am sure, but a wrong decision and as it turned out Mick also capsized in the current whilst on this errand. I did feel some curiosity the next morning however when I found Dusty's chart and hand held bilge pump washed up on the beach in front of me, where I had camped.  Going on the way the tide was running the previous evening, I figured that the incident must have happened towards the corner of Clarke and thought they would not be far away. So I sat on top of the granite outcrop next to my camp, eating my weetbix and looking out for them. When by 9.30 they hadn’t shown up I decided to go looking for them. I was just about to launch at 10.00 when I heard a faint coo-ee from the east, then another soon after. This time I could see 3 of them, standing  atop one of the granite wind sculptures that are prominent in the area, about 1km from where I was  I indicated that I had seen them and would paddle around to where they were, which was about 30 mins into a strong tidal flow. When I pulled up onto the beach at Moriarty Point, I was immediately aware of some very heavy vibes against me. After returning Dusty's chart and bilge pump to him he requested that I sit before him for a disciplinary session, (I chose to stand) during which he pointed out some of the difficulties the 'team' was having with me and I pointed out some of the mistakes that I thought the 'team' was making. From what Dusty was saying I gathered that the 'team' had begun to consider me a liability.  This was far from what I considered to be the case. I was using all the skills and cunning that I had acquired in over ten years and thousands of kilometres on the ocean since I first sat in a kayak. I know that the key to safe kayaking is not so much in epirbs and icoms, but more in not leaving yourself vulnerable for any more time than is necessary and in conserving ones energy for a time when your life might depend on it. This is especially so when you are dealing with a notoriously changeable and treacherous area such as Bass Strait, as we were. At this point I offered to hand back the epirb, pen flare gun, saline injection kit and other bits and pieces that they had so generously loaned me at Tidal River before departure and to go solo from here on in.  I think Dusty thought I was calling his bluff, as his reaction to this was to say "don’t tempt me". As I pointed out to him at the time, this was an option that I was more than happy and confident to pursue, so I handed back the loaned equipment. Shortly thereafter we all launched for the banks strait leg, at around 11.00am. The 'team' did not think that I should paddle the Banks Strait leg solo, so I dawdled along more or less with them, getting swept to the west by the powerful current as fast as I was going south. The currents around Clarke Is. and N.W. Tasmania are very strong, in places as fast as you could paddle into them yet at the same time offering some exciting paddling for those experienced and confident enough to have some in them. As we neared Cape Portland, N.E. Tasmania, I’m afraid my impatience got the better of me.  Sorry guys but I had to go.  I speared off to the east of the team and somewhat into the current, which by this time had changed  direction and was soon in the lee of Cape Portland, sheltered from the 15-18 kt S.E. that had sprung up. Once I was within Ringarooma Bay and largely un affected by the now east bound current, I had a fairly easy run along the beach down to Tomahawk, on the N.E. corner of Tasmania, our intended final destination. Before much further I decided to pull into the beach to boil the billy and set foot on Tasmania. " I had made it." After a break of half an hour or so I paddled on along the long white beach of Ringarooma Bay, pulling ashore at around 7.30 that evening, Christmas eve, about 8km short of Tomahawk. Setting up my tent that night I couldn’t help but think of my two boys, Darcy and Franc, at home in W.A. and how excited they would be about tomorrow, and weather the detested ex would bother to remind them that it was also my birthday. I was a little sad that I could not be with them or the rest of my family at this time.  I hoped to meet up with the 'team' in Tomahawk the following day before they departed for Devonport by car. I did want to clear the air before we parted company altogether.  I, by this time had decided to paddle on along the north coast of Tasmania to Devonport, as I now had some spare days up my sleeve being that we had  not lost any time across the strait due to bad weather and  only 1 day partying at West End. This would be great, being able to sleep in till what ever time I wanted without having to conform to the official start time as dictated each evening by the 'team' and paddling only until I felt like stopping for a brew or setting up camp for the night. Much more my style.
 

 The next morning, Christmas day, I climbed out of my tent at about 8.00, had some weetbix and coffee, then went for a leisurely stroll along the beach towards Tomahawk. A few hundred meters along, I noticed where a lot of footprints went up off the beach to the bush behind.  Upon further investigation I discovered a track that lead to a clearing where a group of large tents had been erected, one of which was in the style of an Indian tepee. I looked around for a while but it seemed that there was nobody there. I walked a little further along the track, then turned around and walked back through the camp-site again. As I did so a naked man walked onto the track in front of me and on towards the beach, without seeing me. I stopped walking briefly then continued on, but when I got back to the beach he was nowhere to be seen. I looked along the top of the beach and spotted him squatting down taking a dump.  He still hadn’t seen me so I politely walked down onto the beach, gave him some time to finish the job at hand then walked back up to his camp. Peter Boyle was his name and it turned out that he was something of a modern day Gypsy, complete with horse drawn cart and all.  He was very interested in my kayak and wanted to know all about what I was doing and where I had come from. He had recently taken up residence at this remote location, along with some other like minded people, whom had all gone back to civilisation and family for Christmas.  He gave me a small tourist map of the north coast, which was handy as I had no access to one since separating from the 'team'. he also gave me some green tips which I saved for later and I gave him some sugar from the army ration packs.  I departed from there at around 10.30am, surprising what I am certain was an 8 ft shark in the shallows along the way, arriving at Tomahawk around midday, the same time that the 'team' had departed by road as I was later to learn. I also learned that they had paddled into Tomahawk at 11.30 the previous night, which meant that they had paddled for more than twelve hours without substantial sustenance. Why they chose to do this is beyond me. If they had  followed the beach around from Cape Portland they could have pulled in for a break and a snack at any time, paddled along a beautiful beach out of the wind and current, which would have been opposing them at around 3kts, and still would have got to Tomahawk at least 2 hours before they did. The mind boggles.!!  I had almost paddled past Tomahawk before deciding to pull in there to make some phone calls, it being Christmas day and all. After a quick brew I set off in search of and found a phone box. After some 20 mins I was able to reach an operator and call my brother Allan's house in Perth, reverse charges.  I spoke to him and Mum for a while, they wished me merry Christmas, happy birthday etc.  It was good to talk to them and felt quite relieved to have done that from Tasmania.  It seemed to dawn on me at that point that I was actually in Tasmania, that I had actually achieved what I had set out to do. The months of planning, anticipation, apprehension, and wondering were over and I suddenly felt very relaxed and quite tired.  I then walked further along the road to the caravan park and Tomahawks only shop, which as I suspected was closed for the day.  I then walked bac along the beach to where my kayak was at the mouth of the Tomahawk River. I sat down, pulled out the can of plumb pudding and packet of dehydrated icecream that I had brought along for this occasion, ate most of both, then the can of V.B. that I had also brought for this occasion, drank it and enjoyed it very much, then laid back on the beach sheltered from the 20kt N.E. beside my kayak, feeling as though I had just had great sex and dozed off in the afternoon sun.  At around 5.00 that afternoon I awoke to see an elderly gentleman leaning over me and asking in a German accent if I was alright. After assuring him that I was quite ok he started asking me all the usual questions, ie; where I had come from where I was going etc. etc. He was very interested in all I had to tell him and he told me about how he had come to Tasmania from war ravaged Germany in 1951. We chatted more as we  walked along the beach back towards the caravan park, as the owners had told me when I spoke to them on the beach earlier, that I could obtain supplies  later, if I knocked on the back door of the shop. The German chap told me how he was staying at the caravan park with his wife, daughter and son-in-law and as we neared there he asked in his German accent, " you will drink some beer with me for Christmas, yes?". An offer that was impossible to refuse. So after a visit to the shop, I joined  Egon, his wife Raisa, their daughter Gabrielle and her hubby Russell for some festive cheer, during which they invited me to stay for a barbecue dinner. I found it a joy to be in their company and especially to share their evening meal of marinated pork cutlets and spare ribs with salads and German bread, followed by a delicious apple strudel that Gabrielle had made and brewed coffee.   I left the Germans just on dusk and made my way back to my kayak to set up the tent before dark. Having done so I laid back in the warmth an shelter, recalling in my mind the events of the past 8 days and how this day had started out as a lonely one but ended up as a great and memorable day, thanks to the kindness and hospitality of complete strangers. After a cup of port or two and rolling up the tips that Peter Boyle had given me earlier in the day, I drifted off into a sound sleep. A Christmas day and birthday that will be long remembered.

 The next morning, 26 dec., I was on the water at 7.00 bound for Bridport, 50 km along the coast. I said hello to a chap fishing from a tinnie with his grandson of just 6 or 7 years, just out from Waterhouse Point. From there I paddled on to a small bay between two rocky points, where I pulled in for a brew and snack at about 10.30.  From there the breeze was favourable and just strong enough to hold my parafoil in the sky for the run down to Bridport. I pulled into there at around 2.30 in the afternoon and dragged my kayak up onto the beach by the mouth of the Brid River. I ate a cherry ripe bar there before deciding to take advantage of the favourable conditions and paddle on to St. Albans Bay, where I pulled in and set up camp on the beach not far from East Sandy Point at around 4.30. I pulled my kayak up the beach a couple of meters past the last high tide mark, which was only just far enough as it turned out. Through the night the wind swung around to the S.W., which was onshore at my end of the bay. The next morning I discovered that the biggest wave at high tide through the night had come to within 2 inches of my tent and that the aft 2 meters of my kayak had been awash. The S.W. was still howling in at around 35kts, so I decided against pressing on to Georgetown on this day and wondered what the disciplined team would have done in this situation. No doubt they would have slogged away into it, achieving maybe 20km.  Later that day as I was writing in this log and thinking about lunch, I spotted a vehicle coming along the beach towards me. Turned out these people were camped at the other end of the bay, sheltered from the S.W., as they had done every Christmas for the past 14 years. Brendan, his girlfriend and his sister, told me how they towed their fully loaded caravan 13km along the beach to get here. They were presently out looking for firewood  and from a distance they had thought that my kayak and tent was a large tree washed up on the beach. We chatted for a while, during which time I was offered and drank two cans of icy cold beer and they asked and I answered all the usual questions. I told them how I was not going any where today so Brendan offered to take me for a drive around to there camp at the other end of the bay, which I accepted. I closed my tent up and climbed into the front seat of their landcruiser. The interior sun visor was down and on the back of it was a vanity mirror, in which I saw my face for the first time in 10 days. I was shocked at what I saw. Something like the wild man from Borneo. It had been some 14 years since I had last grown a beard and much of it had changed colour in that time. Brendans Mum & Dad were nice people too and very interested in all that I had to say.(all the usual answers)  She brought out cheese and biscuits and he brought out more beer, both of which went down a treat as did the bacon & baked bean jaffles. About 3.00 that afternoon Brendan and his Dad drove me back around the bay to my camp, a distance of about 8km. With a lot of hand shakes and thanks, I said goodbye to yet another group of generous and hospitable strangers. I climbed back into my tent out of the persistent S.W. wind which was still coming in at around 30kts.  After taking a nap for an hour or more, induced by the beers that Brendans Dad kept handing me, I came to a point where I thought a decision had to be made.  Should I push on to Devonport tomorrow hoping that the wind would abate, or should I head back to Bridport to seek some transport out of there. Tomorrow would be the 28th of December was counting on me to be back at Mallacoota to help her and Dave out with the newly established eco-tourism business. Taking novice tourists out on the ocean in sea kayaks really can be a drag, but it is a job and I had made a commitment to be there. I was still 2 days out from Devonport in favourable conditions and 4 days out if I had to punch my way there, which was most likely. Sitting in my tent I looked at the butter container and thought that it had probably melted in the heat today. Then I thought ok, if the butter is meted I will head back to Bridport. If it is not melted I will push on at least as far as Georgetown.  The butter was melted and rancid.  It was about 4.30pm and with the S.W. still at 30kts or more Bridport was only an hour and a half away. I could be there well before dark if I packed up and left  immediately, which I did.

 I had a terrific run back to Bridport under parafoil, catching some thrilling rides on the wind driven swell which by now was getting up to 2-3 meters in height. As I rounded E. Sandy cape I joined a 35ft yacht which was on the same heading. She was reaching with mainsail, a large jib and spinnaker aloft and making only slightly better time than me. I pulled onto the beach near the old Bridport Pier at 5.40pm. By this time I was getting hungry and a large juicy t-bone steak beckoned me from the Bridport Pub. After satisfying that desire, I found a phone box and started ringing some a/h numbers seeking transport to Launceston for myself and "Anjea".   After a few calls I got onto a chap named Gricey, who would be in Bridport the next evening with his truck. That meant a 24 hour wait at the beach guarding my kayak, but appeared to be the only available option.  So I walked back to the Old Pier Beach, boiled the billy, then laid back and enjoyed a port or two before sleeping under the stars.  The following morning, as I was sitting, considering what to do to kill a day in Bridport, a man and his wife walking past asked where I was headed. They had just been for a swim and when I told them that I had just ended my journey across the Strait, he was, as usual, even more curious. I braced myself for the usual run of silly questions, but all I got were sensible, informed questions.  Jeff and Bev Jennings turned out to be the last and perhaps most generous and hospitable strangers I was to meet on this trip. Jeff, as it turned out, was 1 of only 2 sea kayakers in Bridport, and happened to live only 200 meters from where I had pulled into the beach. They invited me to their home for coffee, which I accepted, and also treated me to fruit mince pies, cake and a whole lot of other goodies left over from Christmas. Jeff is a member of the Maatsuyker Sea Canoe Club of Tasmania and we happily chatted, looked at photos and some of the best sea kayaking video footage that I have ever seen. Shot in Southeast Tas, it is of a fellow club member negotiating the entrance to a large sea cave in a swell of about three meters.  the guy gets bowled over, then rolls up and rides the rebound back towards the camera at a great rate of knots, before rolling over again to avoid a collision with the camera-man. Great Stuff.  Jeff and Bev were driving down to Launceston the next day and kindly offered a lift for me and 'Anjea' to the airport. Another offer too good to refuse. After offering me the use of their phone, I was able to cancel Griceys truck, book an airline ticket and make cargo bookings for 'Anjea'.  After learning that it would cost $400. to send the kayak by sea freight with a 5 day turn around, I was very happy to find that it would cost only $140. to send her air freight on the same flight as me. After a delicious meal that evening prepared by Bev, I retired to my tent, which they had allowed me to put up in there back yard and was soon sleeping soundly. The next morning with Anjea strapped to the roof rack on Jeffs car, we headed of to Launceston at around 9.00. We arrived at 10.30 and dropped Bev off to do some shopping, while Jeff and I went in search of some zip up poly bags to pack some of my gear in, thereby reducing the weight of the kayak and the cost of its transport. Jeff and I then went for coffee and cake at possibly Launcestons slowest cafe. About an hour later Jeff realised that he had only put half an hour of money in the parking meter, so we headed back to the car.  We then drove out to the airport, where after checking Anjea into the cargo terminal, Jeff dropped me at the passenger terminal and we said our goodbyes.  I found it difficult to adequately express my gratitude to these very kind and generous people. "No worries mate" said Jeff. " been in your situation my self more than once".  With that Jeff headed off back to Launceston and I headed to the check in counter to collect my ticket.

The rest of the story is fairly run of the mill. The plane ride back to Melbourne was smooth and of about 1 hour duration. I caught the skybus into the city, then a train to Dandenong where I had some Photos developed and a couple of Hungry Jacks burgers while waiting for my cousin Lorraine and Cliff to bring my Subaru up from Foster as arranged.  We met out front of Myers in Dandenong, had another burger and coffee,(mcdonalds this time). They asked me about the trip, then told me about all that had happened in Foster over the past 2 weeks before I could begin to answer them, which saved me the trouble of a detailed reply. I learned from them that most of the Albrey side of my family considered that I had lost more than a few of my marbles and was proving that by going on a suicidal "canoe trip" across Bass Strait. To try to justify your actions to these people is to use cheese on a blackboard, so you don’t bother.    We said our goodbyes and I then drove back to Tullamarine to pick up my kayak and luggage, then back to Middle Park and stayed the night at Hugh Sullivans. Hugh and I had much talking to do. He wanted to know all about Bass Strait, I wanted to know how the plans for Kimberley 95 were coming on. I had decided before Bass Strait that I would like to the Kimberly expedition with these guys. I liked them a lot. They were/are very much on my wavelength and my confidence in their ability(organizational and oceanic) had grown immensely since meeting Hugh's Mum and Stepdad, at Meuller River, near Mallacoota, (completely by coincidence), some weeks ago and then meeting Hugh and Greg in Melbourne before the crossing. I think the atmosphere and pace of Kimberley 95, will be far more to my liking than Bass Strait 94.  I shall endeavour to contact Dusty and the disciplined team, just to let them know that I did intend to meet them at Tomahawk and that there is definitely no hard feelings on my part. I would even like to paddle with them again,(a short paddle) and I will spend the summer here at Mallacoota, trying to save some money for the Kimberly expedition, which is scheduled for April. This really is a beautiful place, and every day when I look out over the inlet from Hellen's balcony, I am reminded that I have returned to my spiritual home. Where I first sat in an old Icefloe sea kayak and began this love affair with the ocean.

Foot note :
 Unfortunately, I did not eventually participate in Kimberley 95, for a number reasons that I will not go into. Suffice to say 2 words. Women and money.   Hugh and Greg did complete that trip however, with many a great adventure and trials along the way, from what I am told. Coincidentally, I met Hugh again, whilst I was holidaying in Broome in June 1996. He was still in the area and had been joined by his long time girlfriend and another couple from Melbourne and were planning another trip into the area.

I phoned Dusty from Melbourne, early in the new year. With the benefit of hindsight, he realised that "the team" and myself were on very different missions during our paddle and he personally held no lingering ill feelings. To this day, I haven't seen or heard from any of them since then, which is a little disappointing to me. Their work does however take them to many far flung places and I imagine they would not keep the same address for any length of time.