From The Sea Canoeist, May 1997

Scribe: Mick Verrier
Blokes

You missed out on a doozey. We left a silver trail of bubbles on a silky ocean, all the way from Sleepy Bay to the Chalet.

We had a go at combining a trip with the Southern Club trip, but the fella we were talking to didn’t tell many in their club. And in the end there were no takers. We’ll try again. There was, at least, good feedback about the concept.

Laurie and I loafed in his and Cec’s open air lounge-room, toasting our rumps against a huge fire, on Friday night, and our port flavoured conversation spiralled inevitably off into the stars over Orford Bay, as we rambled about aliens and the speed of light.

We beat the tax collectors at the Freycinet toll gate and sat around waiting for Jeffrey. We finally called him to discover he’d had a traumatic week and bailed out.

Sleepy Bay was just that. A low Autumn morning sun, in a clear sky. A rumpus of invisible chirping birds. A cruising white sea eagle. Docile leaves of bull kelp, too drugged to care, dragging behind a lazy surge. Bleary eyed Mick ......... it was lucky Laurie was there, primed on coca caffeine, and eternally assertive.

Someone in their early morning stupor wondered vaguely what they’d done with the recently waterproofed map as they tried to find an energiless stroke routine. Someone else insisted on going back to look for it, to save it from the tourists. These two met again down near Wineglass, to reconsider. It’s not back there, said someone. Must be in your boat. Not unless I”m bloody sitting on it, returned someone, sarcastically, ....... ironically. Oh dear, I”m sitting on it.

We hugged the shore taking it all in. Smiley walkers yelled from the beach at Wineglass to ask if we’d come from New Zealand. Amongst the fishing boats bobbing in the clearest of aqua green water, Laurie spotted one they’d met off SW Cape recently.

We hugged the cliff, riding the pulse as it sucked and pushed. Gangs of Garr-like fish made split second arcs through the air, some dancing on their tails before disappearing.

Lunch basking on a ledge near Lemon Bite was hard to end.

We left no nook unchecked, and marvelling at the placid ocean, dipped our blades, onwards, slowly onward.

The cave near Callitris Creek was as impressive as we remembered. We followed each other in one entrance, out the other, and round again, like kids.

The sun crept around behind us and caused eerie branches of light to grow outward from the ghostly shadows we threw in the blue depths.

Laurie found an old oar, and pictured it adorning his slowly growing new lounge room, as we took a breather in a sheltered bay somewhere near Baldy Bluff.

A little eve-breeze ushered us through Schouten Passage, and ‘round to Passage Beach, to camp. Great Oyster bay was a blinding carpet of shattered sparkles.

We rose with the mist on Sunday and stoked the coals. We took it in turns paddling in each others trail of whirlpools and until Cook’s Beach, the only lapping on the shore was our wake.

A break on a granite boulder in a patch of forest filtered sun.

Laurie stopped to chat to an old hockey buddy, fishing from a ducky. His yacht was moored seductively at the south end of Hazards beach. Laurie put in a few stiff ones to catch me gliding the isthmus shallows, and we held that pace until lunch at the north end. I even managed a sweat. Still no wind, and I contemplated a solar powered motor, as you do, as my back complained.

Past the granite block breakwater near the quarry, envying the lucky, lucky owners of not so shanty-like shacks in cosy wooded bays beneath the bald muscles of Mount Amos.

Onward up the shoreline to crunch the sand at the feet of the pretentious lodge, trying to hide in its nondescript greyness, but achieving only ugliness.

And that was it. A deep breath. A quick dip. And one more tourist saying “nice day for it”.

Sure was.
Mick Verrier.