This weekend I was off to Huonville to assist in assessing a new lot of Inland Instructors. By a coincidence, G/Bay High School also wanted me to take about 10 of their bushwalking club to Cockle Creek on Friday night, and pick them up again on Sunday afternoon. This fitted in well with the Instructors weekend, and got me thinking that if I could get one of the school staff to drive the bus back from Cockle Creek I could plan my overnight trip. The alternatives were Cockle Creek to Hobart (120km), or to Port Arthur (108km), or to Eagle Hawk Neck (132km). I filled out a trip registration form for the Police early in the week indicating that if the wind was S or SE I would run up the outside of Bruny Island to Hobart, if it was W or SW I would probably try for Port Arthur or Eagle Hawk Neck. Any other direction and I probably wouldn’t go at all.

Sunday saw us on a 3 hour trip on the Picton River with the Instructors and a couple of novices (and Peter Hall in a leaky Polo Bat), and I just made it back to Cockle Creek by 4.00pm, to find the school kids standing around in the rain waiting for me. The forecast was for SE to S, fresh to gusty, so it looked like a trip to Hobart. Because of the quick decision to do this trip I had done no special training to prepare my arm and shoulder muscles, or to harden up my hands - but was still interested to see how far an averagely fit person could paddle. And I was keen to try paddling at night in other than calm conditions. I wore the same clothes I wore on the Picton River - shorts, jumper, spray jacket, and buoyancy vest.

Left the beach at Cockle Creek about 4.30pm and once out of the bay set a course of 78^o to miss the South East Break, a reef part way across to Bruny Island. A moderate to low swell was running, with a varying SE wind, and the South East Break was clearly marked by breaking surf. I had planned to be off the beach by 4.00pm and getting past the Friars before dark, but was just that half hour late. From South East Break the course was 69^o, and the low cloud and rain hid all land from sight till about three quarters of the way across. As I got closer to the Friars I could feel there wasn’t much weight in the swell and altered course to pass close by Tasman Head - inshore of all the rocks and islands. South Bruny is typical of much of southern Tasmania - vertical cliffs with no landing spots - and as darkness closed in the total commitment of the trip weighed heavily on my mind. The Cape Bruny Light was sending its two flashes every 13 seconds well before I made Tasman Head, and on arrival I tackled the confused sea - caused by reflected waves - in semi darkness, straining to see if the white water ahead was just a breaking wave or a partly submerged reef. It was a new experience in the dark, and not a pleasant one, supporting by instinct alone. The sky was completely overcast although the rain had cleared, and it looked like the compass light was going to get a fair bit of use. From Boreel Head it was 6^o to Fluted Cape, and along this stretch the fresh to gusty winds hit hard. The swell was more or less behind me now, and seemed to be dying, but several gusts caught me unprepared. In daylight these can be seen coming, but at night they come out of nowhere, and two or three almost capsized me - I supported just in time. It was eerie paddling along and hearing the waves breaking all around, but not knowing how close they were - and the sudden immersion in water up to the armpits and the mad ride down the swell was unnerving at times.

However, conditions started to moderate, the wind dying away, the swell still decreasing - and the sky partially cleared for long periods. When the stars were out it made navigation easy, but in the cloudy periods it was back to the compass. Just before Fluted Cape I started to doze - quite unbelievable - but my eyes were closing for two or three strokes before I would wake with a start - very similar to dozing while driving a car. I really hadn’t thought this possible, and after a while decided maybe I’d better look for a landing spot. Adventure Bay was an obvious place with a good beach, but seemed too far off the track, so I decided to try along past Cape Queen Elizabeth.

Tasman Light had been flashing away to my right for some time now, and I almost changed my mind about not heading for Port Arthur - particularly as I had now got over the sleepy feeling. However I felt it was bad to make a change at this late stage so continued on across Adventure Bay. About 2.30am I went through a stage of mental and physical depression, I was cold, my shoulders and neck were aching, and I was starting to feel a bit peckish. This wasn’t altogether surprising as I hadn’t had breakfast, dinner, or tea on Sunday. For the trip I had brought 5 ‘chunky bars’, two bags of peppermints, and a litre of lemon cordial. Every two hours I was stopping for a chocolate bar or a mouthful of peppermints - but they were only short stops because of the cold. I started thinking about a landing spot again, but before making a decision the lights of Kingston and Taroona came into view - and shortly after, the welcoming flashes of the Iron Pot. The moon came out, the wind died, and with a mouthful of peppermints I paddled on into the night, once more determined to complete the trip in one go.

A couple of miles before the Iron Pot I noticed the lights of a boat coming out of the Derwent and was prepared to grab the torch off the front deck if it came my way - but it went by on a reverse parallel course a good 300 metres away. Shortly after, I heard it coming back again behind me, but again didn’t need the torch as it was still 100 metres away, heading back into the river. By this time it was getting light, half to three quarter hour before dawn, and when the boat was 200 metres past me somebody must have noticed the kayak. The boat came to a halt, then circled round to pull up alongside. Must have seemed a bit strange seeing a lone canoeist in Storm Bay at this time of the morning and they queried where I was going and whether I wanted a lift. It was still 30km to Hobart, but having got this far I wasn’t quitting now - so they went on their way. I can well imagine their thoughts about this wierdo they’d nearly run down. Nearing the Iron Pot I fell foul of the outgoing tide but wanted to get a photo of the lighthouse with the sunrise behind so put a lot of effort in the last few kms. Made it with ten minutes to go and took a preliminary shot with some of the clouds just taking on a tinge of pink - and then what happened - the bloody camera wouldn’t wind on. All that effort for nothing, and I sat there cursing as the sun peered over the horizon. I was so disgusted that I paddled on to the beach just past Cape Direction and had a rest for a while and stood in the sun. Not much warmth in it yet, but after half an hour I was ready to go again. This last 20km was sheer agony all the way. Now it was light I could see blood running from raw spots on several fingers, and blisters on most of the others. The tide was still ebbing strongly, and before I got to South Arm a westerly wind sprang up. The only course of action was to creep across to the western side of the river to get out of both. This was an endless journey, Taroona not seeming to get any closer, or South Arm any further away - and I was now having very frequent short stops, till finally crawling past Taroona High School where many children were carrying their bags to school. The sun seemed to have been up for ages and I had trouble believing that many people were just getting up.

The day was warm and cloudless and by the time my aching muscles got me to Sandy Bay the tide had turned again and the wind died, and the passage across the river to Bellerive was a fair one. Arrived at 10.00am Monday, and after pulling the Longboat up on the grass I unrolled my sleeping mat and used it - without bothering to get out of my wet clothes.

A couple of hours later I struggled to my feet and changed into dry clothes. I had planned to leave the kayak at Cooksey’s and get a bus home to pick up my vehicle - but Sue offered to drive me, having already heard from young Ian that I was asleep on the beach.

My average speed to the Friars was 4 knots, to the Iron Pot was 3.6 knots, and over the whole distance was 3.4 knots (including my stop on the beach). The low speed was a little disappointing, I had hoped for something closer to 5 knots - and feel that had the trip been done in daylight (without a previous trip on the Picton) then the sail could have been used with some advantage. As it was I tried it twice - once for about 60 seconds off Arched Island but took it down straight away as it was too hair raising; and once near Yellow Bluff where the wind was too light to be of any assistance, and I took it down after a few minutes.
Laurie Ford.

This is the first time I’ve read this report in ten years or so, and it brings back some forgotten memories - which is one of the reasons I write trip reports, and take a few photos. For my old age.

When you lot get to my age you’ll be wishing you kept a good record of your activities, otherwise you’ll remember you did a trip somewhere somewhen with someone - but wont be very clear on any detail. Even on trips I’ve done a couple of years ago I have to think hard to remember who was on it, so take my advice - write up a report of all your trips. You don’t necessarily have to publish them - I’ve been on some trips where someone else wrote up the report, but I’ve written one of my own anyway because it seemed to me that a lot of important detail was left out - stuff that I want to remember.