A Schooner or Two of Karumba.

Fishing, fishing, and more fishing. That is what one does when one finds oneself in Karumba. People travel thousands of kilometres to get here. Tiny patches of grass are booked out 12 months in advance so that rapidly greying nomads can park their enormous caravans close to the amenities block. In fact, there may well be more grey nomads here in this small town than there are barramundi in all the local creeks.

Every morning sparks an exodus from the caravan park to the boat ramp where countless sun-smart couples back their well-worn tinnies down to the bank and crawl aboard - she in the front (looking cold in the chilly, early morning breeze) and he with his hand on the throttle. The fish get terrified all day while the carpark slowly fills to bursting point with shiny 4WDs, each with a fold-up trailer suitable to be stacked on the back of the caravan.

Four in the afternoon is apparently happy hour in the bustling caravan park, early enough that the swarm of grey nomads can be safely tucked under their neatly crocheted rugs before the cool outback air settles in to chill the evening.

There's not much else to do here, but the beer is cold and a bulging plate of barramundi and chips is the standard fare. We are stuck (oh, the trauma!) in this extended caravan park for a couple more days so while I'll try to learn a couple of fishing tips from the grey army I think that I might just settle for yet another chilled beverage and leave the boat ramp swarm to do their thing.

The next stop for us is back over to Cairns to rapidly organise our hop, skip and jump over to Port Moresby. The kayaks will be stuffed into a shipping container for a very quick trip to Moresby while we'll fly over and meet the boats at the other end.

Lain and I are busting to get paddling again. It has been a couple of weeks since we made the decision to skip the Fly Delta and the Gulf of Papua, so our muscles are twitching and our GPSs are poised for a new country, a new adventure.

But until then, we are making sure we make the most of Karumba. The sunsets here are spectacular and the only pub in town stares out over 'The Gulf' to make the most of it. Tomorrow we might even have a crack at fishing! When in Rome…

The Gulf of Cards-and-beer-ia.

One serendipitous outcome of the timing of the Archipaddlo Expedition was that Lain and I would essentially miss winter this year. We'd roll from the end of our summer, into equatorial waters and stay there until the end of the following summer. Poor us. Now I know most people would rather be commuting to work on a drizzly, cold morning with a southerly blasting Antarctic winds across your few small patches of exposed skin than lolling around in tropical sunshine so you can appreciate how difficult this is for Lain and I. We are heading south now, not part of our plans, but still a long way from winter as we know it.

However one of the highlights of my 'normal' year is the annual migration of humpbacks and other whales right through my favourite paddling patch, my stomping ground. Of all the activities that have squeezed my adrenals into action, few of them can get the endorphins flowing more than paddling right up close to an enormous mammal, hundreds of times larger than myself, and knowing I have made contact (perhaps a mutual understanding) with such an wondrous creature. The thought of missing a migration is a tough one for me especially as it is about this time of year that the first blows appear on the horizon.

So imagine my surprise when, sailing down through the Gulf of Carpentaria, we saw the unmistakable spout of water from a large cetacean not far from the boat. Whale! What? Here? Surely not. Again, there! Sure enough, we all saw that one. The whale rose from the water, its blowhole clearly visible on a slight hump, its smooth, long back, its arched, tall dorsal fin, this is a big whale. I have paddled with plenty of humpbacks and the occasional southern right whale but this whale was different, a new species for me. There's another one! Sure enough, they were a pair. Perhaps they were mother and calf that probably took a wrong turn at Cape York on their last migration south. It looks like they missed a winter too.

The Gulf has been full of surprises, and empty of other people. The whole way down the 800km or so of coastline we have seen just a handful of tinnies and the occasional trawler in the distance. This would suggest a profusion of wildlife but in fact we were face to face with many more critters on the east coast. The bioluminescence in these tepid Gulf waters, though, is something that needs to be experienced. Billions of bacteria explode into light every evening under a dark sky. Every ripple, every fish that flips, every splash is an eruption of bright green light. It is hard to imagine anything more magical.

We finally broke our spell of poor fishing results when, in the mouth of the Mitchell River, we found an old fishing net on the shore. We had sat for hours that morning in a mangrove-lined tributary, barramundi country, with four lines in the water and not one bite between us. Clearly we know what we are doing. So, with a ratty old fishing net and a bit of ingenious mucking about we managed to haul from the water a particularly impressive mangrove jack, a hefty queenfish and a tasty threadfin salmon, a bonanza that fed the four of us for three days. Not a bad result.

The lower coast of the Gulf became remarkably flatter (if that is possible) and shallower, and the water murkier. The sandbanks were stickier (we were bogged and stranded quite a few times) and the tides bigger and slower. Sailing these waters was tricky business in slow, variable winds. Afternoons were hot, and the auto-helm worked a treat to make sure we could escape to the cabin for another round of cards, games, reading, and pretty much anything you can think of to do when stuck in a tiny cabin for a fortnight with three other people.

I entitled this post "Cards-and-beer-ia". While there was been plenty of cards, the smooth pack now well-worn and furry around the corners, there has been a total drought of beer. On quite a few occasions I questioned the logic of our decision to travel this way without a single drop of alcohol on the boat, and yet I know it has done me some good.

In saying that, as we near Karumba my thoughts are turning more and more to the flavour of a juicy hamburger (mmm, meat, beetroot, pineapple) and an icy cold beer poured into a frozen glass. I have had enough cards but I can honestly say that I am looking forward to that first sip. Cheers!

PS. As I send this blog post through the ether we are, after a rough and tiring day, sailing within sight of our final destination on this remote coastline, Karumba. Aye Karumba!!

A few Archipaddlo pics

Phone reception is rare in the Gulf of Carpentaria but as I write this I can see the distant glowing red aura of a communications tower disappearing into the flat plain behind me. Thankfully, with all these techno gizmos, I can use this rare power to upload a few pics to this page in a slightly larger format than the usual postage stamp.

Because of what turned out to be a rather dreadful anchorage for Trivial Pursuit off the small town of Pompuraaw, when we would normally be pulling up the sheets for a night's rest, we are pulling up the sails and heading south. The waters here are sublime one minute, bucking like a bronco the next. The distance is great and it makes sense to capitalise on the conditions, even if it means sailing all night.

Fortunately we share these waters with billions of excitable dinoflagellates, tiny bacteria that, when given a nudge, will illuminate themselves like a tiny cyalume stick by cleverly mixing together a couple of volatile chemicals. So I'll enjoy my bleary-eyed watch tonight, identifying the constellations, and staring in wonder at the magical bioluminescent trail left by this tiny boat and all the fish darting away in fear of it.

Here's a few pics of the adventure so far:

1. A dramatic sand cay on Hedge Reef.

2. Juz and Lain hitting the sticks

3. We are in croc territory and this hungry reptile kept us company on Restoration Island

4. Bear Grylls II - just getting a taste of the wildlife

5. Relaxing over a stunning reef on Wednesday Island in Torres Strait. Half an hour later this calm water became a torrential tidal race. (Oh, yeah - I gave up on the Bin Laden impersonation!)

6. Trivial Pursuit

7. A colourful and stunning beach backed by bauxite cliffs just south of Weipa.

8. Lain relaxing in paradise on Forbes Island

9. Lain on the tiller of Trivial Pursuit - happy as a dugong in lawn clippings.

An unexpected adventure

The western coast of QLD, in the Gulf of Carpentaria is one stretch of coastline I was not expecting to experience during this Archipaddlo adventure. The vehicle may have changed, but the adventure continues.

Sailing this coastline, towing our kayaks behind a tiny 25 foot yacht, not only is a great way of stretching our measly budget (shipping kayaks and ourselves back from TI was going to be cripplingly expensive) but is an awesome way to keep our adventure rolling.

This is a coastline not visited by most touring yachts, or in fact by many boats at all. Sunburnt fishermen in tinnies and the odd prawn trawler give the turtles something to dodge but the customs plane doing a low-level zoom over the coastline seemed quite surprised to see a tiny yacht, with two kayaks silently sliding southward. Much of this coastline is unnervingly listed as "Unsurveyed" on the nautical charts, and is perilously punctuated with hidden sandbars and mudflats, just waiting to swallow the keel of a passing pleasure cruiser. Fortunately Trivial Pursuit, being a trailer-sailor, has the secret weapon of a retractable keel so that we can pass over obstacles less than half a metre below the surface - a depth we have tested now many times over.

I am sure it is many people's idea of a nightmare of Freddie Kruger proportions to be stuck aboard a tiny vessel in remote, featureless, crocodile infested waters…with your in-laws. While this tiny yacht has removed any sense of privacy, personal space and solitude, we are all actually getting on like a tent on fire. Apart from fighting over the tiller, we are happily spending these days reading, drinking tea, rummaging through all the supplies we bought for PNG, watching the sunsets (for the hope of catching an elusive green flash), and attempting to catch fish for dinner.

I have discovered that I take after my father in many ways, not least his notorious fishing ability. In all my life I recall just two fish that Dad has caught - an impressively large flathead (well done, Dad!) and, 25 years earlier, a half dead fish he kicked out of the ankle-deep waves. Whether fishing skill is hereditary or not, I seem to be developing an equally embarrassing lack of skill in this area. Here I am in perhaps some of the most fertile fishing grounds on the planet and yet my lures seem to be about as interesting to the aquatic life as a Big Mac would be to a food critic.

On the first couple of days heading into the Gulf the sea was bubbling with life. I won't bore you with the "one that got away story" suffice to say that I had the biggest fish I have ever caught right up to the boat before it flipped off the line. I caught a spotted mackerel later that day which at least fed us for the night, but it was a meagre specimen compared to the monsters that had been zooming around us all day. For days since I have been waiting for the lure to even get a bite.

We moored one night in an unnamed mangrove-lined creek with the expected resident crocs and plenty of bird life. Finally my opportunity to catch a whopping barramundi had arrived, and to prove to the doubtful onlookers that I could seriously keep up with Bear Grylls. After snagging plenty of gear and using up nearly all of my bait I felt the fluttering tug on the line that signalled success. I hauled in the monster, glory was mine, the hunter redeemed…almost. A smelly, ugly, brown catfish, fresh from scouring the muddy bottom, stared questioning at me from the end of my line. Well barramundi are overrated anyway. Some local fishos turned up in a tinnie and jokingly suggested that if I couldn't catch a fish in this river that I should just throw my hand line in and give up. I have kept the line, but perhaps just as a reminder of my clear (hippy-like) determination to conserve the wildlife of this fragile coastline.

The sailing is great fun, and a new experience for me. The one-sqaure-metre sails on the bow of our kayaks have been an awesome assistant to help move us through the water but they are insignificant compared to the power of the full and billowing sails of a yacht. While it feels fast sometimes we are cruising down this rugged coast at about 5 knots, or about jogging speed, just with less impact on the knees. The scenery is subtle but beautiful with seemingly endless stretches of sandy beaches backed by casuarinas and mangroves. The bauxite and ochre cliffs close to Weipa, although short in stature, were so dramatic and colourful that they glowed in the sunlight from literally miles away.

Considering it took us the best part of six weeks to paddle an equal distance on the East coast, our descent into the gulf has been rapid. Today [Wednesday], the sixth since we left Thursday Island, we crossed the half way line to our goal, Karumba, an event we all celebrated by leaping off the boat for a cooling swim.

The days are long, the coastline is flat, the fish aren't biting, but I couldn't be happier.

Picture: Captain Lain in her favourite spot at the helm of Trivial Pursuit.

A Big Decision

Fear of failure is a powerful card in the deck. It trumps the fear of public speaking, fear of spiders, fear of the dark, fear of being alone and probably even the fear of crocodiles. There is one joker in the pack though, that trumps all others and that is the fear of death. Fear of failure can drive people to their demise if they don't constantly evaluate their decisions. We've reevaluated ours.

To embark on a journey of this nature Lain and I have accepted that we are placing ourselves in an elevated level of risk to what you might experience sitting on the couch watching re-runs of Bear Grylls. Risk, and uncertainty of all the outcomes and variables is what makes this an adventure. With careful planning, the likelihood of our untimely death or some other equally tragic event interrupting our happy lives has been significantly reduced. However this careful planning involves an awareness and constant analysis of the information that becomes available to us about our travel plans and the areas we intend to paddle.

The internet has it's limitations. Google Earth can provide a view of the coastline, Wikipedia can tell you about a place but no amount of download speed can fill in the gaps in the information about a destination that can only be glued together with local knowledge.

Over the last few days, while organising our departure from Thursday Island, we have been told in no uncertain terms of the danger and riskiness of our plans. Paddling across the Torres Strait is not the issue as careful measurement of the tides, currents and weather would provide us with suitable paddling conditions to make the distance. The problem is that we would be entering a different world, a lawless society. Desperate people take desperate measures and this is a risk to our safety, and to the safety of Lain's parents who would have sailed with us to Daru, that we simply cannot justify.

While the odd warning could be considered scaremongering, even a power trip, we have received stern and dire warnings from the local police, customs, local fishermen, PNG locals, long term residents, the reef pilots and other people we have spoken with in recent days. Basically we have been instructed that unless we are chaperoned through Daru, the Fly River delta and the Gulf of Papua by a local guide with a fast boat and an automatic weapon then we are simply asking for trouble. We have had generous offers to help organise these measures but this is not the sort of adventure Lain and I are seeking.

To travel in an adventurous way, to see remote areas of the world, to go places most people don't, these are motivating factors for the Archipaddlo Expedition. The purist might argue that we have failed to achieve our objectives, however we have other ideas.

To avoid the risks of entering PNG at Daru and the Gulf of Papua we have shifted the goalposts, just a little. We are already on our way back to Cairns as this is the closest city from which we can arrange to ship our kayaks to PNG. Our plan now is to slice off the Gulf of Papua and restart our paddling journey from Port Moresby. In total we'll slice off about 400-500km from our 9000km journey, while greatly increasing the safety of our expedition.

Having just paddled up from Cairns it makes sense to see some different country on the way south so while we won't be paddling this stretch, the adventure continues. With just a little more room than sardines squished into a can we are now crammed in as crew onto Ma & Pa's 25 foot megayacht, Trivial Pursuit, for a speedy (we hope) reach down through the Gulf of Carpentaria to Karumba.

Whichever way we play our cards, Lain and I are happy to keep playing safely even if we occasionally are served a small helping of humble pie. We'd like to thank all those who have helped shape this decision, and for the support of those who continue to encourage our crazy dreams.

Picture: The straw breaking the camel's back. Lain seeking information about our paddling plans from a helpful and realistic contact in Daru.

Thursday on a Wednesday

While we had imagined that our last restful stop in an Aussie town, would be a blissfuly relaxing stepping stone to spring us across Torres Strait, our stay in Thursday Island has had a few too many moments of angst, panic and hard work to be quite the holiday we needed.

We had arranged to receive more equipment for repairs and some new cameras but freight delivery to TI is not even as dependable as cheap Chinese wristwatch that came from a gumball machine. After 3 blood-boiling days of hassling the post office, the freight contractor, the shipping company and the local postie we finally discovered our new cameras had, after all, been sitting for at least a day in some random corner of the freight depot. Yep, it is all about efficiency up here.

One of Lain's rudder cables had snapped not long before reaching the tip and a closer inspection revealed that the other one, and both of my cables (like my nerves) were almost worn through too. Some dodgy engineering later and we have newly replaced, and friction-proof rudder cables in place.

Like school kids wagging class we were called in to the police station to have a meeting with the head of search and rescue for the region. Convinced he would be rescuing us in an expensive helicopter within days of our departure, the officer relaxed a little only when he heard of Lain's SAR experience and of our thorough preparations.

We have scrambled around the small town for last minute supplies and have sought info on the tides and currents of the Strait from all and sundry. We've busily organised our official departure from Australia, and for an official to meet us for a stamp in the passport in a week or so in PNG.

Like the rest of our trip, we have been told we are crazy, bold, stupid, courageous and downright dangerous by different members of the TI community. We've met some great people and, yes, we found enough time for a few cheeky beers. The water is the most brilliant azure, the sunsets have been spectacular and the history of the area is as colourful as the tropical fruit being guzzled off the trees every evening by armies of bats and other rowdy creatures.

Now we are running the gauntlet through Torres Strait. With currents scheduled over the next week to be over 7 knots, or double our speed, in places (we're not quite sure where!), and with 20 knot headwinds we could be in for a rough ride. One paddle after another, one day at a time. We'll get there.

Picture: Lain checking if they still fire live rounds from the guns at Thursday Island.

A Trivial Pursuit

Problem: Once we get a stamp in our passports to leave Australia from Thursday Island we are not allowed to touch land again until we reach PNG, a paddling distance of nearly 300km, largely into the prevailing wind and current.

Solution: Locate a similarly crazy pair of adventurers who have a boat big enough for us to sleep on at night, therefore avoiding the need to sleep on land at the end of each paddling day across Torres Strait.

Paul and Coll (aka Ma and Pa) departed Cairns several weeks after we did in a boat that is only just big enough to make sure that crocs can't bite through the hull. Their 25 foot yacht, Trivial Pursuit, is only about 2m longer than one of our kayaks!

While Lain and I have been building up our paddling skills, gaining strength and confidence with our gear and making sense of tides, currents and navigation in our kayaks, Ma & Pa have been doing exactly the same in their 'pregnant guppy". The intrepid sailors have raised a few eyebrows along the way for attempting such a big trip in such a small boat.

For the most part up the QLD coast we have been on parallel adventures, however Trivial Pursuit has provided us with opportunities that other paddlers may not have had in this region. For a couple of nights all four of us crammed into the boat so that we could stay in the lee of reefs where there was no land that sat above the high tide mark. Also as the islands of the north became more densely riddled with croc slides, Trivial Pursuit offered Lain and I welcome relief from the threat of being eaten during the night.

Are Ma & Pa enjoying themselves? Well I haven't seen too many retirees who climb coconut trees, paddle a tiny inflatable dingy right near a huge crocodile, bake sandy bread on a perfect beach, play hopscotch, make hats from palm leaves, stuff themselves on seafood, dodge supertankers, and spear a fresh fish for dinner.

Trivial Pursuit is not huge, but it is big enough. All four of us can get a comfy night's sleep (most of the time), drink tea, play cards and laugh at life for long enough to see that Lain and I make it across the border. We'll then head north while Ma & Pa have to turn around and sail their little vessel back down the coast, and find their way back home.

Thanks Ma & Pa. This adventure would have been much more challenging without your help, and we're thrilled to have provided you with the motivation to get into a boat and get sailing.

Photos: Our camp on Morris Island, Inside the spacious belly of the pregnant guppy.

Tip Top!

Anybody who has stared down at the northern tip of QLD through Google goggles would understand why this chunk of land is particularly nerve racking for a pair of paddlers. The Escape River flows through a rich network of mangrove-lined channels, almost devoid of any human presence. Yep, if we are going to see big crocs, this is the spot.

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Having heard of a pearl farm on Turtle Head Island, we headed in to the Escape River to see what the place was about. Nearing the beach, we were greeted with the booming voice of Rusty, the pearl farmer, "GET OUT OF THE WATER! CROCODILES!". I have never seen Lain paddle so quickly, I think the boat was well above the high tide mark before she even stopped to look behind her. Apparently we landed on one of the favourite beaches of the local, and very aggressive 4m croc.

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Thanks to the generous hospitality of Rusty and Bron, we spent a fabulous night at Torres Pearls, playing games and learning all about pearls, and the ins and outs of north QLD life. Despite having spent 6 weeks in croc infested waters, Rusty's stern warnings about our vulnerability did not fall on deaf ears, and pushed our croc-dar back to high alert.

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A day later, and after some rough seas and a dreamy, calm trip through the notoriously violent Albany Passage, we finally reached a point on the map that seemed impossibly far away just a few weeks ago. We rounded Cape York with whoops of delight and ear to ear grins, feeling like we have achieved the first main goal on this long journey.

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While posing for a couple of cheesy photos at 'the sign' at the tip, Lain glanced back to our kayaks and noticed that they were joined on the mudflat by one of the local crocodilians. The 2.5m croc was guarding our kayaks with a juicy little turtle in its enormous jaws. I suppose we couldn't have paid for a better guard dog. When we eventually paddled away from the beach the croc was only a few metres away, perhaps wondering if kayakers taste better than turtles.

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Talking turtles, back on the idyllic Little Boydong Island, several days ago, we had the incredibly good fortune to witness one of nature's most beautiful miracles. Sitting around the campfire at night we noticed a steady stream of baby green turtles flapping frantically down the sand to the water. Hundreds of baby turtles, beautiful, strong, determined, all silently taking their first flips into the wide blue ocean - incredible. I honestly imagined that events like this are reserved exclusively for determined documentary makers and marine biologists. We felt like we were the luckiest paddlers on the planet - truly in awe of the beautiful places we have been able to make it to.

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In every day life, 240 volts, cold beer, supermarkets and phone reception are not luxuries, just part of the norm. We'll be resting here on Thursday Island for a few days. Gear needs drying, cleaning and repairing. Muscles need relaxing. Skin needs scrubbing. Blog needs updating. Some friendly trawlermen generously gave us a couple of buckets (I'm talking LARGE buckets) full of their latest catch, prawns and bugs. Fresh seafood and beer should help to put a couple of calories back into these rapidly thinning bodies.

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The next stage of this journey is a daunting dash across Torres Strait. I think we'll need all the rest we can get over these next few days so we are lapping up this last little patch of Australian society.

Pictures: Fresh croc slide on Little Boydong Island, Lain with one of the turtles that didn't make it, Juz and Lain at The Tip.

The tasty rudder.

I think a submarine internet cable must have broken in the recent QLD floods and the Archipaddlo blog has been leaking into the reef. At least the sharks seem to have read my last entry and decided that it was a written invitation to have a chomp onto my boat.

Paddling from Bird Island (yes, there were huge numbers of birds) to Little Boydong Island (perhaps named by a Catholic priest) I was enjoying the sensation of not being able to see land in any direction, just a flat horizon. Wham! The stern of my boat was launched from the water by about a foot and shoved hard sideways. I turned to see a large grey shark, probably a tiger-mako-great white-hammerhead-whaler (famous in these parts) hungrily following my flimsy kayak. I have to admit that the surge of adrenaline in my system was quite a lot more than you might experience passing through a speed camera doing a few kms over the limit.

As is often the case after experiencing a big burst from the adrenals, I was somewhat disappointed after the event. I was quite happy that all of my limbs were still attached but I was expecting my rudder to now resemble a cheap surfboard from the set of Jaws IV, with a perfectly curved, and impressively big bite mark taken from the side, perhaps even the odd tooth still imbedded in the polycarbonate. Alas, there is barely a scratch, not even a macro lens can do it justice.

When a shark hit me the second time several days later I barely even got excited. You sharks are going to have to try harder! Oh, how I hope they have fixed that internet cable!!

On a different note, I need to make a correction to an oversight I made on my previous update. I mentioned that we stayed a night in a flashy resort, well, yes but no. I suppose technically we did stay in a resort. We were offered the "Beach House" which was a beautiful but rustic New Guinean style 'cabin' that was more like a tree-sided shelter. Due to the recent rains the mosquito population in this little pocket of the island was particularly numerous and I suspect that we may have been offered the hut as a peace offering to the local mozzies, and to keep them away from the guests (no disrespect, Roy, the hut was awesome, thanks).

So our night in 5 star luxury actually consisted of Lain and I pitching the inner of our tent inside the hut and sleeping on the floor with the fumes of a mozzie coil scenting the air for hours. What a great time to discover that Lain's mattress now has a leak (I have fixed 4 holes in mine already) - she woke with the pattern of the floorboards pressed into her hips. Luxury!