Preparing for Tasmania

Spring 2007

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.
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by Avril Moore

Nothing usually fazes Cam Robertson, a paramedic, who has spent the last sixteen years working on an ambulance helicopter. But when news came in that kayak adventurer Andrew McAuley had probably died on his Trans Tasman expedition to New Zealand, Cam experienced his first real pangs of anxiety.

During the same week McAuley disappeared, the forty-eight year old father of four, along with three other mates, also family men, were busily preparing to leave on their own two-week kayaking expedition around the rugged and remote coast of southwest Tasmania.

“It’s not nearly as dangerous as a solo crossing,” noted Cam. “We will have land to our left the entire time we’re paddling, which means we can pull in and camp whenever we want. But even so, negotiating weather, reefs and swell at the end of a long day is always a challenge in a sea kayak.”

The water of the southern ocean is typically extremely cold and is home to the notorious “roaring forties,” the boisterous and prevailing westerly winds of the 40th latitude which are unimpeded by any large land masses as they circle the globe. The small group of paddlers planned to travel from Strahan on the west coast down to Cockle Creek, south of Hobart, a distance of 300 km of unforgiving coastline with no overland access, but at a time when weather patterns are usually at their most settled.

Apart from the personal challenge of such a trip, these men are adamant they were not out to prove anything. All keen environmentalists with demanding day jobs, they say it is the wilderness, the absence of people and the stripped back simplicity of day-to-day living which attracts them.

Robert Casamento (47), a school principal, Cam’s brother Mick (50), an education officer, and Richard Harbury (37), an orthopaedic surgeon who advised McAuley with medical prep, all agree that this is the sort of holiday, as distinct from feet up and cocktails in a luxury resort, that truly recharges the body and mind.

“It’s actually really good for human beings to experience complete self-sufficiency and even a level of fear,” says Richard. “Many of us live such privileged lives we are completely out of touch with our own capabilities. Doing a trip like this brings about a real perspective on what is important in life; our day-to day preoccupations become incredibly trivial.”

Anxious? “I’ve been waking up a bit lately, thinking about crashing surf and rocks,” said Mick prior to departure. “I worry that we might be caught by a rogue wave or a sudden and unexpected change in weather, or that my 50-year-old body will let me down when the work load really hits.”

Having completed the same trip twelve years ago, both Mick and Rob need no reminding of how much older they are now. “When Rob suggested another trip,” laments Mick. “I was thinking of a nice tropical paddle around Fiji—somewhere more fitting for our age. But then Cam jumped on board and convinced me that we were still fit enough to tackle Hell’s Gates.”

Hell’s Gates marks the entrance to Macquarie Harbour just south of Strahan. A notoriously shallow and dangerous channel between Cape Sorell on the west and Entrance Island on the east, its name harks back to the convicts who claimed it was their point of entrance to Purgatory.

After turning left and heading south, the men anticipated paddling anywhere between six and ten hours a day depending on conditions. Eighteen months of training consisted of long days in Port Phillip Bay and around Wilson’s Promontory in addition to regular gym workouts. All are adept at Eskimo rolls in which the paddler, through the coordinated maneuver of hips and paddle, rights the craft without leaving the cockpit when the kayak capsizes.

Food provisions included the usual bush-walking type fare—plenty of nuts, dried beans and fruit, pasta, flour and coffee supplemented by freshly caught Australian salmon and trout from locations such as New River Lagoon. While Rob and Mick were responsible for food purchasing and prep (they also maintain they are the superior cooks!) Cam and Richard were in charge of medical supplies. These included antibiotics for infections, adrenaline for anaphylaxis, anti-inflammatories and pain relief such as Brufen, steroid cream for chafing, pads, bandages and the usual disinfectants. Everything was carried, including camping equipment, in the kayaks’ three hatches.

In fact, the provisions list read like something from a “boys own” adventure story with 1:100,000 maps, compasses and emergency communication devices such as flares, EPIRB (Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon), UHF/HF radio, Satellite phone and GPS (Global Positioning System).

“Emergency communication is of paramount importance if someone injures themselves,” says Richard. “I know people think everything should be fine with a paramedic and surgeon on board, but in reality there’s not a lot we can do out there. We can splint a break, pop back a dislocation and pack a severe cut, but ultimately we would need to call in help to transport the injured to a medical facility.”

Yet for Rob, all the meticulous preparation and training was simply a means to an end. It is only by boat, particularly small craft, that the beauty of this section of the Tasmanian coastline can be accessed and appreciated. A keen fisherman, he looked forward to campfires at dusk, a plate of fresh cooked abalone in ginger sauce, and a summer sky awash with stars. “Nothing can prepare you for the majesty and drama of those huge towering mountains, sometimes as high as 1000 metres, plunging into the sea around the Ironbound, or the beauty of the wild Sperow River surrounded by Melaleuca. There are not many other places I know of where Myrtle Beech and Tree Fern forests greet the ocean’s edge—this is perhaps one of the last places on earth that remains pretty well untouched.

The men arrived home safely after their two-week adventure, significantly thinner, fitter and sporting very thick, dark beards. There were no mishaps, but the weather conditions were unexpectedly difficult with swells of up to 4 metres and 25 to 30 knot head winds on some days.

“On a good day we covered about 50 km over about seven hours of paddling; on a bad day around 12 km over five hours,” says Cam. “We were really aware of trying to stay on schedule and arriving at Cockle Creek within the fortnight, so some days were incredibly hard in terms of making up time.”

On Day 4 they were unable to get out from Hibbs Bay due to heavy swell, and were forced to carry the boats one at a time a kilometre to the northern headland to find a safe exit point. After paddling five hours on Day 11, they were forced to backtrack 9 km to Dead Mans Bay just so they could get into shore for the night.

“This was not a good day,” chuckles Rob. “Richard and I sat out behind the break for ages trying to predict the sets, but in the end decided it just wasn’t worth the risk.”

Communication devices for emergencies only made them miss spouses and children more keenly. “The only other human being we had contact with the entire time was a cray fisherman just off Low Rocky Point,” says Mick. “The swell was huge, we hadn’t been able to get into shore for lunch, so we were tired and starving. When he offered us four crayfish, it was a real incentive to find a break in the reef and start cooking!”

There were often nights when it was hard to get to sleep due to over exhaustion, but now, tales of albatross, gannets, dolphins and penguins, fresh fish, crays and camaraderie dominate their post mortems. Even the sea lice are recalled with affection.

Although overjoyed to be reunited with their families at journey’s end, there was a sense of melancholy as at least three members of the team realise they will probably never return. “It’s such a privilege to have access to that part of the world,” says Mick. “It’s just so magnificent, and when you really earn your place in all that wild beauty, it’s even better.