Mission:
To sea kayak the Cook Strait from Cape Koamaru on the South Island of New Zealand, to Titahi Bay in the North Island – a 38 kilometre stretch of water that has the potential to be one of the roughest straits in the world. Mission began Thursday 15th March and ended Saturday 17th March 2012.
The history:
A little over a year ago I had never before sat in a kayak. Truth be told I was terrified of river kayaking and thought sea kayaking was a lot like tramping...just with your arms. To make a long story short, I wound up working as a kayak guide in the Abel Tasman, fell in love with sea kayaking and whilst paddling with clients in February idly wondered what it would be like to paddle the Cook Strait. I rang a friend who immediately accepted the invite and we started researching.
To sea kayak the Cook Strait from Cape Koamaru on the South Island of New Zealand, to Titahi Bay in the North Island – a 38 kilometre stretch of water that has the potential to be one of the roughest straits in the world. Mission began Thursday 15th March and ended Saturday 17th March 2012.
The history:
A little over a year ago I had never before sat in a kayak. Truth be told I was terrified of river kayaking and thought sea kayaking was a lot like tramping...just with your arms. To make a long story short, I wound up working as a kayak guide in the Abel Tasman, fell in love with sea kayaking and whilst paddling with clients in February idly wondered what it would be like to paddle the Cook Strait. I rang a friend who immediately accepted the invite and we started researching.
The preparation:
For over a month I ate, drank and breathed the Cook Strait. I did everything from wake up at 2am in the morning to pour over the map, to paddle in the Abel Tas thinking about how I would pack my kayak, approach the wind and paddle through cross currents. I emailed a lot of people with every question I could possibly think of and many were kind enough to offer extra advice and guidance. I also learned to speak a whole new language about tidal streams and weather patterns and after about a month began to feel like I was beginning to be familiar with the Strait...at least on paper. The Gods were kind and 2 days before a neap tide a perfect high was forecast over the country...the perfect high happened to coincide with the perfect sea conditions and a last minute dash of preparations saw us driving to Picton to catch a boat out to the Cape.
For over a month I ate, drank and breathed the Cook Strait. I did everything from wake up at 2am in the morning to pour over the map, to paddle in the Abel Tas thinking about how I would pack my kayak, approach the wind and paddle through cross currents. I emailed a lot of people with every question I could possibly think of and many were kind enough to offer extra advice and guidance. I also learned to speak a whole new language about tidal streams and weather patterns and after about a month began to feel like I was beginning to be familiar with the Strait...at least on paper. The Gods were kind and 2 days before a neap tide a perfect high was forecast over the country...the perfect high happened to coincide with the perfect sea conditions and a last minute dash of preparations saw us driving to Picton to catch a boat out to the Cape.
The mission before the mission:
Our emotions were running high when we loaded our boats on the water taxi only to be dashed when the skipper told us The Brothers (a collection of large rocky islands that cause havoc with the tidal streams) were gusting at 47 knots. Given that the maximum wind strength we had set for ourselves was 15 knots the chances of even being able to get to our campsite was looking slim. As we motored out towards the end of the sounds the waves were crashing over the roof of the boat. Privately, I was so nervous I felt like throwing up.
Our emotions were running high when we loaded our boats on the water taxi only to be dashed when the skipper told us The Brothers (a collection of large rocky islands that cause havoc with the tidal streams) were gusting at 47 knots. Given that the maximum wind strength we had set for ourselves was 15 knots the chances of even being able to get to our campsite was looking slim. As we motored out towards the end of the sounds the waves were crashing over the roof of the boat. Privately, I was so nervous I felt like throwing up.
The skipper gave us two choices – he could drop us at Long Island where it was a little more sheltered and we would have a 4-6 hour paddle in 25 knot winds to the Cape or he could try dropping us at the Cape – with a large swell. I was all for the seal launch of the boat into the swell, Chris preferred the drop off at Long Island.
Somehow I found myself volunteering to be the guinea pig for the launch. As we drew closer Chris and I had our first direct discussion when he turned to me and asked ‘What is your plan if you go upside down?’ I answered with ‘I’m not going upside down.’ He tried again, ‘What are you going to do if you go over?’ I told him I would roll back up but that I wasn’t planning on going over. He spelt it out very plainly when he said ‘It’s pretty rough out there you won’t have much of a chance to roll back up. What are you going to do if you swim?’ I said ‘I don’t think you understand. I’m not going over because that isn’t an option. If I do swim, I’ll hang onto my boat, you can throw me a rope and pull me in then we’ll try again.’ After I said that it occurred to me it wasn’t too long ago my confidence in my roll was about zilch. I wildly hoped that I hadn’t confused cockiness with confidence.
All too quickly we were at the Cape and I found my palms sweating so heavily I wished for my climbing chalk. My fingers refused to co-operate as I pulled on my life jacket and it took me three goes. I realised this was the most nervous I had ever felt in my life. I’ve done a lot of adventurous things but this was a mission that if we made the wrong decision and got caught in bad weather it had the potential to go very badly. Ironically, where the skipper dropped us off the swell died down considerably and the seal launch went without a hitch. For a few moments I felt completely alone – the only kayaker in a huge expanse of water on the edge of the South Island. Chris joined me and a minute later the boat disappeared and it was just us and the elements.
The first few minutes in our boats were very emotional for so many reasons. It was the culmination of weeks of planning - a dream turned into reality, a good dose of healthy fear mixed with anticipation, excitement, awe, feeling very small, humbled and adventurous. Without planning it we spent those first minutes in total silence swamped with a thousand different feelings. In time we went on a mini mission to the corner of the Cape and looked out towards the expanse of ocean we were to paddle the next morning. It felt exhilarating to be in such a wildly remote place and about to embark on something that to me, felt momentous.
We paddled towards a steep and stony ‘beach’ that became home for the night. To set up our tent we had to dig out a flat spot in the rocks that meant at high tide the water was lapping less than half a metre from our heads. It was the waiting that was the worst. We were sitting on the very edge of the South Island with nothing around us but rocks and rolling ocean.
I had a moment of irony when a childhood memory slipped into my mind - I used to play a philisophical game at school where the question would be asked, 'If you were on a deserted island which friend/luxury item would you most want with you?' Well...I was certainly on a deserted island and for someone who was in that situation, I definitely had the right friend and the best luxury item anyone could want in that situation...a kayak! Now I was just waiting on the right weather...
From that point forwards it was an emotional rollercoaster. Listening to the forecast we would go from confidence and excitement with a good forecast to several hours later completely gutted to find out it had changed from southerly 25 knots easing to northerly 10 overnight to gusting southerly 35 knots easing to northerly 20 knots later the next day.
We paddled towards a steep and stony ‘beach’ that became home for the night. To set up our tent we had to dig out a flat spot in the rocks that meant at high tide the water was lapping less than half a metre from our heads. It was the waiting that was the worst. We were sitting on the very edge of the South Island with nothing around us but rocks and rolling ocean.
I had a moment of irony when a childhood memory slipped into my mind - I used to play a philisophical game at school where the question would be asked, 'If you were on a deserted island which friend/luxury item would you most want with you?' Well...I was certainly on a deserted island and for someone who was in that situation, I definitely had the right friend and the best luxury item anyone could want in that situation...a kayak! Now I was just waiting on the right weather...
From that point forwards it was an emotional rollercoaster. Listening to the forecast we would go from confidence and excitement with a good forecast to several hours later completely gutted to find out it had changed from southerly 25 knots easing to northerly 10 overnight to gusting southerly 35 knots easing to northerly 20 knots later the next day.
Before sunset there was a calm period while the wind swung around so we went on a short mission to check out the Brothers and get a feel for the tidal rapids. The feeling of paddling around the corner of the Cape and being in the Strait was one I won’t easily forget. I felt big and small all at the same time, completely alone yet connected to the elements, I also felt privileged to be at that point on the map – the coastline was ruggedly untamed and by some stroke of good fortune mixed with planning I was looking right at it.
The tidal rapids were unlike anything I’ve ever been around before. I could see them from several hundred metres away, stretches of water that travelled for kilometres in length and a couple of hundred metres wide. Within them were changing currents, whirlpools and boily confused water. We paddled around the edge of a few and eventually got into the swing of it – the basic technique seemed to be just keep paddling forwards and go with it. The currents were relatively strong and so we headed back as the sun went down. We kept tabs on the weather via VHF and even before we went to bed the best we could do was to go to sleep and see what the latest forecast was in the morning.
The crossing:
I was awake from 2am, every breeze that ruffled the tent had me comparing it to the last. Was it stronger? Weaker? More consistent or less? Were the waves rolling more frequently? Increasing or decreasing? I drove myself (and Chris I think!) quite mad and eventually settled to counting waves rather than sheep until 4am where we packed down and did a final weather check. The forecast came back at southerly 20 knots easing to northerly 15 during the day, dropping to northerly 10 during the evening. Sea was expected to increase in swell to two metres. We sat for a moment in stunned silence – the Strait was on!
The crossing:
I was awake from 2am, every breeze that ruffled the tent had me comparing it to the last. Was it stronger? Weaker? More consistent or less? Were the waves rolling more frequently? Increasing or decreasing? I drove myself (and Chris I think!) quite mad and eventually settled to counting waves rather than sheep until 4am where we packed down and did a final weather check. The forecast came back at southerly 20 knots easing to northerly 15 during the day, dropping to northerly 10 during the evening. Sea was expected to increase in swell to two metres. We sat for a moment in stunned silence – the Strait was on!
After that things moved very quickly, we gave our intentions to coastguard, spent a brief moment at the shoreline to recognise the significance of the moment and then we were in our boats and paddling in pitch black. It was magic from the beginning, phosphorescence was all around us and it felt like somehow we had been blessed for a good crossing. Every paddle stroke made a fluorescent green glow and our wake left trails of sparkles in the water. It felt like I was in Avatar’s planet of Pandora. The first two and a half hours were the most nerve wracking. We could hear the roar of the Brothers a good 20 minutes before we got to them, it was tense crossing them in the dark not knowing exactly where the rapids would be. Again, the build up was far more tense than the actual rapids - once again, it went without a hitch. For a time the swell increased and we had a brief chat about conditions where we both agreed we were happy to continue.
About half eight in the morning the weather calmed right down and suddenly I realised we were going to do it. We had done our research, picked the right window and now it was just a matter of paddling in the right direction for the next six or so hours. A huge albatross spent some time flying around us and a container ship came close for a bit of a look which was awesome to be in such a large expanse of water and have connected with someone else, even though we never got to see anyone individually it was nice to know someone had noticed us!
The most special part of the entire crossing was having a pod of about 30 dolphins make a beeline towards us and then spend the next hour playing around us as we paddled towards Mana Island. My jaw was dropped for most of that time; they came right up to our boats and gave us an incredible feeling. Photos just don’t do that hour justice. For me, that was the biggest highlight. The dolphins came back as we reached Mana Island and it was as though they were saying congratulations and goodbye. I was very sorry to see them go.
The most special part of the entire crossing was having a pod of about 30 dolphins make a beeline towards us and then spend the next hour playing around us as we paddled towards Mana Island. My jaw was dropped for most of that time; they came right up to our boats and gave us an incredible feeling. Photos just don’t do that hour justice. For me, that was the biggest highlight. The dolphins came back as we reached Mana Island and it was as though they were saying congratulations and goodbye. I was very sorry to see them go.
Somehow, even though I kayak guide most days I wound up with hip cramp about 3 hours in that stayed the entire crossing and was pretty much agony by the time we finished. Landing on the beach was almost an anti climax – I think paddling into civilisation means I have to readjust my personal space from being in the wilderness to being back with society again and that always takes a little bit of time. We were fortunate enough to be picked up in Titahi Bay Bay by a friend of a friend and whisked to the Interislander Ferry to go back to Picton that evening.
The ferry ride back was a perfect way to end a special day, motoring over to the South Island we just sat and reflected on the journey it had been to get there. The preparation and planning took so much longer than the actual crossing it seems that the tension was in the prep – the actual crossing itself was relatively non eventful. On reflection, I think we were incredibly lucky to have the weather work out for us how it did. So many people I spoke to had aborted multiple crossings before being able to cross successfully and here we were, first timers attempting it and somehow it had worked out perfectly.
I’ve realised that crossing the Cook Strait is not in itself particularly hard. What is hard is selecting the correct weather window and having it work out for you. I have a thousand million memorable moments from deciding I wanted to attempt a crossing to pulling back into Marahu at 1am on Saturday morning. Would I do it again? Yes I would - in a hearbeat. Stay tuned!
The ferry ride back was a perfect way to end a special day, motoring over to the South Island we just sat and reflected on the journey it had been to get there. The preparation and planning took so much longer than the actual crossing it seems that the tension was in the prep – the actual crossing itself was relatively non eventful. On reflection, I think we were incredibly lucky to have the weather work out for us how it did. So many people I spoke to had aborted multiple crossings before being able to cross successfully and here we were, first timers attempting it and somehow it had worked out perfectly.
I’ve realised that crossing the Cook Strait is not in itself particularly hard. What is hard is selecting the correct weather window and having it work out for you. I have a thousand million memorable moments from deciding I wanted to attempt a crossing to pulling back into Marahu at 1am on Saturday morning. Would I do it again? Yes I would - in a hearbeat. Stay tuned!
Thanks must go to...
Kahu Kayaks www.kahukayaks.co.nz for so willingly providing the boats, safety equipment and a good laugh. I’m looking forward to next summer with the crew!
Conrad Edwards for sharing your time, knowledge and expertise in going over our final plan – I am forever in your debt, thank you will never be enough.
Tim Taylor, your rendition of your own trip made me smile, thank you for the encouragement and sense of adventure!
Murray and Mike for agreeing to pick us up in Titahi Bay at the 11th hour – without you, it would have been a long walk with the boats to Wellington!
Darryl, the only advice you gave me was 'go hard and paddle hard'. That was the best advice ever! Thank you.
Gerrard Prendiville, thank you for offering your knowledge on the Strait and being someone I could phone for a thousand questions, I so appreciate your time and expertise.
Paul Caffyn, thank you for pointing me in the right direction to commence my research.
Chris, my paddling partner. I still remember calling you on the phone to ask if you were interested in paddling the Strait. Your answer was ‘yes’ almost before the words were out of my mouth. Thank you for being crazy enough to paddle the Strait with me.
To my friends and family – you know who you are. Your encouragement and belief in me warms my heart.
Until the next mission!