Kimberley Kayak Expedition 1982 - Broome To Mitchell Plateau

It struck me with the power of a bull. My kayak was lifted and I was thrown off balance. I quickly regained my composure and turned to see the large shark that had just rammed my left side.
I was horrified, the shark was at least 3 -4 feet across, but I couldn't determine it's great length as it faded under the ocean.

Because no one else could go with me, I went alone. The routes of the early coastal explorers were roughly the itinerary followed. The kayak I used was a Nordkapp, especially designed for sea conditions and used for demanding sea expeditions throughout the world.

Waving farewell to my friend, Bill Grogan on July 14th 1982, I paddled across the brilliant turquoise water of Roebuck Bay named after another Englishmen, William Dampier, in 1699. His explorations certainly overshadowed my own, but as I sliced across the choppy bay, that once had 300 pearling luggers working out of it, I felt my own small expedition had similarities.

One hundred years ago the thriving town of Broome also boasted six hotels and had people from Malaya, China, Koepan, Manila, West Indians, as well as Aboriginal and Europeans that all worked in the pearling industry. Pearling had soon become Western Australia's most important industry but the plastic button caused the industry to decline and was finally overtaken by gold.
In 1942, Japanese Zeroes attacked the defenceless town, destroying sixteen flying boats and several other planes on the aerodrome. Many passengers occupying the flying boats died. Today, only memories and museum pieces reflect the past, the 300 old luggers have dwindled to half a dozen and instead of workers, the tourists have started to invade the tropical coast.
As I passed under the high stilts of the Broome jetty, I dodged several fishing lines and moved around the coast towards Gantheaume Point, the place of the 130 million-year-old dinosaur prints.

Cable beach, the town's favourite tourist attraction, was deserted as I paddled alone heading into the unknown, destination Wyndham, an estimated 2000kms and 3 or 4 month paddle away.

Two days later I could see a lone walker striding it out along the beach. Son after a landrover roared over the white soft sand. The isolated beach stretched into the far distance. My only companions now were scattered jellyfish and 2 dolphins slicing through the water beside me.

The silence was broken by a mysterious noise. I scanned the sky for signs of a plane, but the cloudless sky revealed nothing. Everything was calm; a ship on the horizon, another turtle and a dugong passed by. The noise became louder, it was eerie, I felt alone and then I realised that a small surf hitting some rock ledges in the distance had caused the eerie sound.

With the mystery over, I passed the next point and spotted another vehicle but it vanished within minutes. I now entered into an arena of reefs, and all around me the surf kept rearing and breaking. I had to find a way through, but as I challenged the next wave, it broke smothering me with whitewater and hurtling me backwards. After the wave subsided, my second attempt was more successful. The excitement was over, however my adrenalin was still pumping.

Then back to silence and my increasing sense of isolation from the world. The loneliness made my mind wander back to the beginning of the trip................

Because I had no money to drive my battered car 2300kms to Broome and return, I had to organise a lift with a truckie. At 8.00pm, Robin Butcher rang me to say he was leaving in a day's time. I wasn't expecting to leave so soon. But a confirmed contract had us leaving virtually straight away.

As I placed the phone down, my wife Jennifer looked stunned. "Only a day left together", she said with great sadness in her voice.

"Yes", I replied, trying to hide my own emotions, but at that point we both broke down in tears. It was unbelievable, after fourteen months of planning and training, we had so little time to say goodbye.

Jenny drove me to Robin's place, where we stood in the middle of the waterlogged yard, hugging in silence and finally saying our emotional farewells.

Robin was a veteran of long distance hauls and once we had gathered momentum, he only had two short sleep stops on the way up to Broome. On the stretch between Sandfire Roadhouse and Broome, I looked death in the eye for the first time.

Robin was fresh from our stop at Sandfire. Bushes lining the gravel verges were just a blur as we rattled along. Like a ghost, two bleary eyes of a steer came thundering into our headlights. Robin swerved quickly from its path but it struck the left mudguard next to my legs. Ploughing off the road, the small scrub flashed in front of my eyes. The truck shook, the steering wheel vibrated. I could do nothing but hope, but like a rally driver, Robin steered us out of the scrub and back onto the bitumen. "That was close" he said quite calmly.

After that it was very hard for me to relax and sleep, and 20 kilometres out of Broome, Robin dropped me off at my friends, Bob and Mary Kirby. I had worked with Bob in 1973 at Camballin, 80 kms east of Derby. They had a small market garden, and Mary sketched people and places of the Kimberley to earn a little cash. Mary also had a small picture faming business.

With memories rekindled I moved into Broome to my starting point and stayed more friends, Gary and Cathy Robinson. Gary, who is an excellent mechanic owns Tropical Motors.

During the next few days I did last minute preparations and informed coastwatch, customs and the police of my expedition ahead. The police didn't take too kindly to my plans, and with me being a pom made matters worse. How long have you been in Australia? Have you experienced the heat? What do you know about the country? Can you canoe?......You poms are all the same, you come out here and do lots of stupid things. Once the Sargent got started, there was nothing stopping this gentleman as he reminded me of the crocs, sharks, sea snakes, tidal currents etc.

He also added a number of choice swear words, to clarify what he was saying.

I left his office with shaken confidence. Could all those stories be true! Was I mad, like my friends and 99% of the people say I am? Do I give it a go knowing all the dangers, or do I slip quietly back to Perth?

Fortunately I came to my senses. "No I'm not going to be put off! This wasn't some foolhardy scheme thought up on the spur of the moment and acted upon. Yes, there was an element of risk, as there is with any expedition, but I had spent 14 months planning this one. During that time I'd trained continuously, read every useful book I could find, studied photos and maps of the coastline, worked in a butcher's shop and researched all the aspects of safety and survival. I was well prepared.

Just before leaving, Cathy's parents politely asked if I had a will! Although not expecting to be taken by the jaws of a crocodile, it seemed a good idea. I soon returned from the newsagent with a will, for Cathy's parents to witness. I hereby leave all my property, goods and chattels to my wife Jennifer Bolland. Signed Terence Edward Ronald Bolland 12.7.82

Coming out of my trance, I waved to another vehicle burning along the beach, but they hadn't seen me. I was just a speck in the ocean. I was of no important and it seemed like I didn't exist.
Soon I would be moving away from all vehicle tracks, then the thread connecting me to the outside world would be totally cut. But I had to overcome the tinge of loneliness and concentrate on the trip ahead!

As the days passed I became more confident in the things I did. Soon I had a routine worked out and was always busy. My own priority was my own safety. My lifejacket and survival vest were always worn whilst canoeing. Even if I had to survive by myself without the boat, the survival jacket contained water, food Eltar distress beacon, flares, compass, heligraph mirror, fishing lines, mask, snorkel and every conceivable safety device. Small things , habits practised, pleased me. I washed several times a day and attended to any cuts so they didn't become infected.

Camping at Carnot Bay, I focused on the exposed sand flats, wondering if any of the $500,000 worth of diamonds was still buried out there. In March 1942, Japanese Zeros, returning from a bombing raid off Broome, chanced upon a DC3 plane piloted by a naturalised Dutchman and former Russian, Ivan Smirnoff. His engine burst into flames and although wounded he made a perfect pancake landing on the sandflats, close to breaking waves that put out the fire.
Smirnoff had been given a package before leaving Java, which unbeknown to him contained diamonds. Soon after the accident one of the crew returned for the mail and the package etc from the plane. In the process a wave knocked him over, scattering the items in the water. Some of the things were rescued but not the package of diamonds. A mystery surrounds who eventually found them, but the authorities were only able to track down a portion. Some were buried in a petrol can near an Aborigine's hut, a drunken beachcomber was seen giving diamonds away, and a Chinese shopkeeper claimed he had stones worth $20,000 given to him in exchange for goods.

After another long hard day, heading closer to Beagle Bay, I came upon my evening campsite and left my kayak above the falling tide. The hard day had taken it's toll. I needed to wash and freshen up straight away. With the absence of crocodiles to bathe in the superb northern waters, relaxing and soothing away my aches and pains, I was naked as a jay bird, there were no restrictions on nude bathers and no one to admire my fantastic body! But my white backside and the inquisitive flies reduced my exposure time in the sun. I didn't relish sitting in the kayak for hours with a sore, red bum.

I had been told of a pearling hut in Beagle Bay where I could obtain water, so I headed straight to it. Steve, the owner of the Pearling Farm and Dennis, Annette and family, from a yacht anchored in the bay, welcomed me. For the next two days Steve showed me the workings of the pearling industry and I also visited the abandoned Norman's Lugger Camp that had been a very busy boat building yard in its hey day. Old water tanks, anchors, keels and other assorted bits and pieces lay exposed to the tidal movements. On the way home I threw out my lure, hooking five decent fish in no time.

I took a compass reading before I left Steve's pearling shed and paddled across the huge bay aiming for the creek at the far end. From a distance two pelicans, standing at the entrance, looked enormous. With the help of the current I quickly passed them by. Curlews and other marsh birds waded along the sandbars. Brahminy kites were perched every few hundred metres along the creek and fish leapt from the shallow water. Ibises called out as they flocked from the mangroves and white herons darted in front of me. I stopped paddling, relaxed and enjoyed my dried fruit lunch as the swift current hurried me along.

Spectacular clouds of birds circled overhead and a pelican became agitated as a bank of water, created by the swift tidal current upsurge, raced towards it. Eventually I lost the mangroves and entered a metre wide ditch cut through the bare sandflats, which crawled with crabs.
A large flock of black cockatoos, oblivious of my presence, squabbled and screeched in the trees on the edge of the salt pan where I would share the night with hoards of mosquitoes.

After a 4 kilometre walk I sighted the Beagle Bay church. Horses grazing inside the buckled wire fences fled as I approached and cattle charged across the track. As the church bells tolled midday, I met Mathew Cox, the community's headman, and father Francis, who had been in the Kimberley for 52 years. The church, built with local materials in 1916-18 is decorated throughout with pearl shells. The altar was extremely stunning.

At that moment an Aboriginal man introduced himself to me at Butcher Joe. He was a painter and his works have appeared in several books. He was very sad and lonely, his wife had died recently and he was here for the funeral. A few minutes later a ute parked next to the church and the coffin was unloaded as Butcher Joe walked silently across to the father's house.

At 3.45pm the church bells rang out. People had come from miles around and although I didn't know if it was my place to be there, I followed and sat at the back of the church. The church soon echoed with noises as kids, dogs and adults screamed. A dogfight broke out in the doorway and the loser came yelping into the church but after receiving a swift slap on the backside from a sister it soon darted out again.

When the service was over the ute returned for the coffin and the crowd grew larger as the procession moved through the township. The sun was setting behind the pandanus palms and gum trees and the white crosses shone brilliantly behind the large crowd that had gathered.
Like myself many people didn't know the prayers of hymns so stood in silence. As four men lowered the coffin, children and relatives threw handfuls of dirt onto it. As the father prayed and the coffin was buried, Butcher Joe, who was embracing a friend, broke down.

It was a moving experience. I hadn't been to a funeral before and I rubbed some tears from my eyes and tried to hide my own emotions. When the prayers were over, Father Francis hugged Butcher Joe and as people began to filter away a dog approached one of the crosses and urinated on it.

As I moved back towards the church the beautiful red westward skies, associated with the massive dark clouds, turned the brilliant white church a tinge of pink.

Father Francis invited me to stay in their guestroom, have meals and share a toilet with three friendly frogs.

I left before sunrise the following day, the mist lingered over the nearby fields, the cool air chilled my hands and apart from a squawking crow, the mission was still and silent as I walked briskly back to my kayak which I had left on the sand flat.

Leaving Beagle Bay I called in to say goodbye to Steve and to pick up some gear before making my way along the coast, passing sandy beaches, mud flats, jagged sandstone cliffs and dumping surf that made landing dangerous.

While passing a creek north of Lombadina Mission, I met Sandy an Aboriginal elder and Paul and Min Smith. They were fishing in a dinghy just off shore. I was flattered when they invited me to spend some time with them. Min and Paul were from the Perth museum, and Sandy, Ester and Aunty were teaching them the traditional ways of fishing and hunting.

My first valuable lesson was to make a spear from a spindly wattle tree. The branches were trimmed off and then the slender tree was heated up at the point where it needed straightening. It was then placed between two tree limbs and bent straight as it cooled down. It was a slow process, taking Sandy and Paul 6 hours to straighten 3 spears. Another method that Sandy used was to bend the heated spear around his bare feet. This unusual and maybe painful method was effective, but not suited to my tender feet.

I made my own spear without to much trouble and carried it with me on my kayak the rest of the trip. Somehow it gave me a sense of security when I went exploring. Sandy also taught us how to find the nest of stingless native bees in hollow tree branches. The honey tasted superb mixed in my rice puddings.

The following day my survival course continued, we watched Sandy use the traditional ways of fishing. With spear in hand, Sandy perched himself on a mangrove limb several metres above the rising tide. For over an hour he waited, his eyes glued on the water. The tide crept higher and higher and eventually covered the mangrove limb and reached his waist. Fish swam below but Sandy made no attempt to spear them. Then as the tide was full, Sandy's left hand started to guide the spear underwater and his right hand slowly stretched to the top of the spear, and then, wham! He plunged the spear beneath the water and dived in after it. For seconds the surface was a mass of bubbles. Had Sandy speared the fish, or had the fish eaten Sandy!

Suddenly Sandy's head broke the water, his thick lensed spectacles were still in place and a large grin spread across his face. Moments later he raised his spear and held up a large Trevally fish. Because his spear was barbless, he had no choice but to dive in and place his hand over the end to prevent losing the fish. It had taken him nearly two patient hours to spear the fish. For generations Sandy's relatives have speared from that particular mangrove bough for Trevally.

Paul had a special task for us to do. He had to survey an ancient fish trap at Karrakacka Bay near Swan Point, and based on this a proposed scale model would be built later at the Perth museum.

The trap was a wall of rocks spanning two rocky islands that became exposed at low tide, thus trapping the fish that were caught in the shallows. A hole in the wall is made if the trap is not in use. There is another trap at One Arm Point, which is in a better condition and gets used occasionally.

That evening Sandy caught us octopus and stingray for our meal. I had learnt to make spears, to crab, to fish, to recognise edible shellfish, to find bush honey and to be very patient. But I had to move on leaving Min, Paul, Sandy, Ester and Aunty, who had been so kind and taught me so much. I now had to face the real world on my own and head towards One Arm Point and the notorious King Sound.

I was keen to view the famous and formidable tidal rapids of the King Sound before I attempted to cross it by kayak. When visiting One Arm Point Eric Hunter a Bardi aboriginal, invited me to go trochus shelling with him. His powerboat that we were to take was anchored a hundred metres from the mangroves because of the high tide. The situation was simple; take off your shirt and swim. With huge sharks around and the possibility of a huge croc, I was pleased when Eric volunteered to fetch it.

The morning was still and the sea was like glass as we sped through Pancake Passage hitting turbulence's that shook the boat. With Eric's skill and powerful motor, he was able to keep it in full control. Eric was short of meat, so seeing a turtle in the shallow water, he cut the engine, picked up his spear and waited for the perfect shot. But it never came; the turtle was too smart, so it spared Eric from lunging himself into the dangerous water. (Only Aboriginals are allowed to hunt turtles.)

We moved through Meda Passage with the vertical cliffs of Sunday Island to the east and Roe Islands to the west. There used to be a mission on Sunday Islands and there is a lot of sacred ground, so the elders asked me not to go there.

The fun of turtle hunting was over, the tide was at the right level for us to work, so we moved to the northern corner of East Roe Island, the last island before Sunday Strait. Approaching the point I saw the frightening tidal power. Rapids were created across the Sunday Strait as far as the eye could see. Standing waves were up to 2 metres high and frequently a wave would explode even higher. The speed and force of the water was incredible and I knew after seeing this, that all the unbelievable stories I'd heard about the area were true. Tides in the area vary by more than ten metres. Add this to the enormous volume of water in the King Sound that has to flow in and out of the entrance, strewn with islands and rocky outcrops, this results in currents that exceed ten knots. These are the second highest tides in the world, the highest being in the bay of Funday in Canada.

Once landed on the reef, we had to work quickly before the tide changed. Eric issued me with a bucket to collect the trochus shells that were scattered amongst the rocks and reefs. The shell is cone shaped and is used to make jewellery and buttons. In the late 1980s the Indonesians hit the news for poaching them in Australian waters. The meat from the shell can be eaten, although the ones I tasted were pretty chewy, but would taste delicious in a survival situation.
Foraging in the pools and under ledges for the shell was a worrying business as blue ringed octopuses and other little deadly creatures waited patiently in the shadows.

Our buckets, then bags soon became full and Eric was pleased with our few hours work, bagging approximately $180.00 worth of shell. On our way home we checked the trochus population on Hunt, Sunday and many other islands, and later that day we boiled the trochus shells to extract the animal inside.

Whilst staying at One Arm Point my host, Ron Pearson, took me on a fishing trip. Ron is a very successful fisherman. At Camballin where I first met him in 1973, he continually brought home huge barramundi.

We powered across to Swan Island, 9 kilometres from One Arm Point. He wasted no time rigging up. "Get your camera ready", he shouted above the roar of the engine. Within minutes he had caught two mackerel, but the sharks had a feast before Ron could reel them in.

I never imagined that fishing could be so exciting, as Ron latched on to a large mackerel that leaped repeatedly out of the water. The 30lb mackerel looked like a helicopter in my camera lens. After Ron had reeled it in, I waited for the next leaping torpedo. My wait was short; another hooked mackerel rocketed towards the cloudless shy, with a shark in full pursuit. The water was boiling as the shark was determined to steal Ron's prize catch, but without success.

Soon the blazing sun set on the horizon, signalling a halt to our excitement and speedy return to One Arm Point.

Finally as neap tides approached (the slowest of the tides) I moved across the violent currents to East Sunday Island where I would cross the Sunday Strait to Mermaid Island. To cross King Sound, everything I'd learnt from white water paddling was put into practise in the sea. One slip of concentration could have resulted in being washed out to sea, where there were no islands to hide behind.

After successfully crossing the treacherous Sunday Strait I felt more relaxed about what lay ahead. Although I knew the currents were getting faster as the spring tides and full moon approached, it was a relief to know the islands were much closer together and I didn't have another long current swept crossing for a few days.

Leaving Mermaid Island I started to feel the full force of the tide pushing through Fantome Passage. As the current swept me towards the frightening turbulences, I couldn't help feeling alone and at the mercy of the ocean but hours later I lost the brilliant blue ocean to the receding murky water of Cascade Bay. Overhead a flurry of chestnut feathers drifted to the sand as two magnificent Brahminy Kites pursued another of their own kind.

My heavily ladened kayak came to a halt several metres before the tidal sandflats. In the distance a small beach fronted by a few pandanus palms, beckoned me. I didn't relish the long walk so I decided to find a closer spot. Coral scraped my hull and a shark, patrolling the shallows, moved across my path. I intended to give it a scare so I accelerated, but as the shallow water forced the shark to the surface I became aware of its frightening size. A moment of panic struck me as the six-foot shark turned my way. My heart pumped. I thought an attack was inevitable but as it powered past my paddle I could see it was as panic-stricken as I was.

Shuffling my feet apprehensively through the murky shallows, stingrays camouflaged their deadly spikes and darted off in all directions. The light was fading quickly and on my first journey towards camp I counted 800 paces. My luggage weighed heavily on my shoulders and my feet sank deep in the soft sand. I was oblivious of the spectacular scenery and setting sun.
My back was at breaking point as I staggered with my 35-kilogram kayak on my fourth and final run. After 5 kilometres of walking and with the kayak being tossed by the wind, my strength eventually faded and I dropped the kayak to the ground only 20 metres from my campsite.

Thirty metres away a mangrove lined creek lurked in the shadows. I thought of crocs so my next priority was to light a fire, a big one. I started cooking. Sweat ran down my face as I laboured. Noises scurrying in the bush had me thinking of snakes. I lit two more small fires to protect me from all sides. As I dragged a large log back to fuel my fires a spark drifted in to the nearby grass and pandanus palms, giving me no time to rescue my hammock from the ensuing blazing inferno. I desperately shovelled sand with my spare paddle but my efforts to control the fire were fruitless, as I became overheated with the panic and shovelling among the circle of flames.
Helped by a barrage of green bushes I was finally able to control the flames. Exhausted and with an overwhelming thirst I sat beside my gear and stared into the charred undergrowth. As the wind spiralled small burnt particles in the air I found me hammock had been somehow miraculously spared.

I was relived that the nightmare was over, but the rustle in the bush was as loud as before. Brave, and with torch in hand I tiptoed to find an army of hermit crabs advancing towards the ocean. My imaginary snakes were no where to be seen!!!

The next day the outgoing tide enabled me to make a swift exit from the sharks still occupying the shallows. I passed steep cliffs that were so impressive, even Albany with all its beauty couldn't compare with them.

Passing Pecked and Pack Islands boils formed as the water sped increased. Unbeknown to me I was heading into an area the locals of Derby call 'Hells Gate'! Fast currents, standing waves, small whirlpools and boils were being forced through the narrow channel. The walls and rocks closed in as the boils swirled me in all directions. It reminded me of our wildwater championship course at Harvey, although there, I paddle a 16 kilogram slalom kayak that is designed to turn, unlike my fully ladened 140kg, 17 foot sea kayak.

Around the next point I made camp where I could still hear the rumble of the Hell's Gate rapids. My beach was littered with firewood. Eagerly I boiled the billy, washed and tended my cuts and grazes, whilst tuna fish were going crazy leaping everywhere in the bay.

Surprisingly after sleeping high on an uneven rocky ledge, I had one hell of a good night's sleep. Below me a crocodile swam lazily up and down, 100 metres from my beach. was it waiting for me! By the time I was ready to leave the croc was 200 metres away, my eyes were peeled on it as I nervously paddled across the still, hot and beautiful Crawford Bay towards Cone Bay. My objective was to find the camp of Xenex, a hermit who has lived in the bay for a number of years.
I stumbled across a small cove that had a freshwater stream cascading from the cliffs and surprised the Johnson family who were holidaying there. They'd come by boat from Derby, 150 kms away. Still shocked at my arrival, Kevin invited me to go fishing and sight seeing at the bottom of the bay.

It was beautiful to sit back admiring the spectacular scenery, the hot wind blowing in my face, a cold can of Coke in my hand and Kevin giving me a personal sight seeing tour. Another family, camping on the otherside of the bay invited us to join them for an evening meal. No sooner as we arrived at our restaurant when the cheese and pickles were handed out, followed a few minutes later by huge cooked oysters in batter or garlic sauce. The camp and BBQ overlooked the whole bay. I was shocked at the events that were taking place! I expected to see no one in this vast unspoiled wilderness, let alone being invited out to a meal unequalled in the city. We cooked our fresh fish in the cool breeze under a canopy of bright stars and drank beer and cool drinks.

Inside the room of tarps, our forth course was being served. Cream cakes, fruit salad, whole paw paw in wine juice followed by chocolate and sweet coffee. This is certainly a demanding trip.
Before leaving the Johnson family and heading along the coast, I visited Xenex's hide out in a rainforest gully 600 metres along the coast. He wasn't there but two of his friends, who had spent several years there gave me a personal tour of their isolated camp. Their oasis was certainly an isolated paradise.

As I moved through Whirlpool Pass the words of Captain Stokes rang through my mind.....Stokes' Diary, 1837 -1838. We experienced violent whirlpools, the first of which from want of experience handled us very roughly, suddenly wrenching the oars out of the men's hands and whirling the boat around with alarming rapidly - and shot down a fall several feet, the boats bow being fairly buried in the boiling current..........................

It was an extraordinary feeling!

After spending several days crossing the tidal races around the King Sound, I moved on to Koolan Island and then Talbot Bay. Because of the excellent reef, aborigines once used this area as a hunting ground for dugong and turtles. The local mangrove timber is also used for making their traditional rafts.

At the extreme south of Talbot bay are two narrow gaps, which open into two bays. The tide rushed through the gaps with such force that giant rapids are formed. The area was the site for a proposed tidal power station, plans for which have since been shelved. My aim was to kayak through the gaps and a local boat owner, Rob Sherwood, from Koolan, who also liked a little excitement, decided to meet me there. This was fortunate because it meant I could negotiate the rapids with a safety crew at hand.

I knew I had to approach the first section of the drop perfectly because the water was being deflected from the canyon walls with great force, making the sides of the canyon a prohibited area. The excitement started as soon as my fully laden Nordkapp kayak slid down the drop through the large stopper, standing waves and then whirlpools and boils, which pushed me from side to side like a cork. I found myself bracing frequently, trying to remain upright and on course. After several attempts to canoe up the rapid and after breaking out into the confused water, the rate of flow started to ease as low tide approached.

With the excitement and danger of the rapids momentarily behind me, crocodiles were still a danger. At night their eyes lit up in my torchlight and heading down to Walcott Inlet I experienced my first encounter with a large crocodile. I was rounding a point and noticed an object looking like a rock, moving up and down with the slight swell. Suddenly it moved towards me. Cold shivers ran through my body. The crocodile reacted fast and closed the gap from 20 to 10 metres within seconds. I steered out to sea. The remoteness shattered all chance of being helped. The extra speed I found was no match for him and he came within five metres. The underwater speed of a crocodile is incredible and I was praying he wouldn't dive. He didn't. As my heart and arms pumped at an enormous rate he started to slow down and I began to pull away from him.
Water had become my major concern along the coast and as no one knew of any, I decided to cook in seawater, but after eating my first meal I nearly vomited, it tasted horrible.

For the following meals I only use a percentage of seawater and over the next several days, because my appetite was being lost, even after using a very small amount, I went back to using completely fresh water. Later on in the trip, water was so scarce I had to distil my own for several days.

Water was more of a concern than anything else, especially as the dry season ticked on. I had been given some locations of water, but many of them were way up creeks, lined with mangroves, only reached on the high tide and could take days to detour to them.

My next challenge was to kayak through the narrow channels of Secure Bay and Walcott Inlet. I arrived a Yule Entrance (Walcott Inlet) an hour too soon. I felt vulnerable sitting there waiting in croc country for slack tide, so I started to ease closer to the 600 metre wide entrance. The current was increasing but I felt in no immediate danger until I started passing whirlpools and boils.

My eyes focused on the cliffs, which gauged my speed. I was accelerating and had been caught in a large tidal water slide. I now knew I was committed to going right through the entrance. None of my bionic powers could help me back track against the current. The spectacular high cliffs were just a blur as I stared at the series of rapids, drops, whirlpools and boils that spread across the channel.

As the channel narrowed, my kayak slid sideways and increased its speed. I was at mercy of the swift current and desperately tried to avoid the biggest of the boils and whirlpools. The coastline forged east about 3 kilometres from the entrance creating a massive eddy behind the corner wall. Having enough of a wild ride, I tried desperately to paddle towards the eddy but the swift current being deflected from the wall foiled all attempts.

Now drifting backwards, I shuddered with fear as I heard an almighty roar behind me. As I glanced over my shoulder I couldn't believe my eyes, a giant whirlpool several hundred metres wide, was swirling, boiling, erupting and forming several different water levels.
Like a scared rabbit I paddled furiously towards the eddy. But it was no good, I was being sucked towards the whirlpool. Sliding backwards was a terrifying feeling and I knew it had me, my whitewater experience could not protect me from the two metre turbulent surges or the spiralling water forces.

The thunder of the eruptions became louder as the boiling volcano of whitewater closed in. Straining to turn the 140-kilogram kayak I faced the violent turbulences. Another huge, but smaller whirlpool formed to my left, its raging currents less severe and swirling in the opposite direction allowed me to miraculously cross the raging turbulence's to the safety of the eddy, to wait nervously in crocodile country for the tide to ease.

I had paddled into the inlet on the highest of the spring tides, which in turn produces the fastest water currents. I had heard that the whirlpools were in danger to large power boats, that infrequently came this way, now I know why!

Waiting in the waters, 5 kilometres from the open sea, surrounded by mangrove forest and suicidal currents, was unsettling. After a hair raising paddle out to sea, I was relieved to find myself in safer waters again.

Having narrowly escaped the grasp of a giant whirlpool, (believed to be one of the biggest in the world), I spent the next four days exploring the terrain around the area. I looked for fresh water and observed the massive whirlpools, hundreds of metres across, which had earlier given me some anxious moments.

I also had a rendevous to keep on Fletcher Island with Ivan Brown. While I was gathering information on fresh water along the coast, at Koolan Island, I found that no one knew of any so Ivan offered to offered to motor 70 kilometres to Fletcher Island to bring me some. So on Sunday 19th September Santa Claus - alias Ivan - came screaming through the heat haze, with six other men and a boat, beer, cool drinks and food, which soon attracted a 7 foot crocodile to check us out.

Although I had found fresh water while walking around Walcott Inlet, I certainly appreciated the concern and friendliness of the people on Koolan Island. (On my following trips the fresh water creek had been dry.)

By now my routine was well established. Packing and unpacking my kayak took up to two hours each time because the high tides created a 100 - 700 metre distance between each beach and campsite. By far the hardest part of my trip was this continual loading and unloading of gear which sapped my energy in the high temperatures. Most days I spent three hours exploring, climbing cliffs, observing and photographing the magnificent panoramas. It was hard walking through sharp spinifex, avoiding boulders and detouring round crevices or fighting through dense scrub in temperatures never below 35C. no matter what I did I could never quench my continual thirst.

It was south of Kuri Bay that I spotted my first whale. It moved effortlessly through the water with it's calf following. Then as it stopped and floated motionless, I moved closer and closer until I was within five metres of it. Every few minutes spouts of water shot up and I could hear the eerie whale cries. I watched for nearly an hour as they lay there, but eventually tore myself away. The next morning the whales and I crossed paths again near Deception Bay.

Kuri Bay, famous for its pearl industry, must be one of the most remote settlements in Australia. The nearest town Derby, is 400 sea kilometres away. In addition, there is no landing strip for aircraft. I arrived at Kuri Bay as the workers, Thursday Islanders and Japanese, were heading off to start their day's work on the pearling pontoons. I paddled past a two metre crocodile which was later speared by a Thursday Islander and I watched it being skinned.

After a few days at Kuri Bay I left most of my gear and went for a three-day excursion round Camden Sound. The old Camden settlement dates back to 1864 when an expedition attempted to form a settlement there. Ten months later, after nine deaths, extensive stock losses and confronted by a totally inhospitable environment, the settlement was abandoned. All that was left were four stone walls, a stone holding pen about 5 metres across and two shallow wells chipped into existing bedrock.

That night I rigged my hammock in a boab tree on Sheep Island where six people were buried, but I only found the gravestone of Mary Jane Pascoe. She died on June 4th 1865, aged 30, after an infection following childbirth.

My next stop was on the rocks below Kunmunya Hill where I started a 15 kilometre round trip to the abandoned Kunmunya Mission, which was established in 1912 by the Presbyterian Missionaries. This was a much favoured sight after first establishing a mission at Port George 1V 10 kilometres away.

The terrain around the mission was rugged, making my trek far and easy. Finally peering down from the hills, I could see the abandoned settlement below, an overgrown airstrip, a corrugated iron toilet, old water tanks, a stone fireplace, an old aircraft and many other derelict walls and fences.

Rounding the northern side of the hill I took a flatter route home, passing the airstrip, a dam wall and finally following a trickling creek and noisy mules on road to the coast. I was hot, tired, millions of flies annoyed me and I couldn't take a footstep without my jelly like legs slipping and tripping on the rocks. I started to get out of breath and my ears kept blocking, I was shattered and possibly on the verge of collapsing. Finally I stopped after staggering up a small grade and drank some more water. I had never experienced anything like this before, but with 39 degree temperatures and difficult terrain, I think I was suffering from the first stages of heat exhaustion!

Reflecting, in the shade, on my harrowing ordeal, twinges of cramps started forming in my legs. Never before had this happened, so I drank lots of fresh water and washed to cool my body. Within the hour I had completely recovered and was ready to face the mosquito plagued hot night ahead.

I returned to Kuri Bay the following day via an interesting visit to a rainforest gully on Augustus Island. Thousands of butterflies fluttered amongst the cool rock faces and goannas darted in pools that were flanked by some of the biggest paperbark trees I had ever seen. But I paid a price for my short visit, the tide had streamed out leaving my boat stranded in the narrow mangrove and rocky passage 30 metres away from water deep enough to float the kayak! Another harrowing ordeal faced me.

Leaving Kuri Bay with 30 days of food and water, I headed up the coast again. With the need for fresh water a constant concern, I decided to paddle up the Prince Regent River to a waterfall.

In the early morning light and assisted by a rising tide, I paddled around Cape Wellington. Suddenly, wallop, something big made a violent attempt to capsize me. In horror I glanced behind expecting the 'Incredible Hulk', or the sea equivalent. I could see nothing but disturbed water and I hoped that it wasn't a shark wanting a fibreglass breakfast.

I was riding a swift current towards Uwins Island, when I noticed a strange phenomenon occurring to my right. Speeding closer I could see a body of water (maybe the tail-end of the outgoing tide) travelling in the opposite direction to the current that I was riding on. Like a speeding bullet I passed the islands at the entrance of St George Basin, conquered the tidal disturbances in my path and headed across the mangrove lined Basin with Mt Waterloo and Mt Trafalga in the distance.

Having kayaked 63 kilometres from Cape Wellington I turned out of the Prince Regent River for a 6.7 kilometre paddle along camp creek. I noticed a log, no it was a croc, near the left mangroves. I instantly took a wide berth, but it moved closer and closer. I was forced nearer to the thick mangroves lining the right bank. The croc stopped for a split moment, but then gave chase again. It's hard to describe the feeling of being pursued. I found myself trying to run away from something that was very unpredictable. I daren't slacken off my pace as a split second could mean life or death.

Would the croc attack if I stopped? Was it just being inquisitive? For me it wasn't worth finding out and it wouldn't have been sensible to stop and take a photo to show the people back home. I didn't have a film crew on hand with a rifle or a swift power boat to reach me before it chewed too many of my limbs.

I did know that I was intruding into crocodile territory and that I would feel no animosity towards it if it ripped me apart. I suppose then, I wouldn't have felt anything! But danger is part of the challenge I had to face, it was part of the excitement and it is possibly one of the main reasons why we strive for adventure. Avoiding danger was now my top priority especially as I was alone.
My ticker was racing much quicker than Big Ben and at my age who knows when the battery will stop. Clipping the mangroves, I was still paddling in a wide arch, trying to avoid those ugly looking nostrils beaming down on me. That nose, which had a slight resemblance to my own, started to slow.

I began to feel a lot happier, but I couldn't ease up, it might change it's mind, and I still had to return that way in two days time. Although I still faced several kilometres of croc country ahead, it was a relief to see it fade in the distance.

At the end of the creek I could see nothing, but mud, mangroves and slimy rocks. But then a glimmer of hope, I found the gold at the end of the rainbow, a narrow passage through some cliffs led me to paradise. There I found green lush trees, beautiful fresh water streams, polished rock ledges and a waterfall a few hundred metres up stream.

In 6.5 hours I had paddled 70 kilometres. Needing a rest and the enthusiasm to face the croc again. I settled for a 2 day break. When I went walking the excitement didn't come from all the native animals and birds, but from the bulls that were in prime state, and quite game to give chase. After several hours I returned to wash, write and to relax. I had been away for about 85 days and as my mind wandered, and I had time on my hands I began to feel homesick. Up until now my trip had been action packed and I'd had no time to get homesick, the excitement saw to that. But now, as I shampooed my hair in the sacred fresh water, and sewed my deteriorating clothes, my thoughts were with Jenny who was coping on her own and not knowing if I would ever return.

Was I shellfish putting myself in dangerous situations, being so far from civilisation. Was it fair to Jenny to leave her to cope on her own for four months. No, I suppose it wasn't. But we both have our needs, our own goals in life, which are very important.

I have discovered how much pain I can take, how calmly I react in dangerous situations, even knowing underneath how terrified I am. Being terrified comes in different degrees. Although terrified when a croc chases me, I am not absolutely terrified if you know what I mean!
My goal on this trip was to see, do and experience as much as the unique Kimberley environment as I could and return safely home to enjoy those memories.

At 2pm the tide reached my campsite so I paddled along the corridor of mangroves and within 200 metres I passed a 6 foot croc sunning itself on a rock ledge oblivious of my presence I pushed into the wind and current. Twigs and logs floated by as I strained to locate those bony eyes and nostrils among the murky water.

After passing the point where the croc had previously given chase, I was able to relax. A crocodile survey done in 1978 spotted 189 crocodiles of various sizes in the Prince Regent River, so there were still plenty more out there!

Once out into the main Prince Regent River, large wind waves, which had generated power as they swept along the very straight, long river, tossed me around like a cork. As the excitement continued my feeling of home sickness soon faded. By nightfall, I had only paddled a few kilometres so I had no choice but to find a camp along the unsuitable shoreline.

I soon manoevered my kayak between two large boulders and anchored. I checked the water and mangroves with eager eyes before disembarking and trudging through the mud and mangroves to find a campsite. The sandflies and mosquitoes wasted no time in attacking my exposed skin as my long pants were locked away in my kayak.

The mangroves blocked my way to the cliff top so I had no choice but to chop a path through them with my tomahawk. It was hard moving my gear from the mud, but it was agonising lifting my 35 kilogram kayak through the mangroves and climbing an uneven ladder of sandstone boulders. One slip over the 20 metre cliff edge and it would mean sharing the mud and mangroves with the crabs, crustaceans and maybe crocs.

When I reached the top, the effort was worth it. I was safe from all the dangers and my hammock was strung on the cliff edge overlooking the magical Prince Regent Reserve. I relaxed and watched rock wallabies bound off into the night and viewed a spectacular electrical storm in the southern skies. Oh, what a holiday! Lovely one day, perfect the next!

I struggled down the precarious cliffs in the early morning and found myself knee deep in mud and water.

As I moved with the swift current I tried to steal as many kilometres as I could before the tide turned. I soon left the main Prince Regent River and entered St George Basin and headed for a beach I had noticed on Marigui Promontory on the way up. But just off St Patrick Island I noticed a shimmering wave heading towards me. As I was still being assisted by the current, the mystery deepened as the wave closed in. It was a tidal bore without doubt, so I paddled at full speed and met the 2 - 3 foot high wave head on. I tried hard to penetrate through it, to avoid a free ride back to the Prince Regent River.

My mind and body became alive and alert as I jumped the wave and fought the opposing current towards the islands extended reef 300 metres away. I was in trouble, the current had turned into a fast flowing river and a rapid had formed at the corner of the reef.

It now seemed crazy, with only 3 kilometres to go I didn't know where my fate lay. I tried to race the current but it was too strong, and standing waves that had been created, were getting bigger. I fought like fury but eventually my body gave up, I couldn't do it.

Exhausted I retreated gracefully and headed towards the reef. Unless I wanted to spend 6 hours on the reef I had only one other chance to get to my beach, and that was to pull the kayak up the rapid by walking along the reef. I pulled the kayak with the attached rope, but it didn't work very well, the kayak kept crashing into the reef. After tying my longer rope on and using my paddle to keep it away from the reef I was able to make little progress.

Suddenly the reef gave way, I lost balance and concentration. The kayaks bow whipped around and started floating down stream. Luckily I kept a firm grip on the rope, avoiding what could have been a most embarrassing situation.

Picking myself up, I desperately hauled the kayak around, smashing it on the razor sharp reef. For several minutes everything seemed to be going wrong. But later my co-ordination and system of working started to flow.

At the apex of the rapid the surf pounded the reef and violently punished it against the coral. Once over the crux I sighed with relief and jumped into the kayak at the first opportunity. I had no time to put the spray deck on so waves splashed into the cockpit. Having avoided being washed away by the current, that was a small price to pay.

For the next 15 minutes my success seemed doomed, the current had an endless supply of energy which nearly beat me, but after pulling out all stops I slowly crept towards the beach, taking 1.5 hours to paddle the 3 kilometres.

It was really amazing, I could feel tired after paddling long distances, but when the going got tough, all that tiredness disappeared. Usually after a long day I arrived on shore feeling exhausted but within 30 minutes and having had a good wash I have the energy to go walkabout for five hours.

With 2.5 hours to spare before riding the outgoing tide, I decided to walk to the distance ridge to have a magnificent view of Mt Trafalga, Mt Waterloo and the whole St George Basin.
Not only was the view magnificent, the thought of myself being the first person to climb that ridge and being totally alone in this unique wilderness was very special.

When the tide was right I had 2.5 hours to paddle 26 kilometres which was touch and go. I faced the turbulences again through the narrows of the islands and with 5 kilometres to go I was rammed by something on my rear left side. Most probably a shark. The fright encouraged me to paddle with a higher arm action to prevent my hands skimming the water.

With 2 kilometres to go after passing through a section of standing waves, the sun completely vanished leaving me no option but to camp on the south side of the cape. By the time I hit the beach it was dark. The day had resulted in 9.5 hours paddling, 2.5 hours walking and 2.5 hours loading and unloading, and I still had to cook my tea!

From Cape Wellington I paddled up to Careening Bay, opposite the Coronation Islands. It was in this bay in 1820 that Captain Phillip King slipped his boat on the beach to repair it. On a huge boab tree, at least five metres in width, can be seen the words 'Mermaid 1820' that the crew carved in the tree while they waited.

From the Prince Regent River onwards, the sharks became more of a problem. I was followed for ten consecutive days by sharks and on four occasions they hit my boat with almost sufficient force to overturn it. It was very disconcerting when I couldn't see the sharks because I didn't know when they were going to hit.

It was another nerve racking day, heading towards Cape Voltaire, on Wednesday 13th October. Within ten minutes of leaving the beach, gurgling sounds and splashes from two 5 - 7 metre sharks started to tail me. They continually crisscrossed my stern like it was some sort of new game, but I couldn't share their enthusiasm. I was feeling uneasy and waiting for the kill. I needed eyes in the back of my head. I was in suspense, waiting for the guillotine to fall. My hands skimmed the water with each paddle stroke, my body sat only inches above the blustery ocean.

For 6.5 hours sharks followed as I fought the rough seas. My concentration faded as the hard yakka took its toll. I became frustrated with the psychological effect that the sharks and the rough conditions were having upon me. Nothing has been easy in the Kimberley's hostile environment and this was just one more of those days. On the safety of the blistering hot beach; I wrote in my diary - 'I live another day'.

The sea became rougher and water supplies non-existent so I had to resort to distilling my own water for several days. In this region, too, the coastline became very barren and the nearest civilisation was 500 kilometres away. I didn't see another person or ship for 14 days.

By the time I reached Mitchell Plateau, my next food drop and 100 paddling days since I had left Broome, I had decided to curtail the rest of the trip. I had been away from Perth for four months and estimated it would take about two months to finish the trip. This meant it would be close to Christmas before I reached Wyndham. The wet season was due, and the heat was becoming unbearable. Also the crocodile breeding season was imminent and I had been warned that this was when they were at their most aggressive. I could have hurried to finish the distance, but the whole point of the trip was to see and do as much as I could in whatever time I had. It was time to pull out promising to return to finish the expedition in Wyndham next year.

After burying the kayak at Mitchell Plateau, I planned to catch the mail plane from Mitchell Plateau airstrip, nearly 40 kilometres away, but a couple in a small Suzuki 4 x 4 offered me a lift to Kununurra. It took me 10 days to hitch hike 3,300kms home to Perth and immediately I started planning for a return trip the following year.