Amongst those club members who actually participate in overnight paddling trips there have developed two distinct and easily recognisable factions, two tribes:
- One group is known for its relaxed approach, its members generally content to paddle at a steady speed, have rest days, and generally just ‘go with the flow’. To avoid extreme physical distress they have even been known to alter paddling plans to go with the wind, rather than into it. This group has become known as the Cruisers. Many paddle Inuit Classics, the sea kayak designed by the Grand Cruiser himself, Norm Sanders. Thanks to a long association with our President and my ownership of an Inuit, I too have found myself classified as a Cruiser;
- The other faction is full of robust individuals who view sea paddling in an entirely different light. It is all about the challenge; the pitting of mind, body and kayak against the elements. This group relishes hard paddling in tough conditions, rejoicing when the Bureau predicts headwinds or massive heart stopping swells. Consequently they have often been referred to as the ‘Pain and Suffering Brigade’. But for the sake of rhyming symmetry, in this account I’ll call them the Bruisers.
Physically, it has to be said that this latter group are not pleasing to the eye, for the typical Bruiser physique is heavy and unlovely. For this reason they have often been likened to elephant seals; strong and purposeful on and in the water, yet clumsy, slow and almost comical to watch when on land.
But what is really special about Bruisers is their extraordinary and unique ‘codpiece’ display. Without exception, all Bruisers proudly wear one or more tightly rolled up Gore-Tex socks inside their paddling shorts. The number of socks signalling the wearer’s status in the peer group. A single sock signifies a graduate Bruiser, whereas two socks represents a man with several years of hard graft under his belt, including one or two life threatening experiences. ‘Three sockers’ are the elite and are rare indeed and generally confined to the shorts of gun Mirage paddlers. Not surprisingly given the uniform, there has never been a woman in Bruiser ranks.
No one seems to know how the sock tradition started. But it seems that in the rare event that you are invited to paddle with Bruisers, and go through a challenging experience with them, you ‘earn your sock’. According to legend, the footwear is presented in a secret initiation ceremony that few outsiders have witnessed.
Although the two tribes get on well socially, particularly at ‘neutral’ events such as the Rock’n’Roll weekend, it is rare for Bruisers and Cruisers to go on extended paddles together. This is a wise separation, for, inevitably there will come a time in every trip when differing aims and expectations will lead to tensions. And nobody likes tensions developing ‘out there’.
This then is a series of observations taken on a recent trip. A paddle which would see a lone Cruiser, me, trying to keep up with a group of Bruisers (Dirk Stuber (Lead Bruiser), Mike Snoad, Arunas Pilka, John Wilde and Gordon Carswell) in a single minded drive from Eden into Bass Strait and Mallacoota. These guys all being two-sockers apart from Mike, who had just graduated after a recent North Queensland trip (the same trip in which Arunas Pilka suffered some nasty tooth damage to one of his socks).
And why was I invited to paddle with such a bunch of hard men? Simple really — the trip report. Bruisers have strong gnarled hands with fat fingers, ideal for gripping a large bladed paddle in 30 knot headwinds, but not suited for the fine motor skills required for writing or typing, where they are likely to unintentionally break pencils and damage keyboards. Some even say that Bruisers can neither read nor write, but I suspect that this is a bit of a generalisation.
Trip Observations
Boydtown to Merica River
Due to Mr Stuber having personal problems, the group was to depart over two days. Arunas, Mike and I were in ‘Group A’ and departed Eden on Saturday, Dirk’s ‘Group B’ would follow in our wakes on Sunday and rendezvous with us at Merica River on Monday.
Arch-Bruiser, Mr Michael Snoad, shows a suitable level of anticipation for his dinner
The paddle to Mowarry Point was uneventful, with a 15 knot headwind for the first 7 km and the others leaving me behind. It was my first time at Mowarry and I was surprised at what a pleasant spot this was. Mike caught a bonito on the way and we enjoyed our first fish dinner.
Snoad on the move, in cruising conditions
Sunday morning. We departed Mowarry in a stiffening nor’easter, and by the time we departed Bittangabee after brunch the sea was up to 2 metres and wind about 25-30 knots. Little did we know that ‘Group B’ was now on the water and doing it tough (and loving every minute) as they slogged head on into this wind to clear Twofold Bay.
After a brief stop at Bittangabee I sailed the leg to Green Cape, in a rising sea and gusting wind — conditions so testing given my large sail that concentration had to be total — so much so that I totally missed seeing the seals in the water near the point.
Arch-Bruiser, Mr Dirk Stuber, showing what Bruisers are made of
After Green Cape all the sails went up and I slowly fell behind as Arunas and Mike really got their ruddered boats steaming along. I was definitely working harder, needing much manual and speed reducing stern-ruddering to keep the rampant Inuit on course for Merica (when it really wanted to turn to starboard and Womboyn). The 12 km between Green Cape and Merica took less than an hour.
“Is this bruising enough?”
“Nah, let’s not bother going out today.”
It was low tide and on the way in to the channel I passed by some exposed cunje beds. As my paddle splashed close to them one Cunje squirted in defiance, followed by several others. An interesting defence technique which had me thinking — how did the others know the first one had squirted?
A curious Bruiser ritual: following one another, single file, around the lagoon
Sunday night at Merica became cold and wet, although Mike’s excellent nylon tarp provided a decent shelter. The only consolation of the night was that ‘Group B’ was doing it tougher on the exposed Mowarry campsite.
With no respect for Bruiser sensitivities, these bushwalkers outdid our Bruising fish-killers
Monday morning was magnificent, blue skies and no wind — we headed up to the rock pool for fresh water and a wash. I stopped to go fishing on the way back, returning with a nice bream (caught on a hook loaded with small cooked pasta rings — the sea paddlers bait for the new millennium?) to find ‘Group B’ had arrived. Dirk had already made himself at home and was swaggering around in only the briefest of black Gore-Tex underwear, so brief in fact the fabric really was struggling to contain his socks. It took some time for the members of the less ostentatious ‘Group A’ to adjust to this confronting display.
Bruisers are an unattractive lot — very much like beached marine mammals and barely distinguishable from their kayaks
After an evening of very coarse Bruiser humour, we turned in at 9 pm, but at 2 am I was again awake (not yet having managed a decent sleep on this trip). Then a single, violent fart broke the stillness, followed by several more in quick succession from all directions around me. I realised that this was not the first time I had heard this group phenomenon. But why? I thought back to the Cunje and their squirting that afternoon. Was this communal breaking of wind some sort of subconscious tribal defence mechanism? It certainly scared the hell out of me.
Merica River to Nadgee Lake
Knowing without a following wind (‘Group B’ was sail-less) I was going to be ‘Tail End Charlie’ again, I took the opportunity of setting off 15 minutes before the main group. Conditions were reasonable apart from gusty south westerlies slowing me up on the southbound leg past Jane Spiers then Newtons beach’s. Dirk and John finally caught me at the end of Newtons after 1 hour 45 minutes. The Fox and Hounds experiment had proved successful; I had been encouraged to paddle well (and arguably better than if I had been in the potentially morale sapping ‘Tail End Charlie’ position) and everybody seemed to have enjoyed the chase. In good conditions could this be an answer to group spread?
The pace then became more leisurely and we trolled lures along the cliff line to Little Arm Beach. Whereas I was fishing ‘Cruiser style’ (with a nice little fishing rod, light sporting line and with skill), the Bruisers had redefined the meaning of ‘coarse fishing’, with short handlines that were thick enough to tow a truck.
I then caught two nice salmon and Mike another. Not to be outdone, Arunas then hooked something massive with his fancy $18 Xmas tree lure — a 100 ton rock. While trying in vain to snap his 200 lb breaking strain line, our media megastar capsized a metre away from the rock shelf. Seeing a golden opportunity to again make world news, Mr Pilka then did his best to emulate that unfortunate American who drowned in similar circumstances. Luckily John was around to cut the line and save us the hassle of dealing with Channel 7.
After a leisurely lunch at Little Arm Beach (where I noticed the Bruisers seemed to get very excited at the discovery of a ‘long drop toilet’), we returned to the boats — the wind was getting up and conditions got progressively worse. After rounding Black Head, the last 3 km to Nadgee Lake beach was a hard grind into 25 solid knots of vindictive south westerly. Gordon, apparently ‘Group B’s’ star performer on the first day into that 30 knot nor’easter, was out of sorts and appeared to be struggling in this final stage (yes, even I was catching him). He was later to find a large tick had got into his pants and buried into one of his socks, thereby robbing him of vital reserves.
Approaching the beach, Mike Snoad looked stylish and elegant until the man’s Achilles Heel showed itself again; his hat came off. With this he lost all composure and capsized while trying to retrieve it. Ashore at last, we portaged across the beach and paddled across the foaming Nadgee Lake to the camp, where we found two bushwalkers tents set up. We would have company that night.
Nadgee Lake
That evening at Nadgee Lake, there occurred the Fish Feast of the Millennium. Two of the salmon were cooked in foil on hot coals and greedily consumed. We had kept one fish in reserve as a peace offering to the bushwalkers for invading their campsite. But then they appeared — two young lads from Melbourne and with a catch of several bream. The funny thing was they had seen our arrival and caught a few more fish to feed everybody!
After we had eaten a number of their fish someone mentioned Mr Snoad’s large salmon, still waiting to be eaten. “F*** OFF — we’re full” was the Pythonesque chorus, but undeterred, I prepared some more sashimi which was so good it also soon disappeared. We were stuffed.
After dinner the chief Bruisers got together and agreed on a ‘Plan’. Tomorrow we would attempt a dawn run on Gabo and then see what the options were; if the wind increased, hopefully we’d get a night on the island before doing the last leg to Mallacoota. Another restless night followed, the wild beasts kept at bay with all eight tents putting up a mighty barrage of flatulence defence.
Cape Howe Confrontation
We were up at dawn; the forecast was for abating south westerlies, although this was greeted with some cynicism. As we approached Cape Howe I knew it wouldn’t be good news, gusty winds were wrapping round the Cape, and whitecaps were everywhere further out to sea. The 10 km stretch to Gabo Island looked like being a grim test of endurance.
But I was weary from the hard slog the afternoon before, and my Cruiser instincts screamed ‘Wait!’ For there, right beside us, was an unusually benign Howe Beach offering respite and a nice campsite. Surely tomorrow would be a better day to make Gabo or Mallacoota. Sensing that the others were about to press on regardless, I bravely called an on-water meeting. This was a defining moment; the philosophical divide where Cruisers and Bruisers generally go separate ways. I babbled my concerns to the group, that the wind might yet rise to impassable, that even if we made Gabo the Parks guy might make us leave and extend the nightmare all the way to Mallacoota, and that all this might be beyond me. Aware of the stony silence around me, I finished my speech with a whimper about how nice Howe Beach was looking.
And then it happened; Trip Leader Stuber calmly leaned over and grabbed me by my neoprene storm collar. I remember his face being so close to mine I could smell his cormorant breath, see his flared nostrils and wild staring eyes … the eyes of an individual not to be denied his moment. “We follow ‘The Plan’,” he thundered as he smacked me firmly with a wet, gloved hand. I nodded weakly. And then, bellowing “Gabo or Death”, he released me and paddled away. “Gabo or Death,” shouted the others brandishing their paddles in pain-worshipping exultation! With that, and me cursing the very day I had made contact with Bruisers, we were heading around the Cape and into Bass Strait.
What we found was wind at a steady 15-20 knots and a lumpy bumpy ocean, but nowhere near as bad as the previous day’s slog after Black Head. I settled on a pace that I could sustain for several hours. But pieces of passing seaweed seemed to be passing depressingly slowly. As the others surged ahead, the tick-affected Gordon and I stayed together, with John Wilde close by and watchful. But the wind was not strengthening and an hour later John advised that we were making good progress; a current was helping us. This explained the steep waves we were experiencing, the wind against current effect causing many to break over my normally dry boat.
We closed in on the lee of Gabo and calmer waters with the others now far ahead, John announced that he wanted to see the lighthouse and circumnavigate the island and would meet us at the landing area. Some minutes later I suggested to Gordon that John’s departure was only known by the two of us and presented a great opportunity.
30 minutes later we closed in on the lead group who were sheltering from the wind in a cove. It worked like a treat — realising that John wasn’t with us, Dirk and Arunas paddled over quickly to ask of his whereabouts. We mumbled our rehearsed “thought he was with you” lines, and stared blankly around the empty horizon. For the first time on the trip, arrogant macho-man Stuber suddenly looked less composed and self-assured. Still smarting from my Cape Howe humiliation I attacked, deriding the leader for his lack of control over group spread in dangerous conditions. But as they made to paddle off in search of the missing mariner, Gordon and I could no longer keep straight faces and the prank was over.
Gabo Island
On landing I was tired but admitted to feeling a certain inner satisfaction with the effort. We were on Gabo Island and had earned some quality time there. The wind was now increasing to 20 to 25 knots; the early start had been a good idea.
We met up with island caretaker Tony, a good bloke and the owner of an old Icefloe. We asked if we could hire the lodge, given with the wind there was no prospect of us making Mallacoota. The lodge was booked, but appreciative of the work we had done to get to the island, Tony kindly allowed us to camp that night. After a relaxing afternoon we had another substantial evening meal of abalone, courtesy of undersea hunters Wilde and Stuber, and parrotfish, courtesy of me, in a sweet chilli curry.
And then, following a discreet signal that I was not aware of, I suddenly found myself the subject of an initiation ceremony, details of which I cannot divulge here, except to say that it was humiliating and it did hurt. The ceremony concluded with Lead Bruiser Stuber giving a stirring speech, as only he can, on the meaning of manhood and rites of passage in the modern world. He then solemnly presented me with a brand new pair of Gore-Tex socks. I had been accepted into the brotherhood.
Unexpectedly, this was a proud moment for me, but I had barely time to take it all in when we were treated to the great sight of the penguins heading to shore in fast packs in the dull glow of a magnificent dusk. After stalling for a while on the beach due to our presence they shuffled past the tents, hundreds of them. That night, my first as a Graduate Bruiser, I had the best sleep of the trip.
Gabo to Mallacoota
The next morning we hit the water early again on a glassy ocean. Mount Winkworth in the distance was magnificent in the dawn glow, with the moon above it still a glowing orb. After a brief stop on Tullaberga Island to view the wreck, we crossed the Mallacoota Bar just as the wind turned northerly.
We had made our destination. I had experienced the highs and lows of paddling with Bruisers, and been rewarded for it with a great night on Gabo Island. Maybe there’s something to be said for the Bruiser way. And I might add that these five guys were good company around the campfire. Who knows, in times to come, when it feels right, I might even wear the sock.
Authors note: Specific scenes in the above account may have been dramatised to liven up an otherwise uneventful trip with the usual boring blokes along the same old bit of coast.
NSW Sea Kayaker 