Hobart to Thursday Island

Andrew Hughes Hobart to Thursday Island by Kayak

The last excuse expired on the 19th September as the kayak eased onto Thursday Island. After six months of planning and then six months of paddling I realised that I would now have to get a real job. It was the end of the line, the top of Australia. Given my lack of paddling experience it was a surprisingly trouble free journey.

Clarke Island

Mallacoota

1770

Magnetic Island

Cape York

From Wild magazine:

Leaving the home-shores of Tasmania to cross Bass Strait was an early test. Reaching Sealers Cove on Wilson’s Prom was an understandable highlight.

Bungled surf landings along Ninety Mile Beach and beyond were a sidelight, and losing hats (3), sunglasses (6+) and sponges were a lowlight.

Sidling behind Fraser Island and then the Great Barrier Reef marked a change of situation.

Checking the swell and wind, and studying the maps for protected landings and camps became redundant.

The south-easterly wind blew predictably as progress to Cooktown gained speed. Lingering in town for a few days I loaded up with oats, sultanas, earl grey tea-bags and thirty litres of water for the final push to the top.

The landscape was captivating and the crocodiles frightening.

The current and the wind pushed me around Cape York and I slapped the kayak gently, like you would to a good friend.

Having met many wonderful people, travellers and locals alike, having seen a side of Australia from the edge, beautiful, scarred, dynamic, it was impossible to feel anything but happy.

Maybe a little bit relieved too.

From UTAS SET newsletter article:

ROUNDING Cape York I took a brief, instinctive look over my shoulder.

Wind whipped water extended to Albany Passage, just a few kilometers away.

A few more strokes and the way south would be closed by the bulk of the Australian continent.

After six months and nearly 5000 kilometers this was the end of the journey.

The next day I would paddle over to Thursday Island where I could arrange transport home, but ‘The Cape’ was the real finish.

Looking beyond what my eyes told me I could see back to the first tentative strokes up the Derwent River, the tension of crossing Bass Strait, the long beaches of Victoria’s east and pockets and rivers of New South Wales, the islands and reefs, wind, whales and dolphins.

It was a privileged time of camping on the beach and drifting north with purpose.

With my trusted laptop keeping me connected I sent out a fortnightly newsletter and received encouraging messages in return.

Schools from Tasmania and further afield asked about blisters or phosphorescence or whatever took their interest.

Those connections were important and reminded me to keep asking questions too.

Most remain unanswered but I would like to thank my sponsors for at least giving me a chance to pose them; Utas SET, Australian Geographic, Sea to Summit and Power Plus. Special thanks to the students, teachers, friends and supporters who made the long paddle even better than I’d hoped.

More photos at www.pandoz06.blogspot.com.

On Thursday:

Slideshow and talk at the Stanley Burbury Theatre, Utas, Sandy Bay. Over 100 photos documenting the 6 month, 4900km journey. All the way from the Bass Strait Crossing to the isolation of the far north. All welcome, $5 on the door. Kicks off Thursday 1st March at 7.00pm. More info; Andrew 0437668537
What’s On

And, Why …

The most commonly question asked was, “Do you have a sail?” The second most popular was, “But why?”

There is a great room filled with people sitting around its edges. Facing each of them is a canvas held aloft by an easel. In one hand is a brush and the other a palette smeared with paint. Each wall of the room has an opening to another such room. And again and again and again. There are no ceilings but there are doors. All the doors are different, some swing like a saloon’s and other are bolted shut with reinforced steel.

Within each room the people chatter amongst their neighbours and wander freely, sometimes they poke a head through to the next room or even further if they can. They love poking around but most of their energies remain concentrated on the brush and the palette, dipping it, mixing it and sloshing it onto the canvas. Some in the room squeal with delight when they execute a striking form with bold colours. Depending on how loud the squeak is seems to determine how many others come for a look. Others prefer to work away quietly on their painting though their work is of no lesser quality.

This is how I should answer people when they ask “BUT WHY?”

We each sit in front of the portrait of our life, defining the person that we are. The paints on the palette are our attributes. We all have very similar colours but the paints only exist in our minds, it is the brush that transforms them into reality. The brush is the action that gathers up and mixes our ideas of self together and spreads them onto the canvas. It is the brush, the action, that defines who we are. Until it is on that canvas, until it is transformed from thought into deed, no-one else can see it. It is as invisible and unreachable as the blinding light of midnight.

The people in our room, the ones closest to us, are our families and friends. Most of our artistic labours are just for them, our foundation network, but sometimes we wander to the next room for a look, or we squeak loud enough that others come into our own room and see what we’ve produced. The actions include everything from the seemingly insignificant (how we greet a stranger in the street or handle the dog digging up the garden), to the most obvious (how we relate to those dearest or treat our own bodies). Whether we like it not our actions will be seen, and what is seen can be judged. Maybe in a small and forgettable way, or maybe in a large and indelible fashion. Many can be painted over and many will be forgotten with time. Our actions really do count, at least, as much as anything counts in the end.

So the paintings are there to be seen, hanging around the walls of the world. Each person that steps up for a look at yours will see something different. Paintings are like that; always open to blasted, wonderful interpretation. The squiggle you scrawled in the corner, the one you thought expressed your honesty and openness, not to everyone’s eyes. Some thought it evasive and shallow. Others detected arrogance. So be it, listen a little but paint on, life’s too short to be worrying about every faulty brush-stroke. And there are many in all of our portraits.

And what of this kayak journey? I simply loaded up the brush with a few different colours, held it up for a brief thought and then plunged it across my canvas. In the process I squeaked more than usual. Not gifted in the real world of painting or creating with traditional expressions, I chose, and have chosen for a long time now, the medium of challenging travel. In this format I’ve discovered a way to physically express who I am. This journey required no great skill, no particular strength and less planning than you might imagine. It was always going to be no more than art class for a plodder. Through persistence (stubbornness) and commitment (narrowness) it will at best be an example of an action that can carry more than those simple ideas.

If adventure is art and art is self expression, then this was a good adventure.